Irresistible Temptation

‘Everyone whose house backs on to it,’ he returned laconically. ‘It’s a communal venture.’

Then, into the phone, ‘Sasha—sorry to annoy you at the weekend, but do you have any place available in that doss-house of yours?’ The lines beside his mouth deepened in amusement as he studied Olivia’s sudden rigidity. ‘Yes, just one waif and stray—female—wandering in off the street.’

He laughed. ‘No, not feline, although I’d say she had claws.’ He listened for a moment, grinning. ‘Not a chance, my love. She’s definitely not my type, and claims to be spoken for anyway. You can? You’re a saint. I’ll send her round.’

He switched off the phone. ‘Well, that’s you fixed up.’

She glared at him. ‘It never occurred to you that I’d like to make my own arrangements, I suppose?’

‘Frankly, no.’ His grin deepened. ‘So, what was your major plan? Camping on my doorstep, looking hopeless and helpless, until Jeremy comes back?’ He shook his head. ‘You’d lower the tone of the neighbourhood.

‘No, you’ll be all right with Sasha,’ he went on, ignoring her furious gasp. ‘Her lodgers seem to be a transient population, so she’s usually got a room free.’

‘Sasha.’ Olivia paused. ‘Is she Russian?’

‘No.’ His face softened momentarily, making him seem almost human. Even attractive. And increasing that vague sense of familiarity. ‘Just eccentric.’

He gave her a level look with no amusement at all. ‘And she’s got a kind heart, so I would take it personally if she was made a fool of in any way. By someone doing a runner, for instance, without paying the rent.’

‘She’ll be paid.’ Olivia stopped trying to work out where she could possibly have seen him before, and reverted effortlessly to simply loathing him again. ‘Although I don’t expect to be staying there long.’

‘Of course not. You’ll be waiting for Jeremy to provide a suitable love-nest, no doubt. And maybe he will. Only it won’t be under my roof.’

‘And what the hell has it to do with you?’

He shrugged, unruffled. ‘As I mentioned, he’s married. Maybe I have more scruples.’

And, as if on cue, a girl’s voice called, ‘Declan—Declan, darling, where are you?’

Olivia, glancing toward the hall, could see long bare legs descending the stairs. Up to that moment she’d thought no one could be wearing less than her reluctant host, but she was wrong.

The redhead who now appeared and stood, posing coquettishly, in the doorway was using a peach-coloured towel as an inadequate sarong.

‘Darling,’ she said, pouting reproachfully. ‘I woke up and couldn’t find you. It was horrid.’ She glanced towards Olivia, her glance hardening fractionally. ‘But I didn’t realise you were—entertaining.’

Her laugh was slightly metallic. ‘If this is your latest, then your taste must be slipping.’

Indignant colour flared in Olivia’s face at this piece of gratuitous rudeness, but before she could speak Declan stepped forward.

‘Wrong on all counts, Melinda, my sweet. Ms Butler is just a passing acquaintance.’ He sent Olivia an edged look. ‘And, hopefully, passing out of my life for good very soon. Now go back to bed, and I’ll see you presently.’

The girl sent him a radiant smile, the tip of her pink tongue caressing her lower lip. ‘Is that a promise?’ she asked huskily.

‘Trust me.’ His voice was low-pitched, intimate. The air in the room seemed suddenly alive—electric.

For a shocked moment, Olivia was aware of a slight frisson—a tingle down her own spine.

The Owner might be loathsome, but he was also undeniably sexy—if you liked that sort of thing. As the redhead falling out of the peach towel obviously did, for she was turning and trailing obediently back upstairs.

Olivia felt oddly desolate, suddenly. But small wonder, she thought. After all, she’d arrived expecting a blissful reunion with Jeremy, leading to a passionate consummation, and instead here she was, an intruder, forced into the role of voyeur in someone else’s love-life.

There was a strange silence in the room that she needed to break.

She cleared her throat. ‘I gather you don’t have any moral scruples about your own conduct?’

‘Correct.’ His grin was unabashed. ‘But I’m not married, and never have been. That makes a difference.’ He paused. ‘Nor am I a home-wrecker.’

The atmosphere tingled again.

Olivia said coldly and clearly, ‘If you’ll give me this woman’s address, I’ll go.’

He picked up a message pad and wrote on it. ‘It’s on the other side of the garden. You’ll be able to pick up a black cab at the end of the road if you can’t walk that far with your luggage.’

‘I hope you don’t expect me to thank you effusively.’ Olivia accepted the slip of paper, then stalked into the hall and picked up her case.

‘I gave up believing in miracles a long time ago.’ He unfastened the front door and held it open for her. ‘Goodbye, Ms Butler.’

‘Oh, that’s such a final word,’ she said with saccharine sweetness. ‘I much prefer au revoir, don’t you?’

‘Not,’ he said, ‘where you’re concerned. I’ll tell Jeremy where he can find you. Against my better judgement, I may say,’ he added grimly.

The door slammed, shutting her out into a sunlit day which seemed suddenly to have lost its warmth.

‘To hell with him,’ she muttered, hefting her case down the steps. ‘Jeremy will be back soon—and then our life together will begin.’

She gave a last look back at the house.

‘And there isn’t a thing you can do about it,’ she added defiantly, just as if he was listening.

She walked away, without looking back, but found herself wondering, at the same time, if he was standing at one of the windows, watching her go. And, if so, precisely why should it matter to her anyway?

CHAPTER TWO

BROODINGLY, Declan stood at the study window, watching Olivia’s slim figure walk away. He was already regretting the quixotic impulse to suggest Sasha as a temporary refuge for her.

I should have taken her to Paddington—put her on the next train west. Saved a hell of a lot of trouble all round, he told himself irritably.

He saw her stop and put down her case, flexing her fingers before transferring it to her other hand and walking on. Her straight back looked gallant, and somehow vulnerable, and he cursed silently. He knew that if he’d been dressed he’d have felt obliged to go after her. Help her with the bloody thing. Take her to Sasha’s and introduce her, even.

And yet there was no obligation on his side. On the contrary, he reminded himself bitterly. All he’d probably done by his intervention was make a bad situation worse.

For a moment or two he let his thoughts dwell unpleasantly on Jeremy Attwood, and the things he would have to say to him on his return.

That done, the ball would be in Jeremy’s court. This is his damned mess. Let him sort it out, he told himself curtly as he turned determinedly away from the window.

In the meantime, he had a problem of his own to deal with.

He went swiftly up the stairs to the first floor. The drawing room was there, with its panoramic view over the garden, but he didn’t waste a glance on it, heading instead for the door at the back of the room which led to his private suite. For his next task he needed to be fully dressed, with his head firmly together.

He stepped through into the narrow passage, and turned right into his dressing room, grabbing some underwear, a white cotton shirt and a pair of jeans. He was on his way into the bathroom opposite when he realised that his bedroom door at the end of the passage was standing ajar, and he knew he’d left it closed.

Still holding his armful of clothing, he moved noiselessly along the passage, his foot tangling in something lying on the floor in front of the door. Mouth tightening, he recognised the peach towel from the guest bathroom on the second floor, and swore under his breath.

He pushed the door wide, and stood in the doorway. Melinda was propped artistically against the pillows of his bed, the covers draped across her hips.

‘Hello, darling.’ Her smile was pure invitation. ‘What an age you’ve been. Did you manage to get rid of the little brown mouse?’

Declan leaned a shoulder against the doorpost. He felt unutterably weary. ‘What are you doing, Melinda?’

‘Waiting for you, darling, what else? You did tell me to.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I said I’d see you later. Not the same thing at all.’

‘Don’t be picky, sweetie.’ She moved slowly, luxuriously, stretching her arms above her head. ‘Doesn’t this bring back some happy memories?’

‘I won’t deny that.’ Declan kept his eyes fixed steadily on her face. ‘But I also remember that you’re engaged—to Bill Fenner. Maybe you should, too.’

‘Bill’s in Warwickshire, staying with his dreary family,’ she said with a touch of impatience. ‘That’s why he didn’t take me to the party last night. He can be so boring sometimes.’

‘And this is pay-back time—for being boring?’ Declan sighed. ‘No, Melinda. That’s not how it works. Now go and get dressed, and I’ll call a cab for you.’

She lifted a hand, admiring the sparkle of the enormous diamond she wore on her left hand.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘Bill might want to know why I ended up naked in your bed last night. He might feel you’d taken advantage.’

‘You actually ended up naked in the spare room bed,’ Declan said dispassionately. ‘I had to bring you here because you were drunk, and making a nuisance of yourself at the party. I’d have taken you home, but the cab driver refused to go any further in case you threw up. I undressed you for the same reason.’ He gave her a level look. ‘And Bill will almost certainly not want to hear about that.’

‘My word, haven’t we got virtuous all of a sudden?’ Melinda wasn’t smiling any more. ‘Could this be the influence of Little Miss Well-Scrubbed downstairs?’

‘No,’ Declan said wearily. ‘It’s all my own idea. What we had is over now. We’ve both moved on, so let’s leave it like that.’

She threw back the covers and walked towards him, body moving sinuously. ‘I could make you change your mind.’

Once, he thought. But not any more. Once he’d have damned all thought of decency, and reached for her. But his mind had stopped wanting her a long time before his body did. A realisation that made him ashamed, because in those last weeks they’d spent together he knew he’d just been using her.

He said more gently. ‘You could probably bring a stone statue to life, Melinda. You’re a beautiful woman. But you’re not my woman—and that makes all the difference.’

‘Or perhaps you’re just losing it,’ she said contemptuously as she went past him. ‘And I’ll get my own cab,’ she threw back over her shoulder.

Maybe she was right, Declan told himself with wry derision as he stood under the shower a short while later. Certainly he hadn’t put himself out to find female company lately. And the few dates he’d had had been strictly casual.

He could say he’d been working too hard to pursue any personal relationships. As well as writing a weekly political column for the Sunday Clarion, his television commitments were burgeoning. A new series of Division Bell was starting next week on First City TV, and he’d also been asked to research and draw up a proposal for a series on Prime Ministers of the past, covering the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Never a dull moment, he thought drily. But it left him with little free time. And what there was he preferred to spend in Ireland, at his parents’ stud farm, helping out with the horses rather than doing the social rounds.

However, there’d been a girl at the party last night who’d made her interest in him perfectly clear—until Melinda had started behaving badly, and their hostess had quietly begged him to remove her.

She was an interior decorator, tall, blonde, and definitely attractive, and he had one of her cards somewhere—probably in his jacket.

‘In case you want advice about a room,’ she’d told him, smiling.

He’d ring her presently, he decided as he towelled himself down. Apologise for his abrupt departure, and ask if she’d like to have dinner. See where it might lead.

She was called Claudia, he remembered, and it was a name he liked. An unusual name—rather like Olivia.

His mouth tightened in irritation. He hadn’t planned to throw another thought in her direction. But the image of that slight, lonely figure walking down the road with her case seemed etched on his mind.

All the more reason to call Claudia, he told himself cynically. Because Olivia was bad news, and he wasn’t going to waste another thought on her—or any of Jeremy’s leavings for that matter.

Sasha was a small woman, slender to the point of emaciation, and draped in a black caftan ornamented with embroidered tropical flowers. She had rich magenta hair which she wore twisted into dozens of little spiral curls, and amazing dark blue eyes, heavily emphasised with kohl. In one hand she held a cheroot. The other was attempting to control a small, brown terrier, spitting out fire and fury on a high-pitched note between a yap and a warble.

Her voice was surprisingly deep and husky, probably, Olivia thought, because of the cheroots.

‘So you’re Declan’s waif.’ Olivia was looked up and down, and assessed in one sweeping glance.

‘The flat’s down here, darling.’ She led Olivia down a flight of outside steps to the basement. ‘There’s only one room, but it has its own separate kitchen, and I had the bathroom fitted two years ago. The rest of the basement I use for storage.’

She opened the living room door, and motioned Olivia to go in. ‘The sofa turns into a bed, and I can lend you linen and stuff till you get fixed up. Will it do?’

‘It’s wonderful,’ Olivia admitted. She bit her lip. ‘But I must warn you I don’t expect to be staying long.’

‘People don’t.’ Sasha shrugged. ‘They come and go, and that’s fine with me. I’m just a stepping post on their journey.’ She paused. ‘What about the rent, darling?’ The dark blue eyes flicked shrewdly over her again, and she nodded. ‘It’s seventy-five pounds a week. Can you manage it? You’re not working, are you?’

‘Not yet,’ Olivia said quietly. ‘But first thing on Monday morning I’m going to start job-hunting.’

‘What sort of thing are you looking for—acting—modelling?’

‘Heavens, no.’ Olivia felt emotionally battered by the events of the morning, but she managed a weak giggle. ‘In Bristol I taught computer systems in offices, but I thought I’d look for a secretarial agency—start by temping.’

‘Oh.’ Sasha gave her an astonished look. ‘You mean real work. Such a novelty. My tenants are usually waiting tables and stacking shelves while they wait to be discovered.’

She swept to the door, the tropical flowers billowing, the dog firmly tucked under her arm. ‘When you’ve unpacked, come on up and we’ll have some coffee, introduce ourselves properly. I can brief you on local shops, house rules and things at the same time. Humph and I will be in the kitchen. Just push the door open and yell.’

‘Thank you.’ Olivia gave her a resolute smile. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘Ah, well, darling,’ said Sasha. ‘Declan sent you. And I’d do anything for Declan.’

So would I, Olivia thought bitterly, as she unfastened her case. As long as it involved red-hot irons and a few gallons of boiling oil.

But she seemed to have fallen on her feet, she admitted, looking round her. The room was large, the furniture was simple and comfortable, and it was spotlessly clean. And amazingly cheap, for London, too. She’d expected to be charged twice or three times as much.

Sasha’s kitchen was big, cosy and chaotic. As she went in Olivia was greeted by the small brown dog, warbling menacingly at full throttle.

‘Quiet, Humph, you fool.’ Sasha, percolator in hand, swept a pile of newspapers, empty envelopes and special offer coupons from the large pine table to the floor with one magnificent gesture. ‘You’ve got to tell friend from foe. He’s a Norfolk terrier with the soul of a Rottweiler,’ she added. ‘Grab a chair, darling, but not the one with the embroidered cushion—that’s Humph’s.’

She poured the coffee into attractive pottery mugs, set cream and sugar beside them, and offered home-made carrot cake which Olivia fell on thankfully.

‘So, tell me all about yourself,’ Sasha said, lighting another cheroot. ‘How long have you known my lovely Declan?’

Olivia put down her mug, her stomach churning in swift apprehension. ‘Er—not long.’

Oh, come on, she chided herself. Tell the truth, even if she dumps you back on the pavement. She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I met him for the first time about an hour ago. I—I was looking for someone else entirely.’

‘Serendipity,’ Sasha nodded, apparently unfazed. ‘A happy accident.’

‘Not,’ Olivia said tautly, ‘how I’d have described it.’

‘Ah, you clashed.’ Sasha gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Excellent.’

‘I don’t think he sees it that way,’ Olivia said thinly.

‘Well, of course not. He’s had to beat women off with sticks since he could walk. And now he’s a media personality I expect he gets targeted by all sorts.’

‘Media personality?’ Olivia stared at her, while connections in her brain jangled into place. ‘My God,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘I’ve just realised—he’s Declan Malone. He interviews politicians on television. I knew I’d seen him somewhere.’

But not, she thought, next to naked on a doorstep.

Sasha gurgled. ‘You could say that, darling. I think I’m going to like you.’ She paused, frowning slightly. ‘Declan can be abrasive sometimes, because his work demands it, but his heart’s in the right place or you wouldn’t be here now. Why, he’s even got one of his in-laws lodging with him, which I think is carrying charity too far.’

Olivia swallowed her last morsel of carrot cake. ‘One of his in-laws?’ she repeated.

‘Well, almost.’ Sasha gestured broadly, doing no good to yet another pile of miscellaneous paperwork. ‘The chap who’s married to his cousin Maria. But she and Declan were practically brought up as brother and sister, so I suppose it counts.’

‘Yes,’ Olivia said, dry-mouthed. ‘I—suppose it does.’

She felt deathly cold—shrivelling inside. She wanted to throw her head back and howl like a banshee.

My God, she thought, despairingly. He’s Maria’s cousin, and I just marched up to his door and laid my claim to her husband. What have I said? What have I done?

Oh, Jeremy—Jeremy. Why didn’t you warn me?

Because he didn’t know you were about to descend on him, a small, flat voice in her head reminded her. You did it all off your own bat, and now you have to live with the consequences. Whatever they are.

‘Are you all right?’ Sasha was staring at her. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, darling.’

‘No.’ Olivia mustered a smile. ‘I think I’ve just realised how much I’ve bitten off—and I’m wondering if I can chew it.’

‘While on the subject of chewing.’ Sasha grabbed an envelope and drew a swift sketch map on the back of it. ‘The Portobello Road, darling, and our closest food source. Today’s market day, so you’ll find everything you need, but keep a close grip on your wallet. Pickpockets are practically endemic down there, so try not to look like a tourist.’

She didn’t feel like a tourist, Olivia thought an hour later, as she picked her way warily along the crowded Portobello pavements. More like an alien from the Planet Zog.

She’d spent a fraught hour with Sasha, being interrogated with the utmost charm on her background from birth to the present day. Nothing to hide there, but she’d had to dance round the subject of why she’d come to London, and how she’d happened to fetch up in W11.

She’d said far too much about her association with Jeremy already, and she suspected Sasha would approve no more than Declan Malone.

She’d been quite glad to make her urgent need to shop for provisions an excuse to escape.

And now here she was, walking down the Portobello Road. At first she thought she’d come to the wrong place, because all she could see on both sides of the road were antiques shops. The displays of silver and crystal were certainly mouth-watering, but there was no sign of any food outlets.

She crossed a road, and suddenly found herself absorbed into an alternative reality. A rowdy, brash reality, where dozens of ethnic accents brayed and clashed. Where clumps of street musicians vied for attention with a non-stop assault on the eardrums. Where stall-holders bellowed incomprehensible special offers. Olivia was wearing her bag slung diagonally across her body under her jacket, and she kept a protective hand on it as she found herself almost borne along on a tidal wave of humanity.

She was used to crowds, for heaven’s sake. She’d lived and worked in Bristol. But here the noise and numbers suddenly threatened to overwhelm her.

She’d never seen a market like it. As well as all the fruit and vegetables on offer, there were innumerable stalls offering bric-à-brac, second-hand clothing—including a display of old fur coats and military uniforms from another century—books, jewellery and musical instruments.

The temptation to linger and explore was fierce, but buying food had to be her main priority.

She turned and fought her way back, diving into a supermarket with something like relief. She filled a basket with staples, then pushed her way up the road to a specialist bakery she’d noticed earlier, where tempting displays of every kind of bread and pastry were presented outside for customers to pick and mix.

Olivia chose some focaccia bread, with a mini-baguette filled with smoked ham and salad, which, with fruit, would serve as lunch. She selected apples, plums, tomatoes and peppers from a street stall, and then stopped at the old-fashioned butcher’s further up the road and bought a chicken and enough minced pork and beef to make a pasta sauce.

On her way back, she passed the end of a cobbled mews and paused for a moment, looking wistfully at the narrow smart houses, painted in pastel colours. One of them she saw, even had a ‘For Sale’ board hanging from its first-floor balcony.

As she hesitated a couple came out of the house opposite, walking fast, hand in hand, the girl looking up into her companion’s face and laughing. Olivia stepped back to let them pass, an intense pang of envy twisting inside her as she wondered what it would be like to live there with someone you loved.

She allowed herself to indulge a brief fantasy of being there with Jeremy. Wandering out to buy fresh croissants and oranges to squeeze for breakfast, while he stayed in bed with the newspapers. Then, later, going for a stroll together round the second-hand bookshops and junk stalls, choosing something for the house—a piece of pottery, maybe, or some glassware. Something to provide memories in the years ahead.

She stopped herself right there. At the moment there was no guarantee that she was going to share any time with Jeremy, she thought wretchedly. Not after her appalling gaffe at Lancey Gardens.

She shuddered as she walked slowly back up the hill, weighed down by her shopping and the remembrance of the morning’s confrontation.

Because she could just imagine the row there would be when Jeremy got back, she thought despondently.

Declan Malone had caught her off guard—flicked her on the raw—but that was no excuse. She’d behaved like an idiot, pushing herself forward like that before she’d sussed out the situation.

If only Jeremy had told her that he was holed up temporarily with his wife’s cousin. Instead, she’d gained the opposite impression—that he had his own independent flat, that he was making a life which she would be able to share.

I couldn’t have been listening properly, she admitted, with a sigh. Or else I simply heard what I wanted to hear.

Nothing, but nothing was working out as she’d expected. And she could well end up on her own in one of the world’s great uncaring capitals.