A Stranger's Kiss

by Liz Fielding

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  More from Liz Fielding…

  A Stranger’s Kiss

  by

  Liz Fielding

  A STRANGER’S KISS

  Copyright © 1994 by Liz Fielding

  The right of Liz Fielding to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘I DON’T believe it! Where on earth did he spring from?’ Tara Lambert moved quickly to the door but the tail lights of her partner’s car were already disappearing into the blackness of the evening, taking with them any possibility of help from that direction.

  She glanced back to where the man was waiting across the street. He too was staring after Beth’s car, obviously wondering if Tara had gone home with her partner. Well it was too late to regret refusing the proffered lift, but if she moved quickly it might not be too late to escape.

  Shrugging her raincoat collar up high around her ears she snapped open her umbrella, stepped out into the wet evening and took off swiftly down the street.

  She had gone only a couple of hundred yards when she heard her name being called from the other side of the street. Her escape bid had not, after all, gone unnoticed. With a sinking heart she glanced around her; the shops were already closed and there was nowhere to seek refuge in the shuttered street. Even the taxi rank was deserted, although no cabbie would have thanked her for wasting his time on the short ride to her flat.

  She hurried on, urging the traffic lights to stay green and keep the traffic moving, but even as the thought entered her head they flicked to amber.

  She stopped, cursing herself for every kind of an idiot. She could have stayed in the office and phoned for a taxi. Maybe it was not too late to beat a strategic retreat.

  ‘Tara!’ Her name, much closer, startled her and she glanced back before she could stop herself. He was weaving through the slowing cars and cutting off all possibility of escape in that direction.

  A burst of light shone briefly on the pavement just ahead of her and a couple emerged and ran, laughing, their arms about each other, along the road. They had come from the wine bar on the ground floor of a glossy new office development and shopping arcade. She had watched it come to life during the past few weeks but a quick glance at the menu outside had convinced her that it was far too pricey to be included on her list of lunch venues. It hadn’t surprised her. Everything about Victoria House was expensive. But right now that was the last thing on her mind.

  The urgent sound of closing footsteps propelled her through the door before she had time to consider what she would do once inside.

  It wasn’t quite seven o’clock and it was still busy with people from the surrounding offices and shops, but there was no one she recognised. She dumped her umbrella in a stand and hung up her coat. At least there were plenty of people about, and now she was inside she would have something to eat. It had been a long, hard day and as the aroma of good food assaulted her senses she realised just how hungry she was. She would just have to choose whatever was cheapest on the menu.

  As she looked around for a vacant table the door opened behind her. ‘Tara!’

  Galvanised into movement by the sound of his voice she threw herself into a bench seat hidden from the door by a small grove of potted palms where a man whose deep concentration on a business document and navy pin-striped suit suggested a certain safety.

  ‘Please pretend that I’m with you!’ she whispered, urgently. He looked up, a frown momentarily creasing his wide tanned forehead and in that instant she knew, without any doubt, that the impression of safety was all illusion.

  Despite the touch of silver that streaked across an unruly lock of hair he was younger than she had thought, in his mid-thirties, no more. Not handsome. The word implied a smooth perfection that this man did not possess. His faced was rugged. Dark brows jutted fiercely over sea-green eyes that seemed to bore into her, seeking out her inmost secrets. His nose had the unmistakable kink produced by a collision with a rugby boot, or perhaps a fist, his mouth wide and uncompromising above a hard chin. It was the face of a plunderer, a pirate, albeit a twentieth century one. And his reactions were as swift.

  A brief assessing glance over her shoulder was enough. Without hesitation he slipped his arm around her waist and her lips parted on a short, startled breath as he swept her hard against his chest. She caught the faint scent of something clean and masculine. Good soap, leather, something more.

  His fingers grazed her cheek and slowly he began to wind a long jet strand of hair that had escaped from restraining pins around his fingers. For a moment she sat too stunned to move or do anything to stop him. Then, he tucked it behind her ear and while she was still trying to gather her scattered wits he moved swiftly to capture her chin, tilting it upwards, leaving her mouth at his mercy.

  ‘You’re late, my darling,’ he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. Shaken by this dashing, if unexpected response to her appeal for help, she began to protest. Then he smiled and the words died in her throat. ‘But I forgive you.’

  He lied. There was nothing forgiving about the kiss he demanded as a forfeit for his protection. Tara knew the instant his lips claimed hers that this was no ‘stage’ kiss to fool her pursuer. Whoever this man was, whatever he was, he had never done anything by halves.

  For a moment she was stiff, unyielding in his arms but, infinitely assured, he teased her lips apart, exciting a response, a flicker of pleasure that in an instant flamed into desire. She found herself responding to his unexpected embrace with a warmth that sent the blood fizzing through her veins and would, if she’d had time to think about it, have shocked her.

  ‘Tara!’ The petulant voice in her ear had become insistent, recalling her to some semblance of where she was and what she was doing. She had no immediate wish to re-enter the real world, wanting to linger a little while longer wherever it was that his kiss had taken her but slowly lifted heavy lids that would have much preferred to stay closed. For an endless moment his eyes blazed into hers, holding her as much captive as his arm about her waist. Then his mouth curved in a knowing little smile and Tara gasped and turned away to blot out what she saw in his face. She had enjoyed every moment of that kiss and he knew it.

  She pushed against the dark cloth of his jacket but made no impression on the hard wall of his chest. It seemed forever before he took pity on her and turned away, directing his attention instead to the man hovering beside them.

  ‘Tara is having dinner with me. If you wish to speak to her you’ll have to make an appointment for some other time,’ he said. Clearly he was a man who expected to be obeyed without question, he made his point without any drama. Her pursuer blinked and started as if he had only just noticed she was not alone, so single-minded had been his concentration on his quarry.

  ‘Why won’t you come back, Tara?’ he demanded. ‘You know how much I need you
.’ His tall, slight figure bundled up in a damp raincoat looked oddly tragic and despite everything Tara felt a touch of guilt as he turned to leave. Then he rounded on her. ‘Don’t think I’ll give up,’ he said, with unexpected defiance and she jumped.

  The door swung shut and reluctantly, deeply embarrassed by the results of the uncharacteristic impetuosity that had driven her into a stranger’s arms, she turned to face him.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked, shakily.

  ‘I wasn’t quite sure what was expected, but I thought I had better be convincing.’ He raised one questioning brow. ‘Was I, do you think?’

  She ignored the question. He already knew the answer. ‘Your presence would have been enough,’ she managed.

  ‘Would it?’ His eyes were teasing now. ‘You should have said.’

  ‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ she protested, finally regaining control of her vocal cords, if not her hectic pulse.

  ‘I apologise if I didn’t meet the required standard as your “... parfit gentil knyght.” It’s not a role I’ve had too much experience in playing.’

  ‘You’re not a knight of any description,’ she snapped, then appalled by her own bad manners she coloured. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m really very grateful for your intervention.’

  She knew she should offer an explanation to her deliverer and beat a hasty retreat. Thanks were hardly necessary. He had already claimed his reward, and she was quite certain from the amusement lighting the depths of his eyes that he had derived considerable entertainment at her expense.

  But retreat, she found, was not that simple. She tried to move, anxious to effect a dignified withdrawal with all possible speed, but his hand was still about her waist, his grip deceptively firm.

  She offered a cool smile and tried again.

  ‘Thank you for your...’ — she swallowed as his eyebrows rose — ‘...your help,’ she finished quickly. ‘I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance. It was—’

  ‘There’s no need to explain,’ he assured her, easily. ‘It was a pleasure.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, then a faint blush coloured her cheeks as she realised what she had said. ‘I didn’t mean that—’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ His soft laughter flickered against her like a caress. ‘If you meant that the pleasure was all mine, I don’t think you’re being entirely truthful.’ She tore her eyes away from his mesmerising gaze. She had apparently jumped straight out of the frying pan and into the fire. And this time she would have to rescue herself. Her eyes fell on the paper he had been reading and she seized on this, attempting once more to edge free of his grasp.

  ‘You were working and I’ve disturbed you,’ she said, in an effort to distract him.

  ‘Profoundly.’ His eyes remained firmly fixed upon her. ‘But I have to tell you that I have no complaints.’

  She swung to face him, certain now that he was laughing at her. ‘I must go.’

  ‘No, Tara. If you go now you’ll make a liar out of me,’ he objected. ‘Not very polite. And your...friend might be waiting outside. He seemed determined to press his suit.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll have gone. He’s made his point.’

  ‘It’s a regular occurrence, then?’ He didn’t wait for her answer. ‘Is he your husband?’

  The colour drained from her face. ‘No.’ She shook her head, thankful that Jim Matthews proposals of marriage did not include anything as romantic as professions of undying love. ‘No, he’s not my husband.’

  ‘Just some poor love-sick swain.’ For a moment pity seemed to touch his eyes. But only for a moment. ‘In that case, now I’ve chased him away you can stay and have dinner with me. I can recommend the pepper steak.’

  He ignored her sharp intake of breath at his arrogant assumption that she would accept this peremptory invitation. A glance brought a waitress immediately to their table and he had ordered steaks and salad before she could make any objection. ‘You can bring the claret now,’ he told the girl.

  Once she had gone he unwound his arm from Tara’s waist and offered her his hand. ‘Perhaps we’d better introduce ourselves, if somewhat belatedly under the circumstances. Adam Blackmore. How d’you do?’

  It was a beautiful hand. Large, square, with long square-tipped fingers that she was certain were as experienced in pleasure as his mouth had been. Then she started, hardly able to believe the direction in which her mind was wandering. Free now, she knew the sensible thing to do was to get up and leave. And she was renowned for her common sense but his kiss seemed to have driven sense out of the door along with Jim Matthews. She surrendered her hand, trying desperately to ignore the rise in her pulse rate as he took it and held it firmly in his own.

  ‘How d’you do?’ she replied, a little breathlessly. ‘Tara Lambert.’ Rebellion made her add, ‘But I think you should know that I’m a vegetarian.’

  His grip tightened, his eyes narrowing to take in the strong lines of her face, the drama of dark well-defined brows, a straight no-nonsense nose. His gaze lingered momentarily on her mouth before meeting her eyes head on. ‘No, Tara Lambert. I don’t think so.’

  She wanted to be angry, but found she couldn’t be. ‘No,’ she admitted, her mouth widening in a smile. ‘But I couldn’t resist.’

  Adam Blackmore’s eyes strayed towards the door. ‘Perhaps you should try, once in a while. Then you wouldn’t find yourself in such dangerous situations.’

  ‘He’s not—’ she began, vigorously, but he cut off her words.

  ‘Isn’t he?’ His look was measuring. ‘Who said I was referring to him?’ They were interrupted by the arrival of the wine and he poured two glasses. ‘Try this. Tell me what you think.’

  Tara knew it was ridiculous to feel vexed that he would not listen. She had thrown herself at him somewhat recklessly after all, although she hadn’t expected her chosen knight errant to be quite so practised in his fielding. Under the circumstances he had every right to assume the worst. So be it. Let him think what he wanted, it really didn’t matter. This was one of those isolated moments in time, like a conversation with a stranger in a train. When you reached your destination the acquaintance was at an end. He was simply amusing himself. And she told herself that there was no reason why the fun should be all one way.

  With a flick of her wrist, she swirled the wine in the glass, then held it for a moment at arm’s length until the wine stilled. She brought the glass to her nose and breathed in the spicy fruit-laden scent. She was sorely tempted to take a mouthful and sloosh it loudly between her teeth, but restrained herself, simply allowing the flavours to fill her mouth.

  Adam Blackmore watched this performance with interest. ‘Well?’ he asked, finally.

  She lowered her long lashes demurely. ‘Mmm. I like it.’

  ‘You like it?’ His eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘After that performance I expected a trifle more by way of comment.’

  ‘Did you?’ she asked, with apparent surprise. She lifted her shoulders in the slightest of shrugs. ‘Did you expect me to tell you that it’s an estate bottled Chateau Brane Cantenac from the Margaux region?’ She paused. ‘Nineteen eighty-three?’

  He threw back his head and laughed, revealing strong white teeth. ‘I should have seen that coming.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed, oddly pleased that he had a sense of humour large enough to laugh at himself, then smiled sweetly. ‘Or maybe you should just have anticipated that I am quite capable of reading the label on the bottle. Although I do know enough to appreciate that this isn’t house plonk.’

  ‘No, Tara, it certainly isn’t that.’

  A willowy blonde brought their steaks to the table. ‘Just the way you like it, Adam,’ she said, and gave Tara an assessing sideways glance. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  His smile for the girl was warm. ‘Give us a few minutes.’

  Tara watched as the girl walked gracefully back to the kitchen. ‘You eat here often?’ she asked.

  ‘Now and then,�
�� he affirmed. ‘The food is good. I’ve never seen you in here before.’

  ‘No. I just dived in to avoid...’ She stopped self-consciously. ‘I had planned to stay and eat though.’ She regarded the steak with misgivings. She hadn’t planned to eat anything this expensive. Business wasn’t exactly booming and money was tight at the moment. But if she was going to pay for it, she might as well enjoy it. She picked up her knife and fork and began to eat.

  ‘Do you work near here?’ he asked.

  ‘Just down the road. And you?’

  ‘It’s convenient.’ There was something in his voice that made her look up, but his face was impassive and he didn’t elaborate. ‘What do you do?’

  Tara considered the question. When two people ran a small business they did everything, even the foot-wearying job of delivering leaflets with details of their secretarial and computer staff agency to all the office blocks in the area during the weekend. But he didn’t mean that. ‘I’m a secretary,’ she said.

  ‘Better than the one who typed this, I hope,’ he said, flicking a disdainful finger at the report he had been reading when she interrupted him and which he had pushed out of the way.

  ‘Probably,’ she agreed, not about to let an opportunity slip her by. ‘If you need secretarial help I could find someone for you.’

  ‘You?’ he asked, suddenly quite still. She could almost hear the sound of shutters going up and instinctively sensing that this was not an appropriate moment for a sales pitch she let it go.

  ‘No, not me. I have a job.’ She changed the subject. ‘And you? What do you do?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing exciting. I sit behind a desk all day, moving figures around.’

  Tara looked sideways through her lashes at the figure beside her. She hadn’t seen him on his feet but she’d been close enough to know that, under the civilising business suit, Adam Blackmore had the lean, hard figure of an athlete. He might spend all day behind a desk, but it raised the question: what did he do with his nights?