His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      She set a tray with cups and saucers, adding a jug of cream. Caz carried it into the sitting room, placing it on the small table in front of the sofa, and she followed with the percolator. She sat at one end of the sofa, and he occupied the other, stretching long legs in front of him.

      ‘I like the shampoo you use,’ he commented unexpectedly. ‘Apple with a hint of vanilla.’

      Tarn busied herself pouring coffee, leaning forward so that the swing of her hair could conceal the sudden warmth invading her face.

      She said, ‘You’re—very perceptive.’

      ‘I’m on a steep learning curve,’ he said. ‘Finding out about you.’

      Her throat tightened nervously. Was he serious? Given his money and resources, if he really started to probe her background, what might he not unearth?

      With a supreme effort, she kept her voice light, and her hand steady as she passed him his coffee. ‘Well, that shouldn’t take long. There isn’t very much to discover.’

      ‘On the contrary,’ he said slowly. ‘I suspect it could take a lifetime.’

      He reached for his brandy glass and raised it. ‘To us.’

      She drank without repeating the toast. ‘Isn’t that still slightly presumptuous?’

      ‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘I simply have to win you round to my way of thinking, that’s all.’

      Her breathing quickened. ‘And if I can’t be won?’

      ‘Do you mean “can’t”?’ he asked. ‘Or is it really “won’t”?’

      She moved a restive shoulder, replaced her glass on the table. ‘Does it make a difference?’

      ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Whichever it is, you’ll find I don’t give up easily.’

      There was a silence, then she said jerkily, ‘Mr Brandon—Caz—this whole conversation is making me—uneasy. I think you should drink your coffee and leave.’

      ‘I’m sorry if you feel uncomfortable with the situation.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now, I was thinking it was like a foretaste of the future. Me—back from business trip. You—with your hair just washed and no makeup. Both of us enjoying a nightcap together, knowing exactly how the evening will end, but content to wait. To savour every lovely moment.’

      His gaze rested on her startled, parted lips then moved down to the flurried rise and fall of her breasts under the concealment of her robe.

      He added with sudden roughness, ‘For God’s sake, Tarn. Don’t you know that I’m nervous too. Have you forgotten what I said the other night?’

      ‘No.’ She paused. ‘I—I haven’t forgotten anything.’

      ‘You said earlier that we’d start again, and that’s what I’m asking for. A chance to prove to you that I mean what I say. And we’ll go at your pace, not mine. That’s a promise. When you come into my arms, it will be because you want to be there.’

      His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Now relax, and drink your coffee, while we discuss our first real date.’

      She gasped. ‘You—really don’t give up, do you?’

      The hazel eyes glinted. ‘You’d better believe it. And at the same time please understand that you have nothing to fear.’

      No, she thought. You’re the one who should be afraid.

      She picked up her cup and drank, regarding him over its brim. ‘So what do you have in mind for this date?’

      ‘I thought we might go to the theatre. I have tickets for the opening of the new Lance Crichton play next Wednesday.’

      Her brows lifted in disbelief. ‘Heavens. Sprinkled with gold dust, I presume.’

      ‘Almost,’ he admitted. ‘Are you interested?’

      Her eyes danced. ‘I think it’s an offer I can’t refuse. I saw Payment in Kind on Broadway and loved it.’

      ‘Then I hope you’ll tell him so. He got rather a mauling from some of the New York critics.’

      She drew a breath. ‘You mean I could meet him. Are you serious?’

      ‘I’m sure it could be arranged.’

      Tarn thought then shook her head regretfully. ‘The play’s quite tempting enough. I think that meeting Lance Crichton would turn my head completely.’

      He smiled. ‘You’re not so easily overwhelmed.’

      He drank the rest of his coffee and stood up.

      ‘You’re leaving?’ The words were involuntary, and so, she realised with shock, was the note of disappointment in her voice.

      ‘That was what you wanted a few minutes ago,’ he said. ‘If you remember. And I’ve got what I came for, so I’m quitting while I’m ahead. It’s wiser and probably safer.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.’

      There was a sudden, odd tension in the room, making her skin tingle. Forcing her to catch her breath.

      She made a business of scrambling to her feet. ‘I—I’ll see you out.’

      ‘Fine,’ he said equably. At the front door, he turned, looking down at her. ‘If you asked me to stay, I would.’ His voice was gentle, but the hazel eyes were asking questions for which, to her horror, she could find no answer. She looked back at him, mutely, pleadingly, and he nodded as if she’d spoken.

      He said, ‘Then I’ll be in touch.’ He took a strand of her hair and lifted it to his face. ‘Apples and vanilla,’ he said, and went.

      Tarn leaned against the closed door, trembling. Dear God, she thought weakly, just for a moment there I was actually tempted. And he—he—let me off the hook. How shameful is that?

      She washed up the cups and glasses, emptied the percolator and put everything away as if she’d spent the entire evening alone. She’d tell Della he’d been there—of course she would. But in her own time, which certainly wasn’t tonight. She needed to get her head straight before she broached the subject.

      In her room, she took off her robe and reached for her nightgown. But, on impulse, she let it drop to the floor, and slid into bed naked. The sheets were cool against her heated skin, the fabric a caress that tantalised, offering arousal without satisfaction.

      Eyes wide, staring into the darkness, she moved restlessly, languorously, aware, deep within her, of a scald of yearning, as unwelcome as it was unfamiliar.

      It was wrong to feel like this, she told herself feverishly. Wrong and hideously stupid. None of the men she’d met in the past had affected her in the same way. She’d enjoyed their company—even found it pleasant to be held—kissed—but never wanted more. Had not grieved when it ended.

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