in the morning.
‘Well, did you read yesterday’s mail, then?’ demanded Greg, his chubby frame fairly quivering with indignation. ‘As you probably noticed, I was away at a craft fair yesterday, and I didn’t bother checking my post until this morning.’
Abby sighed. She refrained from telling him that she hadn’t noticed that his shop was closed. He got so few clients, it was difficult to tell when he was open and when he was not.
Besides, in all honesty, she rarely bothered reading through the pile of bills and circulars that came through her door on a daily basis. She saved them for when she was feeling confident that this month she’d make a profit.
‘I’m afraid I must have forgotten,’ she said, unable to imagine what might have got him so steamed. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘Oh, thanks.’
Taking her at her word, Greg appropriated one of the tables in the window, leaving Abby to bring his coffee to him.
Then, when he’d added cream and sugar to his liking, he said, ‘So you haven’t heard that old man Gifford has died and his son is selling this row of businesses to a developer.’
Abby’s jaw dropped. ‘No.’ She stared at him disbelievingly. ‘When did he die? Why weren’t we informed?’
‘Apparently, it was quite recently. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? I saw the old man in town about three months ago.’
Abby shook her head. ‘But can his son do this? I mean, I’ve got a lease.’
‘And when does your lease run out?’
‘Um—in about six months, I think. But I was hoping to extend it.’
‘As we all were,’ said Greg grimly. ‘But it’s not going to happen.’
Abby’s heart sank. ‘But this is my home as well as my business.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Greg took a generous mouthful of his coffee, smacking his lips with pleasure. ‘Hmm, that’s good.’
Abby couldn’t believe this was happening. ‘But what can we do?’
‘I haven’t given it a lot of thought yet,’ said Greg, swallowing more of his coffee. ‘We need to speak to the other shopkeepers first. I suppose we could contact Martin Gifford and ask him if he’d consider a raise in the rents instead.’
Abby frowned. ‘Do you think he might?’
‘No.’ Greg grimaced. ‘It’s about as likely as the developer withdrawing his offer.’
‘Like that’s going to happen.’ Abby looped her hands behind her neck, walking agitatedly about the room. ‘Developers don’t do that sort of thing.’
‘You said it.’
Greg finished his coffee and pushed his cup across the table towards her. But if he hoped she might offer him a refill, he was disappointed. Abby was already thinking she would have to conserve what few assets she had. She knew Mr Gifford’s son was unlikely to pay her for the improvements she’d made to the café when he intended on demolishing it.
Turning back to Greg, she said, ‘Do you know who the developers are?’
‘Why? Are you seriously thinking of appealing to their better nature?’
‘Of course not.’ Abby was impatient. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s not as if Ashford-St-James is a hive of industry.’
‘No, but it lacks a decent supermarket. According to the solicitor, whose letter I read this morning, the plan is to build a block of rental apartments above the retail area.’
Abby expelled a weary breath. ‘I wonder if they’ll offer us accommodation in the new apartments, at a reduced rate, of course.’
‘Well, I don’t need accommodation,’ said Greg a little smugly. ‘I bought my modest bungalow when property was cheap.’ He paused. ‘And you could always stay with me until you find yourself somewhere else to live, Abby. I doubt if you could afford the rents the Morelli company is likely to charge.’
Abby’s breath stalled. ‘Did you say—Morelli?’ she asked tensely.
‘Yes.’ Greg frowned. ‘Do you know them?’
‘I know—of them,’ admitted Abby, a feeling of nausea invading her stomach.
And with it came another thought. Dear God, did Luke Morelli know she was renting one of these properties? Was this an attempt on his part to take his revenge?
* * *
Abby lay awake, staring dully at the light from the street lamps outside filtering through the curtained windows. Harry was snoring peacefully beside her, having completed his masculine domination of her in the usual way.
All the same, his anger had been totally unexpected. He’d known where she was going; known who she was with. Yet he’d still managed to ruin her evening when she’d got home.
Her first indication of his mood had come as soon as she’d walked into the living room of the apartment.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he’d demanded, snagging the strap of the bag Abby had had slung over her shoulder. She’d staggered a little when he’d used it to haul her towards him.
‘You know where I’ve been,’ she’d said, refusing to let him see he’d shocked her. ‘It was Liz’s hen night. You said I should go.’
‘Only because I didn’t want your mother getting on my case again about me neglecting you,’ he’d retorted, pushing his face close to hers. ‘You stink of alcohol. How many drinks have you had?’
‘Just one,’ Abby had said defensively. She’d refused to count the cocktail, which she’d only tasted. ‘A glass of wine. Hardly in your league, am I?’
She’d barely avoided the hand Harry had raised towards her. ‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ he’d snarled, and she’d wondered how much longer she could live like this. ‘I asked you a civil question and I expect a civil answer. Or would you like Mummy to hear what an ungrateful girl you are?’
Abby had wrenched her bag away from him. Her mother was too ill to be upset by their troubles. When Abby had seen her the previous day, she’d been shocked by how frail she had become. And Harry knew that. That was why he always used her mother’s health as a lever to get his own way.
Whatever, there was no point in trying to reason with him in this mood. And, in all honesty, she had been feeling guilty. She shouldn’t have let Luke Morelli drive her home.
But for heaven’s sake, she’d done nothing wrong. And it had been so nice for once, just to talk to a man who seemed to enjoy her company; who didn’t treat her like his servant, or worse.
‘So where did you go?’
Abby had been heading for the door, but she should have known Harry wasn’t finished with
