Sweet Surrender

Kate, too intelligent to deceive herself, had known from the start that the passion was one-sided. Alasdair, five years older in age and a lot more than that in experience, had made it plain he was fond of her, and had taken it on himself to protect her from male predators. But she’d had no illusions about his feelings for her. He had treated her like a kid sister, never as a potential lover. Trying hard to be content with the relationship, she’d cheered him on at rugby matches, felt passionately grateful when he’d taken her with him for a drink afterwards, and preened in secret because it had been taken for granted that they were a couple. But the nearest thing to physical contact with Alasdair had been an occasional—and brotherly—peck on the cheek.

Madly in love for the first time, Kate had eventually grown so frustrated her work had inevitably begun to suffer. Then suddenly, just before Alasdair had been due to leave Cambridge for his first job, she’d locked herself away in her room with only her books for company, pleading pressure of work. She’d refused to socialise with anyone, a mystified Alasdair Drummond included. And, though he’d left to work for an international pharmaceutical company soon afterwards, he’d made a habit of contacting Kate occasionally afterwards to check on her progress.

Then Alasdair’s job had taken him to the States, and communication between them had become rare. But, while visiting his grandparents in Gloucester on a trip to the UK, he had made time for a memorable visit to her home just before Kate started in her first teaching post. In response to his bluntly expressed disapproval of her choice of career she’d lost her temper completely, told him that what she did with her life was her own affair, not his, ended by ordering him out of the house, and had heard no more from him since—until his reappearance today outside school.

Alasdair Drummond, the brilliant research chemist Kate had known in the past, had risen with meteoric speed in his career; she knew only too well. And the combination of success and maturity, she thought irritably, was probably a terrific turn-on for most women. But not for her.

Kate’s phone woke her on the stroke of seven next morning, and she shot up in bed to grab it, breathless as she answered.

‘I obviously woke you up, Miss Dysart,’ said Jack Spencer with remorse. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she assured him. ‘Any news?’

‘John Spencer Cartwright arrived a few hours ago, yelling his head off and complete with a full set of everything. My sister’s in reasonably good shape, apparently—unlike Tim, who’s a gibbering wreck.’

Kate chuckled. ‘Thanks for letting me know. How’s Abby?’

‘On cloud nine because her mother talked to her on the phone the moment she could. Tim passed on your message, so Jules made very sure her special girl knew Mummy loved her to bits.’ Jack Spencer added, ‘My sister’s deeply grateful to you. On all counts.’

‘Only too glad to help.’

‘Miss Dysart, Abby tells me you’re going home for half-term?’

‘That’s right.’

‘When are you leaving?’

‘After lunch. I don’t have far to go. I’ll be home in time for tea.’

‘May I ask where “home” is?’

‘Stavely. About twenty miles from Pennington.’

‘I know it well. Great part of the world. Enjoy your holiday.’

‘I will. Thank you for ringing, Mr Spencer.’

Kate dressed, went downstairs to make breakfast, and afterwards tidied up the cottage. She packed her bags, then went next door to tell Mr Reith, her elderly neighbour, that she would be away for the week, checked that he still had her spare key, then accepted his offer of a cup of coffee and stayed chatting to him for half an hour.

Later, when she was setting time switches to turn her lights on after dark, Kate answered a rap on her front door to find a smiling Jack Spencer, in faded jeans and battered leather flying jacket, holding out an enormous sheaf of early spring flowers.

‘Good morning, Miss Dysart. These are by way of thanks.’

‘How—how very kind,’ said Kate, taken aback. ‘Please come in.’

‘I’m not holding you up?’

‘Not at all. Do sit down. Coffee?’

Jack Spencer shook his head regretfully and perched on the cushioned window seat. ‘No, thanks. I’m taking Abby and my parents out to lunch shortly, while Tim gets some sleep. Then we’re off to the hospital to meet the heir apparent.’

Kate chuckled. ‘I bet Abby can hardly wait.’

‘My mother likewise,’ he assured her, keen blue eyes trained on her face. ‘You look different this morning, Miss Dysart.’

‘More like a teacher now my hair’s tidy, you mean?’

‘I suppose I do. Pity to hide those curls away like that—’ He flung up a hand. ‘Too personal. Sorry.’

She smiled ruefully. ‘I’m way past the age of letting my hair hang down my back.’

‘If you say so.’ He grinned. ‘Last night you looked like a schoolgirl.’

‘It’s a long time since I was, but thanks just the same, Mr Spencer.’

‘Call me Jack.’

Kate shook her head. ‘Not appropriate.’

‘Because you’re Abby’s teacher?’

She nodded. ‘The Head prides himself on knowing parents by their first names, but, along with the rest of the staff, I stick to Mr and Mrs.’

‘But I’m not a parent,’ he pointed out. ‘Uncles don’t count.’

Aware that she was still clutching the vast bouquet, bridal fashion, Kate set it down on a table. ‘Please thank Mr and Mrs Cartwright for these, Mr Spencer.’

‘Actually, the flowers are from me—Miss Dysart.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.

‘Then thank you,’ she said, surprised. ‘How kind of you to go out of your way to bring them.’

‘I came because I wanted to see you again,’ he said simply, and stood up. ‘I must be off.’

A rather bemused Kate went to the door to open it. ‘Goodbye, Mr Spencer.’

‘One day I’ll get you to call me Jack,’ he promised, and strode down the path to his mud-splattered Cherokee, which now had company. A dark blue Maserati was parked behind it.

Kate stared as she saw Alasdair exchange a brief, unsmiling nod with Jack Spencer, who gave her a wink and a conspiratorial grin before he drove off.

Kate stood in her doorway with arms folded, her face expressionless as she watched Alasdair Drummond open her small wicket gate and stroll up the path towards her. His shoulders were less massive than Jack Spencer’s, but he was half a head taller, and, though he wore jeans as vintage as her previous visitor’s, it was their only point in common. Alasdair wore polished loafers with a transatlantic air to them, his casual polo shirt was white, and his sweater a shade of almost-pink a less masculine man would have found hard to carry off. The general effect, she thought with amusement, was the acme of elegance compared with her previous visitor.

But this time, without yesterday’s shock clouding her vision, Kate was able to look at Alasdair more objectively. His brown hair, once worn close-cropped, was now long enough to curl a little, and his face was leaner than Kate remembered. But the steel-grey eyes were as searching as ever.

‘Hello again, Kate,’ he said, his smile wary.

‘I didn’t expect to see you today, Alasdair.’ She backed out of reach as he leaned down towards her. ‘Don’t tell me—you were just passing?’

He straightened, his eyes irritatingly indulgent. ‘No. I drove here specifically to see you. I thought we could have lunch somewhere before you take off for Stavely.’