The Seduction Game

by Craven, Sara

  ‘My goodness.’ She offered him the potatoes. ‘Do you write books on self-improvement, by any chance?’

  ‘I don’t write books at all.’ With equal politeness, he passed her the celery. ‘But I apologise if I sounded sententious.’

  She flushed. ‘No—I didn’t mean... That is...’

  Aware that she was foundering, she stopped.

  ‘Sometimes a direct question is best,’ Adam remarked pensively.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Tara said coldly, concentrating on her plate.

  ‘You want to know what I do for a living.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘Why not just ask?’

  ‘Because that’s entirely your own business,’ she came back at him, trying to retrieve the situation. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘No,’ he said drily. ‘But that hasn’t stopped you burning up with curiosity from the moment we met. And you have good reason,’ he added, after a brief pause. ‘Do you spend a lot of time down here on your own?’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Pritchard has already told you the answer to that,’ Tara said, with a snap.

  ‘Is that what’s riling you? That I’ve stolen some kind of march on you?’

  ‘Of course not. Cooking and gossip are her specialities. Everyone knows that.’ She put her knife and fork down, colour rising in her face. ‘Oh, God, that sounds so bitchy.’

  ‘Just a touch,’ he agreed.

  She gave him a furious look. ‘I’m not usually like it.’

  ‘Then it must be my malign influence,’ he said smoothly. ‘May I have another piece of pie? You can throw it at me, if you wish.’

  She was startled into an unwilling laugh. She pushed the dish towards him. ‘Please help yourself.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t made a pudding, but there’s cheese and fruit.’

  ‘And all of it for an unwanted guest,’ he murmured. ‘How incredibly magnanimous. And I’m a draughtsman.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tara, completely taken aback.

  He lifted an eyebrow as he transferred meat and pastry to his plate. ‘Surprised that I’m so respectable?’

  ‘No,’ she denied too swiftly.

  ‘It’s a hellish life, but someone has to do it.’ He grinned at her. ‘Feel reassured?’

  No, she thought, but I don’t know why.

  She said, ‘Is that the intention?’

  ‘I think so. For better or worse we’re going to be sharing some space.’ He leaned across and poured more wine into her glass. ‘Let’s drink to a better understanding.’

  Now, of course, would be the time to tell him she wasn’t staying. To come out with some glib excuse for leaving and getting on with her life, well out of harm’s way.

  But, for some reason she couldn’t for the life of her explain, she remained silent.

  Adam lifted his glass, and she raised hers obediently in turn.

  He looked at her for a long, quiet moment. His blue eyes seemed to glitter in the candlelight, and the table between them was suddenly very narrow.

  Tara was staring back at him, as if mesmerised. In those few strange seconds she knew—as if it had already happened—as if he had come to her and drawn her up, out of her chair, into his arms—the touch of his mouth on hers, the brush of his hands on her naked skin. Knew it, and wanted it with a sudden ache of longing too deep for words.

  He said softly, ‘To us.’ And drank.

  While Tara sat completely still, her lips slightly parted in shock, and her fingers frozen to the stem of her glass.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FORTUNATELY, Adam didn’t appear to notice her paralysed state, much less guess its cause. He drank the toast, then put down his glass and returned to the remainder of his meal.

  Tara, suddenly aware that her hand had started shaking, carefully replaced her own glass on the table too.

  She was over-reacting badly, and she knew it. Just as she’d done from the moment she set eyes on him.

  It was only a toast, she argued silently. Simply one of those things that people said. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. And so silly to get het up about something so trivial. So very silly.

  But, all the same, she knew that she should never have let herself be talked into sharing her supper with Adam. Wine and candlelight, she thought, her heart hammering. A seriously bad idea. And she needed to bring the evening to an end with despatch.

  She clattered the cutlery noisily on to her plate and rose. ‘I—I’ll get the cheese.’

  ‘Fine.’ Adam got to his feet too. ‘If you’ll show me where everything is, I’ll make the coffee.’

  It was a perfectly reasonable offer, Tara thought wrathfully as she carried the used dishes to the sink. She could hardly tell him that coffee was off the menu and she was having second thoughts about the cheese, too.

  Behave normally, she advised herself. And once you shut the door behind him make sure it stays closed.

  There’d been a new pack of coffee among the groceries. She retrieved it from the small larder, then walked over to the dresser and stretched up to the top shelf for the cafetière.

  ‘Allow me.’ He was standing right behind her.

  ‘Oh—thank you.’ She moved hastily out of the way as Adam reached past her. She was aware, fleetingly, of the faint fragrance of some expensive cologne. He’d not been wearing it earlier when she’d cannoned into him. Then, there’d only been the fresh, clean, quintessentially male scent of his skin, she remembered, suppressing a gasp.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was nervous. That would be putting herself in his power, she reminded herself grimly.

  ‘Not a thing.’ She flashed him a meaningless smile, and busied herself arranging cheese, grapes and a few apples on a wooden platter.

  ‘You’re like a cat on hot bricks.’ Adam set the kettle to boil, then looked past her with a faint grin. ‘You should follow her example instead.’

  Turning, Tara saw that Melusine had given up her vantage point on the draining board and was now occupying the rocking chair in the corner, her paws tucked neatly under her and her green eyes inscrutable. Buster was stretched out, snoring, on the rug below.

  ‘You see,’ Adam went on. ‘Initial differences can be settled, and peaceful co-existence achieved.’

  ‘Natures, however, do not basically change,’ she said crisply. ‘And Melusine and I like our own space.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got plenty of it here,’ he remarked, glancing round him. ‘This is a delightful house.’ He paused. ‘It makes you realise what potential Dean’s Mooring could have.’

  She stared at him. ‘But it’s practically derelict,’ she said slowly, after a pause. ‘It would probably cost—thousands simply to make it habitable.’

  ‘Undoubtedly, but—for the right person—a labour of love.’

  ‘And are you the right person?’ She was startled into sharpness. Because this wasn’t the plan at all. Dean’s Mooring was going to belong to the Lyndon family, thereby ensuring the privacy of Silver Creek.

  Oh, Dad, you should have made your move earlier, she reproached her absent parent. Now it could be too late.

  ‘A direct question at last.’ Adam spooned coffee into the cafetière, his movements economical and unhurried. As if, somehow, he was right at home in his surroundings, she thought uneasily. ‘We’re making progress.’

  ‘Yet that,’ she said, ‘was not a direct answer.’

  ‘The night is young.’ He smiled at her, without mockery or calculation, and she felt the warmth of it uncurling insidiously in her deepest self.

  The night, she thought grimly, had better start ageing pretty damn quickly.

  She found a packet of oatcakes and tipped them on to the platter, then cut a chunk of butter into an earthenware dish.

  ‘This is becoming a feast,’ Adam commented as he brought the cafetière to the table. ‘Maybe you’ll let me cook for you on Caroline one evening. Repay the hospitality a little.’

  ‘In tha
t case, you should ask Mrs Pritchard instead,’ she returned coolly. ‘This was her feast, not mine. I was planning poached eggs on toast.’

  His brows lifted. ‘Real spinster fare,’ he drawled. ‘Is that how you see yourself?’

  ‘I don’t think my self-image is up for discussion. And this is simply a meal—not a therapy session.’ She pushed the platter towards him. ‘There’s good Cheddar, some Brie, and the blue one’s Roquefort.’

  ‘And trespassers will be prosecuted, or worse.’ He cut some cheese. He had strong hands, she noticed unwillingly, with long fingers and well-kept nails.

  ‘Talking of trespassing,’ she said. ‘What exactly brought you to this backwater?’

  ‘I’d always promised myself I’d explore this stretch of river,’ he said, after a pause. ‘As I had some time off, I decided this was as good a time as any.’

  ‘There isn’t a lot to see, and even less to do.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But between a little gentle sketching and taking Buster for long walks I manage to keep busy.’ He began, deftly, to peel an apple. ‘So, what brings you here?’

  Tara shrugged. ‘I told you. I like to keep an eye on the house while my parents are away.’

  ‘I hope they appreciate how protective you are.’ His eyes glinted at her.

  ‘Indeed they do,’ she said. ‘And with good reason.’

  ‘I gather they’ve been using the house for many years.’ He cut his apple into quarters. ‘They’ve never thought of selling it?’

  Tara gasped. ‘Of course not,’ she said roundly. ‘Why on earth should they?’

  Adam gave a faint shrug. ‘The right price might be an incentive,’ he countered.

  ‘Never in this world.’ Tara sat up very straight, her face flushed. ‘A lot of family memories are tied up in this house.’

  The straight brows drew together. ‘Is that necessarily an issue?’

  ‘Naturally it is.’

  ‘Then they must be unique,’ he drawled. ‘When sentiment and money clash, sentiment usually comes off a poor second.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with sentiment,’ Tara said quickly. ‘This is their second home—their sanctuary, if you like. When my father worked in the City it was an important means of relaxation for him. We used to come down nearly every weekend to walk and sail. It was Dad’s pressure valve. He’d never get rid of it.’

  She glared at him. ‘So, if you’re looking for a cheap weekend retreat, go and look somewhere else,’ she added with emphasis.

  ‘You’re very keen to see the back of me.’ His mouth twisted in amusement. ‘If I was the sensitive type, I might get a complex.’

  ‘Oh, not you.’ Tara took a bunch of grapes, relishing the cool sweetness against her dry throat. She leaned back in her chair, meeting his gaze squarely. ‘You just have to learn that money can’t buy everything you see.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ he said with suspicious meekness, leaving Tara to pour the coffee with the vexed consciousness that she’d just sounded like a pompous idiot.

  She’d allowed this stranger—this intruder—to get under her skin somehow. As if they were playing some game to which he alone knew the rules, she thought uneasily.

  She passed him a cup of coffee, offering milk and sugar with a polite murmur. He declined.

  ‘Have you been down here long?’ she asked as she sipped the strong, fragrant brew.

  ‘About ten days altogether.’

  Her spirits rose slightly. Presumably that indicated holiday, and he’d be back to work and out of her hair after the weekend.

  ‘Have you had good weather?’

  ‘Sunshine and showers. Pretty much what you’d expect for the time of year.’ He was grinning again. ‘I feel as if I’m being interviewed by a minor royal.’

  Tara smacked her cup back into its saucer. ‘I thought you preferred direct questions.’

  ‘When they lead to an exchange of information.’ The blue eyes challenged her again. ‘Not when they’re being used as a barrier to hide behind.’

  ‘You have a vivid imagination,’ she said coldly. ‘What am I supposed to be hiding from, pray?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m sorry if you don’t find me particularly scintillating company,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘But I’ve had a very long and rather trying day.’

  ‘With myself as the chief trial, no doubt,’ he said cheerfully. He swallowed the rest of his coffee and pushed his chair back. ‘So, to prove my heart’s in the right place, I’ll rid you of my presence as soon as I’ve helped with the washing up.’

  It was pathetic to feel relieved, but she did. She hadn’t calculated he would be nearly as easy to shift.

  She said, too swiftly, ‘There’s no need for that. I can manage, thanks,’ and saw his mouth twist in wry acknowledgement.

  ‘Then I’ll simply thank you for a pleasant evening,’ he continued. ‘And hope to find you in a more relaxed mood at our next encounter.’

  She offered him a tight-lipped smile as she rose too.

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it. I haven’t come down here for a rest cure.’

  The blue gaze swept her thoughtfully. ‘Well, I can hope,’ he said. He signalled to Buster, who rose and padded to his side, tail swaying adoringly.

  ‘And then,’ he added as he walked to the door, ‘you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘All about what?’ Tara’s brows drew together as she accompanied him out of the kitchen and along the passage to the front door.

  He said quite gently, ‘About the man who locked you up and threw away the key. That’s what. Goodnight, Tara.’

  He bent his head, and for one scared, searing moment she thought he was going to kiss her. But even as she stiffened in recoil he took her chin in his hand, turning her face slightly so that all she experienced was the brief, fugitive brush of his lips across her cheek.

  Then he opened the door, and, on a rush of cool river air, was gone.

  Tara couldn’t get to sleep that night. She’d taken her time before retiring. Had washed up and tidied the kitchen while Melusine went for her nightly roam. Had gone round the ground floor rooms making notes about what needed doing until she heard Melusine mewing to be let in again.

  If there was any justice, she should have gone out like a light, she thought fretfully as she twisted and turned, and punched her pillow into shape for the umpteenth time.

  She tried to tell herself that her sleeplessness was due to the fact that she’d drained the cafetière while she was clearing up, but she knew she was being dishonest. That it wasn’t merely the heavy-duty presence of caffeine in her bloodstream that was bothering her.

  There was something far more basic—more fundamental—at fault. Something she didn’t want to examine too closely.

  If she’d been at the flat, she’d have accepted her insomnia as a temporary hiccup in life’s regularity. She’d have got up and got on with something more useful than lying staring into the unforgiving darkness.

  Under normal circumstances she’d have done the same here. She could even have made a start on washing down the walls in the dining room, she realised with irritation.

  But that would have meant using lights, which would have been clearly visible from the Caroline, and, in turn, might have brought Adam Barnard to investigate. To check up on her. And that was the last thing she wanted.

  As it was, she’d felt absurdly self-conscious—lighting the lamp in her bedroom, using the bathroom at the side of the house, knowing that he was there, out on the dark water, able to track her movements if he wished. That he could be aware of the exact moment when she climbed into bed and drew the covers over her. She’d never had to deal with this kind of enforced intimacy before, and somehow she didn’t know how to cope.

  Her skin still seemed to burn where he had kissed her, as if she’d been marked in some way. And yet there was nothing. She knew that because she’d spent a long time in front of the bathroom
mirror, staring at her pale face and scared eyes.

  Just as she’d spent an even longer while standing at her window, her whole body chilled and tense in her thin cotton nightshirt, as she’d waited and watched through a chink in the curtains for the lights on Caroline to go out too.

  She was so on edge that she almost cried out when, with a soft chirrup, Melusine landed on the bed, as she did every night. It was comforting to feel the small paws kneading the coverlet in the familiar rhythmic way, and hear the throaty purr.

  Oh, Melusine, she thought, stroking the small proud head. If you only knew what a mess I am.

  She was still bewildered with herself, at the way she’d behaved with Adam. Once she’d made the decision to have supper with him she should have remained in control throughout, as she’d planned.

  Interviewing, after all, was her thing. She should have been able to find some topic of mutual interest on which she could have drawn him out, discovered what made him tick, just as she’d intended. She was good at it. An interested and encouraging listener. Even quite hopeless clients would leave her office probably convinced she’d be their friend for life, and godmother to their children as well.

  But this time all the revelations had seemed to be on her side instead. She wasn’t sure what she’d given away—or how. But somehow he’d made her stilted—awkward—commonplace. Pushed her on to the defensive.

  Where, she realised helplessly, she still remained.

  She turned over on her side, staring towards the window, and Melusine, fed up with the constant disturbance, yowled reproachfully and jumped to the floor.

  It had been nearly three years since she’d experienced that fatal drag of sensual awareness towards a man. Since she’d even been remotely tempted to acknowledge her body’s need. Its sheer physical hunger for human contact. For warmth and affection.

  But then, after Jack, it had seemed safer to remain in the wilderness that his departure had created.

  ‘Jack.’ She said his name aloud, wrapping her arms round her body, waiting for the shock of pain and humiliation that the evocation of his memory aroused even now.

  That was why she tried so hard not to think about him. To relegate him to the back of her mind where he belonged. But tonight, it seemed, he was not to be so easily dismissed.