‘You still wish you hadn’t been cornered into coming here tonight.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Because you hoped you’d never set eyes on me again.’

Octavia flushed. ‘That too.’

‘And you’d like very much for us both to forget our first encounter ever happened.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I would.’

‘Very understandable. And, for me anyway, quite impossible. The vision of you rising like Venus from the waves will always be a treasured memory.’ Jago paused. ‘And I like your hair loose.’

She was burning all over now. It wasn’t just what he’d said, but the way he’d looked at her across the table, as if her dress—her clothing—had ceased to exist under his gaze. As if the hair tumbling around her shoulders was her only covering. And as if he knew that her nipples in some damnable way were hardening into aching peaks inside the lacy confines of her bra.

But if her skin was fire, her voice was ice. ‘Fortunately your preferences are immaterial to me.’

SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills and Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.

Recent titles by the same author:

COUNT VALIERI’S PRISONER

THE PRICE OF RETRIBUTION

THE END OF HER INNOCENCE

WIFE IN THE SHADOWS

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

Seduction Never Lies

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EXCERPT

Endpage

CHAPTER ONE

OCTAVIA DENISON FED the last newsletter through the final letter box in the row of cottages and, with a sigh of relief, remounted her bicycle and began the long hot ride back to the Vicarage.

There were times, and this was one of them, when she wished the Reverend Lloyd Denison would email his monthly message to his parishioners instead.

‘After all,’ as Patrick had commented more than once, ‘Everyone in the village must have a computer these days.’

But her father preferred the personal touch, and when Tavy came across someone like old Mrs Lewis longing for a chat over a cup of tea because her niece was away on holiday, and who certainly had no computer or even a mobile phone, she supposed wryly that Dad had a point.

All the same, this was not an ideal day for a cycle tour of the village on an old boneshaker.

For once, late May had produced a mini-heatwave with cloudless skies and temperatures up in the Seventies, which had also managed to coincide with Greenbrook School’s half-term holiday.

Nice for the kids, thought Tavy as she pedalled but, for her, it would be business as usual tomorrow.

Her employer, Eunice Wilding, paid her what she considered was the appropriate rate for a young and unqualified school secretary, but she expected, according to the local saying, ‘her cake for her ha’penny’.

But at the time the job had seemed a lifeline in spite of the poor pay. One small ray of light in the encircling darkness of the stunned grief she shared with her father at her mother’s sudden death from a totally unsuspected heart condition.

He’d protested, of course, when she’d announced she was giving up her university course to come home and keep house for him, but she’d read the relief in his eyes, swallowed her regrets, and set herself to rebuilding both their lives, cautiously tackling the parish tasks that her mother had fulfilled with such warmth and good humour, while discovering that, in Mrs Wilding’s vocabulary, ‘assistant’ was another word for ‘dogsbody’.

But in spite of its drawbacks, the job enabled her to maintain a restricted level of independence and pay a contribution to the Vicarage budget.

In return, she was expected to put in normal office hours, five and a half days a week, with just a fortnight’s holiday taken in two weekly instalments in spring and autumn, and far removed from the lengthy vacations enjoyed by the teaching staff.

And half-term breaks did not feature either, so this particular afternoon was a concession, while Mrs Wilding conducted her usual staff room inquisition into the events of the past weeks, and outlined the progress she expected in the next half.

It was her ability to achieve these targets that had made Greenbrook School an undoubted success in spite of its high fees. Mrs Wilding herself did not teach, calling herself the Director rather than the headmistress, but she had a knack for picking those that could, and even the most unpromising pupils were given the start they needed.

When she eventually retired, the school would continue to flourish under the leadership of Patrick, her only son, who’d returned from London the previous year to become a partner in an accountancy firm in the nearby market town, and who already acted as Greenbrook’s part-time bursar.

And his wife, when he had one, would also have a part to play, thought Tavy, feeling an inner glow that had nothing to do with the sun.

She’d known Patrick all her life of course, and he’d been the object of her first early teen crush. While her school friends giggled and fantasised over pop stars and soap actors, her sole focus had been the tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed Adonis who lived in her own village.

Although it might as well have been one of the moons of Jupiter for all the notice he took of her. She could remember basking for weeks in the memory of a casual ‘Thanks’ when she’d been ball girl for his final match in the annual village tennis tournament. Could recall the excitement building as the university vacations approached and she knew he would be home, but also crying herself to sleep when he spent his holidays elsewhere, as he often did.

But then real life in the shape of public examinations and career choices intervened and took priority, so that when she heard her father mention casually to her mother that Patrick was off to the States for some form of post-graduate study, the worst she had to suffer was a small pang of regret.

Since that time, he’d come back only for fleeting visits, and the last thing Tavy expected was that he would ever return to live in the area. Yet six months ago that was exactly what had happened.

And the first she’d known of it was when his mother brought him one afternoon into the cubbyhole which served as her office.

She’d said rather stiffly, ‘Patrick, I don’t know if you remember Octavia Denison...’

‘Of course, I do.’ His smile seemed to reach out and touch her, as she’d seen it do so often to others in the past. But, until that moment, never to her. ‘We’re old friends.’ Adding, ‘You look terrific, Tavy.’

She’d felt the swift colour burn in her face. Fought to keep her voice steady as she returned, ‘It’s good to see you again, Patrick.’

Knowing that she had not bargained for precisely how good. And feeling a swift stab of anxiety in consequence.

After that, he seemed to make a point of popping in to see her whenever he was at the school, perching on the corner of her desk to chat easily as if that past friendship had really existed, and she hadn’t simply been ‘that skinny red-haired kid from the Vicarage’ as one of the girls in his crowd had once described her, loudly enough to be overheard.

Tavy had remained on her guard, polite but not encouraging, her instinct telling her that Mrs Wilding was unlikely to approve of such fraternisation. Not even sure that she approved of it herself, even if the bursarship gave him an excuse for being there.

So, when Patrick eventually invited her to have dinner with him, her refusal was immediate and definite.

‘But why?’ he asked plaintively. ‘You do eat, don’t you?’

She hesitated. ‘Patrick, I work for your mother. It wouldn’t be—appropriate for you to take out the hired help.’

Besides I need this job, because finding another in the same radius is by no means a certainty...

He snorted. ‘For heaven’s sake, what century are we living in? And Ma will be cool about it, I guarantee.’

But she remained adamant, only to discover that he was adopting a similar stance. And, finally, at the third time of asking, and in spite of her lingering misgivings, she agreed.

It occurred to her while she was getting ready, searching the wardrobe for the one decent dress she possessed and praying it still fitted, that she hadn’t actually been out with a man since those few short months at university when she’d had a few casual but enjoyable dates with a fellow student called Jack.

Looking back, she could see that these might have developed into something more serious, if Fate hadn’t intervened with such devastating cruelty.

Since then nothing—and no one.

For one thing, there were few single and available men in the neighbourhood. For another, coping with her job, plus the cooking and housework at the Vicarage and helping out with parish duties left her too tired to go looking, even if she’d had the time or inclination.

She could only hope that Patrick hadn’t tuned into this somehow and invited her out of pity.

If so, he’d kept it well-hidden during an evening it still made her smile to remember. He’d taken her to a small French restaurant in Market Tranton where they’d begun with a delicious garlicky pâté before moving on to confit du canard, served with green beans and a gratin dauphinois, with a seriously rich chocolate mousse to complete the meal. All washed down with a soft, fruity Bergerac wine.

A meal from the Dordogne region, he’d told her, and probably the only one she’d ever taste, she thought later, as she drifted off to sleep.

After that, they’d started seeing each other on a regular basis, although when they encountered each other in working hours, it was always strictly business. And in spite of his assurances, Tavy wasn’t at all sure that her employer was actually aware of the whole situation. Certainly Mrs Wilding made no reference to it, but maybe that was because she considered it unimportant. A temporary aberration on Patrick’s part which would soon pass.

Except it showed no sign of doing so, although so far he’d made no serious attempt to get her into bed, as she’d half expected. And, perhaps, wanted, having no real wish to remain the only twenty-two-year-old virgin in captivity.

And while she knew she could not expect her father to approve, he’d been enough of a realist to impose no taboos in his pre-university advice. Just a quietly expressed hope that she would always maintain her self-respect.

So, sleeping with a man with whom she shared a settled relationship could hardly damage that, she told herself. In many ways it would be an affirmation. A promise for the future.

Although all their meetings were still taking place well away from the village.

When, at last, she’d tackled him about this, he’d admitted ruefully that he’d been deliberately keeping the situation under wraps. Saying that his mother had a lot on her mind at the moment, and he was waiting for the right moment to tell her about their plans.

If, of course, there was ever going to be a right moment, Tavy had thought, sighing inwardly.

Mrs Wilding cultivated sweetness like other people cultivate window-boxes. For outward show.

How she would react if and when she discovered her assistant might one day be transformed from drudge to daughter-in-law was anyone’s guess, but Tavy’s money would be on ‘badly’.

But I’ll worry about that when I have to, she thought, putting up a hand to wipe away the sweat trickling down into her eyes.

The first inkling she had that a vehicle was behind her came with a loud blast on its horn. Gasping, she wobbled precariously for a moment then got her bike back under control before it veered into the ditch.

The car that had startled her, a sleek open-top sports model, overtook her and drew up a few yards ahead.

‘Hi, Octavia.’ The driver turned to address her, languidly pushing her designer sunglasses up on to smooth blonde hair. ‘Still using that museum piece to get around?’

Striving to recover her temper along with her balance, Tavy groaned inwardly.

Fiona Culham that was, she thought with resignation. She would have recognised those clipped brittle tones anywhere. Just not anticipated hearing them round here any time soon, and would have preferred it kept that way.

Reluctantly, she dismounted and pushed her cycle level with the car. ‘Hello, Mrs Latimer.’ She kept her tone civil but cool, reflecting that although Fiona was only two years her senior, the use of Christian names had never been reciprocal. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, but you’re a little behind the times. Didn’t you know that I’m using my maiden name again now that the divorce is going through?’

Heavens to Betsy, thought Tavy in astonishment. You were only married eighteen months ago.

Aloud, she said, ‘No I hadn’t heard, but I’m very sorry.’

Fiona Culham shrugged. ‘Well, don’t be, please. It was a hideous mistake, but you can’t win them all.’

The hideous mistake—an enormous London wedding to the wealthy heir to a stately home, with minor royalty present—had been plastered all over the newspapers, and featured in celebrity magazines. The bride, described as radiant, had apparently been photographed before she saw the error of her ways.

‘A little long-distance excitement for us all,’ the Vicar had remarked, at the time, laying his morning paper aside. He sighed. ‘And I can quite see why Holy Trinity, Hazelton Magna, would not have done for the ceremony.’

And just as well, Tavy thought now, knowing how seriously her father took the whole question of marriage, and how grieved he became when relationships that had started out with apparent promise ended all too soon on the rocks.

She cleared her throat. ‘It must be very stressful for you. Are you back for a holiday?’

‘On the contrary,’ Fiona returned. ‘I’m back for good.’ She looked Tavy over, making her acutely aware that some of her auburn hair had escaped from its loose topknot and was hanging in damp tendrils round her face. She also knew that her T-shirt and department store cut-offs had been examined, accurately priced and dismissed.

Whereas Fiona’s sleek chignon was still immaculate, her shirt was a silk rainbow, and if Stella McCartney made designer jeans, that’s what she’d be wearing.

‘So,’ the other continued. ‘What errand of mercy are you engaged with today? Visiting the sick, or alms for the poor?’

‘Delivering the village newsletter,’ Tavy told her expressionlessly.

‘What a dutiful daughter, and no time off for good behaviour.’ Fiona let in the clutch and engaged gear. ‘No doubt I’ll see you around. And I really wouldn’t spend any more time in this sun, Octavia. You look as if you’ve reached melting point already.’

Tavy watched the car disappear round a bend in the lane, and wished it would enter one of those time zones where people mysteriously vanished, to reappear nicer and wiser people years later.

Though no amount of time bending would improve Fiona, the spoiled only child of rich parents, she thought. It was Fiona who’d made the skinny red-haired kid remark, while Tavy was helping with the tombola at a garden party at White Gables, her parents’ home.

Norton Culham had married the daughter of a millionaire, and her money had helped him buy a rundown dairy farm in Hazelton Parva and transform it into a major horse breeding facility.

Success had made him wealthy, but not popular. Tolerant people said he was a shrewd businessman. The less charitable said he was a miserable, mean-spirited bastard. And his very public refusal to contribute as much as a penny to the proposed restoration fund for Holy Trinity, the village’s loved but crumbling Victorian church had endeared him to no one. Neither had his comment that Christianity was an outdated myth.

‘It’s a free country. He can think what he likes, same as the rest of us,’ said Len Hilton who ran the pub. ‘But there’s no need to bellow it at the Vicar.’ And he added an uncomplimentary remark about penny-pinching weasels.

But no pennies had ever been pinched where Fiona was concerned, thought Tavy. After she’d left one of England’s most expensive girls’ schools, there’d been a stint in Switzerland learning cordon bleu cookery, among other skills that presumably did not include being pleasant to social inferiors.

However, Fiona had been right about one thing, she thought, easing her T-shirt away from her body as she remounted her bike. She was indeed melting. However there was a cure for that, and she knew where to find it.

Accordingly when she reached a fork in the lane a few hundred yards further on, she turned left, a route which would take her past the high stone wall which encircled the grounds of Ladysmere Manor.

As she reached the side gate, hanging sadly off its hinges, she saw that the faded ‘For Sale’ sign had fallen off and was lying in the long grass. Dismounting, Tavy picked it up and propped it carefully against the wall. Not that it would do much good, she acknowledged with a sigh.

The Manor had been on the market and standing empty and neglected for over three years now, ever since the death of Sir George Manning, a childless widower. His heir, a distant cousin who lived in Spain with no intention of returning, simply arranged for the contents to be cleared and auctioned, then, ignoring the advice of the agents Abbot and Co, put it up for sale at some frankly astronomical asking price.

It was a strange mixture of a house. Part of it was said to date from Jacobean times, but since then successive generations had added, knocked down, and rebuilt, leaving barely a trace of the original dwelling.

Sir George had been a kindly, expansive man, glad to throw his grounds open to the annual village fête and allow the local Scouts and Guides to camp in his woodland, and whose Christmas parties were legendary.

But without him, it became very quickly a vacant and overpriced oddity, as his cousin refused point blank to offer the same hospitality.

At first, there’d been interest in the Manor. Someone was said to want it for a conference centre. A chain of upmarket nursing homes had made an actual offer. A hotel group was mentioned and there were even rumours of a health spa.

But the cousin in Spain obstinately refused to lower his asking price or consider offers, and gradually the viewings petered out and stopped, reducing the Manor from its true place as the hub of the village to the status of white elephant.

Tavy had always loved the house, her childish imagination transforming its eccentricities into a place of magic, like an enchanted castle.

Now, as she squeezed round the gate and began to pick her way through the overgrown jungle that had once been a garden, she thought sadly that it would take not just magic but a miracle to bring the Manor back to life.

Over the tangle of bushes and shrubs, she could see the pale shimmering green of the willows that bordered the lake. At the beginning, volunteers from the village had come and cleared the weeds from the water, as well as mowing the grass and cutting back the vegetation in front of the house, but an apologetic letter from Abbot and Co explaining that there was no insurance cover for accidents had put a stop to that.

But the possibility of weeds was no deterrent for Tavy. She’d encountered them before in previous summers when the temperature soared, and all that mattered was the prospect of cool water against her heated skin. And because she always had the lake to herself, she never had to bother with a swimsuit.

It had become a secret pleasure, not to be indulged too often, of course, but doing no harm to anyone. In a way, she felt as if her occasional presence was a reassurance to the house that it had not been entirely forgotten.

And nor was the Lady, who’d been there for nearly three hundred years, and therefore must find all these recent months very dull without company, standing naked on her plinth looking down at the water, one white marble arm concealing her breasts, her other hand chastely covering the junction of her thighs.

Tavy had always been thankful that the statue hadn’t been sent to the saleroom, along with Sir George’s wonderful collection of antique musical boxes, and his late wife’s beautifully furnished Victorian doll’s house.

You had a lucky escape there, Aphrodite or Helen of Troy, or whoever you’re supposed to be, she said under her breath as she took off her clothes, putting them neatly on the plinth before unclipping her hair. Because the lake wouldn’t be the same without you.

The water wasn’t just cool, it was very cold, and Tavy gasped as she took her first cautious steps from the sloping bank. As she waded in more deeply, the first shock wore off, the chill becoming welcome, until with a small sigh of pleasure, she submerged completely.

Above her, she could see the sun on the water in a dazzle of green and gold and she pushed up towards it, throwing her head back as she lifted herself above the surface in one graceful joyous burst.

And found herself looking at darkness. A black pillar against the sun where there should only have been blanched marble.

She lifted her hands, almost frantically dragging her hair back from her face, and rubbing water from the eyes that had to be playing tricks with her.

But she wasn’t hallucinating. Because the darkness was real. Flesh and blood. A man, his tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped body emphasised by the close-fitting black T-shirt and pants he was wearing, who’d appeared out of nowhere like some mythical Dark Lord, and who was now standing in front of the statue watching her.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Shock cracked her voice. ‘And what are you doing here?’

‘How odd. I was about to ask you the same.’ A low-pitched voice, faintly husky, its drawl tinged with amusement.

‘I don’t have to answer to you.’ Realising with horror that her breasts were visible, she sank down hastily, letting the water cover everything but her head and shoulders. ‘This is private property and you’re trespassing.’

‘Then that makes two of us.’ He was smiling openly now, white teeth against the tanned skin of a thin tough face. Dark curling hair that needed cutting. A wristwatch probably made from some cheap metal and a silver belt buckle providing the only relief from all that black. ‘And I wonder which of us is the most surprised.’

It occurred to her that he looked like one of the travellers who’d been such a nuisance over the winter.

They must have come back, looking for more scrap metal, thought Tavy, treading water. And he’s probably here to nick the lead from the Manor roof.

It was difficult to speak with dignity under the circumstances, but she gave it her best shot.

‘If you leave right now, I won’t report this to the authorities. But the place is being watched. There are CCTV cameras, so you won’t get away with a thing.’

‘Thanks for the warning. Although they must be well-hidden because I haven’t spotted one of them.’ Casually, he moved her pile of clothing to one side, and sat down on the plinth. ‘Perhaps you could show me a safe exit out of here. The same way you got in, maybe.’

‘And I suggest you go back the way you came, and waste no time about it.’ Tavy could feel her teeth starting to chatter and couldn’t be sure whether she was getting cold or just nervous. Or both.

‘On the other hand,’ he said. ‘This is a charming spot and I’m in no particular hurry.’

It’s both, thought Tavy. No doubt about it. Plus the kind of hideous jaw-clenching embarrassment you only encounter in nightmares.

‘However, I am,’ she said, trying to speak levelly. Reasonably. ‘So I’d really like to put my clothes back on.’

He indicated the pile of garments beside him. ‘Be my guest.’

‘But without you looking on.’ Because she’d rather freeze or get caught in the weeds and drown than have to walk out of the water naked in front of him.

He was smiling again. ‘And how do you know I wasn’t watching while you took them off?’ he enquired gently.

She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘Were—you?’

‘No.’ He had the unmitigated gall to make it sound regretful. ‘But I’m sure there’ll be other occasions,’ he added unforgivably, then paused as soft chimes sounded, reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Yes, everything’s fine. I’ll be with you shortly.’

He disconnected and rose. ‘Saved by the bell,’ he commented.

‘You certainly have been,’ Tavy said curtly. ‘I was considering charging you with sexual harassment.’

‘Just for a little gentle teasing?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Because you’d have to tell the police exactly where you were and what you were doing. And somehow, my little trespasser, I don’t think you’d want that.’

He blew her a kiss. ‘See you around,’ he said and sauntered off without a backward glance.

CHAPTER TWO

FOR A WHILE Tavy stayed where she was, waiting until she could be totally sure he had gone. Then, and only then, she swam to the bank and climbed out, her legs shaking under her.

She would normally have dried off in the sun, but this time she dragged her clothes on over her clammy skin, wincing at the discomfort, but desperate to get away. Cursing herself inwardly for the impulse which had brought her here. Knowing that this special place had been ruined for her for ever, and that she would never come back.

And she didn’t feel remotely refreshed. Instead, she felt horribly disturbed, her heart going like a trip-hammer. And dirty. Also sick.

See you around...

That was the second time someone had said that to her today, and her silent response had been the same to each of them—‘Not if I see you first.’

Well, she probably couldn’t avoid Fiona Culham altogether, but, after this recent encounter, she could let the police know that there were undesirables in the neighbourhood.

And gentle teasing be damned, she thought, pulling on her T-shirt and sliding her damp feet into their shabby canvas shoes. Remembering the wide shoulders and the muscularity of his arms and chest, she knew she could have been in real danger. Because if he’d made a move on her, there was no guarantee she’d have been strong enough to fight him off.

Trying to make her wet hair less noticeable, she dragged it back from her face and plaited it into a thick braid, fingers all thumbs, securing it with one of the elastic bands that had been round the newsletters.

Now she felt more or less ready to face the outside world again. And some, but not all, of the people in it.

When she got back to the gate, she was almost surprised to find her bicycle where she’d left it. Dad had always dismissed the old saying about bad things happening in threes as a silly superstition, but it occurred often enough to make her wonder. Only not this time, it seemed, she thought with a sigh of relief, as she cycled off, determined to put as much distance as she could between herself and Ladysmere Manor with as much speed as possible.

When she got back to the Vicarage, she found her father in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a pot of tea and the crossword, plus the substantial remains of a rich golden-brown cake.

She said lightly, ‘Hi, darling. That looks good.’

‘Ginger cake,’ said Mr Denison cheerfully. ‘I had some at the WI anniversary tea the other week and said how delicious it was, so the President, Mrs Harris baked another and brought it round.’

‘You,’ Tavy said severely, ‘are spoiled rotten. I suppose they’ve guessed that my baking sets like concrete in the bottom of the tin?’

His smile was teasing. ‘One Victoria sponge that had to be prised loose. Since then—straight As.’

‘Flatterer,’ said Tavy. She paused. ‘Dad, have you heard if the travellers have come back?’

‘It’s not been mentioned,’ he said with faint surprise. ‘I confess I’d hoped they were safely settled on that site at Lower Kynton.’

You can say that again, thought Tavy, her mind invaded by an unwanted image of a dark face and tawny eyes beneath straight black brows gleaming with amusement and something infinitely more disturbing.

She banished it. Drew a steadying breath. ‘How’s the sermon going?’

‘All done. But if the caravans have returned, perhaps I should write an alternative on brotherly love, just to be on the safe side.’

He turned to look at her, frowning slightly. ‘You look a little pale.’

But at least he didn’t mention her wet hair...

She shrugged. ‘Too much sun, maybe. I must start wearing a hat.’

‘Go and sit down,’ he directed. ‘And I’ll make fresh tea.’

‘That would be lovely.’ She added demurely, ‘And a slice of ginger cake, if you can possibly spare it.’

* * *

She arrived at work early the following morning, aware that she hadn’t slept too well, for which she blamed the heat.

But she’d awoken feeling rather more relaxed about the incidents of the previous day, apart, of course, from the encounter at the lake. Nothing could reconcile her to that.

She’d even found she was glancing at herself in the mirror as she prepared for bed, imagining that she’d somehow had the chutzpah to walk naked out of the water and reclaim her clothes, treating him contemptuously as if he’d ceased to exist.

After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of. She was probably on the thin side of slender, and her breasts might be on the small side, but they were firm and round, her stomach was flat and her hips nicely curved.

At the same time, she was glad she’d stayed in the lake. Because the first man to see her nude was going to be Patrick, she thought firmly, and not some insolent, low-life peeping Tom.

As she let herself in through the school’s rear entrance, she heard Mrs Wilding’s voice raised and emotional, mingling with Patrick’s quieter more placatory tones.

He must have told her about us, was her first thought, the second being a cowardly desire to leave before anyone knew she was there. To jump before she was pushed.

‘Oh, don’t be such a fool,’ Mrs Wilding was raging. ‘Don’t you understand this could finish us? Once word gets out, the parents will be up in arms, and who can blame them?’

A reaction that could hardly be triggered by her relationship with Patrick, Tavy decided.

As she appeared hesitantly in the sitting room doorway, Patrick swung round looking relieved. ‘Tavy, make my mother some tea, will you? She’s—rather upset.’

‘Upset?’ Mrs Wilding repeated. ‘What else do you expect? Who in their right mind would want their innocent, impressionable child to be exposed to the influence of a drug-addled degenerate?’

Tavy, head reeling, escaped to the kitchen to boil the kettle, and measure Earl Grey into Mrs Wilding’s favourite teapot with the bamboo handle. This was clearly an emergency and the everyday builder’s blend would not do.

‘What’s happened?’ she whispered when Patrick arrived for the tray.

‘I ran into Chris Abbot last night, and we went for a drink. He was celebrating big time.’ Patrick drew a deep breath. ‘Believe it or not, he’s actually sold the Manor at last.’

‘But that’s good, surely.’ Tavy filled the teapot. She found one of her employer’s special porcelain cups and saucers, and the silver strainer. ‘It needs to be occupied before thieves start stripping it.’

Patrick shook his head. ‘Not when the buyer is Jago Marsh.’

He saw her look of bewilderment and sighed. ‘God, Tavy, even you must have heard of him. Multimillionaire rock star. Lead guitarist with Descent until they split up after some monumental row.’

Something stirred in her memory, left over from her brief time at university. A group of girls on her landing talking about a gig they’d been to, discussing with explicit detail the sexual attraction of the various band members.

One of them saying, ‘Jago Marsh—I have an orgasm just thinking about him.’

Suppressing an instinctive quiver of distaste, she said slowly, ‘Why on earth would someone like that want to live in a backwater like this?’

He shrugged, then picked up the tray. ‘Maybe backwaters are the new big thing, and everyone wants some.

‘According to Chris, he was at a party in Spain and met Sir George’s cousin moaning he had a country pile he couldn’t sell, no reasonable offer refused.’

‘He’s changed his tune.’ Tavy followed him down the passage to the sitting room.

‘Seriously strapped for cash, according to Chris. So Jago Marsh came down a while back, liked what he saw, and did the deal.’ He sighed. ‘And we have to live with it.’

Mrs Wilding was sitting in a corner of the sofa, tearing a tissue to shreds between her fingers. She said, ‘I would have bought the place myself when it first came on the market. After all, I’ve been looking to expand for some time, but my offer was turned down flat. And now it’s gone for a song.’

‘But still more than you could afford,’ Patrick pointed out.

‘There were other offers,’ his mother said. ‘Why doesn’t Christopher Abbot check to see if any of them are still interested? That way the Manor could be sold for some decent purpose. Something that might bring credit to the area.’

‘I think contracts have already been exchanged.’

‘Oh, I can’t bear to think about it.’ Mrs Wilding took the tea that Tavy had poured for her. ‘This man Marsh is the last type of person we want living here. He’ll destroy the village. We’ll have the tabloid newspapers setting up camp here. Disgusting parties keeping us all awake. The police around all the time investigating drugs and vice.’ She shook her head. ‘Our livelihood will be ruined.’

She turned to Tavy. ‘What is your father going to do about this?’

Tavy was taken aback. ‘Well, he certainly can’t stop the sale. And I don’t think he’d want to make any pre-judgements,’ she added carefully.

Mrs Wilding snorted. ‘In other words, he won’t lift a finger to protect moral standards. Whatever happened to the Church Militant?’

She put down her cup. ‘Anyway, it’s time you made a start, Octavia.

‘You’ll find yesterday’s correspondence waiting on your desk. When you’ve dealt with that, Matron needs a hand in the linen room. Also we need a new vegetable supplier, so you can start ringing round, asking for quotes.’

From doom and disaster to business as usual, thought Tavy as she went to her office. But to be fair, Mrs Wilding probably had every right to be concerned now that this bombshell had exploded more or less on her doorstep.

She found herself wondering if the unpleasant tough at the lake was the shape of things to come. Security perhaps, she thought. And I rambled on about CCTV. No wonder he was amused.

Let’s hope he advises his boss to increase the height of the perimeter wall, and then they both stay well behind it.

* * *

It was a busy morning, and Mrs Wilding’s temper was not improved when Tavy gave her the list of bedding, towels and table linen that Matron considered should be replaced as a matter of urgency before the start of the new school year in September, and told her that no one seemed able to provide vegetables more cheaply or of a better quality than the present supplier.

‘Perhaps I should wait and see if we still have any pupils by the autumn,’ Mrs Wilding said tight-lipped, and told Tavy she could go.

Tavy’s own spirits had not been lightened by Patrick whispering apologetically that he wouldn’t be able to see her that evening after all.

‘Mother wants a strategy meeting over dinner, and under the circumstances, I could hardly refuse.’ He gave her a swift kiss, one eye on the door. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

As she cycled home, Tavy reflected that for once she was wholly on the side of her employer. Because the advent of Jago Marsh could well be the worst thing to hit the village since the Black Death, and, even if he didn’t stay for very long, the damage would probably be done and quiet, sleepy Hazelton Magna would never be the same again.

Pity he didn’t stay in Spain, she thought, as she parked her bike at the back of the house and walked into the kitchen.

Where she stopped abruptly, her green eyes widening in horror as she saw who was sitting at the scrubbed pine table with her father, and now rising politely to greet her.

‘Ah, here you are, darling,’ the Vicar said fondly. ‘As you can see, a new neighbour, Jago Marsh, has very kindly come to introduce himself.

‘Jago—this is my daughter Octavia.’

‘Miss Denison.’ That smile again, but faintly loaded. Even—oh, God—conspiratorial. One dark brow quirking above that mocking tawny gaze. ‘This is indeed a pleasure.’

Oh, no, she thought as a wave of hotly embarrassed colour swept over her. It’s the Dark Lord himself. I can’t—I don’t believe it...

Only this time he wasn’t in black. Today it was blue denim pants, and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, with its sleeves rolled back to his elbows, adding further emphasis to his tan. That unruly mass of dark hair had been combed back, and he was clean-shaven.

He took a step towards her, clearly expecting to shake hands, but Tavy kept her fists clenched at her sides, tension quivering through her like an electric charge.

‘How do you do,’ she said, her voice on the chilly side of neutral, as she observed with astonishment a couple of empty beer bottles and two used glasses on the table.

‘Jago is a musician,’ Mr Denison went on. ‘He’s coming to live at the Manor.’

‘So I’ve heard.’ She picked up the dirty glasses and carried them to the sink. Rinsed out the bottles and added them to the recycling box.

Mr Denison looked at his guest with a faint grimace. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The village grapevine, I’m afraid.’

Jago Marsh’s smile widened. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. As long as they keep their facts straight, of course.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Tavy said shortly. ‘They generally get the measure of newcomers pretty quickly.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘That can work both ways. And, for the record, I’m now a retired musician.’

‘Really?’ Her brows lifted. ‘After the world arenas and the screaming fans, won’t you find Hazelton Magna terribly boring?’

‘On the contrary,’ he returned. ‘I’m sure it has many hidden charms, and I’m looking forward to exploring all of them.’ He allowed an instant for that to register, then continued, ‘Besides, I’ve been looking for somewhere quiet—to settle down and pursue other interests, as the saying goes. And the Manor seems the perfect place.’

He turned to the Vicar. ‘Particularly when I found a beautiful water nymph waiting for me at the lake. A most unexpected delight and what irresistibly clinched the deal for me.’

Tavy reached for a cloth and wiped out the sink as if her life depended on it.

‘Ah, the statue,’ Mr Denison mused. ‘Yes, it’s a lovely piece of sculpture. A true classic. One of the Manning ancestors brought her home from the Grand Tour back in the eighteenth century. Apparently he was so pleased with his find that he even renamed the house Ladysmere for her. Until then it had just been Hazelton Manor.’

‘That’s a great story,’ Jago Marsh said, thoughtfully. ‘And I feel exactly the same about my alluring nymph, so Ladysmere it shall stay. I wouldn’t dream of changing it back again.’

‘But the house itself,’ Tavy said very clearly. ‘It’s been empty for so long, won’t it cost a fortune to put right? Are you sure it’s worth it?’

‘Octavia.’ Her father sounded a note of reproof. ‘That’s none of our business.’

‘Actually, it’s a valid question,’ said Jago Marsh. ‘But I’m in this for the long haul, and I like the quirkiness of the place, so I’ll pay what it takes to put it right. Although I suspect what it most needs is TLC. Tender loving care,’ he added, surveying her flushed and mutinous face, before allowing his gaze to travel down over the white blouse and dark grey skirt worn well below the knee, according to Mrs Wilding’s dictates.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I am familiar with the expression.’

How dared he do this? she raged inwardly. How dared he come here and wind her up? Because that’s all it was.

Maybe he was just piqued that she hadn’t recognised him yesterday. Maybe he’d thought one glance, a gasp and a giggle as realisation dawned, would bring her out of the water and...

Well, she didn’t want to contemplate the rest of that scenario.

And with a lot of girls, he might have got lucky, but she had no interest in rock music, or the people who played it, so she was no one’s idea of a groupie.

As well as being spoken for, she added swiftly.

Although, it would have made no difference if she’d been free as air. However famous, however rich he might be, she had known him instantly as someone to be avoided. Someone dangerous with a streak of inner darkness.

His talk of settling down was nonsense. She’d give him three months of village life before he was looking for the shortest route back to the fast lane.

Well, she could survive that long. It was enduring the rest of this visit which would prove tricky.

Oh, let it be over soon, she whispered inwardly, and with unwonted vehemence.

But her father was speaking, driving another nail into her coffin. ‘I’ve asked Jago to stay for lunch, darling. I hope that’s all right.’

‘It’s cold chicken and salad,’ she said tautly, groaning silently. ‘I’m not sure there’s enough to go round.’

‘But I thought we were having macaroni cheese,’ he said. ‘I saw it in the fridge when I got the beer.’

And so there was. One of Dad’s all-time Saturday favourites. She’d got up specially to prepare it in advance.

‘I’d planned that for supper,’ she lied.

‘Oh.’ He looked faintly puzzled. ‘I thought you’d be seeing Patrick tonight.’

‘Well, no,’ she said. ‘His mother’s had some bad news, so he’s spending the evening with her.’

‘Ah,’ he said, and paused. ‘All the same, let’s have the macaroni now. It won’t take long to cook.’

‘Dad.’ She tried to laugh. ‘I’m sure Mr Marsh can do better for himself than very ordinary pasta in our kitchen.’

‘Better than a home-cooked meal in good company?’ her antagonist queried softly. ‘It sounds wonderful. As long as it isn’t too much trouble,’ he added, courteously.

Tavy remembered an old Agatha Christie she’d read years ago—The Murder at the Vicarage. She felt like creating a real-life sequel.

Hastily, she counted to ten. ‘Why don’t you both have another beer in the garden,’ she forced herself to suggest. ‘I—I’ll call when it’s ready.’

While the oven was heating, she mixed breadcrumbs with Parmesan and scattered them across the top of the pasta, found and opened a jar of plums she’d bottled the previous autumn to have with ice cream as dessert, and made a simple dressing for the salad.

We’ll have to eat the chicken tonight, she told herself grimly as she put the earthenware dish into the oven, then turned away to lay the table.

All the domestic stuff she could do on autopilot, which was just as well when her mind seemed to have gone into free fall.

Under normal circumstances, she’d have run upstairs to take off what she regarded without pleasure as her ‘school uniform’, change into shorts and maybe a sun-top, and release her hair from its clasp at the nape of her neck. Preparation for a lazy afternoon under the chestnut tree in the garden—with a book and the odd bout of weeding thrown in.

But there was nothing usual about today, and it seemed infinitely safer to stay as she was. To show this interloper that the girl he’d surprised yesterday was a fantasy.

And to demonstrate that this was the real Octavia Denison—efficient, hard-working, responsible and mature. The Vicar’s daughter and therefore the last person in the world to go swimming naked in someone else’s lake.

Except that she had done so, and altering her outer image wasn’t going to change a thing as far as he was concerned. Any more than his lightening of his appearance today had affected her initial impression of him.

She sighed. Her father was a darling but she often wished he was warier with strangers. That he wouldn’t go more than halfway to meet them, with no better foundation for his trust than instinct. Something that had let him down more than once in the past.

Well, she would be cautious for him where Jago Marsh was concerned. In fact, constantly on her guard.

She didn’t know much about his former band Descent but could recall enough to glean the social niceties had not been a priority with them.

Top of her own agenda, however, would be to find out more, because forewarned would indeed be forearmed.

He’s playing some unpleasant game with us, she told herself restively. He has to be, only Dad can’t see it.

Although she suspected it was that faith in the basic goodness of human nature that made her father so popular in the parish, even if his adherence to the traditional forms of worship did not always find favour with the hierarchy in the diocese.

But that was quite another problem.

Whereas—sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, she thought. Which, in this case, was Jago Marsh.

And she sighed again but this time rather more deeply.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS ONE of the most difficult lunches she had ever sat through.

And, to her annoyance, the macaroni cheese was one of her best ever, and Jago Marsh praised it lavishly and had two helpings.

To her utter astonishment, her father had gone down to the dark, cobwebby space which was the Vicarage cellar and produced a bottle of light, dry Italian wine which complemented the food perfectly.

She had turned to him, her eyebrows lifting questioningly. ‘Should Mr Marsh be drinking if he’s driving?’

‘Mr Marsh walked from the Manor,’ Jago had responded, affably. ‘And will return there in the same way.’

Did he mean he’d moved in already? Surely not. The formalities couldn’t have been completed. And how could he possibly be living there anyway with no gas, electricity or water and not a stick of furniture in the place?

Somehow she couldn’t see him camping there with a sleeping bag and portable stove.

If he’d indeed been the traveller she’d first assumed, she knew now that he’d have had the biggest and best trailer on the site with every mod con and then some.

Just as that cheap metal watch, on covert examination, had proved to be a Rolex, and probably platinum.

What she found most disturbing was how genuinely the Vicar seemed to enjoy his company, listening with interest to his stories of the band’s early touring days, carefully cleaned up, she suspected, for the purpose.

While she served the food and sat, taking the occasional sip of wine, and listening, watching, and waiting.

Let people talk and eventually they will betray themselves. Hadn’t she read that somewhere?

But all that their guest seemed to be betraying was charm and self-deprecating humour. Just as if the good opinion of an obscure country clergyman could possibly matter to him.

He’s my father, you bastard, and I love him, she addressed Jago silently and fiercely. And if you hurt him, I’ll find some way to damage you in return. Even if it takes the rest of my life.

‘So, Jago,’ the Vicar said thoughtfully. ‘An interesting name and a derivative of James I believe.’

Jago nodded. ‘My grandmother was Spanish,’ he said. ‘And she wanted me to be christened Iago, as in Santiago de Compostela, but my parents felt that Shakespeare had knocked that name permanently on the head so they compromised with the English version.’

Iago, thought Tavy, who’d studied Othello for her ‘A’ level English exam. One of literature’s most appalling villains. The apparently loyal second in command, turned liar, betrayer and murderer by association. The personification of darkness, if ever there was one.

It felt almost like a warning, and made her even less inclined to trust him.

After the meal, she served coffee in the sitting room. But when she went in with the tray, she found Jago alone, looking at one of the photographs on the mantelpiece.

He said abruptly, not looking round, ‘Your mother was very beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘In every way.’

‘Your father must be very lonely without her.’

‘He’s not alone,’ she said, defensively. ‘He has his work and he has me. Also he plays chess with a retired schoolmaster in the village. And...’ She hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘And he has God.’ She said it reluctantly, expecting some jeering response.

‘I’m sure he does,’ he said. ‘But none of that is what I meant.’

She decided not to pursue that, asking instead, ‘Where is he, anyway?’ as she set the tray down on the coffee table between the two shabby sofas that flanked the fireplace.

‘He went to his study to find a book he’s going to lend me on the history of the Manor.’

‘The past is safe enough,’ she said. ‘It’s what you may do to its future that worries most people.’

‘I met two of my new neighbours on my way here,’ he said. ‘A man on horseback and a woman with a dog. Both of them smiled and said hello, and the dog didn’t bite me, so I wasn’t aware of any tsunami of anxiety heading towards me.’

‘It may seem amusing to you,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to live with the inevitable upheaval of your celebrity presence—’ she edged the words with distaste ‘—and deal with the aftermath when you get bored and move on.’

‘You haven’t been listening, sweetheart.’ His tone was crisp. ‘The Manor is going to be my home. The only one. And I intend to make it work. Now shall we call a truce before your father comes back? And I take my coffee black without sugar,’ he added. ‘For future reference.’

‘Quite unnecessary,’ said Tavy. ‘As this will be the first and last time I have to serve it to you.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘One can always dream.’

Lloyd Denison came striding in, holding a slim book with faded green covers. ‘Things are never where you expect them to be,’ he said, shaking his head.

That, Tavy thought affectionately, was because he never put things where they were supposed to go. And she hadn’t inherited her mother’s knack of guiding him straight to the missing item.

‘Thank you.’ Jago took the book from him, handling it gently. ‘I promise I’ll look after it.’

Their coffee drunk, he stood up. ‘Now I’ll leave you to enjoy your afternoon in peace. But I must thank you again for a delicious lunch. And as home-cooking is currently out of the question for me, I was wondering if you could recommend a good local restaurant.’

‘I dine out very rarely, but I’m sure Tavy could suggest somewhere.’ Her father turned to her. ‘What do you think? There’s that French place in Market Tranton.’

Which is our place—Patrick’s and mine—thought Tavy, so I’m not sending him there.

She said coolly, ‘The pub in the village does food.’

‘Yes, but it’s very basic,’ Mr Denison objected. ‘You must know lots of better places.’

She turned reluctantly to Jago. ‘In that case, you could try Barkland Grange. It’s a hotel and quite a trek from here, but I believe its dining room won an award recently.’

‘It sounds ideal.’ That smile again. As if he was reaching out to touch her. ‘And as I’ve ruined your supper plans, maybe I can persuade you to join me there for dinner tonight.’ He looked at her father. ‘And you, sir, of course.’

‘That’s very kind,’ said the Vicar. ‘But I have some finishing touches to put to my sermon, plus a double helping of chicken to enjoy. However I’m sure Tavy would be delighted to accompany you.’ He looked at her blandly. ‘Wouldn’t you, darling?’

Tavy reflected she would rather be roasted over a slow fire. But as it had already been established that, thanks to her would-be host, she had no prior date, she was unable to think of a feasible excuse. Her only alternative was a bald refusal which would be ill-mannered and therefore cause distress to her father. Although she suspected Jago himself would be amused.

Accordingly, she murmured an unwilling acquiescence, and agreed that she could be ready at seven-thirty.

Unless mown down in the meantime by a runaway steamroller. And if she knew where one was operating, she’d lie down in front of it.

As she stood by her father, her smile nailed on, to wave goodbye to the departing visitor, she wondered how close she was to the world record for the number of things that could go wrong within a set time.

Because her choice of Barkland Grange, astronomically expensive and practically in the next county, had rebounded on her big time.

Safely indoors, she rounded on her father. ‘Dad, how could you? You practically offered me to him on a plate.’

‘Hardly, my dear. He only invited me out of politeness, you know.

‘I gather from something he said in the garden, he feels that the pair of you have somehow got off on the wrong foot, and he wants to make amends.’ He added gently, ‘And I must admit, Tavy, that I did sense something of an atmosphere.’

‘Really?’ she said. ‘I can’t think why.’ She was silent for a moment, then burst out, ‘Oh, Dad, I don’t want to have dinner with him. He’s out of our league, in some unknown stratosphere, and it worries me.’

And the worst of it is I can’t tell you the real reason why I don’t want to be with him. Why I don’t even want to think about him. Because you’d think quite rightly that I’d been stupid and reckless and be disappointed in me.

She swallowed. ‘Why did he come here today?’

‘To make himself known as the new resident of the Manor, and my parishioner,’ he returned patiently.

‘You think it’s really that simple?’ She shook her head. ‘I bet you won’t find him in the congregation very often. Also, you seem to have forgotten I’m going out with Patrick.’

‘But not this evening, it seems. And Jago, after all, is a stranger in our midst. Will it really hurt so much to keep him company? For all his fame and money, he might be lonely.’

Which is what he said about you...

‘I doubt that very much,’ she said tautly. ‘I’m sure he has a little black book the size of a telephone directory.’

‘Perhaps he hasn’t unpacked it yet,’ her father said gently

Tavy, desperate, delivered the killer blow. ‘And I’ve got nothing to wear. Not for a place like that, anyway.’

‘Oh, my dear child,’ he said. ‘If that’s the problem...’

He went into his study, emerging a few minutes later with a small roll of banknotes, which he pushed into her hand. ‘Didn’t you tell me that a new dress shop had opened in Market Tranton, in that little street behind the War Memorial.’

‘Dad.’ Tavy gazed down at the money, aghast. ‘There’s a hundred and fifty pounds here. I can’t take all this.’

‘You can and you will,’ he said firmly. ‘I know full well you get paid a pittance for all the hours you put in at that school,’ adding drily, ‘but presumably you feel it’s worth it. And I have a feeling that you’ll soon be needing a dress for special occasions.’

Such as an engagement party, Tavy thought with sudden buoyancy, as she grabbed the car keys from their hook. Now that would be worth dressing up for.

While tonight could be endured then forgotten.

* * *

As seven-thirty approached, Tavy felt the tension inside her begin to build. She sat, trying to interest herself in the local paper, finding instead she was imagining the following week’s edition by which time the news about Jago would have become public knowledge.

And she could only hope and pray that none of the stories printed about him would involve herself.

In the end, she’d bought two dresses, neither as expensive as she’d feared, and both sleeveless with scooped necks, and skirts much shorter than she was accustomed to—one covered in tiny ivory flowers on an indigo background, and the other, which she was wearing that evening, in a wonderful shade of jade green.

She’d chosen this because, among the few pieces of jewellery her mother had left, were a pair of carved jade drop earrings which she’d never worn before, but hoped would give her some much needed confidence.

And for once, her newly washed and shining hair had allowed itself to be piled up on top of her head without too much protest, even if it had taken twice the usual number of pins to secure it there.

She’d even treated herself to a new lipstick in an unusual shade between rust and brown that she found became her far more than the rather soft pinks she normally chose. And was almost tempted to wipe it off, and revert to the dull and familiar. Yet didn’t.

Any more than she’d gone into Dad’s study and said, ‘I have to tell you what happened yesterday...’

Tonight at some point, she would offer Jago Marsh a stiff, well-rehearsed apology for trespassing on his property, then ask if the entire incident could be forgotten, or at least never referred to again. And somehow make it clear that what he’d referred to as ‘gentle teasing’ was totally unacceptable. As were softly loaded remarks about water nymphs.

After that, if the way she was feeling now was any indication, she might well be sick all over the tablecloth.

She had the cash left over from her shopping expedition tucked into her bag, in case she needed to make a speedy exit by taxi at some point. Her mother, she remembered with a soft catch of the breath, had been a firm believer in what she called ‘escape money’.

And how strange she should be thinking in these terms when millions of girls all over the world would give everything they possessed to be in her shoes this evening. And so they could be, she thought, grimacing. She was wearing her only decent pair of sandals and they pinched.

When the doorbell rang, she felt her heart thud so violently that she almost cried out.

I shouldn’t have dressed for the restaurant, she thought, as she made her way into the hall. I should be wearing a T-shirt and an old skirt—maybe the denim one I’ve had since school. Something that would make him wish he’d never put me on the spot—never asked me, as well as ensuring that he won’t do it again.

Her father was ahead of her, opening the front door, smiling and saying she was quite ready. Then, to her embarrassment, telling her quite seriously that she looked beautiful, and wishing her a wonderful evening.

So she was blushing and looking down at the floor, only realising at the last moment that the man waiting for her on the doorstep was not Jago Marsh, but someone much older, grey haired and wearing a neat, dark suit.

‘Evening, Miss Denison.’ A London accent. ‘I’m Charlie, Mr Jago’s driver. Can you get down the drive in those heels, or shall I fetch the car up?’

‘No.’ Her flush deepened. ‘I—I’m fine.’ If a little bewildered...

Her confusion deepened when she realised that she would be travelling to Barkland Grange in solitary state.

‘The boss had a load of emails to deal with,’ Charlie told her. ‘Last-minute stuff. Or he’d have come for you himself. He sends his apologies.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Tavy muttered as she was helped into the big grey limousine with tinted windows. In fact, she added silently, it was all to the good. At least she’d be spared his company for a while.

Charlie was solicitous to her comfort, asking if the car was too hot or too cold. Whether or not she’d like to listen to the radio.

She said again that she was fine, wondering what he’d do if she said that she’d really like to go home, so could he please turn the car around.

But of course she wasn’t going to say that because this was her own mess, and it wouldn’t be fair to involve him or anyone else.

One evening, she thought. That was all she had to get through. Then, her duty done, she could tell her father with perfect truth that she and Jago Marsh were chalk and cheese, and tonight would never be repeated.

Besides there was Patrick to consider. Patrick whom she could and should have been with tonight.

It’s time we talked seriously, she thought. Time we got our relationship on a firm footing and out in the open, for everyone to see, particularly his mother. Made some real plans for the future. Our future.

And she found herself wondering, as the limo smoothly ate away the miles between Hazelton Magna and Barkland Grange, why, when she’d been quite content to let matters drift, this change should now seem to be of such pressing and paramount importance.

And could not find a satisfactory answer.

Her first sight of Barkland Grange, a redbrick Georgian mansion set in its own sculptured parkland, with even a small herd of deer browsing under the trees, seemed to confirm everything she’d heard about it and more.

She sat rigidly, staring through the car window, feeling her stomach churn with renewed nerves. Cursing herself for not having found an excuse—any excuse—to remain safely at home, sharing the cold chicken and later a game of cribbage with Dad.

She could only hope now that Jago’s email correspondence had been more involved than expected.

Because if he’s not here, she thought, I’d be perfectly justified in saying that I’m not prepared to hang around waiting for him to show up. And if Charlie won’t drive me back, I’ll simply use my escape money.

And then she saw the dark figure standing on the stone steps in front of the main entrance and knew, with a sense of fatalism, that there was no way out.

‘So you have come after all.’ She heard that loathsome note of amusement under his drawl, as he opened the car door. ‘I was afraid that a migraine, or a sudden chill brought on by unwise bathing might have prevented you.’

‘And I was afraid you’d make me produce a doctor’s note,’ she said, lifting her chin as she walked beside him into the hotel, hotly aware of the candid appraisal that had swept her from head to toe as she emerged from the car.

Resentful too of the light guidance of his hand on her arm—the first time, she realised, that he’d touched her—but reluctant to pull away under the benevolent gaze of the commissionaire holding the door open for them.

He took her across the spacious foyer to a bar, all subdued lighting and small comfortable armchairs grouped round tables, most of which were occupied.

‘It’s very busy,’ Tavy said, praying inwardly that the Grange was too expensive and too distant from Hazelton Magna to attract anyone who might recognise her.

‘Weekends here are always popular, I’m told,’ Jago returned as a waiter appeared and conducted them to an empty table tucked away in a corner. ‘I considered ordering dinner in my suite, but I decided you’d probably feel safer in the dining room. At least on a first date.’

Tavy, sinking back against luxurious cushions, sat upright with a jolt. On several counts.

‘Suite?’ she echoed. ‘You have a suite here?’

‘Why, yes.’ He was leaning back, supremely at ease in his dark charcoal suit and pearl grey collarless shirt. ‘I’ve been here on and off for several weeks. I thought it would be easier to deal with the purchase of the Manor from a local base, and this proved ideal.’ He smiled at her. ‘And you were quite right about the food,’ he added lightly.

‘You knew all about it already—and you didn’t say. You let me ramble on...’

‘Hardly that. You were quite crisp on the subject. And I was impressed. I’d anticipated being directed to the nearest greasy spoon.

‘And as you’d suggested eating here, I couldn’t be suspected of any ulterior motive. Better and better.’ He nodded to the still-hovering waiter. ‘I’ve ordered champagne cocktails,’ he added. ‘I hope you like them.’

She said in a small choked voice, ‘You know perfectly well I’ve never had such a thing in my life.’

‘Then I’m glad to be making the introduction.’

‘And this is not a first date!’

The dark brows lifted. ‘You feel we’ve met before—in a previous existence, maybe? Wow, this is fascinating.’

‘I mean nothing of the kind, and you know that too.’ She drew a shaky breath. ‘I’m here because I didn’t have a choice. For some reason, you’ve made my father think you’re one of the good guys. I don’t share his opinion. And I’d like to know how the hell you came to be sitting in our kitchen anyway.’

‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘I’d invited Ted Jackson up to the Manor this morning to give me a quote on clearing the grounds. As he was leaving, I simply asked him the identity of the gorgeous redhead I’d seen around. I admit his reply came as something of a surprise, so I decided to pursue my own enquiries.’

The drinks arrived, and he initialled the bill, casually adding a tip, while Tavy stared at him, stunned.

‘You—asked Ted Jackson?’ she managed at last.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I want to use local labour for the renovations as far as possible. Why? Isn’t he any good?’

‘Yes—I think... How would I know?’ She swallowed. ‘I mean—you actually asked him about me.’

‘It’s a useful way of gaining information.’

‘He will tell his wife that you did,’ she said stonily. ‘And June Jackson is the biggest gossip in a fifty-mile radius.’ Although she doesn’t seem to know I’m seeing Patrick, she amended swiftly. So she’s not infallible.

He shrugged. ‘You may be right, but he seemed to be far more interested in the prospect of restoring the gardens to their former glory.’

‘Until she makes him repeat every word you said to him,’ Tavy said bitterly. ‘Oh, God, this is such a disaster. And if anyone finds out about this evening...’ Her voice tailed away helplessly.

‘Single man has dinner with single woman,’ he said. ‘Sensational stuff.’

‘It isn’t funny.’ She glared at him.

‘Nor is it tragic, sweetheart, so lighten up.’ He glanced round. ‘I don’t see any lurking paparazzi, do you?’

‘You think it won’t happen? That the press won’t be interested in notorious rock star suddenly turning village squire?’

‘I like the sound of that,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should grow a moustache that I can twirl.’

‘And perhaps you could give up the whole idea,’ she said passionately. ‘Put the place back on the market, so it can be sold to someone who’ll contribute something valuable to the community, instead of causing it untold harm to satisfy some sudden whim about being a landowner, then walking away when he gets bored.’

She paused, ‘Which I suppose was what happened with Descent.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not exactly.’ He picked up his glass. Touched it to hers. ‘But here’s to sudden whims.’ Adding ironically, ‘Especially when they come at the end of a long and fairly detailed property search. Because I’m staying, sweetheart, so you and the rest of the neighbourhood will just have to make the best of it.’

He watched her fingers tighten round the stem of her own glass. ‘And if you’re planning to throw that over me, I’d better warn you that I shall reciprocate, causing exactly the kind of furore you seem anxious to avoid.

‘It’s up to you, of course, but why not try some and see that it’s too good to waste on meaningless gestures.’

She relinquished the glass, and reached for her bag. ‘On the whole, I’d prefer to go home.’

‘Then I shall follow you,’ he said silkily. ‘Begging, possibly on my knees, for very public forgiveness of some very private sin. How about, “Come back to me, darling, if only for the sake of the baby.” That should get tongues wagging.’

Tavy stared at him, assimilating the faint smile that did not reach his eyes, and unwillingly subsided, deciding she could not take the risk.

‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘Now, shall we begin the evening again? Thank you so much for giving me your company, Miss Denison. You look very lovely, and I must be the envy of every man in the room.’

The tawny gaze held hers, making it somehow impossible to look away. She said shakily, ‘Do you really think that’s what I want to hear from you?’

‘No,’ he said, with sudden curtness. ‘So let’s discuss the menus they’re bringing over to us instead. And please don’t tell me you couldn’t eat a thing, because I noticed you only picked at your lunch. And the chef has an award. You told me so yourself.’

‘Tell me something,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Why are you doing this?’

His smile was genuine this time, and, in some incredible way, even disarming.

‘A sudden whim,’ he said. ‘That I found quite irresistible. It happens sometimes.’

He added more briskly, ‘And now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, let’s see what we can do for your appetite. Why don’t we begin with scallops?’

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