‘You’ll need an evening dress, by the way. I should have said earlier, but I imagine you’ve got some neat classic to cover every eventuality in your wardrobe?’
This totally accurate summation of the clothes she wore to work irritated Tara. Of course she kept her clothes simple. No one wanted a secretary that flashed and jangled, but he made it sound like a failing. As if she had no imagination.
She retrieved her bag from her office and located her key. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Adam. Thank you for dinner.’
‘It’s late. I’ll walk you home.’
‘Do you walk Jane home?’ she asked, before she considered the wisdom of such a question.
His brows closed in a slight frown. ‘There’s no need—’ The phone began to ring. ‘Hold on.’ He lifted the receiver. ‘Adam Blackmore.’ A warm smile creased his face. ‘Jane.’ There was genuine pleasure in his voice. ‘Did you? I went down to the wine bar with your replacement for a bite to eat.’ His eyes flickered across to Tara. ‘She has possibilities, but she wears her skirts too long.’ He laughed at whatever Jane had said, then perched on the edge of her desk and, more serious, asked, ‘What did the quack say?’
Tara turned and walked quickly to the lift. The door slid open immediately and although she heard him call her name she didn’t look back, but stepped inside and pressed the button.
For the second time that evening she ran the length of Victoria Road and didn’t stop until her own front door was bolted behind her.
She knew what kind of man Adam Blackmore was. A ruthless, single-minded man who would use her and throw her away whenever it suited him. She was every kind of a fool to even think about him. But a sharp stab of pain that had jabbed like a knife into her chest when he had said, oh so casually, that Jane didn’t need to be walked home. Tara banged her fist against the wall and fought back the stupid, humiliating tears. Jane was the perfect secretary. One who never went home.
Her phone rang. She knew it was him. No one else would ring this late. For a moment she considered leaving it to the answering machine. Then she grabbed the receiver. If he thought she hadn’t got home safely he might just come to check and she was in no mood to face him.
‘Tara Lambert.’ There was no answer. ‘Hello?’
‘That sounds marginally more friendly.’ His voice was grim. ‘I just wanted to be sure that you got home safely. Why didn’t you wait for me to take you?’
‘There was no need. I walk home from work every evening by myself.’
‘At eleven o’clock?’
‘Well, no,’ she allowed. ‘But then I’m not quite the slave driver you are.’ There was silence at the other end of the line. ‘And I am quite capable of looking after myself.’
‘Is that right?’ His low voice vibrated into her bones. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. But you’d better hope there’s someone else around next time you’re in need of a knight errant.’
She gasped. ‘Some knight errant!’
‘Better than you know, Miss Tara Lambert. Better than you deserve.’
‘How dare you presume to judge what I deserve. You know nothing about me. Nothing! And I wish you’d stop calling me Miss Tara Lambert in that patronising tone of voice.’
‘I’m not—’
‘If you’re going to patronise me, at least get it right.’ Her voice broke on a sob. ‘It’s Mrs. Mrs Tara Lambert.’ She let the phone drop back onto the cradle and let out a long shuddering sigh. Stupid. Why had she done that? Simply to score a point? A cheap, meaningless point. The phone rang again but she ignored it and when the machine cut in the caller hung up. She wondered briefly if he would come hammering at her door. It didn’t seem likely.
Tara looked across at the photograph on the mantel. ‘I’m sorry, Nigel,’ she whispered. But what she was sorry for, exactly, she couldn’t have said.
She had a bath, staying in the water until the chill drove her out. Then she surveyed the open suitcase on her bed. She would have to go with him if he still wanted her. It was too late to brief anyone else. She was a professional, took a pride in her work and that was all that was left to her. Pride.
She folded her neat, sensible clothes, so exactly right for the office. And her underwear. Not so sensible. She picked up her swimsuit and shrugged. She didn’t know if she would have the chance to swim, but it took up no room. Then she looked at her evening clothes. She had two really good dresses. One plain black. Elegant, classic, boring. The other was brilliant scarlet silk, exactly like an oriental poppy. She packed the scarlet silk.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE “boarding” sign for the flight to Bahrain appeared on the monitor, and Tara let out a silent breath of relief as they moved towards the gate indicated.
Adam had barely spoken to her since he had picked her up in the chauffeur driven limousine. She was wearing a neat black suit, plain low heeled shoes, the minimum of make-up with her hair in its customary chignon. The perfect secretary, discreet to the point of invisibility. At a casual glance she could have been almost any age.
But it took the interested observer no time at all to absorb the fair, flawless skin, the frank brown eyes and generous mouth that the merest skim of lip gloss had done nothing to accentuate. Only the faint shadows beneath her eyes suggested that sleep had not come easily.
He picked her up at eight, the harsh ring on the bell doing brutal things to her nerves so that her hand shook as she reached for the door handle.
He was dressed comfortably for travelling, as she would have been if she hadn’t needed the armour of her working clothes. Casual trousers and a light sweater over his open-necked shirt were a stark contrast to her black and white formality. For a moment they both stood perfectly still while his eyes ransacked her face, demanding some response from her and the cool polite mask she’d painted on had almost cracked beneath his seeking eyes.
The silence went on so long that his voice, when he spoke was like an electric shock.
‘You are coming then? Mr Lambert, I take it, has no objections?’ He looked over her head into the interior of her apartment as if challenging him to appear.
A touch of colour lit the fine bones of her cheeks. ‘Mr Lambert is in no position to object,’ she said, quietly.
‘Then we’d better go.’ He picked up her suitcase and without another word walked down to the car.
She followed him and climbed into the back, hoping that he might decide to sit beside the driver. No such luck. He slid alongside her, filling the ample space with his broad figure, leaned back and closed his eyes.
Someone had to make an effort to restore the possibility of a civilised working relationship or the journey would be a nightmare. ‘The flight is on time. I checked.’
‘As always, you are totally efficient, Mrs Lambert.’
‘Please don’t—’
‘Why not?’ She flinched as he stabbed the words at her, fixing her with wintry eyes. ‘I’m only doing what you asked.’
She didn’t answer and apparently satisfied he closed his eyes again. They completed their journey in silence and checked in at Heathrow, accomplishing the formalities without delay.
Adam hesitated as he handed back her passport, glancing at the name, Mrs Tara Lambert, printed neatly in the space provided and then flickered a glance at her pale face. Her outburst the previous evening had at least saved her the embarrassment that would have resulted from his more public discovery. Except that she could simply have told him that she was a widow and instead of that cold dislike his eyes might have softened with sympathy. She closed her eyes momentarily. Much better this way. His sympathy was the last thing in the world she wanted. His dislike was infinitely safer.
Their bags disappeared along the conveyor and the clerk handed Adam their boarding cards.
‘Would you like some coffee?’
Startled by the unexpected normality of his offer she shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’ She made a move towards the book stall. ‘I’ll just get something to read.’ She couldn�
��t imagine being able to concentrate for more than a minute on anything, but a book would make the likely silence during the long flight less noticeable.
He watched as she nervously turned a carousel filled with paperbacks. She came to an abrupt stop at the sight of a particularly garish cover. Adam raised an eyebrow and lifted the book from the rack.
‘I wouldn’t have thought this was your cup of tea, Mrs Lambert.’ He regarded her steadily for a moment. ‘Much more the Jane Austen type I would have thought. Do you want this?’
‘I’ve read it, thank you.’ Cover to cover, at least twenty times.
‘Have you now?’ He held on to it. ‘You’re all surprises, Mrs Lambert. I’ll take it. It might provide some clues—’
‘I said I’d read it. Not that I had enjoyed it.’
‘Even more interesting.’ He turned the book over and examined the back cover, gesturing at the carousel. ‘Is there anything you want there?’
She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I’ll just take a magazine.’ She scooped up a couple, hardly looking at the covers and found him waiting at the cash desk. She surrendered them unwillingly. But he appeared for the moment to have lost interest in baiting her and didn’t even look to see what she had chosen. The flight call was a welcome interruption and they walked along the wide corridor to their gate.
The stewardess settled them in their seats. It was the first time that Tara had flown on anything but a charter flight and the amount of space in the first class cabin on a scheduled airliner came as something of surprise. After the flurry of take-off she looked around with interest.
‘Is this the first time you’ve flown,’ Adam asked, watching her.
‘No. But this is a long way from a package holiday to Greece.’
‘Was that where Mr Lambert took you on your honeymoon?’ he asked, so casually that for a moment she thought she hadn’t heard correctly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Greece. Is that where—’
‘No.’ She deliberately opened a magazine and stared blankly at the page in front of her, although she couldn’t for the life of her have said what was on it.
He shrugged. ‘Where was he this morning? Discreetly out of sight?’ When she didn’t answer he picked up her left hand, effortlessly resisting her efforts to pull away, and laid it flat across his own much larger one. ‘Only I couldn’t help noticing that you don’t wear a ring.’
‘It’s… too big.’ She had been so much rounder as a girl, but the weight had fallen off with the shock of Nigel’s death and it had never returned. She looked him full in the face. ‘I was afraid of losing it.’
‘You could have had it taken in. So helpful to know exactly where you stand.’
‘For whom?’ Tara suddenly realised that her hand was still lying in his and snatched it away. ‘It doesn’t bother you surely, one way or the other? And I know I’m married.’
‘You have a very odd way of showing it, Mrs Lambert. And I disapprove of lying.’
‘I have never lied to you.’
‘No? I did ask you if that poor besotted fool was your husband.’
‘And I told you that he was not. And that’s the truth.’
His mouth pulled down into a line that showed his distaste and he flicked a finger at the back of the book he had bought in the airport, where to her horror she saw Jim Matthews’ photograph. ‘So this is just the boyfriend. I wonder if there is a word for the male equivalent of a harem?’ he wondered, almost idly.
‘I’ve no idea.’ Tara was angry. He had no right to judge her. ‘But considering I wear my skirts too long,’ she went on, ‘I don’t do so badly, do I?’
‘You—’ He checked himself and almost smiled. ‘Not badly at all. Perhaps I should be grateful for the body armour you wear. If you were really trying I have no doubt that you could cut swathes through the male population.’ He captured the curl that never would stay confined by her ruthless pins and wound it around his finger. ‘In clinging pink silk and with this black cloud of hair loose about your face, who could possibly resist you?’ He tugged his finger free and thrust the book in front of her at the dedication page. The words leapt out at her. “To Tara — my inspiration”. ‘I wonder what you did to earn that, Mrs Lambert? Perhaps the text will help me to find out.’
Tara blanched. There would be all too many clues of the kind he was looking for. That was reason she had refused to work for the wretched man ever again despite his pleas. ‘The only inspiration he had from me,’ she said, through clenched teeth, ‘was that I didn’t slow him down when he was in full flow. I took down every horrible word in shorthand.’
For a moment his eyes held hers and for a moment she thought he believed her. Then he shrugged. ‘I think I’ll read it anyway.’
The stewardess offered drinks but Tara followed Adam’s example and took only a mineral water. And she refused lunch. Adam picked at his, then pushed it away and picked up the book again, apparently fascinated by the sheer awfulness of it. Tara gave up trying to read and stared down at the clouds.
The plane droned on. They were now flying over the desert which offered only a rare glimpse of an isolated green patch to conjure up pictures of a romantic oasis with black tents and blacker stallions and fierce, handsome men. Far from the truth Tara suspected, but still, exciting.
She glanced at her watch. An hour to go. She wanted to freshen up before landing, but Adam’s face was so forbidding that she hardly dared interrupt his concentration to ease by him. But as if he could read her mind, he drew back his long legs.
‘Thank you.’
He glanced up then, from his book. ‘You only had to ask, Mrs Lambert.’
She took a little time tidying her hair and make-up to give herself a breathing space. Once they arrived on the island she knew work would take up all her time. Meetings every morning and a variety of social events had been arranged for the evenings. She would prepare the notes in the afternoon and that would be that. But somehow the next hour had to be got through.
She gathered her things and began to walk slowly back to her seat.
‘Please hurry back to your seat and fasten your seat belt,’ the stewardess warned her. ‘There’s some turbulence ahead.’ At that moment the seat belt signs came on and the captain spoke over the intercom briefly, to warn them. She waited for Adam to move his legs and let her by, but he just looked at her.
‘Please may I get to my seat,’ she asked, forced to play his game.
He smiled then, but before he could move the plane lurched and threw her off balance. She would have fallen, but he reached for her and caught her as she fell, gathering her in and holding her in his lap.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, trying and signally failing in her attempt to ignore the warmth of his chest beneath her hands, the closeness of his face to hers.
His eyes were brilliant in the clear bright light at thirty thousand feet. Clear and green and bottomless. ‘Don’t be sorry, Mrs Lambert. It was my fault you weren’t safely in your seat.’ She watched, fascinated as the corners of his mouth creased in a smile. ‘And if you had fallen and hurt yourself you would have been no use to me.’ She stiffened and he laughed. ‘It’s going to be a desperate trip if we keep this up, Mrs Lambert. What do you say to a ceasefire?’ His brows rose in query. She wanted to free herself. And it wasn’t as if he was holding her tight. But a languor seemed to have invaded her limbs, making it impossible to move. It wasn’t fair, she thought, desperately, that one man, the wrong man, could have such a disastrous effect on her. ‘Well? What do you say?’
‘Pax?’ she offered, softly, but refused to meet his gaze.
He turned her chin gently, so that unless she closed her eyes she had no choice but look at him and for a long moment he studied her face. Then he caught the nape of her neck and pulled her down, so that for the pause of a heartbeat his lips brushed against hers. ‘Pax,’ he murmured and before she knew what had happened she was sitting safely in her own seat once more.
; And trembling.
She looked at her hand grasping the armrest and wondered if he knew what he had done to her. But he had returned his attention to the book. Apparently it was all inside and she had managed not to betray herself totally. Then the captain announced that they would shortly begin their descent to Bahrain.
The bustle of arrival covered any remaining awkwardness and by the time they had cleared Customs, Adam introduced her to the dark, smiling man who met them as Mrs Tara Lambert without problem, only laying the faintest emphasis on the Mrs.
‘Tara, this is Hanna Rashid.’ The man took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘We spoke yesterday on the telephone, did we not, Madame Lambert? Such a beautiful voice.’ Despite his French accent and his European clothes, his complexion was dark, his moustache thick and silky. He was exotically foreign and his black eyes suggested that he was her slave as he ushered them through the arrivals hall and out to the car. ‘And how is the lovely Jane?’ he asked Adam as she walked ahead. ‘Such a pity she could not join you on this visit.’ His voice had dropped, but not sufficiently for the discretion he had so evidently intended. She didn’t catch Adam’s reply, only Hanna Rashid’s soft laughter.
Their luggage was stowed in the back of a large white Mercedes and Hanna drove across a long causeway over a muddy creek and into the darkness of the open desert.
Tara looked around her, wondering where they were going, but the men were deep in conversation and paying no attention to her. They passed buildings hidden behind high walls that were illuminated by thousands of lights, dusty palm trees, barren desert and then finally Hanna drove through a pair of gates set into one of those high walls and into the courtyard of a large house.
‘You should be comfortable here, madame.’
Tara smiled. ‘I hadn’t realised we were to be your guests, Mr Rashid. I had assumed we would be staying in an hotel.’
‘But, no. You will be more private at the villa.’ He opened the door and helped her out. A servant immediately appeared and unloaded the baggage.
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