Jill Mansell - Sheer Mischief

But Oliver Cassidy was in a different league altogether. After years of struggling and making do, Thea was ready to be spoiled by a man who wasn’t afraid to wave his wallet. And although she’d only just met him, she knew instinctively that here was a man who wasn’t afraid of anything at all.

It had been a dazzling evening. Arriving in the Rolls less than five minutes after Janey had left, Oliver had picked her up and taken her to the five-star Grand Rock Hotel where he was staying. The hotel restaurant, one of the best in Cornwall, was as impressive as she had hoped.

And her dinner companion, Thea decided as she sipped her cognac, had definitely exceeded all expectations.

‘How long are you staying down here?’ she asked, having already learned that he lived in Bristol.

Oliver Cassidy shrugged, adjusting snowy shirt cuffs. ‘A week, maybe two. I’ve been looking at properties in the area, thinking of moving down here.’

Better and better, thought Thea happily, admiring his discreet gold cufflinks and breathing in the scent of Penhaligon cologne. ‘Well, I’m pretty familiar with the area. Perhaps I could help you there.’ Pausing, she broke into a smile. ‘Helping other people to spend their money is a great hobby of mine.’

As far as Oliver Cassidy was concerned, her bluntness made a refreshing change. Over the years he had become something of an expert on the subject of gold-digging females and what he’d discovered was that, to a woman, they would tear out their own professionally manicured fingernails rather than admit that his money held any interest for them or that it could make any difference to their attraction towards him. It was all so tiresome, so bloody predictable.

Thea Vaughan, on the other hand, was making no secret whatsoever of her interest in both him and his money, and he found her honesty quite disarming. He wanted to get to know this charming, teasing woman; she interested him more than anyone else had done for years. He also, quite urgently, wanted to take her up to his suite and make love to her. Ever the perfect English gentleman, however, he felt he should allow her to finish her cognac first.

It wasn’t difficult to read his mind. Thea was looking forward to the hours ahead just as much as he was. Beneath the immaculate, dark blue suit and white shirt she could only too easily imagine the contours of his body. Oliver Kennedy — no, Cassidy — had the erect stance of a guardsman and he’d kept himself in remarkably good shape. His chest was broad, his stomach flat and he sported an impressive tan. Going to bed with him, she thought as her fingers idly caressed the stem of her brandy glass, would be fun.

But there was no hurry. No hurry at all.

‘Go on then,’ she said with a provocative smile. ‘I’ve told you all about my miserable marriage. Now it’s your turn.’

‘Which particular miserable marriage did you have in mind?’ Oliver, after puffing meditatively on his cigar, leaned back in his chair and signalled for the waiter to replenish their drinks. If she could wait, so could he. ‘there are three to choose from.’

‘All of them,’ said Thea cheerfully. ‘In chronological order. And I want to hear the gory details ...’

Since picking wives had never been one of his strong points, there were plenty of those, too. Over the next half hour he regaled her with hair-raising tales of his three scheming, volatile wives. If Thea suspected that he was bending the facts in order to present himself in a blameless light, she didn’t voice such thoughts aloud. And it was riveting stuff anyway, better than any soap opera, According to Oliver – trusting, innocent Oliver – he had been bamboozled in turn into matrimony by Liza, Milly and Fay. All three, it appeared, had been blonde, beautiful and absolute hell to live with. They made Macbeth’s witches look cute.

None of the marriages had lasted longer than three years. Each wife had departed in a flurry of recriminations and alimony. Following the third divorce, Oliver had vowed that he would stick to mistresses. They might be expensive but they were a damn sight less expensive than greedy, vengeful wives.

‘And there were no children?’ said Thea, totally engrossed and not in the least put out by the declaration. She couldn’t imagine anything more thrilling than being an expensive mistress.

This kind of scenario was right up her street.

Oliver looked momentarily uncomfortable. ‘I have a son by my first wife,’ he replied, after taking another puff of his cigar. ‘But we had ... er... a disagreement some years ago. I’m afraid we haven’t been on speaking terms since then.’

With a directness which so often made her elder daughter cringe, Thea rested her chin on her clasped hands and said, ‘Really? What happened?’

‘I tried to stop him making the same mistake ‘I had.’ Oliver Cassidy didn’t make a habit of admitting that he could have been wrong. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that in the matter of Véronique he might have been, but her untimely death had come as a great shock to him nevertheless. ‘I’d been through three disastrous marriages and realized too late that my wives were only interested in my money. My son was living in London, doing very well for himself in his own career. Then, when he was twenty-three, he met a young French girl. She was eighteen years old and penniless. He was besotted with her. Within a few weeks of meeting her, he brought her down to Bristol and informed me that they were planning to get married.’ He paused, remembering the ensuing argument as plainly as if it had happened yesterday. ‘Well. To cut a long story short, I told him he was a bloody fool, and he went ahead and married her anyway. They had two children, and a few years later she died. I attempted to contact my son afterwards, but I’m afraid he wasn’t able to forgive me for disapproving of the marriage in the first place.’

‘But that’s terrible!’ cried Thea, suffused with indignation on his behalf. ‘You only had his best interests at heart. You were trying to help him!’

‘I know, I know. But my son had ideas of his own. You know how stubborn children can be.’

‘So you’ve never ever seen your grandchildren?’ Thea persisted, her dark eyes sympathetic.

Oliver shook his head. There was no need to mention that fateful afternoon when Véronique had brought them to his house. The encounter wasn’t something of which he was particularly proud.

‘Never.’

‘It’s a tragedy,’ she declared expansively. ‘And those poor children ...’

Smiling, he leaned closer. ‘Between ourselves, that’s one of the reasons I’m thinking of buying a house down here. They moved to Trezale a year ago. I’m not getting any younger.’ He spread his hands and added sorrowfully, ‘I’d like the chance to get to know them.’

Her emotions heightened by Chablis and champagne, Thea was on the verge of tears. She took his hand in hers. ‘You know, you really are a very nice man.’

Oliver Cassidy’s plush suite was decorated in peacock blues and greens, and subtly lit.

Unashamed of her body, Thea removed her clothes with neither coyness nor ceremony, then crossed the bedroom to stand naked before him.

‘Who’s seducing who?’ he said, appreciating her lack of artifice.

Thea, loosening his tie, looked amused. ‘Does it really matter? We’re adults. I think we both know why we’re here ...’

He removed his jacket and watched her capable fingers unfastening the buttons of his white shirt. She was still smiling, evidently enjoying herself. And she was right, of course; any further games were unnecessary.

Aroused by her straightforward attitude, as well as by the proximity of her unclothed body, Oliver realized that it was years since he had wanted a woman this badly. He put his arms around her, drawing her against him. He was sixty-one years old and his life wasn’t over yet.