Captive in the Millionaire’s Castle

by Lee Wilkinson

  She glanced up at him. ‘Luckily?’

  ‘Surely you’ve heard the old saying, “When gorse is in bloom, kissing’s in season”?’

  She smiled, and, glancing up to make some light remark, saw the sudden lick of flame in his eyes and read his intention.

  But trapped between the car door and his tall, broad-shouldered frame all she could do was stand gazing up at him, her big brown eyes wide, her lips slightly parted, her wits totally scattered.

  As he bent his dark head and kissed her mouth her eyes closed helplessly, shutting out the world and leaving only sensation.

  Just at first his lips felt cold, then the coldness turned to heat as his mouth moved lightly against hers, making every nerve-ending in her body sing into life and sending her head spinning.

  Though Jenny had been kissed many times, and though most of those kisses had been long and ardent, somehow they had failed to move her, leaving her feeling untouched, aloof, uninvolved.

  Andy’s kisses had been pleasurably different and exciting, yet even they had left some small part of her vaguely dissatisfied.

  But while Michael’s thistledown kiss couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, by the time he lifted his head her legs would no longer hold her and her very soul seemed to have lost its way.

  Opening dazed eyes, she became aware that he was half supporting her, and made an effort to find her feet and stand unaided.

  Though he too had been knocked sideways, partly by her response, and partly by a torrent of feeling that had almost swept him away, his recovery was light years ahead of hers.

  Cursing himself for a fool, he stepped back.

  He hadn’t meant it to happen. Kissing her had been a sudden impulse that he knew he ought to regret.

  But somehow he couldn’t.

  Though if her office reputation was anything to go by, she should be angry at the liberty he’d taken, more than ready to slap him down.

  But a quick glance at her face showed that she looked neither. She still appeared dazed, as if that kiss had shaken her as much as it had shaken him.

  Seeing that she was starting to shiver, he opened the car door and, a hand beneath her elbow, helped her in.

  Without a word, she sat down and fumbled for her seat belt. She still hadn’t fastened it by the time he slid behind the wheel, and he leaned over to fasten it for her.

  As his muscular thigh accidentally pressed against hers, though she said nothing, he felt her instinctive withdrawal.

  While he started the car and put it into gear, Jenny made an effort to pull herself together and make sense of her feelings.

  After all, what had happened really? Just a light, casual kiss to illustrate an old saying. A kiss that had clearly held no importance for him.

  Yet remembering that little lick of flame in his green eyes before he had kissed her, she wondered if it had been quite that casual. Or had it been a preliminary? A chance to test the water, so to speak?

  Though from what she’d heard, she had formed the distinct impression that after his disastrous marriage Michael Denver was reluctant to have anything to do with the female sex. And the vibes she had picked up during the interview had gone to support that.

  Recalling how his jaw had tightened as though he was in pain when the landlord of the inn had mentioned his ex-wife and the likelihood of a reconciliation, she wondered if perhaps he still loved her.

  From all accounts she had been the one to stray, and perhaps, when it was too late, she had found herself regretting that lapse.

  After all, she had opposed the divorce. And she must believe he still loved her, or she wouldn’t have talked to the press about the possibility of them getting back together.

  True, he had denied it, but maybe it was only his hurt pride and anger that had so far prevented him from taking her back? Or maybe he was simply teaching her a lesson?

  If he was, while he was, he might need a woman in his bed. Sex without strings or commitments, simply to assuage a natural appetite?

  But in these days of sexual freedom and equality, many women felt the same.

  And why not?

  Except that personally she couldn’t embrace that way of thinking. So if Michael Denver was hoping for someone to keep his bed warm while he was away from London—and that could account for the very generous salary—she might have a problem.

  It was a far from reassuring thought, and she began to wish that she hadn’t accepted his offer.

  ‘Another minute or so and you’ll be able to see Slinterwood Bay.’ His quiet remark broke into her uneasy thoughts.

  His tone was so down-to-earth, so mundane, that all at once her vision of having to fight him off dissolved into the absurd.

  Talk about letting her imagination run away with her! It was just as well he didn’t know what she’d been thinking, otherwise he would be wondering what kind of madwoman he had hired as his PA.

  Still berating herself, she turned her attention to the scenery once more.

  They had breasted the rise and were following the coast road that curled round behind the bluff. On their left the dimpled sea was spread like a sheet of pewter in the silver-grey dusk, the tide creeping up the smooth expanse of sand and eddying between low outcrops of rock in the small bay.

  The sky was still clear enough to catch a glimpse of a thin silver crescent of moon, while far out to sea a bank of purple cloud formed a mountain range on the horizon.

  ‘And there’s Slinterwood itself.’

  In a sheltered hollow at the foot of the hills, a stand of mixed trees, some deciduous, some coniferous, curved a protective arm around a long, low, creeper-clad house.

  Wisps of pale smoke were curling lazily from two of its barley-sugar chimneys and hanging in the still air like twin genies.

  Surrounded by a low-walled terrace, the house was built of stone, with crooked gables, overhanging eaves, and dormer windows. It looked as if it had stood in that spot since time immemorial.

  On the seaward side, stone steps ran down to the beach where, well above the high-water mark, a small blue and white rowboat had been turned upside down.

  They took the track through the trees that led to the front terrace, and came to a halt by an old oak door with a lighted lantern above it.

  Jenny smiled. With an arched top, black iron studs and hinges, and wood bleached to a pale, silvery grey, it was the kind of enchanted door that was familiar from childhood fairy tales.

  Either side of the door were long windows made of small, square panes of glass, the edges encroached on by trails of ivy.

  When she had gathered up her coat and bag, Michael helped her out, before retrieving her case.

  He appeared to have no luggage of his own, but of course, as he came here regularly, it would be like a second home.

  Lifting his head, he asked, ‘Can you feel how still it is?’

  And it was. Nothing moved in the blue-grey dusk. Not a single twig stirred, not an ivy-leaf quivered. Everything was so calm and motionless it was as if the very air held its breath in anticipation of the coming night.

  ‘Winter evenings on Mirren often bring this kind of stillness,’ he added as they made their way over to the door.

  Jenny had half expected the housekeeper to be waiting, but when no one materialized, apparently unsurprised, Michael produced an ornate key and turned it in the huge iron lock.

  Then, swinging open the heavy door, he switched on the lights and ushered her into a panelled hall that ran the entire width of the house.

  There were doors to the right and left, and at the opposite end—like a mirror image of the landward side—were a matching door and windows that looked towards the dusky sea.

  The wide floorboards were of polished oak, and on the right a dark oak staircase climbed up to the second floor.

  Since drawing up outside, and seeing that fairy-tale door, Jenny had felt as if she knew the place. Now, as she stepped over the threshold, she had the strangest feeling that she had been here bef
ore. That the old house had been waiting for her return, and welcomed her back.

  Catching sight of her expressive face, Michael asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing…’ Seeing he wasn’t convinced, she admitted, ‘I just had the strangest feeling that I know the house. That it’s familiar…’

  He set her case down, and without believing it for an instant suggested, ‘Perhaps you’ve been to Slinterwood before?’

  ‘No, I’m sure I haven’t. It must be déjà vu.’

  Yet though she was quite certain she had never been here before, the feeling of warmth, of being made welcome, of coming home, persisted.

  Michael, who had always believed that houses had their own aesthetic or emotional effect or appeal, an atmosphere that anyone sensitive could pick up as vibes, asked carefully, ‘This feeling… Is it an unpleasant one?’

  ‘No… No, anything but.’

  ‘But quite strong?’

  ‘Yes. Very.’

  ‘When you say you feel you know the house, can you visualize the layout of the rooms?’

  ‘No… I don’t think so…’

  Something impelled him to say, ‘Try.’

  Standing quite still, she closed her eyes. ‘The doors on the same side of the hall as the stairs lead to a big living-kitchen and… I suppose you’d call it a morning room.

  ‘Next to the kitchen there’s a walk-in larder that has a green marble cold-slab, and a deep porcelain sink with an old-fashioned water pump over it.’

  ‘Go on,’ he ordered tersely.

  With no idea where she was getting such clear mental pictures, she obeyed. ‘Across the hall, there’s a long living-room on the seaward side, and behind that a library-cum-study and a dining-room.’

  ‘What about upstairs?’

  Opening her eyes, she said, ‘I’m not sure… I think there’s a master bedroom above the living-room, and several smaller bedrooms with fireplaces, sloping ceilings, and polished floorboards.

  ‘At the end of a corridor, there are two steps down to a big, old-fashioned bathroom, with a claw-footed bathtub…’

  A curious note in his voice, he said, ‘And you think that’s an accurate description of the rooms?’

  She shook her head with a self-deprecating smile. ‘I’d be very surprised if it were.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, either it’s complete guesswork, or it’s something I’ve dreamt at one time or another.’

  Though she tried to keep it light, the clearness and certainty of those mental pictures had shaken her somewhat.

  With no further comment, he picked up her case and turned to lead the way up the stairs and along a corridor with polished oak floorboards.

  ‘I understand from Mrs Blair that she’s put you in the lilac room.’

  He slanted her a quick glance, as if he expected some comment, but all she could think of to say was, ‘That sounds lovely.’

  It was a pleasant room on the seaward side of the house, with light, modern furniture, pale lilac walls, white paint-work and, rather to her surprise, an en-suite bathroom.

  Except for the sloping ceiling, the polished oak floorboards and scattered rugs, it wasn’t at all what she had visualized.

  Knowing he was watching her face and aware of the relief she couldn’t altogether hide, she observed, ‘There’s no fireplace.’

  His voice level, he told her, ‘At one time there were fireplaces in all the rooms. But apart from the one in the main bedroom, they were taken out some three or four years ago when oil-fired central heating and en-suite bathrooms were put in.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, a shade hollowly.

  Putting her case on an oak blanket chest, he offered, ‘Before you make yourself at home, I’ll show you the rest of the upstairs.’

  Opening doors and switching on lights as they went, he told her, ‘Next door is my room…’

  The main bedroom was a large, attractive room with a black-beamed ceiling, polished period furniture, and a stone fireplace, in which a log fire had been laid ready.

  ‘And across the landing,’ he went on, ‘there are three smaller bedrooms, pretty much the same as yours, and a bathroom.’

  The bathroom, which was at the end of a short corridor and down two steps, had a claw-footed bathtub, just as she had described.

  Seeing he was waiting for her to say something, she offered as carelessly as possible, ‘A lucky guess.’

  Though he frowned a little, he made no comment.

  As they went back across the landing he suggested, ‘When you’ve had time to freshen up, come down and we’ll have a cup of tea before I show you round the rest of the house.’

  Nodding her thanks, she returned to her room, where she gnawed her lip thoughtfully.

  Common sense told her that it was silly to find herself still wondering if she’d been here before, when she knew quite well she hadn’t.

  So where had those vivid mental pictures come from?

  Having seen the outside of the house—with its steep gables and plethora of chimney pots—the fireplaces and sloping ceilings were a logical deduction. While the position of the bathroom, and the steps leading down to it, must have been just a lucky guess.

  But although she did her utmost to explain away what had happened, the feeling of knowing the house still persisted.

  Oh, well, she thought, it was a warm, friendly feeling, so she wouldn’t worry about it.

  When she had washed her hands and tidied her hair she descended the stairs and crossed the hall, still with that feeling of being at home, and opened the living-room door.

  It was a long spacious room with pale walls and a beamed ceiling, comfortably furnished and homely, as she had known it would be. It was lit by a couple of standard lamps and the glow of a log fire.

  Pulled up to the hearth were two soft leather armchairs, and on a low table between them was a tray of tea and a plate of what appeared to be home-made scones, with small dishes of jam and cream.

  Glancing up from the chair he was occupying, Michael invited, ‘Come and join me.’

  Once again rocked by the impact the sight of him always had on her, she obeyed, and, taking a seat opposite, remarked, ‘Though the whole house is anything but cold, this is really cosy.’

  ‘So long as the electric pump’s working, the central heating keeps the place at a comfortable temperature,’ he agreed.

  ‘Strictly speaking,’ he went on, ‘the fires are only necessary when the electricity supply fails. But I love an open fire, especially in the winter.’

  ‘So do I,’ she agreed wholeheartedly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ she echoed uncertainly.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Well, I—I find a fire is visually pleasing. It brings a room to life…’

  ‘Go on.’

  Somewhat fazed by his persistence, she attempted to put her feelings into words. ‘As far as I’m concerned, a fire meets some primitive need that’s made up of more than just the requirement for warmth.’

  It was so close to his own feelings—feelings that Claire had neither understood nor shared—that he was taken aback, But all he could find to say was, ‘Very nicely put.’

  Unsure whether or not he was mocking her, and deciding to change the subject, she asked, ‘Would you like me to pour the tea?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ he agreed smoothly.

  Outwardly serene, she assembled fine china cups patterned with a ring of tiny flowers, and reached for the matching teapot. ‘How do you like your tea?’

  ‘A little milk, no sugar.’

  Watching her calm face and graceful movements, he frowned a little. She both puzzled and intrigued him. The fact that she knew the house had taken him by surprise, and he wanted to see into her mind, to know how she had managed to come by such detailed knowledge and information.

  There had to be some explanation, and sooner or later he would find it, he promised himself as, with a word of thanks, he accepted the cup and saucer she pa
ssed him.

  Taking a sip, he added, ‘It’s nice to be waited on occasionally.’

  Deciding to play the gracious hostess, if that was what he wanted, she offered him a plate and a scone.

  His face straight but his eyes amused, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, he accepted the plate and took a scone.

  Watching her replace the rest, he queried, ‘Won’t you join me?’

  As she started to shake her head he added persuasively, ‘Mrs Blair is proud of her scones, and quite rightly.’

  ‘They look very tempting,’ Jenny admitted. ‘But I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’ Recalling Claire’s horrified expression when he’d suggested that she try one, he added, ‘You’re not worried about a few extra calories, are you? You’re plenty slim enough.’

  ‘No… Luckily I have the right kind of metabolism, so I don’t need to worry about putting on weight. It’s just that I had such a big lunch.’

  ‘So did I. But we can’t hurt Mrs Blair’s feelings.’

  He smiled at her, a white, slightly crooked smile that put fascinating creases beside his mouth, lit up his face, and warmed his green eyes. ‘Tell you what, shall we share one?’

  Beguiled by his smile and that teasing glance, and wondering how she could ever have thought him unattractive, she found herself agreeing. ‘Why not?’

  He split the light, floury scone in two and spread both halves with jam and a generous amount of cream, before cutting each piece into four quarters.

  Then on an impulse, he picked up one of the pieces and reached across to offer it.

  Without conscious volition she opened her mouth, and he fed it to her.

  Thrown by the gesture, she sat like someone in a dream and watched him eat his own piece.

  The little ritual was repeated until the scone was all gone.

  Though she had told herself it was nothing, and tried to appear calm and unmoved, something about the unexpected intimacy had made her feel hollow inside, and her hand was shaking slightly when she lifted her cup to her lips.