Lucinda Horner was something else that Mike hadn’t expected. She was a strikingly beautiful woman in her early to mid-forties with clear pale skin, deep red hair and a shapely figure. The kind of woman who’d turn heads in the street, for one because of her beauty, and secondly because she had an air of a certain something about her. She wore loose-fitting white cotton trousers that were tied around the waist with what appeared to be a matching fabric belt and a pale green blouse that highlighted the deep colour of her hair and matched her eyes.
“How can I help you, Mr. Cross?” She asked as she seemed to flow into the room behind her husband. Her voice was soft and melodic and there was no hint of a Cornish accent to it or any accent that Mike could pick up.
“Could we, umm, take a seat,”
