She was gazing drowsily into the fire when Zander’s hand softly stroked her cheek.

She smiled dreamily and turned her face up to his, giving a sigh of pleasure as his mouth brushed hers.

Her lips parted beneath the light pressure of his, and when he deepened the kiss her arms went around his neck. Her whole body melting, she kissed him back.

Then, suddenly scared by her own reaction to that kiss, she drew back, demanded raggedly, ‘Why did you do that? You had no right to kiss me. Don’t ever do it again. I hated it!’

As soon as the words were out she knew she’d made a bad mistake.

She sat still as any statue as his hands moved to cup her chin and tilt her head back, so that she found herself looking up into his handsome face, intriguingly inverted.

‘So tell me,’ he said silkily, ‘if my kiss is such anathema to you, why did you kiss me back?’

About the Author

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a Derbyshire village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy travelling, and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going round the world ‘on a shoestring’ while their son looked after Kelly, their much loved German shepherd dog. Her hobbies are reading and gardening, and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

Recent titles by the same author:

CLAIMING HIS WEDDING NIGHT

CAPTIVE IN THE MILLIONAIRE’S CASTLE

THE BOSS’S FORBIDDEN SECRETARY

MISTRESS AGAINST HER WILL

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Running from the Storm

Lee Wilkinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Ned

CHAPTER ONE

THE twelfth-century, lichen-covered church was filled with the fragrance of roses and lilies and the strains of Mendelssohn’s traditional and well-loved Here Comes The Bride.

Bright sunshine slanted through the stained-glass windows and, as the trees in the churchyard moved in the breeze, made changing kaleidoscope patterns across the backs of the polished pews and the grey stone slabs of the floor.

Nothing seemed quite real as Caris walked slowly up the aisle on the arm of her Uncle David. Her father, still angry with her, had refused to give her away.

A man, presumably the best man, was waiting by the chancel steps. He had his back to her and she couldn’t see his face.

There was no sign of her groom.

On both sides of the aisle the congregation turned their heads to look and smile at her as she passed in a froth of white tulle that, even then, she knew was all wrong for her.

She did her best to smile back, but her face felt set and stiff, as though it was made from wax, and she couldn’t.

As she reached the chancel steps she was aware that her bridegroom had joined her and was standing by her side. She didn’t look at him.

The elderly priest stepped forward, gathered the congregation’s attention with a glance and began with the traditional words, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together …’

While the wedding service solemnly progressed, Caris stared straight ahead and asked herself what she was doing here.

When they reached the point where she and her bridegroom needed to make their vows and she still refused to look at him, he took her upper arms and turned her to face him.

His green eyes were cool, commanding; his blond, well-shaped head had that slightly arrogant tilt she knew so well.

‘Say it, Caris.’

But she couldn’t. This was all wrong! She couldn’t, wouldn’t, marry Zander!

Dropping the bouquet of pale-pink roses she carried, she turned and, gathering up her full skirts, fled down the aisle between the rows of gaping guests, tears pouring down her cheeks.

She could hear him calling after her, ‘Don’t go, Caris … Don’t go …’

But she had to. No matter how much she loved him, she wouldn’t marry a man who didn’t love her, who could well suspect that he had been trapped into marriage.

Gasping for breath, sobs rising in her throat, she reached the gloomy inner porch of the church and flung open the heavy door.

Stumbling through into the outer porch, she was met by bright sunshine and a brisk breeze that blew the folds of the fine silken-net veil over her face.

The dreamer was endeavouring to tear off the suffocating veil when she awoke and, sitting bolt upright, found she was in her own bed, the uncertain light of a rainy, late-spring morning filtering in.

Even so, it was a few seconds before the panic subsided and the sight of her familiar room, with its pastel walls and pretty, flowered curtains, steadied her a little.

Somewhere nearby a car door slammed and she could hear the unmistakable sounds of the quiet, tree-lined street coming alive—Billy Leyton’s motorbike being kicked into life, the shush of tyres on the wet road, next door’s dog barking.

Right on cue, the bedside alarm-clock announced with a loud jingle that it was seven-thirty.

‘It was a dream,’ Caris said aloud as she brushed a hand over her wet cheeks and reached to switch off the alarm. ‘Just a dream.’

But a haunting, reoccurring dream that had disturbed her sleep and, like some earthquake, shaken her world, causing the ground beneath her feet to open into a gaping chasm.

Since coming to England almost three years ago, she had fought hard to push all thoughts of Zander and the past out of her mind, and over the last six months she had started to believe she was succeeding.

Despite the gloomy economic climate, the estate agency she ran kept her so busy that, immersed in work, she could sometimes go for days on end without thinking of him, days on end without picturing his face.

In consequence she had gradually gained some kind of shaky equilibrium. She was able, at last, to look back and put their relationship into perspective.

It hadn’t been all bad.

Though it had ended in tears and heartache, for a while she had enjoyed the kind of happiness that she had never known existed.

And hadn’t it been said repeatedly that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

Pleased that she was able to think that way, she had congratulated herself on her newly found emotional stability.

Now, all because of a dream, that had been swept away. She was once again off-balance and Zander was back in her head, his handsome, strong-boned face clear in her mind’s eye.

All at once she felt cold and bereft. Churned up and desolate. All the old bitterness back.

But she wouldn’t let a dream throw her into emotional chaos again. She was no longer the vulnerable, inexperienced, round peg in a square hole she had been when they had first met.

The painful three years she had just lived through had made a great deal of difference. Now, to all intents and purposes, she was a self-possessed, successful businesswoman in her own right.

If the assurance—the air of confidence, the polish—was only a veneer, these days she didn’t allow anyone to get close enough to even scratch the surface, so who was to know?

To outsiders, she was what she appeared to be.

Partly reassured by this restored vision of a calm, secure, well-ordered life, Caris made her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and shower.

When she was dried and dressed for the day—in a grey, lightweight business suit, discreetly made-up, her long dark hair taken up into a knot, small gold studs in her ears—she went through to the kitchen to make herself some toast and coffee.

It was the Saturday morning of a bank holiday weekend, a busy, working Saturday as far as Caris was concerned, in spite of the weather.

After a cold, wet spring and almost a week of heavy and prolonged rain, everyone had been hoping that, with the prospect of a warm front moving in, the bank holiday would stay dry.

But it was raining yet again, and the latest forecast had been for continuing heavy rain and severe thunderstorms.

In spite of the inclement weather and the continuing recession, Carlton Lees, the estate agency Caris now owned, was doing quite well.

After the death of her aunt, finding it almost impossible to run the agency single-handed, she had taken on a local girl, a cheerful eighteen-year-old named Julie Dawson.

Julie, who did the secretarial work and held the fort while Caris was out with clients, had proved to be an absolute godsend.

Sensible and mature for her years, when sales had started to pick up she had been quite willing to come in early and work late whenever it had proved to be necessary.

Properties in and around the quiet market town of Spitewinter, though moving relatively slowly, were at least moving, and just at present there was no lack of interested clients.

This was due partly to the only other estate agent in town closing down, and partly to the fact that several of the more sought-after properties had recently come on to the market.

The most notable of these was a small manor house dating from the fifteen-hundreds. It had been owned by a famous writer who, at ninety-eight, had recently died and left it to a distant cousin.

The cousin, who lived in Australia, had no desire to keep it. Wanting a speedy sale so he could buy his own ranch, he had put Gracedieu onto the market, causing a buzz of excitement and interest in the property world.

An article about the sale—lavishly accompanied by pictures of the house, estate and the ‘sole agent, Miss Caris Belmont’—had appeared in one of the most prestigious magazines:

Gracedieu, a unique example of a small, sixteenth-century manor house, is an absolute gem. It stands in its own delightful estate which is complete with an old water-mill and a hamlet of picturesque, period cottages,especially built in the late seventeen-hundreds to house the estate workers …

This coverage had caused even more interest and, despite the astronomical asking price and the fact that it had been somewhat neglected by its previous owner, there were several potential buyers waiting to view the place.

The first of these had an appointment for that afternoon, and Caris knew her attention should be focused on getting a quick sale at the asking price.

But, though she tried her hardest to banish all thoughts of Zander, she found it impossible to get him out of her mind.

The Old Vicarage, bequeathed to her by her aunt, along with what had then been a struggling estate agency, all at once seemed too big and too empty, with nothing but regrets and ghosts from the past to keep her company.

Impatient with herself, anxious to get away, she jumped to her feet, grabbed her bag and mac and headed for the door.

Beaded with raindrops, her modest car was waiting on the driveway, and in a moment or two she had left the house behind and, with wipers clicking rhythmically, was heading into town.

Passing the library, she joined the light stream of traffic flowing through Spitewinter’s High Street and across the old humpbacked bridge that spanned the willow-hung river, brown and swollen now because of all the recent rain.

When she reached Carlton Lees, which was at the end of a row of Dickensian shops situated in a wide, cobbled street by the river, she parked in her usual spot beneath the trees and ran to let herself in, her mac around her shoulders.

Julie hadn’t yet arrived, and everywhere was quiet. After attending to the messages and emails, Caris found her client for that morning had been forced to cancel and had requested an appointment for the following week.

That dealt with, she tried to concentrate on the routine work, but tenuous threads of the dream still clung, sticky and inescapable as a spider’s web, and in spite of all her efforts she found her thoughts going back three years.

Back to when her home had been in Upstate New York, and she had joined Belmont and Belmont, her father’s well-respected law firm in Albany. It was there she had first met and fallen in love with Zander …

She had been sitting behind her desk one Friday evening, checking some legal documents before she went home, when her father had looked in to wish her a good vacation. ‘You’ve earned it,’ he’d added.

Austin Belmont, a clever, not to say brilliant lawyer, was a cold, unapproachable, irascible man who rarely handed out praise.

For as long as she could remember she had done her best to please him—with scant success. Now, his spoken approval left her open-mouthed and gasping.

Some half an hour later, she had just filed away the documents she’d been working on, and was about to go home, when the internal phone had rung.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Belmont …’ The firm’s usually unflappable secretary sounded a little flustered. ‘But I have a Mr Devereux here. I wonder if you could possibly see him?’

Devereux … The name rang a bell, though Caris couldn’t immediately think why. ‘Does he have an appointment?’

‘He was supposed to see Mr David, but I’m afraid there’s been a mix-up. We have the wrong date down, and both Mr Austin and Mr David have already left. I was on the point of leaving myself.’

Knowing Kate Bradshaw would need to pick up her daughter from the child minder, Caris said quickly, ‘That’s quite all right, Kate. If you would like to show Mr Devereux through before you go, I’ll do what I can to help him.’

She heard a slight but unmistakable sigh of relief before the receiver was replaced, and guessed that their disgruntled client had been giving the poor woman a hard time.

A moment later there was a tap at the door and he was ushered in.

For some reason Caris had pictured him as being short and portly with grey, thinning hair and jowls, wearing a stuffy suit and tie.

The man who strode in, however, was attractive and self-assured, and carried with him an aura of power and authority.

He was somewhere in the region of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, she judged, blond and broad-shouldered, well over six-feet tall, dressed in smart casuals and looking anything but stuffy.

Beneath the thick, sun-streaked hair his handsome face was lean and tanned, with strong, clear-cut features and long, heavy-lidded eyes beneath curved brows several shades darker than his hair. His mouth, at first glance austere, held a hint of passion that sent shivers running up and down her spine.

Rising to her feet, she held out her hand. ‘I’m Caris Belmont, Mr Devereux.’

She was vexed to find that, instead of being composed and businesslike, her voice sounded very slightly breathless.

Taking her hand, he said formally, ‘Miss Belmont.’

As those long fingers wrapped around hers she felt an electric tingle run up her arm, and thought a trifle dazedly that she had read about that kind of thing happening in romantic novels but had never quite believed it.

Pulling herself together, she said, ‘I gather there’s been some kind of mix-up over the date of your appointment?’

His green eyes cool, he said a shade brusquely, ‘So I understand. Though I must point out that the mistake wasn’t mine.’

‘No. I do apologize.’

If she had hoped for some softening in his attitude, she was disappointed. Clearly he wasn’t the kind of man who took kindly to being brought on a wild goose chase.

She resumed her seat and, indicating the black leather armchair in front of her desk, asked politely, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

When he made no move to follow her suggestion, she added, ‘I may be able to help you.’

He studied her with great deliberation for a moment or two before raising a well-marked brow and asking, ‘In what way?’

Annoyed by the cool mockery, she said stiffly, ‘I am a qualified lawyer.’

His manner holding a faint but unmistakable touch of incredulity, he drawled, ‘Really?’

Her soft mouth tightened. How could she ever have thought him attractive? she wondered furiously. The man was so arrogant!

‘Yes, really,’ she said frigidly.

‘How old are you, Miss Belmont? Let’s see, you must be all of twenty-two—twenty-three at the most?’

Caris bit her lip. He had expected to see one of the senior partners and clearly he thought he was being fobbed off with an inexperienced junior.

Which in a way he was, honesty made her admit.

‘I can’t see that my age matters.’

‘Then suppose I phrase that question differently. Have you had any actual experience?’

‘Certainly … Lots,’ she added recklessly.

‘Lots? My! You must be older than you look. So exactly how long have you been with the practice?’

‘Almost a year.’ She tried not to sound defensive.

‘That long!’

She gritted her teeth.

‘And what exactly is your position here?’

She was pleased to be able to say, ‘I’ve just been offered a partnership.’

The gleam in his eye told her that he knew quite well she had deliberately left out the word ‘junior’.

‘Tell me, Miss Belmont, what is the relationship between yourself and the senior partners? As the surname is the same, I take it there is one?’

Seething inwardly, because she already knew what he was getting at, she curbed her temper as best she could and said briefly, ‘Austin Belmont is my father. David Belmont is my uncle.’

‘So it’s what you might call a nice, cosy little set-up.’

Her anger boiled over and she threw caution to the winds. ‘Mr Devereux,’ she said, her voice icy, ‘I accept that you have a genuine reason for complaint, but I find your attitude insufferable.’

‘And I find yours, shall we say, somewhat naive for a qualified lawyer.’

‘In that case perhaps you would prefer to wait and talk to one of the senior partners?’

‘I understood from your secretary that there is no one else available before Monday.’

‘I’m afraid there isn’t,’ she confirmed shortly.

He studied her heart-shaped face. She was quite lovely, he thought, with flawless skin, a short, straight nose, generous mouth, dark silky hair taken up into a neat coil, and almond eyes beneath winged brows the deep, purple-blue of pansies.

Eyes that at the moment were sparkling with anger.

It had been his intention to leave—his company’s new lawyer would be taking up her post in ten days’ time, and at a pinch his business could wait—but all at once he changed his mind.

This woman interested and intrigued him. As well as beauty, she had brains, character and spirit.

She also had a temper.

Deciding to test that temper a little more, he said, ‘I see.’ Glancing at her from beneath long, gold-tipped lashes, he added, ‘Well, if you think you can cope …?’

Forcing back an angry response, she said, ‘I can cope.’

‘Then the answer to your question is, no.’

She took a deep, steadying breath, before saying coolly, ‘Well, if you intend to stay, Mr Devereux, perhaps you’d like to sit down?’

Ignoring the chair, he came and sat on the edge of the desk, turning slightly to face her.

Suddenly he was much too close and instinctively she flinched away.

It was only the slightest movement, but he noticed it and looked amused.

This time she kept her cool, but her hand itched to throw something at him.

And he knew it, damn him. In fact the gleam in his eye gave her the distinct impression that he was enjoying needling her.

Before she could make any attempt to regain the initiative, he asked with smooth effrontery, ‘So after only a year, and young as you are, you’ve been offered a partnership? You must be exceptionally clever and talented.’

A flush rising in her cheeks, she said tightly, ‘I don’t claim to be either of those, Mr Devereux. But I graduated from one of the top English law schools with honours, and while I’ve been with the firm I’ve kept studying and learning.’

Her voice as dispassionate as she could make it, she went on, ‘If you knew my father and my uncle at all well, you would know that they have no time for nepotism. Any advancement in this firm has to be earned by hard work and competence.’

Yes, she certainly had a temper, but she knew how to control it, he thought admiringly.

Deciding to change tactics, he slid off the desk and turned to face her in one fluid movement.

When green eyes met deep blue, he said simply, ‘I apologize. While I believe I have every right to be angry, I shouldn’t have vented it on you.’

She wanted to say, no you shouldn’t. Instead, the wind taken out of her sails, she said inanely, ‘That’s all right.’

‘Forgive me?’

‘Of course.’

He gave her a smile that lit his eyes, put creases beside his mouth and sent his already powerful sex appeal soaring. ‘And you’re not still angry with me?’

That smile robbed her of breath and, unable to speak, she shook her head.

‘Positive?’

‘Yes, I’m positive,’ she managed.

His gaze dropped to her hands which were long and slim with neat oval nails, mercifully free from the dark-coloured varnishes he so disliked.

Pleased that she appeared to be neither married nor engaged, he asked, ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

Taken by surprise, she echoed, ‘Doing anything?’

‘I mean do you have a date with a boyfriend, or a live-in lover waiting impatiently at home for you?’

‘Neither.’

‘Why not? A beautiful woman like you.’

‘For the last five years I’ve been working so hard I’ve had no time for boyfriends or live-in lovers,’ she told him pointedly.

Suddenly human and likeable, he pulled a droll face. ‘I suppose I asked for that.’

‘You did, rather.’

‘Well, now you’ve cut me down to size, how about having dinner with me tonight?’

Feeling a strange pang of regret, she said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I’m driving down to Catona tonight to start my vacation.’

‘Are you meeting someone there?’

‘I’m staying with a friend.’

‘Oh?’ He raised a questioning brow.

For no good reason, she found herself explaining, ‘Sam’s an old school friend.’

‘Male or female?’

‘Female.’

‘I see.’ He looked satisfied. ‘What time is she expecting you?’

‘No particular time. Whenever I get there.’

‘Well Catona’s only a couple of hours away at the most. You could always have dinner with me first. After all, you’ll need to eat some time,’ he pointed out persuasively.

As Caris hesitated, he added, ‘If you don’t say yes, I’ll know you haven’t forgiven me.’

‘But I have forgiven you.’

He smiled into her eyes. ‘Then tell me where you live and I’ll pick you up at … shall we say seven?’

Without intending to, Caris found herself telling him, ‘I live in Apartment One-A, Lampton House, Darlington Square.’

She was about to explain how to find it when he said cheerfully, ‘I know Darlington Square. I have a small apartment quite near there.

‘Until seven, then.’ He sketched a brief salute and was gone.

She must be stark, staring mad! she thought, gazing after him. Pressure of work had meant burning the midnight oil for the past couple of weeks, and she had intended to get to Catona in time to have an early night tonight.

So what on earth had made her agree to go out with a man she had only just met, and whose first name she didn’t even know? A man who had proved he could be not only difficult but downright demoralizing? A man she had felt instinctively was dangerous?

The truth was she had found him damn-nigh irresistible, and that element of danger added a dash of excitement and spice that had been sadly missing from her life.

When her doorbell rang promptly at seven, Caris was ready and organized, her evening bag and jacket to hand, her small vacation case and holdall packed and waiting to be put into her car later.

With no idea where he intended to take her, she had been undecided what to wear. In the end, having little else because she so rarely went out, she had put on her one and only cocktail dress, a silky sheath in midnight blue with matching high-heeled strappy sandals.

Needing little in the way of make-up, she had applied a light foundation and a touch of lip gloss, taken her hair up into an elegant chignon and fastened pearl drops to her small lobes.

As she opened the door she wondered if he would approve. She very much hoped so.

His gaze travelled over her slowly and appreciatively. Now she had shed the formal business suit, he could see that, as well as a lovely face, this woman had a stunning figure.

Seeing the open admiration in his eyes Caris was satisfied that he liked what he saw.

Knowing now how attractive he was, she had thought herself prepared, and hadn’t expected to be bowled over by the sight of him. But, looking more handsome than ever in an immaculate dinner jacket and black tie, he made her heart lurch crazily.

Taking a deep breath, she invited, ‘If you’d like to come in for a moment, Mr Devereux …?’

‘Won’t you call me Zander? Everyone else does.’

‘Zander?’ she echoed uncertainly.

‘A mistake on my birth certificate,’ he explained with a twinkle in his eye. ‘My parents had intended to call me Alexander, but somehow Zander went down and the name stuck.’

Following her into the light, pleasantly furnished living-room, he remarked with a smile, ‘A nice place. Do you live here alone?’

‘No, I share. But Mitch is on vacation in Rome and won’t be back for another week.’

‘Mitch?’

‘Diana Mitchell, but everyone calls her Mitch.’

Then, recalling the time, Caris added hastily, ‘I’m all ready. I just need pick up my jacket and bag.’

‘It’s a pleasure to find a woman who’s prompt as well as beautiful.’

His words sent a little thrill of excitement running through her. But, knowing it was necessary to keep her feet firmly on the ground, she observed practically, ‘I need to be prompt. I’m hoping to be back here in time to put my luggage in the car and get down to Catona this side of midnight.’

Glancing at the waiting case and holdall, he asked thoughtfully, ‘Will you be doing much driving while you’re there?’

She shook her head. ‘None at all, I imagine. First thing tomorrow morning, Sam and I will be joining a small group of hikers who’ll be doing a five-day trek along the Rowton Way. But I need my car to get to Catona and back.’

‘If that’s all, I’ve a suggestion to make. The restaurant I’m planning to take you to is well on the way to Catona.’

Feeling suddenly breathless, she waited, wondering what was coming.

‘So, if we take your luggage with us, after we’ve eaten instead of bringing you back here I could drive you down to your friend’s. That would save a good deal of time.’

‘Oh, but …’

‘It would give us the chance to be together longer and have a more leisurely meal.’

The chance to be together longer …

Her heart doing strange things, she pointed out, ‘But then I wouldn’t have a car to get back.’

‘My house is only about twelve miles from Catona, so if you let me know when your vacation’s over I could quite easily pick you up.’

‘I couldn’t possibly put you to all that trouble,’ she protested.

‘It’s no trouble. If it had been I wouldn’t have suggested it.’ Briskly, he added, ‘Is this all the luggage you have?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there anything else you need to do before we go?’

Common sense told her she ought to dig her toes in and refuse to be hustled but, looking into those green eyes, she was lost.

‘Nothing else,’ she answered.

He put her jacket around her shoulders and handed her her bag, before picking up her case and holdall. ‘Then let’s get started.’

Feeling as if she was being swept along by a prairie wind, Caris allowed herself to be escorted out to a sleek silver sports car that waited by the kerb.

When her luggage had been stowed in the back and she had been helped into the passenger seat, Zander slid behind the wheel. ‘All set?’

She nodded.

The engine purred like a satisfied cat; they traversed the quiet square and joined the busy evening stream of traffic.

Some five minutes later they had left the outskirts of the city behind them and were heading roughly south-west.

Seeing the wooded peaks of the Catskills in the distance, she asked, ‘Where exactly are we going?’

‘The restaurant is called Le Jardin Romarin. It’s rather a special place, and they have an excellent French chef.’

‘How far is it?’

‘Not too far. It’s near the mountains, on the outskirts of a pretty little village called Bright Angel Falls.’

‘Oh, we once drove through Bright Angel Falls!’ she exclaimed. ‘I remembered it because it was such a lovely name.’

‘Do you know the area well?’

‘Not very well. But my father took me that way once or twice when I was younger, and I always thought it was really picturesque.’

‘So it is,’ he agreed. ‘That’s why I chose to buy a house in that area.’

If he had a house, as well as an apartment in town and a luxury car, he must be a relatively wealthy man; the way he dressed seemed to confirm that.

But, even if he hadn’t had a cent, with his looks and charisma it was a wonder he was still free.

They were following a quiet, spruce-lined road when he broke into her thoughts to remark, ‘We’ll soon be at the bridge that spans the Bright Angel Gorge. If you look to your left, you’ll get a good view of the falls. They’re quite spectacular.’

When they dropped down an incline, Caris saw the bridge ahead of them, and on the opposite side a small parking area from which a short but steep and narrow flight of rocky steps led down to a viewpoint guarded by a chest-high railing.

As they crossed the bridge, she glanced left, as she had been bidden. A series of delicate waterfalls, looking like skeins of bright spun silk, plummeted gracefully into the rocky depths; lit by the rays of the sinking sun, a rainbow arched in the air, forming a multicoloured halo.

Her first thought was that he had been right to call them spectacular. In fact even that adjective seemed to be something of an understatement.

When he glanced at her, as if trying to judge her reaction, she said a little huskily, ‘They’re magnificent. Absolutely magnificent.’

‘So is the gorge itself. But it’s so deep you can only see it properly by going down to the viewpoint.’

‘Could we do that? Have we time?’

‘If you want to go down, we’ll make time.’ As he spoke, he was drawing into the car park.

Having helped her from the car, he warned, ‘Better let me go first. Some of the steps are worn and uneven, and could be tricky with those high heels.’ Carefully, she followed him down and, standing by the railings, looked over into the gorge.

The tumbled rocks and surging white water far below took her breath away, and she was still gazing in wonder when her companion reminded her, ‘If you want to get down to Catona tonight we’d better be moving.’

The awesome scene still filling her mind, she held on to the metal handrail and began to climb back up the steps, Zander at her heels.

She had almost reached the top when she missed her footing and slipped off a step.

Her companion stopped her falling and held her steady until she’d had time to gather herself, before asking, ‘Any damage done?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she answered.

But when she tried to climb the remaining steps she couldn’t prevent a gasp of pain.

‘What is it?’

Reluctantly, she admitted, ‘I’m afraid I’ve twisted my ankle.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘HOLD on,’ he instructed, and squeezed past her. ‘Now then, put your free arm around my neck.’

She obeyed and, lifting her clear of the steps, he swung her up into his arms.

Though he was no stranger to women, he was unprepared for how the weight of her slim yet curvaceous body lying against his set his heart beating faster.

For her part, Caris felt distinctly awkward. Being carried was an unfamiliar sensation for a woman of five feet seven who weighed a hundred and thirty pounds and she was pleased they had the place to themselves so there was no one to stare.

After a moment or two the awkwardness passed. He bore her weight with such ease that by the time they reached the car she was starting to feel safe, protected and feminine, and to quite like the novel experience.

When she was settled on the front passenger seat, he crouched to pull off her sandal and examine her left ankle and foot. As his long fingers probed, she couldn’t prevent a wince.

He glanced up sharply.

‘It’s all right,’ she assured him.

His examination over, he reported, ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything broken, but it’s started to swell already, and it’s my guess that you have quite a nasty sprain.’

Then, his tone vexed, ‘I’m an absolute fool! I should have had more sense than take you down there in those heels.’

‘It isn’t your fault,’ she assured him quickly. ‘I should have had more sense than go down. But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. And it’s really not too painful.’

As she moved her foot experimentally, a stab of agony made her gasp, giving the lie to her words.

‘Take your stocking off,’ he instructed. ‘I’ve a first-aid box in the trunk.’

While he was gone, on the grounds that it was better to have bare legs than be odd, she took off both her stockings and put them in her purse.

He returned after a moment or two with the box and, having applied an analgesic spray and a crepe bandage, asked, ‘How does it feel now?’

‘Much better, thank you,’ she replied cheerfully as she slipped her sandals back on and swung her legs into the car.

‘That’s good. Though I doubt if you’ll be doing much serious walking for a few days.’

‘Oh Lord!’ In the excitement of the moment, she had given scant thought to her vacation.

‘I suppose I ought to warn Sam that I may not be able to join the group. But I don’t want to disappoint her unless I’m forced to.’

‘Then why not wait until we get to the restaurant?’ Zander suggested. ‘If you leave it for a while you may have a better idea of just how much of a problem the ankle’s going to be.’

‘You’re right, of course.’

When he had slammed the car door, he replaced the first-aid box and got behind the wheel.

As he drove, his thoughts were busy. It was odds on that her ankle would prevent her from joining a trekking party, but would she still want to join her friend in Catona?

He rather hoped not. Past experience told him she was already attracted to him, and he couldn’t wait to get her into bed.

With a lot of women it would have been easy—too easy, in fact. Most of them had been so over-eager he’d soon become bored and only too keen to bring things to an end.

But already he felt certain that this woman was different. Rather than being the worldly, extrovert, anything-goes type, she was quiet and self-contained and, beneath what he guessed was normally a cool, composed exterior, maybe even a little shy.

Suddenly he was looking forward to finding out, filled with anticipation at the thought of getting to know her a whole lot better. Of holding her in his arms and making love to her.

Smiling wryly to himself, he realized he hadn’t felt this interested and eager since he had been a lanky seventeen-year-old and really enamoured of the pretty girl who lived across the way.

By the time they reached their destination the sun had disappeared behind the wooded peaks, and the air was the clear piercing blue that in mountainous regions reigns briefly between sunset and dusk.

‘Here we are,’ Zander said as he came round to help her out. ‘Le Jardin Romarin.’

It was an old and picturesque building, with a jumble of pitched roofs and sloping gables. On each side of the stone steps leading up to the imposing entrance were tubs of spiky purple lavender and dark, glossy rosemary.

‘Careful now,’ he warned as she gathered up her purse and jacket and swung her feet to the ground.

Favouring her bad ankle, she stood up cautiously; so far so good. But when she tried to put weight on it she was unable to prevent an exclamation of pain. ‘Bad, huh?’ he said sympathetically.

‘I don’t think I can walk,’ she admitted.

‘Then put your arms round my neck.’

A sudden excitement surging through her, she obeyed, and once again found herself being swung up and held against a broad chest.

This time she felt less awkward about being carried, but was more affected by it.

She could feel the warmth of his body, the solidness of the bone and muscle she rested against, and, mingling with the clean masculine scent of his skin, the tangy aftershave he used.

Their faces were so near to one another that she could see the faint laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, and a small, vertical scar by the side of his mouth.

Such close contact sent a shiver of excitement through her, made breathing difficult, and set her heart beating faster.

The door was opened for them and, having climbed the steps seemingly without effort, he carried her into an elegant foyer-bar where a small party of people were enjoying a drink while they waited for their table.

Embarrassment washed over her, but when no one as much as glanced their way her discomfort faded.

Feeling her relax, Zander asked, ‘Satisfied I won’t drop you?’

Seeing her cheeks grow pink, and finding it a sweet amusement to tease her, he added wickedly, ‘Or are you starting to enjoy being carried?’

She was saved from having to answer by a sturdy, silver-haired man wearing a dinner jacket and black bow-tie who crossed the foyer to greet them.

‘Zander, nice to see you again, mon ami!’ he exclaimed jovially.

‘Nice to see you, Claude.’

With an unmistakable twinkle in his eye, the Frenchman asked, ‘Do I take it that you and madame are enjoying a lune de miel?’

‘Unfortunately not. I’m afraid mademoiselle has hurt her ankle.’

Claude tutted his concern. ‘Then we will have to try and make up for it with one of our best tables and an especially good meal.’

He led the way through French doors to a rear veranda and over to a secluded table, beautifully set with a low centrepiece of apricot-coloured roses and a squat gold candle.

‘Now do please make yourselves comfortable.’

As soon as Caris had been settled in a chair, an attentive waiter relieved her of her jacket and whisked it away.

Nodding his approval, Claude went on, ‘I will send along a bottle of our best champagne, and if you care to leave the choice of menu in my hands …?’

After giving Caris a questioning glance and receiving her nod of agreement, Zander answered, ‘Thanks, Claude, we’ll be happy to.’

‘Then I will see that chef excels himself on your behalf. Oh, one last thing …’ Turning to Caris he asked, ‘Would mademoiselle like something to rest her injured foot on?’

A little flustered by so much attention, Caris said, ‘Thank you, but it’s really not necessary.’

With a smile and an inclination of his head, the Frenchman hurried away.

The lantern-hung veranda overlooked a steeply terraced garden with winding steps and secret paths, stone benches and pale statues in arbours. Water cascaded over tumbling rocks into fern-hung pools, and dark, glossy rosemary seemed to grow in every nook and cranny.

A solitary bright evening star and a velvety-blue dusk waiting in the wings made the scene seem magical, enchanted.

It set the atmosphere for the whole evening.

Having gazed her fill, Caris remarked, ‘This is a lovely place in a lovely setting.’

‘I rather hoped you’d like it,’ Zander admitted.

As she moved her foot into a more comfortable position he said, ‘Sure you don’t need a cushion? Raising it might help to ease the pain and prevent swelling.’

She shook her head. ‘It only hurts when I put weight on it, and the swelling seems to have stopped. Though I think you were right about the trekking.’

‘Then this might be a good time to call your friend and put her in the picture.’

She sighed. ‘Walking the Rowton Way is something Sam’s been really looking forward to.’

‘So what do you intend to do?’

‘Stay in Albany,’ Caris said decidedly. ‘I don’t want her to call it off on my account, which is what she’ll do if I’m in Catona and not able to go.’

Fishing out her mobile phone, she tapped in the number. After a moment or two she frowned. ‘I’m not getting any answer, which is odd … Oh, wait a minute, I have a text message from her.

‘Oh Lord, she has an even worse problem than I do. Her widowed mother’s been taken ill and she’s having to fly up to Boston to nurse her. She says to go on the trek without her, so I’d better let her know how things are …’

The text sent, Caris dropped the phone back into her bag. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘There’s no need to be. It had to be settled. But it’s a pity about your vacation.’

Hiding her disappointment, she said lightly, ‘Oh well, it can’t be helped. I’ll just have a quiet time at home.

‘If I get bored I can always go into the office or ask Kate to drop some work round. There’s always plenty to do.’

At that moment, the wine waiter approached wheeling a trolley. He stooped and with a click of his lighter lit the candle.

Then, having stationed the trolley to his satisfaction, he twirled the bottle of Dom Perignon in its ice bucket and began the little ceremony of opening and pouring the vintage champagne.

‘Go easy on mine,’ Zander said as the wine bubbled into the flutes. ‘I’ll be driving later.’

When the napkin-wrapped bottle had been replaced in the bucket and the waiter had moved away, Zander lifted his glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to us, Caris, and getting to know one another better.’

‘To us,’ she echoed.

Those fascinating green eyes of his fixed on her face. He remarked, ‘You have an unusual name. Who chose it?’

‘My mother.’

‘Caris,’ he murmured softly, making the word sound like a caress. ‘It suits you.’

As she sipped the champagne, emboldened by his toast and wanting to know more about him, she asked, ‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘I’m in the hotel business.’

Of course; she had wondered why the name seemed to be familiar. Now she recalled glancing through a society magazine and reading about the aristocratic Devereux family.

‘I thought I knew the name. Devereux Hotels are famous all over the globe. I read in one of the glossy magazines that it’s been a family concern for more than a hundred years.’

‘Yes. It all started with my great-grandfather, Gerald Devereux.’

‘Wasn’t he the younger brother of a duke?’

‘Yes, but he stopped using his title when he married an American and came to live in the States. Originally he set up his own merchant bank in London, then in the late eighteen-hundreds he acquired a hotel as a bad debt. That sparked his interest and as a business proposition he began to build more.’

‘So do you run the business?’

‘No, my father does.’

‘James Devereux?’

‘That’s right.’

The article had gone on to say that James Devereux, a multi millionaire who owned a chain of five-star hotels worldwide, had been happily married to the same woman for almost forty years.

His son, on the other hand, appeared to be a Casanova, noted for his many high-profile affairs and his ability to remain a bachelor despite the amount of women trying to catch him.

Zander was going on. ‘I’m an architect by training and inclination, so I spend a lot of my time designing and building new hotels or converting existing properties.’

‘In the States?’

‘Worldwide.’

‘Which means you do a lot of travelling?’

‘A fair amount.’

‘Lucky you. Do you have a favourite country?’

‘I have a soft spot for England,’ he admitted.

‘Then you know it well?’

‘Very well. I was born in London and I went to Oxford. You see, though my father is American by birth, my mother, who died last year, was English.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Caris said. ‘That is strange, though, as I have an American father and an English mother.’

‘So where were you born?’

‘A little market town called Spitewinter, on the Cambridgeshire border. My grandfather was the vicar there. I got my law degree at Cambridge University.’

‘What made you decide on law as a career?’

‘It was decided for me. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. You see, my father had hoped for a son to follow in hisfootsteps, but it wasn’t to be. My mother died when I was quite young.’

‘And your father never married again?’

Caris shook her head. ‘He’d adored my mother and he never really got over her death. He became morose and bitter.’

‘But you must have been a comfort to him.’

‘Quite the reverse, apparently. I was left in the care of various nannies and sent away to boarding school as soon as I was old enough to go. But, later on, when I proved to be reasonably bright, it became my father’s dearest wish that I should train to be a lawyer and join the firm.’

‘Why did you choose to go to Cambridge?’

‘Once again, the decision was made for me. Though my father is American born and bred, his family, as well as my mother’s, were originally from Cambridgeshire.’

‘How did they end up in the States?’

‘In the early eighteen-hundreds one of our ancestors emigrated and settled in New Jersey, but he sent his eldest son back to England to finish his education at Cambridge. Since then it’s become a kind of family tradition that in each generation the eldest son of the eldest son should go there.

‘My father went. That’s where he met and fell in love with my mother. She was a law student too, but in her second year she was forced to leave when she became pregnant. They got married as soon as they knew, and I was born at my grandparents’ house in Spitewinter.

‘Shortly afterwards, my father graduated and took my mother and me back to the States with him. But it hadn’t been an easy birth—something had gone wrong—and she never fully recovered. After she died, he could scarcely bear to look at me. It was almost as if he blamed me for her death.’

‘I see,’ Zander said slowly. ‘But, now you’ve taken the place of the son he never had, presumably you’ve grown closer?’

Caris shook her head regretfully. ‘I’m afraid you could never call the relationship I have with my father close.’

‘But you get on okay with him as a rule?’

‘Reasonably well, while I’m willing to be a dutiful daughter and not cross him.’

Zander frowned. ‘I find it difficult to believe he’s not proud of you.’

‘Perhaps he is, a little. But I’ve still got a long way to go to get where he wants me to be.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s his dream that one day I’ll become a top-class barrister.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

‘I wouldn’t have figured you as a barrister.’

‘You don’t think I have the brains?’

‘Such a thought never entered my head. It’s just that I’ve always considered a top-class barrister must have a certain hardness, the ability to remain detached, uninvolved emotionally.

‘I can easily believe you’re level-headed and clever but, though I still don’t know you well, I have a gut feeling that you’re too tender-hearted to make it a comfortable profession.’

‘Now should I be flattered or insulted?’ she wondered aloud.

He laughed. ‘Please, take it as a compliment.’

At that moment their first course arrived. It proved to be a very tasty lobster bisque, and apart from an occasional remark they fell silent as they did justice to it.

It was followed by a tender steak served with a delicious cheureuil sauce, and they ended with a fruit and cream cheesecake that was light as a dream. As soon as their plates had been whisked away, the attentive waiter brought coffee, chocolates and a small trolley holding a selection of liqueurs.

‘Which would you prefer?’ Zander asked. ‘Brandy? Cointreau? Benedictine?’

‘I like Benedictine,’ Caris admitted. ‘But as I’ve already had at least two glasses of champagne I’m not sure if it would be wise.’

‘Well, as you won’t be driving, I can’t see the harm. And it may help you get a good night’s sleep in spite of the ankle.’

Taking that as a yes, the waiter poured a generous amount of Benedictine into one of the glasses. Then with the bottle poised he enquired, ‘And for you, sir?’

Zander shook his head. ‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

When the waiter had departed, with no need for small talk they sipped their coffee in companionable silence, looking out over the dusky garden.

A warm evening breeze drifted by, carrying with it the fragrance of roses, lavender and the haunting scent of rosemary.

With a sigh, Caris turned to her host and said, ‘That was the best meal I can ever remember having.’

In the flickering candlelight, Zander smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

He had good teeth—nicely shaped, gleaming white and healthy—and his mouth was beautiful, she thought, the top lip ascetic, the fuller lower lip more sensuous.

She was still staring, caught by the sexiness of it, when he added approvingly, ‘It’s a pleasure to have dinner with a woman who appreciates good food and doesn’t want to chatter all through the meal.’

Floating on cloud nine, happy that he seemed to like her company and hadn’t found her silence dull, Caris glowed.

She already knew that she would always remember this lovely, romantic evening. An evening she never wanted to end.

But her father was a hard taskmaster; for the past few weeks, needing to get things done before her vacation, she had worked far into the night most nights and slept badly in consequence.

Now tiredness was starting to catch up with her, made even more soporific by too much alcohol; she found herself having to stifle a yawn.

Zander noticed at once. ‘About ready to go?’ he queried. ‘It’s getting late and you look tired.’

‘Yes, I’m ready.’ She managed a smile.

But after such a wonderful evening to return to her lonely apartment with its empty fridge and stripped bed seemed like a complete anti-climax, and her heart felt like lead.

‘Or perhaps you’d rather not go home tonight? It won’t be much fun going back to an empty apartment so late, especially with an injured ankle and no holiday to look forward to …’

Surprised by the way he had picked up so accurately what she was thinking and feeling, she asked, ‘How long have you been psychic?’

‘So I guessed right? You don’t want to go home?’

As lightly as possible, she said, ‘I don’t have much choice now I’m not going to Catona.’

‘Why not spend the night at my house?’

As her head came up, he added, ‘I ought to make it clear that this isn’t an indecent proposal. But as you don’t want to go home—’

Horrified in case he thought she had been angling for an invitation, she broke in sharply. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just couldn’t.’ Uncomfortably, she added, ‘I didn’t mean to sound as if I was …’

On her wavelength immediately, he heaved a mock sigh. ‘That’s a pity. I was rather hoping you wanted my company as much as I wanted yours. However, if you don’t, there’s always the river.’

Smiling in spite of herself, she said, ‘I just didn’t want you to think I was—’

‘I didn’t think anything of the kind. But, if by any chance I had, I assure you I would have been extremely flattered. So do come.’

‘I really couldn’t put you to so much trouble,’ she protested thickly.

‘It’s no trouble. Hallgarth has a perfectly good guest room, which my housekeeper always leaves made up, and we can be there in less than half an hour.’

Persuasively, he added, ‘Say yes, and after you’ve enjoyed a good night’s sleep we can have breakfast together before I take you home.’

Under normal circumstances, common sense would have insisted that she should say no and mean it. But too much alcohol had swamped both her usual reserve and her inhibitions. If truth be told, she was curious to see his house.

After a brief hesitation, she threw caution to the winds and agreed, ‘Very well, I’ll come.’

He smiled, a white, attractive smile that creased his lean cheeks and made her heart give a little lurch. ‘That’s good.’

Watching her stifle yet another yawn, he signalled to the waiter to bring her jacket, adding, ‘If I don’t get you home soon, you’ll be fast asleep.’

When he had paid the bill and added a generous tip, he lifted her into his arms.

At that moment Claude appeared and beamed at them. ‘I hope you have enjoyed a good meal and had a pleasant evening?’

‘We can answer a resounding yes to both those questions,’ Zander told him.

‘Then you must both come again as my guests.’

‘We’ll look forward to it.’

Their thanks and goodbyes said, they made their way out to the car.

When Caris was settled in the front passenger seat, Zander got behind the wheel and fastened both their seatbelts. In a matter of seconds they had left the lighted restaurant behind them.

Only when they were travelling down a deserted, tree-lined road, their headlights groping through the darkness like the luminous antennae of some insect, did she have second thoughts about the wisdom of what she was doing.

After all, it was far from sensible behaviour to go off into the blue with a man she scarcely knew, a man who, though he had talked about a housekeeper and a guest room, had a reputation as a Casanova.

As though he sensed her sudden unease, he glanced sideways at her in the weird, unearthly light from the dashboard.

‘Something wrong?’

‘No, not really …’ she mumbled.

‘I thought you might perhaps be regretting your decision to come?’

Her silence effectively answered his question.

‘What are you afraid of? That I might turn out to be a homicidal maniac?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then you’re scared I’ll twirl an imaginary moustache and whisk you off into the woods like some pantomime villain?’

‘Hardly.’

‘But that’s closer to the mark?’

Once again her silence spoke for her.

He sighed. ‘I frankly admit that if you do want to share my bed I’ll be delighted. But, if you don’t, then you’ll be as safe as if you were in a nunnery.’

Though his tone was quizzical, her every instinct told her that he spoke the exact truth.

More seriously, he went on, ‘If I haven’t managed to set your mind at rest, and you really don’t trust me, say so at once and I’ll be happy to turn round and take you home.’

‘I do trust you. Implicitly,’ she added.

‘Thank you for that.’

He drove in silence for a while, then as they took the road that climbed steadily into the mountains he slanted her a glance.

She was asleep, her thick lashes making dark fans on her high cheekbones, her lovely mouth slightly parted. She looked both alluring and vulnerable, and he felt a strong urge to stop the car and kiss her.

When they reached Hallgarth and drew up in the pool of light cast by the porch lantern, she was still sound asleep.

Reluctant to disturb her, he left her where she was while he took her case and holdall up to the pleasant but seldom-used guest room.

Returning to the car, he lifted her out carefully and carried her up the hickory staircase. Laying her down on the bed, he removed her sandals before settling her dark head on the pillow and pulling up the lightweight duvet.

He had half-expected her to stir and open her eyes, but she remained soundly asleep until he finished his ministrations and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

When Caris awoke, she opened her eyes to a large, pleasant room with light modern furniture and apricot walls. A room that was totally strange to her.

Two long windows hung with fine muslin curtains looked out over well-tended lawns and colourful flowerbeds to a group of white wooden chalet-type buildings. Through a vine-hung trellis she could just glimpse the blue waters of a swimming pool.

For a moment or so she was at a complete loss, with no idea where she was or how she had got there.

Then it all came rushing back—the magical evening she had spent with Zander and his invitation to spend the night at his house.

So that solved the mystery of where she was; she was in Zander Devereux’s guest room. But the combination of tiredness and alcohol had zonked her so completely that she had no recollection of the journey, or of arriving here.

She was still wearing her dress, and her jacket was hung neatly over a nearby chair. Her evening bag was lying on the bedside table.

She must have his housekeeper to thank.

Wondering how long she had slept, she looked at her watch a little blearily and found it was mid-morning.

She still felt slightly muzzy from the unaccustomed drink, but a refreshing shower would help to clear her head and set her to rights.

Galvanized into action, she pushed back the duvet and swung her feet to the floor.

After removing the bandage and cautiously trying out her injured ankle, she found it was less painful than she had expected and she could just about walk on it with care.

The pale grey carpet was soft as smoke beneath her bare feet as she crossed to where her luggage had been placed on a low chest.

When she had found her toilet things and a change of clothing, she made her cautious way to the sumptuous en suite bathroom, with its mirrored walls and off-white carpet.

There she found a luxurious bathtub and shower, and on a glass shelf an array of toiletries, towels and a pair of folded bathrobes.

By the time she stepped out of the shower the hot water had done its work; her head had cleared and she was feeling altogether brighter.

Wearing one of the bathrobes, she brushed her teeth and blow-dried her long hair, leaving it loose around her shoulders before returning to the bedroom.

Having donned clean undies, a silky dress that echoed the turquoise, green and gold of a tropical sea, and flat-heeled sandals, she swapped her evening bag for her handbag, which she’d put in her holdall, and repacked her case.

Then, leaving her bag and a lightweight jacket on top of the case, she ventured onto the landing. She was suddenly filled with excitement and anticipation at the thought of seeing Zander again. She made her way down the graceful curve of stairs to a spacious hall, with doors leading off on either side.

Right at the far end, through a partially open door, she could see a small but well-equipped gym but it appeared to be empty.

Everywhere was silent and, with no one about to ask, she went to the nearest door and tapped lightly on it.

She struck lucky the first time. Her knock was answered by Zander’s voice calling, ‘Come in.’

Wondering if he would have the same powerful impact she recalled from the previous evening, she walked into an office full of state-of-the-art technology.

Looking fresh and strikingly attractive in an olive-green silk shirt, short-sleeved and open at the neck, he was sitting behind a desk working with a laptop. A lock of his thick blond hair, which was parted on the left and cut fairly short, hung over his forehead.

When he glanced up, and those eyes met hers—those fascinating green eyes—she found it difficult to breathe.

Which effectively answered her question.

Rising to his feet, he brushed back the stray lock and, with a smile that stopped her breath completely, said, ‘Ah, so you’re up. When I checked on you a little while ago, you were still sleeping soundly. How are you feeling this morning?’

Somehow she dragged air into her lungs and managed, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Seeing him start to shut down the computer, she added in a rush, ‘Please don’t stop work on my account.’

‘I’ve done all I need to do. How’s the ankle?’

‘Oh, much easier.’

He frowned. ‘It still looks a little swollen. I’d better put another bandage on it. But first I presume you could do with a drink of some kind?’

‘I certainly could,’ she admitted.

‘Can you make it through to the kitchen without too much discomfort?’

If she said no, he would carry her; just the thought of being lifted and held in his arms again made her feel almost lightheaded.

Pushing aside temptation, she assured him, ‘Oh yes, I can manage quite well so long as I’m careful.’

As they crossed the hall he slipped a hand beneath her bare elbow, sending shivers running up and down her spine.

He seemed even taller than she remembered, and somehow his height and the mature width of his shoulders, his sheer masculinity, made her feel dainty and feminine.

The kitchen at Hallgarth was large and airy, with all mod cons, its open windows letting in the sunshine and fresh mountain air.

Comfortable and homely, it was fitted out like a farmhouse-style living-kitchen, with hickory furniture and an open range, which at the moment was partially screened by a vase of flame-blue delphiniums and pale-pink scented roses.

Caris had half-expected his housekeeper to be there, but they seemed to have the place to themselves. Wondering about it, she asked, ‘Does your housekeeper live in?’

‘Mrs Timmins lives over the garage. But it’s her weekend off. I hope you don’t mind?’

Flustered to realize he must be the one who had put her to bed, she stammered, ‘Well, n-no, I … No, of course not.’

He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I realize it would have been much more circumspect if my housekeeper had been here, but she’s gone up to Buffalo to visit her family.’

Straight-faced, but with a gleam in his eye that suggested he was teasing, he went on, ‘If in the circumstances you feel seriously compromised …’

Caris was about to deny any such thing when he finished, ‘You can always marry me.’

His words made her heart give a little jump. Managing a laugh, she said with determined lightness, ‘That seems a little drastic.’

‘You mean you’ll settle for less?’

‘I’ll settle for a cup of coffee.’

He sighed. ‘Well, if you change your mind about marrying me, just let me know.’

CHAPTER THREE

HAVING filled a percolator and put it on the electric hob, he took a first-aid box from a cupboard and squatted on the hearthrug at her feet.

‘While that heats, suppose I take a look at your ankle?’

Watching her wince as he ran assessing fingers over her ankle and slender foot, he said, ‘I think some more spray and another bandage wouldn’t go amiss.’

The cold spray was soothing—his nearness anything but—and she quivered inwardly at the thought of those strong, long-fingered hands touching her while she slept.

Her pulse rate going up alarmingly, she did her best to ignore how his stone-coloured trousers pulled tight over his lean hips and muscular thighs. Her stomach clenched and a sweet, languorous heat began to spread through her.

Glancing up at her as she sat to all intents and purposes calm and composed, he felt a sudden desire, a strong urge to pull her into his arms, to kiss her and go on kissing her until he had brought an end to that composure.

In short, he wanted her to be aware, as aroused as he was.

Almost from the start he had known that this woman had a powerful, quite unprecedented effect on him. What he didn’t know for certain was how she felt about him.

And he badly wanted to.

As he stared at her, he noticed the pulse in her throat was beating visibly, and realized with a surge of triumph that despite her calm appearance she was feeling the excitement he was feeling too.

It was a heady thought.

With an effort, he leashed his libido. It was too soon, he warned himself. This was neither the time nor the place to make love to her, and anticipation would only increase the pleasure.

The air was still thick with sexual tension, but his impulses were once more firmly under control. His voice was even as he asked, ‘Not too tight, I hope?’

Looking down into his lean, tanned face and noticing how his long, thick lashes curled, she assured him huskily, ‘No … No, it’s perfectly all right, thank you.’

When he had fastened the bandage securely, he replaced her sandal and rose to his feet in one lithe movement. ‘Now for some coffee.’

He filled two earthenware mugs and handed her one before taking a seat opposite and stretching out his long legs.

The coffee was hot, strong and fragrant, and Caris sipped it gratefully.

When it was gone, he queried, ‘More coffee?’

‘Please.’

Having refilled her mug, he said, ‘While you drink that, decide what you’d like for brunch.’

Still feeling that sensual heat, and terrified of giving herself away, she tried for the prosaic. ‘Who does the cooking when your housekeeper’s away?’

‘I do.’

Remembering her time at university—when most of her male friends had admitted to living on tinned food, takeaway pizzas and being helpless in the kitchen—she asked, ‘Really? Can you cook?’

‘Can I cook!’

Noting the gleam in his eye, she demanded, ‘Well, can you?’

‘Of course I can.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Oh ye of little faith.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I should think so.’

‘What kind of thing can you cook?’

‘I make a mean omelette.’

‘In that case, an omelette would be great.’

With a fresh pot of coffee keeping hot, he quickly set the table before taking a pack of bacon and a bowl of brown eggs from the fridge.

While the bacon grilled, he made a large omelette, golden and puffy. Folding it neatly, he garnished it with rolls of crisp bacon before dividing it between two warm plates.

They ate their meal in a companionable silence, and when her plate was empty Caris thanked him, adding, ‘I really enjoyed that.’

‘Good. Ready for more coffee?’

Reluctant to tear herself away but afraid of outstaying her welcome, she shook her head. ‘I really ought to be going.’

‘Why? What’s the hurry?’

Trying to put conviction into her voice, she told him, ‘I’d really like to get home.’

A glint in his eye, he asked, ‘Now, why don’t I believe that?’

Vexed that he’d seen through her pretence, she asked tartly, ‘Why don’t you?’

‘You have a very expressive face.’

A little disturbed by that remark—wondering what else she might have inadvertently given away—she felt the colour rise in her cheeks.

With a slight grimace, he said, ‘Now I’ve embarrassed you.’

‘Not really,’ she denied, sticking to her guns. ‘But I really ought to be going.’

‘If you’re determined, I’ll get the car out and drive you back.’

‘You’re sure I won’t be interrupting your work?’

‘I’ve done all I need to do for the moment. I’m now planning to enjoy myself.’

That made her smile. ‘I can’t believe chauffeuring a strange woman around counts as enjoyment.’

‘Surely that depends on the woman?’

She could think of nothing to say to that.

When she stayed mute, he pointed out teasingly, ‘That was meant to be a compliment.’

As lightly as possible she said, ‘In that case, what can I say but, thank you.’

He pretended to consider. ‘You could possibly add, “you’re very gallant”.’

‘I’ll be happy to, especially if you were to offer to bring my things downstairs.’

With a grin, he saluted her spirited answer.

Then, his face growing serious, he asked, ‘If you go back to Albany, what will you do with yourself?’

‘Well, I …’

‘Do you really want to hurry home just to sit in an empty flat all weekend?’

Caught on the raw—because that was precisely what she almost certainly would be doing—she said a shade crossly, ‘Well, what would you suggest I do?’

‘You could always stay here.’

Hurriedly she said, ‘Thank you, but I really couldn’t.’

‘Still not sure you can trust me?’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ she denied.

‘Then why can’t you stay?’

‘I couldn’t put on you.’

‘A quaint phrase, that, and if it means what I imagine it means—i.e. to impose—then my answer is if I’d thought you were putting on me I wouldn’t have offered.’

‘You might have felt obliged to.’

‘Well, I didn’t,’ he replied shortly. ‘And when you get to know me better you’ll realize that I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.’

He smiled at her suddenly, lightening the tension. ‘Now, if that’s set your mind at rest and you have no other serious objections, please stay. I could use the company.’

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