While she was waiting for the kettle she went back up to the bathroom and began running water into the tub, adding a capful of fragrant oil, filling the room with the dusky scent of geraniums. Her disturbed night had left her with vague aches and pains, and a strange restlessness which she wanted to soak away.
She made herself a strong mug of coffee and sipped it while she lay submerged, letting the hot, scented water work its magic on her.
Everything’s going to be all right, she assured herself, stretching luxuriously. There may have been a few underground tremors, but the citadel still stands. And that’s how it will stay.
She finished her coffee and lifted herself from the tub, swathing herself in a towel.
She was humming to herself as she re-entered her bedroom, chose underwear and a T-shirt and cotton trousers for the day ahead. The early overcast sky was clearing and the sun was coming through. It was going to be a hot day if she was any judge.
She paused, her attention caught by a movement outside. She went to the window and stood for a moment, watching the river. A moorhen had emerged from the reeds and was swimming sedately, her brood a brown ripple in her wake, but that wasn’t what she had seen. Or she didn’t think so.
And then she saw him, across the river, walking on the opposite bank among the clustering silver birches which sparkled in the early sunlight.
A dark figure, tall and purposeful, the dog frisking round him.
Another early riser, she thought. Or perhaps he couldn’t sleep either. She felt a tingle of something like pleasure curl along her nerve-endings. Felt her throat tighten.
As she watched, he stopped suddenly and turned towards the house, as if aware of her scrutiny. As if across the gleaming water their eyes had met and locked, holding them in thrall to each other.
But that’s nonsense, Tara thought, feeling her breathing quicken. He can’t see me. The sun will be in his eyes. It’s impossible. I
know...
Common sense told her to get away from the window anyway, but she remained where she was, her eyes fixed on the dark, motionless figure. Her hands seemed to move of their own volition, without any conscious impulse on her part, loosening the damp towel and tossing it away from her on to the bed. Leaving her naked in the sun’s dazzle.
She lifted her arms, stroking the heavy fall of her hair back from her face with a sigh, then let her hands slip down, touching herself slowly, exploringly. Cupping her breasts, measuring the span of her slender waist, outlining the curves of hips and flanks as if she was displaying herself. Making an invisible offering of her entire being to the silent watcher in the trees.
But he could not see, and would never know, therefore she was safe. She felt a smile as old as the earth touch and lift the corners of her mouth. Felt her nipples harden in exquisite excitement, and the core of her turn to sweet, liquid warmth.
In that moment she seemed to know him—the touch of his hands—the drugging warmth of his mouth—the brush of his skin against hers—the silken thrust of his possession. All of him.
She sighed, and, closing her eyes, she stretched, a long languorous movement that arched her whole body. And when she looked again he had gone. There was only the sun, the trees, and the ripple of the water.
Perhaps she’d only imagined him. Had created his presence out of her own need.
And stopped right there, her hand stealing to her mouth in shock and repudiation.
My God, she thought, what am I thinking?
Was she going completely crazy—out of her head? Standing in front of the window with nothing on, having erotic daydreams about—a passing stranger.
It is time, she told herself grimly, that you got on with your life.
Tara put the cans of gloss and emulsion paint in the boot of her car, and tucked the box with the filler, the sandpaper and new brushes in beside them.
‘That’ll keep you out of mischief,’ the shopkeeper had commented as she’d paid the bill.
And that, she’d thought, was exactly the idea. She’d given him a non-committal smile and a word of thanks.
She needed something to occupy her time and engage her attention. Something that would stop her brooding over stupid and dangerous fantasies by day, and send her to bed at night too weary to dream.
She closed the boot, and stood for a moment looking down the street It wasn’t a large place—little more than a village, really—but it had all the amenities, including an estate agency.
While I’m here, she thought, I’ll pop in and see what’s being asked for Dean’s Mooring. I should think the price is rock-bottom by now. And, if so, I could probably afford to buy it myself. Make it my spare time project. Do it up slowly, and just the way I want it.
The estate agency was empty when she went in, except for a middle-aged man busy at a filing cabinet. He turned and gave her a friendly smile.
‘May I help you?’
‘I hope so. There’s a property at Silver Creek I’m interested in—Dean’s Mooring. I think you’re selling it?’
He looked at her with genuine surprise. ‘I’m afraid not. As far as I know that particular property is not on the market with anyone.’
‘Oh.’ Tara digested that, frowning. ‘What’s the holdup, I wonder. Something to do with probate, perhaps?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ He paused. ‘I believe Mr Hanman of Hanman and Brough in Middle Street is handling the estate. You could always ask him—after the holiday, of course.’
Tara sighed. ‘I was hoping to get things moving right away.’
‘We have other houses on our books, if you’re looking for a riverside frontage,’ he said hopefully. ‘I’d be happy to show them to you.’
Tara shook her head, smiling. ‘I’m afraid I’m only interested in Dean’s Mooring. But thanks anyway.’
She would just have to be patient until the Bank Holiday was over.
First thing on Tuesday morning, I’ll come in and see Mr Hanman, she thought. Find out what the delay is.
It was aggravating, but at least she’d taken the first step, she consoled herself as she drove home.
Back at the house, she put on one of her father’s old shirts as an overall, tied her hair up in a scarf, and threw herself determinedly into her preparations. She’d already decided to begin with the dining room, and tugged the furniture into the centre of the room, covering it with dust sheets.
She deliberately kept away from the front of the house, not wanting to catch any untoward glimpses of
Caroline
or her master, but when it was time to take down the curtains she found she had little choice.
Because Adam was right there, facing the house, sitting at an easel which he’d set up near the jetty, apparently absorbed in painting.
‘Bloody nerve,’ Tara muttered under her breath, jerking the inoffensive curtains free from their rings with more force than the task required.
And yet there was no reason for her to be het up. Plenty of other painters had used Silver Creek House and its environs as their subject before this, and there’d been no objections from her or anyone else in the family. Indeed, her mother was prone to taking them cups of coffee, sandwiches, and homemade lemonade on hot days.
But pigs would fly before she offered Adam Barnard as much as the crumbs from the bread bin, she vowed as she descended from her steps, the curtains draped over her arm.
She worked feverishly, cleaning the paintwork with sugar soap, filling and smoothing, until a plaintive protest from Melusine alerted her to the fact it was already midday.
She fed Melusine, then heated herself a can of chicken soup, pouring it into a mug and sipping it, perched on the shrouded dining-room table while she contemplated the next stage of her labours. She’d chosen a creamy primrose emulsion for the walls, and she was itching to get started, knowing it would take two coats to cover the rather dingy blue presently in place.
When the knock sounded at the front door she stiffened, her mouth tightening. No prizes for guessing who that was, she thought. Sitting where he was, he couldn’t have missed all the activity inside the house. Indeed, when she’d been rubbing down part of the windowframe he’d even waved to her. And now curiosity had brought him over.
She drank the last of her soup, put down the mug, and went reluctantly to answer the door. At the last moment she switched her scowl for a look of haughty enquiry, and was glad when she threw the door open and discovered it wasn’t Adam at all, but a complete stranger. A stocky man with a moustache and a crumpled grey suit.
‘Good afternoon, madam.’ His smile seemed to have too many teeth. ‘We’re visiting homes in the neighbourhood, offering spot cash for antiques and collectables. I’d be happy to give you a free valuation on any item.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Tara, and went to close the door, only to find his foot was in it
‘Why don’t you have a little look round, madam?’ he urged. ‘You’d be surprised how many unwanted items you could have tucked away, just waiting to make money for you.’
‘There’s nothing,’ Tara said coldly. His insistence was irritating, she thought, noting over his shoulder that Adam and his easel had vanished.
‘I could always have a look-see for myself.’ He’d taken a step forward and was blocking the doorway. ‘Even if it’s just to update your contents valuation for insurance. You’d be surprised how many people are under-insured and have reason to be grateful to me. Or maybe I could have a word with your husband?’ he added insinuatingly.
He’d taken another step forward, forcing Tara to fall back, and now he was actually in the hall. His neck bulged over his collar, and under the cheap suit his shoulders looked uncomfortably wide.
She lifted her chin. ‘No, you can’t,’ she said curtly, knowing that he was well aware she was alone. ‘And I’d like you to go. Now.’
He chuckled. ‘How many times have I heard that before, I wonder? And it invariably leads to me doing some nice, friendly business.’ He paused. ‘Now, why don’t you give me the guided tour, like a good girl? And I’ll give you a fair price for anything that takes my eye.’
She realised that she was frightened, but that it was important not to let him see it if she was to have any hope of getting him outside the house again. The air seemed charged with a mixture of pungent aftershave and sweat that made her stomach churn. If one of those pink, moist hands touched her, she knew she would be sick.
At first she didn’t realise what the low rumbling sound was, because her ears were half deafened by her own pulse-beats. Then she realised it was a dog’s soft, threatening growl, and saw, just behind the intruder, Buster with his hackles up and his lips drawn back from his teeth, his whole attitude pure menace. And beyond him, she saw with a swift surge of relief, Adam, with his hands in his pockets, his casual stance contradicted by the icy watchfulness in the blue eyes.
He said quietly, ‘Is there a problem, darling? I was just on the boat. You should have called me.’
The newcomer turned sharply, giving Buster an unfriendly look. ‘Is that dog safe?’
‘Usually,’ Adam said pleasantly. ‘Except, of course, when he feels he has to defend my wife. And as he seems to dislike you, I suggest you do as she asks, and leave.’
‘No need for that,’ the other blustered defensively, as he edged past Buster. ‘I just came to see if I could do some business.’
‘No sale,’ Adam said. ‘And I’ve taken the number of your van. If you make any attempt to return, I shall inform the police.’
With a muttered obscenity, the dealer squeezed out of the hall and disappeared rapidly round the corner of the house. A moment later, they heard the sound of an engine being hastily revved, before the vehicle was driven off at speed.
The enemy disposed of, Buster sat, flattened his ears, and offered Tara a beguiling paw.
‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the paw and smoothing the dog’s head awkwardly with her other hand. She did not look directly at Adam. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’d taken Buster for a run across the fields, and saw the van parked at the end of the lane. Then I heard you both talking and thought I’d better intervene.’
‘I’m—grateful.’ She paused, gathering her resources. ‘But there was really no need. I—I could have managed.’
‘Could you?’ he said softly. ‘Now you looked to me like a lady on the run.’
‘But appearances are often deceptive.’ This time she did look at him, to find him leaning against the doorpost, all polite attention, apart from the cynical grin twisting his mouth.
She raised her voice a notch. ‘I assure you the situation was under control.’
‘So, if he’d grabbed you, you’d have been able to get away, no danger?’
Her hesitation was fractional. ‘Of course.’
‘Then show me.’ He took one stride and reached for her, jerking her off balance into his arms and holding her there imprisoned and helpless against the lean, hard length of his body.
Tara clenched her fists, pushing unavailingly at his chest. ‘Let me go, damn you...’