Edge Of Deception

by Daphne Clair

  When she’d finished the coffee he said, ‘Do you want to change?’

  With a visible bruise on her back she’d better, Tara supposed. As he stood up, she gingerly brought her feet to the floor.

  ‘Take it slowly,’ Sholto advised, grasping her arm. ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘No, I’ll be okay.’

  ‘Take your time,’ he reiterated, ‘there’s no hurry. Yell if you need me.’

  She walked to the bedroom as he watched her, and firmly closed the door.

  With a bit more care and attention this time, she man­aged to almost disguise the mark on her cheek, and the sea-green cotton dress she put on had sleeves and zipped up to her neck at the back, although the front was mod­erately low. She fastened her hair up with several pins and a Victorian tortoiseshell comb.

  When she came out of the bedroom holding a small bronze leather bag, Sholto was lounging in the living room doorway, his arms folded, looking patient. He looked up and she saw a stirring in his eyes that took her back eight years, to when they’d first known each other. She paused, and he straightened, his hands falling to his sides. ‘Very nice,’ he said, his voice clipped.

  He turned away to open the door for her, and they stepped outside.

  His car, a sleek, roomy, dark blue vehicle, was parked on the road outside. He ushered her in and she subsided onto the smooth leather.

  ‘It smells new,’ she said as he got in beside her.

  ‘It is.’

  Of course, she thought wryly.

  ‘I took the liberty of using your phone while you were in the bedroom,’ he told her. ‘As it’s Saturday night, I’ve booked a table.’

  ‘Did you have trouble?’

  ‘I tried a couple of places. This one is in Mount Eden. Okay?’

  Mount Eden Road curved its way about the base of the dormant volcano and stretched along several miles to meet up with Mount Albert Road at a busy intersection. There were a number of good restaurants along its me­andering length. ‘That’s fine,’ she said.

  The restaurant was full, but not very large, and the service friendly and efficient. Perusing the menu, Tara began to feel hungry. ‘Pork with apricot sauce,’ she de­cided, and when Sholto suggested a bread basket selec­tion to start with, she agreed.

  ‘Tell me about your shop,’ he invited as she nibbled on a piece of crusty herbed bread.

  Her tension eased as she described how she’d been working in an antique shop for a time, and later bought one that sold mainly second-hand junk, gradually get­ting rid of the stock until she’d achieved a more upmarket image.

  ‘And that’s been successful.’

  ‘Very.’

  He said thoughtfully, ‘I’d never pictured you as a businesswoman.’

  ‘I had some expert help from several people.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’ His eyes rested enigmatically on her while he absently tore apart a slice of olive bread.

  Tara stiffened. She tried to sound casual. ‘Derek Shearer gave me some advice.’

  Sholto’s strong fingers flicked some crumbs to the side of his plate. ‘Derek’s a first-class accountant.’

  He wasn’t looking at her. Tara forced herself to relax. ‘Yes, he still does my tax return for me every year.’

  The deep blue gaze pinned her suddenly. ‘I’m sure that’s not all he does.’

  ‘He’s a good friend. As you should know.’

  ‘Really? Perhaps that’s a matter of opinion.’

  The air between them was charged, now. Tara’s hand convulsed on the napkin in her lap, crushing the starched linen. Her mouth was dry.

  ‘Who else... helped you?’ Sholto asked. He leaned back, making an effort, she thought, to appear non­chalant.

  Tara swallowed. ‘Lots of people,’ she said vaguely. ‘You wouldn’t know them. The other shopkeepers have been good to me. It’s a small centre, and we all help each other when we can.’

  Sholto nodded, and picked up his knife to spread a butter curl on his bread.

  Over their main course he asked, ‘Where do you get your stock from?’

  ‘Various places. The antiques and collectables from second-hand dealers, opportunity shops, auctions, flea markets, the new things direct from craftspeople-woodworkers, potters, embroiderers. I even sell a few books—nicely bound old volumes and limited editions printed on a hand-operated press by a local couple. And quite a lot of imported goods from Asia and the Pacific Islands.’

  ‘I could help you there.’

  ‘I don’t need your help!’

  His brows lifted at her sharpness, and she said, ‘Thank you.’

  He gave a short, breathy laugh. ‘Touchy, aren’t you? Let me put it another way. Maybe we can do business together.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Sounding slightly impatient, he said, ‘How do you think I built up my business? I make it a policy never to pass up an opportunity. You retail Asian and Pacific goods—I import them. We might both benefit from— using each other.’

  ‘I thought,’ she said delicately, ‘we’d found that unsatisfactory.’

  Sholto shoved his plate to one side, although there was still some food on it. Leaning forward, he said, ‘I was talking of business—commerce—but if you insist on making this personal, just be sure you really want to cross swords with me.’

  Tara’s fingers gripped her fork hard. For a moment she kept her eyes fixed on the remains of her dinner, not sure why she had thrown that jibe at him. Sholto had never been one to ignore a challenge. Fatally, she could feel a stirring of excitement deep down. Did she want to cross swords with him? Was that what this edgy, half-pleasurable, half-painful tension that she’d felt ever since seeing him yesterday was all about?

  Living with Sholto was a knife-edge experience, and one she’d vowed never to repeat. But in spite of the anger and hurt, and the bitterness that had accompanied the break-up of their relationship, she’d not felt wholly alive since—not until she’d kissed him last night in an act of reckless bravado, and been shaken to the core when he kissed her back.

  ‘What can you offer me?’ she asked obliquely.

  She dared to look at him, and saw the narrowing of his eyes as he debated his answer. ‘What do you want from me?’ Before she had a chance to reply, he drew back in his chair, his expression changing to a smooth, urbane mask. ‘I have silks from Japan, carved goods from Indonesia,, woven hats and black pearls from the Cook Islands—’

  ‘Pearls?’

  ‘Pearls.’

  ‘Aren’t they very expensive?’

  ‘Some are. The perfect specimens go to jewellers, mostly. But the odd-shaped ones that are not so valu­able can make charming pendants, and some are still at­tached to the shell. A lot of people like those as ornaments.’ He paused, regarding her thoughtful ex­pression. ‘Interested?’

  ‘I’m always interested in unusual ornaments or jewellery. I don’t go in for perfect strings of pearls or mass-produced stuff. But your odd-shaped black pearls—each one would be different, wouldn’t it? That’s what my customers like, something unique and quirky. I’d like to see some.’

  ‘No problem. Tonight, if you like?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Why not? The warehouse is five minutes from here. I carry a key.’

  They skipped dessert and had coffee and liqueurs. Both of them had drunk sparingly of the wine Sholto had ordered, and Tara had no worries about letting him drive her.

  He turned towards the city, and eventually drew up in a car park outside a bulky, darkened building with a single light glowing outside. ‘We’ll go in the side door,’ he said.

  When they’d stepped inside he touched her arm in the darkness and said, ‘Hold on, I’ll deactivate the security alarm and get the lights on.’

  He moved a few yards away, and then she blinked as fluorescent bulbs flickered and steadied and shed their pale light on tiers of shelving filled with boxes, piles of larger containers, and two forklift trucks parked neatly in a co
rner. ‘There’s a showroom upstairs,’ Sholto said, and led her to an uncarpeted wooden stairway against one wall.

  They climbed up into the shadows, and at the top Sholto paused to switch on more lights. A hand on her waist urged her forward, and she stepped onto a gleam­ing dark red rug with black and gold patterns.

  It was like Aladdin’s cave. There were more luxurious oriental rugs overlapping one another on the floor, shimmering silk wall hangings, a huge gold paper fan painted with peacocks and a black one with cherry blossoms. Appliqued quilts in stunning colour combi­nations were heaped on a long trestle table, and carved coffee tables and sandalwood chests stood against the walls. Bamboo furniture held samples of teak carvings, and long strings of tiny stuffed animals with jewelled eyes and brocaded bodies hung from the rafters.

  ‘The pearls are over here,’ Sholto said, taking her arm in a light hold.

  They were in a large display case. Sholto opened up the glass front and took out an oyster shell that fitted his palm. The moon glow of the mother-of-pearl gleamed in the fluorescent light, and embedded under its filmy sur­face were two luminescent black pearls, nestled side by side.

  Tara touched them with a gentle finger, and Sholto said, ‘Take it.’

  She held the shell, warm from his hand, and said, ‘This is lovely.’

  Some of the shells in the case held one pearl, others two or even three. ‘And here—’ Sholto lifted out a tray covered in white satin ‘—are the pearls alone. These are all odd shapes.’

  Several were quite large. She picked up one about the size of the bowl of a teaspoon that had formed into an almost perfect heart. ‘This would sell.’ It had the soft lustre typical of pearl, made mysterious by its black colour. ‘How much?’

  ‘Wholesale? We sell them in lots.’ He turned aside and found a list taped to the side of the case, pulled it off and handed it to her. ‘Here you are.’

  She glanced down the price list. ‘I’d like to order some.’

  ‘Phone first thing on Monday and ask for Noel, the warehouse manager. I’ll tell to him expect your call.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She relinquished the heart and said, ‘I want that one in my selection.’ She picked up another pearl, vaguely resembling a flower. ‘And this.’

  ‘Fine, just tell Noel.’

  ‘One of my suppliers does jewellery at home. Maybe I could get her to set some of these to order for my cus­tomers.’

  Tara replaced the flower and ran a fingertip over a cluster of fused pearls. ‘They’re nice to touch—that sat­iny patina over such hardness.’

  He didn’t answer, and she looked up enquiringly, to find him regarding her with an oddly brooding look in his eyes, his mouth curled faintly at one corner as if he’d re­membered something unpalatable.

  Tara dropped her hand and stepped back.

  ‘Seen enough?’ Sholto asked curtly.

  ‘Yes. Of the pearls. Do you mind if I look around a bit?’

  ‘Feel free.’ He turned to replace the tray and close the cupboard.

  She had caught sight of a number of huge floor cushions and beanbags crowded into a corner. She bent to pick up a cushion, and several more tumbled to the floor and lay on the rug around her feet. The cushion she held was covered in a patterned fabric of large birds and flowers, the design outlined with stitching and stuffed to give a raised effect.

  ‘Like it?’ Sholto had strolled silently over the rugs and was standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Very much. Are there many in this style?’

  He came over and helped her find some, each a differ­ent colour, a different pattern. ‘Put the ones you want aside,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll tell Noel to keep them for you.’

  He helped her to pile them separately, and said, ‘Is that the lot?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ She found herself too close to him as she straightened up, and stepped back hastily, catching her heel in the edge of one of the overlapping rugs and sprawling backwards as her shoe came off.

  The rugs cushioned the fall, but surprise kept her from trying to rise for a moment or two.

  When her eyes met Sholto’s—a long way up—she blinked with shock. His mouth was clamped tight and his eyes were smouldering. ‘Get up!’ he said harshly. And then, as though belatedly recalling his manners, he ex­tended a hand to her.

  Ignoring it, Tara struggled to her feet, only to falter on her unshod foot.

  Sholto grabbed her arm. ‘For God’s sake!’ he mut­tered. She felt the brush of his breath against her cheek, smelled the scent of him—soap and wool suiting and an underlying masculine scent that evoked a rush of con­fused memories.

  He swooped without releasing her and picked up her shoe, holding it ready for her. ‘Here,’ he said im­patiently.

  She looked down at his dark head and lifted her foot, felt him slide the shoe on. As she put her foot down again he straightened, his hold loosening. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself?’

  Tara shook her head. ‘Thank you.’ The movement made her aware that a tendril of wavy hair had escaped down her neck. Sighing, she lifted her arms to push it back into place, taking out a pin to secure it. Which only made things worse, several more strands escaping to tumble over her neck and ears. ‘Oh, damn!’ she said as two gleaming pins fell to the rug. Her hair was the bane of her life. Thick and determined to curl, it was almost unmanageable when long, as now, but when she’d had it cut short she hated the way it went into childish curls all over her head, making her look like an elderly caricature of Shirley Temple.

  Gathering the over-abundant mass in one hand, she bent to pick up the pins, then stood and ruthlessly twisted it into a knot, crossly relocating pins to keep it there.

  Sholto had buried his hands back in his pockets. His voice sounding oddly strained, he said, ‘You missed a bit.’

  ‘Where?’ She felt around and, discovering the ringlet just behind her ear, fumbled to tuck it in.

  ‘Why do you bother?’ Sholto asked. ‘Most men would prefer it in its natural glory.’

  He used to love her to wear her hair loose. He liked to play with it, arranging it about her head against the pil­low, or pulling her on top of him and removing the pins so that her hair fell over her shoulders like a cloak, and then he’d tangle his fingers in it and draw her head down to kiss her while the bronze waves floated around them, cocooning them and drifting softly against his skin.

  Tara jabbed a pin against her scalp, banishing the erotic picture from her mind. ‘I’m not interested in pleasing most men,’ she said. She just liked to keep her wild mane of elflocks under control and out of her way, and had never ceased wishing for fine, straight hair—like Averil’s.

  ‘Just one?’ Sholto asked.

  She looked at him and surprised a brief expression of chagrin on his face, as though he hadn’t meant to say what he had.

  She could have said, Not even one. But he had Averil, and her pride wouldn’t let her admit to having no man in her life. She smiled enigmatically and said, ‘Some men like it pinned up—they get a kick out of taking it down.’

  His answering smile was thin and unpleasant. ‘And I suppose you get a kick out of having them do it—among other things.’ The way his gaze dropped over her body was enough to make her shiver. She’d never before met quite that blend of total dislike and blatant, deliberately offensive desire, stripping her defences as though he’d mentally undressed her.

  Lust, she reminded herself, despising the way her senses burned in unspoken answer. If it had been any­one else but Sholto she would have been repelled by that look.

  ‘You said you don’t hate me,’ she whispered, shaken.

  ‘Hate you?’ His eyes were veiled now, meeting hers. Mockery twisted his mouth. ‘How could anyone—any man—hate something as decorative as you? I’d have to be a Philistine.’

  ‘I’m not a thing.’ She didn’t know anyone else who had his ability to turn a compliment into a deadly insult. ‘I’m a person, not some objet d’art.’
r />   Not for the first time, she wondered if that was how he’d thought of her all those years ago—something pretty to enhance his home and his life.

  ‘Your caveman loves you for your mind, does he?’ Sholto rocked slightly on his heels, looking almost as though he was enjoying himself. Only the deep, angry spark at the back of his eyes gave him away.

  About to shout at him, Andy is not a caveman, and he’s not mine! Tara checked herself, forcing calmness into her voice. ‘At least Andy recognises that I have one.’

  Sholto’s eyelids flickered. She saw the material of his trousers tauten across his abdomen as he clenched his knuckles inside his pockets. ‘Meaning?’ he enquired tersely.

  ‘Meaning it’s more than you ever did! Do you patron­ise Averil the way you did me? Is it her brains or her body that attracted you? Or couldn’t you resist the idea of having your very own air hostess? I believe that’s a com­mon male fantasy.’

  His face had changed subtly at the mention of Averil’s name, almost as though she’d doused him in cold water. Was it possible that for a few minutes he’d forgotten about his fiancée?

  ‘What would you know about male fantasies?’ he jeered, but then he moved abruptly, taking his hands from his pockets. ‘Come on, it’s time I took you home. This conversation is getting out of hand.’

  She couldn’t agree more, Tara thought, relief and re­luctance warring inside her as she walked beside him to the stairs. It hadn’t been a comfortable conversation, but she’d felt the adrenaline singing in her veins. In an odd way she’d almost enjoyed skirmishing with Sholto, giv­ing as good as she’d got. At least for a few minutes she’d felt truly, tinglingly alive.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He took her home and saw her to the front porch, standing by as she fumbled for her key.

  ‘Thank you for the dinner,’ she said, pushing open the door. ‘And for... worrying about me.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, ‘if a little mixed.’ Tara gave a soft laugh. ‘That goes for us both.’

  ‘I suppose so. Will you be all right now?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve hardly thought about the robbery all eve­ning.’