Husband For Real

“It was a long time ago. Let’s put it all behind us.”

“There’s a snag,” said James in a tone that quickened her pulse. “Now I’ve seen you again it doesn’t feel like a long time ago.”

“Nevertheless,” Rose said woodenly, “it is.” It was impossible to behave or sound natural when the mere touch of James Sinclair’s hand on hers was rousing feelings she had never experienced in the most passionate of lovemaking with anyone else. And James knew it, she realized, as she met the blaze of triumph in his eyes.

“Rose.” He smiled slowly, and brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “Surely a kiss goodbye is permissible in the circumstances?” He drew her resisting body into his arms and kissed her, taking his time over it, the shape and taste and touch of his lips so frighteningly familiar she had no defense against the hot, consuming pleasure of the kiss.

CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years of living in Brazil, but on her husband’s later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera and browse in antique shops.

Husband for Real

Catherine George

Contents

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 ONE

WHEN a crimson envelope arrived among the morning post she was amused at first. But her smile faded when she took out an unsigned Valentine card painted with a single red rose. Frowning, she examined the typed envelope, but the postmark was so illegible it gave no clue to the sender’s identity.

Rose stood lost in thought for a moment or two, then took her usual stack of mail into the small office at the back of the bookshop and propped the card up conspicuously as something to joke about. Which it had to be. She dismissed it with a shrug, switched on lights, computer and point of sale, chose some Schubert for background music and unlocked the door, ready for the first customers of the day.

As usual these were mostly mothers straight from the school run, needing books for their young. For the first half-hour Rose was kept busy looking out the required titles, or ordering them for delivery next day, at the same time exchanging conversation and offering opinions on the newest craze in children’s stories or the latest paperback fiction. Interest in her customers, coupled with pleasant personal service, which came easy to Rose, were a necessary asset for a privately owned bookshop, even if in Chastlecombe only the supermarket and the various newsagents offered anything by way of competition.

When Rose’s friend arrived for her part-time stint at the shop she crowed with laughter when she spotted the card.

‘Lucky old you! I’m envious, boss. My beloved isn’t the sentimental kind.’ Bel Cummings’s eyes sparkled as she made the fresh pot of coffee they tried to share before she started. ‘I suppose it’s from Anthony. Though I would have expected something more impressive—’

‘In the unimaginable event of his sending me one at all at his age,’ Rose finished for her.

Bel smiled in full agreement. ‘So who’s the secret lover, then?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘Then it must be Anthony,’ said her friend, disappointed. ‘Get the thumbscrews out and make him confess over dinner. You are seeing him this weekend?’

‘Yes, but tonight for a change. He’s tied up with Marcus tomorrow.’ Rose finished her coffee quickly. ‘Right. I’d better get on with this lot before the day’s book consignment arrives.’

After Bel went off to greet a customer Rose began to sort out bills and invoices from the usual heap of junk-mail, feeling out of sorts as she worked. And, though the anonymous card was mostly to blame, some of her mood was reluctance to break her routine. She preferred Friday nights on her own. After an hour or so’s paperwork she liked to linger in the bath, eat something easy on a tray in front of her television and get to bed early with one of the latest additions to stock. But this weekend Anthony’s teenage son would be home alone. Marcus had stayed in Chastlecombe with his mother after the divorce. And because Liz Garrett was spending this weekend away, her ex-husband, determined to keep his son happy at all costs, would devote Saturday as well as his usual Sunday to him.

Rose liked Marcus well enough, and from the little she knew of him didn’t think he actively resented her. It surprised her that a young teenager preferred his father’s company to going out with friends, but she was perfectly happy for Anthony to spend Saturday night with his son. Tonight, too, if she were honest. Her week had been gratifyingly busy, and by the time she finished work she wouldn’t feel like dressing up and dining out. Her original offer of supper for two upstairs in her flat—a first in their relationship—had been turned down in favour of a table at Chastlecombe’s most fashionable restaurant.

Rose had known Anthony Garrett by sight when she was in her teens, but she met him again socially just after his divorce came through. He was an accountant promoted from a small Chastlecombe branch to the London head office of his company. And since the divorce he came back to stay at the King’s Head on some weekends, to see his son and spend all the Saturday evenings with Rose that she would allow. She was well aware that Anthony’s choice of someone local to wine and dine was deliberate. The injured party in his failed marriage, he’d remained firmly entrenched in a circle of friends only too ready to inform the ex-Mrs Garrett of every known detail of his connection with the new young manager of Dryden Books. Anthony was openly proud of his relationship with an attractive woman so much younger than himself. And if Rose sometimes felt like a trophy, it amused more than annoyed her.

Lunch-hour was busy, as usual, and it was late before Bel could be persuaded to go out for something to eat. During the post-lunch lull Rose finished checking the consignment of books newly arrived that morning, sorted out customer orders to file on the shelves kept for the purpose, then went into the office to eat the sandwich Bel brought for her when she got back.

It was Rose’s habit to catch up on reading from new stock over lunch, and she was chuckling over one of the latest children’s books when Bel popped her head round the door.

‘Delivery for you, boss.’

‘I’m not expecting anything—’ Rose stared in surprise when Bel handed over a long, beribboned package. Then swallowed convulsively when she took out a long-stemmed crimson rose.

‘Hey, are you all right?’ said Bel in alarm.

‘Ate my lunch too quickly.’

‘I think the rose was meant to be romantic, not give you indigestion,’ teased Bel. ‘Who’s it from?’

‘Let’s find out.’ Rose picked up the phone to ask the local florist.

‘No idea, sorry,’ was the response. ‘Your secret admirer pushed a typed note through the door this morning, with instructions and the exact amount of money.’

When Rose rang off Bel patted her shoulder in concern. ‘Are you all right, boss? You’ve been a bit abstracted all day.’

‘I’m fine.’ Rose eyed the flower with dislike. ‘But I detest mysteries. If all this Valentine nonsense is Anthony’s idea I’ll have words with him tonight.’

‘But surely he would have phoned the order through in the usual way?’

‘He’s got plenty of contacts in the town. Anyone could have put the money through the door of the flower shop for him.’

‘Well I think it’s very romantic,’ declared Bel, then left to deal with an influx of customers, and Rose shut the door on her mystery tribute and went off to help.

After Rose locked up for the night she scanned through the pile of invoices and school orders waiting to be dealt in the office, hesitated, then abandoned her Friday routine. She would be alone for Saturday evening this week. The paperwork could wait until then.

The phone rang when she arrived upstairs, but when she picked up the receiver the only sound on the line was heavy breathing.

‘Who is this?’ she demanded angrily. A voice whispered her name, raising the hairs on her neck, then the line went dead. Shaken and furious, Rose punched in the numbers to identify her caller, but the number had been withheld. Some stupid fool playing a prank, she assured herself, and made herself some lethally strong coffee to calm herself down.

She filled an empty milk bottle with water, thrust the rose in it and put it on the window-sill of her small kitchen, her eyes brooding as she gazed at the beautiful, perfect bloom. A rose for Rose, said a voice in her mind. A male voice. With the merest hint of Scots. Odd. She could hear the voice so plainly its owner could have been in the room with her. But normally she flatly refused to allow herself the indulgence of thinking about him. The wretched Valentine card was to blame, reminding her of things best forgotten. The phone-call hadn’t helped, either. But the rose was the real culprit. Its relentless, heady scent brought memories rushing back like persistent ghosts determined to haunt her. And, as she got ready for the evening, for the first time in years Rose let them stay.

Rose Dryden had gone off to university just after her eighteenth birthday. Eager to embrace everything student life had to offer, she’d been a little wary at first when she’d found she was to share a college flat with two girls who’d been to school together. Cornelia Longford and Fabia Dennison, both a year older than Rose, possessed an aura of self-confidence she envied. But they were warm, friendly creatures who had taken their younger flat-mate under their combined wing, and from the first had seen to it that Rose took full advantage of every social diversion college life had to offer.

Rose, grateful to be accepted as part of a trio, had quickly become accustomed to evenings spent in the students’ union with a boisterous, rowdy crowd of both sexes. Envious at first of Con’s blonde, thoroughbred looks, or the brain Fabia kept hidden behind a flippant manner, even their names, which were so much more glamorous than her own, Rose had quickly blossomed in their company. By the end of term she’d attended every possible festivity available, including the Christmas ball, and had been as ready as any of her peers to contribute to heated discussions on how to improve the world.

Determined to get a good degree, Rose had worked hard. But at the same time she’d learned how to make half a pint of lager last all evening, how to flirt, and how to avoid danger when some importunate male misread the signals.

‘It’s common-sense,’ Con assured her. ‘If you fancy a bloke you go out on a twosome. If you don’t, stick with the crowd.’

Rose never let on that the only men in her life up to that point had been friends of her unmarried aunt, plus one or two brothers of girls from school. Nevertheless, she had enough common-sense to know that a twosome might involve a lot more than just a pizza and a trip to the cinema. And, because she wasn’t attracted to anyone enough to risk finding out, her attitude challenged those among the male student body who considered themselves irresistible.

‘Idiots,’ said Rose irritably, during the first days back after Christmas. ‘I just don’t fancy any of them that way.’

‘You will, eventually,’ warned Fabia, immersed in painting her toenails different colours. ‘Mother Nature gets us all in the end. You’ll see. One look across a crowded room and, wham, you’re done for.’

Rose giggled. ‘No way—not me!’

‘She’s right, you know.’ Con looked up from her books. ‘But most of them just want a fun night out, plus some hanky-panky at the end of it if they’re lucky.’ She paused dramatically. ‘The trick is to make one of them fall in love so violently he’ll be your slave.’

Fabia collapsed with laughter, lying flat on her bed with her legs in the air as she waggled her toes to dry them.

‘You can’t make someone fall in love with you, Con,’ said Rose scornfully.

‘How do you know? Have you ever tried?’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘Then keep quiet and listen.’ Con’s smile sent shivers down Rose’s spine. ‘Come sit at Mama’s knee, children, and imbibe the knowledge. I’m the neurobiologist, remember, and this is scientific stuff. I read about it while I was having my hair cut yesterday. It’s a proper game plan. No black magic involved,’ she added, laughing. ‘You don’t need eye of newt or anything, Rosie, so don’t look at me like that! Trust me. Are you two game?’

Fabia nodded so eagerly that Rose, afraid that dissent would be taken as cowardice, gave a reluctant nod.

‘Good girl, Rosie,’ approved Con. ‘Don’t look so worried. This will be fun.’

The first step was for each of the trio to write four men’s names on separate pieces of paper, and put the folded scraps into a hat.

‘Now we shake it up and draw one out—only one each, mind, and if we hit on the same one as someone else we draw again,’ instructed Con.

The three of them thrust fingers into the hat simultaneously but Con raised a peremptory hand before they opened them.

‘This needs a bit of ceremony. You first, Fabia.’

‘Will Hargreaves,’ announced Fabia with satisfaction, then grinned at the other two. ‘I didn’t cheat, honest. Just luck of the draw.’

Con groaned as she read hers. ‘Joe Kidd.’

‘But he’s been chasing you ever since freshers’ week,’ objected Rose. ‘That’s no contest—’ She stopped dead, her face flushing crimson as she saw the name on her own slip.

‘Who on earth have you got?’ demanded Con, taking the paper from her. ‘Crikey—James Sinclair.’ She raised an eyebrow at Fabia, who shrugged defensively.

‘Why not? You said any name we like.’

‘So we did,’ agreed Rose, the light of battle in her eyes. ‘Luck of the draw, just as you said. The legendary Sinclair is only captain of the rugby team and so brilliant he’s bound to get a double first—not to mention being a good looking hunk and in his finals’ year. Piece of cake. I’ll have him slavering after little old first-year me in no time.’ She thrust her hands through her hair in despair.

Con patted her shoulder soothingly. ‘Steady on. You don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to.’

‘Of course not—it was just my stupid joke,’ said Fabia, remorseful now. ‘Pick another name, Rosie; you can’t possibly go after Sinclair.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Rose hotly. ‘You don’t think I’m sexy enough to attract a man like him, I suppose!’

‘No, love! It’s not that.’ Fabia hesitated. ‘The thing is, rumour has it he might be gay.’

‘That’s just gossip, because he doesn’t chase after every female in sight,’ scolded Con.

Rose sighed glumly. ‘Any female at all, the way I hear it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘When I went to a rugby match with Ally Farmer—she’s going out with the full-back—she told me that Sinclair isn’t interested in women.’

The other two exchanged a look.

‘I’d forgotten you liked rugby,’ said Con thoughtfully.

‘I went to a couple of matches when you two were off shopping…’ Rose trailed into silence, eyes suspicious as the others looked at her in speculation. ‘What?’

‘Sinclair must have seen you,’ Fabia pointed out.

‘Transfixed by my beautiful blue eyes while he was charging up the field with half the opposing team hanging from every limb,’ said Rose scathingly. ‘I wish!’

Con, diverted, tilted Rose’s chin up. ‘He could have been, they’re big enough, and unusual, sort of navy blue.’

‘Nice,’ agreed Fabia. ‘But, as I keep saying, you should use some paint on them, Rosie, you don’t do them justice.’

‘They’ve got twenty-twenty vision, just the same, and I assure you that the mighty Sinclair did not notice me.’

‘He will if we carry out the plan scientifically,’ Con assured her, ‘so here’s what we do…’

Rose crawled into bed that night utterly convinced of her own insanity. Because she had flatly refused to renege on the task of ensnaring James Sinclair, Con and Fabia had abandoned their part in the scheme in favour of forming a back-up team for the project Rose had referred to as mission impossible. According to Con it would have been child’s play to enslave Messrs Hargreaves and Kidd. Sinclair, on the other hand, constituted a challenge Rose could hardly be expected to tackle single-handed. So Con and Fabia would research every last thing about Sinclair’s tastes, family background and relevant details, taking care not to give the game away. Then when Rose was in Sinclair’s actual company—a prospect that rendered Rose sick with apprehension at the mere thought of it—she could drop casual phrases into the conversation that would indicate like tastes and interests of her own, and thus convince him she was a soul-mate.

But first, Con had instructed, Rose must run into Sinclair by accident.

‘Where?’ demanded Rose.

‘When I said “run” I meant it,’ said Con ruthlessly. ‘At the stadium the town council lets us use. Get yourself there early in the morning. Very early. Joe Kidd says Sinclair runs at the track there most mornings about seven before anyone else does.’

‘I have to run?’ gasped Rose.

‘At seven?’ said Fabia, equally horrified.

‘Rose must be there well before that,’ said Con cruelly. ‘He must come upon her by chance, not the other way round.’

‘Not much before,’ wailed Rose. ‘Or I’ll be dead before he even gets there.’

Tossing and turning in her bed, Rose decided that the whole scheme was madness. In the morning she’d tell the others she’d changed her mind. She fell asleep at last for what felt like a split second before Con was shaking her awake again, deaf to all protests as she thrust her victim into a track-suit, found socks and trainers and, while Rose pulled them on, twisted the tumbled black hair into a hasty plait. Con crammed a scarlet sweat-band low over Rose’s eyes, then pushed her out of the door.

‘Coffee when you come back,’ she promised in a whisper.

‘If I come back,’ said Rose bitterly.

The stadium was deserted when she got there. She brightened. Perhaps he’d gone already. It was a grey, damp day, but thankfully no actual rain. Praying that Sinclair wouldn’t turn up for once, Rose jogged up and down on the spot for a bit, then with zero enthusiasm began to run round the track. Three times max, she promised herself, then back to bed, no matter what. For the first circuit Rose, unaccustomed to serious running, thought she might possibly expire before she completed it. But during the second lap she gradually mastered the art of breathing and running at the same time and felt a little better. Then she heard footsteps behind her, and her heart lodged in her throat and she could hardly breathe at all. She stared straight ahead, the breath whistling through her lungs as a tall figure in a dark track suit ran past, eyes turned towards her for an instant. Sinclair acknowledged her existence with the slightest of nods, then raced on down the track.

Now her quarry was in sight, flowing round the track with coordinated grace, Rose summoned up her last shreds of stamina to keep going. Instead of leaving at the next exit she ran on to make another circuit of the track to allow the legendary Sinclair to lap her. This time he gave her a fleeting smile as he passed, and Rose, feeling she’d done all, and more, that could be expected of her, left Sinclair to it and dragged herself back to the flat, hoping her heart would slow down to a normal beat some time in the foreseeable future.

‘Mission…accomplished.’ She panted, chest heaving.

Con and Fabia pounced on her with cries of delight, demanded every detail, then hustled her off to shower.

‘Can’t have you too stiff to run next time,’ said Con firmly.

‘Next time?’ gasped Rose. ‘I’ve got to do this again?’

‘Yes. But not tomorrow. Give him a day to miss you.’

‘Oh come on! He barely noticed me.’

‘Trust us older women, Rosie,’ said Fabia, grinning. ‘Sinclair will look for you tomorrow.’

The night before her next run Rose stayed in. ‘If I’m running in the morning I need an early night,’ she told the others. ‘And I’ve got a tutorial tomorrow, so I must finish this essay, anyway. Try not to wake me when you come in tonight.’

Con woke her at six-thirty the following morning instead. ‘Come on, Rose,’ she whispered, shaking her. ‘Up you get.’

Once again Rose was bundled, yawning, into running gear, but this time she’d braided her hair the night before, and only had to brush her teeth and throw cold water on her face before Con thrust her out into the chilly morning like a mother sending a reluctant child off to school.

Rose arrived at the stadium a little earlier than before, but this time Sinclair was there before her. She cursed him in fulminating silence. Now she’d have to run extra laps just to save face. The familiar, lean figure soon flowed past with its usual grace, and a slight smile came her way before Sinclair raced off into the distance, gathering speed. Rose gritted her teeth and pounded doggedly on until sweat soaked from her hair into the towelling band and each breath was like a spear through the ribs. Her running companion lapped her with increasing ease, but Rose forced herself to look straight ahead, counting the circuits until the magic number four released her from torture and she could escape.

This time the others were worried when Rose collapsed, crimson-faced and sweating, on Con’s bed.

‘No need to kill yourself, love,’ said Fabia, pulling her shoes off.

‘Was he there?’ demanded Con.

‘Of—course he—was there!’ Rose heaved in a deep breath, eyeing the others malevolently. ‘Before me. I had to do four circuits.’

‘Brilliant,’ crowed Fabia. ‘Think how fit you’ll be—and I bet he noticed you this time.’

‘He could hardly fail to; he lapped me often enough.’ Rose dragged herself up, groaning. ‘Right. For pity’s sake make me some coffee while I shower, please.’

Rose was allowed a run-free morning next day, purely, Con decreed, because it was a Saturday, and she could watch Sinclair play rugby in the afternoon instead. ‘And just to fog the issue a bit we’ll come with you, and cheer on Will Hargreaves. Someone’s injured, so Will’s got a place on the team today. So useful.’

Fabia was all for Rose turning up in her running clothes, complete with red sweat-band, so Sinclair would remember her, but Con wouldn’t hear of it.

‘Much too obvious. Rose can wear whatever she usually wears to stand ankle-deep in mud in a howling wind. Oh, how I wish it was summer, and Sinclair played cricket!’ She sighed regretfully. ‘Actually the whole scheme would be better in hot weather. You could strip off a bit, Rose. When the male of the species registers bare female flesh he gives off more pheromones—’

‘Stop it,’ howled Rose. ‘I don’t want to know!’

Normally she bemoaned her lack of inches, but at the match she was only too pleased to tuck herself between her tall friends, with lanky Joe Kidd and a few more yelling males for cover as they cheered the home team on to victory over a neighbouring college. Sinclair, at outside half, played with a brilliance which roused a frenzy of appreciation in his fans on the touchline, but Rose’s gloom deepened with every penalty he kicked between the posts. If only she’d set out to capture some ordinary mortal’s interest she might have at least had some chance of success. But with Sinclair she hadn’t a hope. She could just give up, of course. But her Dryden backbone stiffened at the mere idea. When the referee blew the whistle after Sinclair threw himself over the line to score a final try, Rose watched the mud-covered hero leave the field surrounded by shoulder-slapping team mates, and made herself a solemn vow. She would succeed. Somehow.