by Sara Craven
‘So,’ Caz said as he walked with her to the lift. ‘Am I forgiven?’
She was momentarily startled. ‘For what?’
‘For changing tonight’s rules of engagement.’ He shook his head. ‘There was a moment as you arrived when you looked as if you were about to face a firing squad.’
‘Oh.’ She took a breath. ‘Well—hardly. Your friends are charming.’
‘I’m glad you think so. They were also charmed.’ He sent her a frowning glance. ‘Yet suddenly here you are at a distance again. Why?’
Her heart missed a beat. ‘You—you’re imagining things.’
Caz said softly, ‘Prove it,’ and took her in his arms.
For an instant, his face seemed to swim before her startled eyes, then his mouth came down on hers, and not in the customary fleeting graze of a kiss that she expected either. She’d learned to deal with that, after a fashion. But this time his intentions were clearly very different. He was there to stay.
Her first instinct was to brace her hands against his chest and push him away, because her own intentions were entirely different too. Yet what logical reason did she have to remain aloof? Reason indicated that by now she should at least appear to want to be in his arms, and that any form of resistance might simply lead to him giving up the chase, which would destroy her ultimate objective. Having come so far, could she really risk that?
Besides, in practical terms, the way he was holding her suggested that fighting him would be like trying to push over a brick wall.
Because his lips might still be gentle as they explored hers, but they were also warm and unashamedly determined, and they demanded a response. The desire she’d seen in his eyes had now become a physical reality.
Prove it…
Warning her quite explicitly that he was tired of waiting. That the next step was there to be taken.
In the full and certain consciousness of this, she let her mouth move under his slowly and sweetly, offering him a reply that was shy but willing.
His fingers were tangling in her hair, unfastening the silver clip and letting the scented strands tumble over her shoulders.
He sighed against her mouth and his kiss deepened, his tongue probing her lips, seeking her surrender to a new and disturbing intimacy.
Tarn was not aware of moving, but suddenly her body seemed to sink into his, one hand on his shoulder, the other cupping the nape of his neck as her lips parted for him.
Then, between one heartbeat and the next, she was lost, the scent of him, the taste of him swamping her astonished senses, as her tongue lapped almost frantically against his, and her teeth grazed his mouth in turn.
They swayed together, his hands sliding down to her hips, pulling her even closer. She could feel the hardness of him against her thighs, triggering a sweet drenching surge of longing in her own body, which sent shock waves to her reeling mind by its very intensity.
Caz raised his head, looking down at her, his eyes burning under half-closed lids as he studied her flushed face.
His hand swept the dress from her shoulder, and he bent to kiss her bared skin, his lips tracing the delicacy of her bone structure, before moving down to the lace which shrouded her breast, and closing on the deep rose of her nipple, suckling it with sensuous delight.
Tarn’s head fell back and she moaned softly at this unfamiliar mingling of pain and pleasure. Every sense, every nerve-ending she possessed was in turmoil, warning her that if he was to push her back against the wall and take her, she would not be able to deny him.
And suddenly she was more afraid than she’d ever been in her life. More even than of being sent away from Wilmont Road as an unwanted child again. Because she had never felt like this before. Never experienced the blazing force of sheer physical need. The overwhelming urge to be taken and give endlessly in return.
But that would ruin everything. She couldn’t jettison her aims for the brief satisfaction of the moment. She had to retrieve the lost ground and resist him. Had to…
‘Caz—no.’ Her voice was small and husky. ‘Stop—please. You—I can’t…’
For a breathless moment, she thought her protest was going to be ignored, then, slowly and reluctantly, he straightened.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he restored her dress to order, then ran a finger down the heated curve of her cheek in a gesture that was as much reassuring as tender.
He said very quietly, ‘Are you telling me you don’t want me?’
Mutely, she shook her head, knowing it would be useless to attempt to lie.
‘Then what is it? Has someone in the past treated you badly—hurt you?’
How can you ask that? she wanted to cry aloud. You of all people? Where was all the gentleness and concern for Evie?
‘Tell me, sweetheart, was it this guy in the States?’
‘Howard?’ It was a struggle now even to remember his name, she thought with shame. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. Quite the opposite, in fact.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s just that I don’t… I haven’t—ever…’ She stumbled to a halt, staring down at the carpet. ‘Ludicrous, isn’t it?’
Caz said gravely, ‘Do you hear me laughing?’ He shook his head. ‘My darling, being a virgin isn’t some kind of stigma. And, anyway, I should have realised. It explains some of the contradictions I’ve sensed in you.’
He took her back into his arms, holding her close, his cheek resting on her hair. ‘So, at some future time might I be able to persuade you to reconsider your present stance?’
‘I don’t know.’ And that, too, was no more than the truth. ‘I—I’m so confused.’
‘Then it looks as if I’ll just have to go on waiting,’ he said. ‘And hoping…’
Remembering his words, the wry husky tone of his voice, sent a slow voluptuous whisper of sensation rippling through her body. She found herself remembering his hands—his mouth. Felt her flesh stir—her breathing quicken…
‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘Of all the men in the world, Caz Brandon, why must you be the one to make me feel like this? When you’re the one who needs to be driven crazy with unfulfilled desire.’
And knew that in order to defeat him, she faced the fight of her life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘IT’S not fair,’ Mrs Griffiths complained fretfully. ‘All this talk about human rights, and I can’t even see my own daughter.’ She gave Tarn a mulish stare. ‘It’s about time you did something.’
‘I have tried.’ Tarn made herself speak gently. She’d spent a restless night interspersed with wild and disturbing dreams, then woken very early when the sky was barely streaked with light to discover with shock that her arms were wrapped round her pillow, holding it closely to her body as if it were flesh and blood rather than feathers and down. And realised that she was glad she couldn’t remember her dreams in detail.
She’d known from past experience that she would not go back to sleep, yet was unwilling to simply lie there, staring into space, while she reviewed yet again the events of the previous evening and tried to make sense of them. Or rationalise her reaction to them.
Instead, she’d got up, dragged on some track suit bottoms and a T-shirt, and conducted a cleaning blitz on the flat, losing herself in sheer physical hard work.
When she’d finished, the whole place gleamed and she surveyed it with a sense of real satisfaction.
She showered and washed her hair, then, with the faintest hint of gritted teeth, she reminded herself that she almost certainly owed her foster mother a visit and took a bus to Wilmont Road before heading off to the supermarket for the Saturday morning shop.
‘But clearly you haven’t tried hard enough.’ Mrs Griffiths was like a dog with a bone, and not to be put off. ‘I need her, and Evie needs me at a time like this. You have to tell those doctors so. You must.’
I can talk to the Professor until I’m blue in the face, but it won’t make the slightest difference, Tarn thought, suppressing a sigh. Aloud, she said temperately, ‘I’ll go do
wn there tomorrow and see what I can do.’
‘I’ve bought her a dress,’ Mrs Griffiths said. ‘Her favourite turquoise. And I want to give it to her myself. Tell them that. Make it perfectly clear.’
Tarn nodded as she got up from the kitchen table and walked to the door, where she paused as a thought struck her. ‘Talking of clothes, what happened to Evie’s wedding dress? Is it here somewhere, because there was no sign of it at the flat. I don’t want her to ask me about it, and not be able to answer her.’
Aunt Hazel shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. I certainly never saw it. Another of her surprises, poor baby. But when she described it, I wasn’t convinced that satin was the wisest choice she could have made.’
‘I think that was probably the least of her worries,’ Tarn said, then stopped, her brows drawing together in a swift frown. ‘Did you say it was satin? I thought—she said in one of her letters that it was cream lace and chiffon.’
‘Satin,’ said Aunt Hazel. ‘And oyster. I think she looked at quite a few before she made up her mind.’
‘Yes,’ Tarn acknowledged, still frowning. ‘I suppose that must be it.’
‘And you’ll go down to see her. You won’t let that Della talk you into doing something else.’
‘Della’s away this weekend, visiting her family,’ Tarn said with faint weariness.
Mrs Griffiths sniffed. ‘Well, aren’t they the lucky ones. Of course, I should have insisted you stay here instead of moving in with that flighty piece.’ She paused, giving Tarn a critical stare. ‘As it is, you look as if you’ve been burning the candle at both ends for a week.’
Tarn bit her lip. ‘I simply had a bad night, that’s all.’
‘Just the same, I expect you slept better than my poor girl, locked away like that,’ was Mrs Griffiths’ parting shot, accompanying Tarn down the hall to the front door.
What happened to Evie was not my fault, she wanted to shout back. But I’m doing my damnedest to make amends anyway.
Instead, she bit her tongue hard and went shopping.
An hour and two heavy bags later, she let herself into the apartment block and walked up the single flight of stairs to the flat. As she reached the landing, a tall figure moved away from the wall he’d been leaning against and came towards her.
‘I was just about to leave you a note,’ said Caz.
Tarn, aware that her jaw had dropped, hurriedly restored it to its proper level, thankful he could not hear the tattoo that her pulse was drumming.
As she’d pushed her trolley up and down the aisles, she’d been rehearsing what she would say, how she would behave when she next saw him. Now here he was, lithe and attractive in pale chinos and a dark blue shirt, its sleeves rolled back over his tanned forearms, its open neck revealing a dark shadowing of chest hair.
And suddenly her wits seemed to have deserted her.
She said with an assumption of cool, ‘And what was the note going to say?’
‘It’s a lovely day. Let’s spend it together.’
‘Brief and to the point.’ She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. The nervous twist in her stomach. ‘But what about your friends?’
‘They’re going to have a short, sharp shop, then get back to Surrey. Grace tires easily these days.’
‘Yes, I suppose she would.’ Tarn forced a smile. ‘The perils of motherhood.’
His tone was laconic. ‘It’s reckoned to have its compensations too.’ He paused. ‘So will you come with me?’ He added softly, ‘We can treat it as a journey of discovery.’
Tarn hesitated. ‘I’ll have to put my shopping away.’
‘Of course.’
‘And change.’ She glanced down at her black cut-offs and crisp white blouse, thankful that the track suit and tee of her cleaning marathon had been safely consigned to the laundry basket.
‘Unnecessary,’ he said. ‘What more do you need for a trip to the seaside? Apart from a jacket, maybe.’
This time her smile was genuine if a little startled. ‘The coast? That would be lovely.’
‘You unpack your groceries,’ he said. ‘I’ll make coffee and we’ll argue about whether to go south or east. The Channel or the North Sea.’
She nodded. ‘Fine,’ and unlocked the door.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Caz commented as he followed her into the spotless kitchen.
‘I enjoy housework.’ Which was just as well, she reflected, as she’d certainly done enough of it when she was living at Wilmont Road. She began to empty the first bag. ‘If all else fails I can always apply to the MacNaughton Company for a job.’
‘I used them at one time.’ Caz filled the kettle, set it to boil and found the cafetière. ‘But I’m not sure I’d recommend them. Anyway, who’s talking about failure?’
She passed him the fresh pack of coffee she’d just bought, telling herself that Evie must have obtained the paperwork about the cleaning company from him. Something she should have realised. Aloud, she said, ‘No-one can predict the future.’
‘I can.’ He took the coffee from her, and held onto her hand, looking down at the palm and tracing a line with his fingertip. ‘And I foresee a long and happy life.’
His touch shivered through her senses as if his hand had stroked her naked body.
She detached herself with a self-conscious laugh. ‘I don’t believe in fortune telling.’
‘Not even when the fortune is being arranged for you?’
‘Particularly not then.’ She made her tone crisp. Continued putting things away in cupboards. Did not look at him.
‘In other words, I’m rushing you into something you’re not ready for. Mea culpa.’ He paused. ‘Is that why you looked again as if you were confronting your worst nightmare when you saw me just now?’
‘I was just surprised, that’s all.’ In order to reach the fridge, she would have to get past him, so she put the items for cold storage on one side. ‘I—I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.’
The dark brows lifted sardonically. ‘Really?’ He spooned coffee into the cafetière. ‘I thought I’d made my intentions pretty clear.’
Tarn shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m having trouble believing that you have any intentions.’
He gave her a swift grin. ‘For someone who doesn’t like to be rushed, lady, that sounds suspiciously like a hint for a declaration.’
‘No—nothing like that.’ Her protest was instant. ‘It’s just that—Oh, for heaven’s sake, everyone knows that you’re involved with Ginny Fraser. And how many others before her? How many so-called declarations have there been?’
Tell me about Evie. Offer some explanation—express some compunction for what you’ve done to her. I’m giving you this chance…
He said quietly, ‘I’ve never pretended I’ve lived like a Trappist monk while waiting for the right woman to walk into my life. Ginny had her career and I had mine. Our relationship has been—convenient. It is now in the past.’
Consigned to oblivion—like Evie.
She watched him fill the cafetière with boiling water, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She said, ‘But Ginny wasn’t the only one. What about the others? What happened to them?’ ‘You’re beginning to make me feel like Bluebeard,’ he commented unsmilingly. ‘All I can tell you is that I never made any woman a promise I wasn’t prepared to keep. And that, my lovely one, will also apply to you.’ He paused. ‘Now shall we relax a little and discuss how to spend our day?’
In the end, they drove to Whytecliffe, a village on the South coast set on a small bay.
She’d been surprised to find a sleek black convertible two-seater parked a few yards from the apartment block.
‘No Terry?’ she asked.
‘A driver is more convenient on working days. But at weekends, I like to drive myself. And as I said—we’re spending the day together.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘Don’t you trust me to take care of you?’
‘Of course.’ But, in truth, she wasn’t altogether sure.
This car looked to have a lot of power under its pared-down lines.
Hood down, they headed out of the city, and Tarn soon realised she hadn’t the least cause for concern. He was a terrific driver, positive without being aggressive, treating other road-users with consideration.
‘So where are we going?’ she asked as they left the suburbs behind.
‘It’s a surprise.’
And a very pleasant one, she discovered, as they eventually wound their way through narrow lanes with the sea shining in front of them, and reached Whytecliffe.
It was small and sleepy in comparison to other nearby resorts, its harbour catering primarily for private sailing dinghies rather than the fishing smacks of the past, while further round the bay, at the foot of the chalk cliff, a row of brightly painted beach huts stood sentinel over the stretch of sand and pebbles leading down to the sea.
The village itself had a Norman church, and a pleasant main street, partly cobbled, which housed a few shops and cafés. They walked slowly, her hand in his because he’d reached for it and she couldn’t think of a solitary reason to deny him, looking into the windows of the various antique shops, as they went and wandering round the small gallery displaying the work of local artists.
There was also a bistro-type restaurant which turned out to be only open in the evenings, but Caz declared that was unimportant and headed for the solitary pub overlooking the breakwater.
‘The Smuggler’s Chair.’ Tarn looked up at the swinging sign above the door. ‘That’s a strange name.’
‘And it goes with a strange story.’ Caz had to bend to negotiate the low entrance. He guided Tarn down a tiled passage and through a door with ‘Fisherman’s Catch’ painted on it.
She found herself in a wood panelled room, with old-fashioned settles flanking tables set for lunch, several of which were already occupied.
Caz ordered a white wine spritzer for her and a beer for himself, and they took the remaining table by the window.
The menu was chalked on a board, offering Dover sole, hake, crab and lobster, but they agreed to share the special, a seafood platter served with a mixed green salad and crusty bread.
