Liz Fielding: The Three-Year Itch

Abbie lowered her lashes, seductively. “Why, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Then I’ll have to show—” The telephone began to ring. For a moment Grey gazed down at her, then he dropped the briefest kiss on her mouth. “It appears you have a reprieve.”

She didn’t want a reprieve and reached out for him. “Whoever it is will leave a message, Grey. Don’t go.”

“It’ll be Robert. I should have phoned him an hour ago.” He raised her hand absently to his lips. “Why don’t you see if you can rustle up something for supper?”

“Well, gee, shucks. Thanks, mister,” she murmured as he disappeared in the direction of the study. It was the first time she had ever come third. To a phone call and food.

Born and raised in Berkshire, England, LIZ FIELDINGstarted writing at the age of twelve when she won a hymn-writing competition at her convent school. After a gap of more years than she is prepared to admit to—during which she worked as a secretary in Africa and the Middle East, got married and had two children—she was finally able to realize her ambition and turn to full-time writing in 1992.

She now lives with her husband, John, in West Wales, surrounded by mystical countryside and romantic, crumbling castles, content to leave the traveling to her grown-up children and keeping in touch with the rest of the world via the Internet.

You can visit Liz Fielding’s web site via Mills & Boon at: www.millsandboon.co.uk

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Excerpt “So you want to play games, do you, Mrs. Lockwood?” Abbie lowered her lashes, seductively. “Why, sir, I don’t know what you mean.” “Then I’ll have to show—” The telephone began to ring. For a moment Grey gazed down at her, then he dropped the briefest kiss on her mouth. “It appears you have a reprieve.” She didn’t want a reprieve and reached out for him. “Whoever it is will leave a message, Grey. Don’t go.” “It’ll be Robert. I should have phoned him an hour ago.” He raised her hand absently to his lips. “Why don’t you see if you can rustle up something for supper?” “Well, gee, shucks. Thanks, mister,” she murmured as he disappeared in the direction of the study. It was the first time she had ever come third. To a phone call and food.

About the Author Born and raised in Berkshire, England, LIZ FIELDING started writing at the age of twelve when she won a hymn-writing competition at her convent school. After a gap of more years than she is prepared to admit to—during which she worked as a secretary in Africa and the Middle East, got married and had two children—she was finally able to realize her ambition and turn to full-time writing in 1992. She now lives with her husband, John, in West Wales, surrounded by mystical countryside and romantic, crumbling castles, content to leave the traveling to her grown-up children and keeping in touch with the rest of the world via the Internet. You can visit Liz Fielding’s web site via Mills & Boon at: www.millsandboon.co.uk

Title Page The Three-Year Itch Liz Fielding www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

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ABBIE LOCKWOOD glanced sympathetically at the crowds milling around the luggage carousel as she walked by, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t have to. Travelling time was too precious a commodity to be wasted queueing for luggage, and she carried no more than the drip-dry, crumple-free essentials, packed along with her precious laptop computer and camera, in a canvas bag small enough to be carried aboard a plane with her.

She moved swiftly, eagerly through the formalities and into the airport arrival hall, glancing about her for Grey, her excitement deflating just a little as she didn’t immediately spot the heart-churning smile that told her he was glad she was home. She stretched slightly onto her toes, although at five feet ten in her drip-dry socks, she didn’t really need to. Besides, he wasn’t the kind of man you could miss. He stood a head clear of the most pressing crowd and she knew that if she hadn’t immediately caught sight of his tall, athletic figure it was because he wasn’t there.

Abbie’s sharp stab of disappointment punctured her brilliant feeling of elation at being home, at a job well done. Grey always came to meet her. Never failed, no matter how busy he was. Then she shook herself severely. It was ridiculous to be so cast down. He might just have been delayed, or a client might have needed him urgently—he might even be in court. She hadn’t been able to contact him directly, so he hadn’t been able to explain …

He’d probably left a message, she thought, fighting her way through the crowds to the information desk. It was unreasonable to expect him to drop everything and come running just because she had been away for a couple of weeks and was dizzily desperate to hold him in her arms and hug him tight. It was just that he had never failed her before. That was all.

‘My name is Abigail Lockwood,’ she told the young woman at the desk. ‘I was expecting my husband to meet me but he isn’t here. I wonder if he left a message for me?’

The girl checked. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing here for you, Mrs Lockwood.’

‘Oh, well,’ she said, trying to hide a sudden tiny tremor of unease, the totally ridiculous feeling that something must be wrong. ‘I expect we’ve got our wires crossed somewhere. I’d better take a taxi.’ The girl smiled on automatic; she had clearly heard it all a thousand times before.

All the excitement, the high of returning home had drained from her by the time the taxi set her down outside the elegant mansion block where she and Grey lived, and she just felt tired. But she found a smile for the porter, who gallantly admired her tan and asked her if she’d had a good trip.

‘Fine, thanks, Peter,’ she replied. ‘But I’m glad to be home.’ Two fraught weeks touring the sprawling streets of Karachi with a distraught mother in search of her snatched daughter in a tug-of-love case had not been a barrel of laughs.

‘That’s just what Mr Lockwood said not five minutes ago, when he got back.’

‘He’s home?’ In the middle of the afternoon? Something must be seriously wrong.

‘Yes, Mrs Lockwood, and very glad to see you back safe and sound, I’m sure. Leave your bag; I’ll bring …’

But Abbie, too impatient to wait for the ornate wrought-iron lift to crank her up two floors, was already flying up the stairs, her bag banging against her back, her long legs taking the steps two at a time, all tiredness forgotten in her need for reassurance. Then as she reached the door she felt suddenly quite foolish. If Grey had been ill, or hurt, Peter would certainly have said something.