Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

“Goodbye, Miss Carlton.”

The aggravating smile was on Jarrett’s lips. “I shall look forward to your next visit.”

His nearness was a very real threat. Saira felt her heart beat unusually fast and was intensely aware of his raw masculinity and the danger he posed. This was no ordinary man. He appeared laid-back and friendly, but beneath the surface he was as hard as steel.

Born in the industrial heart of England, MARGARET MAYO now lives with her husband in a pretty Staffordshire canal-side village. Once a secretary, she turned her hand to writing her books both at home and in exotic locations, combining her hobby of photography with her research.

Determined Lady
Margaret Mayo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

SAIRA looked forward with eager anticipation to seeing her great-aunt’s cottage again—no, not Aunt Lizzie’s, her own. It was hers now, she must not forget that; she was a property owner! The thought brought a smile to her face, yet it was tinged with sadness. It was going to be difficult walking into the cottage without her aunt there. Honeysuckle Cottage was Aunt Lizzie. The two had always been inseparable in her memory.

She could visualise the grey-stone building standing on its own at the end of the village street with its little crooked chimney and the honeysuckle after which it was named twisting and climbing all around the doorway and windows. She could almost smell the heady scent it gave off on summer evenings, and she silently urged the taxi driver to put his foot down on the accelerator.

She had happy memories of the cottage, of being spoilt and pampered and given all sorts of treats. She had been Elizabeth’s favourite great-niece and had spent every summer holiday there, and many weekends in between.

Of course, when she started college she had moved in a new circle of friends and they had holidayed together, and when she qualified and got a job and her holidays were much shorter she had not visited quite so frequently. But she had always kept in touch and had worried a great deal as her aunt’s bronchitis had worsened over the years.

When Lizzie had announced that she was going to spend the winter in Florida with friends, Saira had thought that, health-wise, it was the best thing she could do, and had actively encouraged her. She had never dreamt that anything would happen, had not known that her aunt had heart problems as well—she had kept that well hidden—and had been shocked to hear that she’d had a heart attack while out there and had been in Intensive Care. She had come home eventually, and everyone had thought she was adequately recovered, then she died without warning a few weeks later.

The news of Elizabeth Harwood’s death had come as a considerable shock to all the family. Lizzie had been an institution, a wise old figurehead always ready to dole out advice. She had been brought home to Darlington for the funeral, buried next to her husband and other members of their family, including Saira’s father.

A close solicitor friend of Elizabeth’s was executor of the will and it was from him that Saira learned she was to inherit the cottage, her mother and sisters sharing whatever money there was.

As this hadn’t turned out to be very much, it had seemed an unfair sort of arrangement to Saira, and she had offered to sell the cottage and share the proceeds equally. But the family knew how much Lizzie had doted on her, and vice versa, and insisted she keep her inheritance.

Both of Saira’s sisters were married with homes of their own, but even at twenty-six-Saira still lived with her mother. Maybe if her father hadn’t died she would have moved out and perhaps bought or rented a placebut she hadn’t, and now it felt good that she owned property as well—even if she only used it for holidays. It was really too far away from her job for her to live there permanently.

The driver turned off the main road and negotiated the lanes to Amplethwaite in North Yorkshire—and to Honeysuckle Cottage. The tiny square-paned windows would probably need cleaning, Saira thought, the paintwork would be dirty, the garden might be overgrown, but it would not matter; she would soon have everything neat and tidy exactly as Lizzie had kept it.

As they reached the village Saira asked the driver to slow down, looking with new eyes at the rows of sleepy cottages, the shop, the pub, the church. It all felt different now she was no longer a visitor—it felt different too because Aunt Lizzie would no longer be there to welcome her. She would be going into an empty house, there would be no smell of freshly baked bread, no bowls of roses on the table, no cheerful greeting. A lump welled in her throat.

Saira, green-eyed and fair-skinned, had thick, dark blonde hair which she almost always wore brushed straight back off her face, plaited to one side and brought forward over her shoulder. She played with it now, as she always did in times of stress, running her fingers across the end which was like a round, fat paintbrush.

When the taxi finally pulled up she sat still for a moment surveying the silent cottage, tears in her eyes, and even after she had paid the driver and he had disappeared out of sight she still stood looking at it, and her feet were slow on the flagged path when she finally forced herself to move.

Her hesitancy turned to puzzlement and then dismay when she discovered that the key Mr Kirby had given her would not fit the lock. There had to be some mistake. Had he sent her the right one? Or——

‘Excuse me, can I help?’

Saira turned at the sound of the female voice. A tiny, bent woman leaning on a walking stick, with a wrinkled face and faded blue eyes gazed enquiringly at her. ‘Are you looking for someone? I’m afraid Mrs Harwood——’

‘I’m Mrs Harwood’s great-niece,’ cut in Saira.

‘You’re Saira?’ The old lady peered more closely and recognition dawned. ‘Goodness, so you are.’

And Saira remembered Mrs Edistone too, though she hadn’t seen her very often on her visits to Yorkshire. The woman had a reputation for knowing more about other people’s business than they did themselves, Aunt Lizzie had used to say laughingly.

‘It was sad Lizzie dying,’ said the woman, her pale eyes watering.

Saira nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat. ‘Indeed it was, a very great shock.’

‘We all miss her. She was so well-loved in the village. What are you doing here? Have you come to sort out her things?’

‘Not exactly,’ admitted Saira, smiling inwardly. If Mrs Edistone wanted to know something she never hesitated to ask. ‘I’m your new neighbour. Aunt Lizzie left the cottage to me.’

The older woman frowned, her pale eyes puzzled. ‘But that can’t be; Lizzie sold it.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Saira looked at her in astonishment, a frown drawing her brows together, a faint sense of unease creeping over her.

‘Lizzie sold the cottage,’ the woman repeated, tapping her stick on the floor as if to emphasise her words.

Saira shook her head. ‘You must be mistaken, Mrs Edistone,’ she said gently. ‘My aunt definitely left it to me in her will.’ The woman was old; perhaps she was confusing it with some other cottage in the village.

‘I’m never wrong,’ returned the older lady. ‘The squire bought it off her.’

‘Did Aunt Lizzie tell you that herself?’ asked Saira, still convinced there had to be some confusion.

‘Not exactly,’ she admitted, ‘but I heard it from a reliable source.’

Saira had heard about Mrs Edistone’s reliable sources. Her aunt used to think that the voices were inside the woman’s head, that she made most of her stories up. ‘Who is this squire?’ she asked. ‘I’ll go and have a word with him.’

‘Jarrett Brent,’ answered her neighbour at once. ‘He owns Frenton Hall. We call him the squire because he’s bought up most of the property around here. Everything that goes up for sale he buys—and some that don’t,’ she added darkly. ‘I don’t know what he’s trying to dobuild up the estate again, I think. But those days are long since gone. I remember when——‘

Saira was forced to listen to a long story about life as it used to be and it was another quarter of an hour before she could get away.

‘Maybe I’ll see you again?’ the woman suggested pleasantly. ‘You’re welcome to pop in for a cup of tea any time.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Saira. At the moment all she wanted to do was find this man and sort the matter out without delay. Mrs Edistone was wrong, Honeysuckle Cottage did not belong to Jarrett Brent— whoever he was—it was hers, and if he dared to say differently she would fight him every inch of the way. She left her suitcase out of sight on the back doorstep and marched around the corner to Frenton Hall.

She remembered it clearly, having peered through the railings often as a child, wondering what sort of a family lived in such an enormous place; she had never seen any children and had made up stories about them being kept imprisoned by a wicked stepmother.

The Hall did not seem so intimidating as it had in years gone by; although it was indeed a huge house built of stone with long narrow windows on all sides.

In its own parkland, it was set well back from the main road, and black and gold wrought-iron gates prevented any intruders from accidentally wandering into the grounds. Saira unlatched the gates and stormed along the well maintained driveway. She was angry, very angry, more angry than she had ever been in her life. She did not take kindly to being cheated out of her inheritance by some stranger.

She stopped at the immense solid oak door and rang the bell. This man was probably taking advantage of her aunt’s death. He probably assumed she had no relatives and spread the word that he had bought it. But Aunt Lizzie’s will was legal and binding and if he dared to refute it she would take him to court. Already in her mind she was rehearsing what she was going to say.

The door opened and the woman who stood there looked at her questioningly, the expression on her face suggesting that she should not be there. She was tall and unhealthily thin, her grey hair fastened back in a bun. ‘Yes?’ The word was snapped out, making it very clear that she did not welcome uninvited callers.

‘I’d like to speak to Mr Jarrett Brent,’ said Saira firmly. At five feet nine and in her heels, with her head high and her eyes blazing she looked formidable, but even so she found this woman extremely intimidating. She was determined, however, to stand her ground.

‘I’m afraid Mr Brent is not at home,’ the woman answered haughtily, not in the least daunted by Saira’s attitude. ‘May I tell him who called?’

Saira groaned inwardly; she had not contemplated the possibility that he might not be in. ‘When will he be back?’ she asked. ‘It’s very important that I see him.’

‘I do not know.’ The woman looked at her coldly and began to shut the door.

Saira panicked and put out her hand to stop her. ‘Please, I must see him today. Surely you must have some idea?’

‘I expect he will be in for his lunch,’ she admitted grudgingly, ‘but Mr Brent never sees anyone without an appointment.’

‘Then I’ll make one now,’ said Saira firmly. ‘I’ll be back at two o’clock; please make sure he knows. My name is Saira Carlton.’ She turned swiftly on her heel before the woman could put her off again.

Lord, she hated the man even before she had met him. ‘Mr Brent is not at home.’ ‘Mr Brent never sees anyone without an appointment.’ The words echoed mockingly in her head. Hell, who did he think he was? He was obviously a man of some means, and he was trying to add Honeysuckle Cottage to his list of properties, but it would be over her dead body. Her aunt had wanted her to have it and no way was she going to let him trick her out of it. There was justice at stake here.

With over an hour to wait, Saira decided to have lunch in the Challoner’s Arms, Amplethwaite’s only pub. It was virtually empty when she first entered but the oak-beamed room was brimming with people before she had finished her plaice and chips.

She did not recognise any of them from her past visits to Amplethwaite and guessed they were all holiday-makers. She even asked the barman about Jarrett Brent, but he did not live in the village and knew very little about him. ‘He never comes here. I’ve never seen him,’ was all the answer she got.

At five minutes to two she left and at two o’clock exactly she stood on the doorstep of Frenton Hall and pressed the bell, her heart for some reason hammering uneasily. This time the door was opened straight away, the same dour woman appearing on the threshold, her face still fierce and unwelcoming. ‘Mr Brent will see you,’ she said, standing back for her to enter.

Saira hid her tiny smile of satisfaction. It felt like a major achievement getting past this woman. They passed through a small entrance hall into a much larger gracious hall and she looked about her with curious eyes. It was colossal, with great white columns and a three-tiered staircase and doors leading in every direction, but rather than admire it she resented the fact that this man had all this wealth while he was apparently trying to do her out of one tiny cottage.

‘Through here,’ muttered the woman, pushing open one of the doors.

The library was of the same immense proportions, each wall filled with books sitting in orderly fashion on glassfronted shelves; deep, oak-framed armchairs flanked the stone fireplace, and in the hearth an arrangement of fresh roses spilled out their heady perfume. Privately she thought it a bit pretentious, all show and no warmth.

‘You don’t like it?’

The unexpected voice, deep-timbred and faintly condescending, made her spin on her heel and she found herself gazing into a pair of cold, intensely blue eyes. They were wide-spaced and long-lashed; in fact the man’s whole face was open, as though he had a frank, honest nature, though she knew that this could not be the case.

He had a wide, generous mouth which curled upwards at the corners as if he were smiling all the time, which again was definitely wrong; it wasn’t a pleasant smile, it was a mocking one. In fact his whole face was a contradiction. His eyes, though beautiful—far too beautiful for a man—were distant and assessing, his attitude faintly hostile as though he knew her reason for being here was not a friendly one.

‘What makes you think that?’ Saira locked her sloeshaped green eyes into his. He was extremely tall, with a muscle-packed body and wide, broad shoulders. Normally she was as tall as most men, but not in this case, and it annoyed her that she had to look up to him.

‘The way you were looking at it.’ His tone was crisp and faintly defensive.

‘As a matter of fact I was thinking that it didn’t look lived in,’ she announced coolly, then wondered at her temerity. It was wrong to rub this man up the wrong way when there was such a delicate issue at stake.

‘Maybe I don’t live in this particular room?’ His blue eyes were watchful on hers, cool and curious, his whole stance relaxed, though Saira guessed this could be a deliberate pose, designed to put her off guard.

‘But it is used?’ she queried.

‘Occasionally.’

‘Then it would look better if a book were left out on the table, a cushion askew.’ She was out of order, she knew, and it was most unlike her, but she already found this man a great source of irritation.

‘Blame my housekeeper, Mrs Gibbs,’ he said, his mouth curling up at the corners into a very definite smile this time, although it failed to reach his eyes; it was entirely without humour. ‘She runs around after me with a dustpan and brush. One speck of dust dare not land. She’s a zealot with a vacuum cleaner.’

Saira did not smile in return. Somehow she had imagined Jarrett Brent to be elderly, white-whiskered with a paunch, certainly not a devilishly handsome man in an expensive grey suit who had not yet reached his fortieth year. In fact he was probably nearer thirty than forty, possibly only a few years older than herself. The thought was disturbing. How could a man of his age have all this wealth?

‘I’m not here to discuss the whims of your housekeeper,’ she said shortly, wondering whether he had a wife and perhaps children, and, if so, where they were. Why this severe woman seemed to rule the roost.

‘Naturally not,’ he answered. ‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves? I’m——‘

‘Jarrett Brent,’ she cut in sharply, ‘yes, I know. And I’m Saira Carlton.’

He duly shook her hand and Saira was conscious of a warm, firm grip that lasted slightly longer than she liked. But if he thought he could mollify her by pretending to be friendly he was mistaken.

‘Please, take a seat,’ he said, gesturing towards one of the armchairs.

Saira shook her head. ‘No, thanks, I prefer to stand.’

Dark brows rose. ‘It’s your prerogative,’ and there was a distinct hardening to his tone. He clearly did not take kindly to her less than friendly attitude. ‘Is there something I can do for you, Miss Carlton? Gibbs said you had an important matter to discuss.’

‘That’s right.’ Saira drew herself up to her full height and was disappointed he still had the advantage; nevertheless her voice was firm. ‘Honeysuckle Cottage.’

A frown grooved his brow, drew thick brows together, and he began to shake his head, as if he did not know what she was talking about.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve not heard of it?’ Her tone was loaded with sarcasm. ‘It’s in the village, the first house round the corner from here. I’ve been told that you seem to think it belongs to you.’

His frown deepened. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked, a sharp, critical edge to his tone.

Saira held his eyes coldly. ‘I hardly think that’s relevant.’

‘I do not regard my business as the affairs of others,’ he told her sharply.

‘What are you saying? That you bought the cottage or not?’

He appeared to consider his answer; taking a couple of paces away from her and then turning again, several seconds elapsing before he said quietly, ‘I believe I did buy it.’

‘You believe?’ Saira snapped. ‘Then you believe wrong, Mr Brent. The house is mine.’ Her green eyes were ablaze with anger and she found it difficult to keep a limb still. This man was making fun of her.

‘If you are so sure it’s yours, what are you doing here?’ His blue eyes were fierce also, fixed on her with unnerving accuracy.

The seemingly innocent question provoked her even more. ‘Because the key I have been given won’t fit. You’ve changed the locks, damn you. You had no right, it isn’t yours. It belonged to my aunt and now—’

‘Elizabeth Harwood was your aunt?’ he cut in, his brows drawing together, his body growing still at this surprise information.

‘That’s right,’ snapped Saira, ‘and she—’

Again he interrupted her. ‘Elizabeth and I were very good friends.’

It was Saira’s turn to look astonished. ‘You don’t really expect me to believe that?’

He inclined his head, and now the smile was back in place. ‘It’s true, we had a fine friendship.’

‘And you’re saying you bought Honeysuckle Cottage from her?’

‘That’s right.’ He looked supremely confident, the smile even wider now on his handsome face.

‘I don’t believe you.’ She looked at him challengingly for several long seconds, feeling an urge to wipe the smile away; there was nothing funny at all in the situation. ‘My aunt left me the cottage,’ she blazed. ‘She wouldn’t have done that if she’d sold it to you.’

Thick brows rose. ‘There has to be some mistake.’

‘No!’ Saira shook her head wildly. ‘I have proof, I can show it to you.’

‘I don’t want to see your proof; the cottage is mine,’ he announced brusquely, and again he took a couple of paces, but this time towards her.

Saira lifted her chin defensively, eyes a brilliant, angry green. ‘In that case I would like to see your proof.’

His lips quirked. ‘I dare say the deeds are filed somewhere.’

‘You dare say! ‘ stormed Saira, completely incensed by this man’s far too casual attitude. ‘Am I supposed to think that your word is good enough?’ She had never stopped to wonder why she had not been given any deeds herself. In fact she hadn’t thought about deeds at all. She suddenly realised how ignorant she was where house ownership was concerned. But she had no doubt that Mr Kirby had it all in hand.

Jarrett Brent stared at her coldly, suddenly angry. ‘My word has never been questioned before.’ His grey business suit did nothing to hide his masculinity; he was all raw manhood and Saira knew that in other circum-stances she would have found him attractive. But not now, not today; he was the enemy and it was a serious battle she was fighting.

‘Well, I’m questioning it.’ Saira told him. ‘I came here planning to spend the weekend and that’s what I’m going to do. In fact I shan’t go back home until the whole matter’s sorted out.’

‘There is nothing to sort out,’ he announced loftily, his deep blue eyes watchful on hers. ‘The property is mine and I have plans to extend and modernise it and——‘

‘You can’t do that,’ she cried out in alarm. ‘It’s mine. Just a minute and I’ll prove it.’ But a search of her handbag showed that she had forgotten to bring the letter from her aunt’s solicitor.

He stood now with his arms folded across his wide chest, his legs slightly apart, his face stern, his whole stance one of haughty, powerful arrogance.

Their eyes locked and warred and Saira’s chest heaved as she fought for control. He had strong capable hands, she noticed, long, well-manicured fingers spread on his forearms, and she wondered briefly what he did for a living—besides being a property owner! Power emanated from every bone in his body.

‘I have proof,’ she persisted, ‘most definitely I have proof. I have a letter from Aunt Lizzie’s solicitor. I thought I’d brought it with me, but——‘

‘And if I provide proof of my own?’ he cut in coldly.

‘I’ll contest it,’ Saira’s voice was loud and hostile, and she tried to match his demeanour with one of her own, standing tall, her chin high, her eyes ebullient.

Jarrett Brent’s lip curled, but there was undisguised admiration in his eyes. ‘You’re quite a spitfire.’

At his words something clicked in her subconscious, gone again instantly, forgotten in this battle of ownership. ‘Aunt Lizzie wanted me to have it; we were very close. I spent all my school holidays here. She would never have sold it to you, I know she wouldn’t.’

Jarrett Brent pushed his fingers through thick brown hair, cut viciously short. It would have suited him longer. The thought flashed through Saira’s mind and was gone. Damn the man, what he looked like didn’t matter. It was the sort of person he was that was at issue—and she sure as hell did not like what she saw.

‘Perhaps she had no option?’ Vivid blue eyes watched her closely.

‘Perhaps you didn’t give her any?’ she retorted. ‘Or perhaps you thought she had no relatives and decided to spread the word that you’d bought the cottage, adding it to your not inconsiderable list of properties. Oh, yes, I know all about you, Mr Brent, much more than you think.’

‘Indeed?’ Brows rose yet again, but there was anger now inside him. Gone was the mockery. He didn’t like her attitude, the way she was sticking up for herself, the things she was saying. He had probably never met anyone like her before.

Saira knew she ought to watch herself but instead she stamped her foot. ‘Lord, you’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. You say you have proof? Well, show it to me.’

Thick brows rose reprovingly. ‘Why should I do that when I have no proof that you’re who you say you are? Lizzie never mentioned you to me.’

‘And she never mentioned you to me,’ Saira flung back.

‘Then we’re in a stalemate position, wouldn’t you say?’ Eyes locked, hostility reigned; it was a battle royal they were fighting.

‘This is an intolerable situation,’ she cried. ‘Where the hell am I going to sleep tonight if I can’t get into the cottage?’

‘You could go home,’ he suggested easily.

‘I have no transport,’ she told him, ‘and even if I had I wouldn’t go, not until this matter’s sorted out.’

‘So how did you get here?’

‘I came by train and taxi,’ she told him coolly.

‘And you dismissed the driver without first of all making sure that you could get in?’ He made it sound as though it was an incredibly stupid thing to do.

‘I never dreamt for one moment that the key wouldn’t fit,’ answered Saira hostilely. ‘Do they have rooms at the Challoner’s Arms?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ And he looked as though the fact pleased him.

Saira eyed him stormily. ‘I’ll find somewhere to stay. I’m most definitely not going home until I find out who the legal owner of Honeysuckle Cottage is.’ She would ring her employer and tell him that she was taking the few days’ holiday he owed her.

‘You’re a hell of a determined lady, I’ll say that for you.’ It was a grudging compliment.

Saira had never needed to stand up to anyone the way she did to this man; she was seeing a new side to herself. But there was a whole lot at stake and she had the feeling that if she walked away from here now she would lose the cottage altogether. ‘Where’s the nearest hotel?’ she asked.

‘Thirsk, I expect.’

‘Then perhaps you’d kindly ring for a taxi and I’ll book myself in there. But I’ll be back, Mr Brent, you can be sure about that.’ She would phone her mother and ask her to send Mr Kirby’s letter. With a bit of luck it would come in the morning and then she could present Mr High and Mighty Brent with it. That would wipe the smile off his face.

‘I have a better suggestion.’

Saira frowned suspiciously. She didn’t like the look in his eyes.

‘You can be my guest.’

‘And stay here,’ she derided, ‘in the camp of the enemy?’ This was the last thing she had expected and it wasn’t what she wanted at all. ‘No, thank you.’ Lord knew what his motive was, but it didn’t appeal to her one little bit.

‘I wasn’t talking about Frenton Hall,’ he answered impatiently. ‘I was referring to the cottage.’

Saira frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense. You’re claiming it belongs to you, and yet you’re prepared to let me use it. Why?’

‘Just until the legalities are sorted out.’ The wolfish smile on his face suggested that he knew what the outcome would be.

And although half of Saira’s mind screamed that it was wrong, the other hot-headed half agreed. It was her right, after all. This thing had to be sorted out, and being here on the spot was the best way to do it. ‘I guess your conscience is bothering you?’

‘I was merely thinking of you,’ he announced carelessly. ‘It seems a bit pointless going into Thirsk when the cottage is sitting empty.’ He took a key off the keyring in his pocket and handed it to her.

So the man had a heart, of sorts! Saira eyed him with no real pleasure. ‘I’d like to say it’s very kind of you but I don’t think kindness plays a part in it. I shall be back, of course, with the necessary proof, and then you’ll see for yourself that Honeysuckle Cottage is most definitely mine.’

Head high, Saira marched out into the hall and across the polished wooden floor to the door. Mrs Gibbs was nowhere in sight and when the door would not open it galled Saira to have to stand back and let the obnoxious Jarrett Brent do it for her.

‘Goodbye, Miss Carlton.’ The aggravating smile was on his lips. ‘I shall look forward to your next visit.’

His nearness was a very real threat. Saira felt her heart beat unusually fast and was intensely aware of his raw masculinity and the danger he posed. This was no ordinary man. He appeared laid-back and friendly but beneath the surface he was as hard as steel. OK, he had offered to let her use the cottage, but she was damn sure it wasn’t a simple, generous gesture. There had to be some motive.

She walked stiff-backed all the way up the long drive, wondering whether she was being watched or whether he had closed the door and immediately forgotten all about her. Meeting a man like Jarrett Brent was certainly something she had never expected when inheriting her aunt’s cottage. She couldn’t accept that he was a friend of Lizzie’s. No friend would take your home from you. He had to be lying, and she was determined to find out the truth.

CHAPTER TWO

SAIRA felt oddly uncomfortable letting herself into Honeysuckle Cottage, and she blamed Jarrett Brent for it. He was trying it on, she felt sure, making out he had bought the cottage when really he hadn’t, but he was so convincing that there had to be some thread of truth in his story. Maybe he had been friends with her aunt; maybe he had once mentioned buying her property— but Lizzie’s will was surely proof enough that nothing had ever been done about it?

The front door led straight into the sitting-room and she dumped her bag and looked around, smiling sadly to herself. It was just as she remembered: a little dusty, but otherwise looking as if all her aunt had done was step out for a while.

It was a comfy, cosy room, the traditional chintz very much in evidence, lots of brass—which needed cleaning—lots of pictures and ornaments and lace mats, the usual bric-a-brac old ladies would collect over the years—and, most poignant of all, her aunt’s rocking chair.

Saira felt tears spring to her eyes and her mouth twisted ruefully as memories flooded back. She had spent so many happy hours here; her aunt had read to her, played with her, loved her, kissed her better when she fell down, bathed her, fed her, brushed her hair; and as she grew older listened to her teenage problems, dispensed advice, never lectured, always understood.

Saira’s own mother had always been very strict and consequently Saira had never been able to talk to her, always turning to Aunt Lizzie. She truly missed her.

But it was no good standing here crying, she must ring her mother, she must sort Jarrett Brent out. Mentally she straightened her back. To her horror the telephone line was dead, and when she tried the light switch there was no electricity either. Not altogether surprising, since the cottage had lain empty for a couple of months, but she began to wonder whether Jarrett Brent hadn’t deliberately suggested she stay here knowing there were no conveniences. From what little she had seen of him so far it seemed the sort of despicable thing he would do.

Her first thought was to march back up to the Hall and confront him with it, but that was probably what he expected; he probably even hoped she would turn around and go home! It had been his cruel way of getting rid of her.

Saira’s chin came up with characteristic stubbornness. She could manage for a day or two; she would light a fire to heat water, even cook that way if necessary. He would soon find she wasn’t so easily put off.

Saira used the phone box at the end of the village and Margaret Carlton was equally horrified by the claims this man was making. ‘Of course I’ll send you the letter, but why don’t you go and see Mr Kirby? Goodness, Saira, do you want me to come and sort this man out?’

Saira laughed, though there was not much mirth in her voice. ‘Really, Mother, I can look after myself. I just need proof that I’m Elizabeth Harwood’s niece and that I’ve inherited the cottage.’

Perhaps her mother was right, though, and she ought to see Mr Kirby, thought Saira as she made her way back. She glanced at her watch; almost four on a Friday afternoon—far too late. But on Monday, if nothing had been sorted out, if Jarrett Brent hadn’t done the decent thing and admitted that the cottage belonged to her, she would go to see him.

She found firelighters and matches and coal and soon had flames leaping up the chimney. But her sense of achievement was short-lived when foul-smelling smoke bellowed back into the room, making her cough and choke and run to open doors and windows.

Having only ever known central heating, Saira wasn’t familiar with open fires and it took her a second or two to realise that the chimney must be blocked—probably by a bird’s nest.

The acrid smoke belched out ever more thickly and, not knowing what else to do Saira filled a jug with water and flung it over the coals. The joys of country living, she thought despondently. Oh, well, a sandwich and a glass of milk would have to do for her supper—if the village shop was open! Otherwise it would be another visit to the Challoner’s Arms.

Fortunately the shop had not closed and Saira stocked up with a few provisions, and found out that Mrs Edistone had already spread the news that Saira Carlton was claiming Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘I wish you luck,’ said Mary, the elderly shopkeeper; ‘the squire’s not an easy man to tangle with.’

Saira spent the next hour cleaning and polishing. Little smuts of soot had settled everywhere and the smell was acrid. Aunt Lizzie had kept the place spotless and Saira wanted everything to be the same; she wanted nothing changed.

She slept that night in her aunt’s spare bedroom, the one she had always used as a child, the one with rosesprigged wallpaper and old walnut furniture, and although she was desperately tired thoughts of the obnoxious Jarrett Brent kept her restless.

The day’s totally unexpected events churned round and round in her mind—and she still had a fight in front of her! Something else puzzled her, too. There was something about this big man that nagged in the back of her mind. She felt sure she had seen him some place before but could not work out where. She tossed and turned and thought and pondered, but no answer came.

She was up at dawn and thought longingly of a cup of strong, hot tea, and to take her mind off it she went for a walk. She watched the sun paint the sky with touches of red and gold, she walked through the lanes, she looked at Frenton Hall and called Jarrett Brent all the names she could of, and then went back to the cottage and ate cornflakes with cold milk.

What time did the postman come? she wondered, sitting in her aunt’s rocking chair, positioned where she could see out of the window. Aunt Lizzie had spent hours here watching the world go by and now Saira did the same, rocking backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, her thoughts seesawing in just the same manner, from Jarrett to her aunt, from her aunt back to Jarrett. Could she believe that he’d had some sort of friendship with her?

It was almost nine before she saw the familiar red post van making its way slowly down the street and she was outside on the doorstep when he neared Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘Saira Carlton?’ he asked, and when she nodded, ‘I didn’t know anyone was living here. I heard the old lady had died. A shame, I liked her.’

‘That was my aunt,’ said Saira, and hoped he was not going to stay and talk too long. She was anxious now that she had Mr Kirby’s letter to go up to the Hall and confront Jarret! Brent. He would not expect her to get irrefutable proof quite so quickly.

To her relief the postman bade her good-day and continued on his rounds and Saira, after checking to make sure it was Mr Kirby’s letter, pulled on her jacket and set off for the Hall. She kept her finger on the bellpush for several seconds and when Mrs Gibbs opened the door Saira smiled wickedly. ‘I’d like to see Mr Brent, please.’

‘Is he expecting you?’ The same dour expression was on his housekeeper’s face.

Here we go again, she thought, and tilting her chin she looked the woman in the eye. ‘Oh, yes, he’s expecting me all right.’

‘I have not been told.’

‘Nevertheless he is expecting me,’ Saira insisted. Did this woman have orders or something to let no one through? ‘Is he in?’

‘Well, yes, but——‘

‘Then kindly tell him I am here.’ Saira impressed even herself with her manner. It was actually quite alien for her to behave like this, but this man really rubbed her up the wrong way. She would get nowhere if she kowtowed; she had to be strong.

He was here now, walking towards the door, wearing a navy suit with a white silk shirt and a maroon spotted tie. ‘What are you doing here this early?’ His eyes were cool and hard and Saira resented the two steps up into the house which gave him an even bigger advantage.

She stretched herself up to her full height. ‘I told you I would be back.’

‘But not this soon; I wasn’t expecting you today.’ A frown of annoyance creased his brow.

‘Well, I’m here, and I have my proof,’ she told him haughtily. ‘May I come in?’

‘I was actually on my way out,’ he announced, a touch of arrogance in his tone now. He was clearly not used to having his plans thrown into disarray—or was it hotheaded women on his doorstep who annoyed him?

‘It won’t take long,’ said Saira, and ascended the steps before he could say another word, standing as close to him as she dared, silently demanding that he let her in, feeling the pungent smell of his aftershave assail her nostrils.

Very reluctantly he stood back for her to enter. ‘I hope not.’ There was extreme irritation in his voice.

‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ she replied, smiling boldly.

It was not to the library he led her this morning, but a sunny breakfast room at the back of the house, the remains of his meal still sitting on the table. He saw Saira cast an inquisitive eye over it. ‘Is this more to your liking? Is this lived in enough for you?’ he asked sardonically.

Saira nodded. ‘It’s better. I take it you’re not married, Mr Brent?’ The question popped out without any warning and she would have liked to retract it but it was too late. In any case she wanted to know. She was curious about this man who was claiming her property.

‘As a matter of fact, no,’ he answered, looking surprised by her sudden question.

‘And you live in this huge house by yourself?’

‘For the moment, yes, but why the questions?’ he asked with a frown. ‘I thought you were here to discuss Honeysuckle Cottage.’

‘Yes, I am,’ she returned sharply, annoyed by her own digression. His marital status was of no importance whatsoever. She delved into her bag. ‘I have here the letter from Mr Kirby, my aunt’s solicitor. Please read it.’

His fingers brushed hers as he took the single sheet of paper and Saira jerked away, unable to make up her mind whether his touch was deliberate or accidental. Whatever, it had a profound effect on her, almost as though she had been burnt. It was an astonishing feeling.

And if the touch had been deliberate, what did it mean? Had he realised that he was up against a tough woman, someone who would not easily relinquish her hold on the cottage, and thought he would appeal to the feminine side of her? Or was she letting her imagination run riot?

Saira squashed the traitorous thoughts immediately, watching Jarrett Brent as he read Mr Kirby’s letter, shocked beyond belief when he thrust it dismissively back into her hand.

‘This doesn’t mean a thing,’ he said harshly.

‘What do you mean, it doesn’t mean a thing?’ cried Saira, unable to accept that he was dismissing it out of hand. ‘Of course it means something; it means the cottage is mine!’ She was really uptight now; she had been so sure that this was indisputable proof.

‘And how can that be when I say I own it?’ Profound blue eyes held her trapped like a deer in a car’s headlights.

‘Prove it,’ she said furiously.

There was a sudden gleam in his eyes and his lips curved into their usual contemptuous smile.

Saira fumed. He was so damn sure of himself. Could he possibly be right? Maybe she ought to have spoken to Mr Kirby first, brought him with her perhaps? She was too impetuous for her own good. She had the feeling that she was getting deeper and deeper into this thing instead of being somewhere near solving it.

‘I can’t at this moment, I’m afraid.’ His eyes pierced hers with an intensity that was intended to put her down, his tone in no way apologetic.

‘I bet you can’t,’ she snapped, prepared to wager her last penny that he just didn’t want to admit that he was in the wrong. Either that or he was playing some game with her, though for the life of her she could not think why.

‘But I’ve no doubt I’ll come across the relevant documents,’ he added.

‘I’m sure you will—when it suits you.’ Saira’s tone dripped sarcasm. ‘And meantime I’m left in a state of limbo. That is not satisfactory, Mr Brent.’

His lips quirked, as though he was enjoying her high dudgeon. ‘It is the best I can offer.’

‘And how long do you intend to keep me waiting?’ Saira felt an electric tension crackling between them. Lord, she hated this man; was there ever anyone more disagreeable? Why was he acting like this? What was he hoping to gain?

‘Is there any rush, Miss Carlton?’ Cool eyes never wavered; they pierced her with an intentness that was extremely disconcerting. She had never felt more at a disadvantage.

But her chin was high as she answered. ‘As far as I’m concerned, there is. I’d like to settle this matter as soon as possible. I don’t like being kept dangling like a fish on a hook.’ He was probably expecting her to complain about the lack of amenities in the cottage, but she was damned if she would. There was no way she was going to let this man get the better of her.

He smiled suddenly, surprisingly, a wide smile that softened the harsh lines on his face. ‘A very beautiful fish.’ But his narrowed eyes were unreadable. ‘I’ll do my best, that’s all I can say.’

Saira dismissed his flattery out of hand. ‘This doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it?’ she flared. ‘You don’t understand or care that to me it is very important. A cottage is a cottage as far as you’re concerned, bricks and mortar with no sentimental value. You’ll do whatever you want without a thought that it was my aunt’s home for most of her life, tended lovingly, and then left to me so that I could give it the same thoughtful care.’

‘As I said before, your aunt never mentioned you,’ he reminded her.

Saira lifted her shoulders. ‘That doesn’t mean a thing. There was no reason for her to. And it’s my aunt’s property we’re discussing, not my aunt or my relationship with her.

‘My property,’ he amended, and the smile was gone as swiftly as it had appeared.

‘If you bought it, then you some way swindled her out of it,’ she cried recklessly. ‘I shall get to the bottom of this, Mr Brent, you can be sure. I shall expect proof from you tomorrow; I want you to bring the deeds to me and show me that the cottage is really yours, and if I don’t get proof then I shall go and see Mr Kirby.’

‘You’re a hell of a fiery lady, Miss Carlton.’ There was once more grudging admiration in his voice.

‘I guess I have to be with someone like you,’ she riposted. There was no way she could meekly accept his word. She was fighting as much for Aunt Lizzie’s sake as her own.

‘Someone like me?’ he pondered, an eyebrow quirking. ‘I’d be interested to hear exactly what you do think of me.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you would,’ retorted Saira with a half-laugh. ‘It wouldn’t be fit language for a lady.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘That bad,’ she agreed. ‘You’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.’

‘And all because your aunt sold me the cottage?’ Brows rose, blue eyes challenged and Saira felt a strong, deliberate, sexual challenge as well. It was nothing she could put her finger on, it was just there, hanging in the air between them.

Nor could she deny it. Her heart hammered and she licked suddenly dry lips; her heart went boom and her skin grew warm. ‘All because you say Aunt Lizzie sold it,’ she retorted. ‘Personally, I do not believe you, and the fact that you haven’t produced any proof is surely evidence enough? What reason would you have for holding back on it?’

‘I never do anything without a reason, Miss Carlton.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘But you’re not going to tell me what it is? You’re playing some sort of game that only you understand?’

‘You could be right,’ he answered easily.

‘Of course I’m damn well right,’ she snapped. ‘Lord, you take some understanding. It’s no wonder you’ve never married; no woman would ever put up with you.’

His smile faded. ‘My bachelor state is of my own choice,’ he told her coldly. ‘How about you, Miss Carlton? No ring on your finger either, I see. Am I right in suspecting that it’s your prickly nature that puts men off?’

Saira drew in a deeply aggrieved breath. ‘For your information, Mr Brent, I’m not usually so abrasive.’

‘So it’s me who rubs you up the wrong way?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It need not be,’ he told her calmly. ‘If you’d only accept that your aunt——‘

‘Never!’ cut in Saira fiercely. ‘A legal document is surely more binding than your word?’

He laughed. ‘But you’re forgetting, I haven’t seen a legal document, just some letter, not your aunt’s will. Anyone could have written that. You could have done it yourself for all I know.’

‘Then I suggest you ring Mr Kirby and verify it,’ she blazed.

‘Maybe I will on Monday,’ he agreed, much to her surprise. ‘Meantime, enjoy your stay in the cottage.’

‘Meantime, I want your proof tomorrow,’ she slammed back, and then turned and marched out of the house.

As she walked back down the drive she felt as limp and washed out as if she had been put through an old-fashioned mangle. It was difficult to believe how arguing with this man could drain her so much. God, he was detestable. He was virtually laughing in her face and she was expected to sit back and take it. Not on her life. This would probably be the strongest battle she would ever fight—but she was determined to win.

The day dragged interminably slowly. There was not much she could do without a car. Trust her old Fiesta to break down at a time like this—not that she would have trusted it to make the journey here. She really ought to invest in a new car. And if she had still been going out with Tony he would have brought her. Everything, but everything, was conspiring against her.

Tony had been her boyfriend for two years and she really had thought they would get married as soon as he’d finished law school and found himself a job. Originally he had trained in the police force but had then decided it was not for him, so even though he was twentyseven he was a student and not earning any money.

When he had declared only two weeks ago that he thought their relationship was getting nowhere and they ought to part, she hadn’t been able to believe it. She had never minded that they couldn’t very often afford to go out. It wasn’t until one of her friends told her that she had seen him with another girl that it all became clear. The break-up had left her very bitter. If he’d had the guts to tell her that there was someone else she would have thought more of him.

He wasn’t the only man to two-time his girlfriend, either. She’d had friends who’d been let down in a similar manner and it left her with a very bad taste in her mouth as far as the whole male race was concerned.

She ate again at the Challoner’s Arms, took a stroll through the lanes, and went to bed early. How long Jarrett Brent was going to keep her waiting, she didn’t know. Would he come tomorrow with proof or would it be up to her to go and see Mr Kirby?

On Sunday morning the church bells were ringing and Saira decided to go to morning service. She had always attended with her aunt and it felt only right that she should do so now.

The small church, its pews each with their own individual doors, was almost full, and many eyes turned in her direction. Some people smiled, some were openly curious, and Saira had no doubt that they all knew who she was.

The young vicar’s sermon was amusing yet moral and Saira began to feel uplifted, until she turned to leave and saw Jarrett Brent a few rows behind her. Their eyes met, he smiled, briefly, perfunctorily, and then turned his attention to the girl at his side.

She was small, dark and fragile-looking, with a classic bone-structure—and she was wearing a hat! The only young woman to do so. It suited her without a doubt, she looked stylish and elegant, and Saira felt immature and gauche in her cotton dress and jacket, her hair in its usual plait.

So Jarrett did have a girlfriend after all! Was it serious? He had said he lived on his own for the moment. Perhaps they were planning to get married? The girl was gazing adoringly at him, it was obvious they had a very deep relationship.

Deliberately she hung back until he had gone. She wouldn’t have said that this girl was his type, she looked very fragile and meek, not as though she could stand up to a man like Jarrett Brent. Or was that the type he preferred? Did he like to boss his women around? And why was she wondering about it? What did it matter to her?

Mrs Edistone appeared at her side while she was still deep in thought. ‘Good morning, Saira. I see you got in, then?’

Saira nodded and smiled. She had seen the woman’s curtains twitch several times and knew that her comings and goings had been carefully monitored.

‘The squire gave you a key?’ asked the old lady, leaning on her stick, looking as though she was prepared to talk for a long time.

‘Yes,’ answered Saira.

‘I suppose he’s not a bad man,’ Mrs Edistone reflected thoughtfully, ‘always very pleasant if you meet him in the street, very pleasant indeed, very pleasant. How did he seem to you?’

‘Very pleasant,’ repeated Saira seriously, while inside she was dying to laugh. ‘Very pleasant’ were the last words she would use to describe Jarrett Brent. Very disagreeable, very uncooperative, very everything else, but ‘very pleasant’? Not on your life.

Saira had a ham sandwich and salad for her lunch and when two o’clock came and went and he had still not brought her the requested proof she decided to go up to the house again. She refused to sit around all day waiting.

As she walked up the long drive Saira wondered whether the pretty girl would be there? Or indeed whether her antagonist would be in? It was feasible that he had taken his girl out to lunch and they might not be back yet, perhaps this was why he had not come. But she had no doubt that Mrs Dour, as she had nicknamed his housekeeper, would put her in the picture; she would probably take great pleasure in turning her away.

To Saira’s amazement she felt her heart beating much faster than normal, and she took a few deep breaths to calm herself as she pushed the bell and waited. It was a long time before anyone came, she had rung again and was on the verge of leaving when the heavy oak door swung inwards and Jarrett Brent himself appeared. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ was his greeting, and he looked irritated at being disturbed.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ confirmed Saira loudly and aggressively. ‘I’ve been waiting for those papers. Have you found them yet?’

‘Actually, no.’ The annoying sardonic smile was in place, his true feelings well hidden.

Her eyes flashed. ‘I bet you haven’t even looked.’

‘I have been rather busy,’ he admitted.

And Saira knew who he was busy with right now. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair tousled; he looked as though he had dressed in a hurry.

‘Let’s get one thing quite clear,’ she said fiercely, ‘I’m not moving off this doorstep until I get what I came for.’ She planted her feet firmly on the ground, stood tall, and looked him full in the eyes.

His lips quirked. ‘That could prove extremely uncomfortable, because I’ve just remembered that the papers in question might be in my office safe and not here. I’m afraid I can do nothing about it until tomorrow.’

‘Might be in your office safe?’ she questioned in disbelief, her voice rising as her temper increased. ‘You mean you’re not sure?’ It was unbelievable.

‘I’m as sure as I can reasonably be.’

‘I think you’re lying,’ she spat. In fact she was absolutely sure he was lying. ‘I think that for reasons known only to yourself you’re keeping me waiting. I think you’re devious and conniving and I cannot think what my aunt saw in you.’

He lifted his shoulders, still with that infuriating smile on his face, not at all perturbed by her outburst. ‘You’re at liberty to think what you like.’

Saira stamped her foot. ‘Lord, you’re impossible. This is a most intolerable situation.’

‘Actually I’m rather enjoying it.’ The smile turned to a grin.

‘You would,’ she returned sharply, hating the way he was so in control of himself while she was in danger of losing her composure altogether. ‘I’m the one who’s being messed around. If the papers are in your office safe, and I don’t believe for one second that they are, why couldn’t you have told me that in the beginning?’

‘Because it wouldn’t have been half so much fun,’ he admitted. ‘Are you always this fierce and fiery, this impatient?’

Saira could see nothing funny at all in the situation and she glared, her green eyes flashing like jewels. ‘Impatient? I’m not impatient, I’m just anxious to set the matter straight. You’re procrastinating deliberately and I demand that you go and find your deeds right now this very minute. Either that or tell me the truth—that you don’t own Honeysuckle Cottage.’

‘Why don’t you believe me, Saira?’ His own patience suddenly snapped, his mouth tightening, his eyes growing hard; but his voice was soft, and all the more menacing because of it. Saira felt the unspoken threat.

‘Give me a good reason why I should.’ She glared belligerently and drew herself up to her full height, which was still nowhere near tall enough to meet his eyes on the same level, especially with two steps between them. Saira fumed. She felt so impotent; he was playing with her like a cat with a mouse and she was unable to do anything about it.

‘My word is not usually doubted.’ He spoke the words easily but his arrogance showed through, incensing Saira even further.

‘I’m doubting it now,’ she flung savagely. ‘You’ve fobbed me off for long enough. I refuse to move until you go and find those deeds.’

‘Darling, who is it?’ A gentle voice came from behind Jarrett and as he turned Saira saw his female friend. The girl looked calm and self-assured and there was no sign that she and Jarrett had been making love a few minutes earlier. But Saira was not fooled; she had had plenty of time to tidy and compose herself.

‘Joy, come along and meet Miss Carlton.’ He brought the other girl forward into the doorway, and when he took her hand Saira felt a stab of impatience. Here he was, playing around with this girl when there were far more important matters at issue.

The dark-haired girl, who looked impossibly delicate, smiled and eyed Saira curiously.

‘Joy, this is Saira Carlton, Lizzie’s great-niece; you remember Lizzie, don’t you? And Saira, I’d like you to meet Joy Woodstock.’

The two girls shook hands and Saira noticed that he hadn’t actually said who Joy was. A deliberate omission, she felt sure. He wanted to keep her guessing; it was all part of the game he was playing. Despite having met him two or three times now, she still knew nothing at all about him—nothing except that he was claiming her inheritance!

‘Why don’t you ask Saira in, darling, instead of keeping her standing here on the doorstep?’ The fact that the girl showed no curiosity proved to Saira that he had already discussed her, that she probably knew every detail, knew he was playing some dishonourable game with her where Honeysuckle Cottage was concerned.

‘Would you like to come in?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness and a twinkle in his eye, because he knew perfectly well that she would refuse.

‘Would it be worth my while?’ she asked, chin high, eyes challenging.

‘If you’re asking whether I will produce the evidence you require, then the answer is no; but if you’d like to join Joy and me for a cup of tea, then you’re welcome.’ His eyes dared her to accept and Saira almost agreed— except that she would be hurting no one but herself. Did she really want to sit and see these two making eyes at each other? The answer had to be no.

This man sickened her—although she could not deny his overt sexuality. Her awareness of it increased each time they met—and it was a source of great annoyance. She was not interested in this side of him, not one little bit; Joy was welcome to his body and his bed.

‘Thank you for your offer, but no,’ she said with careful politeness. ‘I came here for one thing only and as it’s not forthcoming I will return to my aunt’s cottage. But, Mr Brent, my patience is not without its limits. Please make sure that you have the necessary papers available for me tomorrow.’

It was an unnecessary speech, but she felt better for it, and without even waiting for his answer, catching only a glimpse of Joy’s surprise, she spun on her heel and headed swiftly back towards the cottage.

I seem to be spending all of my time walking up and down this drive, she thought humourlessly. There was no end to her torment. This man really was taking a great deal of pleasure out of her helplessness. And most definitely she would get in touch with Mr Kirby in the morning, whether Jarrett Brent came up with proof or not. It would still only be his word. She had to make very sure of her legal position before giving anything up to him.

CHAPTER THREE

THAT night Saira dreamt about Jarrett, a vivid, disturbing dream where he came to the cottage in the middle of the night and made love to her. To begin with she had fought him, fought desperately to keep him away, but he had worn down her resistance and she had given in, and her body had experienced such feelings of intense pleasure that when she awoke they still persisted.

For a few moments she remained curled in a cocoon of mystic warmth and happiness, hugging the feelings to her, and then the realisation of what she was nurturing hit her like a body blow and she sprang out of bed absolutely disgusted with herself.

This man was her enemy, for goodness’ sake—and yet the pleasure had been so real it was unnerving. She could remember it as clearly as if it had actually happened— and she had to face him today! Her cheeks burned at the thought and her only saviour was that he would not know what was going on in her mind.

The dream, and the feelings that went with it, were even more amazing considering the way she felt about men at this particular stage in her life. Tony had done such a good job of hurting her that she did not want to enter into a relationship with any other man for a very long time, perhaps ever.

Even the fact that she had let Jarrett make love to her in her dream went against all the principles she had ever held. She did not believe in sex before marriage. Both of her sisters had got pregnant before they were married and she was determined it was not going to happen to her.

Tony had accepted her wishes without question and, looking back now, it was obvious that he had never truly been in love with her, and there had definitely never been any explosion of feeling between them such as she had experienced in her dream. That had been unreal, like the stuff you read about in romantic novels.

She would have loved to shower now and rid herself of the feel of Jarrett from her body. Not that her aunt had a shower anyway, but she could have bathed—if there had been hot water! Everything was conspiring against her—and she blamed Jarrett Brent totally; he was the instigator of all this.

She couldn’t and wouldn’t accept that her aunt had sold out to him. He was taking advantage of the situation, he was trying to swindle her out of her rightful inheritance. He wanted the cottage, he wanted to do it up and possibly sell at a profit, and he was prepared to go to any lengths to get it.

After washing in cold water and dressing in a pair of jeans and a yellow T-shirt, Saira ate her now usual breakfast of cornflakes, tidied the kitchen and cleaned the bathroom, and still it was too early to ring Mr Kirby. She went into the village and took some photographs; of the cottage, of the village street, of the church, of all things to remind her of Amplethwaite, everything except Frenton Hall!

It puzzled her that Jarrett Brent lived alone in such a huge place. Was it a family home? Had he lived there all his life? She could not remember hearing the name Brent before, but maybe it was that she hadn’t listened, hadn’t taken it in when she was a child.

Soon after nine she phoned Mr Kirby’s office, only to be told, much to her disappointment, that he was out visiting a client. ‘Can I get Mr Kirby to ring you?’ asked his secretary.

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Saira answered. ‘I’ll call back this afternoon.’ She had not expected this, not first thing on a Monday morning, and she fumed impatiently as she made her way back to the cottage.

At one she made herself a cheese sandwich and at half-past Jarrett Brent knocked on the door. Saira felt a deep depression settle over her. There could only be one reason for his visit—he had come to gloat, he had brought the necessary proof that he owned the cottage!

It was a disquieting, disturbing thought, because although she had asked for it, she had not really expected it, or wanted it even, but as she opened the door and saw him standing there in a pair of beige linen trousers and a darker brown polo shirt, all thoughts of deeds fled. Saira relived again her vivid dream and felt an impossible heat pervade her body, even her heart clamoured and she thanked God he couldn’t see the turmoil inside her.

She saw him in a different light today, she saw not her enemy but a sexually attractive man who had the power to bring her whole body to such fever pitch that it was frightening. OK, it had all been a dream, but the feelings were still there and they scared her to death and her eyes were wide as she looked at him.

His brows rose in a crooked line. ‘You’re looking at me as though I’m a ghost or something. Is there anything wrong, Miss Carlton?’

She swallowed hard and pulled herself together, his formal use of her name helping to rationalise her feelings, to put a certain amount of space between them. It allowed for no intimacies and she liked that, she wanted to forget the all too real feel of his body against hers in the dream. He was a hard-muscled man and yet his skin had been smooth, only faintly covered with hair, nothing rough, nothing to put a barrier between their two bodies.

She found herself wondering whether he really was like that and then shook her head angrily. ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she invited with reluctance, ‘but actually I was wondering why you’re empty-handed, why I get the impression that you don’t come with good news?’ She deliberately made her tone sharp.

His eyes narrowed. ‘On the attack already?’ But his voice was cold too and Saira knew this wasn’t going to be a pleasant meeting.

‘It’s pretty obvious I’ll be angry when you’re messing me around like this,’ she retorted. ‘I don’t like being kept waiting. If you can’t provide proof then why don’t you admit it? Please sit down.’

‘There’s been a hold-up,’ he told her, dropping into her aunt’s rocking chair, completely relaxed, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hands linked behind his head, his eyes watchful on hers.

Saira’s chin lifted fractionally as she perched herself on the edge of a chair opposite, and her fingers curled. She was ready to do battle. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. My estate manager has been taken ill and I have no idea where to look in his highly personalised filing system.’ He looked at her levelly as he spoke, but a sudden quiver to his lips made her suspicious.

‘You said they were in your safe,’ she reminded him.

He lifted his shoulders. ‘Mine, my estate manager’s— what difference does it make?’

She eyed him furiously. ‘A hell of a lot. Why don’t you quit stalling and tell me the truth?’

‘Come, come, Miss Carlton, losing your temper will get you nowhere.’ He was almost smiling but not quite; it was just his lips that curled.

Blue eyes met green and Saira was the first to look away. It was unreal how one single dream could have such a devastating effect. She hated this man and yet felt such a strong physical awareness that it almost took her breath away. ‘Doesn’t your estate manager have a secretary?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice cold, not wanting to give him the merest hint of the turmoil inside her.

‘I’m afraid not.’ His answer was delivered so easily, so perfunctorily, that she knew he was lying, yet she knew equally as strongly that he would never admit it.

‘So what are you suggesting?’ How she wished she were a man so that she could take a swipe at him. She needed to do something, she needed to get him out of her system, he really was the most aggravating man she had ever met.

‘You could go home, leaving me your address, and I’ll get in touch with you eventually.’ He was still totally relaxed, totally in control; they could have been discussing the weather, or something equally uninteresting, certainly not the major issue of Honeysuckle Cottage.

Saira felt incensed and bounced to her feet. ‘No, most definitely not. I categorically refuse.’ Lord, what did he take her for, a fool?

‘What, to give me your address?’ He made no effort to move himself, looking up at her with that irritating smile that made her want to lash out at him.

She shook her head, pigtail flying. ‘To go away without getting what I want. Hell, will you stop playing games with me?’ Never in her life had she been so angry so often. She was not usually a volatile person. This man rubbed her up the wrong way—and she felt sure he was doing it deliberately, that he took great pleasure out of goading her, though for what reason she had no idea.

‘Games?’ His brows rose as though he wondered how she could possibly think such a thing. ‘I’m perfectly serious, lady. But it’s your prerogative to do whatever you wish.’

Saira glared. ‘I don’t care about prerogatives, I care about justice. You’re stringing me along, aren’t you? You’re not producing the deeds because you don’t possess them, although for reasons known only to yourself you’re letting me believe that you can’t lay your hands on them.’

She paused and drew in a deep breath. ‘But if you want to play dirty we’ll see what my aunt’s solicitor has to say when I get in touch with him later. Maybe he has the deeds, I don’t know, I never asked him, but I’ll find out, you’ll see, and then I shall expect an apology, a big one.’

Finally he rose to his feet but he was completely unperturbed by her outburst; in fact he was highly amused, his smile wide, his teeth very white and slightly uneven.

‘You needn’t look so happy,’ she cried, her chest heaving, her eyes over-bright, ‘I mean it. I’ve had enough of your procrastination.’

Jarrett Brent shook his head slowly, his blue eyes steady on her face, the smile still there. ‘You’re quite a woman, Miss Carlton.’ And he took a step closer.

Saira stepped back in panic, remembering her dream, aware that it would be all too easy to become intoxicated by his raw, sensual maleness.

‘I’ve never met such a wildcat before.’ His voice went a note lower.

‘You wouldn’t have done so on this occasion if you hadn’t treated me so badly,’ she returned sharply, defensively, her heart beginning to pound.

‘I’m not complaining,’ he assured her. ‘You have a healthy temper and I admire it. I like a woman who sticks up for her rights.’

‘How can you possibly like me, Mr Brent, when I’m the enemy?’ She kept her tone hard, it was imperative she did not let her anger slip.

‘Enemy?’ His brows lifted. ‘I don’t see you in that light. A firebrand, a spitfire, a woman intent on fairness, but not my enemy, no. And don’t you think it’s about time we dropped the formalities?’ His voice deepened even further. ‘My name’s Jarrett. I’d like you to use it.’ Again he took a step closer and now there was only inches between them.

The way he was behaving, Saira could see her dream becoming reality, and if he should dare to touch her she would be unable to resist him; the barriers had already been dealt with. It was stupid to give such importance to a dream but she could not help it; it had been so real, was

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