Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed

Had an appointment at ten, she corrected silently. It was now nearly twenty past. Damn and blast the woman. Where was she? Lydia straightened and shook back her hair. What exactly was she supposed to do now?

Was it possible Wendy Bennington had forgotten their meeting? Lydia wrinkled her nose and stared at the closed door as though it held all the answers. It didn’t seem likely she’d have forgotten. The woman was in her late seventies but had a mind so sharp she made politicians quake at the knees the minute she opened her mouth. She’d lay money on her not forgetting a thing. Ever.

Which was why she’d grabbed at the chance to write an authorised biography of Wendy Bennington. It was the kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity which meant she’d broken off her first holiday in five years. Why she’d got the first flight back to London and had immersed herself in researching the inveterate campaigner’s astonishing life.

So where was she? Lydia peered round the empty garden as though she expected to see Wendy Bennington walk up the path. Just yesterday the older woman had sounded so enthusiastic about the project; surely she wouldn’t have gone out? And leaving a window open? No one did that any more.

Lydia sucked in her breath and considered her options. She could, of course, get back in her car and drive back up the motorway to London. Or she could go and get a coffee in Cambridge and come back in an hour or so. Either one would be an irritating waste of her time.

She pushed the bell and rattled the letterbox. Even though it didn’t seem worth doing, she bent down and shouted loudly, ‘Ms Bennington?’ Through the narrow opening she could see the green swirly patterned carpet, but nothing else. The cottage seemed completely deserted.

She half closed the plate, her fingers still on the brass. It wasn’t a voice or even a definite noise that made her pause. Perhaps it was a sixth sense that something was wrong. She called again, ‘Ms Bennington, are you there?’

Silence. And then a soft thud. Almost.

‘Hello? Hello, Ms Bennington?’

She couldn’t be absolutely certain, but she thought she heard the sound again. Not a footstep or someone falling…nothing that obvious. But something. She was almost sure of it.

Lydia straightened and shifted her briefcase into her other hand. Of course it could be nothing more exciting than a cat knocking over a waste-paper basket, but…

But if that soft noise had been the elderly lady’s attempt to attract attention she wouldn’t thank her for walking away and leaving her. Would she? She’d expect her to use her initiative…and do something. Which meant…

What?

Lydia chewed gently at the side of her mouth. It had to be worth a try at getting into the cottage through the open window. If Wendy Bennington had been taken ill…

It was possible. She might have fallen. Accidents in the home were very common, after all. If anything like that had happened, trying to get into the cottage would be the right thing to do. She glanced down at her watch, now showing twenty-five minutes past the hour.

With sudden energy, Lydia quickly walked round to the back of the cottage and stared at the small upstairs window. It was tantalisingly open. If she could just climb on to the flat roof, reaching the window would be child’s play. It didn’t look that difficult.

She glanced over her shoulder. There was no one around. No one to ask if they’d seen Wendy Bennington that morning.

There was no choice…

Lydia carefully concealed her briefcase beneath a large rhododendron and stood back to consider her options. It really wasn’t going to be difficult—as long as the flat roof was strong enough to take her weight.

She took a moment to pull a black velvet scrunchie from her jacket pocket and twist her long hair into an untidy topknot before pulling the dustbin up against the wall. Then, holding on to the drain pipe, she hoisted herself up the first few feet—just high enough to get a grip on the roof.

Easy. Well, perhaps, not easy…but easy enough. And if Wendy Bennington wasn’t home it would be just as straightforward getting out again. No one need know.

With the dexterity of the county-level gymnast she’d once been, Lydia swung her leg up and pulled herself on to the roof. If nothing else she could tell the elderly woman her home was a security disaster. Anyone could break in. Where she lived in London no one would dream of doing anything as foolish as going out and leaving a window open. You didn’t even leave your car unattended in Hammersmith for five minutes without careful thought.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

A man’s voice shot through the silence. Lydia’s hand paused on the open window, her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.

‘Get down! Now.’

Startled, she turned and looked at the man standing below on the crazy paving. Tall. Handsome…in a scruffy, rough kind of a way. Mid-thirties, maybe late. It was difficult to tell.

And angry. Definitely angry. No doubt about that at all.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he repeated.

Lydia moved away from the open window. ‘Getting in. I thought I heard a noise.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ she fired back, irritated by the heavy sarcasm in his voice. How many burglars did he know who went out on a job dressed in a genuine Anastasia Wilson jacket? It was time he took a reality check. ‘I had an appointment with Wendy Bennington at ten—’

‘It didn’t occur to you to wait until she answered the door?’ he asked with dangerous politeness, his accent at odds with his very casual clothes. Lydia looked at him more carefully. Whoever he was, he certainly wasn’t the farm labourer she’d thought he might be.

And he wasn’t as handsome, either. He had a hard face and an arrogant stance that made her want to explain the principles of feminism—very slowly—because he’d probably never grasped the concept of equality.

‘It occurred to me, yes—’

‘So, what changed your mind?’ he asked, still in that same supercilious tone of voice.

Lydia struggled to hang on to her temper. ‘Forty minutes standing about in the garden is probably what did it. I’m going to climb in and see if she’s hurt. If that’s all right with you?’ she added, turning her back on him.

‘It isn’t.’

She looked round. ‘Pardon?’

‘I said, it isn’t.’

‘Don’t be so…stupid. I had a ten o’clock appointment. I’m sure Wendy wouldn’t have forgotten, it was too important. She might be lying hurt inside. Have you thought of that?’ Lydia turned and pushed the tiny window open.

‘I’d rather you used the key.’

‘What?’ She swung round in time to see him open the back door. ‘H-How did you do that? The door was locked. I checked—’

‘She keeps a spare key under the pot.’

Lydia watched him disappear inside with a sense of disbelief. Damn it! This couldn’t be happening to her. It had been a very long time since anyone had managed to make her feel so completely foolish.

Logically she knew there was no reason for her to have known Wendy Bennington kept a key hidden. The idea that a formidable campaigner of human rights would keep her back door key under a terracotta flowerpot seemed, frankly, incongruous. But clearly she did…and the local populace all knew about it.

At least this particular member of it did. Who in…blazes was he anyway? Arrogant, sarcastic, supercilious…The words flowed easily. It didn’t help knowing she might have reacted in a very similar way herself if she’d discovered someone about to break into a neighbour’s upstairs window. Presumably he was a neighbour?

Gingerly Lydia lowered herself down, careful not to scrape her jacket on the brickwork. She brushed herself down and picked up her briefcase from under the rhododendron.

‘Tall, dark and sarcastic’ had left the door open, no doubt expecting her to follow him. She wiped her feet on the worn doormat and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. The small cottage window ensured the kitchen would always be dark, but the situation was made so much worse by the heavy net curtain hung on plastic-coated wire.

Lydia let out a low whistle. Even though the outside of the cottage was looking frayed around the edges and the garden was hopelessly overgrown, she honestly hadn’t believed anyone lived like this any more.

The kitchen looked like something out of a nineteen-forties movie. There were no fitted kitchen units at all. Just a freestanding gas cooker that looked as if it ought to be consigned to a museum and a thickly painted cupboard with bakelite handles. The orange and cream marmoleum floor tiles had begun to lift and the whole room was dominated by a floor-standing boiler.