Vengeful Legal Deal

By Kendra Hale

With his father and best friends becoming involved, Michael has to stay a step ahead to keep them safe, a task more difficult now that the beauty in the Victorian photo is calling for help.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kendra Hale
• Release date: Aug 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370244119

Kendra Hale

For Kendra, who has lived in Canada, the USA and on the European Continent, Great Britain, or the UK, will always be home. Her love for the UK is apparent in The Snow Crystals, and her other/future books, which are all set here. Kendra’s knowledge and life-long interest in the world of antiques, collectibles and such, finds its way into her writing. She writes fiction in different genres.

Book preview

ABOUT THE BOOK

When psychic antiques dealer Michael Sheridan buys a Victorian photo album in auction, he doesn't expect to unearth a Pandora's Box of lies, deceit, and revenge. As fate would have it, the villain looking to settle the 130-year-old vengeful score through murder is closer than he thinks.

With his father and best friends becoming involved, Michael has to stay a step ahead to keep them safe, a task more difficult now that the beauty in the Victorian photo is calling for help.

Prologue

Late 19th century…

Swiftly and forcefully, he tore the papers up. Once, twice, then into numerous smaller pieces. With a triumphant movement, he threw every last scrap into the roaring fireplace near his desk.

With ever heightening red-faced horror, and with rising anger, the other man in the room looked on. Our deal! What about our deal?

Yes? What about it, Sir?

Look here, we had a deal. A gentleman's agreement, that following the marriage, we would be justly rewarded.

Gentleman? Sir, you are no gentleman. Thus we have no gentleman's agreement between us. The man came around his desk, and bore down on his unwelcome visitor, his face a cold and furious mask. You took advantage of my loss, my grief, for your own gains. You pretended dismay on behalf of the poor young lady, bewailing the fact that no one would marry her now that she is damaged goods, and you are further continuing to blame a fine, respectable, and more so, innocent young gentleman who had sought her hand in marriage. He took a shuddering breath. "There is only one word to describe you, Sir. Blaggard. You, Sir, are one of the worst kinds of blaggards imaginable. I am deeply ashamed that my marriage is based on the vilest and most reprehensible tissue of lies. Yours! Your tissue of lies, Sir. I will make it my life's work to ensure that my wife will never ever be caught in a situation such as the one she just escaped from. You disgust me! And, be warned, any attempts on your part to either vilify and demean my name, or the name of my lovely, and above all, respectable wife, and you, Sir, will find yourself in court, accused of not only slander... Do I make myself clear?"

We had a deal! the man persisted stubbornly. A legal deal.

Out!

He'd lost. He'd lost all he'd worked at. The boiling hate with which he was overcome twisted his face into grotesque ugliness. He stabbed the air with a trembling finger and shouted, We will get our revenge. Mark my words. There is no time limit on our revenge. I will ensure that our revenge will be carried on and eventually carried out, be it by our descendants. We will get our revenge no matter what.

Out!

Chapter 1

Summer 2014

And to think that it had all started with a bed.

The memory was so vivid that Michael burst out laughing loudly as he stretched his back, his legs, and then raised his arms above his head. He flexed and wiggled his fingers and laughed some more. Back to business. Almost done, he declared with satisfaction as he unnecessarily massaged his fingers for a moment and set back to work at the last leg of his manuscript. For tomorrow he would cease to be the enigmatic M. Lamont, successful erotica author, and go back to being himself, Michael Sheridan, the antiques dealer, again.

His laughter had died down to a chuckle. Yeah, and to think that it all started with a bed. Not any old bed… oh, no.

It had all started with a bed which now graced Adrian, his friend, colleague and business partner's guestroom. It had been a good many years since he'd seen the French bed in auction. His psychic abilities had shown him exactly what had happened in the beautifully ornate creamy white painted bed. He'd seen what had happened in the room in which the bed had stood. Seen what had happened in the room next to the room in which the bed stood... Image upon image, scene upon scene, had flashed by before him.

His father had gone with him to the viewing day and commented, You've gone all red. If I'd not know better, I'd say that you are blushing, Michael.

But he had been blushing. And this had made him blush even deeper. For, despite being able to talk to his father about anything and everything and all, how could he describe to his father, here in the middle of the busy saleroom, what he saw? Only his father and a handful of his closest friends knew of what he laughingly called his ‘superpower'. But this was something he could not put into words. What he'd seen had gone way beyond even his vivid sexual imagination and experience.

I'm not bidding on that bed! If Adrian wants it, he'll have to bid on it himself. Besides which, he can do whatever he wants with the bed afterwards, but I'm not having that in the shop! I'm drawing the line at that.

Oh aye? As bad as that, is it?

Dad, you have no idea! He'd leant into his father and whispered in his ear, The goings on in that bed, bedroom and room beyond which it stood, make many a hardcore porn film look sweetly soft, if not virginally innocent.

I'm sure that Adrian will be interested.

Dad, you know I'm anything but a prude...

Like father, like son.

Michael grinned at his dad. Yeah! Then he turned serious. I really can't vocalise what I saw.

Then write it down. You're a good writer.

And that is how it had started. His other career, as an elusive and mysterious erotica novelist.

Her fingers teased, caressed, pressed, cajoled. He groaned, moaned, straining against the gag she'd tied the way she always did. Except for the ever more frantic involuntary movements of his heart and lungs, she'd ensured, as always, that any physical movement would be nigh on impossible. He was her slave. Her toy to do with as she pleased.

She slithered a sharp nail down his buttocks, and he let out a guttural groan, which intensified as the same talon moved back up, towards his belly, and then down again... Fiercely, she grabbed his cock and squeezed hard. He was by now as hard as a rock.

Once again, she commenced the cruel taunting game, as she drew the long-nailed finger along the length of his swollen purple cock. His keened gagged moans echoed in his ears. Then he fell silent. He tensed like a bowstring, as he awaited his predestined fate. His breath came in gulps. His heart was racing. Anxiously, eagerly, he waited for what was coming. He knew what would be coming... but never when.

The whip cracked viciously and cruelly hard across his buttocks. The stifled cry which burst forth from within the depths of him was one of agony, of pain, of sheer misery and profound exhilaration and triumph, as he came as he knew he would. As she knew he would.

She left him blissfully and gratefully whimpering, as he hung suspended limply from the bonds. Blindfolded and gagged, just as he liked it. As he loved it!

She aimed to please.

Steamy!

Michael whipped around and laughed. Hi, Dad. Didn't hear you come in.

Just got in. The man leaned over his son's shoulder, took a last look at the computer screen, shook his head and chuckled. If I were writing that, I'd be in a permanent state of... God, Michael, doesn't it wear you out?

As you'll remember, the first time round was rather arousing, he grinned. But by the second, third, and so on, I grew immune to my own written erotic fantasies. This baby's almost finished. I've just added this new section today, then it's some tweaking here and there, and off to the editor next week. Gotta be with him Monday morning.

Hope he's immune. Want a drink?

Yes, please. Just a small one. As for Trevor, you know he's immune by now, too. Michael laughed as he saved and closed the document, logged off, and followed his father into the sitting room. Accepting the whiskey tumbler from his father, he sat down, stretched out his long legs, and glowered. You know I'll be out tonight, he said needlessly.

Do you have to remind me? My heart goes out to you, my boy! While you're risking life and limb in the nest of the dragon, I shall be thinking of you, whilst having a peaceful evening.

Michael grumbled something incoherent, which brought a naughty grin to his father's face.

I rather fancy a pizza and a good glass of Chianti tonight. The older man's face turned serious. You have to stand up to her, Michael, otherwise she'll run roughshod over you. As she did me, too. Mark my words, Duncan Duke's one of her guests for a reason, and I don't think I need to spell it out, do I now?

No, his father did not need to spell it out to him.

Michael Thomas Sheridan had not seen his father so happy, relaxed, at ease and at peace with himself since the day he'd divorced his wife of almost twenty-two years.

Jessica Sheridan had refused to revert to her maiden name, and adamantly continued to refer to herself as Mrs. Sheridan, wife of Thomas Maximilian Sheridan, despite the finalising divorce.

Two such immensely different people. Two such totally different natures.

His mother — the ambitious and driven socialite. The manipulative, and plotting control freak.

His father — for many years, seemingly complacent and led along the path his wife had chosen for him... for them. But at an early age, Michael had become aware of his father's ruse. Always appearing to toe the line, always appearing to do anything for a quiet life. While in fact, he was driven to keeping the peace in order to protect his son. As he plotted and planned his and his son's future…

Although it had always been there, since the divorce she'd shifted her energies entirely to her son. If Jessica Sheridan could no longer lead and drive her husband, she'd lead and drive her son.

Michael had long since given up wondering whether he might have inherited any or some of his mother's spectacularly good looks. His father was a good looking man, and character-wise, including a determined stubborn streak — although his mother was immensely stubborn, too — he was his father's son down to the last detail. Both were bohemian free spirits. And nothing irked, annoyed and angered Jessica more than that.

Whilst for Thomas Maximilian Sheridan every day was a celebration of his freedom, Michael's freedom continued to be an uphill struggle where it concerned his manipulative, domineering and ambitious mother.

A dinner suit, the invitation had stated. With regret, Michael peeled off his jeans and t-shirt, and after a quick refreshing shower and an equally quick shave, donned the accursed black dinner suit as per his mother's directive.

Divorce might have left her single and available, but it certainly had not left her wanting in any manner of speaking. Maxim Sheridan had ensured that she was well taken care of. Not that it mattered, as Jessica had money of her own. So, several times a month, she held intimate or more sizable dinner parties, drink parties, afternoon teas, ensuring she invited influential people, and more often than not invited her son, too. Michael had managed to avoid many an invitation, but not all. And tonight was one such occasion. He dreaded this coming evening with every fibre of his being.

Over the last few years, Michael had received repeated offers to join several law firms, as well as from some financial giants. Had he been interested, he could have done well. After all, he had the education, the necessary degrees, and enough years of experience under his belt to make a success of it. His mother had been behind them all.

But he did not have the heart and soul for any of it. Just like his father, Michael had chosen to follow his heart and soul instead.

Unlike his father, who had swiftly and smartly managed to sever the shackles that had kept him tied for too long as partner to a prestigious law firm together with the shackles that had bound him to his wife, Michael was repeatedly yanked back by his mother, as Jessica refused to sever the umbilical cord that had once united them.

Maxim, as rangy and slim as his son, lay lazily draped on the sofa, with both bare feet on the coffee table, and cast Michael a sorrowful glance. Like a sheep to the slaughter.

Don't remind me! Anyway, I plan to be home earliest possible.

Maxim chuckled. Good luck with that.

His son shrugged and sighed. Yeah. My excuse — that I have work to do. I want to be at James' as the doors open in the morning.

Twirling the glass in his hands, Maxim watched the whiskey slosh about. Work. Hah! Your mother doesn't consider what we do work. Infantile madness, yes. And in my case, midlife crisis. But work, no.

Getting into his car, Michael gave his father's sparkling clean, white motor home a longing glance. The man had it all! Next week he planned to be off again, for a week or even two. Off to do, amongst others, the rounds of some fairs and markets up North. And next month he'd be off again to the Continent, travelling the length and breadth of Belgium and Northern France for another week or two, buying antiques, and just plain enjoying himself. In between the buying, which, if truth be told, he absolutely loved, Maxim Sheridan savoured his life to the fullest. And it showed, for Michael conceded that his father had never looked happier, or better. The divorce and his life changing direction had rejuvenated the man. To Michael, the man would always be his much loved father, but since the last few contented years, he'd also become his best friend. He'd always call him Dad, but he was more like a wise older brother. Like they'd always done, they saw eye to eye. They understood each other.

As his mother's abode drew nearer and nearer, so did Michael's stress levels rise. Bloody Duncan Duke did not do much for his blood pressure either. His mother had set her eye on the vulture, and he on her. Michael had heard the rumours, which had been substantiated by the hints his mother had occasionally shared with him. As far as Michael was concerned, Duncan Duke and his mother, well... they deserved each other.

But in the meantime, he had to figure out a way to dance around and out of the situation the two would inevitably have cooked up between them.

He knew it by heart. It was like a mantra which had lost its power and gone sour. Always the same. Same old, same old. And no matter how many times he stressed that he loved his work and was doing well, she drove a sharp knife in, and it would take him hours to remove it from his system.

A mere ten minutes' drive from the house, Michael's defences rose, as did his pulse. A nagging headache edged in and appeared to be settling in for the duration of the evening.

So, yes, he had been to Cambridge. So, yes, he had read Law. So, yes, by all intents and purposes, he was most definitely qualified... but he had done it all under duress. Hers!

But following that forced yet successful achievement, he'd done what lay in his heart, and he'd acquired the necessary degrees in English, history and arts. Maybe not as desirous as a Cambridge or an Oxford degree, but respectable degrees nonetheless, and much to his delight, his mother hadn't a clue. Like his mother hadn't a clue that her ex-husband had done likewise, in the years leading up to their divorce.

For a moment, the frown lifted as Michael laughed inwardly. He and his father were of an ilk. Two peas in the proverbial pod. And it annoyed the shit out of his mother. Tough!

Together with his father and a mutual good friend and now, too, business associate, they'd been running for years a respected, quite successful, and growing antiques business. While his father came back after weeks of travelling with a happy grin, a tan, and a load of goodies, Michael trawled the auction houses, markets and fairs in search of specialised articles. The rest of the time he spent writing.

He'd done well so far. He'd written several books on antiques. He loved antique glass and crystal, and had studied it extensively. His enthusiasm had found itself into a lovely book, which continued to be a source of information for both professionals and collectors. There was something about glass and crystal that sent his heart fluttering and singing. As far as Michael was concerned, a seventeenth or an eighteenth century glass was a right turn-on for him. Oh, the pleasure it gave him, holding something which had survived the centuries, as he thought about the possible people who could have drank from it. Who toasted whom with it? There was no denying it, that nothing quite equalled the thrill of that first sip from such an ancient glass. He'd clean the glass meticulously, reverently, gently, and place it in a glass cabinet so that he could enjoy it for several days before it was prominently displayed in their shop.

Michael adored the massively heavy, exquisitely cut crystal Baccarat his father had found on one of his trips to France. After much debate, both had agreed that, even though the glasses would eventually find their way to their shop, for now they would revel in their beauty. Everything actually tasted so much better from them, too. Much like a fine tea tasted better from an equally fine porcelain cup.

The daily thrill of drinking from the Baccarat could not be equated with the joy which poured through him when he sipped wine delicately from a hundreds-of-years-old glass.

His other love was silver. Another specialisation of his, which had found its way into yet another tome appreciated by both professionals and laymen.

But writing-wise, next to several adventure thrillers and romances, which he'd simply enjoyed writing, his greatest success were the erotic novels of which he'd managed to produce seven already. Number eight was eagerly awaited by his fans.

If his mother knew, she'd die! Michael laughed out loud at the thought. Except for the antiques books which had been published under his own name, he'd been wise enough to choose pen names for his different genres. Lindsey Hughes treated her readers to romance, while Giles Faulkner had several thriller and adventure novels under his belt. Michael's erotica fans didn't know whether M. Lamont was a man or a woman. He had no intention of clarifying the matter, choosing wisely to keep it a secret, and thereby adding to the mystique. Of course, his father knew. But that went without saying. And his editor, who'd confessed laughingly that initially he'd needed cold showers.

The elusive M. Lamont, alias the sexy Lindsey Hughes, and the brawny alias Giles Faulkner, was sniggering to himself as he drove up his mother's driveway.

Chapter 2

Melissa loved this time of day. Early evening, with the sun on its descent toward setting and gilding everything in its path before giving way to the encroaching night, with its stars and moonlight.

The sun, peeking through leafy trees and shrubs, slanted into the room and set Mel's mahogany hair a-sparkle with copper and gold.

To Ben, she couldn't look more pretty. But the frown which had been building up throughout the short telephone conversation did not bode well.

Thecla wouldn't talk to him. He'd tried numerous times, but she'd repeatedly put down the phone on him. She refused to see him, too. In fact neither he nor Mel knew where Thecla was to be found. All they had was her landline phone number. And with Thecla being ex-directory, she could be anywhere in the wider Poole and Bournemouth area.

In her early sixties, Thecla Wylie, the proverbial spinster, continued to live in another age and time, staunchly hanging on to her dial phone. None of life's modern commodities entered her space stuck in a vintage time warp. And that's why, when Thecla answered the phone, there was no identifying digital display... the caller could be anyone. Her sole concession to modernity upon moving into her present home had been to ensure that she was ex-directory.

When she turned away from the window, the sparkles in Melissa's hair died, the worry and sadness clearly etched on her face.

She won't budge. You know what Thecla's like...

A greedy, cold, calculating monster, Ben grumbled, and patted the seat next to him. Come sit down. What did she say? Although I can guess.

Mary Rutherford was our grandmother...

And we loved her to bits!

Yes! We did! We still do... Mel added with a tremulous voice. And I miss her so. What would she think of all this? Ben, as much as I love that rambling house and all that was in it, I really only care for those two things... those two things which meant so much to us. Tears pooled in her soft brown eyes. The triumph in her voice, oh Ben! A sob escaped her, and her brother drew her into his arms. She... she... said that they'd been sold already or... were being sold. You heard me ask where? When? She just laughed that evil cackle of hers and said that it was for her to know and me to find out, and preferably never.

The bitch!

There's more. Melissa pulled away from her brother and wiped her eyes. What's that chip doing on her shoulder? That hate for Mary Rutherford's direct descendants. Thecla's a relative several times removed. How did she manage to wriggle her way in? How did she manage to get Gran to leave everything to her?

Ben was silent for a moment. Like you, as much as I, too, love that house and how it all was, I solely care for those few items which are now being denied us. Gran knew how much they meant to us. The last time we saw her before her death, she was perfectly compos mentis.

Thecla didn't want us to see her... didn't want us in the house... If you hadn't grabbed my hand and pushed past her, we'd never have seen Gran...

I don't want to hurt you any more than you are hurting already, sis, but I wish that you'd let me engage a solicitor back then. Damn! As much as I love you, how I wish I had ignored you.

Melissa sniffled and searched for a tissue in her jeans pocket. At the time, I did not want to see Gran put under any stress. She was not well... she was too ill...

She was ill and we knew that it was but a matter of time, as she knew, too, but she was mentally perfectly with it, Mel. Between that forced visit and her death, something happened. Thecla's behind it. He got up and started pacing. We need a bloody damn good lawyer.

You want to contest Gran's will?

Darling, I don't give a damn about the money. I don't give a damn about the house and the possessions. Do we need any of it? Not at all, do we now? But I do give a damn about those few items which are valuable to us and hold great sentimental value. They're part of our family — the Rutherford family — heritage. So, if that involves contesting the will, then so be it, and yes, I will. And I trust that you will back me up on this.

I really want those things...

I cannot promise that we'll ever see them again, darling. We can't but try. Tomorrow I will start the search for the Bull Terrier of solicitors. With his help, we hopefully might get justice for Gran, and for ourselves. He stopped pacing and gave his sister a meaningful look. And I think it might unearth something very dirty going on here.

You think so?

Come on, Mel. It should be plentifully clear to you, too. God, how I wished I'd not listened to you.

I'm sorry, she whispered. At the time, my only concern was for Gran.

Ben turned away from her, not wanting her to see his frustration, but more so, his anger. Tight-lipped, he said, I'll sleep on it. But that doesn't mean that I'll not be setting the wheels in motion tomorrow morning. After a good night's sleep, I should be able to approach this in a calmer and more sensible manner. At this moment in time, I'm inclined to wring necks.

Mine... Melissa mumbled remorsefully.

No, honey, not yours, but Thecla's. And whoever else she used to reach her goal.

Chapter 3

He certainly wasn't the first to arrive, and knowing his mother, chances were great that he'd not be the last either. This appeared to be one of her more lavish dinner parties.

Of course, she didn't do the cooking herself. God forbid! Just like she didn't do the cleaning, or shopping. She just did what she was best at, and unfortunately most suited for... ordering everyone around... telling everyone what to do.

At a quick glance, Michael estimated that there were bound to be some twenty if not more guests gracing her salon now, and would be, shortly after, sitting around her humongous dining table.

Calming, soothing, gentle, easy listening music, but always of the inevitable light classical variety, would be piped around the salon and the dining room. It would form a soft background, like the discreet flowery scents she favoured, and which hovered fleetingly in every space of the large house.

Michael parked the car such that he could make a quick escape at the end of dinner and started towards the house. Suddenly, he spotted the snazzy silver sports car and his heart sank. Jesus! Not her.

Valerie Duke. Of course, she was an attractive young woman. Of course, she was intelligent. And she even possessed a semblance of humour. But she was a solicitor, and she worked for her uncle's law firm... and Duncan Duke was her uncle.

Jesus! I should have known! Michael mumbled under his breath as he dragged his feet, ever more reluctant by the second, towards the imposing Georgian door. For almost half a minute, his finger reluctantly hovered a few inches away from the doorbell. He could turn around and make a speedy exit. None would be the wiser. He'd park the car minutes away from the house for a moment, as he'd phone to offer his apologies. The housekeeper would pick up the phone. He'd be spared the drama of having to speak to his mother.

His finger hadn't made contact with the doorbell yet, and his plan seemed ideal...

Michael, what a pleasure to see you again. It's been too long.

He recognised the voice. In shock, his finger shot forward and made contact with the doorbell. The deed had been done. He was stuck now for the evening. He looked in the direction from whence the voice had come. Oh, hello, Mr. Duke. Nice to see you again. Not! The man was annoyingly slick and polished, with the most insincere smile that refused to reach his steely, calculated, cool-bordering-on-cold light blue eyes. What his mother saw in the man was beyond him. Equally steely was the hand that was laid on Michael's shoulder, as he was steered past the housekeeper, who was holding the door open. Michael bid her good evening, and she reciprocated the greeting. He'd always liked the woman, and she him. As was to be expected from Duke, he did not acknowledge the woman. The steely hand remained fastened to Michael's shoulder as he was manoeuvred in the direction of a constant hum of voices that grew in volume as they drew nearer.

Duncan, darling! Jessica Sheridan chose to ignore her son, homing in on the object of her affections instead.

Michael was grateful for being relieved of the iron claw which had clamped onto his shoulder. He could still feel the pressure. With his mother wrapped up in a sudden intensely intimate, low-voiced conversation with Duke, Michael had no choice but to wander into the extravagantly decorated room. Valerie Duke was eyeing him from the other side of the room. It was obvious that she was rounding off a conversation with one of his mother's friends in order to descend on him.

Valerie looked quite nice tonight. But then she always looked nice. She was an attractive blonde, but she'd inherited the Duke's light blue eyes. Eyes which were too uncannily like her uncle's. Cool... cold.

Shortly after meeting her for the first time, she'd proudly shared a picture of her parents with him. Michael had been struck by her father's eyes. Was the man capable of passion? Of love? Of affection? His daughter had the same eyes.

There was no avoiding Valerie Duke. Almost every dinner party, musical soirée, or high tea Michael had been drummed up to attend, Valerie Duke had been present, too. Cannily, his mother had invited him to high tea at Claridge's, to find Valerie had been invited, too... with his mother sending her regrets... a sudden migraine... a sudden bout of a cold…

Weeks later, Michael had fallen into her trap once again and lived to regret it. For instead of meeting his mother for lunch at Corrigan's in Mayfair, the table set for three had been attended solely by Valerie, whose too slick and too sly sadness at Mrs. Sheridan's sudden sniffles confirmed to Michael what he had been fearing since the Claridge Affair. His mother was setting him up.

Jessica had set her sights on the thoroughly available and, to her mindset, thoroughly suitable Valerie Duke. That her son had different thoughts or ideas on the matter was neither here nor there. As far as Jessica Sheridan was concerned, it was a done deal.

Michael, honey, so good to see you. Valerie air-kissed Michael's cheek. Then, catching Mrs. Sheridan's eye on her, Valerie kissed Michael proprietarily on the mouth. Valerie was rewarded with satisfied looks from both Mrs. Sheridan and her uncle. Had she glanced at Michael, she'd have seen a series of emotions, none of which would have pleased her.

Hello, Valerie. Fancy seeing you here, too. Michael did nothing to hide his sarcastic tone. Regrettably, it was lost on Valerie who, as yet unbeknown to Michael, was a woman on a mission.

A young girl whom Michael had never seen before came around with a tray of glasses. Instead of wine, Michael chose a glass of fruit juice. Except for the few stalwarts who stayed on because of their age and doubts of ever finding another job, his mother specialised in temporary staff. The more temporary the better.

Not drinking, darling? Valerie cooed. She nipped elegantly at a cool white wine.

One, at most two small ones at dinner, and that's it for me, for tonight. Have to be up early tomorrow, and sober.

Of course. I know. You have an appointment to see my uncle tomorrow morning early. I'm so happy. Valerie smiled beguilingly and touched his cheek. Oh, this is so exciting. Good luck! Break a leg! We'll go out for lunch...

Whoa! Hold it right there. What is this about an appointment with your uncle? I know nothing of an appointment with him. Furthermore, tomorrow morning is already taken up with work. Plus, I already have a luncheon date. As an afterthought, he added, I'm busy all afternoon, too.

He had not heard his mother approach. She was alone. Duncan Duke was not tagging along with her.

What are you busy with, darling? Not waiting for an answer, she asked Valerie, Did you tell him, Valerie dear? Turning to Michael, placing her hand on his arm, she said, Such a wonderful opportunity, Michael. Duncan is so looking forward to tomorrow morning and welcoming you onboard.

It was that the room was full with guests. Several more had joined the ranks since he'd arrived. Otherwise Michael would've blown his top. The look on his mother's face and in her eyes spoke volumes.

Dad warned me! By God, she's done it again. The woman's got me stitched up like a kipper!

Michael had wisely chosen to let it all flow over him like a sudden and unavoidable downpour. Duncan Duke could be waiting for his arrival tomorrow morning all he liked, for he had no intention of changing his plans. He'd be at James' auction rooms as the doors opened. Online, he'd already selected some items that required closer inspection. James had alerted him several weeks ago that there was an interesting collection of seventeenth and eighteenth century glass going up for auction. It had sent Michael's heart racing in anticipation. Nothing and nobody was going to either change his mind or change his direction tomorrow, or the day after, the auction day itself.

Somewhere in the background, drilling into his thoughts, were his mother's, Valerie's and now, too, God help him, Duncan Duke's voices.

If you will excuse me for a moment. Michael made a beeline for the hallway and the gents. Not that he needed to go. He just needed an excuse to get away... to escape... if only for a moment... for several minutes.

Escape... how he wished that he could walk out of that loo, hurry down the hall, rip open the front door and run to his car. The palpable imagined thrill of tearing off down his mother's drive with screeching tyres was short lived, for he knew that Valerie would be hovering nearby to snag him the nanosecond he came into view. Magically disappearing down the loo like in Harry Potter wasn't an option either. Damned shame, that!

As he had expected and feared, at dinner he was seated next to Valerie, and across from Duncan Duke. Two pairs of cool light blue eyes monitoring his every move would have been quite unnerving had he not expected it. Like the previous verbal monsoon, he also chose to ignore the looks, the appraising glances aimed at him.

He kept conversation to a minimum, resorting to what he hoped were well-timed hmm's and grunts, and equally vapid oh, really's, and fancy that's, dotted with yesses and no's.

His mother on the other hand was making up for his lack of social blather as she was going full speed ahead.

He stole a quick glance at his watch and groaned inwardly. It was going to be a too long evening. At least, as usual and to be expected, the food was superb. But he would have by far preferred lounging around with his father, eating pizza and drinking Chianti. And unlike tonight, his jaws more than likely would have ached by the end of the evening, from the non-stop conversation and laughing. His father and he laughed a lot.

Going on thirty-four, Michael was a confirmed bachelor, with every intention of remaining so, if not for as long as possible, then forever. He readily acknowledged that no one but his mother was to blame for this. He'd had plenty of casual relationships and some girlfriends had lasted beyond a month or two, but on the whole, he chose to remain single, free, his own man and boss.

It was bad enough that his mother continued to barge into his life, upsetting the perfect equilibrium he had created for himself. To escape, he'd considered moving away to the other side of the UK. The West Country was not merely stunningly beautiful, he loved it passionately. But business was best in London, and that was where his, his father's, Adrian's and Adrian's son's and his partner's prestigious antiques business was located. What was more, he and his father had a house in Surrey, located within a leafy suburb of outer London. Actually his house, as his father had wisely given his son this house, which had been in the Sheridan family for several generations, on his 21st birthday... before the divorce.

I don't know how she'll react to my divorce demands, so I might as well play it safe. I'll be damned if we're going to lose this property in what could be a nasty battle, his father had said.

Surprisingly, the battle had not been as fierce as he had feared. But Jessica had put every volcano on the planet to shame. She'd not been concerned about property and money, as she'd had those all along. No, her fury had been fired by the shame, the humiliation. Being cast aside like an uncomfortable, in fact severely pinching and torturous pair of designer shoes, had angered her more than anything else. The deception of it all! she'd screamed at her husband, when she'd realised that he had been planning to divorce her for years already. That he had carefully planned it all.

Thomas Maximilian Sheridan had not done it solely for himself, but equally for his much loved son. Michael had been in on it. His parents' divorce had brought a new found semblance of peace to his life. And if it hadn't been for the too uncomfortable proximity of his mother, life would have been quite perfect.

He'd be 34 at the beginning of August. Valerie and his mother's friends considered him an imminently suitable and available bachelor. Michael rather fancied continuing his Professor Higgins status... he'd never yet run across his Eliza Doolittle. Until, and if that ever were to happen, he'd continue blissfully