by Penny Jordan
From being flushed her skin drained of colour as she stared in mortification at her own reflection. This was what Oliver had seen when he’d walked into the pantry. No wonder he had left so quickly.
He must have thought…what? That she had come downstairs deliberately knowing that he was there, wanting him to see her like that. Had that been what he’d thought? Did he think she had actually…?
Her heart was beating far too fast, a nauseous churning feeling burning her empty stomach. She started to tremble. Why on earth hadn’t she checked before going downstairs? Why hadn’t she realised he was still there? But it was too late now for such recriminations. The damage was done.
* * *
All day long it was on her mind, a poison eating into her, so that several times Sheila watched her worriedly, wondering what was wrong.
‘Aren’t you feeling very well?’ she asked at one point, causing Charlotte to lift her head from her paperwork.
‘I’m fine. Why?’ she asked defensively.
Sheila shrugged. ‘Well, it’s just that it’s such a beautiful day, and you’re all wrapped up in that thick woollen sweater.’
Sheila herself was wearing a very pretty short-sleeved blouse which showed off her feminine figure, and Charlotte, who with that incident in the pantry very much to the forefront of her mind had deliberately dressed in the most body-muffling clothes she could find, felt her face burn with guilt and humiliation.
In actual fact she felt almost stifled in the sweater, which was more appropriate for cold mid-winter wear than a soft late spring day, but, with her mind still full of mental visions of how she had looked this morning, she had writhed in mental torment and deliberately wrapped herself in as many muffling layers of clothing as she could endure.
‘I…I didn’t realise how warm it was going to be,’ she mumbled, knowing that she was flushing and hoping that Sheila would put her high colour down to the warmth of her unseasonal clothes.
During the afternoon, Charlotte took Sophy with her when she drove out to Hadley Court to measure up the house and to start taking details of those items of furniture which were going to be auctioned.
Sophy proved very quick to follow her directions, and by the end of the afternoon Charlotte was ready to acknowledge that, in doing the younger girl a favour by giving her a job, she had probably done herself one as well, providing always that Oliver left her with enough business to merit employing both Sheila and Sophy.
Oliver had indicated repeatedly that he didn’t want to put her out of business, that he believed the area was large enough to provide sufficient business for both of them. There was something about him, some intrinsic basic honesty that compelled her to believe he meant what he was saying, but was he right? Only time would tell.
But if they both stayed in the area, how was she going to cope with her feelings? Already it was getting harder to conceal them, and, although she knew it was the best possible thing for her, she was dreading the time coming when he would move out of her home and into his own.
Common sense told her that her best course of action would be to put as much distance between them as possible. Perhaps if she didn’t have the business and Sheila and Sophy to consider, she might consider selling up and…
Who was she trying to deceive? she asked herself tiredly as she dropped Sophy off at home and then drove back to the office. She had no intention of doing any such thing. Her brain might tell her one thing, but her heart was telling her something entirely different.
She wanted to be close to him. She wanted to be where he was, self-destructive though she knew such a desire was.
She was a fool, she berated herself tiredly at half-past six when she finally locked up the office and went out to her loaned car. If she had any sense…but what woman in love ever exhibited that particular virtue?
Halfway home, tired and hot, she pulled off the road and crossly removed her bulky sweater. She was aching to get home and shower the sticky heat of the day off her body. The fine wool shirt she was wearing beneath the sweater was clinging uncomfortably to her skin, and, as she wound down the windows and restarted the car, she pushed her fingers into her hair, savouring the cooling effect of the light breeze on her hot, tense scalp.
Oliver’s car was parked outside the house, a reminder of his generosity in offering to lend it to her. She had been wrong about him in so many ways; it was tempting to allow herself to daydream that she might be wrong in others…that the occasional, disturbing glint of sensual awareness she had surprised in his eyes when he looked at her might actually mean something…that that kiss he had given her, the words he had said to her, could have sprung from something other than pity.
Telling herself not to be such a fool, she stopped the car and got out.
The workmen had left for the day, and as she walked round to the back door she found herself hoping that she would not find the same chaos in her kitchen she had discovered the previous evening. The door was open, making her stop and frown over the carelessness of the workmen.
While she was still staring at the open door, she suddenly heard Oliver saying cheerfully behind her, ‘Ah, good, it is you. I thought it must be.’
She turned round to be confronted by the unexpected sight of his naked torso, tanned still with a faint golden residue of the previous summer’s sun, the dark hair that was such a disturbingly visual reminder of his masculinity damp with sweat.
As she stared at him, he pushed a grimy hand through his already ruffled hair, leaving a streak of dirt on his forehead and making her stomach muscles clench against the wave of sensuality and desire that rose up inside her at the sight and scent of his sun-warmed body.
‘I got back earlier than I expected, so I thought I’d make good use of the weather and make a start on the garden,’ he was saying cheerfully, adding more cautiously, ‘You did say you didn’t mind.’
Didn’t mind…what was it she wasn’t supposed to mind? she wondered dazedly. The sight of his half-naked body, clad in a pair of faded ancient jeans that seemed to cling lovingly to the lean length of his legs, outlining the powerful muscles of his thighs, the scent of his body, warm, musky…male…was so powerfully arousing that she wanted to walk blindly towards him, to breathe in that musky aphrodisiac maleness, to explore the powerful muscles of his shoulders and torso with her hands and her lips.
She started to tremble, a deep-rooted, aching physical reaction to the sight of him. She wanted to walk up to him and to slide her hands against the taut flesh above the waistband of his jeans, to unfasten them and to discover if that tormenting line of damp, dark hair…
A shocked moan of self-contempt broke the silence between them; her eyes were wild with panic as she tried to focus on the garden beyond him, to strive for some measure of normality and sanity in a world that suddenly seemed to have turned completely upside-down.
It was men who were supposed to feel this intense sexual need, wasn’t it? Not women… at least, not when nothing had been said or done to encourage it.
Beneath the thick covering of her blouse she could feel her nipples hardening, aching. And, as her breath caught in her throat, she suffered the humiliation of the unbearably erotic mental image of herself, free of the cumbersome burden of her clothes, her body pressed close to Oliver’s, so that the tormented pulse of her swollen breasts was eased by the physical contact of their bodies, so that her paler, feminine flesh was rubbed erotically by the darker, harder maleness of his.
‘Charlotte.’
An anxiety in his voice brought her sharply back to reality. As his hand reached out towards her, she stepped back from him, such a look of revulsion in her eyes that he frowned, not realising that it was directed against herself.
‘I’m sorry…I’d forgotten. I must be filthy. It’s just that for a moment you looked…’
Charlotte turned her back on him. She didn’t want him to tell her how she had looked. She felt sick and faint, stripped of her defences, struggling to come to terms with a latent
sensuality she had never dreamed she possessed.
‘I expect you’ll be eating out tonight,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I…’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I had thought we might eat together.’
His words stopped her, so that she had turned round to face him again before she knew what she was doing, her face registering her shock.
‘Together? But—’
‘It’s by way of a small celebration. I’ve sold my London agency for an excellent price, and I was hoping that you might be kind enough to help me to celebrate my decision to make my home permanently down here.’
‘Me? But—’
‘Please…I’ve brought a special Fortnum’s hamper back with me so that we wouldn’t need to cook.’
Charlotte was staring at him. She couldn’t take in what he was saying. ‘You want to celebrate with me,’ she repeated jerkily. ‘But…’
‘But what?’
How on earth had he come to be standing so close to her? She blinked dizzily, wondering when he had closed the distance between them.
He was so close to her now that if she gave in to the temptation to close her eyes and sway close to him her hair would brush that bare, moist chest, and then if she turned her head her lips would touch the satin smoothness of his throat. And, if she did, he would only have to close his hands on her shoulders to bring her body into intimate contact with his and to relieve the aching tension tormenting her.
‘But what?’ he repeated softly, causing her to focus on him and then step back from him, her eyes shadowed and wary.
But why me? she wanted to ask, but dared not. Instead she said as coolly as she could,’ I should have thought you would have friends in London you could have celebrated with.’
‘Not friends,’ he corrected her. ‘Acquaintances, yes. London is that kind of place. Everyone is too busy carving a career for themselves these days to have time to establish friendships. That kind of lifestyle isn’t for me any longer. Mature, sensible relationships where two individuals agree to spend a tiny portion of their time together, sharing their bodies without sharing their dreams…that’s not for me.’
She was starting to tremble wildly, unable to allow herself to believe what she was hearing.
‘You mean you want…friendship…from me?’ She trembled uncertainly over the word friendship, not sure of anything any more, feeling as though she had strayed into an unfamiliar world where there were no markers for her to follow.
She saw the way his mouth twisted and felt sharp anxiety spear her. She had angered him in some way.
‘Is that so very hard to understand?’ he asked her quietly.
‘I—’
‘Look, I’m filthy and sweaty. Let me go and shower, and then we can talk over dinner. You won’t have to do a thing. In fact, if you like we could eat outside.’
‘Outside?’ Charlotte stared at him.
‘Mmm. It’s going to be a lovely warm evening.’
Eat outside… How long had it been since she had done anything like that? Not even when she had been a child had her father believed in the spontaneity of picnics and eating outdoors. Her childhood, she had come to recognise, had been very regimented. A certain code of behaviour had been imposed on her and rigidly adhered to.
‘I think there are some deck-chairs in the shed,’ she began uncertainly. ‘But—’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Leave everything to me. Give me half an hour.’
Half an hour…
* * *
Now she had five minutes of that half-hour left, Charlotte saw, as she stood in front of her bedroom mirror and stared at her reflection.
What did one wear for an al-fresco meal in the garden with a man who wanted one as a friend? She had no idea, having no previous experience of such a thing, and in the end, after she had showered, washed and dried her hair and replaced her make-up, she had dressed uncertainly in a pair of jeans nearly as old and snug-fitting as Oliver’s had been, although hers were clean, and a long-sleeved, soft pink top in T-shirt fabric, which had a pretty scooped neckline and a row of buttons down the front.
She had chosen the top because it was light and cool without being in any way brief or revealing. Only, as she went downstairs to join Oliver in the kitchen, she realised that she had not allowed for the intensity of his effect on her body, and she prayed that the now familiar tightening of her nipples was not visible to him through the fabric of her top.
Like her, he was wearing jeans—clean ones—and a soft cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, with the sleeves rolled back to reveal the warm strength of his forearms.
A wicker hamper stood on the kitchen table and with it was an ice bucket complete with champagne and two glasses. Her eyes widened as she looked at it, an unfamiliar warm sense of pleasure igniting inside her as she realised that he must have been thinking of this…of her…while he was in London.
Or was she reading too much into what he had said? She darted him an uncertain glance, and was immediately reassured by the warmth of his smile, almost as though he knew what she was thinking…what she was feeling. But that was impossible, of course; there was no way he could know. He was just being pleasant. He was lonely, and wanted her company.
‘Chairs,’ she began vaguely, trying to concentrate her mind on something mundane.
‘All organised. If you could carry the champagne, I’ll bring the hamper.’
As they walked out into the garden, still warm, as he had forecast, still bathed in sunshine, he started to tell her about the sale of his business, and of the visit he had managed to make to a friend who worked for one of the London agents who specialised in dealing with large houses and country estates.
‘It seems they may have a buyer for Hadley Court,’ he told her as he guided her down the path that ran alongside the lawn. ‘He’s going to get in touch with us later in the week when he’s made contact with his client. I’ve given him your number as well as mine. His client is a private buyer, wanting a property for his own occupation.’
‘Oh, that’s marvellous!’
It was impossible to conceal her relief. She stopped on the path and turned towards him, her eyes shining, her face turned up to his, and then she tensed as she saw his expression change.
Her mouth had gone oddly dry; she could hear the shallow rapidity of her own heartbeat. An odd lazy heat seemed to be engulfing her.
He’s going to kiss me, she thought dizzily… but then, just as she was about to step closer to him, he moved back, so that she had no option but to follow him along the path. Hot colour flooded her as he backed off from her and moved away.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked him, striving to appear unconcerned and relaxed, praying he hadn’t realised she had thought he was going to kiss her.
‘Here,’ he told her, gesturing towards the small orchard tucked away at the bottom of the garden.
The soft grass beneath the trees was thick with fallen blossom, the evening air heavy with its scent. Under the largest of the trees was a rug heaped with cushions. The setting was idyllic, like something out of a painting…a scene set for seduction.
Seduction? Did Oliver intend to seduce her? The sheer unexpectedness of what her senses were telling her shimmered through her, creating a warm welling of delighted shock, so that bubbles of disbelieving amusement combined with a heady sense of having strayed into a magical world of fantasy whirled into her bloodstream, making her buoyant and light-headed.
Like her, he had stopped walking, and now they faced one another. How did one ask a man if he was merely trying to provide a comfortable setting for a shared meal or whether it was something more intimate that he had in mind? And why would Oliver want to make love to her? Her face burned suddenly as she remembered how he had seen her this morning.
Did he think this was what she wanted? Had he gone to all this trouble simply because he felt sorry for her? Did men make love to women they felt sorry for?
Suddenly very deflated and miserable, she said uncomforta
bly, ’Oliver, I—’
‘I’m hungry,’ he interrupted her firmly. ‘Let’s eat, and then we can talk.’
He sounded so matter-of-fact and calm that it seemed idiotic that she should have thought even for a split second that he might have intended to make love to her, and so she followed him into the orchard and allowed him to settle her comfortably against the cushions, while he opened the hamper and removed its contents.
Charlotte blinked in astonishment at the luxury of the food inside. No sandwiches here, but instead tiny delicate quiches filled with salmon and other delicacies, so mouth-wateringly delicious that they were impossible to resist.
The champagne, cool and refreshing, bubbled in her glass.
And, as Oliver drank his own, he said softly, ‘This is how champagne should be drunk: in a warm garden filled with the scents of summer, with a beautiful woman by your side.’
Charlotte started to tremble. She gulped at her champagne to hide her agitation, and said quickly, ‘I can’t believe this food is for a picnic. It’s so luxurious.’
There was fresh salmon and an appetising collection of salad and vegetables, crusty French bread, strawberries and thick cream, all served on china with silver cutlery, and a beautifully starched tablecloth and napkins.
Luxury indeed.
‘It’s the kind of hamper they do for events such as Glyndebourne,’ Oliver told her.
When had his eyes narrowed to that sharp, almost glinting intensity that seemed to see through the defences she was trying to put up against him?
‘More champagne?’
She stared at him, and then realised that her glass was empty. She let him fill it, and drank it quickly while he watched her with unnerving intensity.
Despite the deliciousness of the food, she could barely touch it; she was too tense, too on edge. The champagne, though, was a different thing. She drank three full glasses and felt its mellow, uninhibiting effect on her body. She couldn’t stand the tension any longer.
