Living With Marc

Living With Marc
Jane Donnelly

Love thy neighbor?Things had a way of happening around Robin Johnson. She always seemed to be in the middle of some scrape or another! She could understand why the cool, discerning lawyer Marc Hammond should have reservations about hiring Robin as his great-aunt's companion. She was hardly the quiet and retiring type–but then, neither was his great-aunt!It looked as if Marc was going to have his hands full with Robin in the house. She was quite simply enough to drive any man to distraction!

Nothing much seemed to surprise Marc Hammond (#u5e92f335-c897-53c0-9fe4-b3c8dec23c27)About the Author (#ude07ec8e-b8d1-56ed-8db7-b5be25a8bcf8)Title Page (#ue18d8874-298d-592e-9c8b-f865983a030d)Chapter One (#ue12a2f36-7970-52a6-9c8d-a1066ac7f44f)Chapter Two (#u5b999b52-ca7e-5f02-b2b9-c013ee7cf694)Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Nothing much seemed to surprise Marc Hammond

Not much surprised Robin, either; she was used to the unexpected happening around her. Half the time she didn’t know why it happened, and most of the time she didn’t know how to deal with it.

Marc had said that she was a time bomb, but of all the men Robin had ever met, Marc Hammond was the one who seemed to pack so much dynamic energy that she couldn’t imagine life would ever be calm around him.

Jane Donnelly began earning her living as a teenage reporter. When she married the editor of the newspaper, she freelanced for women’s magazines for a while—and she wrote her first Mills & Boon romance as a hard-up single parent. Now she lives in a roses-around-the-door cottage near Stratford-on-Avon, England, with her daughter, four dogs and assorted rescued animals. Besides writing, she enjoys traveling, swimming, walking and the company of friends.

Living With Marc

Jane Donnelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

ROBIN had thought the day could not get worse, but when she saw who was sitting behind that desk she had to bite her lip hard or she would have shrieked with hysterical laughter. The sight of Robin was a shock to him too. It took a lot to shake Marc Hammond, but one of the heavy dark eyebrows raised a fraction as he gasped, ‘Good Lord!’

‘Good afternoon and goodbye,’ Robin gulped.

She was turning to leave when he asked, ‘Whatever made you imagine you’d be suitable for the job?’

Robin hadn’t exchanged a word with Marc Hammond for years. But the way he was putting her down now—a big man behind a big desk, so sure of himself in every way—brought back memories.

Last time she had seen him she’d been seventeen and tongue-tied. Now, a few years older, and after one heck of a morning, her self-control cracked. Rage flared in her, bright as her tumbling red hair, and she was across the room, gripping the edge of the desk, leaning over and facing him.

‘Because,’ she snapped, ‘the advert was for a companion-driver to an elderly lady and I reckon I’d be efficient on both counts, but I know you wouldn’t employ me any way, any time, so we have both wasted a few minutes.’

He was leaning back in his chair, chin in hand, watching her as if she was making a show of herself.

‘The old lady in question,’ he drawled drily, ‘has had more than enough excitement over the years. What she’s needing now is peace and quiet, and I don’t suppose there’s much of that around you.’

She should not have flared up. She should have stayed cool-headed. She made a belated attempt to retrieve a little dignity, straightening up, letting her hands fall to her sides, saying, ‘Sorry,’ although she had nothing to apologise to him for. ‘It’s been one of those days.’

‘Have a lot of them, do you?’ he enquired.

More than you, she thought. I bet not much goes wrong with your day, or your life. She shrugged. ‘Not too many. But no job, of course.’

‘No job.’

If he was doing the interviewing the old lady had to be somebody close to him. He’d never consider Robin, and she couldn’t have taken on work that might have kept her under Marc Hammond’s eye.

When he got up she remembered how tall he was. She was over average height herself, but as he came round the desk he was towering over her and she found herself backing towards the door. ‘I’ll see you out,’ he said.

‘No need. I know the way.’ The front door had been opened by a woman who looked like a housekeeper. The office where Marc Hammond had been waiting led off the hall, and Robin did not want him walking anywhere beside her. But he ignored her protests; he was seeing her out, and she bit back the urge to say, You don’t have to watch that I’m leaving empty-handed; I won’t pocket any of the silver.

The wide floor of the hall was of polished wood, there were rugs in dark jewel colours and the paintings all looked like pricey originals.

When Robin had turned from the road into a curving drive leading to a house with white pillars and three storeys of long white windows, she had thought, Wow!

The advertisement had had a phone number and she had been given this address. She hadn’t known who lived here but she had hoped it was the elderly lady who was advertising, because it had looked such a super place to work in. That, of course, was before she had known Marc Hammond was here. Now she couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.

He said nothing to her as they walked down the hall. He might have managed a goodbye when he’d opened the door, but just before they reached it somebody called, ‘Robin?’ and Robin whirled round as an elderly woman came tripping down the stairs with a wide, welcoming smile. ‘Robin? It is Robin?’ And the woman she knew as Mrs Myson threw her arms around her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I—I came about the job,’ Robin stammered.

‘You never. You did?’ She clasped her hands together and almost did a little dance. ‘But this is marvellous. Marc, how did you find her?’

Marc Hammond looked down on them both. ‘I didn’t,’ he said shortly. ‘Where did you?’

‘You mean she just came along?’ Mrs Myson had silver hair, beautifully styled, and an almost unlined face. Now her blue eyes sparkled as Robin explained.

‘I answered the ad in Friday’s paper. Are you the lady who needs a driver?’ Mrs Myson nodded. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘And I didn’t know you were Miss Johnson.’ Neither had Marc Hammond. There were lots of Johnsons around although none of them was related to Robin. If she had said ‘Robin Johnson’ instead of just ‘Johnson’ he would never have interviewed her.

‘I didn’t know you were looking for a job.’ Mrs Myson’s smile was mischievous. ‘Between you and me, I don’t really think there is a job, but now I know you’re interested I’m changing my mind.’ Her smile took them both in. ‘Well, isn’t this lovely?’

‘I’d put it another way.’ Marc Hammond was tight-lipped, unsmiling. ‘Where did you two meet?’

‘Oh, we’re old friends,’ the old lady said blithely. That wasn’t quite true.

‘Where?’ he persisted.

‘At the Sunday market,’ Mrs Myson said, and now she was holding both Robin’s hands. Getting the job that had been advertised would have been brilliant, because Robin liked Mrs Myson. But with Marc Hammond calling the odds her chances were nil.

The Sunday market was held weekly on the old airfield in countryside a few miles out of town. Anyone could hire a pitch and Robin often turned up to help an old schoolfriend. Amy was a single mother short on funds, who had a flair for sewing and ‘did’ local jumble sales, bought items cheaply then laundered and mended and sometimes restyled, and offered. very wearable clothes at very reasonable prices.

When Robin helped with the selling, trade always improved, because Robin jollied the customers. The market was popular; customers arrived from miles around. When Robin smiled at them most folk smiled back, and in no time she would be helping them find a bargain.

Mrs Myson had been on the charity stall the morning Robin had been buying a little china ballerina, for a friend’s birthday, from the bric-a-brac section. ‘I used to have red hair. Not as beautiful as yours, but red,’ the old lady serving had told her. Robin had liked her on sight. Her gaiety of spirit had made a little bond between them and Robin had looked out for her in the months that had followed.

Mrs Myson was usually on the charity stall. She turned up for all sorts of good causes, from a country ravaged by war or drought or earthquakes to the local cats’ home. And although she was always cheerful Robin wondered if she had a lonely life outside her charity fund-raising.

If the old lady lived in this house and the powerful Marc Hammond was watching out for her, she was hardly alone, but Robin felt she would have quite enjoyed being Maybelle Myson’s companion. There was a refreshing spark of devilment in the old lady, and when Marc said, ‘You work on a charity stall?’ as if he couldn’t believe that Robin would be helping anybody but herself, Mrs Myson defended her indignantly.

‘Yes, Robin has helped on the stall.’ A couple of times when Robin had found Mrs Myson alone and busy she had given a hand. ‘And last week she helped us pack up when we had that cloudburst.’ Mrs Myson was still holding Robin’s hands. ‘You are taking the job?’

‘I’ve already been turned down.’ Robin smiled as she spoke because it was best to treat this lightly.

‘Why?’ Mrs Myson was bewildered, looking at Marc for an explanation.

‘The idea is to find you a congenial companion who can drive a car and keep an eye on you,’ he said wearily. ‘I know you think you could still ferry a raft up the Amazon but you need reminding that you are eighty-two years old, and I have no intention of letting you loose with a juvenile delinquent.’