by Sara Wood
But he’d chosen loneliness in preference to being hurt again. When he got his life back he’d be fine. It was just here, with all the memories, that he hankered for something more, something to fill the yawning hole in his heart.
Dexter hated self-pity. He was doing fine. The sooner he got the Quinta up and running and he could get away from all these memories, the better it would be.
Blanking out his destructive thoughts, he eased his weary limbs into the truck, his ears still ringing from the droning noise of the diggers and with the smell of smoke and charred wood lingering in his nostrils.
As he crested the hill dividing the cottage from the Quinta, he saw that a welcoming light burned in the cottage and a thin spiral of smoke was rising from the chimney. His heart lifted with pleasure, almost as if he was coming home.
Though that was ridiculous, and he knew that in actual fact he was only looking forward to crashing into bed.
On a sudden cautionary impulse, he parked at the end of the track and walked the rest in the dark with the aid of a torch. It was a clear night, the stars bright in the dense night canopy, and here the air seemed cool and pure in contrast to the stench around the farm.
There was a surprising spring in his step and he covered the distance in no time. Not long now, he thought, and he’d be fast asleep…
He tensed. It wasn’t sleep, but something else that was enticing him. He scowled, shaken by the power of his physical needs. He’d thought he was better than this!
Two choices proposed themselves. He could ignore Maddy—though with some difficulty—or indulge his shocking fantasies to the full.
The prospect of making love to her startled him with its intensity. His heart had leapt and a wild excitement had shot through his body, bringing it to tingling life.
And he knew that he was kidding himself if he thought he could keep his hands off her. His body was screaming for her. For the first time ever, he felt as if his life was hurtling dangerously out of control.
She deserved to be used, he told himself. And a second later he winced with disgust at his lack of principles. Maddy’s fault. She’d teased and tormented him till he hardly knew what the devil he was doing, he thought angrily.
Reaching the open window, he paused. She was singing. Incongruously, it was the hymn ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.
A frown drew his dark brows together. His mouth assumed a sardonic sneer. Surely the thoroughly modern Maddy ought to be belting out a raunchy Madonna melody? This was too sweet, too innocent for a streetwise woman.
She reached the chorus. A shiver went down his back at the pure notes soaring joyfully through the window and disappearing into the hushed night. Clearly she was happy. Contemplating her wealthy marriage, he imagined sourly.
Cautiously he peered in. Something extraordinary had happened. The place was unrecognisable. Tidy. Sparkling. The furniture rearranged.
Ridiculously, he held his breath. She had her back to him and was washing up. An aroma of herbs and spices filled the cottage and he could hear the crackle of a fire in the grate, relieving the coolness of the autumn night. The homeliness of it made his head spin.
And she was the centre of it all. A curvy, sexy female who electrified him from head to foot.
Yet her dress was simple. Pastel-blue cotton, with a collar, sleeves and a hem modestly reaching to mid-calf. When she turned, wiping her hands on a small towel, he drew back into the shadows, but could still see her as she sang her way to the cooking range and put the towel to dry on its rickety rail.
No make-up, he thought, his heart pounding. His head buzzed with confused messages. She was beautiful. Smiling blissfully as though being stranded in the middle of nowhere with the minimum of comforts was entirely to her liking.
Why? Why? Had she been playing the part of a sassy siren in order to land a rich husband? Was he seeing the real Maddy now? Or had she merely changed tack?
He thought about this. Certainly he’d made his sexual attraction obvious. She would feel vulnerable with them both sleeping in the cottage. Maybe she was taking steps to protect herself.
He considered this theory, trying to see things from her point of view. Her goal was to keep him at arm’s length until her wedding night. Since she’d succeeded in getting him interested, was she now abandoning her seduction and turning herself into an untouchable innocent?
His fists clenched. He wouldn’t put it past those damn self-help books to have thought of that one. The author of Getting Your Man probably knew all about the male hunger for whores in the bedroom and chaste virgins elsewhere.
Maddy had learnt all the dark arts of allure and was putting them into practical use. He’d probably find a chapter titled Stoke up the Boilers, where they advised all would-be brides to withhold their favours and behave like demure Stepford Wives if they wanted to be irresistible.
Cynicism raked the hard planes of his face. She’d find there was a chapter missing in her book. The author had omitted to deal with the problem of men who loathed being manipulated.
Dammit, the woman obsessed him! Was she siren or angel? He intended to find out. To establish once and for all what kind of person she really was.
Gritting his teeth, he strode to the door and wrenched at the handle. Locked. The singing stopped abruptly in mid verse.
‘Maddy!’ he commanded angrily in the sudden silence. ‘Let me in!’
‘Dexter! I couldn’t! Grandfather wouldn’t like it!’ she called in defiance, from behind the door.
He muttered a curt oath in Portuguese. ‘Open up! I live here!’ he bellowed in fury.
‘Wha-a-at?’
He ground his teeth together. ‘Stop playing games! You must have seen my bedroom! I told you the cottage was for both of us! Let me in. I’ve had a long day and I’m bushed.’
‘I haven’t even unpacked, let alone looked at bedrooms!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve been so busy… I assumed you meant you’d visit… Oh, Dex, you can’t come in! Go to the hotel. You can afford it.’
His scowl would have stripped paint off the door if there’d been any. ‘You’re a liar, Maddy,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘You knew I’d be back. And it’s time you got your comeuppance.’
Silently he slipped around to the window, leaping in before she remembered it had been open.
When he landed lightly on the floor, her reaction horrified him. Huge-eyed and plainly scared, she spun around and then flattened herself against the door.
‘Please!’ she begged in terror. ‘Don’t…don’t hurt me—’
‘It’s me. Dex,’ he bit angrily. ‘Not a serial rapist on the prowl.’
‘But…’ She swallowed, trembling with nerves. ‘The way you came leaping in, so angry and…’ Her voice died away in a croak.
‘I told you. I live here and I’m not going to be kept out by anyone, least of all you,’ he muttered.
Dexter dumped the bag with his grubby clothes on the floor. His eyes were hard as stone when he said coldly,
‘I’m shattered and in no mood for fooling around. This is where I’m crashing out tonight.’
‘Oh, help!’ she whispered.
Disconcerted by the heaving of her breasts beneath the demure bodice of her dress, he moved towards the kitchen area. She jumped nervously, her hand going to her mouth in alarm.
So vulnerable. So beautiful. Fires roared through his body, drying his throat and thickening his tongue. In her simple shirtwaister, barefoot and with a scrubbed face, she looked more desirable than his hormones could handle.
‘I’m after something to eat, not sex,’ he growled, getting the half-lie out with difficulty.
‘Oh. Sorry. I—I panicked. I forgot you had a mistress.’
‘What?’ he asked with an irritable frown. What was she talking about?
‘The watch. Your rich woman-friend gave it to you,’ she reminded him nervously.
‘I don’t know why I gave you that impression,’ he muttered. ‘I bought it myself. I was referring to the
female shop assistant when I implied a woman was involved and I wish I hadn’t tried to act the man-about-town because it’s just not me!’
He found a couple of rolls and some cheese, slammed them on a plate and stumped crossly to the table.
‘No…mistress?’
‘No woman in my life. Not in that sense,’ he grumped. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m shattered after a hard day. Stop giving me the Inquisition.’
‘You…you’ve been working all this time?’ she asked uncertainly, the tension in her body easing a little. When he nodded, suddenly weary, and his shoulders slumped as he contemplated the cheese without interest, she moved from the door and briskly strode to the larder. ‘In that case,’ she said to his surprise, ‘you’ll want a proper meal. When did you last eat?’
He furrowed his brow. And wondered cynically if she was doing the ‘angel in the kitchen’ bit. Chapter ten, perhaps?
‘The men made some mutton stew,’ he drawled. ‘We had that and some sausages and rolls at lunchtime.’
‘Nothing since?’ Her eyes were dove-soft, wide and concerned. To his rage, he felt his knees weakening at the very sight of her. ‘You must be starving.’ She turned her back. He was tempted to shape his palms around its curves. ‘There’s some steak here. I’ll put it on the griddle. And do some sauté potatoes,’ she said softly. ‘How about that?’
He blinked, his mind moving sluggishly. Tiredness or sex on the brain. He wasn’t sure. Didn’t care, providing he could feast his eyes.
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ He cleared his throat, dazzled by her as she tucked a tea towel into her belt and bustled about by the sink. The book was working a treat, he thought with a wry smile. ‘You didn’t want me around a minute ago and now you’re Delia Smith. How come?’ he remarked huskily, trying to trap her into a confession.
Her breath sucked in. He noticed that her hand shook as she peeled the potatoes.
‘I’m being practical. You got in. It would take several hefty men to eject you and I can’t lay my hands on any at the moment. So I might as well feed you.’ She shot him a quick glance over her shoulder. ‘You look shattered. Anyway, woman’s got to look after her man, hasn’t she?’ she finished lightly.
As he’d thought. No real concern. Just a ruthless interpretation of that damn book.
‘So what else are you doing for me?’ he asked in a mocking tone.
‘Peaches,’ she said, with a look that meant she knew what he’d been suggesting. ‘I picked some earlier.’
He grunted. Peach picking. Very domestic. OK. He’d give her full rein. She clearly had an agenda here to show herself in a favourable light, so he’d listen to it all and let her think he was impressed. Demolishing her hopes afterwards would be even more satisfying.
‘What else did you do today?’
He could see she was smiling vaguely and staring into space. The knife which had been deftly slicing the potatoes remained poised in mid-air.
‘I explored,’ she said softly, her voice warm and liquid with pleasure.
‘Tell me. Play Let’s Pretend,’ he drawled, finding his own tones oddly husky. ‘I’ve come home after a hard day’s work and you’re going to tell me about your day while I unwind.’
She seemed to tremble, though she could have been stifling a laugh, amused by the ease with which she was able to twist him around her little finger. And, boy, was his stomach in knots.
‘OK. If you like. Let’s see… When you left, I dumped my stuff and changed into something more suitable for wandering around,’ she said quietly, the perfect little obedient wife, entertaining her husband.
‘Barefoot, like you are now?’ he asked, reluctantly fascinated by the smallness of her feet, the tiny pink toes, the high arch that he could imagine kissing…
‘No,’ she husked, as if his thoughts were miraculously being transmitted to her mind.
He had to admit that the atmosphere had thickened. There was an electricity in the air, an almost tangible undercurrent swirling into his subconscious and attacking his will-power.
Must be the subdued light of the oil lanterns. Gave a kind of falsely romantic glow—particularly to the delicate planes of Maddy’s face.
‘I—I had some trainers!’ she stammered. ‘And an old shirt and jeans—’
‘So why aren’t you wearing them now?’ he asked.
He was a fool. His eyes grew cold and sardonic. He knew the answer. Because a pastel-blue dress was more feminine. More virginal.
‘I got muddy!’ she husked.
An image of them both, sliding around in mud together, flicked into his mind and had to be ruthlessly dismissed. Tiredness was making him fantasise. He’d be OK once he’d got some sleep.
‘How?’ he asked, pretending to sound bored and uninterested.
‘I was investigating the reeds by the river and slipped,’ she explained with a wry smile. ‘I had to boil loads of kettles and saucepans before I could get my clothes clean enough and hang them on the line outside. Anyway,’ she went on hastily, ‘I found the larder was well stocked, so I stuffed a paposeco with salted ham, cheese and salad, and popped some chocolate and bottled water into my shoulder bag. Then I walked up the track as far as the big bridge.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s five miles from here!’
‘I know. Hang on.’
He was. By his fingertips. With her pink tongue appealingly protruding from her lips in deep concentration, she slid the potatoes into the buttered pan then beat the steak flat and coaxed it onto the griddle. Her tongue slipped back. Dexter let out the breath he’d been holding.
‘I didn’t realise how far I’d gone. I was too busy enjoying the scenery and remembering,’ she said softly.
He felt his stomach tighten.
‘Remembering what?’
She leant against the sink, her eyes dreamy.
‘Being with my father. Using bamboo poles to shake down pine nuts from the stone pines for pesto. Picking lavender…’
She sniffed at her hands and smiled and he knew that she’d crushed lavender between her slender fingers. With difficulty he resisted the urge to go over to see if he could smell it too.
‘I remembered picking figs and almonds, olives and peaches. The tiny yellow narcissi that cover the slopes of the hills. The wonderful cinnamon colour of the cork trees where the bark has been stripped—oh, and the stacks of cork looking like hooped tiles, or curls of chocolate. I remembered the purple oxalis and scilla, the asphodel and orchids in the meadows, the blue jacaranda and the almond blossom in the spring. I listened to the burble of the river and the sound of bees and I was thrilled that I could still identify dozens of different kinds of birds from their song alone. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the drone of machinery, perhaps some new villas being built. And I felt privileged to have this time here, away from all the new developments and far from the concrete of home.’
Her voice died away and she blinked, thinking that she’d strayed too far out of character. Pink-faced, she turned to tend the steak, dismayed that she’d revealed so much of her inner self.
‘What then?’ was all he said, though he sounded very husky and she wondered if he’d been smoking all day while he worked.
‘I wandered back. Scrubbed the kitchen, cleaned the stove, packed it with wood and lit it—and the fire—for a bit of warmth and to dry the place out,’ she answered more briskly. ‘Then I cooked supper for myself and sat outside looking at the stars. It’s a long time since I’ve seen such a clear night sky. In London the lights are too bright to see the stars properly.’ Her expression softened, remembering how they’d twinkled at her as if winking in approval. ‘It was so peaceful out there. Time flew by. Then I got a bit chilly and came in to read for a while.’
‘Fact or fiction?’ he asked, a rather harsh tone to his voice.
‘Are you referring to my book, or what I’ve just told you?’
A small smile. ‘The book. Why ever would you lie to me?’ he asked with exaggerated innocence.<
br />
‘Precisely,’ she said tartly. ‘I was reading fiction. A family saga.’
She pointed to the paperback and he picked it up, glaring at the blurb on the back before discarding it.
‘Families!’ he muttered in contempt.
And she winced. Yes. Families. Why did she torment herself so?
Dexter got up and pulled a beer from the gas fridge and she was left to cook the meal in silence while he stared moodily at the fire.
She couldn’t help but smile wryly. Was this what married life might be like?
‘What’s so amusing?’ he asked, without turning around.
‘How did you know I was smiling?’ she asked in amazement.
He came to see how she was progressing.
‘By your breathing,’ he replied unnervingly.
‘Oh.’ She hoped that he assumed her red face was from the heat of the stove. It was rather disconcerting to think that he’d been so acutely tuned in to her. ‘I was thinking about being married,’ she said absently.
Dexter grunted. And then she remembered. They’d be spending the night together.
‘It’s ready. Sit down,’ she told him shakily.
‘Thank you. Sit with me. We have things to discuss.’
Intrigued, she slid into the chair opposite. At first he toyed with his food and then, after a small mouthful or two, he began to eat with enthusiasm.
‘This is good. I didn’t know how hungry I was. So. You’ve enjoyed your day,’ he said a little stiltedly.
Her face softened. ‘Very much.’
‘A change from Clapham.’
Maddy laughed in delight. ‘I’ll say!’
Without warning, he caught her hand and turned it over, his fingertips feeling the roughness of her skin.
‘You do a lot of domestic work,’ he observed. ‘Is that your job?’
She flushed. ‘No. I worked in a children’s home until it closed, shortly before I came here.’
Relinquishing his hold on her hand, he leaned back in his chair and studied her carefully.
‘A children’s home.’ His mouth pursed and he speared a piece of potato, conveying it towards his mouth. ‘Well, well. Tell me about it,’ he murmured drily, almost in challenge. ‘What’s it like?’
