Look as much as you want, she thought. It’ll be your last opportunity.
As she closed the front door behind her she realised she was trembling all over. She halted, trying to steady her breathing, and Melusine, mewing violently, jumped from her arms and mooched into the kitchen, whisking her tail.
Tara went up to her room to retrieve her travel bag. She couldn’t resist a surreptitious peep out of the window, but Adam Barnard was nowhere to be seen. The ladder had disappeared too, so presumably he was putting it back where he’d found it. He certainly made very free with other people’s property, she thought, fuming. Well, she couldn’t stop him snooping round Dean’s Mooring, perhaps, but she could tip off the local police about his activities.
And she could find out which estate agency was handling the sale of the property and express the family’s interest in acquiring it. That would deal with unauthorised use of the mooring.
She stared across at the cabin cruiser. What was an unshaven scruff like Adam Barnard doing in charge of something so upmarket and glamorous? she wondered uneasily. He couldn’t be the owner, yet the boat didn’t have the look of a hire craft either.
But for that matter what was he doing here at all—and alone? He didn’t give the impression of a man addicted to solitude. And some women—probably flashy blondes—might even find his brand of raffish attraction appealing, she thought, ruthlessly quelling the memory of her own brief, unlooked-for response to him.
Just a slip of the reflexes, she assured herself. And no harm done. Which didn’t altogether explain why she was beating such a swift and ignominious retreat.
Tara bit her lip. To run away, of course, would be an open admission that she found him dangerous. That she’d taken his teasing seriously. And that would put her at the far greater risk of appearing an over-reactive and humourless idiot.
Although there was no real reason why she should care what he thought.
And why am I standing here debating the matter, anyway? she demanded vexedly.
Because you haven’t been able to pigeon-hole him, said a small voice at the back of her mind. Because so far he’s won every round. Because he’s a puzzle you can’t solve. Not yet.
He’d asked her if she was hiding from something, but she could well have levelled the same question at him. What could possibly have brought him to this secluded patch of river?
Unless, of course, the boat really was stolen, and he really was some kind of criminal.
The thought brought a renewed sense of chill. But, to be fair, he’d hardly made a secret of his presence, she reminded herself. After all, making Mrs Pritchard’s acquaintance was tantamount to telling the world.
On the other hand, he could be mounting some terrific double bluff. Making himself so visible and agreeable locally that no one would suspect a thing.
It disturbed her that he’d gained so much background information about her family, and so easily, too. If he was just a passing stranger, what possible use or interest could these details be to him?
Which led her back to the possibility that Adam Barnard did not see Silver Creek simply as a convenient backwater in which to pass a few lazy days.
So, what was his true motivation? And if he was up to no good could she afford to go and leave the house to his tender mercies? Maybe his needling of her had been a deliberate ploy, intended to goad her into flight.
If so, she thought with sudden grim resolution, he’s going to be unlucky. Because I won’t be driven away, after all. Not before I’ve found out a little in turn about the so-clever, so-attractive Mr Barnard.
Down in the kitchen, Melusine was sitting huffily by the fridge.
‘My poor girl.’ Tara ran a caressing hand down her back. ‘You’ve had quite a day. I’d better start making it all up to you, before you walk out on me.’
The Chinese had a curse, she recalled, as she opened a can of tuna and poured milk into a dish. ‘May you live in interesting times.’
Certainly the current situation seemed to be quite fascinating enough to fit into that particular frame.
And all she had to do was make sure that the curse did not fall on her. A task well within her capabilities.
But, even as she smiled to herself in quiet confidence, a sudden inner vision of Adam Barnard’s tanned face leapt into her mind.
In one shocked moment Tara saw the mocking twist of his firm lips, the little devils dancing in his blue eyes, and wondered if, perhaps, she hadn’t bitten off more than she could chew.
By the time eight o’clock came, Tara felt as if she’d been stretched on wires. More than once she’d been tempted to revert to Plan A, and put some serious distance between herself and the enigmatic Mr Barnard.
At the same time she found herself preparing vegetables, putting the pie in the oven to reheat, and setting two places at the kitchen table.
When the bell finally rang, she took a deep breath, wiped damp palms on her denim-clad hips, and went to let him in.
For a moment she barely recognised him. He was clean-shaven, his hair was combed, and the torn jeans and shirt had been replaced by pale grey trousers and a black rollneck sweater which looked very like cashmere, and he was carrying a bottle of wine.
Nor was he alone. Before Tara could speak, Buster jumped up at her with a joyous yelp, then squeezed past and dashed along the passage towards the kitchen.
‘Oh, God,’ Tara wailed. ‘He’s after the cat. He’ll kill her.’
‘Not a chance.’ Adam Barnard laid a detaining hand on her arm as she prepared to set off in pursuit. ‘He’s a young male. It’s in his nature to hunt.’
‘Then why the hell did you bring him?’ She glared up at him.
‘So that they can get things sorted. If they’re going to be neighbours, they need to get along.’
Tara registered that in passing as she freed herself and made for the kitchen. It sounded, she thought with dismay, as if Adam Barnard was planning to stick around for some considerable time.
Then everything else was forgotten as she heard Buster begin to bark excitedly and Melusine’s answering and blood-curdling yowl.
‘Oh, baby.’ Heart thudding, she shot to the rescue.
One swift glance from the doorway told her the worst. The dog had Melusine cornered in a small dark space beside the washing machine, and was advancing on her aggressively, barking all the while.
‘See what you’ve done,’ she accused Adam Barnard, her voice shaking, as he joined her. ‘Call him off.’
‘No need,’ he said briskly. ‘I promise you.’
As Buster lunged forward, a black silk paw came out of the shadows and swiped him across the muzzle. He yelped in pain and surprise and jumped backwards, shaking his head.
‘See what I mean.’ Adam Barnard’s tone was dry. ‘The female of any species is always deadlier than any mere male.’
‘And I can do without the chauvinist remarks,’ Tara snapped. ‘She could have been badly hurt.’
‘Her nine lives are still intact. Poor old Buster is the one with the bloody nose.’ He reached down and scooped up Melusine, who dangled aloofly from his shoulder. ‘You big bully,’ he scolded softly. ‘Give my pup a break.’
Tara saw that the dog was indeed bleeding from a nasty scratch.
‘Oh, Lord.’ She swallowed. ‘I’d better bathe it for him.’
Buster submitted with docility to her ministrations, his brown eyes full of the soulful anguish of the totally misunderstood.
‘That’ll teach you,’ she muttered as she swabbed the scratch with disinfectant. Melusine watched the process from the safety of the draining board, where she sat, carefully washing the contaminated paw.
‘Perhaps I’d better put her in another room,’ Tara said as she rinsed her hands.
‘Leave them. They’ll be fine now that the pecking order has been established.’ His mouth curved in amusement. ‘You look as if you’d like to banish me to another room as well.’
‘It had occurred to me.’ Tara gave him a challenging look. ‘I’m still not sure why I agreed to this.’
‘Oh, I think you probably had an excellent reason,’ he said affably. ‘But if you’re now having second thoughts you could always put my share in a doggy bag, and Buster and I will go back to our lonely boat.’
Her smile was wintry. ‘I can probably stand it if you can.’ She gestured awkwardly towards the kitchen table. ‘Please sit down, and I’ll dish up.’
‘If you give me a corkscrew, I’ll open this.’ He held up the wine he’d brought.
‘There’s one in the dresser drawer.’ She turned away and began to busy herself at the stove. There wasn’t much to do, just the final touches to the creamed potatoes, and the Vichy carrots and braised celery to be placed in their respective serving dishes, but she was glad of any activity.
It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d entertained a man alone, apart from business meetings, since Jack, and the realisation made her jittery.
The new-look Adam Barnard was another concern. The clothes he was wearing were clearly expensive, and so was the claret that he was setting to breathe.
She was very conscious that her personal preparations for the evening had been a perfunctory wash and a few strokes of the hairbrush. No make-up or change of clothes for her.
Now that he’d smoothed away the rough edges, she was only too aware of the full force of his attraction. Yet she couldn’t afford to be. That was not the purpose of the exercise, she reminded herself vehemently.
She just needed to find out a bit more about him. That was it. That was everything.
As she carried the food to the table she saw that Adam had found some candles during his hunt for the corkscrew and fitted them into the pottery holders which usually stood on the dresser.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I thought it would add a festive touch.’
In truth, Tara minded quite a lot. Candlelight implied intimacy rather than festivity, she thought restively, but now that the tapers were lit she could hardly make a fuss.
Adam, seemingly unaware of her hesitation, sniffed appreciatively. ‘You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble.’
‘Mrs Pritchard did most of it,’ she reminded him coolly. She cut into the pie, and served him a lavish wedge.
‘Hey—save some for yourself.’
‘There’s plenty,’ she said quickly. ‘Actually, I’m not very hungry.’
He looked at her, brows lifted. ‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘We must see what we can do to restore your appetite.’
Cutting out remarks like that would help for a start, she told him silently. Or was she just being ridiculously twitchy? Looking for trouble where there was none?
Pull yourself together, she ordered herself tersely. Just get through the evening.
In spite of her protest, she found that, once tasted, she couldn’t resist the tender chunks of meat and rich gravy under the melting pastry crust. Mrs Pritchard had surpassed herself, she acknowledged gratefully.
The wine was good, too, touching her throat like velvet and filling her mouth with the fragrance of blackcurrant.
As Adam went to refill her glass she swiftly covered it with her hand.
‘I’d better not have any more.’
‘Why not? You haven’t got work tomorrow, and you’re not planning to drive anywhere, are you? At least, not tonight.’
She heard that note of laughter in his voice again, and her mouth tightened. He sounded as if he’d been perched inside her head for the last hour or so, observing her mental struggles.
‘No,’ she said. ‘But I know my limitations.’
‘That’s fine,’ he said equably. ‘As long as you make sure they don’t obscure your potential.’
‘My goodness.’ She offered him the potatoes. ‘Do you write books on self-improvement, by any chance?’
‘I don’t write books at all.’ With equal politeness, he passed her the celery. ‘But I apologise if I sounded sententious.’
She flushed. ‘No—I didn’t mean... That is...’
Aware that she was foundering, she stopped.
‘Sometimes a direct question is best,’ Adam remarked pensively.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Tara said coldly, concentrating on her plate.
‘You want to know what I do for a living.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘Why not just ask?’
‘Because that’s entirely your own business,’ she came back at him, trying to retrieve the situation. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘No,’ he said drily. ‘But that hasn’t stopped you burning up with curiosity from the moment we met. And you have good reason,’ he added, after a brief pause. ‘Do you spend a lot of time down here on your own?’
‘I’m sure Mrs Pritchard has already told you the answer to that,’ Tara said, with a snap.
‘Is that what’s riling you? That I’ve stolen some kind of march on you?’
‘Of course not. Cooking and gossip are her specialities. Everyone knows that.’ She put her knife and fork down, colour rising in her face. ‘Oh, God, that sounds so bitchy.’