The Sweet Spot E-Book

Anneli Lort

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 449

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Love is the hardest game.

Olivia escapes London to overcome memories of heartbreak, and moves to Appleton Vale to ghostwrite the autobiography of former world number one golfer and global icon, Sebastian Bloom.

But he doesn't make things easy for her; Olivia is not ready for a new relationship, and fights her feelings for Sebastian.

Their story comes to a head at the most prestigious golf tournament in the world, The Open Championship, where Sebastian's return to form sets up an explosive clash with his lifelong rival, Troy McLoud.

As the lives of Olivia, Sebastian and the residents of Appleton Vale interweave, passions flare and stakes rise.

The Sweet Spot is a classic love story set in the sleepy West Country village of Appleton Vale, and in the glittering world of professional golf.

Leseprobe

The Sweet Spot

Anneli Lort

Copyright (C) 2017 Anneli Lort

Layout Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Louise Mizen Ferguson

Cover design by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my wonderful mother for her constant support and belief in my abilities. She instilled a love of books into me at a very early age and for that I am eternally grateful.

I also want to thank my friends for their unwavering support and encouragement, in particular the amazing Alison Hanmer for her beautiful editing skills, Freda Jackson who was meticulous in her proofreading, and the grammar queen that is Cathy Longhurst. Also Nikky, Emily and Pete who put up with my constant moaning when things weren't going quite so well and held my hand when I needed a confidence boost.

Given the opportunity to produce my own book cover I turned to the best fine artist and illustrator I know, my talented friend Louise Mizen Ferguson. She perfectly captured my vision of Appleton Vale with her stunning creation and I can't thank her enough.

Having worked in public relations for a number of global sports brands throughout my career I had an access-all-areas pass to some of the world's greatest events. Here I saw for myself the tension, drama and emotions that were played out behind the scenes and I was there to witness first-hand what really happened before and afterwards. I used this unique insight to develop an idea that eventually became The Sweet Spot.

I offer my heartfelt thanks to the many elite professional golfers on the European and US PGA Tours that I was fortunate to work and socialise with for over two decades. They unwittingly provided me with enough material, both on and off the golf course, for the entire Appleton Vale series! Thank you also to the managers, Tour officials, agents and the many wonderful journalists I met during the course of my work. Through you all I learnt more about golf than I ever needed or wanted to! A special thank you must go to a golfer who wishes to remain anonymous – trust me, he knows who he is! He expertly guided me around St Andrews, pointing out which shots could make or break even the world's most talented golfers playing in the pressure cooker that is The Open Championship.

Finally, thank you also to Miika Hannila and the team at Creativia for taking a chance on me.

For Henry, Woody, Hector and Milo

Prologue

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and muttered, “Don't screw it up, don't screw it up, for Christ's sake, don't let him screw it up.”

The tension was unbearable. All around her, thousands of men, women and children held their breath as they watched him contemplate his next move. They were tightly packed into grandstands, a sea of eager faces anticipating a much- longed-for victory - it was so close they could almost touch it.

On the ground, spectators jostled for position in crowds ten-deep, surging forward time and time again to get a better view of the man poised to deliver long-awaited glory.

The weight of expectation on him was palpable, the air thick with shared desire. Yet he remained oblivious, his concentration unbreakable.

She marvelled at his absolute focus, seemingly devoid of all emotion as he stood on the threshold of greatness.

Every move he made was deliberate, unhurried; he was seeking perfection. To the crowds watching, he was painstakingly slow. She could hardly bear to watch as he made his final preparations, and found herself clutching the arm of an equally enthralled stranger.

He paused and looked into the crowd, his eyes scanning faces, searching for hers. A fleeting look of panic crossed his face when he couldn't find her. She stepped forward, conscious of his need for reassurance at this most crucial moment and, as their eyes locked, she smiled in encouragement.

Moments later, the crowd erupted. Rapturous applause and cries of delight rang out. They were chanting his name, on their feet, friends and strangers, hugging each other in triumph.

She was surrounded by television cameras and photographers, shoving and elbowing each other in their desperation to get closer to her. Unaware of the media frenzy, her eyes were fixed on him. He looked over to where she was standing. They held each other's gaze. For a brief moment in time, it was like no one else on earth existed.

Chapter 1

Olivia swore blue murder as she was nearly taken out by an oncoming battered Ford Fiesta speeding down the middle of the winding country lane. “What do you think you're driving? A bloody Routemaster bus?” she screamed at the passing car, only to be rewarded with the middle finger and a bundle of profanities from its elderly gentleman driver. She shook her head in frustration and pulled off the road into a lay-by overlooking the village of Appleton Vale, her new home.

She was unprepared for the simple beauty of the village nestling in the valley. Of course, it helped that she had arrived on an unusually lovely October day, the sun at its very finest angle, hanging low in a motionless, brilliant-blue sky.

As she breathed in the heavenly countryside air, she briefly recalled the conversation she'd had with her editor, Stella, when she'd asked for a sabbatical.

“Are you completely stark raving mad? You'll hate it in the sticks and I need you here,” Stella said, astounded.

“Don't stand in my way,” pleaded Olivia. “I've got to get out of London, it's suffocating and I need time and space to sort my head out. I almost died,” she reminded her boss.

“And writing a book for a known misogynist is going to help?” was Stella's disbelieving riposte. “I've heard he's got a foul temper.”

“Really, you're using that to force my hand?” Olivia shot back. “I'll be fine. Besides, there's no way any man is ever laying a hand on me again, well not the way Saul did.”

Olivia winced as she remembered the violent battering she'd received from her ex-boyfriend. She'd spent a week in hospital and several more licking her wounds. During those dark first days, she'd swung so dramatically from one emotion to another that she'd given herself mental whiplash.

But by the time her body had healed and the bruises had faded into obscurity, Olivia had hatched a plan to get her life back on track. Offered the chance to ghostwrite Sebastian Bloom's autobiography, she'd jumped at the chance to do it and leave London at the same time. Hopefully, getting her teeth into a new and all-consuming project would help her forget her recent past.

And now here she was, about to enter the unknown world of quintessential English village life, and she was terrified. She hadn't even seen the cottage she had rented yet, let alone visited the village that would be home for the next twelve months.

She took in a second deep breath of fresh, sweet-smelling, country air and surveyed the scene sweeping down the valley before her. Chocolate-box cottages surrounded a pristine village green. Squinting slightly, she could make out a riverside pub and a moss-covered church with a giant oak tree casting a protective shadow over its tiny graveyard.

Jumping back into the car, she pulled away from the roadside and wound her way down the hill, through the meadows and rolling fields of Appleton Vale, turning into the village and her new life.

Chapter 2

Sebastian slumped, head in hands, on a bench in the far reaches of the locker room, regretting his ill fortune for a second day in a row. After shooting a hideous eighty-six earlier, following an equally shocking eighty-four in the first round, he was contemplating his future as a professional golfer.

Standing over him, a hand reassuringly on his shoulder, was his friend and colleague José de Silva – who'd also had an appalling week of golf in Seville.

“You've got to pull yourself out of this my friend,” José said softly. “This path for you is no good, yes?”

Sebastian was in turmoil. His life had unravelled spectacularly over the last two years and he was nearing rock bottom. He'd lost almost everything dear to him through a chain of events for which he blamed himself. Over time, his pain had turned to an anger that threatened to consume him fully.

Unable to temper the rage building inside, he lashed out at José. “Fuck off José,” Sebastian snarled. “Seriously, just fuck off home to your perfect wife and perfect kids and leave me alone.”

José didn't flinch, well aware that his friend's tragic loss was the cause of his anger. They'd been living in each other's pockets for almost two decades, firstly as amateur players and then on Tour, and knew each other inside out. They were as close as brothers, and it had been José whom Sebastian had called in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy that had wrecked his life.

“There's a car outside and the plane is waiting. Go home,” José said with gentle encouragement. “This has gone on too long, no? You need rest, to find yourself again, my friend.”

Sebastian looked up at José, his face contorted with pain. “Find myself?” he snorted. “Fucked if I can do that, wouldn't even know where to start. You saw me out there, I'm a fucking shambles.”

“You make it worse for yourself with all the women and the drinking like the fishes. The press loves you, but now they write about sex and not golf, yes?” said his Brazilian friend.

A ghost of a smile crossed Sebastian's tortured face and he looked up. “Drink like a fish José, not fishes.” Standing up, he grabbed his gear and stalked towards the exit with José hot on his heels.

Less than forty-five minutes later, after dropping José at the hotel, he climbed on board the plane and was instantly grateful for the sanctuary of the private jet.

“Can I get you anything Mr Bloom?” asked the pretty hostess as soon as he'd taken his seat.

“Scotch please, and you might as well leave the bottle,” he replied grimly. He knew drinking himself into oblivion wasn't the answer to his problems, but he craved the temporary respite it gave him from thinking about the role he'd played in his own downfall.

He looked straight through the hostess as she handed him his drink in a gleaming crystal tumbler, not noticing how pretty she was, or her attempts to flirt with him. He swirled the ice around the glass and knocked it back, pouring another almost immediately. Staring out of the window as the sleek jet cut a swathe through the thickening cloud, he tried to turn his dark thoughts to happier ones, to a time when he was truly content.

How has it come to this? Sebastian asked himself as the plane reached its cruising altitude. Being a selfish, arrogant, stupid prick, that's how.

Sebastian Bloom came from what country folk might have called good stock: a wealthy family, and a sprawling country pile he had inherited at the age of seventeen. The passing of his adored and glorious mother, Sabrina Bloom, two years' previously from breast cancer, had been the catalyst for his father's destructive, grief-stricken drinking. He'd descended a dark road, then climbed back into recovery, searching for his inner self. That's when his father, William, had signed Appleton Manor over to Sebastian and then promptly disappeared off in search of spirituality. Sebastian's younger sister, Georgiana, had taken the death of her mother and the desertion by her father very hard, and he'd done his best to put his own grief aside and care for her.

Privately educated and given every opportunity to excel, Sebastian had known from a young age that golf would be his career. He had grasped it quickly and naturally when his father had first taken him to the local country club at the tender age of three. Encouraged by William, and coached by up-and-coming club professional, Hugh McLauchlin, Sebastian's game developed rapidly. By the age of ten, he was comfortably capturing the scalps of most of the senior club members on a weekly basis.

He was fast-tracked into the West Chesterton County team at the age of twelve and spent the next five years winning every junior competition going, much to the envy of his peers. Single-minded and ambitious, filled with the unerring confidence of a teenager who had lived a secure and idyllic childhood, Sebastian always focused on being the best and playing every shot like it was the one that clinched The Open Championship title.

At seventeen, Sebastian became the youngest amateur golfer ever to play in the Walker Cup, a team competition between Great Britain & Ireland and the USA. He won every one of his matches, his national side clinched the cup for the first time in a decade, and Sebastian was on his way to stardom.

It all seemed so easy then, Sebastian thought as he poured himself another scotch. How did I get it so wrong?

Just two years ago he had been at the pinnacle of his career, world number one with three Major titles to his name and countless other tournament wins around the globe. He was the golden boy of British sport, the media loved him, his peers respected and envied him in equal measure, and the public adored him. He had been living a charmed life and he knew it. His game was always linked to his emotions, he played best when he was happy and, up until two years ago, he had always had Ellie by his side…loving him, encouraging him to be the best he could be.

But she's dead, they both are, and I'm finished, he muttered under his breath, as if speaking it aloud would make it more real to him. How did I get her so wrong?

Ellie had been the love of his life, or so he had thought. They had met by chance in a swanky new bar in London and he had been immediately captivated by her. She was stunning, with a long, lean, gazelle-like body that fascinated him. The instant they locked eyes he was hooked. The chemistry was undeniable, and within an hour he had abandoned his friends and taken Ellie into the bed in his luxurious waterfront apartment in Chelsea. Fast work, even by his standards, but he was fully consumed by the raw sex appeal that had oozed from her pores like nectar.

It was no secret that Sebastian loved sex: he really loved it. His sexual prowess and list of conquests was renowned on the golf circuit and in the celebrity gossip columns; he had been a playboy, pure and simple. He had a lusty appetite and in Ellie he had met his match. They married within three months and she had taken to her new life with gusto, as an adoring wife and a popular WAG on Tour.

Bursting with happiness, Sebastian began to attack the golf course like a thing possessed, playing both the European and US PGA Tours, achieving success and fame beyond anything he had ever imagined. Just a year after their wedding he claimed his first Major victory at the US Open and the following year at The Masters he won his second with ease, conquering Augusta National, a notoriously difficult course.

During The Masters Tournament the next year, when Sebastian returned to defend his title, Ellie became pregnant. He could pinpoint the day, time and place she had conceived and he thought he was truly blessed, even by his agnostic standards.

Earlier that night they had rowed about her outrageous flirting with his arch-nemesis, US golf star Troy McLoud, at a sponsor's event they had all attended.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing with McLoud?” he snapped at her as soon as they got inside the car taking them back to the house they were renting for the week.

“I don't know what you mean,” Ellie replied sweetly.

“Yes, you fucking do. Are you trying to make me jealous?”

“Jealous? No, darling, I'm not. Maybe I'm just making you hot for me?” She unzipped his trousers and slipped her hand inside.

“You little bitch,” Sebastian growled, pushing hard against the palm of her caressing hand. “Don't you ever do that again, and most definitely not with him, he's the biggest cock out there and I won't have him anywhere near my wife.”

“He may be the biggest cock out there, but yours is by far the biggest one in here and I want it in me,” Ellie gave a throaty laugh before bending her head down and taking Sebastian deep inside her mouth.

“Never let it be said that I'm one to deny a woman her pleasure - and it seems her pleasure is to pleasure me,” he said, winking at the chauffeur who was watching the whole proceedings through his rear-view mirror.

The ten-minute ride home had been torture for Sebastian, albeit the pleasurable kind, and it was all he could do to stop himself coming in her mouth, right in front of the voyeuristic chauffeur. As soon as they'd got inside the house, Sebastian had pulled Ellie's dress up, ripped off her pants with one hand, bent her over the table in the hall, and had screwed his wife with more lust than he thought even he possessed. The idea of that American bastard McLoud touching his wife had certainly stoked his fire, and had driven him deeper and deeper into Ellie.

That week Sebastian had successfully defended his title, returning home with his second US Masters title and, unbeknown to them both, a pregnant wife.

Right on schedule, nine months later, a perfect baby girl had come into the world and turned their lives upside down. Sebastian was captivated immediately by Elizabeth India Bloom, Ellie less so.

At first Sebastian had thought his wife must have been suffering from post-natal depression, but as time went by, he began to realise that his beautiful, delightful daughter held no delights for her mother.

“She's ruined my body and stolen my husband,” Ellie raged when he confronted her about her apathy towards their child.

“Stolen your husband? Don't be so fucking ridiculous. And I can't possibly comment on your body, darling, since you won't let me near you these days. Never thought you'd turn into a frigid bitch,” Sebastian shot back his reply with equal venom, immediately hating himself for his reaction when he knew she needed his support now more than ever.

“You're never here, and when you are it's the 'Sebastian and Lizzie show'. I'm so far down your fucking list of priorities these days,” Ellie spat. “You love her more than you love me, FACT, and don't bother to try and deny it, you rotten bastard.” Ellie was hell bent on getting a reaction out of her husband and knew all the right buttons to press.

Sebastian's temper cranked up to maximum the moment she turned the blame on their daughter and he was unable to stay calm and rational.

“Jesus Christ, you really are a cold-hearted bitch, aren't you? She's your flesh and blood, made out of our love for one another. Of course she's my fucking priority, she should be yours, too, but you're too self-obsessed and shallow to realise it. So you're not travelling around the world in private jets any more, or parading around like Queen Bee with the other WAGs, but look what you've got here. A beautiful daughter, a stunning home and a husband who would walk over hot coals for you. You've never wanted for anything, I've spoilt you rotten and continue to do so. What more do you fucking want from me?”

Ellie rounded on him, eyes blazing with pure hatred, “I want things to go back to how they were before Lizzie, and I want you to myself.”

“So you wish we'd never had her?” Sebastian whispered, utterly shocked and appalled. He shook his head disbelievingly, unable to comprehend the ugly words that had come out of her beautiful mouth.

“You're damn right I do. And I wish I'd never met you,” Ellie replied in a menacing tone that had rocked Sebastian further.

That had been the start of the end of their marriage.

Sebastian knew they were growing apart, they both did. Yet he couldn't give up his career when he was playing so well, and in his mind Ellie shouldn't have expected him to. Instead of addressing their issues, Sebastian hit the course with renewed single-mindedness, continuing his quest for golfing greatness. But, without Ellie at his side, his game started to stutter and he began, for the first time in his life, to doubt himself.

Having just arrived home after a three-week stint in Asia, Ellie blindsided Sebastian on Christmas Eve, announcing that she was leaving him and taking Lizzie with her.

“You're doing what?” he whispered, stunned.

“I want a divorce Sebastian,” Ellie replied, unable to meet his eyes.

“I know we've had problems, but this? Come on Ellie, you're not even giving me a chance here.”

“You're never here to give a chance to, you stupid, pathetic man,” Ellie sneered. “This is all on you, entirely your fault for not loving me enough and not giving me what I needed to be happy.”

“And what exactly is that Ellie? Go on, tell me what it is you need that I'm clearly not capable of giving you,” Sebastian challenged her.

“The life I want, the life I deserve,” Ellie said, sulkily.

“Which is what? Jet setting, diamonds, publicity?” he couldn't believe what he was hearing. His tone softened, “Don't you think you're being bit unreasonable, darling? I had no idea you were this unhappy, but if you give me a chance I'll make it up to you.”

“It's too late, you've changed. What happened to the fun, sexy, extravagant man I married? You promised me the earth,” Ellie pouted. Sebastian moved towards her. He wanted to take her in his arms and magic away her pain, to tell her she was everything to him, that he had enough room in his heart to love both her and their daughter equally. She backed away from his outstretched arms and shook her head defiantly.

“It's over Sebastian, I don't love you anymore,” she looked at him with pity.

“You think you can live without all of this?” He threw his arms expansively around the enormous hallway of his ancestral home, filled with fabulous antiques and art.

“I won't have to, soon I'll have more than you'll ever be able to give me.” Ellie's eyes glinted with greed.

“If you think you can screw me in court then you've another thing coming, darling,” Sebastian said in a cold, low voice, his anguish and shock suddenly turning into bitterness and rage. “And if you think you're setting one foot out of that door with my daughter in tow then you're seriously mistaken.”

“Why would I need your money when I've found a man with much more, in fact a vast amount more, than you have?” she replied, smiling triumphantly.

“You've met someone else?” he said, disbelievingly.

“Yes.”

“Who?” Sebastian's heart shattered into a million pieces. It was dawning on him that this was more than just an argument they'd fix in the bedroom, as they had done so many times in the past.

Ellie looked sheepish and blushed as she replied, “Troy.”

“McLoud? You're just fucking with my head, you wouldn't dare,” he roared.

“You just watch me. He's a better man than you'll ever be,” Ellie screamed. “And he's dynamite in the sack!” she threw at him for good measure.

Reeling, blind with rage, Sebastian rounded on her and in a moment of madness lashed out, slapping her across the face and pinning her against the wall as he ranted furiously. When he finished, he stood, shell-shocked, as his wife dragged his darling Lizzie out to the car. Unable to muster a response, to summon the will to beg her to stay, Sebastian simply watched as they walked out of his life forever.

He wasn't aware of the moment he dropped to the floor and for how long he had been sitting there, his misery engulfing his entire being, but it had turned dark outside by the time there was a knock on the door.

“It's Christmas fucking Eve, just piss off whoever you are,” Sebastian shouted from his place on the floor.

“Mr Bloom, please open the door, it's the police.”

Sebastian stood up, opened the door and gestured for the two officers to come inside.

“What's so important that you're disturbing me on Christmas Eve?”

“Sir, perhaps you'd like to take a seat,” the older of the two policemen, unflustered by Sebastian's tone, urged him gently.

“I'm fine standing,” Sebastian replied.

“I'm sorry, sir, there's no easy way to say this. There's been an accident. Both Mrs Bloom and your daughter were killed instantly when an HGV hit them on the Fiddlebury road.”

Upon hearing those words, Sebastian's world crumbled at his feet and he was plunged into a hole so dark and disturbing he'd been unable to find even a tiny chink of light: there was no escape.

For the two years after he lost his wife and daughter, Sebastian was alone. Still heartbroken and wracked with guilt at driving his family to their deaths, the future looked cold and dark and unforgiving. He had watched his father's life follow a now-chillingly familiar pattern - somewhere inside he couldn't help feeling resigned to history repeating itself.

The season was almost over, and Sebastian couldn't wait. For the first time in his golfing life all he wanted to do was throw his clubs in the back of the garage and forget about things, take some time out to re-evaluate his life and reassess his game. He needed help, with his game at least, and now he wasn't afraid to admit it. It was time to go back to basics.

But before that, he faced baring his soul to a journalist who he'd been told was 'keen' to ghostwrite his autobiography. She was due to start next week, and was apparently taking it so seriously that she'd upped sticks from London and moved to Appleton Vale for the next year. More fool her, thought Sebastian, with a grimace. It was the last thing he needed, but he had no choice. Sebastian was never one to back out of a commitment. Hidden somewhere deep beneath the gloom, he still had a sense of honour, and a deal was a deal. He would just have to suck it up.

Chapter 3

Boris! Heel!” shouted a panting Dee Dee Bains. It was too late. Boris the Jack Russell terrorist had taken off after the rabbit that was now running for its little life, and Dee Dee was struggling to catch up. Well, she was in her sixties, although she would never admit that to anyone. She had lived in Appleton Vale for the past twenty-five years with her partner, Jane Coombes, running the local tearooms, spreading gossip and hosting the weekly book club. Shunning the WI in nearby Fiddlebury - “too old” - Dee Dee and Jane lived for village life, their neighbours, long walks in the hills with their surrogate child, Boris, and of course, each other.

Dee Dee, pausing for breath, looked up to the brow of the hill where she spotted the lean, striking form of a young woman taking in the scenery next to a dark grey car. Could she be our new resident? she pondered, wondering what the girl's story could be. Everyone who came to Appleton Vale had a tale to tell, and Dee Dee saw it as her neighbourly duty to root it out of each and every villager. She turned on her heel and started for the path back to the village, pausing to inform the missing Boris that he would be left to fend for himself unless he came back right now. Perhaps she would pop into the Riverside Inn later to see if anyone had met the new girl.

As 'new girl' Olivia turned left past the village green at the bidding of her satnav, Tom Feltham, owner of the Riverside Inn and Bistro, was overseeing a delivery from the local brewery. He and his wife Susie took pride in sourcing and serving as much local produce as possible, which attracted punters from far and wide. Tom, being a natural host, strode over to where Olivia had parked up and introduced himself.

“You must be our new neighbour.” he said cheerily. “I'm Tom Feltham. I own the pub with my wife, Susie. We were wondering when you were going to turn up.” Tall and lean, Tom had floppy, mouse-coloured hair that kept falling into his eyes. His face was soft and had kindness etched into it, along with a permanent but genuine smile.

Olivia paused before offering her hand to greet Tom. How much did the locals know about her already? She had heard village life could be intrusive. “Hi, I'm Olivia,” she smiled. “Pleased to meet you. The estate agent said you would have the keys for the cottage for me to pick up?”

“Indeed I do,” he smiled and nodded his head towards the pub. “Why don't you come and meet Susie and have a drink while I get them? You must be parched after your journey.”

“That would be great,” said Olivia, but as she started to follow Tom into the pub, a muffled woof reminded her that Hector, her gorgeous, goofy golden retriever, was still wedged in the car, surrounded by various items of luggage and boxes that Olivia had brought from London.

Outwardly, Hector had the appearance of the perfectly-trained dog, with his lazily wagging tail, goofy smile and gentle nature. However, as Olivia opened the door he bounded out and made a beeline for Tom, jumping up and sending him flying, narrowly missing the open hatch of the pub's cellar.

“Hector, NO,” she shouted too late, and rushed over to where Tom was lying on the ground. “Are you ok? I'm so sorry, he doesn't have an off button. He's possibly the worst-trained dog in the world,” said Olivia, with the practiced, disarming smile she had used so often to make amends for Hector's boisterous behaviour. “Does your pub welcome ASBO dogs, as well as their owners?”

Tom laughed, picked himself up and dusted himself down, “Of course! Come on then, Susie will be delighted you're here, she does love a new face in the village.”

It was the end of the lunchtime rush and the pub was emptying as people went about the rest of their day, many to return later for a swift half before going home for dinner. Olivia breathed in the heady mixture of delicious scents wafting from the restaurant, and the slow burning wood from the logs hissing away in the inglenook fireplace that dominated the room. In front of her lay an immaculate mahogany bar, and beyond that a cosy but stylish restaurant. Oak beams and uneven creaking floorboards added to the charm, and the atmosphere was warm and welcoming.

A series of delicate, exquisitely detailed watercolours adorned the walls. “By our resident famous artist, Charles Harkley,” Tom said, nodding at the paintings. “You'll see his work dotted all around the village. Ah, here's Susie now. Susie, Olivia.”

“Olivia,” Susie cried, pulling her into a bear hug. “Welcome to Appleton Vale! You're going to love it here, everyone does.”

Olivia smiled. She usually liked to take time to get to know people, but something about Susie, aided possibly by the very large glass of red wine that had been thrust into her hand, made her feel like she had come home and all her troubles would be swept away.

Susie was as short as Tom was tall, and they looked an odd couple. An elfin crop of brown hair framed her oval face, accentuating her huge grey eyes. Her cheeks were full and rosy, and she too had a smile that seemed to be an enduring fixture.

Turning to Tom, Susie said, “Darling, can you call Mandy and see if she would come in later? I could really do with a night off.”

“Your wish is my command,” Tom replied, doffing an imaginary cap as he pulled out his mobile phone.

“We work round the clock so we really cherish the nights we get off together,” explained a blushing Susie. “And we're trying for a baby,” she whispered to Olivia.

At that moment, the door crashed open, hitting the coat stand behind it. A draught of autumn air and wood-smoke hit Olivia, and she looked around to see the very man she was here to work with, Sebastian Bloom, six feet and two inches of perfection. He was broad-shouldered with thick dark hair, cut short; his olive-skinned, angular face was breathtakingly chiselled, with a defiant chin. Dressed casually in what she recognised as an ultra-stylish, ultra-expensive Damian de Landre tweed jacket and jeans, he commanded the room before he set foot in it.

They hadn't met before, even though she'd spent time at some of the more prestigious golf tournaments interviewing his peers. She knew he was good-looking, but close up he was mesmerising. Sebastian had the rare condition of Heterochromia, which had gifted him one smoldering brown eye and one exotic dark green eye under long, thick lashes. For the first time in her working life, and with all the fabulously famous sporting stars she had met, she went a little weak at the knees. Pull yourself together, Carmichael, said the little voice of reason in her head. This is purely professional.

Sebastian strode across the saloon towards her, stopping briefly to kiss Susie and exchange greetings with Tom. “You must be Olivia?” He offered his hand and Olivia, somewhat nervous, extended hers towards him.

“Yes, that's me, guilty as charged,” she grinned and noticed a ghost of a smile cross his face.

“Welcome to Appleton Vale. I trust you've settled in already. I'd like to start work as soon as possible if that's ok with you? Tomorrow morning around nine o'clock?”

It was more of a demand than a suggestion. Olivia immediately switched into work mode, her professionalism at the very top of her list of attributes when it came to dealing with superstars and their egos.

“Tomorrow's Saturday, not strictly a working day,” she replied carefully, matching her words with a smile so as not to appear rude.

“Does that make a difference?” Sebastian replied. “Feel free to bring the dog if you want to.” He stooped down and acknowledged Hector's presence with a loving chin scratch and then he was gone, leaving Olivia smarting in his wake, but unable to stop herself from sneaking an admiring look as he walked away.

She swung back round to the bar and looked at Susie, whose embarrassment was evident. “Who the hell does he think he is?” she demanded through gritted teeth. “I know he's had had a rough time of it lately but that was just downright rude. I haven't even set foot inside the cottage, let alone had a chance to settle in.”

Susie, flustered, leant over the bar and thrust an envelope into Olivia's hand. “He's a wonderful man, take my word for it.” She was becoming an expert in explaining away Sebastian's boorish behaviour. “These are the keys to Brook Cottage. Get yourself sorted, and tend to Sebastian in your own time. His bark is worse than his bite, and I'm pretty sure you can stand up for yourself. Don't judge him on what you've read and what your journalist friends have told you, he really is smashing when he's on form,” she added with a smile. “Now, off you go. Pop in later and I'll have something delicious ready for your supper; you can't cook on your first night.”

“I thought you were having a night between the sheets with Tom?” Olivia raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“He can wait. Besides, it's only supper,” Susie smiled warmly. “So I'll see you later?”

Olivia smiled, nodded her agreement and pulled on her jacket to brave the unseasonably cold wind outside. She didn't have far to go as Brook cottage was just fifty yards down the road from the pub. Convenient, she thought, when writer's block sets in, of course.

With Hector trailing behind, clearly annoyed at being asked to leave the warmth of the pub and the possibility of the odd chip making its way down to floor level, Olivia paused outside the cottage, already delighted with what she saw. Nestled behind a white picket fence was a beautifully proportioned, flint-built cottage, quaint and quirky with slanting window frames, a crooked chimney and the remnants of what had been a full-blooming wisteria crawling across the honeyed stone face.

She pushed through the gate. Sliding the heavy iron key into the front door, she paused, excited at what she might find inside.

Olivia hadn't been that bothered when she initially took on an agent to find her something to rent in the area, she just wanted to get out of London fast. Terry Gullan, the agent, had called and told her that he had found a real gem. “This type of property just doesn't come up in Appleton Vale…ever,” he'd enthused. So, on the word of a man she had never met, and an estate agent at that, Olivia had signed herself up for a year, renting a house she had never seen.

With trepidation, she opened the door and stepped inside, but she was pleasantly surprised to be hit with a wall of warmth: someone had been in and turned on the heating. The light was fading outside; the long winter night starting to set in. Olivia flicked on the light switch by the door, and gasped at the picture-perfect scene before her. The house couldn't have been more 'her' if she had designed it herself. Brook Cottage looked quaint and chintzy from the outside, but inside it was all mod cons and understated elegance which somehow blended seamlessly with the character of the property.

Oak-beamed ceilings set off the smooth, original flagstones on the floors, and an inglenook fireplace in the centre of the lounge added yet more character. Walking into the kitchen she found a note fastened to the fridge door with a magnet:

Welcome to Appleton Vale. I hope you don't mind me taking the liberty of popping in to get the place ready for you, there's a little something in the fridge to celebrate your new home. I clean for you on Tuesdays but am sure we'll meet in the village before that. Sincerely, Pat Cowan.

She moved from room to room, turning on the pretty lamps and drawing the heavy, lined curtains. Heading up the creaking stairs, she turned the corner at the top and poked her head in the first door, the master suite, and she gasped at how pretty it was. A huge wooden bed stood in the centre of the room, covered with a thick goosedown duvet adorned with pink and white rosebud bedding. Matching bedside tables and a pink velvet chaise longue completed the furnishings and a small wood-burning stove was ready to light. Two further doors in the bedroom housed a dressing room and an en-suite bathroom that had come straight out of a Ralph Lauren catalogue.

After exploring upstairs, Olivia went in search of Hector. She could hear him shuffling round under the bushes at the back of the cottage. Opening the stable door from the kitchen, she set off down the little path that led, to her delight, to a tiny waterside terrace with what, in summer, would be a rose-covered pergola.

Olivia hugged herself, partially to keep out the cold wind, but also because for the first time in almost a year she felt content.

A sudden bleep from her mobile brought her back to reality and she pulled it out of her pocket to find a text from Sebastian.

So are we on for tomorrow?

Smarting again at his abruptness but resolving to remain professional, Olivia tapped her reply,

Hi Sebastian, if it's OK with you I'd prefer to start on Monday as per our

contract. I could do with a little time to settle in to your wonderful village and find my feet. I'll see you bright and early on Monday morning, have a fabulous weekend. Olivia Carmichael.

She re-read the text, not wanting to give Sebastian any reason to be offended and, satisfied she had hit the right tone, pressed send.

“I think we've landed a tricky one here,” she said to Hector, who rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with his paws.

Chapter 4

Olivia had had a succession of pallid, pimpled, and slightly awkward boyfriends in her teenage years, most with a loping presence and ruffled long hair calculated to underline their cool, art-school wannabe credentials. As she looked back now, she could no longer remember much about any of them, but what she did recall was the revolting aroma of stale roll-ups and unwashed denim that were de rigueur in the 1990s.

After having completed her English Literature degree at Durham University, Olivia had returned to Hertfordshire clutching a First and had walked straight into a job on the local newspaper. Thanks to hard work and an injection of good luck in the form of a local kid called Tom Illingworth - who's career she had championed and now a star striker at Manchester United - she'd been offered a job on the sports desk at The Times, where she had met Saul Bianchi.

It had only been Saul's second day at the newspaper when they had collided. Olivia had been running all over the building looking for her boss to sign off additional expenses for an At home with David and Victoria Beckham feature that had been dangerously close to deadline. Stepping out of the lift, eyes firmly on his mobile, Saul had walked straight into her, knocking her flat on her back.

“Shit, sorry,” she stammered, clambering to her feet. “I'm so bloody clumsy, are you ok?” 'Holy shit, you're gorgeous' she had muttered under her breath.

Saul grinned a slightly crooked smile, and offered a gracious, “No problem, I'm Saul, the news desk newbie.” He shrugged his shoulders and carried on with his day, and Olivia wanted to die. The first hot man she had met in a very long time and she had practically dropped on her knees in front of him.

She hadn't had to wait long to see Saul again. The next day, he sauntered over to her desk and asked her out to lunch.

“Hey, recovered from your fall yesterday?” he joked. “Join me for lunch.” It was a command, not a request.

“Err, OK,” Olivia stuttered, completely floored by his confidence and arrogance.

“There's a great little Italian I know close by, let's go.” He grabbed her hand, pulled her up from her desk and walked briskly towards the lift.

“I like you Olivia,” Saul said in a sexy, low voice. “And don't look so surprised. Dave on the picture desk filled me in, I know all your dirty secrets,” he continued with a glint in his eye.

I'm going to fucking kill Dave, Olivia thought briefly or perhaps not… Christ he's so hot.

The restaurant had been dark, cramped and lively, and they'd had a wonderful meal. Within four months Olivia had deserted her disapproving best friend and flat-mate, Emily Delevigne, and moved into Saul's loft in trendy Clerkenwell.

The first two years had been wonderful. Saul scooped a few big stories and was quickly promoted and Olivia had begun to gain a reputation as the go-to writer for sports lifestyle features. The money had been good, their social life had been crazy and the sex had been outstanding. They had been happy until Saul knowingly misquoted a prominent politician, landing the MP in hot water, the newspaper with a libel suit, and Saul out of work.

Unable to secure another job in journalism, very quickly his social drinking had turned into a bottle of vodka a day and his once flash-in-the-pan temper had begun to surface more frequently. He started staying out on the odd night here and there, and when Olivia had become suspicious and questioned him, he quickly turned on her, making her feel guilty for questioning his loyalty.

Emily had been enraged.

“Just fucking leave the bastard, Liv,” she ranted down the phone line. “You've turned into a weepy, pathetic bag of nerves, just tell him to take a walk, and come back to the flat.”

Laughing through her tears, Olivia sniffed and replied, “Don't hold back, tell me how you really feel.”

“I've made no bones about not liking him. He's an arrogant tosser and you can do way better.”

“It's complicated,” Olivia sighed. “But you're right, it's over.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Emily. Olivia could imagine her rolling her eyes in frustration. “Shit, is that the time? I've got a sodding meeting with some wanky investment bankers. I'll call you later. If you're serious then get packing. Love you.”

Emily had rung off and Olivia had begun the task of packing up her life, anxious to go before Saul had the opportunity to return.

Her suitcase was sitting by the door and she had been about to leave with Hector in hand when Saul had stumbled out of the lift.

“Where the fuck d'you think you're going,” he slurred, reeking of vodka.

“What does it look like?” Olivia was wary; she'd seen his temper flare one too many times recently. “I'm leaving, please don't try to stop me.”

“Like fuck you are, and you can leave the fucking dog too,” Saul's eyes burned with rage.

Olivia attempted to squeeze through the gap he had left in the doorway.

“Not so fast, bitch,” Saul sneered, and strong-armed her back into the flat, slamming the door on Hector who began frantically pawing and howling in fear for his mistress.

“What the hell are you doing? Get your fucking hands off me,” Olivia shrieked.

The first blow from the back of his hand across her face had been so completely unexpected that Olivia had hardly felt it. She tried to run but Saul hauled her back. A series of punches split her lip, fractured her jawbone and broke three ribs, lacerating her spleen. Slumped on the floor, she readied herself for the next blow, but it didn't materialise. She looked up to see Saul weaving out of the flat, vodka bottle in hand. She allowed herself a moment of pity, and offered a reassuring moan to Hector who had glued himself to her battered body as soon as the door had opened. Then she crawled across the room, agonisingly slowly and in tremendous pain, and reached for her mobile to call an ambulance.

It had taken the police just under an hour to pick up Saul and arrest him for GBH. It took even less time for the doctors to assess Olivia and rush her into surgery to repair her spleen. In the following weeks, as Saul was charged and incarcerated at Her Majesty's pleasure, Olivia's inner strength had shown signs of returning, and her wounds had slowly healed.

When she had received the call offering her the Sebastian Bloom book project, she had jumped at the chance of getting away from London and everything that reminded her of Saul.

Emily had been less than impressed with her decision to leave.

“You're running away.”

“Yes, I am,” Olivia replied, honestly.

“I should have come over that night, I blame myself,” Emily, anguished, took her hand and whispered. “You know how sorry I am, right?”

“Christ Em, it's hardly your fault. Even I didn't know he was capable of this,” she said, indicating her fading bruises. “I need a clean break, time away to get my shit together. It's a great opportunity and its come at the right time. And I'm only a couple of hours away, it's not as though I'm leaving the country.”

The very next day she accepted the job as Sebastian Bloom's official biographer. A week later she ushered Hector into the car and drove to Appleton Vale, hopeful that she could fully recover her broken heart and her once-indestructible spirit.

Chapter 5

Sebastian nosed the Bentley between the forbidding wrought-iron electric gates that shielded the ultra-exclusive Riverside Golf and Country Club from the rest of the world. Hearing the satisfying crunch of gravel under the car's huge tyres, he accelerated up the drive towards the clubhouse. The club crest, a golden eagle, had been fashioned into the gates and the raised flowerbeds either side of the entrance were studded with immaculate topiary.

Moving up the driveway, giant oaks nodding on either side, Sebastian spotted his long-term coach Hugh McLauchlin and head greenkeeper Jim Wellington deep in conversation as they examined a patch of the impossibly green fairway beneath them. Hugh waved as the Bentley surged past, indicating that he would be along shortly.

Even though he had promised himself some time off the course, Sebastian knew that he had to work on his game. What else do I have left, he thought.

Reaching the end of the driveway, the Riverside clubhouse came into view. Built in 1726, The Riverside Estate had housed a former prime minister, been used as a weekend retreat by royalty and hosted several knights of the realm before finding its current form as one of England's most exclusive sporting clubs.

“Morning Sebastian, been a while,” joked Clive from his sentry box at the entrance to the club, raising the barrier for Sebastian's car.

“Clive,” Sebastian nodded his greeting. “I think you'll be seeing a lot more of me from now on.” He smiled weakly and sped off towards the car park.

He swung the car into its designated space, a brass plate reading: Sebastian Bloom, Touring Professional. He snorted; nothing I've done in the past two years has been anywhere near professional.

He hadn't even drawn the Bentley's key from the ignition when a frantic tapping at the window invaded the quiet cabin, announcing the unwelcome arrival of Club captain Harry Bellamy, also the Conservative MP for Fiddlebury, Appleton Vale and nearby Bears Bridge. Harry was a large, overbearing man in his late fifties with thinning grey hair and piggy, watery blue eyes – bloodshot from one too many evenings in the clubhouse bar. Formerly a big-shot in the City, Bellamy and his equally imperious wife Shelly had moved to Appleton Vale in search of a safe seat from which he could launch a parliamentary career.

“What-ho, Sebastian,” Bellamy boomed crossly, leaning into the car as Sebastian opened the door. “We need to talk urgently old boy, about your dip…in both form and reputation. You're attached to this golf club and as such have an obligation to behave in whatever we decide is an acceptable manner.”

Sebastian groaned inwardly. He loathed the man and was incapable of keeping his temper in check around him, even before Ellie and Lizzie had died. He rolled his eyes and swung his feet out onto the gravel and, as he pulled himself languidly up to every inch of his six foot two frame, he towered over the captain, who now shifted from foot to foot, quivering with indignation.

“Look, Bellamy, I don't give a shit what you or the rest of the club committee thinks,” he retorted. “Call the dogs off and let me practice in peace.”