by Sara Craven
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that only time will convince me of that.’
At that moment, the bell sounded to signal their return to the auditorium.
And she really had been saved by it, Tarn thought, quashing a sudden bubble of hysteria as she walked sedately beside him back to the stalls. Because Caz Brandon was going to be no pushover either. He was far too perceptive for his own good—or hers.
Dear God, she thought, I shall have to be so careful. So terribly careful.
CHAPTER SIX
THE word ‘Careful’ sang in her brain as she sat tautly beside him in the back of the car on the journey back to the flat, waiting for him to lunge at her.
But it didn’t happen. Instead he chatted about the play, the performances, and the almost unbearable tension of the final act. And when the car drew up outside the apartment block, he dismissed her protests and escorted her to her door.
He watched as she fumbled in her bag for her key. ‘Am I going to be asked in again for coffee?’
‘My flatmate will be asleep,’ she said, hoping that a wide awake Della wouldn’t suddenly appear to make a liar of her. ‘I—I don’t want to disturb her.’ She added, ‘Besides, your driver’s waiting.’
‘Of course,’ Caz said softly, and smiled at her. ‘And I can wait too.’
His gaze travelled down to her mouth and she knew that he was going to kiss her. Knew as well that there was no realistic way she could avoid this. That she must, at least, appear willing if her long term plan was to succeed.
Her whole body stirred as he bent towards her, and she felt the slow, painful thump of her heartbeat echo through every nerve-ending in her skin. Careful…
His hands were gentle on her shoulders, drawing her towards him, then his lips touched hers, brushing them swiftly, lightly in a caress as fleeting as an indrawn breath. A tease that promised but did not fulfil.
Then he released her and stood back, the hazel eyes quizzical as they scanned her flushed face.
‘Goodnight,’ he said quietly. ‘Sleep well. I’ll be in touch.’ And went.
As she walked on unsteady legs into the sitting room, she heard from the street below the sound of the car pulling away, and stood rigidly, one clenched fist pressed against her breast.
Clever, she thought stormily. Oh, God, he was clever. But she could play games too. And somehow—however difficult it became—she intended to win.
Her interior warning to take care continued to hang over her, as the spring days brightened and lengthened, and Caz’s campaign began in earnest.
However Tarn soon realised that he seemed to be keeping it deliberately low-key, not crowding her or bombarding her with demands for her company. Certainly not trying to sweep her off her feet as he’d done to Evie with high profile dates. But a couple of times a week, they dined together, or visited a cinema, or went to a concert or another play, the arrangements invariably made through text or voicemail on her mobile phone.
It would have been much easier, she thought unhappily, if she hadn’t been forced to remind herself quite so often that the time spent with Caz was simply a means to an end and nothing more. Because that should have been a given.
She didn’t want to enjoy any part of these occasions, much less allow the reasons for them to slip from her mind, even momentarily. It worried her too that when she was alone, she sometimes found that she was smiling to herself, remembering something he had said or done, and was then forced to pull herself together, thankful that, knowing what he really was, she had the power and the will to resist his charm.
And, as she told herself, it was a relief that was all she had to fight. Because one element of their relationship did not vary. Each time he brought her home, he kissed her briefly, grazing her mouth with his, just once and departed. Leaving her restless and wondering what he was doing on the other five days and nights when she didn’t see him, apart, of course, from the occasional glimpse at work, generally on his way to or coming from a meeting, and immersed in conversation.
Although Tarn was busy too. Lisa had been given the go-ahead on the celebrity short story series, and they were in contact with the ‘A’ list they’d drawn up, so she had little time in office hours to let her mind wander in his direction.
Which, as she reminded herself forcefully, was all to the good.
What was not so good was the realisation that she was actually enjoying the job she’d embarked on so carelessly. That she would regret having to resign in order to substantiate her harassment claim.
In connection with this, she’d expected that by now her involvement with him would have got around via the usually efficient office grapevine, adding weight to her eventual complaint against him.
Every day, she went in prepared for knowing looks, smothered grins, and whispered remarks. But there was nothing. If anyone knew or even suspected, they were keeping very quiet about it.
Maybe when he’s going out with nobodies like Evie and myself, he prefers to keep his private life strictly under wraps, she thought, recalling that Evie hadn’t featured in many of the pictures in the scrapbook. In fact, Tarn couldn’t remember seeing even one, suggesting her foster sister had been told to stay off-camera when she appeared with him in public.
And she’d have been far too besotted to protest, or ask, ‘Are you ashamed to be seen with me?’ Tarn told herself bitterly.
She had phoned The Refuge several times, but the hoped-for permission to visit Evie was still being withheld, which worried her.
‘That place really is like a prison,’ she complained to Della, who shrugged.
‘Maybe seclusion is what she most needs,’ she returned. ‘When my mother was in hospital last year, she said she’d have given every penny she possessed for a couple of days of peace, quiet and no visitors.’ She added gently, ‘I think, my pet, you have to give them credit for offering her the best possible treatment.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Tarn conceded, sighing.
She wished very much that she hadn’t left Evie’s letters in New York. She’d have liked to check how long had elapsed between the first date with Caz, and that delirious weekend alone with him in the depths of the country.
However, it couldn’t be much longer before he made his move, she thought, biting her lip. No matter how circumspect and restrained his behaviour towards her, his eyes often told a different story, sending the unequivocal message that he wanted her.
It was moments like that which kept her awake at night, and made her question uneasily whether the shivers that ran through her at the thought of seeing him again were solely caused by apprehension.
If he has this effect on me without even trying, she mused wretchedly, how will I manage when he decides to get serious? If he ever does.
It was a question for which she had to find an answer sooner than she’d thought.
She was on her way down to the art department the following day, when she came face to face with him in an otherwise deserted corridor.
Caz stopped a few feet away from her, and she felt the hungry intensity of his gaze touch her like an electric charge. She stared back at him, aware of the sudden clamour of her pulses, knowing that if she took even a single step forward she would be in his arms.
But Caz stood his ground. Kept his distance. She saw his hands clench into fists at his side and swift colour flare along his cheekbones. He said abruptly, ‘Dinner? Friday evening—at my flat?’
The moment of decision had arrived, catching her unprepared and suddenly hesitant.
You don’t have to do this, said an urgent voice in her head. You can take Della’s advice, abandon the whole idea and run.
For a moment, she had to struggle to think of Evie as she’d been on that first visit to The Refuge, but knew she needed to remember the small, broken figure in the bed, with the scared voice who was the reason why she’d embarked on this course of action, and why she had to go on to the inevitably bitter end.
Her mouth was dry. ‘Yes,’ she said. �
��If—if that’s what you want.’
‘You must know that it is.’ He paused, drawing a deep breath. ‘I’ll send Terry to pick you up at eight.’
She nodded. ‘Eight o clock,’ she said huskily. ‘Yes.’
She moved to one side of the corridor, he to the other, and they continued on their respective ways without saying more.
Tarn however by-passed the art department, heading instead for the women’s cloakroom. She went straight to a basin, running the cold tap over her wrists, and wiping her face with a damp paper towel as she waited for her inner tumult to die down a little.
Two days and two nights, she thought, before she could achieve her aim and start the process which would make Caz Brandon the target of the contempt he deserved. He’d feature in some very different headlines before it was all finished.
She leaned against the basin, feeling faintly nauseated as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, face white, eyes glittering like a cat’s.
She said under her breath, ‘I look like a stranger. Worse than that—like someone I wouldn’t want to know. I could even pose for a portrait—Nemesis, goddess of retribution.’
Only a few weeks ago, her life had been in place. Her career was fine, she was enjoying her sojourn in New York and she was in a relationship that might even have become love if she’d given it the chance.
Although at this moment, she found it hard to remember what Howard had looked like, let alone what it had meant to be held, kissed by him.
It seemed as if this thing with Evie had consumed her, leaving room for nothing else.
When it was over, she doubted whether she would return to the States for longer than it took to re-let her apartment and pack the rest of her things.
Maybe she’d take at least some of Della’s advice and find a new home somewhere in Europe. France, maybe, or Italy. Or perhaps a Greek island. After all, the nature of her job meant she could work anywhere that she could set up her computer, so why didn’t she take full advantage of the fact? Find her real self again in this new beginning.
But it was too soon to be making any decisions about the long-term when it was the immediate future which had to be foremost in her mind.
And right now, the art department was still waiting, so getting back to work was a priority. Time enough afterwards, when she got home, to consider all the implications of Caz’s invitation, and how to deal with them.
She had the flat to herself on Friday evening, as Della was spending the weekend at her sister’s house in Kent. She’d told her that she and Caz were having dinner but omitted further details, knowing exactly the objections that Della would raise. Knowing that nothing her friend could say would deflect her from her ultimate goal.
Tarn was glad too that she could be nervous without a witness, as she systematically tried on and discarded every dress in her wardrobe, eventually going back to her first choice, a simple wrap-round style in a jade-green silky fabric which clung unashamedly to her slender body.
She used cosmetics with a light hand, darkening her long lashes with mascara, and painting her mouth a soft, clear coral.
Nothing too overt, she told herself as she brushed her hair back from her face and secured it at the nape of her neck with an antique silver clasp.
Her legs were shaking under her as she walked down to the car. She sat huddled into a corner of the rear passenger seat, staring out at the busy London evening with eyes that saw nothing.
She wasn’t even aware of the route Terry had taken, rousing herself only when the car drove through a security checkpoint and down a ramp to a private underground car park.
‘The lift is here, madam. You press the button marked “P” for the penthouse, and “G” for the garage on your return. Mr Brandon will arrange for me to be waiting for you here by the lift gates.’
If his driver was staying on call, Caz could not be planning a lengthy seduction, she thought, her throat tightening. He must think he had her in the palm of his hand, she told herself, as she forced a smile and murmured her thanks.
She pressed the button and was swept smoothly and swiftly to the top floor of the building. As the lift doors slid open, she saw Caz descending a shallow flight of stairs at the other end of a carpeted corridor.
As he reached her, he said quietly, ‘So you’re here.’
‘I thought you’d asked me.’
‘I did. But with you I can never be certain.’ He took her hand. ‘Come and meet the others.’
Others? Tarn repeated silently, as she walked beside him. That was the last thing she’d expected to hear.
But, as they went up the stairs, she could hear music playing softly and the sound of voices.
She found herself in a vast lamplit room, and confronted by a huge picture window offering sweeping views of London by night.
On the right hand side of the room, two girls in neat black skirts and white blouses were putting the finishing touches to a circular table laid for four and gleaming with silver and crystal.
On the left hand side, three beautifully sculpted sofas upholstered in cream linen had been arranged round a fireplace, illumined by the glow of a gas fire.
All, she thought, exactly as Evie had described.
A tall fair man rose to his feet from one of the sofas, and waited smiling as Caz and Tarn approached. His companion was a dark, pretty girl, whose pale pink wool dress, although beautifully cut, did not completely conceal the fact that she was pregnant.
‘Tarn, may I introduce the Donnells, two of my oldest friends. Brendan—Grace—this is Tarn Desmond.’
‘It’s good to meet you at last.’ Brendan Donnell’s handshake was firm, his blue eyes dancing. ‘God knows, Caz has talked about little else.’
Tarn flushed. ‘I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.’
‘Only a slight one,’ said his wife. She patted the sofa. ‘Come and sit beside me while Caz gets you a drink. I’m on the orange juice, sadly, although I’ll allow myself a glass of wine at dinner, if Bren’s not looking.’
Tarn was glad to sit, her mind still reeling from the scuppering of her plan for the evening. Before many minutes had passed, she’d learned that Brendan was managing director of the Lindsmore Investment Group, that they had recently moved out of London to a house in the depths of rural Surrey, and that Grace, currently on maternity leave, had been a corporation lawyer.
‘I planned to go back when the baby was born,’ she confided. ‘But now I’m not so sure. The house needs work and I’m really enjoying getting it all organised. And we have a garden too, with a small orchard, which has always been my dream. I see a total change of career looming.’
She paused. ‘What about you, Tarn? Have you always worked on magazines?’
‘For much of the time, yes,’ Tarn returned evasively.
‘And you and Caz met when you were job-hunting,’ Grace said musingly. ‘Now there’s a lucky chance.’
At that moment, Caz returned with the white wine she’d asked for, so she was saved from having to reply and was able to smile rather tautly and thank him instead.
What the hell was he playing at—introducing her to his friends? she raged inwardly. And without a word of warning either so that she couldn’t think of an excuse. It seemed out of place as well as out of character. She certainly couldn’t remember Evie referring to anyone called Donnell in her letters, or noticed the name in her diary. And could these really be the powerful friends she’d been warned against? That also appeared unlikely. So what was happening? And what had he been saying about her?
But almost before she knew it, she was no longer having to pretend her enjoyment of making a new acquaintance, because it was impossible to harbour resentment over the collapse of her scheming when she was having such a good time.
Certainly the evening she’d planned had never included helpless laughter. Or eating very much for that matter.
Yet the dinner supplied by the very efficient catering company was wonderful too, from the excellent clear so
up, through the flavoursome casserole of spring lamb with baby vegetables to the wickedly rich chocolate mousse and splendid cheese board. In spite of herself, Tarn found she was doing the meal full justice.
Also it was clear that Caz had never had any intention of attempting to move their relationship to a more intimate level, because Brendan and Grace were not vanishing when dinner was over, thus leaving them alone together, but apparently spending the night in his spare bedroom.
‘I have some baby shopping to do in the morning,’ Grace confided. ‘So, it’s a dual purpose visit.’
And so was mine, thought Tarn bleakly. Finding some way of luring him to disaster.
She let herself back into the empty flat, tossed her bag to one side and sank down on the sofa. The evening had not turned out at all as she expected, or planned for. In fact, a degree of re-thinking was called for.
Because now there were other even more disturbing factors to add to the mix…
The evening had ended pleasantly with coffee and brandy and more conversation on topics ranging from the serious to the frankly frivolous, and she’d experienced real reluctance when she looked at her watch and said that she must go.
‘But we’ll meet again.’ Grace hugged her. ‘I’ll get Caz to bring you down to the hovel. Are you any kind of a photographer? You could take some before and after pictures—of me and the house,’ she added with a giggle.
A nice thought, Tarn acknowledged silently. What a pity it could never happen.
Using her need to ‘freshen up’ as an excuse, she’d seen the rest of the flat, even managing a look at Caz’s bedroom. The bed was indeed vast just as Evie had artlessly confided, and for a moment Tarn had been assailed by a disturbing image of the two of them naked and passionately entwined, Evie surrendering eagerly to every sensual demand that he made of her.
Tarn found herself backing away hastily, shutting her eyes, a little gasp that mingled pain with horror rasping her dry throat.
But thinking of them together was perhaps something she needed to do, she told herself, in order to counteract the unexpected pleasures of the evening, and remind her of the real reason why she’d accepted this invitation.
