CATHERINE GEORGE - No More Secrets

Kate, perpetually struggling with one diet or another, thanked her ruefully. In the staffroom she poured herself some coffee from the machine, scowling at the buttered scone.

‘Eat,’ said Clare, the language specialist. ‘You seem a bit edgy.’

Kate described her near-miss with a Range Rover that morning, pulling a face as she admitted it was all her own fault in her hurry to get to work. ‘I wanted an hour to myself to make sure everything was perfect. It’s the book signing. I’ve never actually organised one before.’ Succumbing to temptation, Kate bit into the scone and sighed with pleasure. ‘I just wish Gail’s mother wasn’t such a cracking cook!’

‘A fright like that probably burned up enough calories to account for one scone! Heavens, Kate, you were lucky.’ Clare patted her arm. ‘And don’t worry about Quinn Fletcher. She sells like hot cakes—amazingly gory stuff, too.’

‘I know. I’ve read them all. This last one’s the best yet. I gather she’s married?’

Clare nodded. ‘I’m almost as new in town as you, so I don’t know him, but he’s gorgeous, according to Gail. Some people get all the luck.’

‘You’ve got a gorgeous husband yourself!’ retorted Kate.

‘But I don’t write best-sellers.’

‘True.’ Kate jumped up. ‘I’d better tidy myself up—again—and make sure everything’s ready. Make sure there’s a fresh pot of coffee on the go for Ms Fletcher, there’s a dear.’

‘Don’t worry. Tray all ready with best cups and luxury biscuits. But no scones. Young Harry scoffed the last one and had to be forcibly prevented from thieving yours.’

‘I wish he had!’ Kate smoothed her long grey flannel skirt over hips too curvy for her taste, brushed a stray strand of hair into her severe pleat of hair and replaced the horn-rimmed glasses she wore during working hours. She renewed her lipstick, tucked her striped grey and white shirt in more securely, and buttoned the grey waistcoat bought to hide the opulence of her upper half. ‘There. How do I look?’

‘Frighteningly efficient,’ Clare assured her, chuckling. She stood up, stretching, long-legged and slim in jeans and navy jersey. And tall.

It was Kate’s misfortune to have joined a team where every other member, male and female, were well over average height. Her own five feet and a bit was no match for Clare and Gail, and certainly not Harry, who was a gangling six-footer and still growing. Even Mrs Harrison, the manager, was a head taller.

‘I didn’t realise you had such great legs,’ commented Clare, attending to the coffee-pot. ‘Never seen them before.’

They all habitually wore trousers or jeans, with shirts and jerseys of various descriptions, because the work entailed a lot of kneeling and hefting around of boxes by all the staff. But today Kate felt the occasion called for a skirt. Which, though long and narrow, with a rather dashing split to the knee, felt dowdy alongside the leggy Clare and tall, slender Gail.

‘I’ll change back into my usual gear once our celebrity’s departed,’ she said, and went out into the store, glad to see several customers browsing in all sections of her department. By the time she’d found various titles for some of them, directed Harry to help Gail when necessary, and checked that the table and chairs for the signing were in a prominent place, ready for the author, it was almost eleven.

Clocks in the town were chiming the hour when a car drew up outside. Kate went to the door, her smile ready in welcome, then caught her breath in dismay as a tall man with an unmistakable shock of blond hair leapt out to help his companion to her feet. The woman’s brown curls and laughing, flushed face were equally recognisable from the photographs in the display; but with one noticeable difference.

‘Oh, crikey,’ breathed Clare. ‘She’s pregnant. Very pregnant.’

Kate braced herself and went forward, hand outstretched. ‘Ms Fletcher? I’m Kate Harker. Welcome to Hardacres.’

‘Thank you. You’re new.’ Quinn Fletcher shook Kate’s hand, smiling warmly. ‘Charlie’s left?’

Kate nodded. ‘Mr Walters went to manage the Oxford branch.’

‘You’re much prettier than Charlie Walters!’ The man grinned down at her, then narrowed his eyes, frowning, and Kate turned away hurriedly.

Behind her calm, efficient exterior she felt depressed. So her rescuer was married. And even more handsome than she’d remembered from the fleeting episode in the pouring rain. But he was years younger than his wife—which, of course, was absolutely nothing to do with Kate Harker. ‘Please come inside,’ she urged, smiling brightly. ‘There’s a very cold wind today.’

‘Better than the sleet earlier,’ he returned with a grin, and turned to shepherd his companion inside with care. ‘You all right, love?’

‘Fine.’ Quinn Fletcher smiled at him reassuringly. ‘You can pop off now, Ben, if you like.’

He shook his head as he helped her to settle in the chair behind the small table used for signings. ‘No way. I’m here to keep an eye on you. Don’t worry, if I get bored there’s plenty to read!’

Quinn Fletcher smiled up at him lovingly. ‘Fusspot!’ She turned to Kate. ‘Take no notice. The baby’s not due for weeks yet.’

Kate, up to then convinced that the baby’s arrival was imminent, relaxed a little. ‘Before you start would you like some coffee?’

The attractive author shook her head regretfully. ‘Later, if that’s all right. If I have one now I’ll be making more trips to the bathroom than signing books—always supposing someone wants to buy—’ She broke off with a smile as she realised a line was already forming. ‘Oh, how lovely. Look at all these people! Let’s get started.’

Quinn Fletcher was kept busy with her fountain-pen as she smiled and chatted to each customer eager for her signature, most of them fans eagerly awaiting the latest best-selling thriller from a novelist who was popular worldwide, as well as in her home town of Pennington.

‘Mr Fletcher, would you like some coffee?’ asked Kate.

‘Thanks, I would.’ He turned away from a display of paperback novels, smiling down at her. ‘I skipped breakfast.’ He paused, one surprisingly dark eyebrow raised. ‘How do you feel? None the worse for your adventure this morning, I hope?’

‘No, not in the least,’ said Kate, resigned. ‘I thought perhaps you hadn’t recognised me.’

‘It took a while,’ he agreed, his smile deepening. ‘The disguise is good.’

‘No disguise.’ Her hackles rose at the hint of intimacy in the dark, dancing eyes. ‘This is how I normally look.’

‘Why?’ he countered. ‘I preferred you the other way.’

Kate, longing to give stinging set-down to Quinn Fletcher’s husband, was forced to give him a polite little smile instead before going off to fetch the coffee. She felt oddly let down, she realised, irritated with herself. And not just because Ben Fletcher was married, either. She strongly disapproved of a man ready to indulge in a spot of flirtation right under the nose of his heavily pregnant wife.

‘Crumbs,’ said Clare, following her in. ‘Can I give Mr Fletcher the coffee, boss? He’s seriously gorgeous.’

‘And you’re married,’ retorted Kate.

‘But not blind.’ Clare smacked her lips as she hefted a small tray. ‘Besides, I’m more his size than you are.’

Kate grinned, yanked her waistcoat straight, and returned to the fray, where a gratifyingly long line was still snaking through the front of the store. Leaving Clare to supply the spectacular Mr Fletcher’s needs, she went to the till to give Harry and Gail a hand as they took the money for The Letting of Blood. She felt a glow of satisfaction as she packed books into smart black bags with a plain gilt H. Most of the customers had bought other books as well as the new thriller. She glanced over at the author. Half-hidden behind the table, in a loose white coat, Quinn Fletcher’s condition wasn’t evident to the waiting fans. Somehow one didn’t expect a writer of frankly gory thrillers to be pregnant. Or to have such a young Adonis of a husband, either. One who apparently had nothing to do other than to escort his wife to a book-signing, chat up every female in sight—and laugh all the way to the bank when he deposited her royalty cheques, no doubt. Kate put on hasty mental brakes. None of her business.