Looking up from her computer, Julie said, ‘The best of luck. I hope you get a quick sale, though I won’t hold my breath. People think twice before spending that kind of money.’
Then more positively she went on, ‘Mind you, it only takes one.’
‘I’ll hold on to that thought,’ Caris promised a shade drily as she headed for the door.
Her hand on the latch, she added, ‘I’m hoping to be back before your boyfriend calls for you, but if by any chance I’m not will you lock up?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll see you on Tuesday. Take care and have a good weekend.’
‘You too.’
Making her way out to where her car was parked, Caris found the sullen sky was pewter-grey with threatening black clouds looming on the horizon. But it had stopped raining, for which she gave thanks.
When she turned on the ignition the car engine, which normally started straight away, coughed, hesitated and died. Afraid that it wasn’t going to start, she tried again and again, getting more and more flustered.
She was just about to give up and go for a taxi when it finally sprang into life. Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, she put it into gear, let out the clutch and headed out of town.
Gracedieu, an extensive area of undulating parkland, was about seven or eight miles beyond Spitewinter and still relatively isolated despite the housing developments that were creeping ever closer.
Once Caris had left the main road, the rolling countryside was pretty, the quiet lanes pleasantly green and leafy with late spring.
Any other time she would have enjoyed the drive, but once again memories of Zander and the past were crowding in, filling her mind.
But she wouldn’t dwell on the past. She wouldn’t! Making a determined effort, she turned her thoughts to the afternoon ahead and the possible outcome.
Reaching South Lodge, she jumped out to open the tall, black wrought-iron gates with their gilded spikes and ornate hinges.
Presuming that Michael Grayson would be coming in the same way, she left them open. Sliding behind the wheel once more, she drove between stone pillars topped by crouching lions.
Gracedieu, though well-built and elegant, hadn’t been lived in for a number of years and looked forlorn and deserted, its garden a wet tangle of weeds and shrubbery.
As her small car climbed the long, winding drive—now somewhat neglected and overgrown between glossy banks of budding rhododendrons—she thought how different it must once have looked, with enough gardening staff to care for it.
The manor house itself stood on fairly high ground but, screened by mature trees, it wasn’t visible until she had rounded the last bend in the drive.
Though she had visited it several times in the past few weeks, it still had the ‘wow’ factor, and when she drew to a halt on the paved forecourt she paused to gaze her fill and imagine what it must be like to live there.
It was built of old mellow stone, a perfect example of a period manor house but in miniature. Its barley-sugar chimneys were creeper-entwined, many of its mullioned windows partially obscured by delicate trails of ivy, and its walls were festooned with scented honeysuckle and climbing roses, the early ones already in bloom.
It was utterly and completely charming. Had Caris been a multi-millionairess …
But she wasn’t and never would be, she reminded herself wryly. She was just an ordinary woman with a job to do, so she’d better gather her wits and do it. She was a good hour early, so she would have ample time to take another look at all the relevant details before Michael Grayson got there.
Rather than staying in the car, she would go into the house and work in the kitchen. So long as she kept an eye on her watch, she could be outside in plenty of time to greet her client.
The air was heavy and oddly still, as if it were waiting with bated breath for the coming storm, but the rain was holding off and a few rays of weak sun were struggling to shine through a break in the clouds. She hoped it was a good omen.
Leaving her own set of keys in the ignition and her mac on the passenger seat, she picked up her briefcase and bag and made her way across the forecourt to the studded oak door.
Above the stone lintel of the door was a riot of sagging wisteria, and damp trails of it touched her neck as she selected one of the heavy, ornate keys from the big bunch that was weighing down her shoulder bag and let herself into the hall.
It had beautiful linenfold panelling, a big stone fireplace and polished oak floorboards, stippled now with light and shade. At one end was a minstrels’ gallery, while at the other an oak staircase rose to a landing with long, tracery windows.
There were still some pieces of furniture scattered about and one or two mediocre paintings in heavy frames hung on the walls.
Crossing the hall, Caris opened the door to the large living-kitchen. With its black beams and inglenook fireplace, it was one of her favourite rooms. She always felt the past was present there, like some friendly ghost.
Towards the end of his long life, Gracedieu’s previous owner had lived in this room and it was still fully furnished with an oak table and chairs, a period coffee table, two comfortable-looking armchairs, several sheepskin rugs and, incongruously, a modern divan bed on castors.
Huge cupboards held piles of household goods and linen, and a black stove stood in the fireplace with a stack of split logs on either side.
Crossing to the table, she put her belongings down and went to open a window a crack to let in some fresh air.
A riot of pale cream roses clambered damply up the outer wall and over the stone sill. Breathing in their haunting fragrance, she sat down at the table, opened her briefcase and started to go through the documents it contained—Or, rather, tried to.
The scent of the roses brought back vivid memories of Owl Lodge and the roses there, and instead of the printed pages all Caris could see was the past more real in her mind than the present …
Once she had agreed to stay the night at Owl Lodge, she had been beset by doubts.
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Zander. The awful truth was, she wasn’t at all sure she could trust herself.
Though she was certain that he wouldn’t try to force her in any way, he was a red-blooded man; suppose he turned up the heat? If he touched her, kissed her, would she be able to resist him?
But her youthful mistake had taught her a lot. After having been badly burnt once, surely she would have enough self-respect and pride, enough willpower, not to repeat the experience?
Or would she?
Wasn’t it Oscar Wilde who had said, ‘I can resist everything but temptation’? And Zander was temptation personified.
He and Karl weren’t in the same league. They were both Lotharios, of course, but Karl had proved to be shallow, selfish and immature; only her own naivety had made him seem irresistible.
Zander, on the other hand, was irresistible. A mature, sophisticated, complex man with a depth, warmth and smouldering sex-appeal that never failed to ignite an answering spark.
Where he was concerned, she seemed to have little or no willpower. However, if she allowed herself no more erotic imaginings and kept a firm grip on her troubled emotions …
Sitting watching the doubts and worries flit across her face, Zander remarked with amusement in his tone, ‘There’s no need to look quite so apprehensive. I’m not about to leap on you and make mad, passionate love to you.’
Knowing he was making fun of her, she assured him a shade stiffly, ‘I never thought you were.’
‘Unless that’s what you want, of course?’
‘It isn’t.’
‘Then you’ve nothing to fear from me. Now, where were we before the lights went out?’
Relieved by the change of subject, she said, ‘About to decide what to eat.’
‘Of course. Though, now there’s no electricity, sadly our options are reduced to what can be made on the stove.’
‘But I still get to choose?’
�
��You bet!’
Wondering how he’d take the suggestion, she said, ‘What I’d really like is something quite simple.’
Lifting an eyebrow, he waited.
For a few seconds she said nothing, her attention riveted by the way the red-gold firelight flickered on his face, turning it into an Aztec mask.
‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘The suspense is unbearable.’
‘If you have any bread …?’
Rising to his feet, he said, ‘We certainly have. Ben’s wife has left sourdough, milk and a good selection of fresh food in the fridge.’
He was back almost immediately with a nice-looking loaf, a breadboard, a knife and a plate, which he put on the low table.
‘So what do you want to do with this bread?’
‘I’d like to toast it on the stove and have it with lots of jelly and peanut butter, if you have any?’
‘We sure do. Smooth or crunchy?’
‘Oh, crunchy.’
‘Have I already mentioned that you’re a woman after my own heart?’
Watching him begin to slice the bread, she asked, ‘Can I make the toast?’
‘Do you want to?’
She nodded. ‘Please. I’ve always enjoyed making toast on a fire.’
He pretended to consider. ‘I could be chivalrous and insist on doing all the work myself, but I’ve often thought that male chivalry springs from a selfish desire to have all the fun, so go ahead.’
Putting the plate of bread on the hearth, he handed her a long-handled fork and watched as she knelt on the mat, favouring her damaged ankle, and started to toast the first piece.
When he returned from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with more plates, knives, jam, a large jar of peanut butter, napkins and a fresh pot of coffee, she was just finishing a somewhat wonky pile of crisp, golden-brown slices.
He thought that with her deep-blue eyes sparkling, and her cheeks flushed from the heat, she made an enchanting picture.
As she leant forward, intent on her task, the lapels of her over-sized robe gaped a little, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of the soft curves of her breasts.
He looked at her and wanted her. Wanted her with every fibre of his being.
She put the last slice of toast on the plate. Glancing up unwarily, she met his eyes—eyes that had darkened to the deepest shade of jade—and read the smouldering passion in them.
Her own eyes widened and, transfixed, she found herself unable to look away as every nerve-ending in her body zinged into life and she burned with an answering passion.
The little stack of toast sliding off the plate broke the spell. Feeling oddly shaky, as if she had just found herself on the verge of some shattering experience, she dropped the toasting fork and began to re-stack the slices.
Watching her, he noticed how unsteady her hands were, and how that telltale pulse fluttered frantically at her throat.
His looks and background meant that usually women threw themselves at him, but something about this particular woman—a certain reserve, a hint of wariness—convinced him that no matter how much she wanted him she wouldn’t make the first move.
Though it would be easy for him to seduce her.
Even as the thought went through his mind he knew that this time he wanted more than just an easy seduction. More than just a brief fling.
He wasn’t sure as yet how much more, but already he recognised that their budding relationship mattered, and it was too important to risk spoiling it by rushing things. And taking her to bed now might rush things. Though in some ways he felt as if he had always known her, they had only met twenty-four hours ago.
Suppressing a sigh, he turned away to pull the table into a more convenient position. Then, his face schooled into a bland mask, he helped her to her feet and into a chair before passing her a plate, a knife and a napkin.
She was still feeling distinctly shaken when he sat down opposite and urged, ‘Why don’t you make a start while the toast’s hot?’
Taking care to keep her eyes on what she was doing, she obeyed. His attitude was so relaxed, so matter-of-fact, that she found herself wondering if she could have possibly misread his earlier expression.
Yet she knew she hadn’t. How he had looked at that moment seemed burnt into her brain, as was her own response to that look.
If he had made a move … But thankfully he hadn’t.
Thankfully? Who was she trying to kid? When he had turned away, her overriding emotion had been disappointment.
But she must remember what had happened with Karl.
While she was sure Zander wasn’t the uncaring swine that Karl had been, if she went to bed with him it was almost bound to end the same way.
And that meant with tears, regrets and her pride and self-respect in tatters. Bearing that in mind, she must steer clear of temptation.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY finished the simple meal without another word being spoken. Still off-balance, Caris couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and Zander seemed to be sunk in thought.
When their plates and mugs were empty, he loaded everything on to the tray and took it through to the kitchen.
Comfortably warm, Caris was just drifting into a doze when the latch clicked, announcing his return.
Rousing herself, she sat up straighter.
‘Tired?’ he asked.
About to admit that she was, she hesitated.
‘If you want an early night …?’
The memory of her earlier erotic imaginings made her cheeks grow pink. She denied, ‘No, no, I don’t!’
Wondering at the vehemence of her reply, he queried, ‘Sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ Involuntarily, she pulled the lapels of her robe together over her breasts.
Watching her, and speculating about the significance of that gesture, he suggested, ‘Then suppose we have a nightcap?’
Having tossed a couple of logs into the stove, sending up a shower of bright sparks, he produced a bottle of Benedictine from a nearby cupboard and two balloon glasses.
When he had swirled a generous amount of the golden liquid into the glasses, he handed her one before resuming his seat.
Still a little ill at ease, she stared fixedly into the flames while she sipped her drink. After a while, made even more sleepy by the alcohol, she was forced to stifle a yawn.
‘Ready for bed now?’ he enquired easily.
‘Yes, I … I suppose so. Somehow it’s been a long day,’ she added.
‘But on the whole an enjoyable one, I hope?’
‘Very enjoyable.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said, and meant it.
Rising to his feet, he began to build up the fire. Catching her surprised glance, he explained, ‘I usually keep the stove on.’
‘Even in summer?’
‘As I mentioned earlier we’re fairly high up here, so even in summer the nights can be rather cool. Added to that, I sometimes have an early-morning dip in the lake …’ He broke off laughing as she shuddered theatrically.
‘Yes, it can be quite … refreshing,’ he agreed. ‘So when I’ve towelled off it’s nice to have breakfast by the stove.’
‘That part I can go along with wholeheartedly.’
‘In that case, we’re all set for tomorrow morning. Now we need to decide on something for you to wear to sleep in.’
‘What about a spare pyjama top, if you have one?’
‘Never wear the things. But I’ve just thought of something that might do.’
He went to the bedroom area and, sliding open the doors of the built-in storage space, returned with a navy-blue tee shirt. ‘This will no doubt bury you, but it’s the smallest thing I have.’
Accepting the soft cotton garment, she said, ‘Thank you, that will be fine.’
‘Then you can have first turn in the bathroom.’
Picking up an oil lamp and the kettle of water that had been heating on the stove, he led the way, remarking, ‘I’m afraid there’s not a lot of hot water, but there sh
ould be a spare toothbrush and anything else you may need in the cupboard.’
He placed the kettle on the floor and the lamp on a shelf, where it cast strange shadows, and then he went, closing the door behind him.
When she had cleaned her teeth, she poured half the hot water into the sink, steaming up the mirror, and reluctantly took off her robe.
The air felt decidedly chill and she washed quickly, shivering a little, pulling on the tee shirt. It was thigh-length and the shoulders were much too wide, but it felt easy and comfortable, and it was oddly exciting to be wearing something that Zander had worn.
Having no wish to look seductive—in fact, quite the opposite—she brushed her long silky hair and fastened it into a single thick braid.
Then, very conscious of her bare legs, she pulled on the robe once more before returning to the warmth of the living room as fast as her ankle would allow.
Glancing up, Zander asked, ‘Manage all right?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’ve left you half the hot water.’
‘Oh generous woman! In that case I’ll go and make use of it. By the way, there’s no need to wait for me. If you want to go to bed, feel free.’
But, shying away from the thought of the coming night, she went back to her chair by the stove and stretched her slim bare feet to the blaze.
While she had been gone, Zander had put a pillow and a couple of blankets on the couch, ready for use.
But it was ridiculous! she realized belatedly. The couch was far too short for a man of his height. It would make more sense for her to sleep on it.
Had she been a different sort of woman, they could have shared the bed. But, while casual sex might work for some, she had never thought it was for her. Her one disastrous brush with passion had only served to confirm that.
Even so, while a pool of molten heat began to form in the pit of her stomach, she found herself imagining what it would like to lie in his arms, to have him kiss her while those long-fingered hands touched her intimately …
‘Still up?’
She jumped a mile as Zander resumed his chair.
‘I thought you were ready for bed?’
Running From the Storm Page 7