The Seduction Game (Harlequin Presents) Page 8

  ‘You’re disappointed?’ He’d noticed her silence.

  She mustered a smile. ‘On the contrary. Surprised, maybe,’ she added.

  ‘You thought I’d be doing it by numbers?’ His answering grin was relaxed.

  ‘I’m not that much of a philistine.’ She moved away, sinking down on a sun-warmed slab of paving stone to drink her tea. Staring at the pattern on the mug until it blurred, she said, ‘What made you choose our house as a subject?’ She gestured at the river. ‘I mean there’s so much gorgeous scenery locally.’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I wanted a souvenir of this place in particular.’ He glanced at the river, to where Caroline rode at anchor. ‘Something to take with me when I leave.’

  Her heart seemed to skip a beat. That sounded as if he were going quite soon. Which was exactly what she wanted, she reminded herself quickly.

  She said brightly, ‘Are you going to paint Dean’s Mooring, too?’

  ‘The other side of the coin?’ His voice was suddenly bleak. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  He drained his mug and replaced it on the tray.

  ‘Thank you for that.’ His smile glinted at her. ‘You’re a mass of surprises.’

  And I could say the same for you, she thought. The mocking charm, the gut-wrenching physical attraction, and the flashes of real kindness he’d shown her were only part of the picture. Occasionally, like a cloud crossing the sun, she caught a glimpse of a darker side to Adam Barnard.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She got lightly to her feet. ‘I can’t wait to see the finished painting,’ she added as she picked up the tray.

  The smile lingered. ‘I’m flattered. I hope you’ll like it.’

  She could feel his eyes on her as she walked back to the house.

  She fed Melusine and then went back to her work, aware that every time she passed the window her gaze was being drawn instinctively to his seated figure.

  I’m becoming obsessive, she derided herself crossly, and was even angrier to find herself disappointed when eventually he packed up and returned to Caroline.

  She had, she realised, been half expecting a knock on the door. A quick check on the progress she was making.

  Which made her every kind of fool, because Adam had offered friendship, nothing more, and friends did not spend every moment in each other’s pockets.

  When she too decided to call it a day, she could feel well pleased with her efforts, she decided, looking round. She cleaned the roller and tray, leaving everything ready for the morning.

  Usually she would not have bothered to change, knowing there was no one around to see her, but this evening she found herself upstairs, showering swiftly and discarding her paint-spattered clothes for a pair of cream cotton trousers and a simple tunic top in kingfisher-blue.

  Pathetic or what? she disparaged herself as she gave her hair a vigorous brushing.

  Downstairs again, she cooked pasta, fried strips of bacon and tomatoes to add to it, then covered the entire dish in grated cheese before popping it under the grill.

  She’d made enough for two, she realised wryly, but it seemed that tonight she was going to be the only taker.

  While the cheese was melting and browning, Tara poured some Chablis into a glass and wandered outside with it. It was what she did on every fine evening, she reminded herself, a touch defensively, so there was no need to feel self-conscious as she strolled down to the water’s edge.

  The sun was low in the sky, and there was a faint wind blowing from the water. On board Caroline a lamp had been lit in the saloon, and she thought she could see movement.

  She could certainly hear something. Music, she thought, played softly enough for her to have to strain her ears to catch the melody. Poignant, and hauntingly romantic, it caught at her memory, taking her back to a concert of English music she’d attended the previous summer.

  Delius, she thought, as the main theme swelled to a crescendo. ‘A Walk to the Paradise Garden’.

  The cool wine was like balm to the burn in her throat as she stood, listening, and watching Adam’s boat with an intensity that made her tremble.

  The soft chords were like a siren’s call, summoning her across the water. Her family’s dinghy was tied up a few feet away. It would be the work of minutes to go to him.

  He’d offered her friendship, after all, she argued silently. Why shouldn’t she take him up on that offer? Share his music. Invite him to share her food again. Even—share her bed...

  Her heart seemed to stop for a minute.

  Because that isn’t enough, she realised rawly, and it never will be. Because I want to share his life—all of him—and he belongs to someone else.

  I could probably steal him for a while. Tell him that we’re ships passing in the night. That I’ll make no demands. There’ll be no after-shock to mess up his chosen life.

  But if we play the seduction game I could lose out terribly—irretrievably. And the hurt of it might be more than I am able to bear.

  After Jack, I swore I’d never be at any man’s mercy again. I have to remember that. I can’t let myself be tempted by kindness.

  The music had changed as she walked back to the house. Now it was the wistful resonance of ‘The Banks of Green Willow’ that followed her like a longremembered regret.

  And lingered in her head long after she had closed the door and tried to banish it.

  The next day would be a totally new start, she promised herself, staring sleeplessly into the darkness that night.

  It was sad—it was laughable—it was ludicrous—this hunger for a man she hardly knew. It also had to stop.

  And why couldn’t any of Becky’s suitable and respectable candidates have fired her senses and created the same fever in her blood? she raged inwardly. Oh, God, it was so unfair.

  But none of Becky’s offerings had ever been lying a stone’s throw away from her on a moonlit river, she reminded herself wryly. So near—and yet a world distant The world to which he would soon be returning.

  And she had a life to go back to as well. A loving family. A career that many people would envy. She was young and healthy, and one of these days or years a man would come into her life who was free, and with whom she could build something lasting.

  It was an excellent, positive plan—and why it should shriek ‘second-best’ was something that Tara did not want to contemplate.

  At least, not if she was ever to sleep again, she thought, turning over and closing her eyes with determination.

  In the morning, the weather had changed. Tara opened her curtains on grey, depressing swathes of mist-drizzle blowing across in front of the window.

  A day to stay close to home and not let even the imagination wander, she told herself as she showered and dressed.

  Melusine, who loathed wet weather, recoiled in disgust when the back door was opened, and had to be pushed, gently but firmly, outside. She reappeared almost immediately, sitting on the kitchen window-sill, pulling furious faces as Tara boiled an egg and made toast and coffee. Re-admitted, she ignored the placatory saucer of milk Tara had put down for her, and retired to the dresser to sulk.

  ‘Please yourself entirely,’ Tara told her, and went on with her own breakfast.

  However drab the weather outside, indoors the dining room, at least, gave an illusion of sunshine, she decided with a stirring of pleasure as she inspected yesterday’s handiwork with a critical eye.

  She was just about to climb her stepladder and start again when there was a knock at the front door.

  For a second she was tempted not to answer, but reason told her it was better to behave normally.

  She had fastened the chain the night before, so she opened the door to its restricted limit and peeped round it.

  Buster was sitting there, looking glum, a piece of paper attached to his collar. When he saw Tara, he allowed his tail one ingratiating thump.

  ‘What on earth...?’ Tara detached the chain and opened the door fully. As she bent to retrieve the paper B
uster licked her hand and looked soulful.

  It was only a brief message. ‘I can’t do my kind of painting, so please may we both help with yours?’

  Oh hell, thought Tara. Now what do I do?

  She looked at Buster. ‘And I suppose you’re waiting for a reply?’

  ‘I think that might be pushing it.’ Adam appeared apparently from nowhere, a waterproof slung across his shoulders. ‘So you’d better tell me instead.

  ‘If it’s no, we can take it,’ he added. ‘But maybe I should mention that a boat, however comfortable, shrinks to the size of a shoebox in this weather. And Buster is claustrophobic.’

  Tara sighed. ‘Then you’d better come in. For Buster’s sake.’ She paused. ‘Did you teach him that pleading look?’

  He grinned at her. ‘I knew that would soften your heart. With a little more practice he’ll be irresistible.’

  He was not, she thought, the only one.

  The rain had darkened Adam’s hair, and there were drops of water on his face and clinging to his lashes. She found herself thinking how cool his skin would feel if she touched it with her lips.

  He took off the waterproof and hung it up. Under it he was wearing jeans, and a faded sweatshirt that emphasised the spread of his shoulders.

  He turned, his brows lifted in query as he met her gaze. ‘Shall we make a start?’

  ‘Yes—of course.’ Flustered, Tara led the way into the dining room.

  ‘It looks good.’ Adam gazed around him, nodding with appreciation. ‘My offer to paint the ceiling still stands—unless there’s something else you’d prefer me to do?’

  ‘No—oh, no. The ceiling would be fine.’ She paused. ‘Would you like coffee before you start?’

  ‘I have this Puritan ethic,’ he said. ‘I believe in working before I get a reward.’

  Tara forced a smile. ‘Some reward—a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, softly. ‘But if I work really hard, maybe the offer will improve.’

  Tara said, ‘I’ll get the ceiling emulsion,’ and fled.

  In spite of her misgivings, the morning passed without a hitch, Adam proving adept with a paint roller. And at lunchtime he proved equally skilful in the kitchen, producing a deliciously filling Spanish omelette for them both.

  ‘I’m overcome with admiration,’ Tara said as she finished the last scrap. ‘You must do a lot of cooking.’

  He grimaced. ‘I rarely get the opportunity.’

  Presumably because his fiancée considered that her own prerogative, Tara told herself without pleasure. She decided to switch to a safer topic.

  ‘I think the rain is stopping,’ she remarked, directing her gaze away from him to the window.

  ‘Whether it is or not, I’ll have to take Buster for a run.’ Adam bent to fondle the dog’s ears. ‘Won’t I, old boy?’

  ‘He’s been so good. He must be really bored, shut up here while we paint.’

  ‘He’s fine, as long as he’s with people he likes.’ Adam smiled at her. ‘He got pretty excited last evening when he saw you on the riverbank. He thought you were coming to pay us a visit. I thought maybe you were there to complain about the music. I hope it didn’t disturb you.’

  Not in the way you’d suppose, Tara thought.

  Aloud, she said, ‘No—I enjoyed what I could hear of it. Especially the Delius. It took me back to a concert I went to last summer.’

  ‘At the Festival Hall?’ Adam’s brows lifted. ‘I was there too.’ His smile widened, teasing her. ‘You see—we’re not really new friends at all. We’ve been involved for a year already.’

  ‘Not,’ she said, ‘an argument that would stand close examination.’ She pushed back her chair and rose. ‘I’ll wash up, and then get on with painting the woodwork. Thanks for all your help. I’ll be finished in half the time now.’

  Adam got to his feet too. ‘Do I take it you’re dispensing with my services?’ He was still smiling, but his eyes were grave.

  Tara shrugged, trying for nonchalance. ‘Well, you must have plenty of other things to do. You’re on holiday, after all.’

  ‘So I am,’ he said. ‘A working holiday, like yours.’ He walked unhurriedly round the table and stood in front of her.

  Too close, she thought, for comfort.

  He said, ‘Tara, why do you want to push me away all the time?’

  ‘It’s not that—really.’ Her protest sounded small and rather breathless. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance—making calls on your time.’

  ‘You’re not.’ He reached out and brushed a strand of hair gently back from her forehead.

  The kind of casual caress, she thought raggedly, that he’d have bestowed on either of the animals, and felt her body arch and stir with the same feral pleasure.

  ‘So am I allowed to claim my reward?’ The blue eyes held hers, watchful, even faintly amused, as if he’d sensed her instinctive reaction.

  Her throat seemed to close up. ‘That would rather depend—on what you want.’

  ‘Nothing too drastic.’ Quite slowly and deliberately, he clasped his hands behind his back.

  As if, she thought, staring fixedly at a spot of paint on his sweatshirt, he was keeping them out of possible mischief. But if that was meant to be a gesture of reassurance then it had misfired badly. And had come far too late.

  Despite the layers of clothing that divided them, she could feel the warmth of his body reaching her. Absorb the clean, male scent of him through every pore. Common sense suggested she should step backwards—remove herself from the danger zone. But for the life of her she could not summon the will to move.

  ‘I’d simply like you to go out for a drink with me tonight.’ His voice seemed to reach her from a vast distance. ‘There’s a folk band playing at the Black Horse in the village. I thought we could go there.’

  She tried to think of an excuse, but nothing remotely convincing came to mind, and nothing less than total conviction would do. She knew that. Because it was important not to let him guess just how shaken she was by his proximity.

  Being alone with him was not an option she should pursue, but, on the other hand, a pub in the village was probably just about as public—and as safe—as it could get.

  She didn’t put her own hands behind her back. That, she thought, would have been too obvious.

  Instead, she picked up her used plate and cutlery from the table and carried them over to the sink. Out of harm’s way.

  Over her shoulder, she gave Adam a brief, non-committal smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Then I’ll pick you up about eight.’ His voice sounded quiet, almost formal.

  She heard him cross the room, the dog padding beside him, and go down the passage. Then the closing of the front door.

  She leaned against the sink and bowed her head.

  She thought, What have I done? And, dear God, what am I doing?

  But there was no answer in the enfolding silence. No sound at all, except the frantic drumming of her own heart.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘IT ISN’T,’ Tara said, ‘as if it was a real date. So it really doesn’t matter what I wear. Does it?’

  Melusine, lying on the bed, her paws neatly disposed under her, opened her eyes and squinted with the weary scorn of one who’d heard it all before. As indeed she had. Several times.

  ‘And you’re no help,’ Tara added, holding yet another pair of jeans and top in front of her and glaring at her reflection.

  She didn’t wish to appear as if she’d dressed up for the occasion, treating it as some kind of special thing.

  On the other hand she didn’t want to look as if she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards either.

  And she’d brought no going-out clothes with her for the very good reason she’d planned on spending her evenings at home.

  So much for planning, she thought, with a sigh. Of course she could always make an excuse—invent a headache when Adam called for her. And she could a
lso visualise the cynical disbelief that would twist his mouth if she did any such thing.

  She sighed again, and tossed the clothes she was holding on to the bed, just missing Melusine, who gave her an affronted stare.

  ‘You don’t walk in my shoes, so don’t judge me,’ Tara told her, running a distracted hand through her hair.

  Of course there were always the things that she’d left in her old room, she realised, frowning. They weren’t new by any means, just oddments that had accumulated over the years, but there might be something that deserved another outing.

  A swift rummage through the wardrobe produced a button-through denim skirt, flaring to mid-calf, and a blue and white striped shirt.

  At least tonight she would look more like a woman and less like a painter and decorator. Though maybe overalls and a blow torch might be safer gear, she acknowledged, her lips twisting.

  In her mother’s room, she found a dark blue knitted jacket and a pair of plain navy pumps.

  When she was dressed, and her newly washed hair had been dried to curve smoothly and silkily round her face, she could even be moderately pleased with the overall effect. She applied a dusting of colour to her eyelids and cheekbones, and painted her mouth a soft rose.

  She was just descending the stairs when she heard Adam’s knock, and drew a deep, steadying breath before she opened the door.

  His brows lifted when he saw her, and he whistled softly and appreciatively. ‘You look terrific.’

  ‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ she returned, keeping her tone light. Because actually he was breathtaking, in beautifully cut dark trousers, topped by a black sweater, and a jacket in a fine black and white tweed that looked expensive and Italian.

  She felt hunger twist inside her, a cold, desolate thing that could never be satisfied.

  He was looking down at her feet. ‘Are you going to be able to walk to the village in those shoes?’

  ‘I’m not even going to try. We’ll go in my car.’ She met his gaze with something of a challenge. She’d decided while she was dressing that being at the controls of a vehicle seemed a safer bet than a long walk home in the moonlight.