by Craven, Sara
‘No, thank you,’ said Tara, and went to close the door, only to find his foot was in it
‘Why don’t you have a little look round, madam?’ he urged. ‘You’d be surprised how many unwanted items you could have tucked away, just waiting to make money for you.’
‘There’s nothing,’ Tara said coldly. His insistence was irritating, she thought, noting over his shoulder that Adam and his easel had vanished.
‘I could always have a look-see for myself.’ He’d taken a step forward and was blocking the doorway. ‘Even if it’s just to update your contents valuation for insurance. You’d be surprised how many people are under-insured and have reason to be grateful to me. Or maybe I could have a word with your husband?’ he added insinuatingly.
He’d taken another step forward, forcing Tara to fall back, and now he was actually in the hall. His neck bulged over his collar, and under the cheap suit his shoulders looked uncomfortably wide.
She lifted her chin. ‘No, you can’t,’ she said curtly, knowing that he was well aware she was alone. ‘And I’d like you to go. Now.’
He chuckled. ‘How many times have I heard that before, I wonder? And it invariably leads to me doing some nice, friendly business.’ He paused. ‘Now, why don’t you give me the guided tour, like a good girl? And I’ll give you a fair price for anything that takes my eye.’
She realised that she was frightened, but that it was important not to let him see it if she was to have any hope of getting him outside the house again. The air seemed charged with a mixture of pungent aftershave and sweat that made her stomach churn. If one of those pink, moist hands touched her, she knew she would be sick.
At first she didn’t realise what the low rumbling sound was, because her ears were half deafened by her own pulse-beats. Then she realised it was a dog’s soft, threatening growl, and saw, just behind the intruder, Buster with his hackles up and his lips drawn back from his teeth, his whole attitude pure menace. And beyond him, she saw with a swift surge of relief, Adam, with his hands in his pockets, his casual stance contradicted by the icy watchfulness in the blue eyes.
He said quietly, ‘Is there a problem, darling? I was just on the boat. You should have called me.’
The newcomer turned sharply, giving Buster an unfriendly look. ‘Is that dog safe?’
‘Usually,’ Adam said pleasantly. ‘Except, of course, when he feels he has to defend my wife. And as he seems to dislike you, I suggest you do as she asks, and leave.’
‘No need for that,’ the other blustered defensively, as he edged past Buster. ‘I just came to see if I could do some business.’
‘No sale,’ Adam said. ‘And I’ve taken the number of your van. If you make any attempt to return, I shall inform the police.’
With a muttered obscenity, the dealer squeezed out of the hall and disappeared rapidly round the corner of the house. A moment later, they heard the sound of an engine being hastily revved, before the vehicle was driven off at speed.
The enemy disposed of, Buster sat, flattened his ears, and offered Tara a beguiling paw.
‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the paw and smoothing the dog’s head awkwardly with her other hand. She did not look directly at Adam. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’d taken Buster for a run across the fields, and saw the van parked at the end of the lane. Then I heard you both talking and thought I’d better intervene.’
‘I’m—grateful.’ She paused, gathering her resources. ‘But there was really no need. I—I could have managed.’
‘Could you?’ he said softly. ‘Now you looked to me like a lady on the run.’
‘But appearances are often deceptive.’ This time she did look at him, to find him leaning against the doorpost, all polite attention, apart from the cynical grin twisting his mouth.
She raised her voice a notch. ‘I assure you the situation was under control.’
‘So, if he’d grabbed you, you’d have been able to get away, no danger?’
Her hesitation was fractional. ‘Of course.’
‘Then show me.’ He took one stride and reached for her, jerking her off balance into his arms and holding her there imprisoned and helpless against the lean, hard length of his body.
Tara clenched her fists, pushing unavailingly at his chest. ‘Let me go, damn you...’
‘I hope that’s not your only line of defence,’ he said mockingly. Still holding her effortlessly, he captured her wrists in one hand and lifted them over her head. ‘Because it doesn’t work. What are you going to do now?’
She kicked him hard, but, although he winced slightly, the soft canvas shoes she was wearing did little damage, and he still retained his grip.
‘Be careful,’ he warned softly. ‘You could break a toe like that.’
‘I’d like to break your neck,’ she threw at him, her face flushed and furious. She felt ridiculous, and, what was worse, vulnerable.
Because she knew, without room for doubt, that she was the one who could end up broken—shattered into little tiny pieces.
‘I’m sure you would.’ He was watching her with close appraisal, as if his eyes were searching for something in the depths of hers. ‘But use it as a learning experience,’ he went on. ‘Don’t start confrontations you can’t win.’
Tara bit her lip, hard.
‘Will you let go of me, please?’ She tried to hide the urgency in the appeal. She was altogether too conscious of his proximity—of the warmth of his body penetrating her layers of clothing, seeping into bone, tissue and blood, and turning them to fire.
Her breasts were crushed against the wall of his chest. His breathing had roughened, and she could feel it fanning the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her scarf.
When he slowly lowered his head she could almost taste his mouth on hers, and her eyes closed as she waited, breathlessly.
Only to feel the clasp on her wrists slacken suddenly. To find herself free—completely disengaged. All contact broken. All the small flames dying.
Her eyes flew open. He was in the doorway, a black silhouette against the brightness of the day.
‘If you’re wondering why I haven’t taken advantage of the situation,’ he said, his voice reaching her from some infinity of distance, ‘I should, maybe, make something clear.’
He paused, as if weighing his words. Even so, Tara wasn’t prepared for what came next.
‘It so happens that I’m going to be married quite soon,’ he went on. ‘So any kind of casual relationship is right off the cards. And I don’t think it’s what either of us would want, anyway—even if circumstances were different. Am I right?’ -
‘Yes.’ She was proud of the cool, crisp way that she snapped back at him.
She saw him nod. ‘We seem to have found common ground at last.’ He paused again. ‘You’ve just had a nasty experience, and, no matter how well you were dealing with it, I felt you needed a friend. I still think so, and I’m prepared to be here for you if you want—and only if you want. Think it over.’
And, snapping his fingers to the dog, he walked away.
CHAPTER FIVE
THERE was something definitely therapeutic about painting, Tara decided as she vigorously rollered the primrose emulsion across the wall. It was symbolic too—an erasing of past mistakes. The presentation of a fresh and shining face to the world.
And, talking of mistakes, she thought grimly, she was well aware she’d been on the verge of making a monster one. The kind of ghastly, irretrievable slip that could have haunted her worst nightmares for years to come.
And Adam Barnard of all people had been the one to point out the error of her ways. Now there was an irony, she mused without pleasure as she tuned her tiny portable radio to a classical music channel. He’d stopped her in her tracks, and started her thinking clearly and sanely again.
And she should be grateful to him. So where was the surge of heartfelt relief?
Instead, she’d simply closed the door on his departing figure and s
aid, ‘So, that’s that.’
But her voice, even to her own ears, had sounded oddly flat, and she hadn’t turned any cartwheels on her way back to the dining room either.
Yet the news that Adam was committed to a relationship should not have caused her a moment’s surprise. He was attractive, apparently solvent, and clearly at an age where settling down had become a feasible option. End of story.
In spite of herself, she could not resist speculating about his fiancée.
Dark and sultry, she wondered, or the bubbly girlnext-door type? One certainty was that she’d harbour a deep well-spring of passion to match his own. Instinct told her that he would tolerate nothing less, and the knowledge made her skin warm suddenly, and her mouth go dry.
She stood, staring into space, her mind spinning images of Adam, naked and powerful in the act of possession, his face taut, his eyes hungry as he stared down at the woman of his desire.
A little sensual shiver curled between her shoulderblades and was gone, leaving her with an odd feeling of emptiness. Of bleakness.
She moved suddenly, swiftly, shaking off her reverie with an impatient toss of her head. Jolting herself back to reality.
Where, she discovered crossly, she’d been allowing paint to drip on to the floorboards. Muttering, she mopped up the splashes with a damp cloth, then attacked the wall with her roller again.
She should concentrate on the job in hand, she told herself fiercely, instead of troubling her head over a girl she would never meet.
Melusine, who’d been snoozing in a patch of sunlight on the dust-sheeted table, uncoiled herself and jumped lightly to the ground, tail held high as she stalked to the door and waited for her mistress to come and open it for her.
‘You choose your moments,’ Tara told her severely, replacing her roller in its tray and following her. As she opened the door she was immediately aware of movement—alien sounds in the hall beyond that her radio had drowned.
Oh, God, she thought her whole body tensing. She wanted to grab Melusine back to safety, but it was too late. The cat was swaying in full seductive mode towards the front door, uttering a chirrup of pleasure as she butted her head against the legs of the intruder.
Tara’s apprehensive peep round the door changed into a full-blooded glare as she realised exactly who was standing at the front door, busy with a screwdriver, while Buster sat meekly beside him, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
‘You,’ she yelped. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Hello,’ Adam said. ‘I hope I didn’t startle you. I did knock, but I was no match for Brahms.’ He nodded at the doorframe. ‘I’m fixing a chain for you, to keep visitors like your dealer friend at bay.’
‘A chain?’ she repeated. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘The other house,’ Adam said.
Words almost failed her. ‘You mean you stole it from Dean’s Mooring?’ she managed at last.
His brows drew together consideringly. ‘I prefer “liberated.”’
‘Whatever,’ Tara said grimly. ‘The fact remains you broke in...’
‘I didn’t have to,’ he said. ‘The back door was unlocked.’
Oh, indeed, Tara thought, bristling. Then it had no right to be. And that was another matter she’d be raising when she saw Mr Hanman on Tuesday. The security of Dean’s Mooring was his responsibility, after all.
‘But that doesn’t mean you can simply walk in and help yourself to any piece of convenient hardware,’ she objected. ‘I can’t believe you’ve really done this.’
‘Dean’s Mooring is empty and semi-derelict.’ He made it sound matter-of-fact, and perfectly reasonable. ‘On the face of it, your need for the chain seemed rather more urgent’ He smiled at her. ‘And you can always replace it in due course—if you feel that strongly.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I shall do exactly that.’ She paused. ‘Tell me, have you always had this cavalier attitude to other people’s property?’
‘No,’ he said promptly. ‘I’ve always been a solid citizen without a stain on my law-abiding character. It must be your pernicious influence.’
‘All these years we’ve lived here,’ she said, refusing to rise to the bait ‘And we’ve never needed chains on the door. Or locks and bolts either. Until now, it seems,’ she added pointedly.
‘Halcyon times, no doubt,’ Adam said silkily, also refusing to be drawn. ‘But nothing lasts for ever. Real life has a nasty habit of pushing itself even into idyllic backwaters like this. As you discovered earlier today.’
‘I really don’t need to be reminded.’ She watched him put the last touches to the chain. ‘But I suppose you mean to be kind.’
‘My intentions are of the purest’ He bent and examined his handiwork. ‘As I said, you need a friend.’
‘That’s very obliging of you,’ she said. ‘But perhaps I have enough friends already.’
‘Then what are you doing here alone?’ Adam straightened, his blue eyes fastening intently on her flushed and stormy face.
The words had been quietly, almost gently spoken, but she felt them cut into her like a knife. Was that the kind of pitiable figure she presented? she asked herself. The archetypal spinster and her cat?
She lifted her chin. ‘Actually, I made a choice. I wanted to spend some time alone for a change.’
‘And then I came along and destroyed the tranquil moment,’ Adam suggested drily. ‘Is that what you were going to say?’
Tara bit her lip. ‘Yes—as it happens. And you still haven’t explained what brought you here.’
‘Perhaps I too have a secret craving for solitude,’ he said. ‘Maybe we both drew the short straw this weekend.’
Tara raised her eyebrows. ‘A craving for solitude when you’re about to be married? The lady has my sympathy.’
‘No need.’ He shook his head. ‘I plan to spend the rest of my life within very positive reach of her.’
‘She must be incredibly trusting,’ Tara persisted, despising herself. ‘Letting you rove round the country like this.’
His blue gaze watched her gravely. ‘She has no reason to doubt me. And never will have.’
Her face burned suddenly as she remembered how he had stepped away from her need, her conscious yearning.
She drew a quick breath. ‘What a paragon you are.’ There was acid in the jeer.
‘No,’ he said levelly. ‘Just an ordinary guy who by some miracle has found the one woman to fulfil his dreams and desires.’ He paused. ‘Who wouldn’t stick like glue in those circumstances?’
Pain twisted inside her. Her voice sounded ragged. ‘I—I have no answer to that.’
She turned and went back into the dining room. Adam followed, standing in the doorway.
‘Well, you certainly didn’t come down to relax,’ he commented, brows raised.
‘I like to work,’ she said shortly.
‘Work is fine,’ he agreed. ‘As long as it doesn’t become a barrier.’
‘A barrier to what?’ Tara dipped her roller into the paint.
‘To thinking—feeling—being.’
‘Heavens.’ Her small laugh was metallic. ‘Maybe you should give up being a draughtsman and apply yourself to human psychology instead.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ he said, unperturbed. ‘In the meantime, why don’t I get another roller and start on the ceiling?’
Tara paused, startled. ‘Thanks for the offer,’ she said after a moment. ‘But I can manage.’
She’d expected him to argue the point, but instead he simply shrugged, and said, ‘Fine. In that case I’ll get back to my own painting.’
It was absurd to feel disappointed, but she did.
She saw him presently on the jetty, seated at his easel, with Buster stretched out beside him.
I can’t miss him, she thought. He’s right in my line of vision.
When it was mid-afternoon, she made tea, and piled a plate with cheese and pickle sandwiches. She loaded a tray a
nd carried it out of the house.
Adam observed her approach with lifted brows. ‘What’s this?’ he asked coolly. ‘Has peace suddenly broken out?’
Tara bit her lip. ‘I—I realise I wasn’t very gracious about the chain. And it was good of you to take the trouble.’
He eyed her for a moment. ‘If you’re still worried about where the chain came from, I promise I’ll fit another.’
‘Thank you.’ Tara hesitated. ‘I suppose I’m nitpicking, but old Mr Dean was such a private person. He’d have hated a stranger going into his house and borrowing anything, whether he needed it or not.’
‘So I gather.’ Adam’s tone was suddenly remote, and although he was still looking at her Tara had the odd impression that he wasn’t seeing her at all.
She moved slightly, restively, and saw his attention click back into the usual faint mockery.
He took one of the sandwiches. ‘Well, on your own head be it. You know what they say about stray dogs—feed them and they’ll never leave.’
‘Buster isn’t a stray.’ She offered the recumbent hound a crust, which he accepted civilly. ‘He obviously has a terrific pedigree.’
Adam said gently, ‘And I wasn’t talking about Buster.’
There was a silence which she sought, hastily, to fill.
‘May I look at your painting?’
‘Of course.’ He got up, stretching lazily. She saw the ripple of muscle under the faded navy polo shirt and swiftly looked away, turning her attention to the watercolour on the easel.
She knew from the site he’d chosen that he could only be painting Silver Creek House, and as he’d claimed to be a draughtsman she was expecting something stark and representational, drawn with detailed accuracy.
But it wasn’t like that at all. The house itself was little more than an impression, masked behind a soft golden haze, guarded by the tall slender lines of the silver birches.
A dream place, Tara thought wonderingly, like the castle of some sleeping princess, barely glimpsed, but never to be forgotten. And, in a way, the image she carried in her own mind when she was at a distance from it.
