Cover She felt her robe slip from her shoulders, and pool at her feet. 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 EPILOGUE Endpage Copyright

She felt her robe slip from her shoulders, and pool at her feet.

His lips were cool and fresh, exploring hers with a kind of exquisite, lingering deliberation.

Tara felt herself sigh against his mouth, a deep-drawn breath held for an eternity. As she descended into the sweet chaos of pure sensation, she told herself, somehow, that she should hold back—walk away. That this was wrong because Adam belonged to someone else, and it could only lead to heartbreak.

But it had been so long since she’d known what it was to be a woman. After Jack’s betrayal, she’d believed herself armored forever against the seductive craving of the flesh, but it was only a fragile shell, after all, and soon shattered. All it had taken was Adam—Adam....

SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon, England, and surrounded by books, grew up in a house by the sea. After leaving school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Harlequin in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset. Sara Craven has recently become the latest—and last ever—winner of the U.K. quiz show “Mastermind.”

The Seduction Game

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

AS THE intercom buzzer sounded Tara Lyndon reached across, without taking her eyes from the computer screen in front of her, and flicked a switch.

‘Janet?’ Her tone was pleasant but crisp. ‘I thought I said no interruptions.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Lyndon.’ Her secretary’s tone was rueful. ‘But your sister’s on the line, and she’s not easy to refuse.’

Don’t I know it? Tara thought with an inward sigh, anticipating the purpose of Becky’s call.

Aloud, she said, ‘OK, Janet, put her through, please.’

‘Darling.’ Becky’s tone lilted along the line. ‘How are you? Isn’t the weather glorious?’

‘We’re both fine,’ Tara said drily. ‘Becky, I’m up to my eyes in work. Can you make it snappy, please?’

‘No problem.’ Her sister’s response was too swift and too mild. ‘I was just calling to check on the arrangements for the weekend. I couldn’t remember exactly what we’d agreed.’

Pinocchio, thought Tara, your nose has just grown another two inches.

‘There’s no great confusion,’ she returned. ‘You invited me down to Hartside. I told you I couldn’t make it.’

‘And I told you to think it over,’ was the immediate reply. ‘So have you?’

Tara closed her eyes. ‘Becky, it’s very kind of you, but I have things of my own to do.’

‘Don’t tell me. You’re flying to Dusseldorf to interview someone who might be perfect for a job in Tokyo.’

‘No,’ Tara said. ‘I’m going away for a complete break. Total rest and relaxation,’ she added, surreptitiously testing the length of her own nose.

‘But you could have that with us,’ Becky wheedled.

‘If this weather holds up, we’ll be using the pool. And the garden’s looking wonderful. Besides, the children are always asking where you are these days.’

‘Nonsense,’ Tara said sternly. ‘Giles and Emma probably wouldn’t recognise me if they roller-bladed over my recumbent body.’

‘Exactly what I’m getting at,’ Becky came back at her immediately. ‘You’re so tied up in that career of yours that none of us ever see you. And with Ma and Pa nearly on the other side of the world—I—I miss you, Sis.’

The throb of pathos sounded almost convincing, Tara thought, amused in spite of herself, until, of course, one remembered Becky’s adoring husband Harry, her ebullient but delightful brats, her endlessly kind and supportive in-laws and the village of Hartside where she pretty well reigned as queen. If her sister spent one lonely moment, it would be through her own choice.

Interpreting Tara’s silence as an implicit weakening of her position, Becky went on eagerly, ‘Darling, it’s been ages since you came down. Surely you could spare me a couple of days.’

‘And if I did,’ Tara said slowly, ‘could you swear to me that you haven’t rounded up yet another unfortunate man to run past me as a potential husband.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ her sister said airily. ‘I wrote you off as a lost cause a long time ago.’

‘Becky.’

‘You’re so suspicious,’ her elder complained.

‘With very good reason,’ Tara said grimly. ‘All right, who is he?’

‘My goodness,’ Becky said with asperity. ‘It’s come to something when I can’t invite a new neighbour round for a drink without you going into conspiracy theory mode.’

‘Who—is—he?’ Tara repeated through gritted teeth.

Becky sighed. ‘He’s just moved into Glebe Cottage—that lovely place near the church. He’s a tax lawyer, middle thirties, and very attractive.’

‘And still single?’ Tara’s brows lifted. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘There’s nothing the matter,’ Becky defended. ‘They’re extremely nice people.’

‘They?’

Becky hesitated. ‘Well, his mother’s staying with him at the moment, helping him settle in.’

‘My God.’ Tara felt an unholy bubble of glee well up inside her. ‘He’s thirty-something and he still lives with Mummy?’

‘Nothing of the kind. It’s a purely temporary measure. She has a very nice home of her own. And she’s desperate for him to meet the right woman.’

‘I’m sure she is.’ Tara’s tone was dry. ‘She probably has the poisoned dagger ready and waiting.’

‘I don’t think that job is doing you any good,’ Becky said severely. ‘It’s made you disagreeably cynical.’

‘It’s certainly taught me to differentiate between people’s public faces and private agendas,’ Tara agreed. ‘Whatever, I’m afraid I’m not tempted to change my plans. I’m going to spend the weekend relaxing in my own way.’ Not to mention the following two weeks as well, she added silently.

‘And on your own, I suppose?’

There was something about the question that flicked Tara on the raw. ‘Not necessarily.’

‘Tara,’ Becky shrieked. ‘You mean you’ve actually met someone. Tell me everything.’

‘No,’ Tara said, already regretting that she’d allowed herself to be provoked into the fib. ‘There isn’t anything to tell. Not yet.’ Which was no more than the truth, she placated her conscience.

‘You slyboots,’ Becky said gleefully. ‘You’ve got to give me a hint. Is he tall or short? Dark or fair?’

‘No comment.’

‘But he is gorgeous, right?’ Becky persisted. ’And with money?’

Tara sighed. ‘It’s a pity they did away with the Spanish Inquisition, Beck. I could have got you in at the top level, no problem.’

‘Naturally I’m going to be interested,’ her sister said with dignity. ‘Do you realise how long it is since you had even a marginal involvement with a man?’

‘Only too well,’ Tara said gently. ‘And why.’

‘Well, it’s time you put all that behind you,’ Becky said firmly, after a pause. ‘I’ve been telling you for ages that not all men are rats. Let’s hope this weekend is a step in the right direction.’

A vision rose in front of Tara’s eyes of a sunlit creek, a boat’s mast dark against the bright water. A square white house set amidst trees, and no sound except the cry of birds.

Involuntarily her mouth curled. ‘Oh, I think I can promise that. Now I must go, Becky. I have a report to finish.’

‘And you’re not going to give me even a teensy idea what your new man is like—so that I can tell Harry.’

‘Just say that it’s early days. He’ll understand.’

‘Yes,’ said Harry’s loving wife, with something of a snap. ‘I expect he will.’

Tara was laughing as she put the phone down, yet it wasn’t really funny, she thought ruefully. She should have stuck to her guns. Admitted that she was going to spend her holiday alone, and what the hell. But Becky’s assumption that this had to be the case had riled her for some reason. And it would also have provided her sister with extra ammunition in her bid to persuade her down to Hartside, she reminded herself defensively.

Becky could not be allowed to organise her life as if she was some extension of the carol concert, or the village fête. Or continue to dangle allegedly eligible bachelors in front of her, not to mention the occasional divorcé, or, in dire straits, widower.

Yet it was still genuinely stupid to let her think there’s a new man in my life, she told herself. Beck won’t leave it there. She’s like a ferret. Thank God she doesn’t realise where I’m going. She’ll assume I’m jetting off somewhere for sun, sangria and sex—as I used to do with Jack.

Something closed in her mind at the memory. Like a shutter coming down to defend her against pain. Except there was no defence.

Becky was right about one thing, she thought. It was more than time to let go. To release herself from the dead hand of the past. And maybe a new relationship was what she needed to help the healing process along.

But, like a burned child, she’d hung back from the fire, letting the demands of her career fill the aching space that Jack had left. And now perhaps it was too late.

She pushed her chair back restlessly, rising to walk over to the picture window behind her, staring out at the vista of City offices which confronted her. This was what was important. This was what mattered, she told herself. She was a partner in a top recruitment service—a headhunter who could smell the blood in the water. Too busy setting executive traps to offer any personal bait herself.

As she turned away, she glimpsed her reflection in the glass and halted. Scrutinised what she took for granted each day—the mid-brown hair, immaculately bobbed just short of shoulder-length, the white silk shirt, buttoned to the throat, topping the dark skirt ending discreetly on the knee. Neat, efficient and unthreatening.

An image which she’d actively sought, and now, suddenly, found vaguely unsatisfying.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she apostrophised herself impatiently. You must need a holiday more than you thought.

She sat down and applied herself with new determination to her report, scanning swiftly through what she’d already written.

Tom Fortescue had come highly recommended, she thought. He was well-qualified, and a man in a hurry. And yet...

Tara shook her head. Her usually reliable antennae seemed to be sounding a warning, and she didn’t understand why.

There were no significant gaps in his CV, and he’d interviewed well. She had nothing to go on but sheer intuition. And that intuition was telling her not to suggest Mr Fortescue for the highly paid position at Bearcroft Holdings for which he seemed so eminently suited.

Her doubts were there, loud and clear, in every line of her report. On the surface, it was a dispassionate, professional assessment, but Tara could see she’d been non-committal where she should have been enthusiastic, guarded when she should have been singing his praises. She sighed and saved the file to disk.

It would be up to her associates to make the final judgement, of course, and in some ways she was glad she would not be there to justify her assessment. Or to express any regrets to Tom Fortescue, who would not be pleased to find himself sidelined on her say-so. He was sharp and ambitious, and he’d come to Marchant Southern specifically because he wanted to fill the Bearcroft spot, and Tara was sure he regarded the appointment as in the bag.

But by the time she came back from leave the dust should have settled, she told herself philosophically. And Mr Fortescue could advance his career with another firm of headhunters.

She retrieved the disk from her machine, and went out to give it to Janet. And checked, registering with shock the figure perched with easy familiarity on the edge of her secretary’s desk.

‘Good afternoon.’ Tom Fortescue got up, smiling, and walked to meet her. ‘I happened to be in the area, and wondered if you’d like to have lunch?’

In a pig’s ear, Tara thought cynically. She’d never given him the slightest hint that she’d be prepared to meet him socially. But that hadn’t stopped him. No doubt he intended to pump her discreetly for her verdict in some convenient wine bar.

‘Rather too obvious, my boy,’ she advised him under her breath, rigidly conscious of the disk in her hand.

Her answering smile was cool. ‘I’m sorry. I go on leave this afternoon, and I need to clear my desk. I’m going to make do with the sandwich service.’

‘I’m sorry, too.’ He paused, pulling a face. ‘But I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities.’

When hell freezes over, thought Tara, feeling obliged to walk with him to the lift and chat civilly while they waited for it to arrive.

Altogether too sure of himself, she thought as she walked back. And how dared he think her such easy game?

Janet, however, was looking wistful.

‘He was lovely,’ she confided. ‘I told him you were busy, and he said he was happy to wait.’

‘I hope he maintains that philosophical attitude,’ Tara said drily, as she passed over the disk. ‘Sign the letters in my absence, please, Jan.’ She paused. ‘And mark that report “Confidential”, circulating it to associates only. It won’t be wanted until Tuesday morning’s meeting.’

‘Will do.’ Janet smiled cheerfully up at her. ‘What time are you going?’

‘I’d like to be away by two. I still have some packing to do.’

‘Are you going somewhere gorgeous?’

‘I think so,’ Tara agreed. ‘And do you know the best thing about it?’

‘What?’ Jan’s eyes widened. She clearly expected she was going to be told about George Clooney’s favourite hideaway.

Tara leaned towards her confidentially. ‘No phone,’ she whispered, and went back, laughing, to her office.

‘Polish,’ Tara muttered to herself, checking the items in the box in front of her. ‘Stuff for the brass and silver, oven cleaner, washing-up liquid, and rubber gloves.’ She nodded her satisfaction, and tucked a packet of cleaning clothes around the cans to keep them steady.

Melusine, sleek, black, green-eyed and openly glum as she’d observed the packing process, had taken up a position on the table beside the box. Now she reached out a delicate paw and swiped at the plastic wrapping round the packet.

‘It’s all right.’ Tara ran a caressing hand over the silky fur. ‘You’re coming with me.’ That’s if I can get you in your basket, she added silently.

Melusine preferred to travel on the front passenger seat, with her paws on the dashboard, free, untrammelled, and with an excellent view. At least until her path was crossed by a police car, ambulance or fire engine, when the sound of the siren would cause her to wrap herself round Tara’s neck like a scarf.

Her special bowl, her bean bag, and the cat food she favoured at the moment were already in the boot of the car. The basket was hidden behind the living-room sofa, waiting for the psychological moment when she could be tricked inside.

In fact, Tara had bestowed far less thought on the contents of her own travel bag, she realised with amusement. Apart from the usual quota of undies and toiletries, she was only taking jeans, shorts, T-shirts, sweaters, and training shoes that had never seen a designer label. All practical clothing for the job ahead.

Becky would kill me if she knew what I was doing, she thought ruefully as she carried her box of cleaning materials down to the car. But Ma and Pa will be back next month, and I want the house bright and shining to welcome them.

She hadn’t the slightest doubt that was where they’d head for as soon as they’d unpacked and rested from their South African trip. The house in Chelsea was still nominally home, but Silver Creek House had been their favoured retreat for years now.

It was fairly basic. As well as lacking a telephone, the house had no television or central heating, and the kitchen stove and water heater worked from a large gas tank, sited discreetly at the rear of the house. But these were minor inconveniences as far as Tara was concerned. She’d never minded cleaning out the fireplaces in the sitting room and dining room, or filling the log baskets which fed them. She loved the house, and all its memories of happy family holidays.

During the winter, the Pritchards kept an eye on the place. Mrs Pritchard worked part-time in the nearby village shop, and Mr Pritchard was employed at the small boatyard upstream, where her parents’ much loved boat Naiad spent the winter.

Mrs Pritchard would have been happy to carry out any cleaning that was needed, but Tara preferred to do it herself. Anomalous as it might seem, it was work she thoroughly enjoyed.

When she and Becky had been younger, it had been her sister who’d been the potential high-flyer—the girl about town with the high-paid job and crowded social life. Tara had always been the quieter, more domesticated one.

No one could believe it when Becky met Harry, and opted for marriage and motherhood without even a backward glance at all she was giving up.

However, no one could pretend that housework would ever be Becky’s forte, Tara thought affectionately. But by bringing the same organisational skills to marriage as she had to her career she’d safely ensured she’d never have to do any.

It would be inconceivable to Becky that anyone would give up precious holiday time to scrub, polish and add the odd lick of paint to a shabby, elderly house. And equally incredible that the same person might actually revel in their self-appointed task, or find it positively therapeutic.

Tara glimpsed herself in the mirror as she finally headed for the door, cat basket in hand and a furious Melusine giving her a piece of her mind. Marchant Southern would have got the shock of their lives if they could see her now, she thought, grinning as she surveyed her faded denim skirt topped by an ancient sweatshirt. Her hair was bundled up into a baseball cap, and her bare feet were thrust into a pair of canvas slipons which had seen better days.

But what the hell? she thought as she locked up and went down to the car. I’m not going to be seeing anyone unless I choose. After all, there isn’t another house within miles.

Or at least another inhabited house, she amended quickly. Which Dean’s Mooring certainly wasn’t. Up to three years ago it had been occupied by old Ambrose Dean, white-bearded and fierce, a loner who had guarded his privacy jealously. After his death, the cottage, which stood about a hundred yards upstream from Silver Creek House, had remained empty, and was fast becoming derelict.

Ambrose had been a bachelor, and apparently had had no living relatives. Certainly no one ever came to see him. Jim Lyndon, Tara’s father, had spoken vaguely of contacting the lawyers dealing with the old man’s estate and perhaps making an offer for the cottage, but had never actually got around to doing anything constructive about it.

Maybe I will, Tara thought idly as she started out of London. After all, the parents won’t want to find themselves living next to an eyesore. And I’ve nothing booked in my diary but some serious peace and quiet. I could, maybe, start the ball rolling.

On the other hand, I could forget about everything that smacks of business and just—chill out. What utter bliss.

But the road to paradise was not an easy one, she soon discovered. Other people had also decided to make an early start to the Bank Holiday weekend, and traffic was grindingly heavy.

By the time Tara turned the car on to the rutted track which led to the house her head was aching, and Melusine was expressing vigorous disapproval from the rear seat.

She parked in the yard at the back and got out, stretching luxuriously and drinking in gulps of the cool early evening air. Then she reached into her bag and found the key.

The house felt chill and slightly damp as she stepped into the kitchen. There was a strange mustiness in the atmosphere too.

The smell of loneliness, Tara thought, looking around her. I’ll soon change that.

As usual, there was a box of groceries waiting on the scrubbed table, courtesy of Mrs Pritchard, and one of her magnificent steak and kidney pies covered by a teatowel resting beside it. Tucked under it was a note, stating that the gas tank was full and the log man had delivered the previous week, together with the various invoices for these services. And, waiting in the big old fridge, was a bottle of Tara’s favourite Chablis.

Already she could feel the stresses and strains of the past weeks easing away, she thought, heaving a sigh of pure satisfaction.

Mrs Pritchard, you’re an angel, she told her silently.

She went back to the car, sniffing at the tubs of lavender that her mother had planted the previous year, and collected the frantic Melusine, who gave her a filthy look and stormed up the clematis-hung trellis on to the shed roof.

‘Feel free,’ Tara told her as she unloaded the rest of her things from the car and carried them into the house. From past experience, Melusine would sulk until supper time, then appear as if nothing had happened, twining herself affectionately round Tara’s legs.

When the entire family was staying Tara contented herself with a small room at the back, but now she had the luxury of choice, and she opted for the large room at the front, which matched that of her parents, just across the landing. She might not be spending much time on the river—even the most cursory inspection downstairs confirmed she had plenty to do—but she could enjoy the view, and let the sound of the water lull her to sleep at night.

She tossed her travel bag on to the wide bed and walked to the window, flinging back the half-drawn curtains and opening the casement to take her first long look at the creek itself.

And stopped in utter astonishment and swiftly mounting anger. She’d expected the usual tranquil expanse of water, ruffled only by moorhens or a passing duck, with Naiad as a centrepiece.

Instead she was confronted by another boat, a large cabin cruiser, smart, glossy, and shouting money. And tied up, for pity’s sake, at their landing stage.

She said aloud, furiously, ‘What the hell...?’ and halted, her attention suddenly riveted by the loud, excited barking of a dog just below the window, and Melusine’s answering yowl of fright

‘No,’ Tara exploded. She was across the room in two strides, and flying down the stairs, dragging back the bolts on the front door with hands that shook with rage as well as fear for her pet.

She hurled herself outside, colliding heavily as she did so with another body, much taller and more muscular than her own. Was aware, shockingly, of bare, hair-roughened skin grazing her cheek. Heard a man’s deep voice say, ‘Ouch,’ and felt strong hands steadying her.

‘Let go of me’ She tore herself free. ‘My cat—where is she?’

‘She’s safe. She’s roosting in that tree over there.’

Swinging round, Tara saw Melusine crouching on a branch twenty feet from the ground. And, leaping joyously below, still barking, a golden Labrador dog, not long out of puppyhood.

‘Oh, that’s great,’ she said savagely. ‘That’s just bloody wonderful. Call your damned dog off, will you? And when you’ve got him under control, the pair of you can clear out. This is a private landing.’

‘But apparently not a happy one.’ The interloper’s faint drawl was composed, even amused. All she could see of him was a dark shape between herself and the setting sun. She took a step backwards, shading her eyes.

She registered dark blond hair, in need of cutting, and cool blue eyes. A strong face, with a beaky nose, high cheekbones, and a firm, humorous mouth above a jutting chin. Not conventionally handsome by any means, but searingly attractive, she thought with a shock of recognition. He had a good body, too, lean and tanned, and clothed only from the waist down in faded denim which emphasised his long legs and flat stomach.

She felt a sudden sensuous tingle quivering along her nerve-endings that she had not experienced since Jack. And she resented it. More than that, feared it.

Dry-mouthed, she hurried into speech. ‘There’s not much to be happy about. You’re trespassing, and your dog has tried to kill my cat.’

‘Dogs chase cats. That’s a fact of life. They rarely if ever catch them. That’s another. And if he did get near I wouldn’t give much for his chances.’

His laconic drawl was infuriating. He turned towards the Labrador, put two fingers in his mouth to utter a piercing whistle, and called, ‘Buster.’ The dog came instantly to his side, eyes sparkling with excitement and tail wagging.

Tara glared at them both.

‘And what chance does my cat have—stuck there in that tree?’

‘Is she really stuck?’ he asked mildly. ‘I can probably do something about that.’

Tara took a deep breath. ‘The only thing that you can do is go. You’ve no right to be here. If you weren’t trespassing, none of this would have happened.’

‘And just what are your rights in all this?’

Tara jerked a thumb. ‘That happens to be my house.’

‘Really?’ The straight brows lifted. ‘Now I could have sworn it belonged to a Jim and Barbara Lyndon, who are both in their fifties and currently in South Africa. I must have been misinformed.’

‘They’re my parents.’ His easy assurance was unnerving. ‘And may I ask how you came by that information? ’

He shrugged. ‘People in the village are very helpful.’ He paused. ‘So it’s not really your house at all.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

Tara gritted her teeth. ‘If you want to split hairs...’

‘An excellent idea,’ he agreed affably. ‘You see, I was also told that this landing was a shared one with Dean’s Mooring.’

‘Back in the mists of time, perhaps.’ She hated the defensive note in her voice. ‘However, Mr Dean never used it. He didn’t even have a boat.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But, you see, I have. And as clearly no one is using the Dean’s Mooring share at the moment, I’m borrowing it.’

‘But you can’t—not without permission from the owner,’ she protested wildly.

‘And do you know how to contact him?’ He was grinning openly now.

Tara could have ground her teeth. ‘Hardly,’ she returned stiffly. ‘As I’m sure you’re already aware, Mr Dean died some time ago.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And I left the ouija board in my other jeans. Well, they say possession is nine tenths of the law, so it looks as if we’re going to be neighbours.’

‘But you can’t just—move in and take over like this.’

‘The evidence suggests I can—and I have. So why don’t we work out a co-existence pact.’

Because I don’t want you here, she thought. It’s too lonely—too remote to share with some passing stranger. And because you worry me in ways I don’t understand.

She hurried into speech. ‘You must see that’s impossible. You could be anybody.’

‘On the lines of escaped criminal, rapist or axe murderer, I presume.’ He gave her a weary look. ‘Would you like to see my driving licence—my gold card?’

‘The only thing I’d like to see is you and your boat sailing away,’ Tara said inimically. ‘There’s a marina about six miles upstream. You should find everything you need there.’

‘I think it’s a little premature to be discussing my needs,’ he drawled. ‘Besides, I’m quite contented where I am. And, as I was here first, maybe it’s you that should be moving on. But I won’t make an issue of it,’ he added kindly. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you don’t play loud music or throw wild parties. I like my peace and quiet.’

For a moment she couldn’t move or speak. Her eyes blazed into his—fire meeting ice. Then, with a small, inarticulate sound, she marched back to the house and went in, slamming the door behind her with such violence that a blue and white plate fell off the wall and smashed at her feet.

‘Oh, hell,’ said Tara, and, to her own surprise and disgust, burst into tears.

CHAPTER TWO

‘MELUSINE.’ Perched on an inadequate pair of steps, Tara held out a coaxing handful of meaty snacks. ‘Come on, darling.’

But Melusine only gave her a baleful glance, and continued to hang on to the precarious safety of her branch.

Tara groaned inwardly. She’d hoped against hope that Melusine would rescue herself somehow, but her pet clearly had other ideas. She wouldn’t climb down, and it was physically impossible for Tara to reach her.

Which left a drive to the village and a phone call to either the fire service or the local RSPCA, she thought despondently.

Nothing, but nothing, was going according to plan.

However, that still didn’t excuse or explain the pathetic bout of crying she’d indulged in earlier, she reminded herself. She didn’t usually walk away from confrontations, or behave like a wimp afterwards.

I handled the whole thing so badly, she thought, as if I’d forgotten every management skill I ever learned. But he caught me off-guard. Put me at a disadvantage.

But now, face washed, drops in her reddened eyes, and a modicum of blusher judiciously applied, she was back, firing on all cylinders. If she could just get Melusine down from this tree...

‘Having problems?’

The sudden sound of her adversary’s voice behind her made her jump. The steps lurched and Tara cried out, grabbing at the trunk of the tree in front of her.

‘Do you have to creep up on me?’ she snarled as she steadied herself.

‘It wasn’t intentional,’ he said. ‘I could see she wouldn’t budge, so I came to help. You need a longer ladder.’

‘Full marks for observation,’ Tara said between her teeth as she descended from the steps. The tatty jeans, she saw, had now been topped by an equally ancient checked shirt with a tear in one sleeve. ‘Unfortunately, this is as good as it gets.’

‘Not necessarily.’

She gave him a caustic look. ‘You have a ladder stashed on board your boat? How unusual.’

‘Not on board,’ he said. ‘But I noticed one earlier in an outhouse behind the cottage.’

‘You certainly haven’t been wasting your time.’ Tara felt cold suddenly. ‘And what about the contents of the cottage itself? Have you made an inventory of those too?’

‘I’ve had a look round.’ He nodded. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never been tempted. Especially,’ he added pointedly, ‘as I believe you have a key.’

Tara flushed, silently damning the kindly but eager tongues in the village. ‘That’s for security purposes. I don’t pry into other people’s business,’ she added, lifting her chin.

Although she had been in Dean’s Mooring, her conscience reminded her. After Mr Dean’s death, she’d helped her mother clear out what little food there’d been, and strip and burn the bedding he’d used. Amid the squalor, there’d been several nice pieces of furniture, she recalled uneasily. Things which could easily tempt someone for whom honesty wasn’t a major factor.

‘Then you must be a saint.’ He paused. ‘But you don’t seem to be working any miracles where your cat’s concerned, so shall I fetch that ladder?’

She wanted to tell him to go to hell, and stuff his ladder where the sun didn’t shine, but discretion suggested a more conciliatory approach. After all, she didn’t want to spend the night at the foot of a tree, wooing an unresponsive cat.

‘Thank you,’ she said unsmilingly.

‘God, how that must have hurt,’ he said mockingly, and set off towards Dean’s Mooring.

Frowningly, she watched him go, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, covering the ground with his long, lithe stride. No matter how grave her doubts about him, she could not deny he possessed a lethal physical attraction. Which was not the kind of thing she needed to notice, she thought, biting her lip.

Her safest course might indeed be to pack up and return to London. Or even go down to Becky’s, she reminded herself without enthusiasm.

But that would leave her parents’ house defenceless, as well as Dean’s Mooring. Knowing that she was there, able to keep an eye on both properties, might prompt him to cut his losses and depart. If, indeed, he was there to steal.

She couldn’t believe he had just stumbled on Silver Creek by accident. On the contrary, he appeared to have done his homework thoroughly.

But the shabby clothes and generally unkempt appearance—at least two days’ growth of stubble, she’d noticed disapprovingly—didn’t match the glamorous cruiser. Unless he’d stolen that too, of course.

People with boats like that tended to enjoy showing them off on the broader stretches of the river. Mixing with others in a similar income bracket. So he must have a reason for hiding himself away in this secluded corner.

All in all, he was an enigma, and someone she could well do without. But he couldn’t be driven away. That was already more than clear.

Maybe sheer boredom and the total lack of amenities would do the trick in the end, and all she needed was patience.

I can only hope, she thought, sighing, as she watched him return, the ladder balanced effortlessly on his shoulder.

She watched him set it against the tree and wedge it securely, then stepped forward. ‘You’d better let me go up for her. She’s not very good with strangers.’

‘I wonder where she learned that,’ he murmured, his mouth slanting. ‘All the same...’

He put his foot on the bottom rung, and started to climb.

Melusine watched his approach, back hunched.

He’d either be scratched or totally ignored, Tara thought, smouldering with annoyance at his highhanded performance. And either would be more than acceptable to her. Serve him right for being an arrogant swine.

He reached the branch, stretched out a hand, and made a soft chirruping sound.

And Melusine, treacherous bloody animal that she was, rose gracefully, picked her way towards him, and jumped lightly on to his shoulder.

He murmured to her soothingly, then descended swiftly and competently, bending slightly so that Tara could retrieve her purring feline.

‘I have to thank you again,’ she said, her voice so wooden she could have spat splinters.

‘I’m sure it won’t become a habit,’ he returned. He scratched gently under Melusine’s chin, which she arched ecstatically to accommodate him. ‘She’s friendlier than you give her credit for.’

‘Not usually.’

He grinned again, the cool blue gaze looking her over with unashamed appraisal. ‘Then she’s like most women—contrary.’

‘And you’re like most men—sexist,’ Tara shot back at him.

‘Guilty as charged,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I believe in two genders, and thank God for each and every difference between them. But it doesn’t make me a bad person,’ he added his eyes fixed on the swift tightening of Tara’s mouth.‘So, what’s her name?’

‘Melusine,’ she said curtly.

‘A witch name,’ he said musingly, then laughed softly. ‘Now, why does that not surprise me?’ He stroked the cat’s glossy head with his forefinger. ‘How do you do, my proud beauty? I’m Adam Barnard. And I hope you’re none the worse for your ordeal.’

Adam Barnard Tara felt the name stir in her mind with something like pleasure.

She hurriedly covered her involuntary reaction with waspishness. ‘You’d better leave the ladder where it is. When your dog gets loose, Melusine will be back up the tree again, looking for sanctuary.’

‘I may join her.’ His tone was grim, the tanned mobile face suddenly austere as he looked her over. ‘Did no one ever tell you the Cold War is over?’

Tara’s lips tightened. ‘I didn’t come down to play good neighbours.’

‘Just as well.’ He shrugged. ‘Clearly you’d be lousy at it. As a matter of interest, why are you here looking for splendid isolation?’ The blue eyes quizzed her. ‘Hiding from something?’

‘Certainly not.’ Tara returned his gaze levelly. ‘I came to do some work on the house. It’s a while since anyone’s been here, and I don’t want it falling into rack and ruin...’

‘Like Dean’s Mooring,’ he suggested.

‘Yes, actually. I think it’s a tragedy to leave the place abandoned like that, with no one to care for it.’

‘Is that what the previous owner did? Cared?’

There was an odd note in his voice.

‘I—I don’t know,’ Tara said defensively. ‘I didn’t know Mr Dean very well. No one did. He hardly ever went out, and no one came to see him. Even when he was ill he wouldn’t have the doctor, or the district nurse. But I suppose he was happy in his own way.’

‘Keeping himself to himself.’ He nodded reflectively. ‘It seems to be catching.’

Tara bit her lip in annoyance. Her arms must have tightened on Melusine too, because the cat began to wriggle.

‘I’d better take her indoors,’ she said quickly. ‘Well—as I said—thank you.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I was thinking you could offer me some rather more—tangible form of gratitude.’ The blue eyes watched her coolly, consideringly, lingering, it seemed, on the curve of her mouth.

She felt a shiver of tension curl down her spine. She’d been a fool to hang around out here, allowing him to needle her, she thought grimly. She should have stuck with cold and dismissive, and got the hell out of it.

She took a step backwards, trying to be casual. ‘I’ve already been as grateful as I’m likely to get.’

‘Are you quite sure about that?’ He sounded faintly amused.

She thought longingly of her mobile phone, in a desk drawer at her flat in London.

‘Convinced,’ she said curtly. ‘Now you must excuse me.’

If she made it to the front door, she promised herself, she would walk straight through the house, grabbing her bag and Melusine’s basket on the way, out through the back entrance, into her car and off. Destination unknown and unimportant.

‘That’s a shame,’ he said softly. ‘You see, for the past hour I’ve been having these amazing fantasies, and you’re the only one who can fulfill them.’

She must have heard the words ‘her blood ran cold’ hundreds of times, without beginning to guess what it could feel like to have ice crawling below the surface of her skin. But she knew now. Felt the ache of it paralyse her. Stultify her reasoning.

‘So, Miss Tara Lyndon.’ His voice was barely above a whisper. ‘Are you going to make all my dreams come true?’

‘When hell freezes over.’ Her tone was ragged, but she lifted her chin and stared at him with contempt and antagonism. Maybe if she defied him, let him see she was no one’s push-over, he’d back off.

He sighed. ‘I was afraid of that. Mrs Pritchard will be so disappointed.’

Tara had the curious impression she was involved in some kind of alternative reality. Or had her opponent simply escaped from somewhere?

She said hoarsely, ‘What’s Mrs Pritchard got to do with anything? And how did you know my name?’

‘Well, you can’t possibly be Becky. You’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

He made himself sound like the voice of sweet reason, Tara thought furiously. Was there any family detail Mrs Pritchard hadn’t confided to him?

‘And she told me she’d made you one of her steak and kidney pies, because you like them so much,’ he went on, then paused. ‘I got the impression she thought you might be prepared to share it with me,’ he added wistfully. ‘And, after all, I did rescue your cat.’

Her lips moved for several seconds before any audible words were formed. Then, ‘You—want some steak and kidney pie?’ she asked slowly and very carefully. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘What else?’ His face was solemn, but the blue eyes were dancing in challenge.

Tara wasn’t cold any more. She was blazing—burning up with temper. He’d made a total fool of her—reduced her to a shaken mass of insecurity—and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She couldn’t even admit it. And they both knew it.

She swallowed deeply, forcing an approximation of a smile to her rigid mouth.

‘Then of course you shall have some.’ She shifted the indignant Melusine to look at her watch. ‘After all, I wouldn’t want to forfeit Mrs Pritchard’s good opinion. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

‘My God,’ he said slowly. ‘Under that stony exterior beats a living heart after all. I’ll be counting the minutes.’

Count away, Tara told him silently. By seven-thirty both I and my steak and kidney pie will be halfway back to London. And I won’t be coming back until you’re safely out of the picture. You may have charmed the Pritchards, but I’m not falling for your line. Not any more. I’ve been there and done that.

She made herself smile again. ‘Well—see you later.’

She walked away without haste, and without looking back, although she was aware that he was watching her every step of the way.

Look as much as you want, she thought. It’ll be your last opportunity.

As she closed the front door behind her she realised she was trembling all over. She halted, trying to steady her breathing, and Melusine, mewing violently, jumped from her arms and mooched into the kitchen, whisking her tail.

Tara went up to her room to retrieve her travel bag. She couldn’t resist a surreptitious peep out of the window, but Adam Barnard was nowhere to be seen. The ladder had disappeared too, so presumably he was putting it back where he’d found it. He certainly made very free with other people’s property, she thought, fuming. Well, she couldn’t stop him snooping round Dean’s Mooring, perhaps, but she could tip off the local police about his activities.

And she could find out which estate agency was handling the sale of the property and express the family’s interest in acquiring it. That would deal with unauthorised use of the mooring.

She stared across at the cabin cruiser. What was an unshaven scruff like Adam Barnard doing in charge of something so upmarket and glamorous? she wondered uneasily. He couldn’t be the owner, yet the boat didn’t have the look of a hire craft either.

But for that matter what was he doing here at all—and alone? He didn’t give the impression of a man addicted to solitude. And some women—probably flashy blondes—might even find his brand of raffish attraction appealing, she thought, ruthlessly quelling the memory of her own brief, unlooked-for response to him.

Just a slip of the reflexes, she assured herself. And no harm done. Which didn’t altogether explain why she was beating such a swift and ignominious retreat.

Tara bit her lip. To run away, of course, would be an open admission that she found him dangerous. That she’d taken his teasing seriously. And that would put her at the far greater risk of appearing an over-reactive and humourless idiot.

Although there was no real reason why she should care what he thought.

And why am I standing here debating the matter, anyway? she demanded vexedly.

Because you haven’t been able to pigeon-hole him, said a small voice at the back of her mind. Because so far he’s won every round. Because he’s a puzzle you can’t solve. Not yet.

He’d asked her if she was hiding from something, but she could well have levelled the same question at him. What could possibly have brought him to this secluded patch of river?

Unless, of course, the boat really was stolen, and he really was some kind of criminal.

The thought brought a renewed sense of chill. But, to be fair, he’d hardly made a secret of his presence, she reminded herself. After all, making Mrs Pritchard’s acquaintance was tantamount to telling the world.

On the other hand, he could be mounting some terrific double bluff. Making himself so visible and agreeable locally that no one would suspect a thing.

It disturbed her that he’d gained so much background information about her family, and so easily, too. If he was just a passing stranger, what possible use or interest could these details be to him?

Which led her back to the possibility that Adam Barnard did not see Silver Creek simply as a convenient backwater in which to pass a few lazy days.

So, what was his true motivation? And if he was up to no good could she afford to go and leave the house to his tender mercies? Maybe his needling of her had been a deliberate ploy, intended to goad her into flight.

If so, she thought with sudden grim resolution, he’s going to be unlucky. Because I won’t be driven away, after all. Not before I’ve found out a little in turn about the so-clever, so-attractive Mr Barnard.

Down in the kitchen, Melusine was sitting huffily by the fridge.

‘My poor girl.’ Tara ran a caressing hand down her back. ‘You’ve had quite a day. I’d better start making it all up to you, before you walk out on me.’

The Chinese had a curse, she recalled, as she opened a can of tuna and poured milk into a dish. ‘May you live in interesting times.’

Certainly the current situation seemed to be quite fascinating enough to fit into that particular frame.

And all she had to do was make sure that the curse did not fall on her. A task well within her capabilities.

But, even as she smiled to herself in quiet confidence, a sudden inner vision of Adam Barnard’s tanned face leapt into her mind.

In one shocked moment Tara saw the mocking twist of his firm lips, the little devils dancing in his blue eyes, and wondered if, perhaps, she hadn’t bitten off more than she could chew.

By the time eight o’clock came, Tara felt as if she’d been stretched on wires. More than once she’d been tempted to revert to Plan A, and put some serious distance between herself and the enigmatic Mr Barnard.

At the same time she found herself preparing vegetables, putting the pie in the oven to reheat, and setting two places at the kitchen table.

When the bell finally rang, she took a deep breath, wiped damp palms on her denim-clad hips, and went to let him in.

For a moment she barely recognised him. He was clean-shaven, his hair was combed, and the torn jeans and shirt had been replaced by pale grey trousers and a black rollneck sweater which looked very like cashmere, and he was carrying a bottle of wine.

Nor was he alone. Before Tara could speak, Buster jumped up at her with a joyous yelp, then squeezed past and dashed along the passage towards the kitchen.

‘Oh, God,’ Tara wailed. ‘He’s after the cat. He’ll kill her.’

‘Not a chance.’ Adam Barnard laid a detaining hand on her arm as she prepared to set off in pursuit. ‘He’s a young male. It’s in his nature to hunt.’

‘Then why the hell did you bring him?’ She glared up at him.

‘So that they can get things sorted. If they’re going to be neighbours, they need to get along.’

Tara registered that in passing as she freed herself and made for the kitchen. It sounded, she thought with dismay, as if Adam Barnard was planning to stick around for some considerable time.

Then everything else was forgotten as she heard Buster begin to bark excitedly and Melusine’s answering and blood-curdling yowl.

‘Oh, baby.’ Heart thudding, she shot to the rescue.

One swift glance from the doorway told her the worst. The dog had Melusine cornered in a small dark space beside the washing machine, and was advancing on her aggressively, barking all the while.

‘See what you’ve done,’ she accused Adam Barnard, her voice shaking, as he joined her. ‘Call him off.’

‘No need,’ he said briskly. ‘I promise you.’

As Buster lunged forward, a black silk paw came out of the shadows and swiped him across the muzzle. He yelped in pain and surprise and jumped backwards, shaking his head.

‘See what I mean.’ Adam Barnard’s tone was dry. ‘The female of any species is always deadlier than any mere male.’

‘And I can do without the chauvinist remarks,’ Tara snapped. ‘She could have been badly hurt.’

‘Her nine lives are still intact. Poor old Buster is the one with the bloody nose.’ He reached down and scooped up Melusine, who dangled aloofly from his shoulder. ‘You big bully,’ he scolded softly. ‘Give my pup a break.’

Tara saw that the dog was indeed bleeding from a nasty scratch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hey—save some for yourself.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’d better not have any more.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aware that she was foundering, she stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Just a touch,’ he agreed.

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

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

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

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

‘Oh,’ said Tara, completely taken aback.

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

‘No,’ she denied too swiftly.

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

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

She said, ‘Is that the intention?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

He said softly, ‘To us.’ And drank.

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

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is something wrong?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Naturally it is.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘About ten days altogether.’

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

‘Have you had good weather?’

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

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

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

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

‘I wish I knew,’ he murmured.

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

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

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