British Bachelors: Tempting & New: Seduction Never Lies / Holiday with a Stranger / Anything but Vanilla...

He took the seat opposite her, stretching out long legs, making her hurriedly draw back her own chair to avoid any risk of contact. And seeing his mouth curl cynically as he registered her hasty movement.

‘Free champagne,’ Fiona echoed and gave a little trill of laughter. ‘Wow.’ She put a perfectly manicured hand on Jago’s arm. ‘I can see it’s going to be non-stop party time in future.

‘You must have a house-warming—when the Manor’s fit for you to move into. Although my father says you’d be better off pulling it down and starting again. After all, it’s hardly a listed building.’

‘That’s one viewpoint certainly,’ Jago said courteously. ‘But not one I happen to share.’ He paused, looking at Patrick. ‘And on the subject of friends and neighbours, shouldn’t you introduce me?’

‘Of course. How totally dreadful of me,’ Fiona gushed. ‘This is Patrick Wilding who’s a fabulous accountant, and whose mother runs the most marvellous girls’ preparatory school in the village.’

She added, ‘Funnily enough, Octavia has a little job there too, when she’s not rushing round the district, of course, doing good works.’ She smiled brilliantly, ‘So, Patrick, meet Jago Marsh.’

‘How do you do?’ Jago leaned forward, proffering a hand which Patrick accepted with barely concealed reluctance, muttering an awkward reply.

Which, in the good manners stakes, left Jago leading by a length, thought Tavy, biting her lip as the champagne arrived in an ice bucket, accompanied by four flutes.

As Jago began to fill them, she said, ‘I already have a drink, thank you.’ Sounding, she realised with vexation, like a prim schoolgirl.

‘Which you don’t seem to be enjoying particularly,’ he said, looking at her untouched glass. He put a gently bubbling flute in front of her. ‘Have this instead.’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ Patrick said shortly. ‘I’ll stick to beer.’

‘But I still hope you’ll join me in a toast.’ Jago raised his glass. ‘To new beginnings,’ he said softly. ‘And new friends.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Fiona touched her glass to his. Her smile flashed again. ‘Particularly those.’

This time, it was Tavy’s turn to mumble something. She managed a fleeting look at Patrick, who was responding to the toast as if his beer had turned to prussic acid.

But the champagne was wonderful, fizzing faintly in her mouth, cool against her throat. She leaned back in her chair listening to the music, thinking that it hardly matched its title. That it wasn’t ‘easy’ at all, with its intense, primitive rhythm, but wrenched and disturbing as if dragged up from some dark and painful place. An assault on the senses.

It wasn’t her kind of music at all, she told herself swiftly, but she couldn’t deny its almost feral impact.

Fiona was talking to Jago. ‘It must make you feel wonderful, hearing this again. Remembering its amazing success.’

He shrugged. ‘To be honest, it just seems a very long time ago.’

‘But you were headline news,’ she persisted. ‘Everyone wanted to know about you.’

‘Indeed they did,’ he said. ‘And what the papers couldn’t find out, they made up.’

‘And the band’s name,’ Fiona rushed on. ‘People said you really meant to be called “Dissent” because you were in rebellion against society, only someone got the spelling wrong on your first contract.’ And she giggled.

‘I’m afraid the story is wrong.’ His voice was quiet, the tawny eyes oddly brooding. ‘Pete Hilton, the bass player and I studied Virgil’s Aeneid at school, and we took our name from Book Six where the oracle says, “Facilis descensus Averno”. Easy is the descent into Hell.’ He added wryly, ‘Before pointing out that very few who get there make it back again.’

He paused. ‘However, it failed to mention that sometimes the demons you find there make the return journey with you.’

Tavy stared at him. His voice had been level, even expressionless but there had been something in his words that had lifted all the hair on the back of her neck.

‘You learned Latin?’ Fiona did not mask her surprise.

‘We all did at my school,’ he said, and smiled at her. ‘Including, of course, your husband, who was in my year.’

Seeing Fiona Culham thoroughly disconcerted didn’t happen often, thought Tavy, a bud of illicit pleasure opening within her, but it was worth waiting for.

‘Oh,’ the other girl said at last. ‘You mean my ex-husband, of course.

‘I had no idea you were at the same school.’

He said gently, ‘And why should you?’

As the music ended in a wave of clapping and stamping from the other customers, he looked across at Tavy. ‘So, what did you think of that blast from the past, Miss Denison?’

‘Not much, I bet,’ Fiona said dismissively. ‘Octavia never listens to anything that can’t be found in Hymns Ancient and Modern.’

‘She’s a good judge,’ Jago said lightly. ‘As someone said, why should the devil have all the best tunes?’

‘But I didn’t think yours was a tune.’ Tavy’s voice was quiet. ‘It was too angry. It made me feel uncomfortable.’ She added, ‘But I expect that was the intention.’

There was an odd silence, then Patrick said, ‘I’m getting myself another pint.’ And went.

‘You must excuse me too,’ said Fiona, brightly. ‘I need to powder my nose.’

Leaving Tavy alone at the table with Jago Marsh in a silence which was suddenly almost tangible.

And which he was the first to break. ‘So he isn’t just the employer’s son?’

‘No,’ she said, slightly breathless, shakily aware that his eyes were travelling slowly over her, lingering shamelessly on the softly rounded curves tantalisingly displayed by the low neckline of the indigo dress, as if the fabric that covered her no longer existed. As if he was remembering exactly how much he’d seen of her at their first meeting. And, judging by his faint smile, enjoying every moment of the memory.

Making her wish almost desperately that she’d worn something less revealing, and tied her hair back instead of leaving it loose.

And that there was something altogether more substantial than a pub table between them.

Fight back, she thought as, in spite of herself, a slow tingle of awareness shivered through her body. Don’t let him do this to you.

She lifted her chin. ‘We’re—involved.’

He nodded reflectively. ‘And how does the employer feel about that?’

‘That is none of your business!’

‘Oh, dear,’ he said lightly. ‘That bad, eh?’

‘Not at all,’ she denied swiftly. ‘I simply prefer not to discuss it.’ Especially with you...

His eyes never left her. ‘So, exactly how deep is this involvement, or am I not allowed to ask that either?’

Colour rose in her face. ‘No you’re not.’

‘Which totally confirms my suspicions,’ he murmured.

‘Well, you have no right to suspect anything,’ Tavy countered, her flush deepening. ‘Or to indulge in any kind of unwarranted speculation about my personal life.’

‘Wow, that’s serious stuff,’ Jago said, grinning at her. ‘I shall consider myself rebuked.’

‘Now I’ll ask you something,’ she said. ‘What made you choose the Willow Tree of all places tonight?’

‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘In case you think I’m stalking you or something equally sinister. In fact, the former Mrs Latimer suggested it. She and her father came up to the Manor this morning to introduce themselves, and, as they were leaving, I asked her if she’d like to go for a drink.’

He paused. ‘You see? My life, unlike yours, is an open book.’

‘But one I’d prefer not to read,’ she said crisply, seeing with relief that Patrick was returning from the bar, edging gingerly through the crowd with his brimming glass, his face flushed and sullen. ‘Just as I’d rather we kept our distance from each other in future.’

‘That could be tricky,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Hazelton Magna being such a very small village.’ He added softly, ‘Besides, Octavia, you were the one who came calling first. If you remember.’

She took a gulp of champagne to ease the sudden tightness in her throat.

She said thickly, ‘I’m hardly likely to forget.’

His smile seemed to touch her like the stroke of a finger on her skin. ‘Then at least we have that in common,’ he murmured and rose politely as Fiona also reappeared.

After that, it was downhill all the way. Once the complimentary champagne was gone, Jago, to Fiona’s open satisfaction and her own secret dismay, simply ordered another bottle.

She tried to catch Patrick’s eye to hint it was time to go, but her signal was ignored and he went off to the bar in his turn to obtain a third, or, she realised, startled, possibly even a fourth pint.

Which meant that he’d be in no fit state to drive, she thought, taking a covert peep at her watch, and trying to remember the timing of the last bus.

She’d never known him drink as much before. A pint and a half or maybe a couple of glasses of red wine were generally his limit.

I should have talked to him when I first got here, she told herself unhappily. Persuaded him to tell me what was troubling him. Why his day had been so rotten. Now, there’s no chance.

Fiona was off again, describing parties she’d been to in London, film premieres, theatre opening nights. Dropping celebrity names in an obvious effort to establish mutual acquaintances, but without any marked success.

Jago listened politely, but explained that he had spent most of the time since the band split up travelling abroad, and was therefore out of the loop.

‘Oh, but once it’s known you’re back, all that will change,’ Fiona said. ‘Besides, there was a piece in one of the papers only a few weeks ago, saying Descent might be getting back together. How marvellous would that be?’

‘I read that too,’ he said. ‘Pure speculation.’

‘I know you fell out with Pete Hilton,’ she said. ‘But surely you could find another bass player.’

‘Dozens, probably, if we wanted,’ he said, refilling her glass.

‘But you heard the reaction to Easy, Easy here tonight,’ she protested. ‘Imagine that repeated a million times over.’

‘I don’t have to use my imagination.’ There was a sudden harshness in his voice. ‘We experienced it in real life. Now we’ve made different choices.’

‘That’s crap and you know it,’ Patrick said belligerently. ‘With enough money on the table, you’d be off touring again tomorrow.’

Tavy groaned inwardly. She put her hand on his arm. ‘I think it’s time we were going.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I want him to admit it.’

Jago looked down at the table, shrugging slightly. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Whatever you say, mate.’

‘And I’m not your mate,’ Patrick retorted. ‘Face it, you’re going to need a couple more million in the coffers to make that dump you’ve bought hab-habitable.’ He brought the word out with difficulty.

‘Which reminds me,’ Fiona broke in hurriedly. ‘I have a list of some simply marvellous interior designers—top people—that friends of mine used in London. I’ll give it to you.’

‘Thanks,’ Jago said. ‘But I’ve already decided to use only local firms.’

‘Lord Bountiful in person,’ Patrick muttered. ‘Crumbs from the rich man’s table. I hope they remember to touch their forelocks.’

Jago’s lips tightened, but he said nothing, just turned in his chair and beckoned, and Tavy saw the landlord Bill Taylor approaching.

‘Now then, Mr Wilding.’ His voice was polite but firm. ‘Let’s call it a night, shall we? The wife’s phoning for a taxi to take you home, so I’ll have your keys, if I may, and you can pick up your car in the morning. I’ll put it at the back next to mine, so it’ll be quite safe.’

‘I can drive,’ Patrick said. ‘I can drive perfectly well, damn your bloody cheek.’

The older man shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir. I can’t allow that. If anything should happen—if you were picked up by the police, it would reflect on me and the good name of the pub, letting you leave like this.’

He looked at Tavy. ‘And I’ll make sure you get back safely too, my dear.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Tavy, humiliation settling on her like a clammy hand. ‘I can catch the bus.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Jago. ‘I’ll be taking Miss Denison home.’ As Tavy’s lips parted in instinctive protest, he added softly, ‘Not negotiable.’

That was all very well, thought Tavy, her throat tightening, but she knew what Fiona’s reaction would be to having her evening spoiled in this way. She could almost feel the daggers piercing her flesh.

But when she ventured a glance at the other girl, she found Fiona was not even looking her way. Instead her eyes were fixed on Patrick who was still hunched, red-faced, in his chair.

She looks—almost triumphant, thought Tavy in total bewilderment. But why?

It was an awkward journey, with Charlie at the wheel, and all of them seated in the rear of the car, Jago in the middle. There was plenty of room, but Tavy found herself trying to edge further away just the same, squashing into the corner, and staring fixedly out of the window at very little, as she tried not to hear what the others were saying.

And she could well have done without that faint trace of musky scent in the air, released by the warmth of his skin and reviving memories of her own that she could have dispensed with too.

While even more disturbing was the imminent risk of his thigh grazing hers.

‘Ted Jackson.’ Fiona’s voice had lifted a disapproving notch. ‘I do wish you’d talked to Daddy before hiring him. His wife is the most appalling gossip, but Ted can match her, rumour for rumour. You won’t be able to keep anything secret.’

‘I doubt I have any secrets left,’ said Jago. ‘The tabloids did a pretty good dissection of my life and crimes while I was still with the band.’

‘They say your quarrel with Pete was over a woman.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ he said. ‘However, I prefer the past to remain that way and concentrate instead on a blameless future.’

‘That sounds terribly dull,’ Fiona said with a giggle. ‘Everyone needs a few dark corners.’

‘Even Octavia here?’

Tavy heard the smile in his voice, and bit her lip hard.

‘Oh, no,’ said Fiona. ‘The Vicar’s good girl never puts a foot wrong. An example to us all.’

Her tone made it sound a fate worse than death.

‘How very disappointing,’ he said lightly. ‘Yet people like the Jacksons can be very useful. For a newcomer to the district, anyway. You can find out a hell of a lot quite quickly.’

‘Well, on no account hire him to build you a swimming pool. We had endless problems and in the end Daddy had to sack him, and bring in someone else to finish the work.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Jago. ‘I have no plans for a pool.’

‘But you must have, surely. There’s that big disused conservatory at the side of the house. It would be ideal.’

‘I have other ideas about that,’ he said. ‘And when I want to swim, I have a lake.’

‘You must be joking,’ said Fiona with distaste. ‘That’s a frightful place, all overgrown and full of weeds. You should have it filled in.’

‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘I find it has a charm all of its own. And when it’s been cleared out, I intend to use it regularly. With its naked goddess for company, of course,’ he added reflectively.

Bastard, thought Tavy inexcusably, wondering how many bones she would break if she opened the car door and hurled herself out on to the verge.

On the other hand, there wasn’t far to go, and she was bound to be dropped off first, she thought, steeling herself, which would leave Jago and Fiona at liberty for—whatever.

Instead, she realised Charlie was taking the left fork for Hazelton Parva, and the White Gables stud, and groaned silently.

‘You will come in for coffee, won’t you,’ Fiona asked when they reached the house, adding perfunctorily, ‘You too, of course, Octavia.’

Jago shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, I have to get back to my hotel. I have early meetings in London tomorrow. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, I suppose I must forgive you.’ There was a pout in her voice, as Charlie opened her door for her. Jago got out too, walking with her to the front entrance.

Tavy turned her head and her attention to the semi-darkness outside the window again. She did not want to see if Jago Marsh was kissing Fiona Culham goodnight. For one thing, it was none of her business. For another...

She stopped right there, finding to her discomfort that she did not want to consider any alternatives.

Then tensed as she realised he was already back, rejoining her in the car. Her heartbeat quickened as she shrank even further into her corner.

He said, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I mean—no. I shouldn’t be here. I should have stayed with Patrick.’

There was a silence, then he said drily, ‘Your loyalty is commendable, but I doubt whether he’d have been much good to you tonight.’

She said in a suffocated voice, ‘I think you’re vile.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Just practical.’ He paused. ‘Does he often get blasted like that?’

‘No,’ she said hotly. ‘He doesn’t. And he only had a few pints. I don’t understand it.’

‘I think it was rather more than that. He was drinking whisky chasers up at the bar too.’

She gasped. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You can always check with the landlord,’ he said. ‘He warned me what was going on when I ordered the other bottle of champagne.’

‘He warned you? Why?’

‘I imagine in order to avoid trouble.’

‘Oh, it’s too late for that,’ she said quickly and bitterly. ‘Because you’re the real cause of the trouble. It started when you came here. When you decided to buy the Manor.’

She took a swift, trembling breath. ‘Mrs Wilding, Patrick’s mother, is afraid that her pupils’ parents will take them away from the school when word gets out that you’ve come to live in the village. That people won’t want their children exposed to your kind of influence. That there’ll be disruption—drunken parties—drugs.’

‘You’ve left out sex,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure that features prominently on the list of righteous objections to my loathsome presence.’

‘Can you wonder?’ Tavy hit back.

‘No,’ he said, with a brief harsh sigh. ‘The old maxim “Give a dog a bad name and hang him” has held good for centuries. Why should it be different here—in spite of your father’s benign guidance?’

He paused. ‘And now I may as well justify your dire opinion of me.’

He moved, reaching for her. Pulling her out of her corner and into his arms in one unhurried, irrefutable movement. Moulding her against his lean body.

The cool, practised mouth brushed hers lightly, even questioningly, then took possession, parting her lips with expert mastery, his tongue flickering against hers in a sensuous and subtle temptation totally outside her experience.

Her hands, instinctively raised to brace themselves against his chest and push him away, were instead trapped helplessly between them, and she could feel the tingling, pervasive warmth of his body against her spread palms, the steady throb of his heartbeat sending her own pulses jangling in a response as scaring as it was unwelcome.

Because she needed to resist him and the treacherous, almost languid wave of heat uncurling deep inside her, and the threat of its unleashed power. And knew she should do it now, as his kiss deepened in intensity and became an urgent demand.

Which was something she had to fight, she recognised, in some dazed corner of her mind, while she still had the will to do so.

Only it was all too late, because he, to her shame, was releasing her first. Putting her firmly away from him. And, as he did so, she realised the car had stopped, and that Charlie was already coming round to open the passenger door for her.

She stumbled out, drawing deep breaths of the cool night air, her sole intention to put the Vicarage’s solid front door between herself and her persecutor.

Except he was walking beside her, his hand inflexibly on her arm.

As they reached the porch, he said softly, ‘A word of advice, my sweet. When you eventually decide to surrender your virginity, choose a man who’s at least sober enough to appreciate you.’

She tore herself free and faced him, eyes blazing, nearly choking on the words. ‘You utter bastard. How dare you speak to me like that? Don’t you ever bloody touch me—come near me again.’

He tutted reprovingly. ‘What language. I hope for your sake that none of the morality brigade are listening.’

She spun on her heel, fumbling in her bag for her key, sensing rather than hearing the departure of the car down the drive. Trying desperately to calm herself before facing her father.

As she closed the door behind her, she called, ‘Hi, I’m home.’ But there was no reply and once again there were no lights showing.

It seemed that she had the house to herself. And with that realisation, the tight rein on her emotions snapped, and she burst uncontrollably and noisily into a flood of tears.

CHAPTER SIX

TAVY SPENT A restless, miserable night, and responded reluctantly to the sound of the alarm the following morning.

Clutching a handful of damp tissues, she’d stared into the darkness trying to make sense of Patrick’s extraordinary behaviour, and failing miserably.

But the chief barrier between herself and sleep was her body’s unexpected and unwelcome response to Jago Marsh’s mouth moving on hers. The warm, heavy throb across her nerve-endings, the stammer of her pulses, and, most shamingly, the swift carnal scald of need between her thighs—all sensations returning to torment her.

Reminding her that—just for a moment—she had not wanted him to stop...

She’d been caught off guard—that was all, she told herself defensively. And she would make damned sure that it never happened again.

When she got to the school, Mrs Wilding was waiting impatiently. ‘Oh, there you are, Octavia,’ she said as if Tavy was ten minutes late instead of five minutes early. ‘I want you to sort out the library this morning. Make sure all the books are catalogued, and shelved properly. List any that need to be replaced and repair any that are slightly worn.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I shall be going out.’

Tavy could remember carrying out the self-same operation, fully and thoroughly, at the end of the previous term, but knew better than to say so, merely replying, ‘Yes, Mrs Wilding.’

As she’d suspected, the library was in its usual neat order, and there was nothing to add to the list of replacements from the last check. Although she could do something brave and daring like creating a parallel list of books, and suggest that the library should be treated to a mass buying programme.

Some hopes, she thought with self-derision as she returned to her cubbyhole. Mrs Wilding liked the idea of a library because it sent a positive literacy message to the parents, but did not regard it as an investment.

She reprinted the original list, then sat staring at the computer screen, wondering how to occupy herself. Apart from the cheerful sound of Radio Two emanating faintly from Matron’s room, the place was silent.

Her hand moved slowly, almost in spite of itself, clicking the mouse to take her online, then keying in ‘Descent’.

She drew a breath, noting that the entries about them seemed endless. She scrolled down the page and Jago smiled out at her, sitting on a step, a can of beer in his hand, next to a fair-haired guy with a thin, serious face, both of them stripped to the waist and wearing jeans.

For a moment she felt something stir inside her, soft, almost aching, and clicked hastily on to ‘The Making of Descent’. She read that while Pete Hilton, the fair serious one, and Jago had met at public school and started writing songs together, they’d only made contact with the other members of the band, keyboard player and vocalist Tug Austin and drummer Verne Hallam when they’d all subsequently enrolled at the Capital School of Art in London.

They’d started playing gigs at schools and colleges in London, their music becoming increasingly successful, allied with a reputation for drinking and wild behaviour, and leading them to be thrown out of art college at the start of their third year.