“Drink this. It’s good for shock.”
“I don’t like brandy,” Anna protested.
“You don’t have to like it. This is for medicinal purposes.”
Anna drank obediently while she thought about what had happened. Although Gideon had meant to frighten her, it hadn’t just been a joke—he wasn’t that kind of man. Whatever his motives, they stemmed from something a good deal more serious. Anger? Hatred? A desire for vengeance?
LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in an English village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy traveling, and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Her hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.
A Vengeful Deception
Lee Wilkinson
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS Christmas Eve and, at five o’clock in the afternoon, already dark outside. In the old square, the carefully preserved Victorian street lamps spilled pools of yellow light on to the cobbles.
In line with the bow window of her now empty shop, Anna was stooping to nail down the lid of a wooden packing case.
An occasional glance through the uneven panes had told her that for the last half an hour or so there had been few people about in the square.
Most of the other shops, in what was something of a backwater, were already closed or closing. Only the jewellers and the expensive wine merchants, their windows glittering with tinsel, seemed set to remain open longer.
A sudden pricking in her thumbs, the certainty that someone was standing outside watching her, made Anna glance up sharply. Right on the edge of her vision, a dark figure was moving away.
Shrugging off a feeling of unease, she assured herself that it had no doubt been someone just innocently walking past.
Magnified by the bottle-glass, she could see huge, feathery flakes of snow starting to drift down. She had always loved snow, and the sight brought a touch of magic to an otherwise dismal day.
Bending again to her task, she finished knocking the final nail into the lid of the last packing case, and, putting down her hammer, looked around her with a faint sigh.
Apart from a residue of dust and packing materials, nothing was left. The shelves and the window were bare, as was the dark, cramped office-cum-stockroom at the rear of the tiny Dickensian shop.
Only the slightly musty smell of old paper, leather bindings and printer’s ink lingering on the air spoke of books and a dream that had ended.
All the most precious first editions and manuscripts had gone, collected the previous day by the agent who had bought them.
The rest of the stock had been carefully packed into cases that were scheduled to be picked up during the quiet few days between Christmas and New Year.
From the first, Anna’s long-cherished ambition to run her own specialist bookshop had been encouraged by her good friend Cleo.
Though complete opposites in both temperament and looks—Anna, tall and slim and dark, a quiet, self-contained girl, Cleo, short and plump and fair, bubbling with life and enthusiasm—the two girls had been friends since they were toddlers.
Throughout their schooldays and college years they had shared nearly all their hopes and fears, their successes and disappointments.
When Anna had finally managed to raise enough capital to rent the shop and add a few antique maps to her small amount of stock, Cleo had been as pleased as Punch.
Though a busy mother with young twins, she had given what practical help she could, and an endless supply of moral support.
But now, after many months of hard work and effort, and mainly due to lack of finance, the venture had sadly ended in defeat.
Cleo, vastly sympathetic but unable to help, had popped into the shop the previous day to lament its closure. ‘It’s a damned shame. I just wish I could help in some way but, short of winning the lottery… What will you do now?’
Anna had shrugged, trying to appear philosophical. ‘As soon as Christmas is over, start looking for a job.’
‘It shouldn’t be too difficult with your knowledge and qualifications.’
They both knew that the optimism was more than a trifle forced.
Rymington, a small, picturesque market town encircled by hills and quiet, fertile fields, was thriving and affluent. Within easy reach of London, it attracted a stream of seasonal holiday-makers. But jobs, other than in the tourist industry, were few and far between.
It was one of the reasons that had made Anna seize the chance and take over the shop on a short lease, and with what she knew to be barely sufficient capital. There had simply been no other opportunities available.
Despite that lack, she wanted to stay in Rymington where she had been born and brought up. After leaving college, a couple of years spent in London had only reinforced her dislike of big cities, and finally sent her home weary and disillusioned.
‘You were so close to making a go of it,’ Cleo had mourned. ‘If only the lease hadn’t come up for renewal.’
But it had. And the considerably higher rent that Deon Enterprises, the new owners of the complex, were demanding had been the last straw.
All that remained of the stock Anna had so painstakingly gathered together had been bought as a job lot by an agent for a private collector.
Knowing she was in a cleft stick, he had beaten her down in price and finally, in desperation, she had been forced to sell at a loss.
Her only consolation was that the sale had raised just enough money to cover her debts, including what she owed the bank, and allow her to walk away with her head held high.
The same way she had walked away from David.
No, she wouldn’t think about David. Memory Lane was just a circular route around a lingering pain.
Squaring her shoulders, Anna crossed to the mahogany counter, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness, and, pulling on her coat, picked up her shoulder-bag and the small weekend case that waited there.
When they had exchanged Christmas gifts, Cleo had asked, ‘Will you be seeing Paul over the holiday?’
‘No,’ Anna had answered firmly. ‘He wanted me to, but I said I couldn’t. I didn’t want to raise his hopes.’
‘You could do a lot worse.’ Cleo, who had introduced the pair, felt she had a vested interest. ‘I know he’s more than fifteen years older than you, but he’s a well-respected barrister, with a very nice house, and he’s not bad-looking. What more could any girl ask?’
Cleo was so happy with her own marriage that she felt sorry for anyone who didn’t share the same blissful state.