LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER ONE

      HER thoughts were many and varied during that long drive from Heathrow airport to North Wales. Nor were her thoughts the happiest. It did not cheer her one whit that fog had descended, making it a truly murky, damp and miserable November night. The night matched her mood.

      She had hoped to make the journey to Aldwyn House in Denbighshire in record time, but poor visibility made any chance of driving at speed out of the question. To speed in these conditions would be utter madness.

      Not that she had intended to drive to Wales when she had first left the airport. Her initial thought, an unconscious thought, had been to drive back to her home near Cheltenham. An hour into the drive, however, and Varnie had recalled all the stresses and strains her overworked parents had endured recently. The last thing she wanted to do, now that they were retired and sailing in calmer waters, was to give them cause to be upset or anxious again—especially about her.

      They’d had more than enough to worry about, first with her brother, Johnny, crashing his car—though it was true he always seemed to be about an inch away from some disaster or other—and then her father being diagnosed with high blood pressure. Johnny had walked away from his car crash with barely a scratch, but they had all worried about him. On top of that the hotel they owned had started to lose money, and they had decided to try and sell it. And then Grandfather Sutton had died. One way and another it had been a pretty anxious time.

      But, looking on the brighter side, the hotel had at last sold and, wonder of wonders, Johnny, at twenty-five—and something of a misfit—had at last found his niche, and was finally settled in a job he absolutely loved. So, all in all, their parents should now be able to look forward to the stress-free life that they so thoroughly deserved.

      No way, Varnie had realised, could she go back home to lick her wounds. With the best acting in the world she knew she had no hope of hiding how very let down and upset she was feeling. And, on fretting about it, Varnie had just known that she had no need to go home; her parents were not expecting to see her again for two weeks anyway!

      Varnie had changed course and felt distinctly out of sorts as she’d dwelt on how only that morning her parents had stood on the drive of their new home and waved her a smiling goodbye. She had been smiling too, experiencing quite a flutter of happy anticipation at the prospect of sharing a whole two weeks in Switzerland with her boyfriend Martin.

      Because he worked so hard, holidays were a rarity for Martin. He was only able to take this trip now because he was able to combine it with some business. But when he was not engaged in business they would be together, and it would be a chance for them to really get to know each other—so she had thought.

      Varnie was not smiling now. In fact she was feeling far from happy as she headed for Wales. By sheer good fortune she had popped her keys to Aldwyn House into the glove compartment of her car on her last visit there.

      Oh, what a fool she had been! What a total and complete idiot! How could she…? My heavens, if she had not started to grow a bit fidgety when Martin Walker had been three-quarters of an hour adrift from the time they had arranged to meet at the airport, she would even now be on some plane with him about to land in Switzerland!

      It was only because he was meant to be partly on holiday that she had broken his ‘Don’t-ring-me-at-the-office. We’re-so-busy-and-I’m-always-dashing-all-over-the-place, and-they’ll-never-find-me’ rule. But she had tried ringing his mobile—it was switched off.

      She had fidgeted some more. Walked around a little—with luggage. And eventually, with the view of trying not to keep a fixed gaze on the entrances into the departures area, she had gone and purchased a newspaper. On opening the paper, however, her mind for a very brief while had been taken away from Martin Walker. Because there on the very front page was a picture of one man felling some other man—with a headline telling her that the man doing the felling was none other than her brother’s new boss, Leon Beaumont. The photographer had caught him just after he had thrown his punch and as the other man hit the ground. Good heavens!

      Swiftly she’d read what it was all about. Apparently, and ‘allegedly’, in newspaper speak, which meant there was probably very little doubt about it, Leon Beaumont had been making out with one of his female executives—there was a picture to the side of one very elegant and attractive thirty or so brunette, name Antonia King—and her husband had got to hear of the liaison.

      Why Neville King was the one on the floor, a hand going to his recently thumped jaw, and not the other way round, was not stated. But Leon Beaumont looked angry enough to give him more of the same once the cuckolded husband managed to get to his feet.

      Varnie had lost interest. She didn’t think much of men who went around knocking

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