The British Bachelors Collection. Kate Hardy

      The day MAGGIE COX saw the film version of Wuthering Heights, with a beautiful Merle Oberon and a very handsome Laurence Olivier, was the day she became hooked on romance. From that day onwards she spent a lot of time dreaming up her own romances, secretly hoping that one day she might become published and get paid for doing what she loved most! Now that her dream is being realised, she wakes up every morning and counts her blessings. She is married to a gorgeous man, and is the mother of two wonderful sons. Her two other great passions in life—besides her family and reading/writing—are music and films.

CHAPTER ONE

      ‘IS THE old place just how you remember it, Mr Ashton?’

      The innocently asked question from his chauffeur Jimmy, as he drove Drake to his less than agreeable destination cut him open like a knife. Yes … his home town was just as dreary and dismal as he remembered it. His memory hadn’t lied.

      Glancing out through the tinted car windows, noting the rundown buildings and general sense of despair that hung like a gloomy pall in the air, he felt a sensation in the pit of his stomach right then that was very close to nauseous. Was he insane even to think of revisiting this place, when it had caused him nothing but heartache and pain? It beggared belief that he had agreed his firm of architects would accept a commission from the government to create affordable, aesthetically pleasing housing to attract new residents to the area.

      Drake put it down to a moment of insanity. Why anyone in their right mind would want to live in such a soulless pit he couldn’t begin to fathom. As his grey eyes stared hard at the drab scenes that flew by the backs of his eyes burned with remembered pain.

      Snapping out of his reverie, he realised that Jimmy was still waiting for an answer. ‘Yes, I’m sorry to say it’s exactly how I remember it.’

      ‘Certainly looks like it could use a facelift.’ The broad good-natured face reflected in the driving mirror displayed his sympathy.

      ‘Where did you grow up, Jimmy?’ Drake asked him.

      ‘I was born and bred in Essex. The family didn’t have a lot of money but we pulled together. Had plenty of laughs along the way, as well as tears.’ He grinned.

      Drake forced a smile. He wished he could have said the same about his own upbringing, but sadly there had been very few laughs in his home after his mother had walked out. His father had raised him, but he’d done it with an angry and bitter resentment that had made Drake wary of making too many demands. Even the most basic requests had been apt to enrage his father and make him particularly cruel. Very quickly he’d learned to be self-sufficient and resourceful … simply because he’d had to.

       Enough of this pointless and painful introspection!

      Scowling, he leant towards the driver’s seat. ‘Pull over at the end of the high street, then go and park, Jimmy. I’ve just spied a coffee place and I’m in need of some caffeine and food. I’ve also got to look over some papers. Give me at least a couple of hours and I’ll ring you to come and pick me up.’

      ‘Sure thing, Mr Ashton. Do you want to take your newspaper with you?’

      ‘Thanks.’

      The aroma of rich roast coffee acted like a siren, reeling Drake in as he pushed open the heavy glass door of the café he’d noticed and entered. Years ago, when he was a schoolboy, this old Victorian building had housed the newsagents where his dad had bought his newspaper and tobacco, and later—when it had become a mini-supermarket—his cans of beer too …

      The bittersweet memory was apt to sour Drake’s anticipated enjoyment of his breakfast, so he jettisoned it to the back of his mind in the same way he ruthlessly eliminated unwanted e-mails from his inbox. Instead he focused on the display of mouth-watering pastries, croissants and muffins in the glass cabinet facing him and his stomach rumbled appreciatively.

      To hell with his usual cup of instant black coffee and burnt toast—his typical mismanaged breakfast because he was inevitably in a hurry.

      Message to self: must hire a housekeeper who can cook. The last one he’d employed had been a dab hand at making beds, cleaning bathrooms and plumping up cushions, but she’d barely been able to boil an egg, let alone cook him breakfast—which was why Drake had fired her. This morning he was definitely in need of more substantial sustenance—especially in view of the task he was about to undertake. But, whatever his feelings about his home town, he would be viewing

Скачать книгу