‘It might be something you’d be interested in. I’d be glad to give you all the details.’
Grace wanted to groan.
She’d been half afraid Sean had been about to bring that up earlier on. As soon as he’d heard that Jack was living in the village, Sean’s intentions had been clear.
Jack straightened away from the bureau. He was watching them both through those narrowed eyes, his absurdly thick lashes veiling their expression.
She thought she could guess what he was thinking. He knew exactly what was going on here. She just hoped he didn’t think she had any part in it.
‘Yeah,’ he said at last, without enthusiasm, and, in spite of being innocent of any wrongdoing, Grace could feel the colour pouring into her face. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Grace crossed the hall, wondering how she could have been foolish enough to believe Sean thought of anyone but himself. All she’d succeeded in doing was making herself look equally avaricious, to a man who probably regarded both of them with contempt.
Jack’s eyes were drawn to the unconsciously sensuous sway of Grace’s hips as she headed towards the exit. The low-rise waistband of her jeans exposed a tempting glimpse of very fair skin. And, although he couldn’t be absolutely certain, he thought she had a small tattoo etched in the hollow of her spine.
She glanced back once and their eyes met, and Jack felt a momentary twinge of guilt. He had no right to be staring at the girl, no right to be thinking thoughts about her he’d believed he’d never have again.
But, no matter what restrictions he might put upon his conscience, he couldn’t deny she was a very sexy lady...
* * *
Grace left the Bay Horse with a feeling of relief.
It was good to be home; good to be staying with her parents again. But it had been an extremely frustrating day.
In her room at the pub, the noise from the bar had been penetrating. She wasn’t used to the social atmosphere of the Bay Horse these days. And even with the television playing, she could still hear the rumble of men’s voices, the shouts of laughter, the sound of car doors slamming in the parking area outside.
And because of this, she intended to find herself other lodgings. Her parents would be disappointed, no doubt, but she was used to living on her own.
Besides, getting herself a small apartment would prove to her parents that she was serious about leaving London. It might also help to get Sean Nesbitt off her back.
It was a pleasant evening, and she’d decided to take a walk. Her mother was resting. Since her bout with breast cancer and the subsequent course of chemotherapy, Mrs Spencer was easily tired and rested often. Evidently the sounds of the pub didn’t trouble her.
Grace chose to walk down to the harbour. She hadn’t visited the quayside since her return and it used to be a favourite haunt of hers. She was hoping it might help to put the problems of the day into perspective.
She’d wasted the morning at an old vicarage not far from Rothburn, waiting for a client who hadn’t shown.
Then, in the afternoon, she’d had to fend off the advances of a property developer.
William Grafton, who was in his late forties, had expressed an interest in some dilapidated cottages that were for sale on the coast. It was an isolated spot, but he’d said he thought they might be suitable for conversion to holiday lets. The area was a Mecca for birdwatchers and other naturalists, and accommodation was limited.
Now, however, Grace wondered if that had only been a ploy. He’d come into the agency to see her boss, but as soon as he’d recognised Grace he’d switched his attention to her.
She shook her head. Had he really thought she might be interested in him? A married man, moreover, who was old enough to be her father?
Grace had found herself wondering if she was cut out to be an estate agent, after all. Maybe she should try to find a job in a library or doing research. Something that tested her academic rather than her people skills.
Pulling the hairband out of her hair, she tipped back her head to allow the mass of red-gold curls to tumble about her shoulders.
Gosh, that felt good. Even the headache that had been probing at her temples for the past hour was eased by the removal of the confining band.
She hadn’t realised it before, but she was still tense from having to deal with William Grafton. The man was a menace, she thought, irritably. Mr Hughes could speak to him next time he came into the agency.
The trouble was he was also a friend of her father’s. And a patron of the Bay Horse. And as he was a client of the agency, she had to avoid offending him on three counts.
Leaving the forecourt of the pub, she started down the hill towards the seafront. Rothburn now had a thriving marina, catering to all kinds of leisure craft.
Was this where Jack Connolly kept his boat?
The thought came out of nowhere and she hurriedly flicked it away. She’d reached the quayside now, and she refused to let thoughts of Jack Connolly spoil the evening for her.
The area wasn’t busy. The fishing quay was littered with lobster pots and wooden boxes, evidence of the sale that had been held there earlier in the day. But there were few people about.
The marina itself was separated from the working side of the operation by a stone pier. It ran out to a small lighthouse that marked the entrance to the harbour. Rows of slips provided mooring for a surprising number of vessels; small yachts and sailing dinghies rubbing shoulders with larger, ocean-going, craft.
Grace had always liked the idea of sailing. When she was younger, she used to tell her father she was going to be a fisherman herself when she grew up.
Until he’d taken her out on one of the small trawlers and the swell had made her sick.
She half smiled at the memory and exchanged a greeting with an old man sitting on one of the capstans, smoking his pipe. She’d known the man since she was a toddler, she realised. That was the thing about Rothburn: everybody knew who you were.
Resting her arms on the railings that ran along one side of the pier, she scanned the boats moored in the slips with more than a casual eye.
She refused to acknowledge she was curious about the kind of boat a man like Jack Connolly might own. Probably the most expensive, she thought ruefully. Like that gleaming cruiser, with at least three decks.
‘Looking for something?’
GRACE STARTED ALMOST GUILTILY.
Despite the quietness of her surroundings, she hadn’t heard anyone’s approach and, glancing down, she could see why. He was wearing canvas boots, their rubber soles almost silent on the stone jetty.
Taking a deep breath, she turned.
‘Mr
