HAD DECIDED to leave his visit to Ashford-St-James until the next morning.
When he’d arrived at Oliver Morelli’s home in Bath, he’d discovered that his father expected him to stay the night, and he hadn’t wanted to disappoint him.
Besides, his visit to the properties in South Road was intended to be anonymous. How much easier it would be to browse the small shops his agent had described to him in the morning, without arousing any protests from their occupants.
Luke himself had never been to Ashford-St-James before. He’d only learned of the possible opportunity for developing the site from his father.
Charles Gifford, the owner of the properties, had been an old golfing partner of Oliver Morelli’s. When he’d died, Gifford’s son had wasted no time in informing his father’s solicitor that as soon as probate was granted he was going to sell the row of shops in Ashford.
Prior knowledge had given Luke an advantage. And, although it was a small development compared to the work the Morelli Corporation undertook these days, Luke had sensed that Oliver Morelli wanted to feel he was contributing to his son’s success.
Which was why the five businesses in question had been given six months’ notice. It had also been Luke’s father’s suggestion that the tenants be given a decent interval of time to find themselves other accommodation.
Not that that was going to be easy, thought Luke, deciding to park his car in the centre of town and explore the place on foot. From what he’d heard, the shops in South Road were small concerns, more suited to the last century than this.
As far as he could see, the stores in High Road were upmarket clothes shops and jewellers. There were one or two phone outlets and a couple of coffee shops, but nothing along the lines of the businesses his father had described to him.
Conversely, there appeared to be few food shops. He could quite see why the local council were in favour of building a supermarket.
Nevertheless, it was an attractive place, the mellow stonework of a church with its bell tower providing a focal point. The church stood beside a park, where a small lake provided a home for a family of ducks. Although it was early in the season, there were flowers already blooming in the planters that edged the market square, and the trees in the park had most of their foliage.
It was all very old English and very civilised. The kind of place that was attracting newcomers from London. People who were eager to escape the rat race; who wanted a slower pace of living, without losing all the benefits of the city.
Luke left his car near the town centre and strolled along the main street to where South Road ran at right angles to the high street. His father had given him directions and it was easy to find the row of properties Luke had taken an option on.
According to the details Luke had been given, there was a gift shop, a shop that sold woollens, a photo studio, and a bridal outfitters. The fifth property was a café-cum-bookshop, which the solicitor had told him was probably the most successful, financially speaking.
Luke crossed the road at the lights and strolled past the first of the shops. This was the bridal shop, with an extravagant lace wedding dress occupying the central position in a window full of bridal gear.
The photo studio was next door, its window draped with a purple backdrop in front of which resided a single digital camera.
At least it was a digital camera, thought Luke, wondering if people still sat for formal portraits these days. Maybe the photographer made his living filming weddings or christenings. Perhaps he teamed up with the bridal outfitters, and they kept each other informed.
He grinned to himself, and moved on to the next business. This was the café, with the gift shop beyond. The gift shop appeared to have a window filled with an array of soft toys and knick-knacks that any serious shopper would call junk. But obviously some people liked it or the shop would have closed before now.
Luke wasn’t much interested in the woollen shop, so he paused outside the café-cum-bookshop.
He glanced at his watch. It was after ten. He supposed he could legitimately call in for a coffee. The place was called Harley’s, and there was an appetising array of scones and cakes visible on trays at the counter.
There was also a number of bistro tables and chairs, several of which were already occupied. Clearly, despite the chain coffee shops in the high street, some people preferred a more intimate café. Or perhaps it was the fact that it sold books that attracted them here.
The bell made a muted sound as he opened the door. Clearly it was in need of attention. But Luke quickly found an empty table and subsided onto a chair. The smell of cakes and pastries was appetising, and, picking up the menu, he used it as a shield as he surveyed the interior of the café.
It was tastefully decorated, one wall covered with a mural of muffins and cupcakes that fairly oozed with fruit and cream you could almost taste. A huge Italian coffee machine bubbled away in the background, giving the place a contemporary feel, and away to the right an archway led into the bookshop.
‘What can I get you?’
He’d been so intent on studying his surroundings, Luke hadn’t heard anyone’s approach. Putting the menu aside, he looked up at the young woman standing beside the table.
‘Um—an Americano, please,’ he was beginning, and then broke off in disbelief. ‘Abby!’ He got automatically to his feet. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
* * *
‘I own the business,’ Abby said, feeling amazingly calm.
She’d gone through the whole gamut of emotions in the last few weeks since she’d read the solicitor’s letter, but at no time had she ever imagined that Luke might come into the café.
Alone.
She moistened her lips. ‘I don’t have to ask you why you’re here, of course. I assume you’re evaluating your latest acquisition.’
Luke stared down at her. He hadn’t changed at all. Tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, he was just as attractive as ever. Dangerously so, she acknowledged, wishing she were able to put the past behind her.
As he had evidently done.
She’d changed a lot, she was sure. An aborted love affair and a bitter divorce could do that to you. Not to mention discovering that what little money she’d invested in the café was now lost.
‘You run this café?’ he asked, as if he hadn’t believed her the first time. ‘I assumed you were still working in London. I had no idea you’d moved out of town.’
‘Hadn’t you?’ Abby wondered if she believed him. If that were so, then the Morelli Corporation buying these shops was not the vindictive action on his part she’d thought it was.
‘Of course, I hadn’t,’ muttered Luke, as if aware of her scepticism. ‘I wouldn’t have thought your husband would give up his job so easily. The stock market, wasn’t it? Not much use for an investment broker around here.’
‘Harry and I are divorced,’ said Abby, aware that their prolonged conversation was attracting the attention of her other customers. ‘I’ll get your coffee.’
‘Wait.’
