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

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      ‘Not any more,’ he said. ‘What happens to you, happens to me. That’s the way it is, lady.’

      Tarn looked down at the table, her heart hammering. Dear God, she said silently, please don’t let that work both ways. Not this time.

      The seafood platter was piled high with prawns, mussels, oysters, cockles, spider crabs and crayfish, and came with finger bowls and a pile of paper napkins.

      Sharing it with him should have been a problem, an intimacy she could have done without, but in some strange way it was fine, even enjoyable, as if they’d been doing it all their lives.

      And, at the same time, it was messy, funny and totally delicious.

      Of all the meals we’ve eaten together, she thought suddenly, this is the one I shall always remember. And stopped right there, because she didn’t want any memories of him to take, alone again, into the next chapter of her life. Because she couldn’t afford that kind of weakness.

      They decided to forego the desserts, choosing instead a pot of good, strong coffee.

      ‘Shall we take a walk along the beach before the tide turns?’ Caz suggested, as he paid the bill.

      There was flat sand beyond the pebbles and shingle, and the sea was just a murmur, its surface barely ruffled by the breeze. Tarn drew the clean air deep into her lungs as she lifted her face to the sun, wondering at the same time how things would be if nothing existed but this moment.

      ‘So, tell me what you did in New York.’ He spoke softly, but his question brought her sharply back to reality. Because it was clear he expected to be answered.

      She shrugged. ‘I suppose—pretty much what I do now.’

      ‘Your editor was sorry to lose you.’

      ‘I owe her a lot.’ Especially for that reference.

      ‘Will the job be waiting for you—if you go back?’

      ‘That or another one. I’ve rarely been out of work.’ She didn’t want the interrogation to continue, so she bent, slipping off her loafers. ‘I’m going to find out if the sea is as inviting as it looks,’ she threw over her shoulder as she headed for the crescent of ripples unfolding on the sand.

      ‘I warn you now—it will be cold,’ Caz called after her, amused.

      ‘You can’t scare me. I’ve been to Cape Cod,’ she retorted, speeding into a run.

      He hadn’t been joking, she discovered. The chill made her catch her breath and stand gasping for a moment, but an ignominious retreat back to the beach was out of the question for all kinds of reasons. So she waded in a little deeper, finding that it grew more bearable with every step, until eventually it bordered on pleasure.

      However, it was also bordering on the turn-ups of her linen pants, which was not part of the plan at all, so she opted for discretion over valour and walked slowly back to the shore.

      Caz looked at her, shaking his head in mock outrage. ‘Crazy woman.’

      She lifted her chin. ‘Chicken!’

      ‘But not a chicken risking pneumonia. Or with wet feet and no towel.’ Before she could stop him, he picked her up in his arms and carried her up the beach, scrunching over the pebbles before setting her down on a large, flat rock. ‘I prefer my seas warm, like the Mediterranean or around the Maldives.’

      He produced a spotless white handkerchief from a pocket in his chinos and unfolded it. ‘I’m afraid this is the best we can do.’ He dropped to one knee in front of Tarn and began to dry her feet, slowly, gently and with immense care. ‘Like blocks of stone, as my old nanny would have said. Even your nail polish has turned blue.’

      Forbidding herself to laugh, she tried to free herself. ‘There’s no need for this. I can manage—really.’

      ‘Is it the reference to Nanny that’s worrying you?’ Caz looked up at her, his hazel eyes warm and amused. ‘Do you think I’m going to revert to childhood and play “This little piggy”? Or are you afraid I’m a secret foot fetishist seizing his opportunity?’

      ‘It’s just—inappropriate,’ Tarn managed lamely, aware that some totally foreign instinct was prompting her to wriggle her toes into the palm of his hand, and not just for warmth either.

      ‘Is it?’ He was grinning openly now. ‘I do hope so. I’d hate to be politically correct at a moment like this.’ He traced the delicate bone structure of her slender toes with the tip of a finger. Cupped the softness of her heel. ‘They’re adorable,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe these foot fetishists have a point.’

      ‘Caz.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Don’t—please.’

      ‘Why not? Isn’t this where women like to see men—kneeling at their feet?’

      ‘I am not “women”.’ Tarn could feel that betraying heat spreading through her body again. ‘And I want to put my shoes on.’

      ‘In a minute. This is a new experience for me, and I like it.’ He bent his head and kissed each instep, warmly and lingeringly. ‘They taste of salt,’ he whispered.

      The breath caught in her throat. She said with difficulty, ‘People—there are people coming. You must get up.’

      Caz shook his head. ‘And lose this perfect opportunity? Not a chance.’ He looked up at her, and there was no laughter in his gaze. It was serious and intent. ‘Tarn, my sweet, my lovely girl, will you marry me?’

      ‘You—you said you wouldn’t rush me.’ Her voice was a whisper too.

      ‘I dare not wait,’ he said quietly. ‘After all, you came out of nowhere. I’m terrified that you may disappear in the same way.’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘I—I won’t do that. But it’s too soon. You must see that.’ She spread her hands almost beseechingly. ‘We—we hardly know each other.’

      ‘Something I’m seriously trying to redress,’ he said. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed? Sweetheart, we can catch up on the details as we go. But I think I knew from that first moment that you were the one. I guess it was too much to hope that you felt the same.’

      He added almost harshly, ‘But now that I’ve found you, Tarn, I can’t let you go, and I won’t. Not when I love you and want you to be my wife. You and no-one else for the rest of our lives.’

      ‘This isn’t fair…’

      ‘I think there’s a cliché that covers that—something about love and war.’

      But this is war, she cried out silently, from the pain and confusion inside her. It’s just that you don’t know it yet.

      Aloud, she said, stumbling over her words, ‘I—I have to think. You must give me time. We have to be sure.’

      Caz sighed ruefully. ‘My darling, I am sure. Now, I just have to convince you. But I’ll be patient. I won’t even ask if you love me in return. Or not yet.’

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