his driver.
‘You can take the scenic route today, Simon,’ he said.
‘Of course, sir.’ Obligingly, Simon took the next turning from the motorway and began manoeuvring the byroads that led away from the country mansion in Sunningdale towards the city centre.
Whilst Gabriel relaxed back into the seat, crossed his long legs encased in their perfectly tailored and outrageously expensive handmade trousers, and clasped his hands behind his head.
So the riding stables were on the verge of bankruptcy, pleading for a buyer to rescue them from total and ignominious ruin. He could not have felt more satisfied if a genie had jumped in front of him and informed him that his every wish would come true.
For the first time in seven years he allowed his tightly reined mind to release the memories lurking like demons behind a door.
Laura. He stared through the window at the lush countryside gliding past them and lost himself in contemplation of the only woman to have brought him to his knees. The smell of the stables and the horses. Glorious beasts rising up in the misty twilight as they were led back into the stables. And her. Long white-blonde hair, her strong, supple body, the way she laughed, tossing her head back like one of her adored animals. The way she moved under his touch, moaning and melting, driving him crazy. The way she had finally rejected him.
His jaw clenched as he feverishly travelled down memory lane and he felt the familiar, sickening rush of rage that had always accompanied these particular memories.
‘On second thoughts, Simon. Take the motorway. There’s a call I want to make…’
Or rather, a call he would instruct his head accountant to make. But Andy, his head accountant, didn’t get to the office until eight-thirty, and waiting until then nearly drove Gabriel to the edge of his patience.
It was not yet nine when Laura raced into the kitchen and grabbed the telephone, breathing quickly because she had just finished doing the horses and had opened the front door to the frantic trilling of the phone. Of course, the minute she picked up the receiver, she could have kicked herself. Why bother? She knew what was going to greet her from the other end. Someone else asking about unpaid bills. Lord, they were crawling out of the woodwork now! Her father had managed to keep the hounds at bay whilst he had been alive, spinning them stories, no doubt, and using his upper-crust charm to squeeze more time in which to forestall the inevitable, but the minute he had died and she had realised the horrifying extent of the debt, every man Jack had been down her throat, demanding their money. The house had been mortgaged to the hilt, the banks were clamouring for blood and that was only the tip of the iceberg.
How she had managed to swan along in total ignorance of their plight was now beyond her comprehension. How could she not have managed to realise? The house slowly going to rack and ruin? The racehorses being sold one by one? The horses in their care gradually being removed by concerned owners? She had merrily gone her way, doing her little job in the town, coming back to the security of her home and her horses, protected as she had always been from the glaring truth of the situation. God!
Her voice, when she spoke, was wary. ‘Hello? Yes?’
‘This is Andrew Grant here. Am I speaking to Miss Jackson? The owner of the Jackson Equestrian Centre?’
Laura ran her slender fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair and stifled a little groan of despair.
‘Yes, you are, and if you’re calling about an unpaid bill, then I’m afraid you’ll have to put it in writing. My accountant will be dealing with…with all unpaid bills in due course.’ Like hell he would be. There was simply no money to deal with anything.
‘I have in front of me an article in the Financial Times about your company, Miss Jackson. It doesn’t make pretty reading.’
‘I…I admit that there are a few financial concerns at the moment, Mr Grant, but I assure you that—’
‘I gather you’re broke.’
The bluntness of the statement took the wind out of her and Laura shakily sat on the old wooden chair by the telephone table. With the phone in one hand, she stared down at her scuffed brown boots and the frayed hem of her jeans. In the past four months she felt as if she had gone from being a carefree twenty-six-year-old girl to an old woman of eighty.
‘Money is a problem at the moment, yes, Mr Grant, but I assure you—’
‘That you will miraculously be able to lay your hands on enough of it to clear your debts, Miss Jackson? When, Miss Jackson? Tomorrow? The day after? Next month? Next year?’
‘My accountant is—’
‘I have already had a word with your accountant. He’s managing your company’s death rites, from what I gather.’
Laura gave a sharp intake of breath and felt her body tremble. ‘Look, who are you? You have no right to make phone calls to my accountant behind my back! How did you get hold of his number? I could take you to court for that!’
‘I think not. And I have every right to contact your accountant. The demise of your company is now public knowledge.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I am proposing a rescue package, Miss Jackson…’
‘What do you mean by a “rescue package”? Look, I really don’t know a great deal about finances. Perhaps it would be better if you contact Phillip again and then he can explain to me…’
‘On behalf of a very wealthy client, who wants to meet with you personally to discuss what he has in mind.’
‘M-meet with me?’ Laura stammered in confusion. ‘Phillip has all the books. It would be extremely unorthodox to—’
‘The sooner you are able to arrange a meeting with my…ah…client, the quicker your problems will be resolved, Miss Jackson, so could I propose…’ he paused and down the end of the line she could hear the soft rustle of paper ‘…tomorrow? Lunchtime?’
‘Tomorrow? Lunchtime? Look, is this some kind of joke? Who exactly is this so-called client of yours?’
‘You will have to travel to London for the preliminary meeting, I’m afraid. My client is an exceptionally busy man. If the deal shows promise, then, naturally, he will want to see the stables for himself. Now, there’s a small French restaurant called the Cache d’Or just off the Gloucester Road in Kensington. Could you be there by one?’
‘I…’
‘And if you have any doubt as to my client’s financial worthiness or, for that matter, the reliability of this proposed deal, then I suggest you call Phillip Carr, your accountant, and he should be able to set your mind at rest.’
At rest was the last place her mind was one hour later, after she had called Phillip and plied him with questions about the identity of the apparent knight in shining armour who wanted to buy one desperately ailing riding stables in the middle of nowhere.
‘He can’t be serious, Phillip. You’ve seen the place! Once glorious, now a destitute shambles. Not even a good reputation left to trade on! Just an empty, sad shell.’ Laura felt the prickle of tears welling up when she said this. She could hardly bear to remember the place
