Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed

Lydia gave a startled cry and whipped round.

‘Because they love them?’ Nicolas Regan-Phillips said, leaning against the kitchen doorway, looking much more like the photograph Izzy had found than he had the day before. He wore a sharp and very conventional pinstripe suit. Power dressing at its most effective.

And he was handsome. Her sister’s words popped into her mind and she silently cursed her. The resemblance to her favorite actor was really very superficial, but it was there all the same.

‘I—I came to feed the cat.’ Lydia turned away and pulled back the loop on the tin, irritated at the slight nervous stutter. Where had that come from? And, more importantly, why?

‘So did I.’ He placed a brown paper bag down on the draining board.

‘I hope you don’t mind that I—’ She stopped herself, swinging round to look up at him as a new thought occurred to her. ‘How did you get in?’

He held up a key. ‘Front door.’

‘Oh.’ Lydia cursed herself for the inanity of her reply. Of course he would have Wendy’s key. He would have needed it to lock up the cottage. What was the matter with her?

She carefully scooped out the contents of the tin with a spoon, aware that Nick continued to watch her. He made her feel uncomfortable, as though, perhaps, she’d been caught out doing something he considered wrong rather than the good deed she’d intended. ‘I suddenly remembered I’d seen a cat. I couldn’t leave it to starve,’ she said, glancing up.

He really did have the most inscrutable face. Normally she was good at picking up emotional nuances—but Nicholas Regan-Phillips seemed to short circuit some connection and she was left uncertain.

On balance he didn’t seem as angry as he’d been yesterday. More suspicious. She looked away. It probably wasn’t anything personal. He had a reputation for avoiding journalists and for protecting his privacy. Lydia swilled out the empty tin under the tap. ‘Does Wendy have a recycling bin?’

‘I imagine so.’

Lydia looked up in time to catch his swift frown. If she puzzled him she was glad. He certainly puzzled her. What had he to do with Wendy Bennington? She hadn’t managed to discover any connection at all. It was a mystery—and mysteries really bugged her.

‘Shall I leave this on the side then?’

‘I’m sure that’ll be fine.’

Lydia carefully placed the tin at the back of the draining board and rinsed the spoon. ‘How’s Wendy?’

There was a small beat of silence while, it seemed, he evaluated her right to ask the question. ‘Better than she looked yesterday.’

Lydia glanced over her shoulder, a question in her eyes.

‘She’s had a TIA. A mini-stroke, if you like. She’ll be fine.’ His mouth quirked into a half-smile. It was a nice mouth, firm and sensual. ‘No permanent damage, but she’s been told to make some life changes.’

‘That’s…fantastic.’

His smile broadened and something inside her flickered in recognition. ‘I’d love to hear you try and convince her of that.’

‘When will she be home?’

‘Well—’ he stretched out the word ‘—that depends on who you speak to. She’s broken her ankle. It’s a fairly simple break, apparently, and doesn’t need surgery, but…’

Lydia looked around her and then down at the uneven floor levels.

Nick followed her gaze. ‘Exactly. She’s not going to manage here for a few weeks, however much she’d rather be in her own home.’

‘No,’ Lydia agreed. She placed the clean bowl back on the floor and picked up the other one. ‘So, who’s won?’

‘The cards are stacked in my favour. I’m here to pick up Nimrod. Hopefully lure him in with food.’

Lydia emptied the water into the sink and put in some fresh. ‘That’s the cat?’

‘Nimrod, the mighty hunter,’ Nick agreed, moving away into the hall, his voice slightly muffled. ‘I gather his namesake was Noah’s great-grandson.’ He reappeared moments later, carrying a cat basket.

‘Great name,’ she said, smiling at the incongruous sight of a city gent with rustic cat basket.

‘Certainly appropriate. He’s something of a killer cat. Wendy picked him up as a stray a couple of years ago, only he turned out not to be so much a waif as a con artist. If it moves, Nimrod will hunt it. There never was a cat more suited to life in the wild.’

Lydia laughed. ‘Good luck getting it into that thing then,’ she said with a gesture at the cat basket.

‘So Wendy’s warned me,’ he said, setting it down on the kitchen table.

She rinsed her hands under the tap. ‘I’m glad it’s all sorted. It suddenly occurred to me, after I’d left, that you might forget about…Nimrod. I was going to contact you today.’

‘How?’

She looked up, surprised by the abrupt single word question. ‘It wouldn’t have been too difficult. A call to your company…’

His nod was almost imperceptible, but she could see his attitude towards her change. ‘I thought you didn’t know who I was.’

‘I didn’t, but you have an Internet presence—’

‘And you checked.’

Lydia thought of Izzy and smiled, deciding that she wouldn’t tell him that her description of him had inspired her sister with a burning fascination to discover who had managed to rile her so much. There’d been little enough information to find, nothing he could object to.

He was thirty-six and divorced. His only child, a daughter, lived with her mother and he was hugely successful at what he did. Nothing particularly unusual in any of that.

‘Do you always pry into other people’s business?’

‘Pretty much.’ She looked about her for a towel on which to dry her hands. ‘It’s an occupational hazard. But, this time, you’ve got to acknowledge I was invited to pry.’

‘Not by me.’

‘By Wendy.’ She turned to face him. ‘Though I dispute the use of the word pry.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you?’

‘She’s led an amazing life. Don’t you think it’s in the public interest to have that properly chronicled? What she’s achieved, particularly for women, is amazing.’

‘I think what’s deemed to be “in the public interest” is stretched beyond belief,’ he said dryly, ‘but that’s not to undermine what Wendy has achieved.’

‘Can’t argue with that, I suppose—but I’m not here as a representative of any tabloid paper. Wendy will have complete control over what I write about her and, as long as it’s truthful, I’ve no problem with that.’

‘No?’