later that evening, Lowri’s mood remained buoyant as she thought of Sunday with the Clares in St John’s Wood. Her cousin Sarah, one of the three beautiful daughters of the Reverend Glyn Morgan in Lowri’s native village of Cwmderwen, near Monmouth, was the wife of Rupert Clare, a novelist bankable enough to sell film rights to his books. Sunday would be fun. And she would enjoy it all the more because she hadn’t given in and invited herself as she’d longed to do ever since her arrival in London.
The Clares’ house in St John’s Wood was a large, light-filled house with a sizeable walled garden at the back, and a converted coach house which housed the family cars on the ground floor and provided a self-contained flat on the floor above for Rupert’s constant stream of secretaries, few of whom stayed for long. After a heart-warming welcome from Dominic and Emily, Lowri looked up to see Rupert loping down the curve of the graceful staircase, hands outstretched, Sarah close behind him.
‘Who’s a sly one then, little cousin?’ he said, shaking his head, then gave her a hug and a smacking kiss. ‘Escaped from the claws of the dragon, I hear!’
‘If that’s your way of saying I’ve left home, yes.’ She grinned up at her cousin’s charismatic husband. ‘Hello, Rupert, nice to see you.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d had to live with him this week,’ said Sarah with feeling. ‘Mrs Parks is not only the least efficient secretary Rupert’s ever had but also the most timorous, which brings out the sadist in him. She’s driving the great author mad. And I flatly refuse to take over from her—but you don’t want to hear about that. Come into the conservatory. We’ll picnic in there to enjoy the April sunshine.’
With Emily clinging to her hand, and Dominic telling her all about the new school he was going to shortly, Lowri basked in the glow of Clare hospitality as she leaned back in a comfortable wicker chair, sipping happily from a tall frosted glass decorated with mint and slices of fruit.
‘Pimms for us, fruit juice for the small fry,’ said Rupert, handing a beaker to his daughter. ‘You, Dominic, are promoted to the dignity of a glass.’
‘Gee thanks,’ said his son with sarcasm. ‘Couldn’t I have just a sip of Pimms, Dad?’
‘No fear,’ said his mother, smiling to soften the blow. ‘There’s the doorbell. Off you go to answer it, please.’
‘Mummy says you live in London now,’ said Emily, beaming up at Lowri. ‘Why aren’t you living with us?’
‘I’ve got a flat,’ said Lowri hastily, and Rupert snorted.
‘Fifth share of one, I hear.’
‘One girl is moving out next week, thank goodness.’ Lowri pulled a face. ‘Which means my rent will rise, but at least I’ll get a room with a wardrobe, and more chance of the bathroom.’ Her eyes narrowed suddenly at the sound of voices in the hall. One of them was vaguely familiar. She threw a questioning look at her cousin.
‘We’ve got two other guests today, love,’ explained Sarah. ‘After I met Adam Hawkridge in your shop the other afternoon he rang up and invited us out to something he calls brunch today. I told him we had company and asked him here instead, which meant including the current girlfriend, as usual.’
As Dominic showed the new guests into the conservatory Lowri got to her feet politely, wishing she’d worn something smarter than jeans and a striped cotton shirt as she shook hands with a leggy, narrow-hipped blonde encased in a ribbed white cashmere dress which drew all eyes to her startlingly prominent breasts. Adam Hawkridge, Lowri was relieved to see, wore jeans older than her own, plus a sweater over an open-necked shirt. He smiled at Lowri in gratifying recognition.
‘Well, well—the little cousin!’ He clasped her hand warmly. ‘This is my friend, Fiona Childe.’
Lowri murmured something suitable, then watched, amused, as the girl gushed over the house to Sarah, cooed at the children briefly then turned the full battery of her charms on Rupert.
‘Miss Thirty-two E, black lace,’ murmured a deep voice in Lowri’s ear, and she stiffened, swallowing a giggle.
‘Not today,’ she couldn’t help whispering. ‘It would show through.’
‘Really?’ Adam grinned down at her as he accepted a drink from Rupert. ‘How very interesting.’
‘What’s interesting?’ demanded Emily.
‘You are,’ said Adam promptly and sat down with Emily on his knee, stretching out a hand to Dominic at the same time. ‘Right then, you two, tell me what you’ve been up to.’
This man is preposterously attractive, thought Lowri as she watched him charm the children. Taken feature by feature, his heavy eyebrows and wide, slightly crooked mouth had no pretensions to good looks, and his forceful nose had suffered a dent at some time, but somehow the sum of it all added up to something irresistible. And quite apart from his looks Adam Hawkridge possessed effortless charm all the more powerful for the hint of steel under it all. Rake he might be, but a potently attractive one in every way, thought Lowri as she listened to the inanities Fiona was burbling about her hairdresser.
‘That’s a frightfully clever cut—where do you have yours done?’ she asked, eyeing Lowri’s boyish crop with interest. ‘Is the colour natural or do you have it tinted?’
‘Sloe-black, crow-black Welsh hair like Sarah’s,’ Rupert informed her.
‘There’s a man in the hair salon where I work,’ explained Lowri. ‘He did it half-price for me.’
‘You’re a hairdresser?’ exclaimed Fiona, flabbergasted.
‘No, I sell underwear.’
‘In the West End, not door to door,’ added Rupert, poker-faced.
‘How fascinating,’ said Fiona blankly, losing all interest in Lowri on the spot.
Adam Hawkridge, however, more than made up for the deficit. During the meal he installed himself next to Lowri, asking her all kinds of questions about herself in between telling Dominic and Emily about his recent trip to Japan.
‘How’s your father?’ asked Rupert later, refilling wineglasses.
‘Retiring soon,’ said Adam, sobering a little.
‘Does that mean you’ll be in charge of the company?’ asked Sarah.
‘Afraid so. All good things come to an end, so no more globe-trotting for yours truly. I’ll be a desk-bound sober citizen at last.’ He grinned challengingly. ‘Did I hear someone say “about time”?’
Fiona tossed back her hair, pouting. ‘Does that mean no more Ascot and Henley and so on?’
‘Afraid so—to the first two, anyway.’ The hazel eyes gleamed suggestively. ‘I might be able to fit in a bit of so-on now and again, perhaps.’
Fiona gave a little scream of laughter. ‘O-o-o-h, Adam!’
Sarah and Lowri sprang up simultaneously to clear away, avoiding each other’s eyes. They refused offers of help from the men, who went out into the garden with the children to play cricket, while Fiona remained firmly where she was, reclining on a wicker chaise with a
