Читать книгу Determined Lady - Маргарет Майо - Страница 8

THAT night Saira dreamt about Jarrett, a vivid, disturbing dream where he came to the cottage in the middle of the night and made love to her. To begin with she had fought him, fought desperately to keep him away, but he had worn down her resistance and she had given in, and her body had experienced such feelings of intense pleasure that when she awoke they still persisted.

For a few moments she remained curled in a cocoon of mystic warmth and happiness, hugging the feelings to her, and then the realisation of what she was nurturing hit her like a body blow and she sprang out of bed absolutely disgusted with herself.

This man was her enemy, for goodness’ sake—and yet the pleasure had been so real it was unnerving. She could remember it as clearly as if it had actually happened— and she had to face him today! Her cheeks burned at the thought and her only saviour was that he would not know what was going on in her mind.

The dream, and the feelings that went with it, were even more amazing considering the way she felt about men at this particular stage in her life. Tony had done such a good job of hurting her that she did not want to enter into a relationship with any other man for a very long time, perhaps ever.

Even the fact that she had let Jarrett make love to her in her dream went against all the principles she had ever held. She did not believe in sex before marriage. Both of her sisters had got pregnant before they were married and she was determined it was not going to happen to her.

Tony had accepted her wishes without question and, looking back now, it was obvious that he had never truly been in love with her, and there had definitely never been any explosion of feeling between them such as she had experienced in her dream. That had been unreal, like the stuff you read about in romantic novels.

She would have loved to shower now and rid herself of the feel of Jarrett from her body. Not that her aunt had a shower anyway, but she could have bathed—if there had been hot water! Everything was conspiring against her—and she blamed Jarrett Brent totally; he was the instigator of all this.

She couldn’t and wouldn’t accept that her aunt had sold out to him. He was taking advantage of the situation, he was trying to swindle her out of her rightful inheritance. He wanted the cottage, he wanted to do it up and possibly sell at a profit, and he was prepared to go to any lengths to get it.

After washing in cold water and dressing in a pair of jeans and a yellow T-shirt, Saira ate her now usual breakfast of cornflakes, tidied the kitchen and cleaned the bathroom, and still it was too early to ring Mr Kirby. She went into the village and took some photographs; of the cottage, of the village street, of the church, of all things to remind her of Amplethwaite, everything except Frenton Hall!

It puzzled her that Jarrett Brent lived alone in such a huge place. Was it a family home? Had he lived there all his life? She could not remember hearing the name Brent before, but maybe it was that she hadn’t listened, hadn’t taken it in when she was a child.

Soon after nine she phoned Mr Kirby’s office, only to be told, much to her disappointment, that he was out visiting a client. ‘Can I get Mr Kirby to ring you?’ asked his secretary.

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Saira answered. ‘I’ll call back this afternoon.’ She had not expected this, not first thing on a Monday morning, and she fumed impatiently as she made her way back to the cottage.

At one she made herself a cheese sandwich and at half-past Jarrett Brent knocked on the door. Saira felt a deep depression settle over her. There could only be one reason for his visit—he had come to gloat, he had brought the necessary proof that he owned the cottage!

It was a disquieting, disturbing thought, because although she had asked for it, she had not really expected it, or wanted it even, but as she opened the door and saw him standing there in a pair of beige linen trousers and a darker brown polo shirt, all thoughts of deeds fled. Saira relived again her vivid dream and felt an impossible heat pervade her body, even her heart clamoured and she thanked God he couldn’t see the turmoil inside her.

She saw him in a different light today, she saw not her enemy but a sexually attractive man who had the power to bring her whole body to such fever pitch that it was frightening. OK, it had all been a dream, but the feelings were still there and they scared her to death and her eyes were wide as she looked at him.

His brows rose in a crooked line. ‘You’re looking at me as though I’m a ghost or something. Is there anything wrong, Miss Carlton?’

She swallowed hard and pulled herself together, his formal use of her name helping to rationalise her feelings, to put a certain amount of space between them. It allowed for no intimacies and she liked that, she wanted to forget the all too real feel of his body against hers in the dream. He was a hard-muscled man and yet his skin had been smooth, only faintly covered with hair, nothing rough, nothing to put a barrier between their two bodies.

She found herself wondering whether he really was like that and then shook her head angrily. ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she invited with reluctance, ‘but actually I was wondering why you’re empty-handed, why I get the impression that you don’t come with good news?’ She deliberately made her tone sharp.

His eyes narrowed. ‘On the attack already?’ But his voice was cold too and Saira knew this wasn’t going to be a pleasant meeting.

‘It’s pretty obvious I’ll be angry when you’re messing me around like this,’ she retorted. ‘I don’t like being kept waiting. If you can’t provide proof then why don’t you admit it? Please sit down.’

‘There’s been a hold-up,’ he told her, dropping into her aunt’s rocking chair, completely relaxed, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hands linked behind his head, his eyes watchful on hers.

Saira’s chin lifted fractionally as she perched herself on the edge of a chair opposite, and her fingers curled. She was ready to do battle. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. My estate manager has been taken ill and I have no idea where to look in his highly personalised filing system.’ He looked at her levelly as he spoke, but a sudden quiver to his lips made her suspicious.

‘You said they were in your safe,’ she reminded him.

He lifted his shoulders. ‘Mine, my estate manager’s— what difference does it make?’

She eyed him furiously. ‘A hell of a lot. Why don’t you quit stalling and tell me the truth?’

‘Come, come, Miss Carlton, losing your temper will get you nowhere.’ He was almost smiling but not quite; it was just his lips that curled.

Blue eyes met green and Saira was the first to look away. It was unreal how one single dream could have such a devastating effect. She hated this man and yet felt such a strong physical awareness that it almost took her breath away. ‘Doesn’t your estate manager have a secretary?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice cold, not wanting to give him the merest hint of the turmoil inside her.

‘I’m afraid not.’ His answer was delivered so easily, so perfunctorily, that she knew he was lying, yet she knew equally as strongly that he would never admit it.

‘So what are you suggesting?’ How she wished she were a man so that she could take a swipe at him. She needed to do something, she needed to get him out of her system, he really was the most aggravating man she had ever met.

‘You could go home, leaving me your address, and I’ll get in touch with you eventually.’ He was still totally relaxed, totally in control; they could have been discussing the weather, or something equally uninteresting, certainly not the major issue of Honeysuckle Cottage.

Saira felt incensed and bounced to her feet. ‘No, most definitely not. I categorically refuse.’ Lord, what did he take her for, a fool?

‘What, to give me your address?’ He made no effort to move himself, looking up at her with that irritating smile that made her want to lash out at him.

She shook her head, pigtail flying. ‘To go away without getting what I want. Hell, will you stop playing games with me?’ Never in her life had she been so angry so often. She was not usually a volatile person. This man rubbed her up the wrong way—and she felt sure he was doing it deliberately, that he took great pleasure out of goading her, though for what reason she had no idea.

‘Games?’ His brows rose as though he wondered how she could possibly think such a thing. ‘I’m perfectly serious, lady. But it’s your prerogative to do whatever you wish.’

Saira glared. ‘I don’t care about prerogatives, I care about justice. You’re stringing me along, aren’t you? You’re not producing the deeds because you don’t possess them, although for reasons known only to yourself you’re letting me believe that you can’t lay your hands on them.’

She paused and drew in a deep breath. ‘But if you want to play dirty we’ll see what my aunt’s solicitor has to say when I get in touch with him later. Maybe he has the deeds, I don’t know, I never asked him, but I’ll find out, you’ll see, and then I shall expect an apology, a big one.’

Finally he rose to his feet but he was completely unperturbed by her outburst; in fact he was highly amused, his smile wide, his teeth very white and slightly uneven.

‘You needn’t look so happy,’ she cried, her chest heaving, her eyes over-bright, ‘I mean it. I’ve had enough of your procrastination.’

Jarrett Brent shook his head slowly, his blue eyes steady on her face, the smile still there. ‘You’re quite a woman, Miss Carlton.’ And he took a step closer.

Saira stepped back in panic, remembering her dream, aware that it would be all too easy to become intoxicated by his raw, sensual maleness.

‘I’ve never met such a wildcat before.’ His voice went a note lower.

‘You wouldn’t have done so on this occasion if you hadn’t treated me so badly,’ she returned sharply, defensively, her heart beginning to pound.

‘I’m not complaining,’ he assured her. ‘You have a healthy temper and I admire it. I like a woman who sticks up for her rights.’

‘How can you possibly like me, Mr Brent, when I’m the enemy?’ She kept her tone hard, it was imperative she did not let her anger slip.

‘Enemy?’ His brows lifted. ‘I don’t see you in that light. A firebrand, a spitfire, a woman intent on fairness, but not my enemy, no. And don’t you think it’s about time we dropped the formalities?’ His voice deepened even further. ‘My name’s Jarrett. I’d like you to use it.’ Again he took a step closer and now there was only inches between them.

The way he was behaving, Saira could see her dream becoming reality, and if he should dare to touch her she would be unable to resist him; the barriers had already been dealt with. It was stupid to give such importance to a dream but she could not help it; it had been so real, was