Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed
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At least this particular member of it did. Who in…blazes was he anyway? Arrogant, sarcastic, supercilious…The words flowed easily. It didn’t help knowing she might have reacted in a very similar way herself if she’d discovered someone about to break into a neighbour’s upstairs window. Presumably he was a neighbour?
Gingerly Lydia lowered herself down, careful not to scrape her jacket on the brickwork. She brushed herself down and picked up her briefcase from under the rhododendron.
‘Tall, dark and sarcastic’ had left the door open, no doubt expecting her to follow him. She wiped her feet on the worn doormat and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. The small cottage window ensured the kitchen would always be dark, but the situation was made so much worse by the heavy net curtain hung on plastic-coated wire.
Lydia let out a low whistle. Even though the outside of the cottage was looking frayed around the edges and the garden was hopelessly overgrown, she honestly hadn’t believed anyone lived like this any more.
The kitchen looked like something out of a nineteen-forties movie. There were no fitted kitchen units at all. Just a freestanding gas cooker that looked as if it ought to be consigned to a museum and a thickly painted cupboard with bakelite handles. The orange and cream marmoleum floor tiles had begun to lift and the whole room was dominated by a floor-standing boiler.
It was, frankly, grim.
She hadn’t been aware that she’d had any preconceptions about what she’d expected Wendy Bennington’s home to be like—but, clearly, she’d had many. She stepped over the twin bowls of water and cat food respectively and tried to ignore the faint odour of animal and stale cigarettes.
This had been a mistake. She should have stayed in Vienna, marvelled at the Stephansdom, eaten sachertorte and enjoyed the opera like any other sensible person. What the heck was she doing here?
She’d given up her holiday…for this. Crazy. She was crazy.
And there was still no sign of Wendy Bennington. The house was completely quiet except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the further recesses of the cottage. She placed her briefcase down by the rusting boiler and looked across at the man as he flicked through the mail on the kitchen table.
‘I’m Lydia Stanford,’ she said with pointed emphasis, waiting for him to look up and acknowledge she was there.
‘I know.’
‘You know?’ He said nothing. ‘And you are?’
‘Nick.’ His eyes were still on the sheaf of letters in his hand. ‘Nick Regan.’
Which told her absolutely nothing.
‘Do you live nearby?’ If he’d looked up he’d have seen her head indicate the direction of the only other house within a mile or so of the cottage.
‘No.’
No? ‘You’re not a neighbour?’
He looked up at that. Very briefly. The expression in his brown eyes made it absolutely clear he’d no intention of assuaging her curiosity. ‘No.’
Nick Regan.
Had she read his name anywhere in connection to Wendy Bennington? She was fairly sure she hadn’t. All those hours on the Internet? All those pages of notes? Was it possible she’d missed something vital?
His accent spoke of an expensive private school education and his assurance indicated he was very used to being in the cottage. Comfortable, even.
Her eyes took in the expensive watch on his wrist and the soft leather of his shoes. Her mother had always sworn you could tell everything about a man by looking at his shoes. If she was right, this one had a bank account to be proud of, despite the worn jeans and faded jumper.
So who was he?
Someone Wendy Bennington had hidden from the public spotlight for over thirty years? A secret son?
She half smiled and pushed the thought aside. It didn’t seem likely—which was such a shame because it would have made a great story.
It didn’t fit, though. From all she’d learnt of Wendy Bennington so far, she’d have been more likely to announce it proudly. Her whole life had been characterised by a complete disregard for social conventions, so the absence of the ‘father’ wouldn’t have deterred her. She’d have told the world that her son’s father was an ‘irrelevance’ and no more than a biological necessity.
‘Should your name mean something to me?’
He looked up and then back at the letters in his hand. ‘No.’
Lydia frowned, irritated. What was the matter with the man? This kind of information was hardly highly classified. His behaviour was bizarre, to say the least. And rude.
‘How do you know Wendy Bennington?’ she persisted, moving closer.
He threw the pile of letters back on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve known her all my life.’
‘Really? How’s that?’
His dark eyes flicked momentarily across to her and then he walked out of the room.
Lydia let out her breath in one long stream and just about managed to bite down on the expletive which was on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps he hadn’t fully understood that she was the one with the appointment.
Pausing only to shut the back door, she followed him out into the narrow hallway.
‘Wendy?’ Nick Regan opened the door immediately to his left and glanced inside.
‘Is she there?’
He brushed past her. ‘I’ll check upstairs.’
Lydia gave in to temptation and swore softly as he took the stairs a couple of steps at a time. Even allowing for the possibility that he was genuinely worried, there was really no excuse for his attitude towards her. Much more of it and he was going to get the sharp edge of her tongue.