Читать книгу The Seduction Game - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

AS THE intercom buzzer sounded Tara Lyndon reached across, without taking her eyes from the computer screen in front of her, and flicked a switch.

‘Janet?’ Her tone was pleasant but crisp. ‘I thought I said no interruptions.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Lyndon.’ Her secretary’s tone was rueful. ‘But your sister’s on the line, and she’s not easy to refuse.’

Don’t I know it? Tara thought with an inward sigh, anticipating the purpose of Becky’s call.

Aloud, she said, ‘OK, Janet, put her through, please.’

‘Darling.’ Becky’s tone lilted along the line. ‘How are you? Isn’t the weather glorious?’

‘We’re both fine,’ Tara said drily. ‘Becky, I’m up to my eyes in work. Can you make it snappy, please?’

‘No problem.’ Her sister’s response was too swift and too mild. ‘I was just calling to check on the arrangements for the weekend. I couldn’t remember exactly what we’d agreed.’

Pinocchio, thought Tara, your nose has just grown another two inches.

‘There’s no great confusion,’ she returned. ‘You invited me down to Hartside. I told you I couldn’t make it.’

‘And I told you to think it over,’ was the immediate reply. ‘So have you?’

Tara closed her eyes. ‘Becky, it’s very kind of you, but I have things of my own to do.’

‘Don’t tell me. You’re flying to Dusseldorf to interview someone who might be perfect for a job in Tokyo.’

‘No,’ Tara said. ‘I’m going away for a complete break. Total rest and relaxation,’ she added, surreptitiously testing the length of her own nose.

‘But you could have that with us,’ Becky wheedled.

‘If this weather holds up, we’ll be using the pool. And the garden’s looking wonderful. Besides, the children are always asking where you are these days.’

‘Nonsense,’ Tara said sternly. ‘Giles and Emma probably wouldn’t recognise me if they roller-bladed over my recumbent body.’

‘Exactly what I’m getting at,’ Becky came back at her immediately. ‘You’re so tied up in that career of yours that none of us ever see you. And with Ma and Pa nearly on the other side of the world—I—I miss you, Sis.’

The throb of pathos sounded almost convincing, Tara thought, amused in spite of herself, until, of course, one remembered Becky’s adoring husband Harry, her ebullient but delightful brats, her endlessly kind and supportive in-laws and the village of Hartside where she pretty well reigned as queen. If her sister spent one lonely moment, it would be through her own choice.

Interpreting Tara’s silence as an implicit weakening of her position, Becky went on eagerly, ‘Darling, it’s been ages since you came down. Surely you could spare me a couple of days.’

‘And if I did,’ Tara said slowly, ‘could you swear to me that you haven’t rounded up yet another unfortunate man to run past me as a potential husband.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ her sister said airily. ‘I wrote you off as a lost cause a long time ago.’

‘Becky.’

‘You’re so suspicious,’ her elder complained.

‘With very good reason,’ Tara said grimly. ‘All right, who is he?’

‘My goodness,’ Becky said with asperity. ‘It’s come to something when I can’t invite a new neighbour round for a drink without you going into conspiracy theory mode.’

‘Who—is—he?’ Tara repeated through gritted teeth.

Becky sighed. ‘He’s just moved into Glebe Cottage—that lovely place near the church. He’s a tax lawyer, middle thirties, and very attractive.’

‘And still single?’ Tara’s brows lifted. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘There’s nothing the matter,’ Becky defended. ‘They’re extremely nice people.’

‘They?’

Becky hesitated. ‘Well, his mother’s staying with him at the moment, helping him settle in.’

‘My God.’ Tara felt an unholy bubble of glee well up inside her. ‘He’s thirty-something and he still lives with Mummy?’

‘Nothing of the kind. It’s a purely temporary measure. She has a very nice home of her own. And she’s desperate for him to meet the right woman.’

‘I’m sure she is.’ Tara’s tone was dry. ‘She probably has the poisoned dagger ready and waiting.’

‘I don’t think that job is doing you any good,’ Becky said severely. ‘It’s made you disagreeably cynical.’

‘It’s certainly taught me to differentiate between people’s public faces and private agendas,’ Tara agreed. ‘Whatever, I’m afraid I’m not tempted to change my plans. I’m going to spend the weekend relaxing in my own way.’ Not to mention the following two weeks as well, she added silently.

‘And on your own, I suppose?’

There was something about the question that flicked Tara on the raw. ‘Not necessarily.’

‘Tara,’ Becky shrieked. ‘You mean you’ve actually met someone. Tell me everything.’

‘No,’ Tara said, already regretting that she’d allowed herself to be provoked into the fib. ‘There isn’t anything to tell. Not yet.’ Which was no more than the truth, she placated her conscience.

‘You slyboots,’ Becky said gleefully. ‘You’ve got to give me a hint. Is he tall or short? Dark or fair?’

‘No comment.’

‘But he is gorgeous, right?’ Becky persisted. ’And with money?’

Tara sighed. ‘It’s a pity they did away with the Spanish Inquisition, Beck. I could have got you in at the top level, no problem.’

‘Naturally I’m going to be interested,’ her sister said with dignity. ‘Do you realise how long it is since you had even a marginal involvement with a man?’

‘Only too well,’ Tara said gently. ‘And why.’

‘Well, it’s time you put all that behind you,’ Becky said firmly, after a pause. ‘I’ve been telling you for ages that not all men are rats. Let’s hope this weekend is a step in the right direction.’

A vision rose in front of Tara’s eyes of a sunlit creek, a boat’s mast dark against the bright water. A square white house set amidst trees, and no sound except the cry of birds.

Involuntarily her mouth curled. ‘Oh, I think I can promise that. Now I must go, Becky. I have a report to finish.’

‘And you’re not going to give me even a teensy idea what your new man is like—so that I can tell Harry.’

‘Just say that it’s early days. He’ll understand.’

‘Yes,’ said Harry’s loving wife, with something of a snap. ‘I expect he will.’

Tara was laughing as she put the phone down, yet it wasn’t really funny, she thought ruefully. She should have stuck to her guns. Admitted that she was going to spend her holiday alone, and what the hell. But Becky’s assumption that this had to be the case had riled her for some reason. And it would also have provided her sister with extra ammunition in her bid to persuade her down to Hartside, she reminded herself defensively.

Becky could not be allowed to organise her life as if she was some extension of the carol concert, or the village fête. Or continue to dangle allegedly eligible bachelors in front of her, not to mention the occasional divorcé, or, in dire straits, widower.

Yet it was still genuinely stupid to let her think there’s a new man in my life, she told herself. Beck won’t leave it there. She’s like a ferret. Thank God she doesn’t realise where I’m going. She’ll assume I’m jetting off somewhere for sun, sangria and sex—as I used to do with Jack.

Something closed in her mind at the memory. Like a shutter coming down to defend her against pain. Except there was no defence.

Becky was right about one thing, she thought. It was more than time to let go. To release herself from the dead hand of the past. And maybe a new relationship was what she needed to help the healing process along.

But, like a burned child, she’d hung back from the fire, letting the demands of her career fill the aching space that Jack had left. And now perhaps it was too late.

She pushed her chair back restlessly, rising to walk over to the picture window behind her, staring out at the vista of City offices which confronted her. This was what was important. This was what mattered, she told herself. She was a partner in a top recruitment service—a headhunter who could smell the blood in the water. Too busy setting executive traps to offer any personal bait herself.

As she turned away, she glimpsed her reflection in the glass and halted. Scrutinised what she took for granted each day—the mid-brown hair, immaculately bobbed just short of shoulder-length, the white silk shirt, buttoned to the throat, topping the dark skirt ending discreetly on the knee. Neat, efficient and unthreatening.

An image which she’d actively sought, and now, suddenly, found vaguely unsatisfying.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she apostrophised herself impatiently. You must need a holiday more than you thought.

She sat down and applied herself with new determination to her report, scanning swiftly through what she’d already written.

Tom Fortescue had come highly recommended, she thought. He was well-qualified, and a man in a hurry. And yet...

Tara shook her head. Her usually reliable antennae seemed to be sounding a warning, and she didn’t understand why.

There were no significant gaps in his CV, and he’d interviewed well. She had nothing to go on but sheer intuition. And that intuition was telling her not to suggest Mr Fortescue for the highly paid position at Bearcroft Holdings for which he seemed so eminently suited.

Her doubts were there, loud and clear, in every line of her report. On the surface, it was a dispassionate, professional assessment, but Tara could see she’d been non-committal where she should have been enthusiastic, guarded when she should have been singing his praises. She sighed and saved the file to disk.

It would be up to her associates to make the final judgement, of course, and in some ways she was glad she would not be there to justify her assessment. Or to express any regrets to Tom Fortescue, who would not be pleased to find himself sidelined on her say-so. He was sharp and ambitious, and he’d come to Marchant Southern specifically because he wanted to fill the Bearcroft spot, and Tara was sure he regarded the appointment as in the bag.

But by the time she came back from leave the dust should have settled, she told herself philosophically. And Mr Fortescue could advance his career with another firm of headhunters.

She retrieved the disk from her machine, and went out to give it to Janet. And checked, registering with shock the figure perched with easy familiarity on the edge of her secretary’s desk.

‘Good afternoon.’ Tom Fortescue got up, smiling, and walked to meet her. ‘I happened to be in the area, and wondered if you’d like to have lunch?’

In a pig’s ear, Tara thought cynically. She’d never given him the slightest hint that she’d be prepared to meet him socially. But that hadn’t stopped him. No doubt he intended to pump her discreetly for her verdict in some convenient wine bar.

‘Rather too obvious, my boy,’ she advised him under her breath, rigidly conscious of the disk in her hand.

Her answering smile was cool. ‘I’m sorry. I go on leave this afternoon, and I need to clear my desk. I’m going to make do with the sandwich service.’

‘I’m sorry, too.’ He paused, pulling a face. ‘But I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities.’

When hell freezes over, thought Tara, feeling obliged to walk with him to the lift and chat civilly while they waited for it to arrive.

Altogether too sure of himself, she thought as she walked back. And how dared he think her such easy game?

Janet, however, was looking wistful.

‘He was lovely,’ she confided. ‘I told him you were busy, and he said he was happy to wait.’

‘I hope he maintains that philosophical attitude,’ Tara said drily, as she passed over the disk. ‘Sign the letters in my absence, please, Jan.’ She paused. ‘And mark that report “Confidential”, circulating it to associates only. It won’t be wanted until Tuesday morning’s meeting.’

‘Will do.’ Janet smiled cheerfully up at her. ‘What time are you going?’

‘I’d like to be away by two. I still have some packing to do.’

‘Are you going somewhere gorgeous?’

‘I think so,’ Tara agreed. ‘And do you know the best thing about it?’

‘What?’ Jan’s eyes widened. She clearly expected she was going to be told about George Clooney’s favourite hideaway.

Tara leaned towards her confidentially. ‘No phone,’ she whispered, and went back, laughing, to her office.

‘Polish,’ Tara muttered to herself, checking the items in the box in front of her. ‘Stuff for the brass and silver, oven cleaner, washing-up liquid, and rubber gloves.’ She nodded her satisfaction, and tucked a packet of cleaning clothes around the cans to keep them steady.

Melusine, sleek, black, green-eyed and openly glum as she’d observed the packing process, had taken up a position on the table beside the box. Now she reached out a delicate paw and swiped at the plastic wrapping round the packet.

‘It’s all right.’ Tara ran a caressing hand over the silky fur. ‘You’re coming with me.’ That’s if I can get you in your basket, she added silently.

Melusine preferred to travel on the front passenger seat, with her paws on the dashboard, free, untrammelled, and with an excellent view. At least until her path was crossed by a police car, ambulance or fire engine, when the sound of the siren would cause her to wrap herself round Tara’s neck like a scarf.

Her special bowl, her bean bag, and the cat food she favoured at the moment were already in the boot of the car. The basket was hidden behind the living-room sofa, waiting for the psychological moment when she could be tricked inside.

In fact, Tara had bestowed far less thought on the contents of her own travel bag, she realised with amusement. Apart from the usual quota of undies and toiletries, she was only taking jeans, shorts, T-shirts, sweaters, and training shoes that had never seen a designer label. All practical clothing for the job ahead.

Becky would kill me if she knew what I was doing, she thought ruefully as she carried her box of cleaning materials down to the car. But Ma and Pa will be back next month, and I want the house bright and shining to welcome them.

She hadn’t the slightest doubt that was where they’d head for as soon as they’d unpacked and rested from their South African trip. The house in Chelsea was still nominally home, but Silver Creek House had been their favoured retreat for years now.

It was fairly basic. As well as lacking a telephone, the house had no television or central heating, and the kitchen stove and water heater worked from a large gas tank, sited discreetly at the rear of the house. But these were minor inconveniences as far as Tara was concerned. She’d never minded cleaning out the fireplaces in the sitting room and dining room, or filling the log baskets which fed them. She loved the house, and all its memories of happy family holidays.

During the winter, the Pritchards kept an eye on the place. Mrs Pritchard worked part-time in the nearby village shop, and Mr Pritchard was employed at the small boatyard upstream, where her parents’ much loved boat Naiad spent the winter.

Mrs Pritchard would have been happy to carry out any cleaning that was needed, but Tara preferred to do it herself. Anomalous as it might seem, it was work she thoroughly enjoyed.

When she and Becky had been younger, it had been her sister who’d been the potential high-flyer—the girl about town with the high-paid job and crowded social life. Tara had always been the quieter, more domesticated one.

No one could believe it when Becky met Harry, and opted for marriage and motherhood without even a backward glance at all she was giving up.

However, no one could pretend that housework would ever be Becky’s forte, Tara thought affectionately. But by bringing the same organisational skills to marriage as she had to her career she’d safely ensured she’d never have to do any.

It would be inconceivable to Becky that anyone would give up precious holiday time to scrub, polish and add the odd lick of paint to a shabby, elderly house. And equally incredible that the same person might actually revel in their self-appointed task, or find it positively therapeutic.

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.

But what the hell? she thought as she locked up and went down to the car. I’m not going to be seeing anyone unless I choose. After all, there isn’t another house within miles.

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.

Ambrose had been a bachelor, and apparently had had no living relatives. Certainly no one ever came to see him. Jim Lyndon, Tara’s father, had spoken vaguely of contacting the lawyers dealing with the old man’s estate and perhaps making an offer for the cottage, but had never actually got around to doing anything constructive about it.

Maybe I will, Tara thought idly as she started out of London. After all, the parents won’t want to find themselves living next to an eyesore. And I’ve nothing booked in my diary but some serious peace and quiet. I could, maybe, start the ball rolling.

On the other hand, I could forget about everything that smacks of business and just—chill out. What utter bliss.

But the road to paradise was not an easy one, she soon discovered. Other people had also decided to make an early start to the Bank Holiday weekend, and traffic was grindingly heavy.

By the time Tara turned the car on to the rutted track which led to the house her head was aching, and Melusine was expressing vigorous disapproval from the rear seat.

She parked in the yard at the back and got out, stretching luxuriously and drinking in gulps of the cool early evening air. Then she reached into her bag and found the key.

The house felt chill and slightly damp as she stepped into the kitchen. There was a strange mustiness in the atmosphere too.

The smell of loneliness, Tara thought, looking around her. I’ll soon change that.

As usual, there was a box of groceries waiting on the scrubbed table, courtesy of Mrs Pritchard, and one of her magnificent steak and kidney pies covered by a teatowel resting beside it. Tucked under it was a note, stating that the gas tank was full and the log man had delivered the previous week, together with the various invoices for these services. And, waiting in the big old fridge, was a bottle of Tara’s favourite Chablis.

Already she could feel the stresses and strains of the past weeks easing away, she thought, heaving a sigh of pure satisfaction.

Mrs Pritchard, you’re an angel, she told her silently.

She went back to the car, sniffing at the tubs of lavender that her mother had planted the previous year, and collected the frantic Melusine, who gave her a filthy look and stormed up the clematis-hung trellis on to the shed roof.

‘Feel free,’ Tara told her as she unloaded the rest of her things from the car and carried them into the house. From past experience, Melusine would sulk until supper time, then appear as if nothing had happened, twining herself affectionately round Tara’s legs.

When the entire family was staying Tara contented herself with a small room at the back, but now she had the luxury of choice, and she opted for the large room at the front, which matched that of her parents, just across the landing. She might not be spending much time on the river—even the most cursory inspection downstairs confirmed she had plenty to do—but she could enjoy the view, and let the sound of the water lull her to sleep at night.

She tossed her travel bag on to the wide bed and walked to the window, flinging back the half-drawn curtains and opening the casement to take her first long look at the creek itself.

And stopped in utter astonishment and swiftly mounting anger. She’d expected the usual tranquil expanse of water, ruffled only by moorhens or a passing duck, with Naiad as a centrepiece.

Instead she was confronted by another boat, a large cabin cruiser, smart, glossy, and shouting money. And tied up, for pity’s sake, at their landing stage.

She said aloud, furiously, ‘What the hell...?’ and halted, her attention suddenly riveted by the loud, excited barking of a dog just below the window, and Melusine’s answering yowl of fright

‘No,’ Tara exploded. She was across the room in two strides, and flying down the stairs, dragging back the bolts on the front door with hands that shook with rage as well as fear for her pet.

She hurled herself outside, colliding heavily as she did so with another body, much taller and more muscular than her own. Was aware, shockingly, of bare, hair-roughened skin grazing her cheek. Heard a man’s deep voice say, ‘Ouch,’ and felt strong hands steadying her.

‘Let go of me’ She tore herself free. ‘My cat—where is she?’

‘She’s safe. She’s roosting in that tree over there.’

Swinging round, Tara saw Melusine crouching on a branch twenty feet from the ground. And, leaping joyously below, still barking, a golden Labrador dog, not long out of puppyhood.

‘Oh, that’s great,’ she said savagely. ‘That’s just bloody wonderful. Call your damned dog off, will you? And when you’ve got him under control, the pair of you can clear out. This is a private landing.’

‘But apparently not a happy one.’ The interloper’s faint drawl was composed, even amused. All she could see of him was a dark shape between herself and the setting sun. She took a step backwards, shading her eyes.

She registered dark blond hair, in need of cutting, and cool blue eyes. A strong face, with a beaky nose, high cheekbones, and a firm, humorous mouth above a jutting chin. Not conventionally handsome by any means, but searingly attractive, she thought with a shock of recognition. He had a good body, too, lean and tanned, and clothed only from the waist down in faded denim which emphasised his long legs and flat stomach.

She felt a sudden sensuous tingle quivering along her nerve-endings that she had not experienced since Jack. And she resented it. More than that, feared it.

Dry-mouthed, she hurried into speech. ‘There’s not much to be happy about. You’re trespassing, and your dog has tried to kill my cat.’

‘Dogs chase cats. That’s a fact of life. They rarely if ever catch them. That’s another. And if he did get near I wouldn’t give much for his chances.’

His laconic drawl was infuriating. He turned towards the Labrador, put two fingers in his mouth to utter a piercing whistle, and called, ‘Buster.’ The dog came instantly to his side, eyes sparkling with excitement and tail wagging.

Tara glared at them both.

‘And what chance does my cat have—stuck there in that tree?’

‘Is she really stuck?’ he asked mildly. ‘I can probably do something about that.’

Tara took a deep breath. ‘The only thing that you can do is go. You’ve no right to be here. If you weren’t trespassing, none of this would have happened.’

‘And just what are your rights in all this?’

Tara jerked a thumb. ‘That happens to be my house.’

‘Really?’ The straight brows lifted. ‘Now I could have sworn it belonged to a Jim and Barbara Lyndon, who are both in their fifties and currently in South Africa. I must have been misinformed.’

‘They’re my parents.’ His easy assurance was unnerving. ‘And may I ask how you came by that information? ’

He shrugged. ‘People in the village are very helpful.’ He paused. ‘So it’s not really your house at all.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

Tara gritted her teeth. ‘If you want to split hairs...’

‘An excellent idea,’ he agreed affably. ‘You see, I was also told that this landing was a shared one with Dean’s Mooring.’

‘Back in the mists of time, perhaps.’ She hated the defensive note in her voice. ‘However, Mr Dean never used it. He didn’t even have a boat.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But, you see, I have. And as clearly no one is using the Dean’s Mooring share at the moment, I’m borrowing it.’

‘But you can’t—not without permission from the owner,’ she protested wildly.

‘And do you know how to contact him?’ He was grinning openly now.

Tara could have ground her teeth. ‘Hardly,’ she returned stiffly. ‘As I’m sure you’re already aware, Mr Dean died some time ago.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And I left the ouija board in my other jeans. Well, they say possession is nine tenths of the law, so it looks as if we’re going to be neighbours.’

‘But you can’t just—move in and take over like this.’

‘The evidence suggests I can—and I have. So why don’t we work out a co-existence pact.’

Because I don’t want you here, she thought. It’s too lonely—too remote to share with some passing stranger. And because you worry me in ways I don’t understand.

She hurried into speech. ‘You must see that’s impossible. You could be anybody.’

‘On the lines of escaped criminal, rapist or axe murderer, I presume.’ He gave her a weary look. ‘Would you like to see my driving licence—my gold card?’

‘The only thing I’d like to see is you and your boat sailing away,’ Tara said inimically. ‘There’s a marina about six miles upstream. You should find everything you need there.’

‘I think it’s a little premature to be discussing my needs,’ he drawled. ‘Besides, I’m quite contented where I am. And, as I was here first, maybe it’s you that should be moving on. But I won’t make an issue of it,’ he added kindly. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you don’t play loud music or throw wild parties. I like my peace and quiet.’

For a moment she couldn’t move or speak. Her eyes blazed into his—fire meeting ice. Then, with a small, inarticulate sound, she marched back to the house and went in, slamming the door behind her with such violence that a blue and white plate fell off the wall and smashed at her feet.

‘Oh, hell,’ said Tara, and, to her own surprise and disgust, burst into tears.