The Seduction Season

by Helen Bianchin

  An arm curved along the back of her waist while another deftly removed a carry-bag. ‘Chérie. My apologies.’ She felt the heat of Sebastian’s frame as he leaned in close and brushed his lips to her cheek in a warm caress. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

  She turned her head and met a pair of steady dark eyes, glimpsed their warning flare, and controlled the unexpected flip her stomach executed as she became lost in the devastating warmth of his smile.

  Only a fool would have ignored the hard-muscled body beneath the open-necked shirt and stonewashed jeans, or dismissed the ruthless intensity behind his deceptively mild expression.

  Anneke had the distinct feeling he was poised for action. It was evident in his stance, the sharp stillness apparent in his eyes. For one infinitesimal second she almost felt sorry for her aggressor.

  ‘Sebastian. C’est opportun.’

  A split second to think. So, not fluent, he acknowledged. The accent was passable. His smile widened. Good. She would understand what he said when he made love to her.

  His eyes were carefully bland. ‘Should we effect an introduction?’ He thrust out his hand and enclosed the young man’s palm in a firm grip. ‘Lanier. And you?’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Sebastian’s expression didn’t change. ‘What a shame, my friend,’ he intoned with deadly softness. ‘We’re not going there.’

  Anneke didn’t blink at the blistering and very pithy response. ‘Charming,’ she murmured facetiously as her aggressor turned and ambled off along the pavement. ‘Pity his suggestion was anatomically impossible.’

  Sebastian’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘He intended to relieve you of whatever money you had in your wallet.’ To fund the next fix.

  ‘It would have been interesting to discover his threshold of pain.’

  He cast her a sharp glance. ‘What particular method did you have in mind?’

  She told him, concisely, analytically, and had the satisfaction of evidencing a measure of respect.

  ‘Reassuring,’ he conceded, ‘to learn you can take care of yourself.’

  Anneke inclined her head. Dealing with the scruffy young creep wouldn’t have posed a problem. However, she would have had to discard the carry-bags in a hurry, and to have her carefully selected purchases crushed or broken in a physical fracas would have been a terrible waste.

  She turned towards him and raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘And your field of expertise?’

  He had trained beneath a well-respected master, practised in many a dojo, and occasionally fought in places no civilised self-respecting person would consider while serving his country for a time.

  It was simpler to name one. ‘Karate.’

  Anneke considered him thoughtfully. Most men would have launched into a string of achievements. However, Sebastian Lanier was not ‘most men’, and his simplicity intrigued her.

  There was more to him than met the eye, she perceived. Entrepreneur, writer. What other vocation and skill did he possess?

  Sebastian indicated the carry-bags. ‘Anything likely to spoil in there for the next hour?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  He deftly turned her in the opposite direction. ‘You can join me for lunch.’

  She regarded him solemnly. ‘It’s polite to ask.’

  His mouth curved to form a wolfish smile, and there was a gleam in those dark eyes she didn’t quite trust. ‘I feel it’s the least I can do in light of the gastronomic feasts you’ve prepared for me over the past few nights.’

  ‘Gastronomic’ indeed. ‘Feast’ depended entirely on the interpretation, she decided with irreverent suspicion. ‘Thank you.’

  There were any number of cafés and restaurants from which to choose. Instead, he led her into a modern pub, the owner of which had gained recognition in the area for his brush with fame and the garnering of considerable wealth. A man’s man, and one of the boys, local legend had it, who could sup beer at the bar with his friends equally as well as he’d cemented business deals in Hollywood and London.

  ‘You don’t object to a counter lunch?’

  She searched Sebastian’s features in an attempt to discern whether his choice was deliberate, and found nothing to indicate that it might be.

  ‘It’s ages since I had fish and chips.’

  He cast her a musing glance. ‘I think you’ll find they manage something less basic.’

  They did, and, although relatively simple fare, the freshly caught grilled schnapper was delicious, the salad superb, and it was obvious the licensee patronised the local bakery.

  Sebastian noted her enjoyment, observed her healthy appetite, the precise but intensely feminine movements of her hands, the manner in which she sampled each mouthful.

  Poetry in motion. There was no guile, no studied orchestration. He wondered what she would look like with her hair loose, and spread over his pillow as she slept. Or tossed and dishevelled in the throes of passion as she rode him hard and fast.

  She possessed a beautiful mouth, even white teeth. Was she well versed in using both to drive a man wild and hold him on the knife-edge between pleasure and pain?

  Confrontational, no artifice, he mused thoughtfully. What you saw was what you got.

  Yet she wasn’t above playing a diverse game. For the sheer hell of it, he suspected, as he mentally reviewed the exotic meals she’d delivered all three evenings. He’d expected unimaginative fare. Not the dishes she’d gone to a great deal of trouble to prepare.

  His eyes acquired a gleam of dancing amusement. What did she have in mind for tonight?

  Anneke sensed his gaze, caught the musing glint apparent, and spared him a level look. ‘Nice to know I amuse you. Perhaps you could be specific?’

  Sebastian banked down the laughter, broke off a piece of bread and ate it, then offered her a warm smile. ‘How specific would you like me to be?’

  She watched the powerful movement of his jaw, the way his facial muscles clenched and relaxed, the smooth column of his throat. His hands fascinated her. Broad palms, strong wrists, tanned skin stretched over fluid sinew, long, tapered fingers that belied their strength, clean, well-shaped nails.

  ‘Oh, the whole truth and nothing but the truth will do.’

  ‘I’m curious to know where you learnt to cook.’

  She effected a light shrug. ‘A young chef rented the apartment next to mine for a while. I helped him perfect his English, and in return he shared his culinary skills.’

  ‘Among other skills?’

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand his meaning. ‘He wasn’t my lover.’ She replaced her cutlery, then carefully pushed her plate aside and stood to her feet. ‘Thanks for lunch.’

  He’d offended her. Interesting. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes flared, darkening to the deepest emerald flecked with gold. Without a word she turned and walked from the room, out onto the pavement and into the sunshine.

  She lifted a hand and slid her sunglasses down from atop her head, and walked along the street towards her car.

  ‘You left these behind.’

  Anneke heard Sebastian’s faintly accented drawl, paused, then turned and threw him a fulminating glare.

  He had her carry-bags secured in each hand, but made no effort to pass them to her.

  ‘I’ll take them.’ She reached out, only to scream in silent frustration as he fell into step beside her. ‘Don’t,’ she warned in a deadly quiet voice, ‘think you’re safe, just because we’re in a public place.’

  He looked at her with studied ease, aware from the set of her shoulders, the slightly clenched fists, that she meant what she said.

  ‘We’re almost at the car park.’

  ‘You don’t need to play the gentleman,’ she retaliated with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘In this instance, I choose to.’ He scanned the wide apron of bitumen with its lines of parked cars, identified hers, and crossed towards it.

  Anneke walked ahead of him and unlocked and opened the passenger door, then s
tood aside as he placed the carry-bags onto the seat.

  He straightened, and she was suddenly intensely aware of his height, his proximity, and the faint musky aroma of cologne and man.

  He looked down at her, saw the tilt of her chin, the residue of anger that tightened her expression. Without a word he lifted a hand and trailed the tips of his fingers down one cheek and splayed them along her jaw.

  Then he smiled and lowered his head down to hers, capturing her mouth with his own in a gentle evocative kiss that was all too brief.

  ‘Drive carefully.’ Without a further word he turned and navigated a line of cars to his own powerful Range Rover.

  Frustrating, irritating man, she accorded, adding a few descriptive and vividly pithy curses as she crossed round and slid in behind the wheel.

  She reversed, then eased her sedan out onto the street. By the time she arrived at her aunt’s cottage she had devised numerous ways to render him grievous bodily harm, as well as concocting the most bizarre series of menus that she could summon to mind.

  Anneke unpacked the carry-bags, poured herself a cold drink, and checked her watch. Three hours until she needed to begin dinner preparations.

  Housework, she decided. She’d clean and dust and polish. Busy hands, healthy mind. Well, hers was filled with vengeful thoughts, which somehow made a mockery of that particular saying.

  When she’d finished, everything sparkled and the cottage was redolent with the smell of beeswax. And the richness of freshly baked fruit cake.

  It was after five when her mobile rang, and without thinking she wiped her hands, then reached for the unit and activated it.

  Nothing. Only an eerie silence echoed her customary greeting. Her fingers shook slightly as she disengaged the phone.

  Rationale dictated it was just a crank call. She doubted it was Adam. Although she couldn’t discount the possibility he might take a perverse delight in causing her a degree of nervous anxiety.

  It was just after six when she delivered Sebastian’s evening meal.

  ‘Stay and have a drink with me.’

  Anneke looked at him, saw the unbound hair and noted its unruly state—almost as if he’d raked his fingers through the length on more than one occasion.

  Maybe the plot wasn’t working out, or the characters weren’t performing as they should. Or he was struggling through a bout of writer’s block.

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t drink.’ Not entirely true. She adored good French champagne, and reserved the partaking of it for special occasions. As this wasn’t one of them, and she seriously doubted he had a bottle of Dom Perignon or Cristal on ice, it was simpler to decline. ‘Your meal will get cold, and so will mine,’ she said easily, and turned towards the door.

  He made no attempt to dissuade her, and when the door closed behind her he crossed to the table, removed the cover and examined the contents of the tray.

  It could have been worse. He moved to the bank of cupboards, took out a skillet and reached into the refrigerator for a large T-bone steak.

  When it came to the dessert, he scraped off the cream, took a tentative bite, then opted for fresh fruit. He washed it down with bottled mineral water, then spooned freshly ground beans into the coffee-maker, poured water into the cylinder and switched it on.

  The glass carafe had just begun to fill when there was a crashing sound from the adjoining cottage.

  He was out of the door and running, Shaef at his side, adrenalin pumping, his mind actively selecting one scenario after another as he covered the set of steps in one leap and pounded on the door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A MUFFLED and very explicit curse fell from Anneke’s lips as she surveyed the mess at her feet.

  Cut flowers were strewn in an arc across the floor, water pooled in a widening puddle, and Aunt Vivienne’s prized Waterford crystal vase lay shattered in a hundred shards on the laundry’s ceramic-tiled floor.

  There was no one to blame but herself. Unless she counted a fractional second’s distraction at the insistent and distinctive peal of her mobile telephone.

  ‘Anneke.’ Forceful, authoritative, demanding. Sebastian’s voice penetrated the evening’s stillness, accompanied by the heavy, insistent rap of knuckles on wood.

  ‘OK, OK,’ she responded in resigned exasperation. ‘I’m in the…’ Her voice trailed to a halt as he appeared at the screened laundry door.

  ‘Hell,’ he cursed quietly, taking in the scene at a glance. Her legs were bare, so were her feet.

  ‘Apt,’ she responded drily.

  ‘Don’t move. I’ll be back.’

  He was, within minutes, with a bucket, pan and brush.

  ‘Don’t throw out the flowers.’

  ‘They’re likely to contain hidden pieces of glass.’

  ‘Crystal,’ she corrected without thought, and incurred a dark, sweeping glance.

  ‘Waterford, thirty-five years old, wedding gift. You want the pattern detail?’

  ‘There’s no need to be facetious.’

  ‘Likewise, you don’t need to be so particular.’

  ‘Oh, go soak your head in a bucket!’

  His smile held a certain grimness. ‘Nice to have your gratitude.’

  She wanted to burst into tears. She treasured beautiful things. Loved the art and symmetry of exquisite crystal and porcelain. To have a piece break by her own hand was almost akin to killing a living thing.

  He glimpsed the momentary desolation, caught a flash of something deeper, and fought the temptation to pull her into his arms. Such an action, he knew, would only earn him the sharp edge of her tongue.

  ‘Vivienne has plenty more flowers in the garden,’ he offered mildly, ignoring her protest as he deftly swept everything into the bucket, then dealt with the water.

  ‘Vacuum cleaner. Hall cupboard?’ Had to be. Both cottages were similar in design.

  Twice the vacuum hose rattled as the cleaner sucked up undetected shards of crystal, and she stepped onto a towel he spread on the floor while he completed the task.

  ‘Thanks,’ she added, aware she owed him that, at least. She could have coped, dispensing with the mess, but it was likely she’d have cut herself in the process.

  Dammit, she didn’t want to owe him. Nor did she particularly covet his company. He made her feel…uncomfortable, she conceded reluctantly.

  As if he was all too aware of the sexual chemistry between them, and content to wait and watch for the moment she felt it.

  Well, she had news for him. She could pin it down to the precise moment she’d walked into Aunt Vivienne’s kitchen the first night she arrived and found him there making tea. For her.

  Sebastian watched the fleeting emotions chase across her expressive features, divined the reason for them, and kept his own expression deliberately bland.

  She could tell him to go, or ask him to stay. There was always tomorrow, the day after that. And he was a patient man.

  The tussle between politeness and impoliteness warred, and there was really no contest. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  He studied her in silence for a few seconds. ‘Thanks.’

  In the kitchen she set the coffee-maker up, then extracted two cups and saucers, added a bowl of sugar, and took cream from the refrigerator.

  Anneke was conscious of him as he leant one hip against the servery. His tall frame made the kitchen seem smaller, and she became aware of every move she made. Only sheer habit prevented the spoon clattering onto the saucer, and she was extremely careful with the glass carafe as she poured hot coffee.

  Sebastian collected both cups and set them down on the dining room table, then he pulled out a chair and folded his length into it.

  She crossed to the table and sat opposite him. Conversational skills were something she’d rarely lacked. Yet at this precise moment she had trouble summoning one topic to mind.

  ‘How’s the book going?’

  An amused gleam momentarily lit his eyes before he successfully hid it by letting his eyelids dr
oop fractionally. The inevitable question an author had to field from time to time. ‘My answer would only seem a paradox.’

  The dry response made it easy for her to resort to humour. ‘You’ve hit a bad patch?’

  He winced mentally. ‘You could say I’ve dug myself into a hole and I can’t see a way out.’

  ‘Why not back up and avoid the hole altogether?’

  Good point. ‘I need to think about it a while.’

  ‘So sharing coffee and conversation is really an excuse not to stare at a blank screen and curse beneath your breath?’

  ‘Perhaps I couldn’t resist your charming company.’

  Icily polite. Furiously angry. Indignant, voluble, even sarcastic. At no stage could she recall being charming. Maybe it was time to try.

  ‘Tell me why you write.’

  ‘Curiosity, or genuine interest?’

  ‘A bit of both,’ she answered honestly.

  ‘An obsessive need to create a story.’ A statement which usually brought a non-committal response, indicating uninterest or lack of comprehension.

  Anneke looked at him carefully. Glimpsed the fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, the faint furrow creasing his forehead, as if he’d frowned in concentration too often in the past few hours.

  ‘And the how of it?’

  His mouth quirked. ‘Matching the image in my head with words that allow the reader to capture my vision.’

  An art form that wasn’t always easy, requiring dedication and discipline, she perceived. There could be no doubt Sebastian Lanier possessed both qualities.

  He waited for the inevitable comments relating to fame and fortune, the media circus he went to great pains to avoid. But none were forthcoming.

  Inane questions weren’t her practice. ‘It must be a fascinating process.’ Her eyes glinted with humour. ‘And not without a degree of frustration when the words don’t flow as you need them to.’

  His smile held a warmth that made her stomach curl. And the eyes were dark, gleaming and steady. Assessing, analytical, almost as if he had calculated every move, every angle, and was waiting to see which one she would choose.

  It gave her an uncanny feeling.