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Cover She felt her robe slip from her shoulders, and pool at her feet. About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Endpage Copyright
His lips were cool and fresh, exploring hers with a kind of exquisite, lingering deliberation.
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Tara glimpsed herself in the mirror as she finally headed for the door, cat basket in hand and a furious Melusine giving her a piece of her mind. Marchant Southern would have got the shock of their lives if they could see her now, she thought, grinning as she surveyed her faded denim skirt topped by an ancient sweatshirt. Her hair was bundled up into a baseball cap, and her bare feet were thrust into a pair of canvas slipons which had seen better days.
Or at least another inhabited house, she amended quickly. Which Dean’s Mooring certainly wasn’t. Up to three years ago it had been occupied by old Ambrose Dean, white-bearded and fierce, a loner who had guarded his privacy jealously. After his death, the cottage, which stood about a hundred yards upstream from Silver Creek House, had remained empty, and was fast becoming derelict.
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