Kismet

By Serena Fairfax

An unlucky gemstone, a fancy dress ball, a fashion shoot, unsavory disclosures, equestrian sketches, a bloodstock auction and the glamorous, Casanova legend of the mesmerizing highwayman, who plays Cupid in the story, mingle to intrigue the reader in the clashes between Ed and Jo. The setting is the idyllic English countryside of hawthorn hedges, bluebell woods and may blossom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Jan 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781947812444

Serena Fairfax

I qualified as a Lawyer in England and joined a large London law firm. My first romantic novel STRANGE INHERITANCE (published by Robert Hale Ltd in 1990) went into UK and USA large print editions in 2004 (published by BBC Audio Books Ltd and Thorndike Press) and is a Kindle and Smashwords eBook 2011. The next romantic novel was PAINT ME A DREAM (published by Robert Hale Ltd in 1991) which went into UK and USA large print editions in 2004 (published by BBC Audio Books Ltd and Thorndike Press) and is also a Kindle and Smashwords eBook 2011. Fast forward to a sabbatical from the day job when I embarked on WHERE THE BULBUL SINGS a time-zone saga set in India span-ning the last days of the Raj to the present day. This saw the light of day in 2011 as a Kindle eBook, Smashwords eBook and a printed edition. IN THE PINK (Kindle ebook 2011) is a departure in style and content. GOLDEN GROVE, another romantic novel, is a Kindle and Smashwords eBook 2011. WILFUL FATE is a Kindle ebook 2012 and is a romance with a horse riding theme.THE BOARDROOM is a short story. I'm now writing a new time-zone saga with an exotic backdrop.I am a member of the Romantic Novelists Association. It’s a wonderfully supportive organisation.I live in rural Kent (Charles Dickens said: Kent, sir. Everybody knows Kent. Apples, cherries, hops and women) with my golden retriever, Inspector Morse.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

‘Here lies Du Vall, Reader, if male thou art,

Look to thy purse, if female, to thy heart.

Much havoc did he make of both, for all

Men he made stand and women fall.

The second Conqueror of the Norman race,

Knights to his arm did yield, and ladies to his face…’

Who were you? Jo nudged her white minivan through the press of traffic, her thoughts tantalized by the mildewed epitaph she’d glimpsed just an hour earlier on a ravaged headstone. The shade of the ancient London churchyard had been a welcome respite from the unseasonably hot May day and her haggling with veterans of the rag trade. She glanced in the rear view mirror, her cobalt blue eyes dancing with pleasure at the pile behind her that semaphored contemporary and classic labels. And what would Du Vall have made of it, she mused. If she half-closed her eyes, she could see him now, a virile bandit, and her lips curved in a wry smile that this man, long dead, long forgotten, could stir her blood. I'll Google strip search you, she resolved, running a hand through her ribbons of golden hair, as she itched to unlock him from the dusty pages of history.

Dammit— should've taken a left at the lights, Jo muttered. Her ditzy preoccupation with lady killer Du Vall had diverted her into unfamiliar territory, an upscale residential area where cream, stucco fronted Victorian villas, edging a tree filled garden square, soared behind gleaming black railings.

The dusty road suddenly glistened with a treacherous oiliness. The van began a wild tango. Jo’s hands tightened over the steering wheel. Her heart pounded as she closed her eyes in the grim realization she was skidding. In a space of seconds, there was a crunch of metal as the van surged through cast iron railings, the windscreen raced to meet her as she was flung forward, shards of glass rained down. She slammed the brakes and the vehicle shuddered to a stop, straddling a steep drop across a basement well. This isn’t meant to happen. But the seat belt had saved her from a gory end. Slowly she opened her eyes, nausea creeping over her as she started to shake.

A woman driver—surprise, surprise. It was a deep male voice tinged with sarcasm and, emerging from a kind of fog, it took Jo several moments to grasp what was happening. The nearside door was wrenched open— strong hands reached across, unbuckled the seatbelt, and slowly tugged her into the solid muscle of his chest. She could feel the heat of his body, smell his musky male scent mingled with the sharpness of aftershave. Desperately trying to keep a fragile hold on herself, Jo’s heartbeats almost sped off the radar as the Good Samaritan’s eyes, silver -grey in a lean, sun-bronzed face, collided with hers as he steadied her upright on the pavement. And although she was five foot seven, he was all height, broad shoulders, rock hard body and sensual mouth. He hadn’t shaved and was simply gorgeous.

This is an intriguing introduction. Scorsese couldn’t have engineered better. His voice drove a lava-hot rush to her pussy. And you look ok to me. But, more importantly, how do you feel? Lean fingers gripped her as he hovered at her shoulder.

As safe as… She stared at him, his sheer physicality making her skin prickle with anticipation. He’s hot, like one of those alpha males in a romantic novel.

… Don’t say it. Not this house.

My van! Jo wailed, reluctantly switching her attention to the van. But except for a badly buckled wing and a smashed windscreen, the vehicle was more or less intact, although that could scarcely be said of her flayed emotions. She exhaled a long sigh of relief that a valuable business asset wasn’t a write-off.

You just don’t get it. This is one hell of a homecoming for me. Exasperated eyes sliced her face, his gaze narrowing as he took in the wild dishevelment that filled him with a sharp surge to take her, to feel her as he spread her, moulded her to him.

For the first time, Jo registered a designer suitcase parked on the front steps.

Armageddon for my railings. His tone was mocking. Something even World War 2 didn’t achieve.

It wasn't deliberate, Jo fired off, aware, too late, that she ought to be thanking him for extricating her from the wreckage. She wrenched back her gaze to the devastation, seeking refuge in that rather than letting him see the beetroot flaring her cheeks, suspect the intense sexual arousal that burst into her when their bodies connected.

As they spoke, gawking onlookers gathered and a police car, siren blaring, screeched to a halt. She was breath-tested and given the all clear.

She sensed the man’s eyes flicker across taking in the figure-hugging blue skirt, ending a couple of inches above the knee, and her nipples jutting against the thin fabric of the lacy blouse. You'd better come in as I’ll want some information. As he moved past to pick up his case, she felt the hard brush of a male thigh against her and shifted slightly trying to ignore the telltale flutter in her stomach.

The policeman nodded at Jo. That’s ok. We’re done, although we’re hanging on to the van as we’ll want to check its roadworthiness before we can release it.

It hasn’t given me any problems, Jo protested in vain, taking a deep breath and telling herself to hold it together. She flicked her rescuer a wary glance, hesitated, then trailed indoors after him getting the impression of a contemporary, glossy interior. He dumped his case in a wide, parquet-floored hall and led her into what was obviously his study —a large, book-lined room bristling with high-tec electronics that spelled control. He crossed the room to a cunningly concealed bar and poured out a generous measure of brandy. Now drink up.

She glanced at him as he held out the glass and, steadying herself, took it, cradling it in her hands. Her tummy flipped as she registered the washboard belly, the thick dark hair, the explicit sensuality of the lips now set in a firm line. And those were Armani jeans, her expert eye confirmed.

Aren't you scared this may make me run amok? She took a sip of the bracing liquid. After all, you’re risking it, inviting in a complete stranger. You never know I might just act crazy. Jo's voice cracked as she held back the tears that threatened to undo her. She hunched down into a black leather armchair and crossed one leg over the other; unaware he’d registered gashes on legs, the back of hands and across her wide brow.

I wouldn't, he said, the expression on his face showing that there was little he could not handle even begin to think of that if I were you. He got up and disappeared, returning with a bowl of warm water, disinfectant and cotton wool and set to dabbing the cuts, his fingers flicking disturbingly over her, inching up along her thighs to her core. She closed her eyes and moved slightly. What is he doing?

You're a road menace. His tone roughened wearily. Once upon a time, many feet of original Victorian cast-iron railings fronted my territory. Now... He leaned forwards the smell of pine and musk in his aftershave pinpricking her senses. Seventy five per cent irredeemably mowed down with the efficiency of a combine harvester. Even that 1987 hurricane was less of an apocalypse. Have you any idea how much it’ll cost to reinstate? Even worse that I might have to contend with a modern replica?

I...

His eyes darkening to sand grey silenced her. Not to mention the basement windows blown to bits by collapsing ironwork. And I’ll have to plug the gap with ugly plywood boarding, pending repair. The mess, the inconvenience, the expense, the time-wasting. Hell, why am I wasting time and energy talking this crap when all I want to do is bury my face in her wet pussy, suck her clit, feel the silk of her skin beneath me as I make her come.

Ain’t that a shame? Despite her pounding heart, Jo managed a retort. "Hark, do I hear the plaintive sound of gypsy violins? My heart bleeds for you. You're insured. You won't personally have to fork out a penny. Anyway, you don’t look as if you’re exactly scraping. It wasn't my fault and for heaven’s sake it isn’t a hanging offence. I skidded. It happens and voila, force majeure. And I’m not going to let you trap me into admitting liability." There was that rush of fluid again, a mounting urgency in her cunt.

Have you finished? I suppose the van had a will of its own— they say a poor workman always blames his tools.

That's unfair. Her eyes flashed. ‘And I can’t see you supervising the work — you look as though you can afford to hire a project manager.’

She knew he was needling him, and for a moment his nostrils flared but he was too smart, too polished to take the bait. Side stepping her to a glass desk, his eyes dropped to his tablet. Have you never heard it said, don’t judge a book by its cover? Now, to business. His voice sharpened. I want details of your motor policy. So you are…? He raised his dark eyebrows his gaze intent on her creamy complexion and the lush mouth and he fought the sexual tug to pull her into his arms, to hear that husky voice cry out as she abandoned herself to his libido. Careful. He fought the feral urge the thought invited. Get a grip.

Josephine Farrer. The Old Barn, Sweet Briar Lane, Pelstowe. She seemed not to have noticed that he’d clenched a fist, as he struggled for self-control. She would’ve given anything to be back home and, by now, would have been arranging the new stock on rails in the spacious spare bedroom, converted by her with style and flair on a tight budget into a dress shop, with long mirrors and a curtained-off fitting area.

Jo’s house, a single storey barn conversion with original oak beams, peg work, inglenook fireplace and vaulted ceiling stood below the paddock of Brigadore, a house in Queen Anne style built of the prettiest pale pink brick in an idyllic country setting. Owned by Roger and Zelda Carr, her uncle and aunt, it adjoined the horse training stables masterminded by Roger into a flourishing business after he’d retired as a top jump jockey.

Was that her imagination, or did the man’s fingers pause for a microsecond? Forestalling questions, he proffered a business card and she glanced at it only to freeze as she registered— Edmund D. Amery. Chairman and C.E.O. Amery Enterprises PLC, followed by an office address in Canary Wharf, London’s expensive Docklands business district. Ed Amery! Incredulity numbed her for several moments and her thoughts flipped. It couldn’t be ... it was the guy that Kim Straker, her ex- fiancé had worked for until some two and a half years ago. She gazed at him appalled, her hand almost scrunching up the card.

Some of the shock-horror must have shown in her face, for Ed reacted swiftly. ‘You’ve gone as white as a ski slope. Delayed reaction, I expect. How about another drink?" He sent her a searching look.

Jo shook her head and forced a smile. No, no, I'm good. He’d caught her off guard and her voice sounded odd to her. Fighting panic she stood up and cleared her throat. Mr Amery, I ought to head home.

Ed. Are you quite sure you can make it? He frowned slightly and looked at her for a long moment, his eyes sweeping over her in a comprehensive assessment that made her bones melt.

She felt as if she were teetering on the rim of a volcanic crater. I'm good, she insisted but her insides churned. Never had she dreamt she’d meet the bruiser, as Kim called him, quite like this. Never had she dreamt she’d feel so ill equipped for retribution.

Well, I suppose you're the best judge of that. He shrugged his shoulders, annoyed with himself for not practicing what he preached— carpe diem— seize the day and fulfil the desire that caught him in the gut. He glanced out of the window. Look, your van’s being loaded onto a transporter. You'd better track what’s going on while I call a taxi.

Pinning on a bright smile, Jo traipsed down the hall into the street. Oh no! Her shoulders slumped as realization dawned that no way could she transfer the stock to Pelstowe without the van. She shouted up to the man in the transporter and he yelled down to reassure her that the goods would be safe, just as a black cab pulled over.

Ed had followed her out, a half-amused expression on his face as he registered her frantic dialogue with the transporter driver. "All sorted?

He opened the cab door, his gaze lingering on her shapely legs and helped her in, the touch of his bronzed arm with its dark hair sending a tingle up her spine.

Jo nodded, emotions rioting inside her.

My insurer will be in touch.

I bet he will. Oh, you’ll want my mobile phone number. She suddenly remembered she’d forgotten to give it. The last thing she needed was he berating her for trying to pull a fast one.

I’ve got your number, he said silencing her with a little gesture and an ironic smile. Meanwhile, stay safe. Turning his back, he was disappearing up the steps with fluid lupine grace, the solid black front door shutting firmly behind him, sealing him off from the outside world.

Very clever, ha ha. Jo thought sourly as the cab moved off, her nerves frayed, feeling angry at the way she’d reacted to him, to the brush of his hand against her, to wanting his hot hardness deep inside her. Glancing back she told herself he’d come off lightly— some structural damage easily repaired. I hate you Ed, I hate you she wanted to say. I was crazy about Kim and you vaporised that. You crucified him until he fled, a broken man, to a new life, without me.

She’d been in a hurt place, her emails and calls dropping into a black hole until a few months later a letter had arrived bearing exotic stamps. In a few terse lines, Kim ended the engagement, blaming Ed. Eventually, Jo removed the symbol of commitment —a whopper of a boulder fire opal ring drenched in flawless diamonds— and stiffened her heart and sexual instincts against being hurt again, because that’s what loving had done to her.

Jo stared unseeingly out of the cab window; her hands twisted together, an ache deep inside her. Her thoughts slid back to Ed, probably comfortably into his mid-thirties now. Yet during Kim’s employment at the company she’d