The Innocent's Sinful Craving. Sara Craven

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      Oh, God, no...

      She said swiftly, ‘No, thanks, I can manage. You really don’t have to bother.’

      ‘It will only trouble me if I am forced to put you in the car.’ He sounded faintly bored. ‘For both our sakes, do as you are told.’

      The desire to tell him to go to hell almost overwhelmed her. Almost—but not quite.

      So she obeyed, a picture of mutiny, fastening her seat belt quickly in case he offered assistance again.

      He added, ‘And do not sulk.’

      ‘Does it occur to you that I might not wish to be driven by you, Mr Belisandro?’ She’d intended to sound dignified, but somehow the words emerged as juvenile and petulant.

      His own tone was silky. ‘Then it is fortunate we have only a short journey to endure.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I am not convinced that you yet know what you truly want. I also believe you should be careful what you wish for.’

      The car moved forward and began to gather speed. The languid heat of the day seemed suddenly to be pulsing in Dana’s veins and, in spite of herself, she lifted her face welcoming the rush of air.

      ‘I’ve simply mislaid my bike,’ she returned. ‘I hardly require counselling.’

      ‘Is that what I’m offering?’ His mouth twisted in the way that always put her on edge. ‘I believed it was kindness, but perhaps you have little reason to recognise it.’

      ‘But I do know, however, when I’m being patronised,’ Dana said stonily.

      ‘Then let us change the subject. Do you know who has your bicycle?’

      ‘I think—Janice Cotton who works in the pub kitchen. I—I expect she meant it as a joke.’

      ‘She has a strange sense of humour.’ His tone was dry.

      ‘Well, that’s the English for you.’ She attempted airiness. ‘Unpredictable.’

      ‘You include yourself in that category?’

      ‘Why not?’

      He said softly, ‘Because I can already foresee the future you have chosen for yourself. The decision you have made to remain anchored to the ground when you could fly.’

      Dana stiffened. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

      ‘Che peccato. What a pity. Yet again totally predictable.’

      She said huskily, ‘You know nothing about me. Nothing. So what gives you the right to speculate?’

      ‘Aesop wrote a fable about a little dog who, through greed, mistook fantasy for reality and lost what was most precious to him.’ He paused. ‘I would not wish you to trade your substance for a mere shadow, Dana mia.’

      In the taut silence which followed, the car reached the crest of the hill and Dana saw Mannion waiting below, so familiar, so perfect, so desirable.

      My substance, she thought. No matter what I have to do to get you and keep you.

      She said, her voice shaking, ‘I don’t believe in fables, Mr Belisandro. If I make mistakes, I’ll stand by them and the last thing I need is advice from you.’

      She added fiercely, ‘And I am not your Dana.’

      He said something softly under his breath, and after that there was silence.

      It was only when she was safely back in the flat and in her room, that it occurred to her that the whispered words had been ‘Not yet.’

      Except it couldn’t possibly be that, she told herself, dry-mouthed. It couldn’t be.

      And she wouldn’t let herself think about it any more.

CHAPTER FOUR

      AUNT JOSS HAD stared at her. ‘You can’t find your bicycle? What nonsense and typical of your slapdash approach to life, which Mrs Sansom has already mentioned to me.

      ‘Well, you’ll just have to get up an hour earlier and walk. And after work tomorrow, you get the bus to town and see what cycles Shaw have in their secondhand section, and let it be a lesson to you.’

      As if, Dana thought wearily, I haven’t had enough lessons for one day.

      She had money saved but she’d planned to spend it on new clothes, something more fashionable than those her aunt thought suitable, with an outfit for Adam’s birthday party heading her list. She needed a pair of high-heeled sandals, and a top to complement the brief flared skirt with its white flowers on a dark green background that she’d produced in sewing class the previous term.

      She’d also hoped to visit the town’s smartest hair salon for a complete restyle, instead of the usual boring trim by the village hairdresser.

      All of it now in abeyance through no fault of her own.

      The encounter with Zac Belisandro had shaken her badly too, and telling herself endlessly that everything he’d said was pure speculation didn’t help one little bit.

      Oh, why couldn’t it have been Adam driving from the village instead? Except being discovered at the side of the road hot, tired and sweaty, with her hair escaping untidily from the ponytail Mrs Sansom insisted on was hardly the image she wanted him to have of her.

      Working at the Oak didn’t leave her the time or the energy for tennis, or very much else, so she needed some other way to put herself back in the frame for him.

      His birthday party in ten days’ time, when Serafina would hand over Mannion was the obvious opportunity to make him notice her again and remember the pleasure of that mistletoe kiss. To make him want more...

      But how much more? What could she find in her vast ocean of inexperience to keep him intrigued and interested without necessarily ‘going all the way’ as she knew many of the other girls at school had already done?

      The last thing she wanted was for Adam to think she was easy or cheap.

      On the contrary, she had, somehow, to make him fall in love with her so deeply that nothing else mattered.

      That was the goal. Now she had to find the route and nothing and no one, especially Zac Belisandro, could be allowed to deflect her.

      In fact, she wouldn’t give him another thought.

      That was until she emerged from the flat the following morning, an hour earlier for the expected hike to work and found her bicycle propped against the wall outside with a brand new padlock and chain dangling from the handlebars, and a note taped to the saddle.

      For a moment Dana stood transfixed, an inexplicable mixture of emotions going to war inside her as she read the words, ‘With my compliments. Z.B.’

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