Читать книгу One Man's Mistress: One Night with His Virgin Mistress / Public Mistress, Private Affair / Mistress Against Her Will - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 11

ANOTHER forty minutes passed before the door buzzer signalled the arrival of the final guest.

‘About bloody time,’ Tallie muttered as she lowered the oven temperature yet again. Her chicken dish might indeed be good-tempered enough not to resent being kept waiting. She, however, felt no such obligation.

There was a murmur of conversation in the hall and then a woman’s remembered voice rising effortlessly above it, pitched just right to reach anyone who might be listening, especially in the kitchen. ‘Mark, honey, you’re actually letting this waif you’ve acquired do the cooking? Are you crazy? My God, we’ll be lucky if we don’t all end up in Casualty having our stomachs pumped.’

If there was some way I could arrange for it to happen to you, and the arrogant Mr Benedict, without the other guests being affected, the ambulance would be already on its way, Tallie thought grimly. ‘This waif’ indeed.

‘But I need drinkies first,’ the newcomer added with decisive clarity. ‘And I’ve brought some lovely fizz to celebrate the success of my most recent shopping expedition. Yes, darling, I absolutely insist. A few more minutes won’t matter, for heaven’s sake. You see, I heard this whisper that Maddie Gould wasn’t terribly happy …’

A door closed and the rest of the revelation was lost.

Maddie Gould … Tallie repeated to herself as she took the smoked salmon from the fridge and arranged it carefully on the plates before adding the garnish. Now, why does that name seem familiar?

She was still trying to remember when a voice from the doorway said, ‘Can I carry anything into the dining room?’

Tallie glanced round and stiffened, her eyes widening. Because, for one shocked, ludicrous moment, it seemed to be Gareth standing there smiling at her.

But of course it wasn’t. This man might be the same height, with blond hair cut in a similar, slightly dishevelled style and blue eyes, but there, she realised, the resemblance ceased.

He was built on broader lines than Gareth and his features were pleasant rather than classically handsome.

He said ruefully, ‘Oh, God, I’ve startled you, and that certainly wasn’t the intention. I was lured here by this heavenly smell of cooking.’

Tallie added the final bunch of watercress to the plate in front of her. She said coolly, ‘You’re not worried about food-poisoning?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So you heard that?’

‘Wasn’t that the intention?’

He pulled a face. ‘Yes, of course. That’s why I’m here, really—to make sure you haven’t thrown a wobbly and dumped the whole meal in the bin.’ He looked at her solemnly. ‘Promise me you haven’t—not when I’m starving.’

Tallie found she was smiling. ‘No, you’re quite safe.’

‘I’m Justin Brent, by the way,’ he went on. ‘And you’re—Tallie? Is that right?’

‘My full name is Natalie Paget,’ she said. ‘But Tallie will do fine.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ he said, and his own smile warmed he unexpectedly, making her wish she wasn’t flushed from cooking, with untidy hair and still wearing a damned tea towel.

No, she thought. Not Gareth, in spite of the physical resemblance, but someone very different, with kindness as well as charm. Someone she could possibly learn to like, given the opportunity.

‘Let’s take in the starters,’ he added, seizing a couple of plates and starting towards the dining room. ‘Maybe other desperate refugees will realise and join us before I pass out.’

As Tallie followed him in, he paused, looking round the table. ‘Six places? You’re not eating with us?’

‘No, I’m quite definitely below the salt this evening. My own choice entirely,’ she added hastily as his brows rose. ‘I’d already eaten when I volunteered to cook.’

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s awfully generous of you.’

She said stiltedly, ‘Well, Mr Benedict has also been very kind, allowing me to stay here.’

His mouth slid into a grin. ‘And I’d say that response lacks real conviction. But Mark’s an old mate, and if he’s … wary about being used, then it’s fairly understandable.’

‘So I gather,’ she said wryly, then paused as she remembered that her information had come from Mark’s cousin. And that this man she was chatting to was Penny’s—what? Partner? No, that wasn’t it. ‘Current companion’ was the phrase Mark Benedict had used, whatever that meant.

And just being agreeable to the help did not make him available—something she needed to remember unless, of course, she was planning to take a leaf from Josie’s book, which she would not dream of doing. Even if she looked halfway decent.

Your place, she told herself firmly, is back in the kitchen, cooking rice.

She made a business of looking at her watch. ‘Heavens, I must get on. Perhaps you’d tell Mr Benedict that dinner is served.’

As she turned to go, her smile was brief and impersonal. And, she intended, final.

All the same, she found herself hoping, now that the dinner party was actually under way, that it would be Justin who’d bring the used plates from the first course back to the kitchen and collect the platter of chicken, in its thick delectable sauce of tomatoes, peppers, olives, with tiny spicy cubes of Spanish sausage, and the bowl of perfectly fluffy golden rice.

But of course—inevitably—it was Mark Benedict.

He looked at her, brows lifting. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Not a thing,’ she denied too swiftly, angry that she’d allowed even a glimpse of her disappointment to show. She indicated a pair of oven gloves. ‘Be careful, the dishes are very hot.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’ His glance was ironic. ‘I thought you’d prefer me to burn myself to the bone.’

She shrugged. ‘But then you might drop something, and I’ve worked too hard to see my food end up on the floor.’

‘I should have known,’ he murmured. He picked up the platter with care, breathing the aroma with lingering appreciation. ‘God, this looks fantastic.’

‘I hope it passes muster.’ She sounded prim, she thought as she busied herself taking the fresh plates from the warming drawer and putting them on the counter top.

Or maybe she was just being wary. It wasn’t a small kitchen by any means, but once again his presence in a room seemed to make it shrink in some inexplicable way, making her feel as if she needed to edge round it, pressing herself flat against the units in order to avoid physical contact with him. Which was absurd.

Yet it was only when he’d finally departed that she felt she could breathe properly again.

She hadn’t used all the wine in her casserole, and she poured the remainder into a glass and took a reviving sip of its cool Italian splendour. In reality, her job was done now, she supposed, but the missing caterers wouldn’t have left the kitchen in a mess with used pots, pans, knives and chopping boards, so she wasn’t planning to do so either.

I owe it to myself, she argued defensively, as she began to load the dishwasher. I want to see the thing through to the end. Everything like clockwork.

Besides, that wonderful glazed apple tart would be even nicer if it was warm, she reasoned, hunting for a pretty glass bowl to contain her whipped cream concoction.

And also, if she was honest, it would be good to rub Mark Benedict’s nose in her thoughtfulness and efficiency. Prove once and for all that she was no one’s ‘waif’—least of all his.

An hour and a half later, with the kitchen totally restored to order, Tallie filled the cafetière with a thankful heart. Mission accomplished, she thought. She could now vanish to her room and set about rescuing Mariana from her current dangerous predicament, trapped upstairs in a Spanish inn, which was little more than a house of ill fame, while Hugo Cantrell played cards in the room below with a bunch of equally villainous-looking locals, thus blocking her only means of escape, and, even worse, as a prelude to sampling the charms of the ladies on the upper floor.

Which now, of course, included Mariana—someone he was unlikely to have forgotten after their encounter at the waterfall.

It was annoying how easily this heroine of hers kept going off at a tangent, she thought restively, when she ought to be focusing far more on finding William, the man she loved, instead of allowing herself to be sidetracked so easily. Especially when, yet again, that track seemed to lead directly to arch-bastard Hugo.

But then I can hardly allow the course of true love to be too smooth, she reminded herself, or there’d be no plot. And Mariana had managed to dodge him unnoticed on the last occasion, which meant there would have to be a confrontation between them now …

‘We’re a coffee cup short.’

Tallie jumped and turned to face Mark, who was standing in the doorway, realising she’d been too deep in thought to hear his approach. ‘I’m sorry. I was sure I put out six.’

‘You did, but we need another for you, plus a brandy glass.’ He smiled at her and she felt the charm of it like the unwanted stroke of a hand on her skin. ‘We’re all waiting to drink your health.’

‘I already feel fine, thanks,’ she returned tautly, annoyed at her reaction. ‘And, as I’ve now finished here, I’d prefer to go straight to my room.’

‘I was hoping for a more gracious response.’ The green eyes narrowed. ‘Not that it matters. You’re coming with me to be properly thanked, even if I have to pick you up and carry you. Understood?’

It was as if Hugo Cantrell himself had suddenly materialised—walked off the printed page, she thought, aware that her heart was thudding like a roll of drums. And threatening to carry her—where? Off on his horse, thrown ignominiously over his saddle? Or across a darkened room to a waiting bed …?

She swallowed, then lifted her chin. ‘Do you never take “no” for an answer, Mr Benedict?’

‘I’d say that would rather depend on the question, Miss Paget,’ he drawled, as he collected the extra cup and saucer. ‘Now, shall we go?’

As she moved rigidly past him, he loosened the tea towel round her waist and removed it in one deft gesture.

And to offer any kind of protest would only make her look ridiculous, she thought, seething as she walked to the sitting room.

‘There’s nothing to be shy about,’ he told her quietly as she hesitated in the doorway. ‘You’re the heroine of the hour.’

But not in all quarters, Tallie thought, as her eyes rested on the woman seated on the sofa facing her, who’d signally failed to join in the general round of applause at her appearance, and was now looking her over with eyes almost the colour of turquoise that missed nothing.

For the rest, she had hair like burnished copper cut in a severe bob, skin like milk, plus long legs and full breasts, emphasised by the black silk slip of a dress that she was wearing.

‘I’m Di Harris.’ A sweet-faced blonde girl with serene grey eyes came up to Tallie, smiling. ‘And that’s my husband over in the corner struggling to decide between armagnac and Drambuie. What terrible choices men face all the time.’

She put a hand on Tallie’s arm and drew her unresisting into the room. ‘Charlie says you have to give me the recipe for that wonderful chicken,’ she went on, handing her a cup of coffee. ‘And I’m to use bribery if necessary.’

Tallie flushed. ‘It’s really very simple.’ She was about to recite the list of ingredients when she remembered the forbidden anchovies and paused awkwardly. ‘I’ll write it all out for you and ask Mr Benedict to pass it on.’

‘Or you could come round and cook it for us yourself,’ the other girl tempted. She looked around her, eyes dancing. ‘I’m sure everyone here would like a repeat performance.’

‘I hardly think the child’s experienced enough for that, Diana.’ Sonia Randall’s tone was chilly, cutting across the murmur of assent. ‘And if she’s thinking of cooking professionally, her presentation could certainly use some work. I’m not used to having my food just … thrown on to a dish. Also, she needs to hire help with the serving. It’s ridiculous expecting the host to trail backward and forward to the kitchen.’

Tallie’s flush deepened. ‘That was Mr Benedict’s own idea,’ she defended. ‘And I’ve no ambition to cook for a living.’

‘No?’ The supercilious gaze swept over her again. ‘Then how do you earn your crust?’ She added impatiently, ‘I suppose you do have a job?’

‘Not … exactly.’ Tallie bit her lip. ‘You see—I’m writing a novel.’

There was a silence, then Sonia Randall gave a harsh laugh. ‘Yes, I do see. You and a thousand others, of course, who don’t have this golden opportunity to meet socially with a commissioning editor for a major publishing house.’

She paused. ‘But if you’ve been persuaded to set me up so that this young woman can try and ingratiate herself with me, Mark darling, I assure you I shall not be amused.’

Tallie thought she heard Justin murmur, ‘Now there’s a surprise,’ but she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t be certain of very much at all—not when she felt as if she were a biological specimen pinned to a board for examination.

Mark said curtly, ‘There’s no question of any set-up. Tallie has no idea who you are, Sonia, or where you work. The topic has never been raised.’ He added coolly, ‘And I don’t suppose she’d have mentioned the book at all if you hadn’t started interrogating her. She simply doesn’t discuss it.’

‘Well, I’d like to talk about it.’ Justin moved to Tallie’s side. He gave her a coaxing smile. ‘You must tell us what it’s about.’

‘Oh, spare us,’ Sonia intervened impatiently. ‘I’m here to relax, not take part in some … busman’s holiday.’

‘Yet you’re always telling us you’re looking for the Next Big Thing.’ The ironic reminder came from Penny. ‘This could be it.’

‘I doubt that very much.’ Sonia examined perfectly manicured nails, her expression bored. ‘Anyway, there’s no chance of it coming to me. Alder House only takes scripts recommended by agents.’

‘Tallie has an agent,’ Mark said quietly. ‘Alice—Morgan, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes.’ Tallie bent her head in embarrassment, wondering at the same time how on earth he’d remembered that.

Sonia’s head lifted abruptly and she studied Tallie again, her eyes sharpening. ‘My goodness,’ she drawled. ‘I’d heard rumours that poor Alice was getting past it, and now it actually seems to be true.’

‘But didn’t you tell us earlier that she represents Madeline Connor, your latest acquisition?’ Mark asked coolly. ‘Presumably she was still sharp enough to negotiate that deal.’

Sonia’s crimson lips tightened. ‘She didn’t have much choice in the matter,’ she said curtly. ‘Maddie really wanted to work with me.’

Whereas I’d rather be boiled in oil, Tallie informed her silently, taking a gulp of hot coffee. But I should have recognised that Gould is Madeline Connor’s real name, because she rang up when I was in Mrs Morgan’s office.

Sonia’s gaze was still fixed on her. ‘Have you read any of her books?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Tallie returned. She’d devoured all the emotional, sexy, modern blockbusters that epitomised Madeline Connor’s work. ‘I look forward to them.’

‘And imagine you’re going to be just like her, I suppose.’ Sonia sighed. ‘Alice really shouldn’t encourage you in that when Maddie’s her client.’

Tallie looked back at her calmly. ‘She doesn’t—because I’m writing something completely different.’ She drank the rest of her coffee and put the cup down on the table. ‘And now I should be getting back to it, so I’ll wish you all goodnight.’

She flashed a swift smile at the concerned faces watching her—not including Mark Benedict, who simply looked amused—and walked to the door.

She’d just arrived at her room when Justin’s voice reached her. ‘Tallie—wait a minute.’

She paused reluctantly, waiting for him to join her.

‘I’ve come to apologise.’ His expression was wry. ‘I feel responsible for all that, because I asked about your book.’

‘It’s not your fault. She had it in for me before she got here.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘What on earth can he see in her?’

Justin gave a faint grin. ‘Believe me, that’s a question no man would ever need to ask.’

‘Oh,’ Tallie said, flushing a little, remembering the voluptuous breasts revealed by the skimpy chic of the black dress, and the full crimson mouth. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘But, forgetting Sonia, and how I wish we could,’ Justin went on, ‘I’d be seriously interested to hear about your book. So may I call you—take you out to dinner one night next week?’

She didn’t look at him. ‘I really don’t think that would be appropriate. Besides, I’m not even sure …’ She broke off, biting her lip. ‘Not that it matters,’ she added with an effort. ‘And now I must ask you to excuse me.’

She was aware of real disappointment when she closed her bedroom door behind her. He seems so nice, she thought wistfully, so how can he be propositioning me when he’s seeing Penny?

She sighed. But then, what do I really know? she asked herself almost resignedly. Maybe two-timing is just a way of life for men these days. And, if that’s how it is, I’m going to be spending a lot of my time alone.

She nodded, almost fiercely, as she crossed the room to her table and sat down in front of her laptop. Her vigil in the kitchen had been productive, and she knew now how Mariana was going to elude the advances of Hugo Cantrell, fuelled this time by his desire for revenge as well as lust, so doubly dangerous. It was going to be a terrific scene, she thought, and nothing Sonia Randall could say or do was going to spoil her belief in her story and her ability to finish it.

What happened to it after that was in the lap of the gods, but maybe she should warn Mrs Morgan that Alder House was definitely a no-no, she told herself, grimacing.

Determinedly, she relegated Sonia Randall’s dismissive remarks to the outskirts of her mind and turned her attention to the job in hand.

The words seemed to be flowing out of her as she wrote, then rewrote feverishly, building the tension as frantic minutes passed, with Mariana crouching on the bed, the ancient, filthy bed-covering ripping like paper in her hands as she desperately tried to fashion it into a rope to lower herself from the tiny window. Knowing, as she threw it aside, that even if the fabric held by some miracle, it would still be inadequate, leaving her with a dangerous drop to the street below, and certain serious injury.

As she stared around her, looking for some alternative means of escape and realising it did not exist. As she thought of William, prayed absurdly for him to come and find her—rescue her—when she knew it was impossible because he didn’t even know where she was and would never guess, even in his worst nightmares, that she’d ever embark on such a foolhardy escapade.

When he’d be encamped wherever Lord Wellington was and assuming that she was safe in her father’s house, living for—longing for—his return.

Then the terror of hearing the sound of a man’s boots ascending the stairs, stumbling a little because he’d been drinking, swearing softly in English in the voice she’d never forget.

Finding the darkest corner of the room and shrinking into it, trying to use the shadows for camouflage as the door was flung wide on its creaking hinges, and she saw him, standing there, his silhouette grossly exaggerated by the flickering light of the candle he was carrying.

His glinting eyes scanning the room—searching, and inevitably finding.

The gloating triumph in his voice as he said, ‘The runaway nymph at last, by God. I’ve been waiting for this moment, my beauty, and here you are, the delicious end to a perfect evening.’

The way he crossed the room, his stride long and steady, as if the sight of her had rendered him sober and grimly, wickedly focused. How his hands descended on her shoulders, jerking her towards him, and the insolent sensuality of his mouth.

And as he bent to her, Mariana, struggling to push him away, her heart pounding unevenly, suddenly heard someone knock on the door …

Except—it wasn’t supposed to happen that way, Tallie thought, staring in bewilderment at the words on the screen. There was going to be a diversion when the Spanish ruffians from downstairs, realising that Hugo Cantrell had been cheating them with marked cards, came looking for retribution, dragging Mariana away from him when he tried to use her as a shield, and enabling her to make her getaway while he went down like a fallen tree under the murderous barrage of their fists and boots, and his choking, agonised cries followed her as she fled.

It was the second, louder knock that brought her back to full reality. This was fact, not fiction. Someone was at her bedroom door, trying to attract her attention.

She glanced at her watch and stifled a yelp as she saw the time. She’d been working for almost three hours and, if it was Justin, back for another attempt at persuasion, she could only hope he was sober.

She opened the door warily and stepped back with a small, startled gasp when she found herself instead facing Mark Benedict.

‘For God’s sake,’ he said, an edge to his voice, ‘do you have to leap away every time you see me, as if I was a mad axe-murderer?’

‘Do you have to come banging on the door at this hour?’ she threw back at him shakily. ‘I might have been asleep.’

‘With the light on?’ he asked mockingly. ‘As a prudent landlord, I’d have felt bound to intervene.’

‘Or getting ready for bed, anyway.’ She glared at him.

‘You mean undressed?’ He grinned at her. ‘My luck’s never been that good, or not twice in a week, anyway.’

Do not blush, Tallie told herself stonily. Do not give him the satisfaction of seeing you embarrassed yet again.

‘Is there a reason for this visit?’ she asked coldly. ‘Apart from checking if I’m wasting your electricity, of course.’

‘I’ve made some hot chocolate,’ he said. ‘I thought you were probably still working, and might like some.’

She stared at him, her lips parted in sheer astonishment. ‘Hot chocolate,’ she said at last. ‘You?’

He shrugged. ‘Why not?’

‘I thought you’d have preferred something more exotic.’

His grin widened. ‘To match my taste in women? But you’ve only met one of them.’

And that was more than enough. The words hovered unspoken between them.

She said stiffly, ‘Please believe your … lady friends are no concern of mine.’

‘Bull’s-eye,’ he approved. ‘I’d be so grateful if you could talk Penny round to your way of thinking.’ He paused. ‘But most men have a weakness for chocolate in some form or other, and I’m no exception. So, do you want yours or shall I pour it away?’

She hesitated, realising reluctantly how long it had been since that gulped-down coffee.

‘Thank you,’ she said stiltedly. ‘It’s … very kind of you.’

‘Call it conscience,’ he said, his mouth twisting. ‘I should have known better than to put you in the same room as Sonia. Although the kitten turned out to have claws of her own,’ he added musingly.

‘We waifs learn to fight our corner,’ she returned, adding, ‘However, I’d still prefer not to encounter her again—or intrude on your privacy in any way.’ And bit her lip as she met his sardonic look.

‘You won’t. She left when the others did.’

Deep within her, she felt a disturbing stir of pleasure at the news. She said coolly, ‘She must be very disappointed.’

‘Well, she’s not alone in that,’ he said. His hand casually cupped her elbow, guiding her, to her surprise, towards the sitting room rather than the kitchen. ‘You dashed poor old Justin’s hopes pretty finally.’

‘What else did you expect?’ Tallie wrenched herself free and faced him hotly. ‘You may not care about your cousin’s feelings, but I think Penny’s lovely and she deserves better than her boyfriend trying to date another girl behind her back.’

‘Well, we agree about one thing,’ he said, closing the sitting room door behind them. ‘Penny is indeed a great girl. But you’ve got Justin all wrong. He was Penny’s escort tonight, but only because he’s her See If I Care Man.’

Tallie sank down on a sofa, staring at him. ‘Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?’

Mark was pouring chocolate from a silver pot. ‘It’s quite simple. Up until a few weeks ago, she was seeing a guy called Greg Curtis. Serious stuff, with talk of an engagement. Then Greg’s former girlfriend unexpectedly came back from Canada without the husband she’d gone there to marry, demanding sympathy, attention and the place in his life she occupied eighteen months ago. With the result that, suddenly, his future with Penny was in the melting pot.’

‘But that’s awful.’ Tallie’s brows snapped together. ‘She must be devastated.’

‘Pretty much.’ He handed her a porcelain mug full of steaming chocolate. ‘But she’s also a practical girl and she suspects this may be just a wobble, induced by some pretty intense emotional blackmail from the ex-lady.’ He smiled faintly. ‘And that he’ll soon remember why he was so thankful that the beautiful Minerva eventually opted for someone else.

‘At the same time, my cousin’s not the type to wear her heart on her sleeve, or sit round waiting while Greg sorts himself out. If he ever does, of course,’ he added, frowning. ‘However, for her own self-respect, she needs to be seen out and about with an attentive man in tow so that Greg will get the message loud and clear. Hence Justin, an old friend of mine, who has some bruises of his own and isn’t looking for a heavy relationship right now.’

‘Making him Penny’s See If I Care Man,’ Tallie repeated slowly.

I wish I’d found someone like that, she thought wistfully, when Gareth dumped me. So much better than moping around like a wet week, letting everyone see how much it mattered. As it is, I’ll always feature as some naïve saddo. Not least with the man facing me now.

‘But Pen doesn’t have exclusive rights, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’ Mark was watching her over the top of his mug. ‘Plus, he’s a nice guy and it would do you good to go out—flutter your wings a little.’

He paused. ‘After all, you know what they say about all work and no play.’

‘I have heard it before,’ she admitted tautly. ‘But even if Justin isn’t messing Penny about, it makes no difference. I—I shan’t be accepting his invitation. And I’ll take my drink to my room, if that’s all right.’

‘It isn’t,’ he said laconically. ‘To use a cliché—we need to talk.’

She lifted her chin. ‘If it’s about Justin, it’s pointless.’

‘May I know why?’

‘I’d have thought it would be obvious—especially to you.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll be moving very soon. End of story.’

‘But I’d be happy to pass on your new address.’ Those amazing green eyes were watching her steadily. ‘Except, of course, you don’t have one—do you? Because you haven’t been able to find anywhere else to live in London. Isn’t that the truth of it?’

She looked down at her hands, clasped round the mug. ‘No.’ It hurt to have to admit her failure and to him of all people. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘So what are you planning to do?’

She hunched a shoulder, still not looking at him. ‘Go back to my parents’ home.’

‘But that isn’t what you want.’

‘I don’t really have any other choice.’

He nodded. ‘And, of course, you think Justin may hesitate over pursuing you back to whatever rural fastness you came from.’

‘It’s hardly likely.’ The fragrant chocolate was smooth comfort against the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘But, as we’ve only just met, it’s not a major concern. And I’m sure someone as attractive as Justin won’t feel too put out.’

‘Possibly not.’ He was leaning back against the cushions, those endless legs stretched out in front of him, his gaze meditative. ‘But it seems a pity to reject him out of hand. So why don’t you forget the looming deadline for your departure and stay on here?’

She almost spilled her chocolate. ‘Stay—here?’ Her voice was hoarse.

‘Why?’

‘Because I think you deserve a chance.’

Her mind was reeling. ‘With—Justin?’

‘No, to finish your book, you little idiot. Your love-life’s your own business. But you need peace and quiet in which to work, and I can provide that.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I’m seriously grateful about tonight.’

‘But I already said—we’re quits.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘maybe I’ll ask another favour some time, if that makes you feel better.’

She wasn’t sure how it made her feel, so she sipped at her chocolate as she tried to collect her random thoughts.

Eventually, she said, ‘I don’t think Miss Randall will be very pleased when she finds out.’

He shrugged. ‘Why should she care? You’re being invited to continue your occupation of my spare room, sweetheart, not move into my bed.’

The muscles in her chest seemed to clench oddly. She had to control her voice. ‘But you don’t want me here. You’ve made that clear.’

‘I won’t be here a great deal myself. I have several trips abroad coming up, and maybe a flat-sitter isn’t such a bad idea.’ He smiled at her. ‘And you like the place, don’t you? I’ve noticed the way you move round it—the pleasure with which you look at things—handle them as if they were precious.’

She tried for lightness. ‘I didn’t realise I was under such close observation.’

‘Security.’ He echoed her tone. ‘I had to be sure you weren’t a burglar’s moll.’

He finished his chocolate. ‘So—are you going to stay? I’m offering the same terms as Kit.’

She hesitated. ‘In that case, yes, please.’ She tried a smile. ‘Although I could always cook you the occasional meal.’

He shook his head. ‘This evening was a one-off. Same roof—separate lives. That’s the deal.’

‘Of course.’ She put down her empty mug and rose. ‘In that case, thank you, Mr Benedict, and … I wish you goodnight. It seems it’s my turn to be grateful.’

‘One other thing.’ As she reached the door, his voice halted her. ‘My name is Mark. Think you can remember that?’

She said huskily, ‘I … can try.’

And, as she went away from him, down the passage to her own room, she found herself wondering if she’d found the perfect solution to her problems—or just made the biggest mistake of her life. She realised she could not find an answer.