The Trusting Game. PENNY JORDAN

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      Designers were obviously much taken with the theme of the new century and of the change in the stellar constellations which would bring in the new age of Aquarius. The samples she was studying now featured all manner of such symbols: stars, suns, moons, along with various interpretations of the sign of Aquarius and its link to water.

      The colours, too, reflected that same watery element, blues and greens, highlighted with a range of sand colours from palest beige right through to glittering gold.

      Thoughtfully she fingered a piece of deep blue damask, gazing at the neat piles of samples on the table in front of her until she found what she was looking for. The old-gold brocade looked good with the damaskgood but slightly dull, she acknowledged, thinking ahead to how the various combinations of the fabrics she would choose would feature in advertising displays. The aqua fabric with the gold suns on it, while not to everyone’s taste, provided a dramatic contrast to the two plainer fabrics.

      The buyer from the designei shops had been flatteringly complimentary about her present range of fabrics, even if the order he had given her had been smaller than she could have hoped.

      ‘Nice, but very expensive,’ had been his comments about one of the damasks she had shown him in rich jewel colours.

      ‘Because of the quality of the fabric,’ Christa had told him. ‘In ten years’ time this fabric will just be starting to develop the elegant shabby patina you see in fabrics in old houses, where something cheaper will merely be wearing away.’

      ‘Mmm…In my business we don’t always encourage our clients to think long-term,’ he had responded drily.

      The doorbell had stopped ringing. Christa smiled in satisfaction, and then frowned as it suddenly started to ring again.

      Whoever it was was plainly not going to go away.

      Thoroughly angry, she put down the samples she had been studying and headed for the stairs.

      By the time she reached the front door Christa was not only out of temper, she was out of breath as well. Flipping her hair back off her face, she pushed it out of the way with one hand as she opened the door.

      ‘Look,’ she began irritably, ‘I’m working and…’

      Her voice died away as she gazed in shock at her unexpected visitor.

      Daniel Geshard. What was he doing here? Had he come perhaps to tell her that he had changed his mind, that he was withdrawing his challenge to her?

      The amusement in his eyes as he studied her didn’t seem to suggest that he was a man who had come cap in hand seeking favours, and Christa flushed as she recognised that part of his amusement seemed to be caused by the fact that she was barefoot.

      It was a habit of hers to spread her samples on the floor and kick off her shoes when she knelt down to study them. She had never in the past thought of her feet as a particularly provocative part of her body, but now, for some reason, she could feel her face starting to flush as she fought down the urge to curl her toes into the carpet in an effort to conceal them from him.

      He looked so much taller than she had remembered, so much more…more male. He was wearing jeans, a warm-looking blue shirt tucked into the waistband, and Christa felt her hot colour deepen slightly as she remembered how she had fantasised about seeing him wearing just such clothing.

      Her imagination had not done him justice, she acknowledged unwillingly. No man had any right to have such long legs, such powerful thighs.

      She tensed as, without asking her, he edged through the door and into the hallway, affording her a sideways view of his very male profile and his tautly firm…Christa swallowed quickly. Trust him to catch her at such a disadvantage, wearing an old, comfortable top and a pair of leggings, her face free of make-up, her hair loose and all over the place. Where had he got her address from? she wondered as she studied him surreptitiously. He was a very good-looking man, a very virile-looking man, she had to give him that. She shivered slightly, hastily looking…‘What do you want?’ she demanded, trying to control the situation again as he paused to study a collage of fabrics she had made while she was at college and which her aunt had proudly insisted on hanging in the hallway.

      She should have taken it down, Christa reflected as he withdrew his gaze from her collage and focused it on her.

      ‘What do I want?’ he repeated. ‘Well…’

      Something in the way he was looking at her made Christa feel as though she had unexpectedly stepped on to a patch of sheet ice and found herself dangerously, physically, out of control because of it.

      ‘I meant, what are you doing here?’ she corrected herself swiftly.

      ‘Ah.’

      A rueful smile curled his mouth. Determinedly, Christa hardened her heart. In any other man his apparent sense of humour would have delighted her, but with this man nothing could be taken at face value, as she already had good cause to know.

      It was in his interests, after all, to win her over to his side—part of the softening-up process he undoubtedly intended to use on her to get her to change her mind about his precious centre.

      ‘I’ve come to collect you,’ Christa heard him saying in response to her question. ‘The centre isn’t that easy to find…”

      ‘To collect me? I’m not a parcel!’ she said, adding acidly, ‘And in view of the fact that I’ve so far managed to find my way to some extremely obscure parts of the world, I doubt very much that finding my way to Wales should prove too much of a problem.’

      ‘You do still intend to take the course, then?’

      Christa shot him an angry look. Did he honestly think she was going to back out; that she could back out?

      ‘Of course I intend to take it,’ she confirmed fiercely.

      ‘Good.’

      ‘But the course doesn’t start until tomorrow morning at ten and I still have work to finish, so if you will excuse me—’ Christa began pointedly.

      The dark eyebrows rose. ‘The last train from our nearest main-line station to our local one leaves at four in the afternoon. You’ll be cutting things pretty fine.’

      Train? Christa stared at him.

      ‘I don’t intend…I’m not travelling by train; I’m taking my car.’

      ‘Ah…I’m afraid not. People attending our courses are not allowed to bring their own transport,’ he told her firmly.

      ‘What? I don’t believe it…you…’

      ‘It’s in our brochure,’ he told her unapologetically. ‘I did send you a copy.’

      Yes, he had, and she had promptly thrown it away without bothering to read it, so angry had she been at the way she had allowed herself to be manipulated into such a time-wasting situation.

      ‘That’s why I thought you might appreciate a lift…’ Suspiciously Christa watched him through narrowed eyes. What was the real purpose of his visit? Not to do her any favours, she was sure of it. If she didn’t arrive on СКАЧАТЬ