Yet how could she trust him when instinct told her she was only seeing half the man?
She sank down on the rocking chair, lifting Melusine on to her lap.
‘Oh, baby,’ she whispered, burying her face in the silky fur. ‘What am I going to do?’
In spite of her rejection of him, she half expected to find Adam on the doorstep next morning. He would not, she thought, take his dismissal easily.
But there was no sign of him. In fact,
Caroline
looked deserted in the morning sunshine.
Breakfast finished, she drove to the village and reported the attempted break-in. The police were kind, but made it clear there was little they could do, as it was unlikely the would-be burglar would have left fingerprints or other clues. They were rather more interested when she mentioned the visit from the supposed antiques dealer, but overall she was made to feel she’d had a lucky escape and should count her blessings.
One pertinent point she’d failed to mention, of course, as she realised on her way home, was Adam’s presence.
A night’s rest and reflection had convinced her that he’d had nothing to do with the break-in and her accusations had been prompted by shock. But all the unanswered questions still remained.
The previous evening he’d been a relaxed and amusing companion, attentive to her enjoyment but without fuss. She’d felt warmed to her soul. Happier than she’d been since...
Her mind closed off. Perhaps the would-be burglar had done her a favour, she thought. Because if she’d gone for that nightcap on
Caroline
heaven knew what might have happened. But it could have been something to regret as long as she lived.
And I already have enough regrets, she told herself bleakly.
There was no easel on the jetty when she got back. No music floating across the water, or wistful dog with a message tucked into his collar either.
She supposed she ought to finish painting the dining room, but the plan held little appeal.
It was a Bank Holiday, after all, so why shouldn’t she take some time off along with the rest of the nation? Enjoy the fine weather and her unexpected privacy all at the same time?
She’d come across one of her old bikinis while she’d been rooting through her wardrobe the night before.
She changed, looking with disfavour at the pallor of her skin, and slid her feet into faded espadrilles. Then she collected a lounger from the shed at the rear and took it to a sheltered spot at the side of the house furthest from Dean’s Mooring.
Luxury, she told herself as she stretched out, relishing the sun’s warmth. This is definitely my best idea of the day.
But somehow she couldn’t settle. The book she’d chosen—a much-hyped bestseller-failed to engage her attention, and there seemed nothing on the radio worth listening to either. The trouble was she was constantly on the alert, she realised unhappily. Waiting—listening for Adam’s return.
Eventually she said, ‘Oh, this is ridiculous,’ and stood up, reaching for the filmy white shirt she wore as a cover-up and looking speculatively across at
Caroline.
Of course, Adam could be right there on board, maybe sleeping off a post-tiff hangover.
I’m flattering myself, she thought. Why should he get blasted because he and I have a row?
Nevertheless, she owed him some kind of an apology for last night, and she knew it And it was quite easy. All she had to do was go on board and say, Hi, is it too late for that nightcap? Or one of a dozen or so other little speeches which explained that the attempted break-in had sent her head temporarily into orbit and her tongue had gone with it. Or something.
She would also mention that she was going home the following day and had come to say goodbye. Because that, she had come to see, was the only sane and sensible course of action.
She walked down the jetty and paused, cupping her hands to her mouth.
‘Hi, there, on
Caroline.
Permission to come aboard?’
But there was no answer. Not even a welcoming bark from Buster.
She moved closer, called again, but her words fell into the silence.
It wasn’t a conscious decision, but somehow she was on
Caroline’
s deck and opening the door which led to the companionway. She descended, and stood looking around her. Compared to poor little
Naiad
this was a floating palace. There were two cabins, both for double occupation, a beautifully fitted galley, and a saloon panelled in some pale wood.
It was such a waste for this lovely boat to be moored here. She could imagine sailing downstream to the estuary, and out into the open sea. Could hear the splash of real waves against the bow and breathe the clean, salt-laden wind.
She could imagine cooking meals in the galley and taking her turn in the wheelhouse. At night, dropping anchor in some sheltered bay and sleeping in the wide, comfortable bunk in the main cabin, with Adam’s arms around her.
Dream on, she thought, biting her lip. That was someone else’s perquisite.
She trailed back to the saloon. There was cushioned seating round the bulkheads, as well as a couple of easy chairs, a chart locker and a large fold-down table, currently covered in big sheets of paper.
More sketches, she realised. Adam might have been wasting his sailing opportunities, but certainly not his time.
She wandered over and had a look. Not Silver Creek House this time, she saw, but a very different subject. A row of terraced cottages, almost like a mews development, with window boxes, gables, and neatly parked cars.
Tara wrinkled her nose. It was impeccably, even brilliantly drawn, but it didn’t have a fraction of the flair and imagination of his watercolour. Yet at the same time it seemed oddly familiar.
She looked at the next sheet. An alternative view of the same thing—a side elevation, she supposed. And, on a third sheet, no sketches at all, but a detailed plan drawn to scale. Not simply one row of houses, but three, built round an open square to the rear. And in one corner of the paper, plainly printed, the legend ‘Dean’s Mooring Development’.
Tara stared at it until the letters began to blur and dance. She was gripping the edge of the table so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
He’d called himself a draughtsman, she thought dazedly. But that wasn’t the half of it. Adam Barnard was an architect, and one who’d come to Silver Creek for a very definite purpose.
She dropped the plan back on the table as if it was contaminated.
If he bought Dean’s Mooring and converted it into holiday cottages then Silver Creek would be ruined. Its whole character and ambience would change disastrously. There’d be constant traffic noise, she thought, staring with loathing at the parked cars on the first drawing. Not to mention more and more boats on the river. Landing facilities would have to be improved, and the access road widened.
And, quite apart from losing its peace and privacy, her parents’ house would nosedive in value. Although that, she knew, wouldn’t matter to them as much as the loss of their seclusion.
It would be the end of an era, she thought numbly.
There was a portfolio under the table. Maybe there were more drawings in there. More clues to exactly what he was planning—and how far those plans were advanced.
She knelt, pulling at the strings with clumsy fingers. But there were no plans, simply watercolours. Local scenes and, on top, the most recent. His painting of Silver Creek House.
Tara took it out and looked at it. How could he paint the fragile beauty of its environment with such sensitivity when he was planning to destroy it? she wondered, her throat tightening painfully.
But perhaps that was why he’d wanted it, as a souvenir, she thought—then paused, staring down at it, her eyes widening. Because this was not the painting she’d seen at the quay, she realised in shocked disbelief. It had been changed...
The house was still shrouded in golden light, but at an upstairs window the veil had parted to reveal the naked figure of a girl—slender and pagan, her face lifted to the sun and her hands cupping her breasts. A study in warm, uninhibited sexuality.
Her
study.
My God, she thought. He saw me that morning. He actually saw me.
A few minutes ago, poring over the plans, she’d been ice-cold, but now she burned.
Somewhere—in some far distant level of consciousness—she heard thudding noises, then furious barking from Buster as he hurled himself down the companionway and into the saloon, with Adam one step behind him. Tara got slowly to her feet to face them, the painting in her hand.
Buster skidded to a halt beside her, eyes liquid with pleased recognition, waiting for her acknowledgement, for the caressing hand.
But Tara could not move. She could only look across the saloon at Adam, her eyes blazing in her white face, watching the amused appreciation in his smile as he assimilated what she was wearing freeze and die on his lips.
There was a short but telling silence, then he said quietly, ‘Welcome to
Caroline
. I’m glad you’ve made yourself at home.’
She said thickly, ‘Are you indeed? Are you quite sure of that?’
She turned back to the table, sweeping the plans and drawings to the floor with one quick, angry gesture.
She said, ‘You know I won’t let you do this.’
‘How do you propose to stop me?’ The man who’d turned her blood to fire had vanished, leaving a remote stranger in his place.
Tara lifted her chin. ‘We’re going to buy Dean’s Mooring,’ she said.
‘Indeed,’ he said gravely. ‘Is that the royal “we”?’
‘My family,’ she said. ‘And myself.’
‘You’re sure it’s for sale?’
‘Of course. I’m going to speak to the solicitor handling old Mr Dean’s estate after the weekend.’
‘I’ll save you the trouble. Dean’s Mooring is owned by the old man’s grandson, and he isn’t selling.’
Tara stared at him. ‘Mr Dean had no family.’
‘Wrong,’ Adam said harshly. ‘He had a daughter, but they quarrelled and he never spoke to her again. When she wrote and told him she had a son, he made a will leaving everything to the boy he would never meet.’
Her mouth was suddenly dry. ‘How do you know so much about it?’
His smile was just a grim twist of the lips. ‘How do you think?’ He paused. ‘While you were going through my papers just now, you might have noticed my initials on the plans—ADB. Standing for Adam Dean Barnard.’
He heard her shocked gasp and nodded coldly. ‘Precisely, Miss Lyndon. I’m Ambrose Dean’s grandson. Dean’s Mooring belongs to me. And, as you can see, I have my own ideas about its future.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Y
OU look surprised.’ Adam’s mocking voice seemed to reach Tara from a far distance. ‘You much preferred to write me off as an intruder and a thief, didn’t you, sweetheart?’
‘And instead it’s just plain “liar”,’ she said. And Peeping Tom, she thought, her throat contracting.
‘I never lied to you, Tara.’
‘You let me think...’
He lifted a hand. ‘That’s not the same thing at all. I gave you endless hints, but you never picked up on any of them.’
‘You pretended you’d come here for peace and quiet,’ she said bitterly. ‘And all the time you were planning to wreck Silver Creek. Destroy it.’
‘There’s a demand for riverside development.’ Adam shrugged, his face hard. ‘Why shouldn’t I supply it?’
‘Because Dean’s Mooring was your grandfather’s home—part of your heritage.’
‘Now there’s an emotive word,’ he said softly. ‘A cruel, selfish old man shuts himself off from the world, and I’m supposed to turn his refuge into some kind of shrine?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
He paused. ‘Or are you really more worried about your own family monument over there, and the effect development might have on its value?’
‘My parents will be concerned, naturally.’ Tara spoke with dignity.
‘Then maybe instead of buying they might consider selling,’ he drawled. ‘The whole river frontage would be an even better proposition.’
Tara gasped. ‘They’d see you in hell first.’ She brushed past him, making for the companionway and the deck beyond.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I think you have something of mine.’
She realised she was still holding the watercolour. She flourished it at him contemptuously. ‘What—this little piece of second-rate pornography?’
She saw his mouth tighten—a muscle flicker in his tanned cheek.
‘You’re quite a multi-talented man, Mr Barnard,’ she said. ‘But you don’t belong here. And nor do your tacky little tourist boxes. So why don’t you just clear out—and find somewhere else to pollute!’
She spun round, and went up the companionway fast. Buster gave a joyous bark and bounded after her, impeding Adam, who stumbled and swore.
By the time he gained the deck, she was at the rail.
Adam paused, chest heaving, watching her with wary, narrowed eyes.
He said, ‘I’d like my painting back.’
‘And I’d like you to leave my parents’ house alone—and stop foisting your sick ideas of art on to it,’ Tara said, and tore the watercolour across with one scornful gesture.
Adam groaned, and started forward, but she ripped the painting again, and tossed the fragments over the side into the river.
He swore again, eyes closed and head flung back, but this time it sounded like some agonised prayer. He stood for a moment, hands clenched, clearly fighting for control. Then he came towards her.
‘Tara—listen to me...’ He sounded shaken.
‘You haven’t a thing to say that I want to hear.’ The words were being forged out of the nameless, boundless pain which was consuming her. Out of the shame of knowing that he’d seen her naked at her window—wanting him—offering herself. ‘Get out of here. Go back where you came from.’
She drew a swift, harsh breath. ‘Oh, God, I should have turned you away that first night—you—you bastard.’
She lifted her hand and hit him across the face, watching with a kind of horror as the marks of her fingers spread across his cheek like a brand. She heard Buster growl softly.
For a long moment she stood motionless, then she took a step backwards, then another, until she was trapped against the rail with no retreat left.
And Adam followed, as she had known he would.
His voice was low, and jagged with ice. ‘You’ve a hot temper there, lady. You need to cool it.’
He swooped, swinging her off her feet and up into his arms. Startled, Tara struggled, but she was no match for his strength.
‘Let go of me, damn you. Put me down.’ Her eyes dilated as she stared up at him, meeting the sudden predatory glitter in the blue eyes.
‘Presently,’ he said softly, and his hands slid under the loose shirt, discovering the satin of her half-naked body. She heard his sudden intake of breath, then he bent towards her, his head blotting out the sun.
As his mouth touched hers, her whole body responded sharply, almost convulsively. Her lips parted in acceptance and welcome, and warm liquid heat ran through her like quicksilver.
Her reason might reject him, she realised in some dazed, reeling corner of her mind, but her body was totally enslaved.
The slow, exploratory brush of his fingers against her warm skin was not enough. Her breasts were swelling against the cups of her bikini top, desperate for the caress of his hands or his tongue over her engorged, heated nipples.
She seemed to be flying, she thought deliriously. Soaring. And, she suddenly realised with a choking squeal of alarm, falling too.
She hit the water ungracefully, arms and legs flailing as she was gulped down into the shock of its chill depths. She surfaced again in seconds, coughing, spluttering, and gasping for breath.
She shook the water out of her eyes, peering up at the boat, trying to locate him, because if he was standing there laughing at her she wouldn’t rest until he was dead at her feet.
But Adam was nowhere to be seen. Nor was there a friendly boathook in sight, or any helping hand to assist her back on board. She’d been simply left to flounder.
She swam in a wide half-circle away from
Caroline
and the landing stage, making her way to a spot downstream which her family had always used to bathe from. The bank shelved gently into the water, and she waded out through the reeds, the shirt plastered against her body and drops from her drenched hair running down her face, dripping from the end of her nose.
There was water in her ears too, she discovered vengefully, shaking her head to clear the buzzing. But it only got louder.
Tara swung round in time to see
Caroline
moving away from her erstwhile mooring and out into midstream.
He must have cast off while I was in the water, she thought. I told him to go—and he’s going. Just as suddenly as that.
Arms wrapped round her shivering body, she watched
Caroline
round the bend and disappear from view. She wanted to scream childishly, Goodbye and good riddance, but the words wouldn’t come.
The only sound that rose in her throat was a sob. And there were tears mingling with the droplets of river water on her face.
She’d imagined he would return that evening, and vengefully rehearsed what she would say. How she would behave. But when night came the mooring was still unoccupied.
In fact, three days went slowly past with no sign of him. And a visit to Hanman and Brough simply confirmed everything he’d told her. Dean’s Mooring, she was told kindly but firmly, was not for sale. And an application for planning permission would be made. So that, she realised, was that
She tried to blot the whole thing out of her mind with work—scrubbing paintwork and floors, cleaning windows, turning out cupboards and laundering curtains and bedding—thus ensuring that when she finally dropped into bed at night she slept like a log. But she couldn’t control her dreams. Couldn’t block Adam from coming to her each night, or escape the illusion of his hands and mouth caressing her body—his voice whispering words she would never hear except in dreams.
And she woke each morning to the bitter knowledge that she’d been crying.
When she couldn’t think of another single job to do in the house she went out in
Naiad
, and spent what she intended to be a day of total relaxation exploring the river, using the engine instead of sail, and revisiting old haunts.
This could be the last time, she realised drearily. She didn’t know how her parents would react to Adam’s development plans, but they might well decide to cut their losses and sell up while they could. She already knew they were planning to travel more, so perhaps Silver Creek would become just a memory for them all.
She even called in at the marina, but found she was scanning the cluster of boats for the sleek lines of
Caroline.
Having a drink at the bar, greeting people she knew and exchanging news, all the time she was looking past them, searching the laughing, talking groups for one tall figure.
This, she told herself grimly, cannot go on. I won’t let it.
Holidays don’t suit me, she thought as she sailed slowly back to Silver Creek. Not even working ones. I heed to put all this behind me and get back to the real world. Return to work and start dealing with problems I have an outside chance of solving.
Because what has really happened here? I met a man—I was attracted—he was involved elsewhere. A story as old as time, and as predictable.
And he wasn’t some mysterious stranger washed up by destiny either. He was here for sound commercial reasons, according to his own reckoning. Anything else was in my imagination.
So, I should call it a day and go back to London.
In any case the weather was changing, she thought, viewing the clouds building up in the west. By the time she rowed herself ashore, the rain was already falling.
‘I’ll get the show on the road,’ she told Melusine.
‘While you go outside and behave like a lady.’
Melusine had to be shooed out, and would no doubt spend the minimum time attending to her needs, Tara decided as she flew upstairs and threw her clothes into her travel bag.
The cleaning materials she packed into their box, and she was just emptying the fridge when she realised that nearly half an hour had gone by with no aggrieved mewing for readmittance.
She’s probably sulking under the car, Tara thought, grimacing at the rain falling steadily past the kitchen window. She picked up a bag of left-over groceries, and headed for the back door.
‘Mel,’ she called. ‘Don’t give me a hard time now...’
And stopped, aware that something was terribly wrong.
It’s the car, she thought. It looks—odd—as if it’s suddenly started to sink into the ground...
She stared at it, unable for a moment to believe what she was seeing. Then she put the bag down and walked slowly forward, trembling.
Knowing with terrifying certainty that she wouldn’t be going back to London, or anywhere else. Not today.
Because someone had slashed all four tyres on her car. Destroyed them beyond repair.
She wrapped her arms round her body, hugging herself fiercely, trying to control the immediate feeling of panic.
First the attempted break-in—and now this. What was happening to her?
Because this was no mindless act by some passing vandal. No one ever came here by chance, she told herself, nausea, scalding and bitter, rising in her throat. No, this had to be deliberate—and deeply vindictive. And done by someone who knew she was here alone.
But not completely alone, she thought, suddenly frantic. There was Melusine—who was missing—nowhere to be seen.
She looked round frantically, calling her name, hearing her voice crack.
The river, she thought, starting to run, an image in her mind of a small struggling figure in the water...
The distant sound of breaking glass stopped her in her tracks.
That came from Dean’s Mooring, she thought blankly. Vandals after all, and doing as much damage as possible.
Well, not if I know it.
Recklessly, she took off towards the other house. The front door was standing ajar, and Tara kicked it wide open.
‘I know you’re in there,’ she shouted into the shadowy interior. ‘And the police are on their way.’
‘Fascinating,’ came a familiar drawl ‘What are you planning to accuse me of this time?’
And Adam appeared in the hall, accompanied by Melusine, who was weaving herself rapturously around his legs.
‘You?’ Tara croaked the word.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’ He stood, hands on hips, the blue eyes challenging. ‘Whom were you expecting?’
‘I—I didn’t know what to think. I heard glass...’
He nodded expressionlessly. ‘I tried to open the kitchen window and the whole thing fell out instead.’
‘But where’s
Caroline?’
‘The real one or the boat?’ He let her digest that for a moment, then added, ‘Whatever, they’re both elsewhere. This time I used my car.’
‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ Tara said, between her teeth. ‘As I’m sure you know, I can’t use mine.’
‘You’re being too modest,’ Adam returned silkily. ‘You’re not that bad a driver.’