The Seduction Game

‘Oh, Lord.’ She swallowed. ‘I’d better bathe it for him.’

Buster submitted with docility to her ministrations, his brown eyes full of the soulful anguish of the totally misunderstood.

‘That’ll teach you,’ she muttered as she swabbed the scratch with disinfectant. Melusine watched the process from the safety of the draining board, where she sat, carefully washing the contaminated paw.

‘Perhaps I’d better put her in another room,’ Tara said as she rinsed her hands.

‘Leave them. They’ll be fine now that the pecking order has been established.’ His mouth curved in amusement. ‘You look as if you’d like to banish me to another room as well.’

‘It had occurred to me.’ Tara gave him a challenging look. ‘I’m still not sure why I agreed to this.’

‘Oh, I think you probably had an excellent reason,’ he said affably. ‘But if you’re now having second thoughts you could always put my share in a doggy bag, and Buster and I will go back to our lonely boat.’

Her smile was wintry. ‘I can probably stand it if you can.’ She gestured awkwardly towards the kitchen table. ‘Please sit down, and I’ll dish up.’

‘If you give me a corkscrew, I’ll open this.’ He held up the wine he’d brought.

‘There’s one in the dresser drawer.’ She turned away and began to busy herself at the stove. There wasn’t much to do, just the final touches to the creamed potatoes, and the Vichy carrots and braised celery to be placed in their respective serving dishes, but she was glad of any activity.

It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d entertained a man alone, apart from business meetings, since Jack, and the realisation made her jittery.

The new-look Adam Barnard was another concern. The clothes he was wearing were clearly expensive, and so was the claret that he was setting to breathe.

She was very conscious that her personal preparations for the evening had been a perfunctory wash and a few strokes of the hairbrush. No make-up or change of clothes for her.

Now that he’d smoothed away the rough edges, she was only too aware of the full force of his attraction. Yet she couldn’t afford to be. That was not the purpose of the exercise, she reminded herself vehemently.

She just needed to find out a bit more about him. That was it. That was everything.

As she carried the food to the table she saw that Adam had found some candles during his hunt for the corkscrew and fitted them into the pottery holders which usually stood on the dresser.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I thought it would add a festive touch.’

In truth, Tara minded quite a lot. Candlelight implied intimacy rather than festivity, she thought restively, but now that the tapers were lit she could hardly make a fuss.

Adam, seemingly unaware of her hesitation, sniffed appreciatively. ‘You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble.’

‘Mrs Pritchard did most of it,’ she reminded him coolly. She cut into the pie, and served him a lavish wedge.

‘Hey—save some for yourself.’

‘There’s plenty,’ she said quickly. ‘Actually, I’m not very hungry.’

He looked at her, brows lifted. ‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘We must see what we can do to restore your appetite.’

Cutting out remarks like that would help for a start, she told him silently. Or was she just being ridiculously twitchy? Looking for trouble where there was none?

Pull yourself together, she ordered herself tersely. Just get through the evening.

In spite of her protest, she found that, once tasted, she couldn’t resist the tender chunks of meat and rich gravy under the melting pastry crust. Mrs Pritchard had surpassed herself, she acknowledged gratefully.

The wine was good, too, touching her throat like velvet and filling her mouth with the fragrance of blackcurrant.

As Adam went to refill her glass she swiftly covered it with her hand.

‘I’d better not have any more.’

‘Why not? You haven’t got work tomorrow, and you’re not planning to drive anywhere, are you? At least, not tonight.’

She heard that note of laughter in his voice again, and her mouth tightened. He sounded as if he’d been perched inside her head for the last hour or so, observing her mental struggles.

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I know my limitations.’

‘That’s fine,’ he said equably. ‘As long as you make sure they don’t obscure your potential.’

‘My goodness.’ She offered him the potatoes. ‘Do you write books on self-improvement, by any chance?’

‘I don’t write books at all.’ With equal politeness, he passed her the celery. ‘But I apologise if I sounded sententious.’

She flushed. ‘No—I didn’t mean... That is...’

Aware that she was foundering, she stopped.

‘Sometimes a direct question is best,’ Adam remarked pensively.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Tara said coldly, concentrating on her plate.

‘You want to know what I do for a living.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘Why not just ask?’

‘Because that’s entirely your own business,’ she came back at him, trying to retrieve the situation. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘No,’ he said drily. ‘But that hasn’t stopped you burning up with curiosity from the moment we met. And you have good reason,’ he added, after a brief pause. ‘Do you spend a lot of time down here on your own?’

‘I’m sure Mrs Pritchard has already told you the answer to that,’ Tara said, with a snap.

‘Is that what’s riling you? That I’ve stolen some kind of march on you?’

‘Of course not. Cooking and gossip are her specialities. Everyone knows that.’ She put her knife and fork down, colour rising in her face. ‘Oh, God, that sounds so bitchy.’

‘Just a touch,’ he agreed.

She gave him a furious look. ‘I’m not usually like it.’

‘Then it must be my malign influence,’ he said smoothly. ‘May I have another piece of pie? You can throw it at me, if you wish.’

She was startled into an unwilling laugh. She pushed the dish towards him. ‘Please help yourself.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t made a pudding, but there’s cheese and fruit.’

‘And all of it for an unwanted guest,’ he murmured. ‘How incredibly magnanimous. And I’m a draughtsman.’

‘Oh,’ said Tara, completely taken aback.

He lifted an eyebrow as he transferred meat and pastry to his plate. ‘Surprised that I’m so respectable?’

‘No,’ she denied too swiftly.

‘It’s a hellish life, but someone has to do it.’ He grinned at her. ‘Feel reassured?’

No, she thought, but I don’t know why.

She said, ‘Is that the intention?’

‘I think so. For better or worse we’re going to be sharing some space.’ He leaned across and poured more wine into her glass. ‘Let’s drink to a better understanding.’

Now, of course, would be the time to tell him she wasn’t staying. To come out with some glib excuse for leaving and getting on with her life, well out of harm’s way.

But, for some reason she couldn’t for the life of her explain, she remained silent.

Adam lifted his glass, and she raised hers obediently in turn.

He looked at her for a long, quiet moment. His blue eyes seemed to glitter in the candlelight, and the table between them was suddenly very narrow.

Tara was staring back at him, as if mesmerised. In those few strange seconds she knew—as if it had already happened—as if he had come to her and drawn her up, out of her chair, into his arms—the touch of his mouth on hers, the brush of his hands on her naked skin. Knew it, and wanted it with a sudden ache of longing too deep for words.

He said softly, ‘To us.’ And drank.

While Tara sat completely still, her lips slightly parted in shock, and her fingers frozen to the stem of her glass.

CHAPTER THREE

FORTUNATELY, Adam didn’t appear to notice her paralysed state, much less guess its cause. He drank the toast, then put down his glass and returned to the remainder of his meal.

Tara, suddenly aware that her hand had started shaking, carefully replaced her own glass on the table too.

She was over-reacting badly, and she knew it. Just as she’d done from the moment she set eyes on him.

It was only a toast, she argued silently. Simply one of those things that people said. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. And so silly to get het up about something so trivial. So very silly.

But, all the same, she knew that she should never have let herself be talked into sharing her supper with Adam. Wine and candlelight, she thought, her heart hammering. A seriously bad idea. And she needed to bring the evening to an end with despatch.

She clattered the cutlery noisily on to her plate and rose. ‘I—I’ll get the cheese.’

‘Fine.’ Adam got to his feet too. ‘If you’ll show me where everything is, I’ll make the coffee.’

It was a perfectly reasonable offer, Tara thought wrathfully as she carried the used dishes to the sink. She could hardly tell him that coffee was off the menu and she was having second thoughts about the cheese, too.

Behave normally, she advised herself. And once you shut the door behind him make sure it stays closed.

There’d been a new pack of coffee among the groceries. She retrieved it from the small larder, then walked over to the dresser and stretched up to the top shelf for the cafetière.

‘Allow me.’ He was standing right behind her.

‘Oh—thank you.’ She moved hastily out of the way as Adam reached past her. She was aware, fleetingly, of the faint fragrance of some expensive cologne. He’d not been wearing it earlier when she’d cannoned into him. Then, there’d only been the fresh, clean, quintessentially male scent of his skin, she remembered, suppressing a gasp.

‘Is something wrong?’

The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was nervous. That would be putting herself in his power, she reminded herself grimly.

‘Not a thing.’ She flashed him a meaningless smile, and busied herself arranging cheese, grapes and a few apples on a wooden platter.

‘You’re like a cat on hot bricks.’ Adam set the kettle to boil, then looked past her with a faint grin. ‘You should follow her example instead.’

Turning, Tara saw that Melusine had given up her vantage point on the draining board and was now occupying the rocking chair in the corner, her paws tucked neatly under her and her green eyes inscrutable. Buster was stretched out, snoring, on the rug below.

‘You see,’ Adam went on. ‘Initial differences can be settled, and peaceful co-existence achieved.’

‘Natures, however, do not basically change,’ she said crisply. ‘And Melusine and I like our own space.’

‘Well, you’ve got plenty of it here,’ he remarked, glancing round him. ‘This is a delightful house.’ He paused. ‘It makes you realise what potential Dean’s Mooring could have.’

She stared at him. ‘But it’s practically derelict,’ she said slowly, after a pause. ‘It would probably cost—thousands simply to make it habitable.’

‘Undoubtedly, but—for the right person—a labour of love.’

‘And are you the right person?’ She was startled into sharpness. Because this wasn’t the plan at all. Dean’s Mooring was going to belong to the Lyndon family, thereby ensuring the privacy of Silver Creek.

Oh, Dad, you should have made your move earlier, she reproached her absent parent. Now it could be too late.

‘A direct question at last.’ Adam spooned coffee into the cafetière, his movements economical and unhurried. As if, somehow, he was right at home in his surroundings, she thought uneasily. ‘We’re making progress.’

‘Yet that,’ she said, ‘was not a direct answer.’

‘The night is young.’ He smiled at her, without mockery or calculation, and she felt the warmth of it uncurling insidiously in her deepest self.

The night, she thought grimly, had better start ageing pretty damn quickly.

She found a packet of oatcakes and tipped them on to the platter, then cut a chunk of butter into an earthenware dish.

‘This is becoming a feast,’ Adam commented as he brought the cafetière to the table. ‘Maybe you’ll let me cook for you on Caroline one evening. Repay the hospitality a little.’

‘In that case, you should ask Mrs Pritchard instead,’ she returned coolly. ‘This was her feast, not mine. I was planning poached eggs on toast.’

His brows lifted. ‘Real spinster fare,’ he drawled. ‘Is that how you see yourself?’

‘I don’t think my self-image is up for discussion. And this is simply a meal—not a therapy session.’ She pushed the platter towards him. ‘There’s good Cheddar, some Brie, and the blue one’s Roquefort.’

‘And trespassers will be prosecuted, or worse.’ He cut some cheese. He had strong hands, she noticed unwillingly, with long fingers and well-kept nails.

‘Talking of trespassing,’ she said. ‘What exactly brought you to this backwater?’

‘I’d always promised myself I’d explore this stretch of river,’ he said, after a pause. ‘As I had some time off, I decided this was as good a time as any.’

‘There isn’t a lot to see, and even less to do.’

‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But between a little gentle sketching and taking Buster for long walks I manage to keep busy.’ He began, deftly, to peel an apple. ‘So, what brings you here?’

Tara shrugged. ‘I told you. I like to keep an eye on the house while my parents are away.’

‘I hope they appreciate how protective you are.’ His eyes glinted at her.

‘Indeed they do,’ she said. ‘And with good reason.’

‘I gather they’ve been using the house for many years.’ He cut his apple into quarters. ‘They’ve never thought of selling it?’

Tara gasped. ‘Of course not,’ she said roundly. ‘Why on earth should they?’

Adam gave a faint shrug. ‘The right price might be an incentive,’ he countered.

‘Never in this world.’ Tara sat up very straight, her face flushed. ‘A lot of family memories are tied up in this house.’

The straight brows drew together. ‘Is that necessarily an issue?’

‘Naturally it is.’

‘Then they must be unique,’ he drawled. ‘When sentiment and money clash, sentiment usually comes off a poor second.’

‘It’s nothing to do with sentiment,’ Tara said quickly. ‘This is their second home—their sanctuary, if you like. When my father worked in the City it was an important means of relaxation for him. We used to come down nearly every weekend to walk and sail. It was Dad’s pressure valve. He’d never get rid of it.’

She glared at him. ‘So, if you’re looking for a cheap weekend retreat, go and look somewhere else,’ she added with emphasis.

‘You’re very keen to see the back of me.’ His mouth twisted in amusement. ‘If I was the sensitive type, I might get a complex.’

‘Oh, not you.’ Tara took a bunch of grapes, relishing the cool sweetness against her dry throat. She leaned back in her chair, meeting his gaze squarely. ‘You just have to learn that money can’t buy everything you see.’

‘I’ll try to remember that,’ he said with suspicious meekness, leaving Tara to pour the coffee with the vexed consciousness that she’d just sounded like a pompous idiot.

She’d allowed this stranger—this intruder—to get under her skin somehow. As if they were playing some game to which he alone knew the rules, she thought uneasily.

She passed him a cup of coffee, offering milk and sugar with a polite murmur. He declined.

‘Have you been down here long?’ she asked as she sipped the strong, fragrant brew.

‘About ten days altogether.’

Her spirits rose slightly. Presumably that indicated holiday, and he’d be back to work and out of her hair after the weekend.

‘Have you had good weather?’

‘Sunshine and showers. Pretty much what you’d expect for the time of year.’ He was grinning again. ‘I feel as if I’m being interviewed by a minor royal.’

Tara smacked her cup back into its saucer. ‘I thought you preferred direct questions.’

‘When they lead to an exchange of information.’ The blue eyes challenged her again. ‘Not when they’re being used as a barrier to hide behind.’

‘You have a vivid imagination,’ she said coldly. ‘What am I supposed to be hiding from, pray?’

‘I wish I knew,’ he murmured.

‘I’m sorry if you don’t find me particularly scintillating company,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘But I’ve had a very long and rather trying day.’

‘With myself as the chief trial, no doubt,’ he said cheerfully. He swallowed the rest of his coffee and pushed his chair back. ‘So, to prove my heart’s in the right place, I’ll rid you of my presence as soon as I’ve helped with the washing up.’

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