The Seduction Game (Harlequin Presents)

by Sara Craven

  She felt her robe slip from her shoulders, and pool at her feet.

  About the Author

  Books by Sara Craven

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright

  She felt her robe slip from her shoulders, and pool at her feet.

  His lips were cool and fresh, exploring hers with a kind of exquisite, lingering deliberation.

  Tara felt herself sigh against his mouth, a deep-drawn breath held for an eternity. As she descended into the sweet chaos of pure sensation, she told herself, somehow, that she should hold back—walk away. That this was wrong because Adam belonged to someone else, and it could only lead to heartbreak.

  But it had been so long since she’d known what it was to be a woman. After Jack’s betrayal, she’d believed herself armored forever against the seductive craving of the flesh, but it was only a fragile shell, after all, and soon shattered. All it had taken was Adam—Adam....

  SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon, England, and surrounded by books, grew up in a house by the sea. After leaving school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Harlequin in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset. Sara Craven has recently become the latest—and last ever—winner of the U.K. quiz show “Mastermind.”

  Books by Sara Craven

  HARLEQUIN PRESENTS®

  1901—DECEIVED

  1944—ONE RECKLESS NIGHT

  1963—ULTIMATE TEMPTATION

  1999—A NANNY FOR CHRISTMAS

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  SARA CRAVEN

  The Seduction Game

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  AS THE intercom buzzer sounded Tara Lyndon reached across, without taking her eyes from the computer screen in front of her, and flicked a switch.

  ‘Janet?’ Her tone was pleasant but crisp. ‘I thought I said no interruptions.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Lyndon.’ Her secretary’s tone was rueful. ‘But your sister’s on the line, and she’s not easy to refuse.’

  Don’t I know it? Tara thought with an inward sigh, anticipating the purpose of Becky’s call.

  Aloud, she said, ‘OK, Janet, put her through, please.’

  ‘Darling.’ Becky’s tone lilted along the line. ‘How are you? Isn’t the weather glorious?’

  ‘We’re both fine,’ Tara said drily. ‘Becky, I’m up to my eyes in work. Can you make it snappy, please?’

  ‘No problem.’ Her sister’s response was too swift and too mild. ‘I was just calling to check on the arrangements for the weekend. I couldn’t remember exactly what we’d agreed.’

  Pinocchio, thought Tara, your nose has just grown another two inches.

  ‘There’s no great confusion,’ she returned. ‘You invited me down to Hartside. I told you I couldn’t make it.’

  ‘And I told you to think it over,’ was the immediate reply. ‘So have you?’

  Tara closed her eyes. ‘Becky, it’s very kind of you, but I have things of my own to do.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You’re flying to Dusseldorf to interview someone who might be perfect for a job in Tokyo.’

  ‘No,’ Tara said. ‘I’m going away for a complete break. Total rest and relaxation,’ she added, surreptitiously testing the length of her own nose.

  ‘But you could have that with us,’ Becky wheedled.

  ‘If this weather holds up, we’ll be using the pool. And the garden’s looking wonderful. Besides, the children are always asking where you are these days.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Tara said sternly. ‘Giles and Emma probably wouldn’t recognise me if they roller-bladed over my recumbent body.’

  ‘Exactly what I’m getting at,’ Becky came back at her immediately. ‘You’re so tied up in that career of yours that none of us ever see you. And with Ma and Pa nearly on the other side of the world—I—I miss you, Sis.’

  The throb of pathos sounded almost convincing, Tara thought, amused in spite of herself, until, of course, one remembered Becky’s adoring husband Harry, her ebullient but delightful brats, her endlessly kind and supportive in-laws and the village of Hartside where she pretty well reigned as queen. If her sister spent one lonely moment, it would be through her own choice.

  Interpreting Tara’s silence as an implicit weakening of her position, Becky went on eagerly, ‘Darling, it’s been ages since you came down. Surely you could spare me a couple of days.’

  ‘And if I did,’ Tara said slowly, ‘could you swear to me that you haven’t rounded up yet another unfortunate man to run past me as a potential husband.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ her sister said airily. ‘I wrote you off as a lost cause a long time ago.’

  ‘Becky.’

  ‘You’re so suspicious,’ her elder complained.

  ‘With very good reason,’ Tara said grimly. ‘All right, who is he?’

  ‘My goodness,’ Becky said with asperity. ‘It’s come to something when I can’t invite a new neighbour round for a drink without you going into conspiracy theory mode.’

  ‘Who—is—he?’ Tara repeated through gritted teeth.

  Becky sighed. ‘He’s just moved into Glebe Cottage—that lovely place near the church. He’s a tax lawyer, middle thirties, and very attractive.’

  ‘And still single?’ Tara’s brows lifted. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘There’s nothing the matter,’ Becky defended. ‘They’re extremely nice people.’

  ‘They?’

  Becky hesitated. ‘Well, his mother’s staying with him at the moment, helping him settle in.’

  ‘My God.’ Tara felt an unholy bubble of glee well up inside her. ‘He’s thirty-something and he still lives with Mummy?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind. It’s a purely temporary measure. She has a very nice home of her own. And she’s desperate for him to meet the right woman.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’ Tara’s tone was dry. ‘She probably has the poisoned dagger ready and waiting.’

  ‘I don’t think that job is doing you any good,’ Becky said severely. ‘It’s made you disagreeably cynical.’

  ‘It’s certainly taught me to differentiate between people’s public faces and private agendas,’ Tara agreed. ‘Whatever, I’m afraid I’m not tempted to change my plans. I’m going to spend the weekend relaxing in my own way.’ Not to mention the following two weeks as well, she added silently.

  ‘And on your own, I suppose?’

  There was something about the question that flicked Tara on the raw. ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Tara,’ Becky shrieked. ‘You mean you’ve actually met someone. Tell me everything.’

  ‘No,’ Tara said, already regretting that she’d allowed herself to be provoked into the fib. ‘There isn’t anything to tell. Not yet.’ Which was no more than the truth, she placated her consc
ience.

  ‘You slyboots,’ Becky said gleefully. ‘You’ve got to give me a hint. Is he tall or short? Dark or fair?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘But he is gorgeous, right?’ Becky persisted. ’And with money?’

  Tara sighed. ‘It’s a pity they did away with the Spanish Inquisition, Beck. I could have got you in at the top level, no problem.’

  ‘Naturally I’m going to be interested,’ her sister said with dignity. ‘Do you realise how long it is since you had even a marginal involvement with a man?’

  ‘Only too well,’ Tara said gently. ‘And why.’

  ‘Well, it’s time you put all that behind you,’ Becky said firmly, after a pause. ‘I’ve been telling you for ages that not all men are rats. Let’s hope this weekend is a step in the right direction.’

  A vision rose in front of Tara’s eyes of a sunlit creek, a boat’s mast dark against the bright water. A square white house set amidst trees, and no sound except the cry of birds.

  Involuntarily her mouth curled. ‘Oh, I think I can promise that. Now I must go, Becky. I have a report to finish.’

  ‘And you’re not going to give me even a teensy idea what your new man is like—so that I can tell Harry.’

  ‘Just say that it’s early days. He’ll understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry’s loving wife, with something of a snap. ‘I expect he will.’

  Tara was laughing as she put the phone down, yet it wasn’t really funny, she thought ruefully. She should have stuck to her guns. Admitted that she was going to spend her holiday alone, and what the hell. But Becky’s assumption that this had to be the case had riled her for some reason. And it would also have provided her sister with extra ammunition in her bid to persuade her down to Hartside, she reminded herself defensively.

  Becky could not be allowed to organise her life as if she was some extension of the carol concert, or the village fête. Or continue to dangle allegedly eligible bachelors in front of her, not to mention the occasional divorcé, or, in dire straits, widower.

  Yet it was still genuinely stupid to let her think there’s a new man in my life, she told herself. Beck won’t leave it there. She’s like a ferret. Thank God she doesn’t realise where I’m going. She’ll assume I’m jetting off somewhere for sun, sangria and sex—as I used to do with Jack.

  Something closed in her mind at the memory. Like a shutter coming down to defend her against pain. Except there was no defence.

  Becky was right about one thing, she thought. It was more than time to let go. To release herself from the dead hand of the past. And maybe a new relationship was what she needed to help the healing process along.

  But, like a burned child, she’d hung back from the fire, letting the demands of her career fill the aching space that Jack had left. And now perhaps it was too late.

  She pushed her chair back restlessly, rising to walk over to the picture window behind her, staring out at the vista of City offices which confronted her. This was what was important. This was what mattered, she told herself. She was a partner in a top recruitment service—a headhunter who could smell the blood in the water. Too busy setting executive traps to offer any personal bait herself.

  As she turned away, she glimpsed her reflection in the glass and halted. Scrutinised what she took for granted each day—the mid-brown hair, immaculately bobbed just short of shoulder-length, the white silk shirt, buttoned to the throat, topping the dark skirt ending discreetly on the knee. Neat, efficient and unthreatening.

  An image which she’d actively sought, and now, suddenly, found vaguely unsatisfying.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she apostrophised herself impatiently. You must need a holiday more than you thought.

  She sat down and applied herself with new determination to her report, scanning swiftly through what she’d already written.

  Tom Fortescue had come highly recommended, she thought. He was well-qualified, and a man in a hurry. And yet...

  Tara shook her head. Her usually reliable antennae seemed to be sounding a warning, and she didn’t understand why.

  There were no significant gaps in his CV, and he’d interviewed well. She had nothing to go on but sheer intuition. And that intuition was telling her not to suggest Mr Fortescue for the highly paid position at Bearcroft Holdings for which he seemed so eminently suited.

  Her doubts were there, loud and clear, in every line of her report. On the surface, it was a dispassionate, professional assessment, but Tara could see she’d been non-committal where she should have been enthusiastic, guarded when she should have been singing his praises. She sighed and saved the file to disk.

  It would be up to her associates to make the final judgement, of course, and in some ways she was glad she would not be there to justify her assessment. Or to express any regrets to Tom Fortescue, who would not be pleased to find himself sidelined on her say-so. He was sharp and ambitious, and he’d come to Marchant Southern specifically because he wanted to fill the Bearcroft spot, and Tara was sure he regarded the appointment as in the bag.

  But by the time she came back from leave the dust should have settled, she told herself philosophically. And Mr Fortescue could advance his career with another firm of headhunters.

  She retrieved the disk from her machine, and went out to give it to Janet. And checked, registering with shock the figure perched with easy familiarity on the edge of her secretary’s desk.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Tom Fortescue got up, smiling, and walked to meet her. ‘I happened to be in the area, and wondered if you’d like to have lunch?’

  In a pig’s ear, Tara thought cynically. She’d never given him the slightest hint that she’d be prepared to meet him socially. But that hadn’t stopped him. No doubt he intended to pump her discreetly for her verdict in some convenient wine bar.

  ‘Rather too obvious, my boy,’ she advised him under her breath, rigidly conscious of the disk in her hand.

  Her answering smile was cool. ‘I’m sorry. I go on leave this afternoon, and I need to clear my desk. I’m going to make do with the sandwich service.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too.’ He paused, pulling a face. ‘But I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities.’

  When hell freezes over, thought Tara, feeling obliged to walk with him to the lift and chat civilly while they waited for it to arrive.

  Altogether too sure of himself, she thought as she walked back. And how dared he think her such easy game?

  Janet, however, was looking wistful.

  ‘He was lovely,’ she confided. ‘I told him you were busy, and he said he was happy to wait.’

  ‘I hope he maintains that philosophical attitude,’ Tara said drily, as she passed over the disk. ‘Sign the letters in my absence, please, Jan.’ She paused. ‘And mark that report “Confidential”, circulating it to associates only. It won’t be wanted until Tuesday morning’s meeting.’

  ‘Will do.’ Janet smiled cheerfully up at her. ‘What time are you going?’

  ‘I’d like to be away by two. I still have some packing to do.’

  ‘Are you going somewhere gorgeous?’

  ‘I think so,’ Tara agreed. ‘And do you know the best thing about it?’

  ‘What?’ Jan’s eyes widened. She clearly expected she was going to be told about George Clooney’s favourite hideaway.

  Tara leaned towards her confidentially. ‘No phone,’ she whispered, and went back, laughing, to her office.

  ‘Polish,’ Tara muttered to herself, checking the items in the box in front of her. ‘Stuff for the brass and silver, oven cleaner, washing-up liquid, and rubber gloves.’ She nodded her satisfaction, and tucked a packet of cleaning clothes around the cans to keep them steady.

  Melusine, sleek, black, green-eyed and openly glum as she’d observed the packing process, had taken up a position on the table beside the box. Now she reached out a delicate paw and swiped at the plastic wrapping round the packet.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Tara ran a caressing
hand over the silky fur. ‘You’re coming with me.’ That’s if I can get you in your basket, she added silently.

  Melusine preferred to travel on the front passenger seat, with her paws on the dashboard, free, untrammelled, and with an excellent view. At least until her path was crossed by a police car, ambulance or fire engine, when the sound of the siren would cause her to wrap herself round Tara’s neck like a scarf.

  Her special bowl, her bean bag, and the cat food she favoured at the moment were already in the boot of the car. The basket was hidden behind the living-room sofa, waiting for the psychological moment when she could be tricked inside.

  In fact, Tara had bestowed far less thought on the contents of her own travel bag, she realised with amusement. Apart from the usual quota of undies and toiletries, she was only taking jeans, shorts, T-shirts, sweaters, and training shoes that had never seen a designer label. All practical clothing for the job ahead.

  Becky would kill me if she knew what I was doing, she thought ruefully as she carried her box of cleaning materials down to the car. But Ma and Pa will be back next month, and I want the house bright and shining to welcome them.

  She hadn’t the slightest doubt that was where they’d head for as soon as they’d unpacked and rested from their South African trip. The house in Chelsea was still nominally home, but Silver Creek House had been their favoured retreat for years now.

  It was fairly basic. As well as lacking a telephone, the house had no television or central heating, and the kitchen stove and water heater worked from a large gas tank, sited discreetly at the rear of the house. But these were minor inconveniences as far as Tara was concerned. She’d never minded cleaning out the fireplaces in the sitting room and dining room, or filling the log baskets which fed them. She loved the house, and all its memories of happy family holidays.