Gorgeous Reads for Christmas (Choc Lit)

by Sue Moorcroft

  Whoever this Delphine was she was obviously important to Morgan, if he could run out on her like that. He sees me as a diversion, doesn’t he? Carrie thought – I’m here and Delphine’s not. The second he’d taken that call he hadn’t been able to get out of the café quick enough.

  After waiting ten minutes, Carrie went out to the car park but Morgan’s silver Mercedes was nowhere to be seen.

  Now, she pulled up outside The Attic, her mind in a whirl. The memory of how he’d held the piece of buttery teacake towards her as though they’d been lovers of long-standing and that he knew toasted teacake was her favourite thing in the whole world, sent a thrilling shiver through her. Delphine – whoever and whatever she was to him – hadn’t been in Morgan’s mind then, had she?

  Carrie was about to get out of the car and go into The Attic when Morgan’s number appeared in the window of her mobile.

  ‘Carrie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why the hell did you run out on me like that?’

  ‘Why did I run out on you? It was the other way around!’

  ‘I didn’t run out on you. The signal was breaking up on my mobile, so I drove to the top of the hill to get a better one.’

  ‘You could have let me know.’

  ‘Carrie, it was a matter of seconds!’

  ‘Ten minutes, actually. You’re not the only one who doesn’t like to be kept waiting,’ Carrie said. ‘If I’m going to finish this project on time, then time is of the essence. I’m in The Attic car park and I’m about to go in and source the wallpaper and fabrics. Do we go with stripes?’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Carrie, you sound a bit miffed.’

  ‘Miffed? Why should I be? You can take calls from whoever you want.’

  ‘Ah, so you are miffed. Delphine—’

  ‘I am not miffed!’

  ‘You are. You gave yourself away.’

  ‘About what exactly?’

  ‘Where shall I start?’

  Carrie held the phone away from her ear, not wanting to hear what explanation Morgan might be coming up with.

  ‘I need to check my window measurements again,’ Carrie interrupted before he could say anything. ‘I’ve had another idea about how to dress the windows.’

  Carrie was back in professional mode now – Delphine filed away in the part of her brain where she kept irrelevant thoughts.

  ‘Call any time,’ Morgan said. ‘I’m going back to the Hall now.’

  Morgan’s voice purring in her ear was sending shivers of delight across her shoulders. Damn, damn, damn. Delphine, and whatever she was to Morgan, was mattering very much to Carrie indeed.

  Chapter Three

  Luckily, Carrie saw the perfect paper almost right away, and less then two hours later her car scrunched to a halt on the gravel. Morgan’s Mercedes was parked neatly in the corner by the hedge.

  She unlocked the boot, pulled out a sample-roll of wallpaper, along with some fabric swatches for drapes, cushions and chair coverings she’d brought along. Then she strode purposefully up the steps.

  She rang the bell. And waited. And waited and waited, the nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach rapidly changing to churning anxiety.

  Morgan had to be here somewhere if his car was parked outside. Carrie turned the large brass doorknob.

  It turned easily under her fingers.

  ‘Morgan?’ she called, stepping inside. She put her things down on the tiled hall floor and closed the door behind her. ‘Morgan?’ she called again.

  She listened hard to see if she could detect sound from somewhere in the house, but it was eerily silent. Morgan wouldn’t have left a house like this, with so many valuable things inside, unlocked. Something had to be wrong.

  She walked through to the drawing room but Morgan wasn’t there. The kitchen, then?

  The feeling of sadness Carrie had experienced when she’d first entered Oakenbury Hall was palpable now. She walked back out into the hall where portraits of Harrington forebears stared back at her in their ornate frames hanging from gilt hooks on the walls – a few gaps here and there but enough of them to tell her Morgan’s family went back a long way.

  And then she heard a sound – a chair being scraped across a stone floor? Cautiously, she walked down the long corridor towards the kitchen. The door was open, and across the room, sitting at the scrubbed pine table with his head in his hands, was Morgan.

  ‘Morgan?’ she said.

  He jerked his head up and stared at her, his eyes wide with surprise.

  ‘You might have knocked,’ he snapped. He banged his hands down hard on the table, covering some paper.

  ‘I rang the bell. Twice.’

  ‘Not for long enough, obviously.’

  ‘Then I’ll know for next time, won’t I?’ It was obvious to Carrie that Morgan was upset about something. And he was probably embarrassed that she could see he was, which was why he’d snapped at her. ‘Would you prefer it if I left? I can come back another time.’

  ‘No. Come in. Sit down.’

  Morgan gestured to the chair opposite him.

  Carrie sat. She looked into eyes that were red-rimmed and puddled with tears. But still he was a handsome man – giving way to his feelings making him more manly in Carrie’s eyes. And she could forgive him for reacting the way he had, caught out with his emotions on display like trinkets in a gift shop.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ Morgan said, his voice softer now.

  He pushed himself off the chair but then flopped back down again. ‘Whoops. I’m a bit giddy. Been sitting too long.’

  ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ Carrie said.

  ‘No. No, I’ll do it.’

  Morgan levered himself up from his sitting position, but when he picked up the kettle his hands were shaking so much he could hardly hold it under the running tap.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Carrie said, leaping up and prising the kettle from

  fingers that were warm and smooth.

  What would it feel like to have those fingers cup her face? To have them running through her hair, and massaging her scalp gently? To have them glide over her arms, her back, her … Whoa, stop girl, Carrie told herself. This man abandoned you in a café, left you to pay the bill while he went to take a phone call from someone called Delphine – and whatever it was she had spoken to him about, it looked as though it’d upset him.

  Slipping china mugs from their hooks on the dresser, Carrie poured the tea and handed Morgan the steaming drink.

  But instead of taking it from her he wrapped his hands around hers, and held them fast. Poor Morgan – he looked like a small child, left alone for the first time. She wanted to put her arms around him, pull his head down on her shoulder and take away his pain – whatever that pain might be. And the most horrible part, thought Carrie, is that I hope his sadness has something to do with Delphine – that she’s ended their relationship. Which would leave him free to take me to lunch or dinner or … no don’t go there. Keep your thoughts professional.

  ‘I’ve been expecting it for months now,’ Morgan said.

  When he didn’t explain or continue, Carrie said, ‘Delphine? Is the letter from Delphine? News you didn’t want?’

  ‘Delphine?’ Morgan looked genuinely puzzled.

  ‘The phone call you ran out on me to answer,’ Carrie reminded him

  ‘I didn’t run out on you. I went to get signal. I told you. And for your information, Delphine works for me.’

  In what sort of capacity? Carrie wondered. She couldn’t imagine working with Morgan and not wanting to get even closer – as close as lovers do. Gosh, what was getting into her today?

  He was so close – kissable close – his eyes fixed on hers.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said suddenly, looking away but as though he had to force himself to. ‘I didn’t mean to snap just now. You caught me at a low moment. I knew there’d be a letter for me from my father somewhere. I found it after lunch in the desk in his office – the secret d
rawer he knew I knew about at the back. I should have looked before. And there’s a lump of guilt lodged around my heart that I didn’t visit him as often as I should have done – could have done. I put business before him far more often than I ought to have done. He could have told me those things, face-to-face if only I’d made the effort to be here. I went straight back to Cannes after his funeral instead of coming here, being where he’d been so recently – his essence would still have been here. I wish I hadn’t done that now.’

  ‘We all have regrets,’ Carrie said. And not the least of hers was that she’d given her own father such grief as a teenager and that she hadn’t told him how much she’d loved him.

  ‘I cut his phone calls short so many times,’ Morgan went on, as though Carrie hadn’t spoken. ‘And he said, “I’ll write it all down for you, before I forget”. He made a joke of it, but he knew his memory was going and I knew he was hurt by my actions. But still I didn’t visit because I was busy.’ Morgan slid his hand across the pages of the letter. ‘And now here it is. It’s no good writing “I love you” on a bunch of funeral flowers, Carrie. You have to tell people you love them when they’re alive.’

  Morgan took a deep breath and let it out in a sad sigh.

  ‘Yes,’ Carrie said, with difficulty, because it was as though Morgan knew she had that very regret.

  ‘I haven’t unloaded the paint yet. I went straight to the bureau. It was as though some other force was telling me to. And I’ve read it over and over so many times.’

  Again, Morgan made to stand up but wobbled and slumped back down in his chair.

  ‘How long have you been sitting here, reading?’ Carrie asked.

  ‘An hour? An hour and a half? I didn’t think to time myself.’

  Carrie sucked her breath in, surprised at his sharpness when she was only trying to help. But then, the poor man had had a massive emotional upset. She’d forgive him his rudeness – for now.

  ‘No wonder you feel giddy if you’ve been here that long, with your head down, reading. And you’re probably cold.’

  ‘That too. Good tea, Carrie, thank you.’

  Morgan touched Carrie briefly on the shoulder and a ripple of pure delight shot between her shoulder blades. Carrie gulped. How inappropriate to be getting the hots for someone when they were obviously in a state of distress.

  ‘Did you ever meet my father by any chance?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Your father? No. I’ve never met him.’

  ‘Read that.’ He thrust the pages of the letter at Carrie.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think …’

  ‘Carrie. Read it,’ he said, the amber flecks in his eyes shooting arrows of reflected light towards Carrie from the sun that streamed through the window. She put a hand up to shield her eyes from the brightness. ‘Please,’ he added, when Carrie showed no intention of taking the letter from him. ‘If we’re going to be working together, you need to read it.’

  If?

  ‘Is it about Oakenbury Hall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It didn’t take long for Carrie to read the letter. Paintings missing from the walls had been sold to pay off gambling debts – someone called Talbot. There were words of regret that he hadn’t been more supportive to Morgan over Georgina. ‘Oakenbury Hall is not to be sold out of the family!!!’ Carrie read. And – heavily underlined – was what, to Carrie, looked like an order rather than a wish … that Morgan would marry so that the house could be passed to his children.

  So, that was why he thought she had spoken to his father – because she had said this was a house that needed children in it.

  ‘You and my father were thinking along the same lines.’

  ‘It would seem so,’ Carrie said.

  ‘And do you still think this house needs children in it?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Carrie – you don’t say what you think I want to hear. You speak from the heart. And you don’t try to wriggle out of things.’

  ‘Who are Talbot and Georgina?’ she asked, changing the subject, because her heart was doing some very funny bunny-hops right now.

  Morgan finished his mug of tea. He stood up and held out a hand towards Carrie. But instead of taking hold of it, Carrie roughly stuffed her hands inside her trouser pockets. She felt compassion for Morgan’s situation, of course she did, but what sort of a fool would she be if she let him take advantage of that compassion? Holding hands could be such an intimate thing to do. And there was still Delphine in the equation, wasn’t there?

  ‘Please, Carrie,’ Morgan said, his hand still held out towards her. ‘Come into the drawing room with me and I’ll tell you – it’s warmer in there. And besides, I’ve got no one else I can tell.’

  And despite her misgivings, and because Carrie knew what it was to be alone, she placed her hand in his and walked with him down the corridor to the drawing room. But she was under no illusion that she was anything more to Morgan than a convenient hand to hold.

  Chapter Four

  ‘I don’t believe this!’

  Try as she might, Carrie’s car wouldn’t start. The boot was laden with paint and her brushes, and all the other things she needed to make a start on the master bedroom. And her pasting boards and step-ladder were strapped to the roof. The damned car just had to start – she’d promised Morgan she’d begin today.

  Morgan’s revelation that his brother Talbot had stolen his fiancée, Georgina, from him had touched a nerve with Carrie – her own ex-fiancé, Aaron, had left her for her best friend. She’d almost told Morgan the whole sorry story but decided against it – Morgan didn’t need to hear about similar situations when his own was obviously still so painful to him.

  ‘How could you, James!’ she yelled as the engine refused to kick into life.

  She got out, and slammed the door shut. She would have to see if she could hire a car, or a van, from somewhere. And fast.

  But first she would have to tell Morgan she was going to be late – again. She was not looking forward to it one bit. She tapped in his number.

  ‘Good morning, Carrie,’ he said before the sound of her tapping had died in her ears, as though he’d been waiting for her to call. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Did I say there was a problem?’

  ‘No. But I have a hunch there is one. Don’t tell me … that wreck of a car of yours won’t start?’

  ‘It’s just a little hitch.’

  ‘So I was right! The car’s kaput?’

  ‘I’m just having trouble getting it started, that’s all,’ she said. ‘I’ll give it one more go and then I’ll ring around car hire firms. I’ve got the numbers here.’

  ‘No need,’ Morgan said. ‘I have to come into Farchester anyway. I’ll pick you up in, say, forty minutes?’

  ‘My flat might be a bit difficult to find, so I think hiring is going to be best.’

  ‘Satnav, Carrie? Ever heard of it?’

  ‘Of course I have!’

  Not that she had one herself.

  ‘Well then, I’m going to be able to find you, aren’t I? And really, it’s not out of my way.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I am. And it’s the least I can do after you listened to all my woes the other day. See you soon.’

  And before Carrie had a chance to reply Morgan killed the call, and she was left standing, quivering slightly from the things his voice was doing to her body. Even though she knew she’d only been a convenient shoulder to – literally – cry on for Morgan. Delphine hadn’t been there and she had. That was the only reason Morgan was being so understanding now.

  Oh why did life have to be so complicated sometimes?

  Carrie was sitting on the front doorstep, already dressed in her overalls, when Morgan pulled up at the kerb. Paste boards, a ladder, pots of paint and a bag with rolls of wallpaper sticking out of it were piled up beside her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, opening the car door.

  Carrie leapt to her feet,
picked up the paste boards and the black plastic sack and hurried towards his car. Morgan immediately sprang into action and helped her load her things into his Mercedes.

  ‘Sorry about all this,’ Carrie said as she settled into the passenger seat, sliding her hands over the edge of it, getting herself comfortable. How luxurious it felt and smelled; it was the smell of a very expensive car. ‘Oh, I’m not going to damage this lovely leather with my overalls, am I?’

  ‘Not unless the paint on your overalls is still wet.’

  Carrie dabbed at a paint-spattered trouser leg.

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘And don’t worry – I won’t have to ask you to do this again because I’ve got a small van hired for tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good,’ Morgan said. ‘That rust bucket of yours is going nowhere, is it? Did you know the exhaust is falling off?’

  ‘Excuse me! How dare you call James a rust bucket! I’m very fond of him, you know.’

  ‘James is your car?’ Morgan said. Then he burst out laughing. ‘No wonder he wasn’t likely to punch me on the nose for inviting you to dinner.’

  ‘Yes, James is my car. Silly to give a car a name, I know, but I did and I hope the garage can mend him. I’ve asked them to deliver it to your house if it’s ready later today.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’

  ‘I was rather hoping you might be able to give me a lift back as well. Or …’

  ‘Or what, Carrie?’

  ‘Or I could get a taxi.’

  ‘Taxis will eat into your profit margin.’

  ‘I know. What with the hired van costs as well. But doing some of the work myself instead of contracting out should see me through. And I can offset the costs on my tax return, can’t I?’

  ‘You can. But I’ve got a better idea,’ Morgan said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You could throw a few overnight things in a bag and stop?’

  Carrie looked at him, and then glanced towards her car. She fiddled with the buttons on her overalls, adjusting the buckles on the bib part.