Scouring her tired brain for inspiration, Catriona laid the paintbrushes aside and played for time by picking up the teapot, then stalling as long as she dared over pouring out a cupful and diluting its strength by adding sugar and milk to the dark, strong brew. Finally, unnerved by her aunt's unswerving stare, she forced herself to lie,
'But we see each other every day. Didn't I tell you that we work together in the same office?'
'No, you did not.' Her aunt's face cleared. 'You merely mentioned that he's an American ex-diver promoted against his inclinations to a position too exalted to allow him to feel comfortable in humble surroundings. Is that why you're so eager to begin painting?' she condemned with a return of her earlier sharpness. 'Have you deliberately omitted to invite him here because you're ashamed of your home?'
The sight of wrinkled skin tightening around lips compressed to hide their quivering drove Catriona to her feet.
'Of course not, Aunt Hanna, how could you think such a thing?' Then, feeling the panic of a swimmer dragged out of her depth by a relentless undertow, she struck out blindly. 'He has a standing invitation to call whenever he can manage it—which who knows might even be today!'
'Today…!' The old lady's frail, rounded shoulders squared erect. 'Then why ever didn't you say so, girl?' she gasped. 'I'd better begin preparing a meal for three just in case!'
When she began clearing the breakfast dishes, moving around the table with a spring in her step and a pleased smile playing around her mouth before disappearing into the kitchen with her tray, Catriona forced her leaden limbs to move, but kept her mind blank, refusing to dwell upon the inevitable outcome of her deception, yet nurturing a hope too faint to bear close inspection that somehow, from somewhere, she would find a solution to her dilemma.
She had taken down the curtains, removed ornaments and pictures from the walls, and was struggling to shift heavier items of furniture into the middle of the room when she heard her aunt's voice drifting from the direction of the small kitchen jutting like an afterthought from the rear of the cottage. She paused in her task of inching a heavy oak dresser, one side at a time, away from the wall to cock an attentive ear, then smiled when a draught of cool air fanned her cheek, imagining her aunt engaged in her usual altercation with a bad-tempered, permanently peckish gander that had formed a habit of begging at the kitchen door.
Wishing she had not succumbed to the lazy luxury of leaving her long golden hair unconfined, flowing freely over her shoulders, she tossed a heavy strand back before bending to resume her struggle with the cumbersome dresser, then froze, shocked into immobility by a response that in no way resembled the hiss of a hungry gander but sounded more of an aggravated growl.
'Good morning, ma'am, I believe Miss Catriona Dunross lives here? Would you be good enough to tell her that Leon Casson would like a word?'
Not even in her worst nightmares had she experienced the sort of dialogue that followed so swiftly she had no time to intervene.
'You sound like an American,' Aunt Hanna decided triumphantly. 'You must be Kate's boyfriend, you fit her description exactly. I'm Hanna Dunross. Kate's aunt—come along in, Mr Casson. I've waited such a long time to meet the man who's managed to entice my niece away from her beloved university!'
Heavily shod feet advancing across the stone-flagged kitchen floor sent a presentiment of doom quivering along Catriona's stiff spine. Slowly she straightened and looked up, just in time to see a look of puzzlement replacing the frown of displeasure on Leon Casson's face as he sauntered into the living-room. Instinct warned her that a disclaimer was trembling on his lips when he turned to slew her aunt a look of grave apology.
'I'm afraid, Miss Dunross, there's been some—'
'Leon darling, what a wonderful surprise!' Casting caution to the winds, Catriona flung herself at her boss with arms open wide. 'I know you promised you'd come today if you could, but I never dared hope that you'd manage to get away!' Sledgehammer heartbeats pounded in her ears as she spun within the loose circle of his arms to direct a blushing, feverishly-bright appeal to her aunt. 'There now, didn't I warn you that Leon might turn up today?'
'Indeed you did, Kate dear,' her aunt glowed, beaming her approval of the rangy, russet-maned male who had roared up to her door like a lion but who now seemed as tongue-tied as a bewildered lamb. 'No need to feel shy, young man,' she chuckled, 'sit down and make yourself at home. I believe you Americans are fond of coffee—I'd better make sure we have some.'
Feeling mauled by a grip that descended upon her waist the moment she tried to slink away, Catriona lifted mutely appealing eyes to his face, unashamedly begging, prepared to grovel if only he would promise not to give her away. For one heart-stopping moment he seemed about to insist upon explaining the true situation, but then, with a glint in his eyes that boded ill for the future, he veered from the impulse to destroy an old lady's very obvious happiness.
'Thank you, ma'am,' he drawled, stepping aside to allow her access into the kitchen, 'a cup of coffee would be very acceptable.'
Catriona sagged with relief, amazed by his uncharacteristic consideration, but was not surprised when immediately the door had closed behind her aunt's sprightly figure he swiftly reverted to normal.
'So you're the one who's been spreading the rumour that you and I share more than a boss and employee relationship!' he accused, stalking the tiny living-room as if it were a cage. 'You're just like the rest of your sex, who flock to work with the oil companies motivated by the hope of finding a husband! The realisation that most oil men are happily married is not slow to register, then life is turned into a competition to see who can successfully manage to sink their claws into the few eligible men left available!'
'How dare you imply that I'm some sort of huntress in search of game!' she choked indignantly. 'I realise that in this instance appearances are against me, but I assure you I wouldn't dream of gossiping about my affairs to fellow workers—and as for rumours running rife around the base, it appears to me that one who's worked so hard to build up a rakish reputation ought not to be surprised to discover that his motives are often suspect so far as any member of the opposite sex is concerned. In other words, Mr Casson, your own amorous adventures, both past and present, give rise to speculation about any female unfortunate enough to have to work in your proximity!'
'Have you ever stopped to consider that my amorous adventures could be as imaginary as your own, Miss Dunross?' he hissed, mindful of the need to keep his voice lowered. 'That there might be other females beside yourself who derive a vicarious thrill from casting themselves in the role of femme fatale with myself an unwilling Lothario?'
'I did no such thing!' she denied, crimson-cheeked. 'There's a very simple explanation for my… er…'
'Lies…?' he suggested coldly.
'Harmless deception,' she corrected with a proud tilt of her chin. 'I need hardly point out that my aunt is elderly, hard of hearing, and almost blind, and she's therefore in no condition to be left to live alone. But as she also possesses more than her fair share of Sheltie independence and pride, I had to find some convincing excuse for leaving my job at university and returning to Shetland to work for the oil company. When she jumped to the conclusion that I'd fallen in love with some man working on the base the notion seemed too heavensent to deny, so in order to keep her mind at rest I played along.'
He stopped prowling and halted in the centre of the room to observe her closely. Bravely she withstood his laser-cold stare, wondering at his talent for attracting attention, at the way he dominated the centre stage with one economical movement, a terse statement.
'You still haven't explained why you singled me out for the dubious honour of being named as your consort.'
'I didn't,' she stated simply, 'I merely drew upon my imagination for a description, lurid, dramatic, exaggerated enough to satisfy my aunt's secret passion for brutal males—if you recall, it was she who decided that my description fitted you to perf
ection.'
'Are you being sarcastic, Miss Dunross?' The threat contained within his soft drawl was unmistakable. Feeling her knees beginning to tremble, Catriona turned away and on the pretext of searching for a duster managed to conceal the effects of a heart drumming a warning to retreat. Foolishly, she ignored its message.
'I've often thought it strange,' she tilted, chancing a sideways look through the golden veil of hair that had fallen across her cheek, 'that people who are prone to resorting to sarcasm seem quick to attribute their vice to others. I never indulge in sarcasm, Mr Casson; only occasionally in wit.'
'In that case you would be well advised to be very careful how you handle it.' His dark brown sweater made a perfect foil for eyes glinting sharp as amber chips as he strolled towards her. 'Wit is a dangerous dagger, the only weapon with which—when wielded by a novice—it's possible to stab oneself in the back!'
She lifted a hand to riffle nervous fingers through her hair when his threat registered. How foolish she had been to antagonise the man instead of pleading for his co-operation! If it were only her own welfare that was at stake she would have seen him in hell before choking back her pride, but for the sake of her aunt's happiness she clenched her teeth and forced herself to flatter his enormous conceit.
'You wouldn't deliberately shatter an old lady's illusions?' she husked, projecting a look of helpless appeal, hoping to find a soft spot in his tough hide. 'I've often heard it said that Texans have hearts as wide and generous as the prairies.'
She held her breath and waited for his reaction, then felt a leap of triumph when, after seconds spent impaled by his rapier-sharp glance, she saw his lips quirk in to a smile.
'I'll co-operate with you, Miss Dunross,' he conceded lightly, 'although it goes against the grain to deceive an old lady who has impressed me as being a person of high integrity. But "nuthin' is done for nuthin' " as they say in my country—I'll play ball with you only if you'll agree to join in the game.'
'I don't understand,' she stared perplexed. 'All I'm asking you to do is pretend that we're friends for the duration of a coffee break! Once you've left the house there's no reason why you and my aunt should ever meet again.'
'That would be rather a shame, don't you think?' His effrontery took her breath away. 'Your aunt and I enjoyed instant rapport, I'm sure she's looking forward just as much as I am to furthering our acquaintance.'
'Don't be ridiculous,' she gasped, discarding her cloak of diplomacy. 'I'll think up some feasible excuse for your future non-appearance—imply that we've fallen out of love, or something, and that you've left the island—that way, I'll be able to continue living at home without need for further deception.'
'No,' much to her amazement he shook his head, 'that course of action doesn't fit in with my plans.'
'Your plans.' she glared, unconsciously clenching her fists. 'Your plans have nothing whatsoever to do with me!'
'The ball game, remember, Miss Dunross?' he smiled unpleasantly. 'Far from wanting our mythical friendship dissolved, I've decided that it would suit me fine if it should continue, indeed, even blossom into an engagement. With you posing as my fiancée—a sort of decoy duck to draw the attention of the gossips—I should come under much less closer surveillance. As you can imagine, life in a close-knit community such as exists at the camp is made tedious by lack of privacy, so much so that at times I feel I'm living in a glasshouse, its wails lined with peering, inquisitive female faces. I suppose being a dedicated bachelor makes such speculative interest inevitable. However, as a man's rating drops immediately he is removed from the marriage market, I reckon that a presentable, undemanding fiancée should provide an excellent screen to protect my private activities. So consider yourself engaged, Miss Dunross I'd better get used to calling you Kate— immediately an opportunity presents itself I'll buy you a ring.'
The thought of being linked in any way, and however temporarily, to the most aggravatingly chauvinistic male ever to trespass into her own private vicinity caused her a visible, distasteful squirm.
'I'm sorry, Mr Casson—'
'Leon,' he corrected firmly.
'… such a scheme is totally unacceptable to me,' she continued stiffly, ignoring his interruption. 'In fact the suggestion is so outrageous I'm tempted to believe you're enjoying a private joke at my expense. If you don't mind,' she stood aside, 'I'd like you to go now. Don't bother taking leave of my aunt, I'll make your apologies and explain that a suddenly remembered appointment made it necessary for you to leave in a hurry.'
The tinkle of a spoon in a saucer, the rattle of cups and the shuffling sound of slippered feet progressing across the kitchen floor seemed to indicate that her directive had been issued too late. She stiffened, then when the door latch lifted winged an unconscious look of pleading in his direction.
'Make up your mind quickly,' he hissed, deliberately holding her to ransom, 'either do as I ask, or resign yourself to the inevitability of having to confess to your aunt that you lied!'
He strode to open the door, obviously intent upon assisting the old lady at the other side, and was ready to pull it ajar before Catriona's numbed brain responded to the need for action.
'Very well,' she spat resentment of his dominance, her bitter reluctance to acknowledge that he held the whip hand, 'I appear to have no choice. But I promise you I'll take advantage of every opportunity to make you regret forcing me to submit to barbaric blackmail!'
He flung the door wide. 'That coffee sure smells good, Miss Dunross!' His calm indifference to her threat was emphasised by a carefree smile, by the casual, almost lazy ease with which he relieved her aunt of a tray laden with coffee pot, mugs and a plateful of homemade scones.
'You're a real gentleman, Mr Casson,' her aunt beamed, happily relinquishing her burden to take her place at the table. 'I'm sorry the place is in such a mess.' Her displeased glance roved the bare walls, curtainless window frames and disturbed furniture. 'Kate couldn't wait to begin doing the place up in preparation for your first visit, yet I felt certain, from the little she had told me about you, that you were not the type of man to notice a few patches of paint-less woodwork.'
'Quite right, Miss Dunross,' he approved, 'Kate is inclined to worry too much over trifles. And by the way,' he continued, so casually the impact of his words almost passed over Catriona's head, 'perhaps now that your niece and I have agreed to make our engagement official, you wouldn't mind dropping the Mr and calling me Leon?'
'You're engaged! Kate, is this true?'
Faced with an aunt almost beside herself with joy, Catriona could manage no more than a blushing nod.
'Oh, child, I'm so happy for you!' She flung up her arms in the air. 'Happy for you both!' Her glance swung towards Leon and lingered as if anxious to commit to memory the features of the first male to enter their circle for many years.
'I take it that you approve, then, Aunt Hanna?' he teased, displaying an audacious charm that left Catriona fuming.
'Approve?' Her voice quavered as if she were very close to tears. 'My dear young man, I'm delighted! Kate has shown so little interest in finding a husband I was beginning to worry that she might finish up wearing a bonnet with strings tied beneath her chin!'
Hastily, with colour rioting in her cheeks, Catriona endeavoured to distract his attention from a remark he obviously found puzzling.
'Sugar… er… Leon? Do try a scone.' She pushed the plate nearer towards him. 'Aunt Hanna's famous for her baking.'
But as she had feared, his curiosity had been aroused—even increased—by her own heightened colour.
'And does a, bonnet with strings tied beneath the chin hold some special significance?' he prodded gently.
'It hasn't now, but it used to when I was a girl,' Aunt Hanna laughed. 'In the old days, a woman who bought a bonnet with satin-faced ribbons attached to tie beneath the chin was resigning herself to the fact that her youth was over. Every mother, whatever her age, once her second child was born, exchanged h
er hat for a bonnet with ties. A spinster, however, could flaunt in her hat for much longer because as long as she was wearing one any bachelor might pluck up courage to "speer" her, and if she was already keeping company she could continue wearing her hat until she was a "bittock" of thirty— but no longer, otherwise she ran the risk of being regarded as a figure of fun, of being told to stop "gallivanting about wi' a hat, and dress as a decent woman should, in a bonnet with ties".
'I don't believe it!' Casting Catriona a look of delighted amusement, Leon threw back his head and laughed aloud.
'I hope you realise, Kate,' he eventually managed to tease with a wicked twinkle in his tawny-cat's eyes, 'that marriage to me will save you from the ignominy of a tombstone that does not read: "beloved wife of…" '
Incensed to the point of slaying him where he sat, she trembled to her feet, determined to confess to deceit, to rid herself of the necessity to pretend a liking for the man who possessed more power to infuriate than any other of her acquaintance. But as if sensing her objective he rose from his chair before she could speak closed in to tower over her.
'Dear Kate,' he reproved, swooping to place a silencing kiss upon her shocked mouth, 'in the excitement of the moment I forgot my original reason for coming here. I have to fly out to the rig and I need you with me. Don't bother to change, we'll be travelling by 'copter, so you'll be kept cosy and warm in your survival suit!'
CHAPTER SIX
THE din being caused by rotor blades whirling just above their heads, together with vibrations juddering through the length of the small two-seater helicopter, made normal speech impossible. Catriona sat tense, barely conscious of straps holding her tightly into her seat, gripped by the fascinating terror of soaring like a bird, an infinitesimal speck in an endless stretch of sky, lifted by air currents, jolted by turbulence, skimming one moment low enough to make her toes curl with fear of sudden immersion in grey, foam-flecked waves, the next whooshing swiftly as a lift to the height of a multi-storey building.
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