Secret Things and Highland Flings

by Tracy Corbett

  Secret Things and Highland Flings

  TRACY CORBETT

  Published by AVON

  A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

  Copyright © Tracy Corbett 2019

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

  Cover illustrations © Shutterstock

  Tracy Corbett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008299491

  Version: 2019-03-22

  For Simon, thank you for helping me find my smile again. x

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Tuesday 29th May

  Lexi Ryan wasn’t having the best of mornings. She’d managed to slice open her finger while chopping apricots for the muffins she’d baked first thing, and then she’d torn a contact lens and spent the next thirty minutes trying to locate the broken pieces in her eye. By the time she’d recovered and rushed down from the flat to open up her art gallery below, her finger was throbbing and her eye was bloodshot. Not exactly the composed and professional look she was aiming for.

  She’d hoped wearing her favourite emerald-green fifties wrap-around dress might cheer her flagging spirits, but not even her love of vintage clothing was working today.

  It was now lunchtime and things hadn’t improved. She had a pile of bills that needed paying and insufficient funds in her account to cover them. She’d phoned a few long-standing clients, hoping to encourage them into settling their accounts, but it had proved a fruitless exercise. Exceeding her overdraft limit this month was looking highly likely.

  Concealing her agitation, she returned her attentions to her waiting clients. After all, she had a business to run. Stressing over her finances wouldn’t save her precious gallery from foreclosure, or prevent her from inflicting GBH on the annoying businessmen who couldn’t make up their mind between Livemont’s Scent of a Rose and Munch’s The Scream. Professionalism was called for.

  ‘Original?’ the older of the two said, pointing to the post-Impressionist masterpiece.

  She joined them by the glass cabinet. Of course it’s an original, she was tempted to say. The Munch Museum grew tired of generating millions from displaying the Norwegian’s best-known expressionist work and decided to loan it to a small independent gallery in Windsor.

  Except she didn’t say it, of course. She fought the urge for sarcasm, kept her smile in place and pointed to the index card. ‘All of the paintings displayed along this wall are copies,’ she said, refusing to catch the eye of the Woman at the Window in case she gave the game away.

  ‘Very good.’ He nodded manically, gesturing to the painting again. ‘Very good.’

  ‘I agree. They might not be originals, but they’re all exquisite works of art in their own right, painted by some of the country’s leading artists.’ She tried to dazzle them with a winning smile and brushed her blonde hair away from her face … except the plaster on her finger got stuck in her fringe, ruining the effect.

  As she attempted to disentangle herself, the gallery door opened.

  She glanced over, momentarily distracted by the sight of a huge bouquet of pink roses being carried through the doorway. And then she realised who was carrying the flowers and her day went from ‘mildly irritating’ to ‘catastrophic’ in an instant. It was her ex-husband.

  The throbbing in her finger increased … until she realised she was gripping her hair.

  She tried to regain her composure, but the sight of Marcus made that impossible. He was wearing a fitted shirt with black tailored trousers, looking tanned and relaxed, his beguiling smile enhanced by straight white teeth and deep brown eyes. He made quite an impact standing there, grinning, holding the flowers aloft like he was God’s gift. It didn’t stop her wanting to scream and throw a sharp object at his head, though.

  She didn’t, of course. She hid her ensuing panic, smiled at her customers and said, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ then darted over to the doorway, her four-inch heels clicking on the tiled floor in time with her accelerated heart rate.

  She hadn’t seen Marcus for over a year and although his sudden appearance in her gallery should be a complete shock, in truth she’d been expecting him.

  It was hard to compute the range of emotions racing through her. He was as handsome as ever and looked younger than his thirty-four years. He smelt delicious too, a mixture of lemon and pine. Her heart ached a little at the reminder of what she’d lost.

  Thankfully her head came to the rescue, absorbing the sight of his enticing smile but refusing to be taken in by it.

  There’d been a time when he’d charmed her with his persuasive persona, showered her with gifts, and promised her a life filled with love, laughter and adventure. But that was before she’d discovered he wasn’t a decent, hardworking man but a prized rat who rarely told the truth. He’d played her one too many times for her to be fooled by his ‘charming-rogue’ routine. She was older and wiser now. A tougher nut to crack.

  His opening gambit of, ‘Baby, it’s good to see you,’ was accompanied by him reaching for her like she was the answer to his prayers.

  She lifted her hand, stopping him from hugging her. Breathing in his scent might tip the balance in favour of her hormones, derailing her motivation to draw blood.

  It helped that his smile faded as he took in her attire. He’d never liked her in green. Tough. Unlike him, she couldn’t afford fancy new clothes and had to make do with items from her existing wardrobe.

  ‘Your hair’s shorter,’ he said, his eyes grazing over her appearance. ‘And what have you done to your eye?’

 
; His disapproval helped to relax her. She’d almost forgotten how picky he could be. ‘What do you want, Marcus?’

  A grin appeared. The glint in his eye was a reminder of all the times he’d tried to swindle her. ‘I wanted to see you. I’ve missed you.’ He offered her the flowers.

  She refused to take them. ‘How’s Cindy?’

  Mentioning his twenty-two-year-old PA had the desired effect. His smile instantly faded.

  ‘She’s still in Spain.’

  ‘Staying at the Finca, I presume?’

  It still annoyed her that under Spanish law, their villa was excluded from UK insolvency laws. As such, his dodgy solicitor had managed to secure him ownership in the divorce. They’d purchased the place shortly after they’d married and spent two summers holidaying there – before his shady business dealings came to light and he ran off with his PA.

  ‘Lucky Cindy. Andalucía’s lovely in the spring.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to talk about Cindy.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t.’ But Lexi needed to feel more in control and reminding him of his girlfriend helped to do that. If she showed any weakness, he’d only take advantage. ‘Now, what is it you want? I have customers.’

  He lowered the flowers. ‘I think you know why I’m here.’ He held her gaze. ‘You have something that belongs to me.’

  ‘And what would that be, Marcus?’ God, she hoped her left eye wouldn’t start twitching. She was a terrible liar. ‘Are you referring to your belongings following the house repossession? The bailiffs took most of it. As for the rest, I donated it to charity. I didn’t have room to store anything upstairs in the flat. Sorry.’

  She wasn’t sorry at all. The bastard had buggered off and left her to deal with his mess. He should be grateful she hadn’t burnt his stuff.

  ‘What about my clothes?’

  ‘They’re boxed up in the storage basement below. Give me a forwarding address and I’ll send them to you. If you want them shipped to Spain you’ll have to pay yourself. My funds are somewhat depleted since the bankruptcy.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for a second.’ His gaze settled on the Woman at the Window. The sultry Italian temptress was hanging on the far wall, her astute dark eyes watching their exchange with interest. ‘You can still afford to buy valuable paintings.’

  Trust him to notice. ‘Marcus, as you well know, I specialise in replicas, not originals. It’s a copy.’ Her eye immediately started twitching.

  ‘It doesn’t look like a copy.’

  ‘None of my paintings do, that’s why my business is so successful. A business that was severely jeopardised by your shady dealings.’ Attack was the best form of defence, she’d learnt.

  He placed the flowers on the counter and went over to the painting. She watched him study the signature, which she’d carefully concealed behind a display card.

  ‘I remember you buying a preliminary sketch of this painting. We’d gone to London for the weekend and I’d got us tickets to see the Arsenal game, but you insisted we attend some fancy auction. It was always your ambition to own the original painting.’

  She remembered the weekend well. It was supposed to be a romantic getaway … until she’d realised his idea of ‘romance’ was to take her to the blessed football. Stopping off at the auction had seemed only fair.

  She followed him over. ‘You’re right, which is why I took the opportunity to display this copy when it was offered to me by an aspiring local artist.’ She’d rehearsed her answer many times, using a mirror to perfect her performance. She suspected Marcus didn’t believe her. He was too shady to be outwitted, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.

  He resumed looking at the painting. ‘I assume you found the holdall?’

  And there it was. The bombshell she’d been waiting for.

  She cleared her throat. ‘What holdall?’

  His gaze remained fixated on the painting, so he didn’t see her left eye twitching like a malfunctioning washing machine.

  He turned slowly to face her. ‘I think you know exactly what holdall.’

  ‘Like I said, I gave your belongings to charity.’ She walked off.

  He caught her arm. ‘Let’s go down to the basement and check.’

  She yanked her arm free. ‘I have customers. I can’t leave the gallery unattended.’

  ‘I’ll go then.’

  No way was she letting him loose downstairs. Not that he’d find anything, but that wasn’t the point. ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘I have keys.’ He had the audacity to dangle them in front of her.

  She tried to swipe them, but he moved his hand. ‘Keys that my solicitor has repeatedly asked you to return.’

  He shrugged. ‘Change the locks if you’re that worried.’

  ‘I can’t afford to do that. The security system is highly sophisticated. It would cost a fortune to replace it.’

  He took a step closer, a calculating glint in his eye. ‘Tell you what, I’ll hand over my keys once I have all of my belongings back.’ His expression turned menacing. ‘And that includes the holdall containing my money.’

  Her cheeks became instantly warm. ‘Wh … what money?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, I think you know what money. I must say, I was surprised. Little Miss Perfect finally did something wicked.’ He tapped one of her large hoop earrings, making it sway. ‘You actually stole from me.’

  One of the businessmen glanced over. Lexi waved and assured him everything was okay before refocusing on Marcus. His cruel taunting had dissolved any guilt she might have felt at scamming him. ‘What a shameful accusation, Marcus. I mean, who would steal from their loved one, right?’

  He had the good grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I never stole—’

  ‘Yes, you did. You didn’t bank the sale proceeds for my Franz Gerste collection. Instead, you ran off to Spain with your PA and left me to deal with your mess.’

  ‘I never meant for that to happen. You don’t know the pressure I was under. The garage was going bust. People were chasing me for money. HMRC were on my back. Everything I tried made it worse.’

  ‘That doesn’t justify you running off with Cindy, of all people. A woman who thinks Liverpool is a country.’ Lexi didn’t normally slate other women; she liked to think of herself as an advocate for women, empowering each other. But that was before she’d been dumped unceremoniously for a women ten years her junior. It stung.

  Marcus sighed. ‘She’s certainly not you.’ He looked almost wistful.

  Lexi resisted the urge to yell, then why did you run off with her? Instead, she opted for, ‘You’re damned right she’s not,’ trying to salvage something of her bruised self-esteem.

  He took her hand before she could move it. ‘I miss you.’

  Ignoring the familiar warmth of his touch, she met his gaze. ‘Well, I don’t miss you, Marcus. I don’t miss being lied to, stolen from or cheated on.’

  Far from being deterred, he saw this as a challenge. He’d always been seduced by things he couldn’t have. She’d suddenly become unattainable. Nothing turned Marcus on more than the temptation of a woman saying no to him.

  He stroked the back of her hand. ‘You forget all the good times we had.’

  ‘You’re right, Marcus, I do. I’ve made a conscious effort to forget every single one of them.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t care what you believe. Now, please leave and don’t come back. I don’t want you in my life anymore. I’ve moved on.’

  He was staring at her mouth like he used to when he was about to bedazzle her with his charms. ‘Christ, you’re sexy when you’re angry.’ He reached forwards to kiss her.

  She pulled away. Jesus, his flattery skills had taken a dive.

  ‘I still love you, Lexi. You know that. We could be together again. Think of the fun we’d have.’ A glimmer of the old Marcus was back. A scheme forming in his mind as his eyes roamed over her body, no attempt to hide where his thoughts were headed.
‘We’d make a great team. You and me, hustling the world. I’m not angry you took my money. Actually, I admire you for it. I never thought you’d have the balls. Think what we could do with it? You’ve been a goodie two-shoes for too long. It’s time to unleash your inner bad girl.’

  Words every woman longs to hear … not.

  What an idiot Marcus was. What an idiot she was for marrying him.

  She was about to tell him as much, when someone banged on the gallery door.

  A tall man with thinning beige hair and matching raincoat was peering through the glass. He drew out an identity badge and held it up.

  Oh, Christ, what now?

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ she said, praying it wasn’t the police. Not that she’d done anything wrong. Well, not much.

  ‘No idea, but I’m not hanging around to find out.’ Marcus shot over to the steps leading down to the basement before she could stop him.

  She was about to go after him, when she realised she needed to deal with the official-looking man first. Not to mention her customers. Marcus wouldn’t find what he was looking for downstairs. He was a problem for later.

  Unfortunately, she realised the businessmen had left. They’d obviously grown tired of being kept waiting. She’d missed out on a sale. Bloody Marcus!

  The man in the raincoat stepped inside. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Alexia Aldridge,’ he said, tucking his glasses inside his worn coat.

  She turned to him. ‘Well, you’ve found her. Although Aldridge was my married name. I’ve reverted to my maiden name of Ryan.’

  He held out his name badge for her to read. ‘Brian Falk, investigating officer with the insolvency headquarters. I have a few questions.’

  Jesus, hadn’t they quizzed her enough fifteen months ago? ‘Now isn’t a convenient time. My assistant isn’t in. Can you come back another day?’

  ‘This won’t take long.’ He obviously wasn’t going to leave.

  With a sigh, she locked the door and flipped the closed sign. The sooner she answered his questions, the sooner he’d be gone. She needed to get Marcus out of her basement.

  ‘Follow me,’ she said, showing him into the back office. ‘Tea, coffee?’