Inseparable Read online

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  INSEPARABLE

  by

  CHRISTIANE FRANCE

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

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  Inseparable

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  http://www.amberheat.com

  http://www.amber-allure.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2007 by Christiane France

  ISBN 978-1-60272-134-0

  Cover Art © 2007 Trace Edward Zaber

  Layout and Formatting

  Provided by: Elemental Alchemy

  Published in the United States of America

  Also by Christiane France

  Bad Boy Blues

  Blame It On Fate

  The Butterfly Girl

  Ciao, Ciao, Bambina

  Just One Look

  A Moment of Madness

  Satisfaction Guaranteed

  Something To Talk About

  Time Shift

  Dedication

  For Roy, and The Boys.

  INSEPARABLE

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  "Foxton Halt next stop. Foxton Halt in five minutes. Anyone for Foxton Halt?"

  When I bought my ticket at the station in London, the clerk had warned me that Foxton Halt station wasn't a stop in the accepted sense, just a brief hiccup as the overnight express train made its way north to Scotland. Something to do with technical stuff like spur lines and switching gear, but all I needed to know was the train would slow to a crawl when it reached the Halt, and hesitate for a few seconds while it waited for the signals to change in its favor. In other words, be ready to jump because the first scheduled stop is several hundred miles further on. If I miss the announcement...well, you can guess the answer to that one.

  My seat is miles from the nearest door, and I've spent most of the journey worrying about falling asleep in the overly warm compartment, or failing to hear the station name being called. But, by some miracle, I've managed to remain awake, and I heard the announcement loud and clear.

  I wave frantically at the trainman, indicating my intention to get off at the Halt. Then I grab my bags and drunkenly weave my way through the swaying, fast-moving train, banging my hips against every hard object I pass, but somehow making it to the exit without losing my balance.

  As the train slackens speed and moves into the station, the trainman is already there, opening the door. The instant it slows to a crawl, then hesitates, he shepherds me, and my luggage, onto the platform in a fast, and obviously well-practiced, move. Before I can collect my wits, let alone say anything, the door has closed and the train is on the move again, leaving me to mouth my thanks to a winking red light as the train disappears down the track.

  I glance around at my immediate surroundings. From what I can see, Foxton Halt appears to be your everyday, small country railway station--a few yards of cracked, concrete platform, two long, plastic-made-to-look-like-wood benches, a couple of low wattage lights to assist passengers find their way in the dark without suffering any injury, and a tiny, unlighted station house I assume is locked up for the night. As I'd expected, there's not a cab in sight. But I don't have much luggage and the short walk to the village won't kill me.

  "Excuse me? Is someone picking you up?"

  I turn around to see a man standing a few feet away--a devastatingly attractive man, holding a briefcase in one hand and a supermarket bag in the other. I feel a delicious zap of awareness crackle between us. He looks to be a little older than me, I'd say somewhere in his late thirties. Tall, thin, with long, dark hair that brushes his collar, and a pale, classically handsome face. Going by looks alone, he could have stepped straight from the pages of a Victorian romance novel, yet I know I've seen him somewhere before. I try to think where and then I recall seeing him board the train with a flurry of other last minute passengers, seconds before we left London.

  A woman alone can never be too careful, so I give him my best thank-you-but-no-thank-you smile. "I was hoping to find a taxi. But...it's really not a problem. I don't have far to go."

  "What do you call far? There's nothing between here and the village of Foxton, and that's more than three miles away."

  "Three miles? I was told it was just a little over a mile."

  "I'm afraid someone lied."

  "Story of my life." He's the best looking man I've seen in months. He comes across as very formal and polite, yet he exudes raw sex in ways that both excite and unnerve me. Under different circumstances, I'd want to cut through the formalities and check him out a whole lot more. But I try for a jaunty grin instead and fail. Which isn't too surprising since I'm bone weary, I have eyestrain from staring out the train window, worrying about missing my stop, and the muscles in my neck and shoulders are starting to spasm from weeks of jangled nerves and too much stress.

  "I'm going in that direction, if you would care for a lift."

  Would a starving woman like a slice of bread?

  "Umm..." Again I feel the pull of something between us. I can't quite decide if it's genuine attraction, or plain old-fashioned lust because, to tell the truth, despite being tired and stressed out, I also feel horny as hell. Maybe it's because I can barely remember the last time I had any, and the guy just happens to be one hundred percent my type. I adore men with dark hair. However, it's late at night, he's a complete stranger, and I'm not totally stupid. I know better than to judge by appearances--he could be an escaped criminal, a rapist, or a deranged killer for all I know. Although, if he is any of those things, and what he said is true about there being three miles between the station and civilization, I could scream my head off and no one would hear me.

  He gives me a tentative, almost smile, making the idea of a rapist running around clutching a briefcase in one hand and groceries in the other sound ludicrous, even to me. But a girl can never be too careful.

  I see a narrow road leading away from the station into what I assume is a forest. And while there's a full moon tonight, it's too dark for me to be sure exactly whether the road goes through the forest or around it, and I'm not wild about the idea of checking it out by myself.

  I give the nearest bench a quick sideways glance, wondering if I should play it safe and camp out until first light. Problem is we're already well into November, the weather is cold and damp, and this is England. As I've already discovered after leaving my sweater outside on a friend's patio in London, anything that stays out all night in this country will be soaked with dew by morning, guaranteed. And a couple of weeks in bed with a bout of pneumonia is the last thing I need.

  The man's smile grows a little broader, and he takes a careful, non-threatening step toward me. "We've never met before, so I understand your caution. Even so, I wouldn't recommend that bench for a good night's rest," he says, obviously guessing at the direction my thoughts have taken. The smile smoothes out the severe lines of his face, and he comes a couple more steps closer. "I'm Nicholas Berringford. I live in Foxton, and work in London. I promise to take you straight to wherever it is you want to go. I can assure you I'm quite harmless."

  I hesitate. He'd hardly tell me if he was dangerous. Serial killers and crazy people don't go ar
ound warning their victims in advance. But the man is so damn attractive, I refuse to entertain such depressing thoughts and decide to take a chance, as I say, "I'm Alison Palmer," then hope I'm not making a huge mistake. "Most people call me Ali."

  "And I generally answer to Nick." He transfers the supermarket bag to the hand with the briefcase, and picks up my largest piece of luggage. "You're American. Yes?"

  "Is that a problem?"

  "No. Just an observation." He really smiles this time. A warm, friendly smile that eases my concerns a fraction and makes me wonder if he's fancy free like me, or if he's married or otherwise off limits. "You have friends in Foxton, Ali?"

  "No friends. Just a job."

  He looks surprised. "A job?"

  "I'm house sitting for a man named Sam McIven. Do you know him?"

  The smile vanishes, and he shrugs. "We've met a couple of times."

  I wait for him to say more, but that doesn't happen. Instead, he leads the way out to the parking area where he puts my bags in the back of a dark-colored station wagon, opens the door for me to get into the passenger seat, and we take off down the narrow road. "This is the road to Foxton," he informs me.

  Since it's the one and only road there is, I'd already assumed that's where it must go. But it could be the road to hell for all I know, and, at this point in my life, I don't much care if it is. Rather than voice my thoughts aloud, I lean back in my seat, inhale a faint heathery scent I assume is the soap Nick uses, and close my eyes.

  I've learned a lot about hell in the almost six months since my philandering, minor movie star husband, George, managed to kill himself by falling off his latest girlfriend's fifteenth-floor apartment balcony. For starters, the new contract George said he'd signed to star in an upcoming TV thriller--the one he'd been bragging about to all our friends, turned out to be nothing more than a figment of his imagination. George had a few good roles when we were first married, the kind that kept us in semi-luxury for a while. But thanks to his inability to keep his hands off other men's women, he hadn't worked in over a year, and he'd pissed off just about anyone and everyone who might, if they were absolutely and completely desperate, give him any kind of job, up to and including sweeping floors or running errands.

  By the time the cops decided what happened to George was a genuine accident and not, as most people thought, the act of a jealous female--meaning me--or that of an enraged husband or boyfriend, thanks to a lack of funds and an absence of connections, I'd spent over a month in the county jail. Following which I discovered everything George and I owned, or what I thought we owned, had either been mortgaged to the hilt, rented, or was on the verge of being repossessed.

  I married George right after I finished school, so I've never held a job or even looked for one. In spite of all that, I'm not quite the airhead some people think I am. Once George's remains were safely and legally disposed of, I did what any other sane widow would do in the circumstances--I grabbed my personal stuff and what cash there was before anyone else could get their grubby paws on it, turned the house and everything in it over to George's lawyer to deal with and, on the lawyer's advice, went back to using my maiden name. With my old life tidied away, I decided my best option was to leave L.A.

  There were a few places where I could have hidden myself from public view for a while, but I knew that the further I distanced myself from L.A., the better the chances of me getting a brand new start. So, after a couple of phone calls, I caught the first plane to England and went to stay with my oldest and dearest friend--the one place where I could lick my wounds in comfort and contemplate my future.

  Ginny and I first met in kindergarten and have been friends ever since. I was her maid-of-honor, and she was mine. Now, she has a successful real estate business in London and a wonderful British husband who dotes on her and their two gorgeous kids. While I, to put it bluntly, am husbandless, childless, and completely without job training of any kind. In other words, I'm plain flat on my ass. At least, that was my assessment of the situation. After a week of tears, regrets, and general wallowing, Ginny decided enough was enough, that I needed to move on with my life, and, now she'd had an opportunity to consider the situation from every angle, I might have employment possibilities after all.

  One of her clients needed a house-sitter for the next two months, give or take a couple of weeks either way--someone to take care of his house and keep his garden tidy and weed-free while he was away overseeing a complicated mega business transaction in South America or South Africa, I don't remember which. In return, I would receive free food and accommodation, plus a salary commensurate with the responsibility of caring for a large house. If it works out, Ginny says she has a whole list of clients needing similar services, so my future is assured. Provided, of course, I'm interested in being a professional house-sitter.

  Duh! Like in my current, close to penniless, otherwise unemployable position I have a choice?

  The good thing is my needs are small, and the advantages of house sitting are, I'm quick to realize, very attractive and without the stress that accompanies most jobs. I don't have to punch a clock, I don't have to commute and worry about the price of gas or traffic snarls, I don't have to obey ridiculous rules or please a cantankerous boss, and I don't have to compete with a bunch of over-achiever jerks for a promotion I doubt I would get even if I wanted it. Provided I keep the house clean and safe from harm, sweep up any dead leaves and make sure the area at the front of the house always looks neat and tidy, I can get up and go to bed whenever I want. I can go out, stay in, read, watch whatever TV programs I like, live on chips and snacks, or make gourmet meals for one. In fact, not only can I do whatever I want whenever I want without struggle or stress, I'll also be well paid for the privilege.

  And I don't know of even one other person who has it that good.

  "Here we are," Nick says, turning into a graveled driveway and bringing his vehicle to a stop in front of an old, much larger than I'd expected, three-story, gray-stone house. "The village itself is another half-mile further on. I presume you have a key."

  "I have it somewhere here," I admit, frantically checking all my pockets before I remember the key is in my purse.

  After giving Nick the key, I open the door and get out of the car. I'd been anticipating one of those rambling, old country homes covered in ivy in winter and roses in summer, or perhaps that pretty, dark red creeping plant--the kind you see in the upscale magazines. But this place is beyond big. Not quite a castle, but a baronial mansion at the very least. I count eight small-paned windows on either side of the massive front door, and the driveway encircles a flower bed the size of a small lake. I'd thought Ginny was joking about the weeding, but maybe not. It's enough to make a person's back sore just from looking at the wretched thing. But I don't foresee it being a problem. It's fall. The time of year when nothing much grows, including weeds.

  "Do you know if Mr. McIven employs any regular staff?"

  "I don't think so. At least, none I'm aware of."

  "No? With a place this size, you'd think he'd at least have a housekeeper, and a gardener. Maybe someone to do the rough cleaning, too."

  He smiles, flashing his pearly whites to great advantage. "Be glad he doesn't. If he did, he wouldn't need a house-sitter."

  "No. I guess not," I say, giving myself a mental kick for not having figured that out for myself.

  Nick takes my bags out and carries them to the front door. "McIven had a housekeeper with him when he bought the place--brought her with him from his London home, but she didn't last long. Said she found the country too lonely. That it gave her the creeps or something like that. After she left, he had one of the village women come in and do the cleaning. And I know a lawn service cuts the grass because I've seen them working here, but that's about it as far as any staff is concerned."

  "What happened to the woman from the village?"

  "She does cleaning for several people in the area, so I imagine she fits him into her schedule whenever he f
eels the need. Which I should imagine isn't often because he's rarely here. Now, would you like me to check the house just in case?"

  "In case of what?"

  He smiles and shrugs. "To put your mind at rest, I suppose. We don't have much in the way of crime here in Foxton--just the odd drunk causing a fuss, and the occasional motorist who doesn't believe in keeping to the speed limit, so I doubt you have anything to worry about. Even so..."

  "You've been in the house before?"

  "When my...umm--" He hesitates, then smiles and quickly changes gears, and I wonder what he almost said but didn't. "When one of the previous owners lived here."

  I get the feeling he's just told me a half-truth. Unfortunately, the whole truth is none of my business. "In that case, why don't you show me around?"

  Although it's night and it's dark, between the full moon and the glow from the porch light, I notice conflicting emotions flit across Nick's face. Like he wants to show me around, but would rather not. Maybe he doesn't feel right about giving guided tours without the owner's permission.

  Which strikes me as a little odd, bearing in mind not two minutes ago he wanted to check the place out for intruders. Then again, people are always making kind but meaningless offers they don't expect to be taken up on.

  "Of course, if you'd rather not, I'll understand," I add quickly. "But I am allowed to have visitors while I'm here. Within reason, you understand. No raves or orgies or anything wild and exciting like that." I try to lighten the remark with a theatrical sigh. "I know it's going to be difficult, having to live with such boring restrictions. On the other hand, I really do need to cut back on my excitement quota."