Natasha Oakley - Millionaire Dad - Wife Needed

What was she? Not a blonde or a brunette. Richer than a blonde and lighter than a brunette.

‘I don’t believe that for a minute.’

He looked up.

‘Oh, I believe Wendy doesn’t like interference in her business. I’m like that myself, but—’ her eyes met his ‘—but I don’t believe you don’t tell her what you think. I’ve seen you two together, remember.’

He felt a small muscle pulse in his cheek. ‘I don’t want her hurt.’

‘I won’t.’

And, strangely, he believed her. There was an innate honesty in those rich eyes that made him want to trust her. Was that how she worked? Was it a highly cultivated technique which persuaded the unsuspecting to share their innermost secrets?

‘If you slander her in any way I’ll sue you.’

She didn’t flinch. ‘An authorised biography is just that—authorised.’ Then her face softened. ‘You really love her, don’t you?’

‘She’s a special lady.’

‘So I gather.’ Lydia slipped her arms out of her jacket and placed it over the chair by the table. ‘You can trust me. Where do you want me to take Nimrod to? Do you have a housekeeper to receive him?’

A housekeeper. A nanny. A daughter.

He didn’t trust her. Not with one atom of his body. If he left Lydia in the cottage she would, no doubt, look around. She’d open drawers and search through Wendy’s possessions. But then, Wendy herself had argued that she’d nothing to hide.

Let her search.

‘My housekeeper is Mrs Pearman. Christine Pearman.’ It felt as if he’d lost some unspoken battle. ‘Did your research on me extend to knowing where I live?’

As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted his phrasing of them. Lydia Stanford was doing him a favour. Even if she did have an unacknowledged agenda of her own.

‘You weren’t that much of an interest, but I’m sure I can find out with a couple of phone calls if you want to make it a game.’

He’d deserved that, Nick thought as he fished in his pocket and pulled out his card case. ‘It’s a ten, fifteen minute drive from here. No more.’ He scribbled down the address. ‘I’ll ring Christine and let her know to expect you. You’ll need to phone up to the house when you arrive and they’ll open the gates.’

Lydia took the card and looked down at it.

‘If you need to leave before Nimrod puts in an appearance, I’d be grateful if you’d leave a message with my secretary and I’ll come back this evening. The number’s on the front. It’s a direct line through to her. I don’t want you to feel you have to sit here for hours.’

She turned the card over. ‘It’s not a problem.’

‘No, well…thank you.’

Her eyes flashed up. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’ll lock the front door. If you leave the key beneath the flowerpot…’

‘No problem,’ she said again.

There was nothing left to do. ‘The cage is here.’ He pointed at the cat basket.

‘Yes.’

It was just leaving that was the problem. It was walking back down the hall and shutting the door.

Trust. This was about trust. About leaving her alone in Wendy’s cottage.

Or was it? There was the suspicion that this was about more than that. There was something about her golden aura that touched him. He knew it—and he was almost certain she did.

Danger. Fire. And Lydia Stanford. Like the Holy Trinity they belonged together.

‘Thank you.’

‘Give Wendy my…’Love. She’d been about to say love. Hardly appropriate for a woman she didn’t know. ‘Best wishes.’

His hand went to his tie. ‘I’ll do that.’

Lydia made herself smile. She didn’t know what was going on here. There were undercurrents she didn’t understand. ‘Perhaps she’ll ring me when she feels…ready?’

‘I’m sure she will.’

And then he left. Awkwardly—and she had no idea why. Why was it she felt so uncomfortable round Nicholas Regan-Phillips? It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to men with influence and money. She was.

She heard the front door click shut and gazed about Wendy Bennington’s tired kitchen. What the heck was she doing? And, more importantly, why was she doing it?

It was true, what she’d told Nicholas Regan-Phillips, she did have the time. This was her holiday.

Nicholas Regan-Phillips. What a mouthful of a name. Nick Regan. His Nick Regan suited him far better.

Lydia filled the old limescale encrusted kettle and set it on the gas hob. It was just so out of character for her to have agreed to kick her heels in such a place.

Why would she do that? This wasn’t her problem.

But Nick Regan was, that little voice that sat some way to the left of her shoulder whispered. He was arrogant, rude, supercilious…and sexy. Lydia searched around for a coffee mug. Bizarrely, Nick Regan was very, very sexy—and he was probably the reason she’d agreed to stay.

Now, if Izzy knew that…

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.