Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | One Night with His Virgin Mistress

One Night with His Virgin Mistress
Sara Craven
Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.The bedroom surrender Country girl Tallie Paget has moved to London to pursue her dream, so when she is offered a sumptuous apartment to housesit, she can’t believe her luck… Millionaire Mark Benedict returns to his luxurious London pad and is shocked – although not altogether displeased – to find Tallie in his marbled ensuite shower! Mark instantly sees the benefits of his very beautiful and very innocent new houseguest…Virginal Tallie is powerless to resist Mark’s expert seduction – he has resolved that he will take Tallie to his bed and turn her from inexperienced innocent…to his willing mistress!


Suddenly—shockingly—Tallie became aware that she was no longer alone. She felt the gush of cooler air as the sliding doors of the shower were wrenched open, and someone—a total stranger—was standing there, staring in at her.
Tallie had a horrified impression of black tousled hair and dark brows snapping together in furious astonishment as ice-cold green eyes swept over her.
‘Sweetheart, you have precisely one minute to explain who you are, and what the hell you’re doing in my flat…’
His voice was low-pitched and well-modulated, but grim as an Arctic wind.
‘I’m waiting.’
He took a towel from the rail, and threw it towards her, and she snatched at it, huddling it almost gratefully round her body.
‘Although maybe finding a naked, pretty girl in my shower is immaculate timing. A hint that a few hours of mindless enjoyment could be just what I most need.’
He began to unbutton his shirt. ‘So put the water on again, darling, and I’ll join you…’
Sara Craven was born in South Devon, and grew up surrounded by books in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.
Sara has appeared as a contestant on the Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and is also the latest (and last ever) winner of the Mastermind of Great Britain championship.
Recent titles by the same author:
THE VIRGIN’S WEDDING NIGHT
INNOCENT ON HER WEDDING NIGHT
THE FORCED BRIDE
BRIDE OF DESIRE
WIFE AGAINST HER WILL

ONE NIGHT WITH HIS VIRGIN MISTRESS
BY
SARA CRAVEN

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

PROLOGUE
HE’D had, he decided, more than enough. First, there’d been that burning nightmare of a journey, wondering if each moment would be their last, then the flight in the Hercules, and now this damned farce of a press conference with its endless questions.
When all he really wanted was complete solitude, an opportunity to get out of clothes that stank and felt as if they were crawling, and a torrent of hot water to rid him of the dirt and the fear and make him human again. And God help anyone who got in his way.
But now the idiot female reporter in the front row was batting her eyelashes at him once more. She’d been behaving as if she knew him, he thought wearily. And what was that all about?
‘So,’ she said, ‘can you describe for my readers how you felt?’
‘I was running for my life,’ he said tersely. ‘What do you think?’
‘But you were the leader,’ she went on. ‘You got everyone to safety. What’s it like, finding you’re a hero?’
‘Madam,’ he said curtly, ‘I’m tired and filthy, and no one’s bloody hero. Not now. Not ever. I simply did my job. And, if you’ve nothing more sensible to ask, I’m out of here.’
They’d laid on a car to take him home, and he was thankful, knowing he wouldn’t have been fit to drive himself. He was also grateful that, by some miracle, he still had his wallet and his keys and that soon he’d be able to find sanctuary and the peace he craved.
Yet as soon as he walked into the flat and closed the door behind him, his senses, honed by the dangers of the past few days and nights, told him that something was wrong. That he was not alone.
He stood, listening intently for a moment, recognising that it was the sound of a shower he could hear, then went soft-footed down the hallway towards his bedroom.
If he’s still here, invading my space, he thought, I may well kill him.
He strode into the bathroom and halted, his furious gaze fixed incredulously on the slender shape clearly visible behind the glass walls of the shower cabinet.
‘God in heaven,’ he spat under his breath, ‘I don’t believe this.’
And he stepped forward and wrenched open the doors of the shower to reveal a naked, beautiful and terrified girl.
CHAPTER ONE
A week earlier
‘IT SEEMS almost too good to be true,’ Tallie Paget said with a sigh.
‘In which case, it probably is,’ her friend Lorna cautioned dourly. ‘You hardly know this guy. For heaven’s sake, take care.’
Tallie gave her a reassuring smile. ‘But that’s exactly what I shall be doing, don’t you see? Taking care of Kit Benedict’s flat while he’s in Australia. Living rent-free, with just the electricity and heating bills to pick up, which I shall naturally be keeping to an absolute minimum.
‘That has to be better than starving in a garret while I get the book finished—even if I found a garret I could afford.’
She paused. ‘There’s a word for this kind of thing.’
‘I know there is,’ said Lorna. ‘Insanity.’
‘Serendipity, actually,’ Tallie informed her. ‘Making happy and accidental discoveries, according to the dictionary. Just think—if I hadn’t had an evening job in one of the wine bars which Kit’s company supplies, and he hadn’t seen me scouring the evening paper for a shed in someone’s garden at less than a thousand pounds a month, none of this would have happened.’
‘And moving out of your present flat,’ Lorna asked dryly. ‘Is that another happy accident?’
‘No, of course not.’ Tallie looked down at her empty coffee cup. ‘But I can’t stay there, not under the circumstances. You must see that. And Josie made it quite clear she wasn’t planning to move out and live…with him.’
‘God, she’s a charmer, your cousin,’ said Lorna. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she asked you to be her bridesmaid.’
‘Nor me.’ Tallie bit her lip. ‘I can hear her now. “But Natalie, Mother will be mortified if you refuse. And it isn’t as if you and Gareth were ever really involved.”’
‘No,’ said Lorna. ‘And just as well, under the circumstances.’
Tallie sighed. ‘I know. And I also know I’ll come to see that myself one day.’ Her voice wobbled slightly. ‘But not quite yet.’
Lorna gave her a searching look. ‘And this Kit Benedict— promise me you’re not falling for him on the rebound.’
‘Heavens, no,’ Tallie said, aghast. ‘I’ve told you. He’s off to Australia touring vineyards to learn more about the business. Besides, he’s not my type in the slightest.’
Her type, she thought with a pang, was tall, with blond hair falling across his forehead, blue eyes and a lazy smile. Kit Benedict, on the other hand, was medium height, dark, and rather too full of himself.
‘He needs a house-sitter,’ she went on. ‘I need somewhere to live. Done deal.’
‘So what’s it like, this place of his? The usual bachelor pad, overflowing with empty bottles and take-away cartons?’
‘The total opposite,’ Tallie assured her more cheerfully. ‘It’s on the top floor of this Edwardian block, with an utterly fabulous living room—wonderful squashy sofas and chairs, mixed in with genuine antiques, plus views all over London. There’s a kitchen to die for, and two massive bedrooms. Kit said I could use whichever I wanted, so I’m having his—the master with its own gorgeous bathroom.’
Her room at Josie’s was like a shoe box, she thought. One narrow single bed, with a zip-up plastic storage container underneath it for her limited wardrobe. No cupboard, so the rest of her clothes were hanging from two hooks on the back of the door. One tiny table, fortunately just large enough for her laptop, and a stool.
But then her cousin had never really wanted her there in the first place. Her offer of accommodation had been grudgingly made after family pressure, but neither she nor her flatmate Amanda, who occupied the two decent-sized bedrooms, had ever made Tallie feel welcome.
But the rent was cheap, so she’d have put up and shut up for as long as it took—if it hadn’t been for Gareth.
Wincing inwardly, she hurried on. ‘In fact, the whole flat is absolutely immaculate because there’s a cleaner, Mrs Medland, who comes in twice a week. Kit says she’s a dragon with a heart of gold, and I don’t even have to pay for her. Apparently, some legal firm sees to all that. And I send the mail on to them too.’
She took a deep breath. ‘And, from tomorrow, it will be all mine.’
‘Hmm,’ said Lorna. ‘What I can’t figure altogether is how it can possibly be all his—unless he actually owns this wine importing concern he works for.’
Tallie shook her head. ‘Far from it. Apparently the flat is part of some family inheritance.’ She paused. ‘There’s even a room that Kit uses as an office, and he says I can work in there and use the printer. I’m spoiled for space.’
Lorna sighed. ‘Well, I suppose I have to accept that the whole situation’s above board and you’ve actually fallen on your feet at last. I just wish you could have moved into Hallmount Road with us but, since Nina’s boyfriend arrived, we’re practically hanging from the light fittings as it is.’
‘Honestly,’ Tallie told her, ‘everything’s going to be fine.’
And I only wish I felt as upbeat as I sound, she thought as she walked back to the advertising agency where she’d been temping for the past three weeks, filling in for a secretary who’d been laid low by a vicious bout of chickenpox. She’d soon adapted to the strenuous pace of life at the agency, proving, as she’d done in her other placements, that she was conscientious, efficient and highly computer-literate. At the same time she’d revelled in the stimulation of its creative atmosphere.
In fact, it had been one of the nicest jobs she’d had all year and she was sorry it had come to an end, especially when her immediate boss had hinted that it could become a permanency. That she might even become a copywriter in due course.
And maybe Lorna was right and she was insane to throw away that level of security for a dream. On the other hand, she knew that she’d been given a heaven-sent opportunity to be a writer and if she didn’t grasp it she might regret it for the rest of her life.
Everything she’d done that year had been with that aim in mind. All her earnings from the wine bar, and as much as she could spare from her daytime salary, had gone into a savings account to support her while she wrote. She’d be living at subsistence level, but she was prepared for that.
And all because she’d entered a competition in a magazine to find new young writers under the age of twenty-five. Entrants had been required to produce the first ten thousand words of a novel and Tallie, eighteen years old and bored as she’d waited for her A level exam results, had embarked on a story about a spirited girl who’d disguised herself as a man and undertaken a dangerous, adventure- strewn odyssey across Europe to find the young army captain she loved and who was fighting in Wellington’s Peninsular Army.
She hadn’t won, or even been placed, but one of the judges was a literary agent who’d contacted her afterwards and asked her to lunch in London.
Tallie had accepted the invitation with slight trepidation, but Alice Morgan had turned out to be a brisk middle-aged woman with children of her own who’d been through the school and university system, and who seemed to understand why career choices were not always cut and dried.
‘My brother Guy always knew he wanted to be a vet like Dad,’ Tallie had confided over the wonders of sea bass followed by strawberry meringue at the most expensive restaurant she’d ever visited. ‘And at school they think I should go on to university and read English or History, before training as a teacher. But I’m really not sure, especially when I’ll have a student loan to pay off once I qualify. So I’m taking a gap year while I decide.’
‘Have you never considered writing as a career?’
Tallie flushed a little. ‘Oh, yes, for as long as I can remember, but at some time in the future. I always thought I’d have to get an ordinary job first.’
‘And this gap year—how will you spend that?’
Tallie reflected. ‘Well, Dad always needs help in the practice. And I’ve done a fairly intensive computer course, so I could find office work locally.’
Mrs Morgan leaned back in her chair. ‘And what happens to Mariana, now in the hands of smugglers? Does she get consigned to a file marked “might have been”? Or are you going to finish her story?’
‘I hadn’t really thought about it,’ Tallie confessed. ‘To be honest, I only wrote that first bit for fun.’
‘And it shows.’ Alice Morgan smiled at her. ‘It’s not perfect, but it’s a good rip-roaring adventure told with real exuberance by a fresh young voice, and from the female angle. If you can sustain the storyline and the excitement at the same level, I think I could find more than one publisher who might be interested.’
‘Goodness,’ Tallie said blankly. ‘In that case, maybe I should give it some serious thought.’
‘That’s what I like to hear,’ the older woman told her cheerfully. ‘One aspect you might consider is your hero, the dashing William. Is he based on anyone in particular—a boyfriend, perhaps?’
Tallie flushed. ‘Oh, no,’ she denied hurriedly. ‘Nothing like that. Just—someone I see around the village sometimes. His parents have a cottage they use at weekends, but I…I hardly know him at all.’
Although I know his name—Gareth Hampton.
Mrs Morgan nodded. ‘I rather got that impression because, as a hero, I couldn’t get a handle on him either. And if Mariana is going to risk so much for love of him, you must make him worth the trouble. And there are one or two other things…’
Tallie caught the train home two hours later in something of a daze, the back of her diary filled with notes about those ‘other things’, but by the end of the journey any indecision about the immediate future was over and she had A Plan.
Her parents were astounded and a little dubious when she outlined it.
‘But why can’t you write at home?’ her mother queried.
Because I’d never get anything done, thought Tallie with rueful affection. Between helping Dad when one of his assistants is sick, walking the dogs, giving a hand in the house and getting stuck into loads of batch baking for the WI or some do at the village hall, I’d always be on call for something.
She said, ‘Mrs Morgan emphasised that I need to get my research right, and living in the city is just so convenient for that. I’m going to spend my Christmas and birthday money on a subscription to the London Library. Then I’ll do what Lorna’s done and find a flat-share with two or three other girls. Live as cheaply as I can.’
Mrs Paget said nothing, but pursed her lips, and a few days later she announced she’d been talking to Uncle Freddie and he’d agreed that living with strangers was unthinkable, and insisted that Tallie move in with her cousin Josie.
‘He says her flat has a spare room, and she’ll be able to help you find your feet in London,’ she added.
Tallie groaned. ‘Push me off the Embankment more likely. Mum, Josie’s three years older than me and we haven’t a thought in common. Besides, she and Aunt Val have always looked on us as the poor relations, you know that.’
‘Well, I suppose we are in material terms,’ said her mother. ‘But not in any other way. Anyway,’ she continued with cheerful optimism, ‘I expect working for a living has smoothed off some of Josie’s edges.’
Not so you’d notice, Tallie thought now as she rode up in the lift to the agency floor. At least, not where I’m concerned. And waiting on tables in the evening as well as holding down a day job may have been tough, but at least it’s kept me out of the flat and away from her.
And, more recently, by dint of working until closing time and beyond at the wine bar, and leaving very early each morning, buying coffee and a croissant en route to work, she’d managed to remain in comparative ignorance about whether or not Gareth was now spending all his nights in Josie’s room. Although the nagging pain deep within her told her the probable truth.
Stupid—stupid, she berated herself, to have built so much on a few lunches and a couple of weekend walks. But Gareth had been her ‘bright particular star’ for almost as long as she could remember, and simply spending time with him had seemed like a promise of paradise.
Until the moment when she’d had to stand there numbly, watching her star go out and paradise disappear, she thought bracing herself against the inevitable pain.
However, it was her last day as a member of the employed, and she wasn’t going to break her self-imposed rule of never taking her personal problems into the workplace. So she straightened her shoulders, nailed on a smile and marched through the double glass doors into the open plan office beyond.
In the event, it turned out to be a much shorter afternoon than she’d expected. Before it was half over, her boss called the other staff together, champagne was produced and the managing director made a brief speech about what a valuable team member she’d been and how much she’d be missed.
‘And if the next job doesn’t work out as planned, we’re only a phone call away,’ he added, and Tallie heard a wobble in her voice as she thanked him.
When she called at the temps bureau later to collect her money, the manageress there also made it clear she was loath to lose her services.
‘You’ve always been so reliable, Natalie,’ she mourned. ‘Isn’t there a number where I can reach you in case of emergency?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Tallie said firmly. Apart from her family and Lorna, no one was having the contact number at Albion House. Kit had made it clear she was not to hand it out to all and sundry, and she was happy to go along with that.
Besides, she was going to need every ounce of concentration she possessed for her book, which completely ruled out being at the beck and call of The Relief Force, as the bureau titled itself. They would just have to manage without her, she thought, although she had to admit it was nice to be needed, if only in a work sense.
Meanwhile, finishing early today meant she would have the flat to herself when she got back, and she could do her packing before she set off for her final stint at the wine bar. So many doors closing, she thought, but another massive one about to open in front of her, and who knew what might lie beyond it.
At the flat, she made herself some coffee from what little was left in the jar. In theory, they all bought their own groceries. In practice, Josie and Amanda were always too busy for a regular supermarket shop, and they used whatever was available.
The prospect of living on her own for the first time was fairly daunting, but at least there would be fewer minor irritations to cope with, Tallie told herself as she unzipped the storage box. She didn’t have many clothes—just the plain black skirts she wore for work with an assortment of blouses and a grey checked jacket, the three pairs of jeans that constituted leisurewear, a few T-shirts, a couple of sweaters and a handful of cheap and cheerful chain store undies.
And right at the bottom of the box, neatly folded, was the shirt. Almost, but not quite, forgotten. Slowly, she took it out, letting the ivory silk slide through her hands, watching the shimmer of the mother-of-pearl buttons. Allowing herself the pain of this one last memory.
She’d been working for a firm of City accountants, she recalled, and had been sent to fetch a tray of coffee for a clients’ meeting from the machine in the reception area. As she’d been on her way back, going past the lift, the doors had opened and someone had emerged in a hurry, cannoning into her and spilling the coffee everywhere.
‘Oh, God.’ A man’s voice, appalled. ‘Are you all right—not scalded?’
‘The drinks are never hot enough for that.’ But there was a hideous mess on the carpet and her once-crisp white shirt was splashed and stained across the front and down one sleeve, plus damp patches on her skirt too, she realised ruefully.
She knelt swiftly, reaching for the scattered paper cups. Aware, as she did so, that her assailant had also gone down on one knee to help her, but that he’d paused and was staring at her rather than the job in hand.
Looking up in turn, she recognised him instantly, her lips parting in a shocked gasp. ‘Gareth,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I mean— Mr Hampton.’
‘Gareth will do.’ His sudden smile dazzled her like the sun breaking through clouds. ‘And you’re Guy Paget’s little sister. What on earth are you doing here, miles from Cranscombe? Apart from being drowned in coffee, that is?’
‘I live in London now,’ she said quickly. ‘Mr Groves’s assistant is on holiday. I’m the temp. Or the ex-temp unless I get this mess cleared up quickly,’ she added, seeing Mr Groves himself approaching, his face a mask of disapproval.
‘All my fault, I’m afraid.’ Gareth rose to meet him, spreading his hands in charming apology. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going and nearly knocked poor little Natalie for six.’
‘Oh, please don’t concern yourself, my dear boy.’ The look he sent Tallie was rather less gracious. ‘Bring another tray to the conference room, Miss Paget, then call maintenance. This carpet will need to be properly cleaned. And tidy yourself too, please.’
The last instruction proved the most difficult to follow. Tallie did her best in the cloakroom with a handful of damp tissues but felt she’d only made matters worse. And the most sickening thing of all was the knowledge that Susie Johnson was in the meeting in her place, taking notes and feasting her eyes on Gareth at the same time.
I had no idea he was a client, she thought wistfully, wishing that she’d put on eye make-up that morning and was now wearing something other than a coffee-stained rag. Something that would have made him see her as rather more than Guy’s kid sister.
Yet that was hardly likely, she acknowledged with a soundless sigh, remembering some of the girls he’d brought down to the cottage over the years. Slender creatures with endless legs, designer tans and artfully tousled hair.
Tallie’s hair was the same light mouse-brown she’d been born with and it hung, straight as rainwater, to her shoulders. And while her mother loyally told her she had ‘a pretty figure’, she knew she was an unfashionable version of thin. Her creamy skin and hazel eyes, with their fringe of long lashes, were probably her best features, she thought judiciously, but her nose and mouth hadn’t come out of any box marked ‘Alpha Female’.
In a way, it was astonishing that Gareth should have remembered her at all, particularly as natural shyness combined with inexplicable adolescent yearnings had invariably made her vanish into any convenient doorway at his approach. She wasn’t aware that he’d ever favoured her with a first glance, let alone a second.
And she’d now blown any chance she had of appearing cool, composed and efficient. A pillar of young serenity in the staid adult world of accountancy.
‘Oh, Miss Paget’s wonderful,’ she imagined Mr Groves saying. ‘I don’t know how we ever managed without her.’
And pigs might take flight, she told herself, turning away from the mirror with another sigh.
But if she’d hoped to catch another glimpse of Gareth, she was to be disappointed. Instead, she was immediately waylaid by Mrs Watson, the office manager, who looked her over, compressed her lips and sent her off to the cubby-hole where the photocopier was housed with a pile of paperwork to be replicated.
And, by the time she emerged, Gareth was long gone and Susie Johnson was smiling smugly and reporting that he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her legs during the meeting.
She was about to leave for her coffee and sandwich lunch, buttoning her jacket to conceal the worst of her stained shirt, when Sylvia, the receptionist, called her over. ‘This was delivered for you a few minutes ago.’
‘This’ was a flat package wrapped in violet and gold paper. And, inside, enclosed in tissue, was a silk shirt—soft, fragile and quite the most expensive garment she’d ever had the chance to own.
The accompanying card said:

To make amends for the one I ruined. I’ll be waiting to hear if it’s the right size from one o’clock onwards in the Caffe Rosso. G.
As she fastened the small buttons, the silk seemed to shiver against her warm body, clinging to her slender curves as if it loved them. A perfect fit, she thought. As if it was some kind of omen.
Against the ivory tone, her skin looked almost translucent and even her hair had acquired an added sheen. While her eyes were enormous—luminous with astonished pleasure.
Lunch, she thought with disbelief. I’m having lunch with Gareth Hampton, which is almost—a date. Isn’t it?
Well, the answer to that was—no, as she now knew. As it had been brought home to her with a stinging emphasis that had almost flayed the flesh from her bones.
Like the false bride in the fairy tale, she thought, who’d put on a wedding dress that didn’t belong to her and been destroyed as a result.
And kneeling there in her tiny room with that lovely, betraying thing in her hands, she shivered.
She folded it over and over again, her hands almost feverish, until it was reduced to a tiny ball of fabric, then wrapped it tightly in a sheet from a discarded newspaper and buried it deep in the kitchen bin on her way out to the wine bar.
Wishing, as she did so, that her emotions could be so easily dealt with—could be rolled up and discarded without a trace. Only it didn’t work like that, and she would have to wait patiently until the healing process was over—however long it might take.
It will be better, she told herself fiercely, when I’m away from here.
Everything is going to be better. It—has to be…
And when, the following evening, she found herself in sole occupation of her new domain, her belongings unpacked and her laptop set up in the study, she began to feel her new-found optimism could be justified.
It hadn’t all been plain sailing. There’d been a final confrontation with her cousin that she’d have preferred to avoid.
‘Quite apart from the inconvenience of having to find someone else for your room, do you realise the stick I’m going to get from Dad when he finds you’ve moved out?’ Josie demanded shrilly. ‘And that I don’t even know where you’ve gone?’
Tallie shrugged. ‘You’re not my babysitter,’ she countered. ‘Besides, I thought you’d be glad to see the back of me.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Josie glared at her. ‘You’re not still obsessing about Gareth, surely? Isn’t it time you started to grow up?’
‘More than time,’ Tallie returned crisply. ‘Consider this the first step.’
As a consequence, she’d arrived at Albion House, bag and baggage, much earlier than arranged, only to find Kit Benedict clearly impatient to be off, as if she’d kept him waiting.
‘Now, you do remember everything I’ve told you?’ he said, hovering. ‘The fuse-box, the alarm system, and how to work the television. And you won’t forget to forward any post to Grayston and Windsor? That’s pretty vital.’
‘Of course,’ she said. She smiled at him, trying to look confident. ‘I am fairly efficient, you know. I could have supplied references.’
‘Well, I didn’t really have time for that. Besides, Andy at the wine bar reckoned you were all right, and he’s a shrewd judge.’ He paused. ‘My friends all know I’m going to be away, so you shouldn’t have to fend off many phone calls. But if anyone should ring, just say Mr Benedict is away for an indefinite period.’ He paused. ‘And if they ask, save yourself a lot of hassle and tell them you’re the cleaner.’
Why not the truth? Tallie wondered, but decided it was not worth pursuing as the problem was unlikely to arise.
‘There’s stuff in the fridge to finish up,’ he added over his shoulder as he headed into the hall where his designer luggage was stacked. ‘Clean bedding in both the rooms, and the laundry calls each Wednesday. Also, move whatever you need to out of the closets and drawers to make room for your things. Any emergencies, talk to the lawyers. They’ll sort everything out.’
And he departed in a waft of the rather heavy aftershave he affected, leaving Tallie staring after him in vague unease. What emergencies did he have in mind? she asked herself wryly. Fire, flood, bubonic plague?
Although he was probably just trying to cover all eventualities, assure her there was back-up in place if necessary, she thought as she began to look round in earnest. Starting with the kitchen.
The ‘stuff in the fridge’ he’d mentioned was already finished and then some, she thought, eyeing it with disfavour. There were a few wizened tomatoes, some eggs well past their sell-by date, a hard piece of cheese busily developing its own penicillin and a salad drawer that made her stomach squirm.
Cleaning out the refrigerator and then restocking it at the nearest supermarket would be her first priority.
And her next, lying down on one of those enormous sofas and relaxing completely. Listening to the peace of this lovely place and letting herself soak up its ambience.
It was, she thought with faint bewilderment, the last kind of environment she’d have expected Kit Benedict to inhabit. Where he was concerned, the contents of the fridge seemed to make far more sense than the elegant furniture and Persian rugs.
It was a background that would have suited Gareth perfectly, she mused, her face suddenly wistful, imagining him lounging on the opposite sofa, glass of wine in hand, his hair gleaming against the dark cushions. Smiling at her…
Stop torturing yourself, she ordered silently. There’s no future in that kind of thinking and you know it.
She managed to distance any other might-have-beens by keeping determinedly busy for the rest of the day. Settling herself in so that the real work could start in the morning. And the blues remained at bay during the evening, thanks to the plasma screen television that only appeared when a button was pressed in a section of panelling, but seemed to have every channel known to the mind of man available at a flourish of the remote control.
How entirely different from the TV set at the other flat, which seemed permanently stuck on BBC One, she thought. Although not everything had changed for the better, of course. The news still seemed uniformly depressing, with no sign of peace in the Middle East, another rise in the price of petrol, which would cost her father dear with all the miles he had to travel to visit sick animals, and a breaking story about an attempted military coup in some remote African state.
Sighing, Tallie restored the screen to its hiding place and went to bed.
And what a bed, she thought, stretching luxuriously. Quite the biggest she’d ever occupied, with the most heavenly mattress and pure linen sheets and pillowcases. And great piles of towels in the bathroom too, and a snowy bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.
She was almost asleep when the phone rang. She rolled across the bed, reaching blearily for the receiver. The caller started speaking at once, a woman’s voice, low-pitched and husky, saying a man’s name, then, in a swift rush of words, ‘Darling, you’re there—what a relief. I’ve been so worried. Are you all right?’
Tallie swallowed, remembering Kit’s suggested formula. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said politely. ‘Mr Benedict is away for an indefinite period.’
She heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end and the voice changed—became clipped, imperious. ‘And who precisely are you, may I ask?’
There was no point in saying she was the cleaner—not at this ridiculous time of night, thought Tallie. Besides, that rather hectoring tone—the phrasing of the question—sounded just like Josie, and it riled her.
‘Just a friend,’ she said brightly and rang off.
She was half-expecting the caller to ring back, but the phone remained silent.
And just as she was drifting off again, it occurred to her that the name the unknown woman had said at the start of the conversation had not sounded like Kit at all, but something completely different.
I must be wrong, she told herself drowsily. After all, I was half asleep. Anyway, it’s too late to worry about that now—much too late.
And, turning over with a sigh, she closed her eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
TALLIE closed down her laptop and leaned back in the padded black leather chair with a sigh that contained more relief than satisfaction.
At last, she thought. At last I seem to be back on track.
She could acknowledge now how scared she’d been, gambling on her future in this way, especially as she’d made comparatively little progress with her story since that momentous lunch with Mrs Morgan.
But then conditions over the past months had hardly been conducive, she reminded herself ruefully. Her free time had been severely limited and when she had tried to work at the flat she’d had to compete with the constant noise of Josie’s television and Amanda’s stereo system blasting through the thin panels of her door.
And then, of course, there’d been Gareth’s intervention…
She took a deep breath, damming back the instinctive pang. Well, at least she now had an insight into what it was like to fall in love, even a little. Could see why a girl like Mariana might give up so much to pursue this reckless adventure if it meant she’d be reunited with a man she wanted so desperately.
Up to then, she realised, she hadn’t given much thought to her story’s emotional input, concentrating instead on the fun of it all— her heroine’s rollicking escape from her stern guardian and the threat of an arranged marriage.
Now, she realised that Mariana’s decision would have far more impact if she was, instead, deserting a loving home with parents who were simply over-protective, who knew the uncertainties of a soldier’s life and wished to spare her danger and heartache.
And this would naturally change the entire emphasis of the book.
Less of a light-hearted romp, she told herself, however enjoyable that had been to invent, and more of a story about passionate love and its eventual reward, which, in itself, was going to present her with all kinds of problems.
Because the events of the last few weeks had brought home to her how signally—ridiculously—unacquainted she was with any form of passion. Or even likely to be.
She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. Oh, well, she told herself with false brightness, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. After all, imagination was a wonderful thing.
And it would help that she wouldn’t have to write too much about ‘doing it’ until the very end of the book because, no matter how precarious the situations she found herself enduring, Mariana was obviously saving herself for marriage to her gorgeous William, with his smiling blue eyes and his slanting smile.
And the way he talked to her as if he was really interested in what she had to say…
She stopped hastily. Oh, God—this wasn’t the book at all. She was back to Gareth again and the endless, punishing reliving of every precious moment she’d spent with him. All that witless, pitiful self-deception over it being the start of something important—even valuable—which had begun with that lunch at the Caffe Rosso.
She’d been tongue-tied at first, trying to express her halting thanks for the beautiful shirt.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it seemed the least I could do. Henry Groves is a terrific accountant, but appearances matter to him.’ He grinned. ‘I bet that carpet in reception has been shampooed already.’
It was quite an ordinary lunch—lasagne and a couple of glasses of the house red—but for Tallie it was caviare and champagne, nectar and ambrosia all rolled into one.
Gareth wanted to know what she was doing in London. ‘I had you down as a home bird—sticking close to Cranscombe.’
In other words, as dull as ditchwater.
She looked down at her plate. ‘I’m having a kind of gap year— while I decide what I want to do.’ She decided not to mention the novel. It seemed pretentious to do so while it was still in such an embryonic stage. ‘And how’s the world of law?’
‘It has its moments.’ He paused. ‘I’m probably going to specialise in tax. That seems a reasonably lucrative field.’
‘You don’t want to defend master criminals?’
‘That always sounds more glamorous than it really is.’ He shrugged. ‘And, on the whole, they deserve what they get.’ He signalled for the dessert menu. ‘Did you know my parents are deserting Cranscombe too? They’ve sold the cottage and are buying a place in Portugal—warmer climate and masses of golf.’
‘Oh.’ She looked at him, startled. ‘So if you hadn’t come to the office today, I might never have seen you again.’
The moment she said it, she could have bitten out her tongue. Oh, God, she thought despairingly, she couldn’t have given herself away more blatantly if she’d taken all her clothes off in front of him.
She felt the mortified colour rising in her face and wanted nothing more than to get up and run out of the restaurant. Only to find her hand taken, her fingers caressed very gently by his.
‘Even worse,’ he said, ‘I might not have seen you either. Shall we celebrate our fortunate escape from disaster with some tiramisu?’
Over coffee, he suggested that they should meet again on Saturday evening—go to the cinema, perhaps, or a club, forcing Tallie to explain, her voice husky with disappointment, that she had an extra job, which she couldn’t afford to lose.
Yet he didn’t seem offended at all. He suggested instead that they meet for lunch on the river and afterwards go walking.
‘The best way to see London is on foot,’ he told her. ‘And I can’t wait to show it to you.’
In a way, she was almost relieved, because she’d seen Josie and Amanda dressed—or undressed—to go out to dinner, or clubbing, and knew that her current wardrobe simply couldn’t cope. That becoming Gareth’s girlfriend could take some living up to and she might even have to raid her precious savings account.
She floated back to the office on a cloud of euphoria, almost unable to believe that she was going to see him again. That he wanted to spend time with her. So lost in bliss, in fact, that it never occurred to her to question why this should be.
And Saturday afternoon passed like a dream. Gareth was extremely knowledgeable about the capital—knew all kinds of interesting places and fascinating stories, and she listened, rapt.
He told her about his job too, and the other barristers in his chambers, and about his own flat-share with a couple of university friends, waxing almost lyrical about how terrific Notting Hill was—great ambience, great restaurants.
It was clear that city living appealed to him far more than the country ever would. That he didn’t regret the cottage at Cranscombe one bit, and this saddened her a little.
However, the only really awkward moment came when they were about to part and she realised he was going to kiss her, and she was so nervous—so unpractised—that it turned into little more than an embarrassing bumping of noses and chins.
She spent the whole evening mentally kicking herself at the memory. Telling herself that she should have kept still as he’d bent towards her, closed her eyes, smiling, as she raised her mouth to meet his. That he couldn’t possibly know she’d only been kissed three or four times before, and generally because it had seemed rude to refuse.
And that Gareth’s had been the first kiss that should have— would have—meant something.
Well, next time—and he’d arranged to see her on the following Saturday too—she would be prepared, and she would make sure that she was much less inept.
She spent the whole week in such a state of anticipation that reality was almost bound to be an anticlimax. Yet it started well— a glorious spring afternoon—and this time it wasn’t so much of a guided tour because Gareth suggested that they went strolling in Hyde Park. It seemed full of couples. They were everywhere Tallie looked—young, happy people, walking hand in hand, sitting close on benches—always looking at each other, always touching— even lying on the grass wrapped in each others’ arms, oblivious to all but themselves.
And she found herself moving nearer to Gareth as they walked, longing for him to take her hand or put his arm round her. That she wanted to be part of a couple too—half of him, with all that it would mean. Something she’d never contemplated before—or even desired…
But a sideways glance told her this seemed unlikely. He was gazing into space, not at her, seemingly lost in thought, even frowning a little.
She tried to keep her voice light, to recapture the almost intimacy of the previous week. ‘A penny for them.’
‘What? Oh, I see.’ He hesitated. ‘I was thinking about something we could do. That maybe we might…’
Her heart almost stopped. What was he going to say—to suggest? That the Park was too public and they should go back to— his place? Oh, please, she thought. Please, let it be that. Because even if nothing happened, and she knew it was far too soon—that she should be ashamed of herself for even thinking that, it went against every principle she’d ever had—at least it would show that he was beginning to consider her as part of his life. That she mattered to him.
It would prove, if nothing else, that he wanted her to meet his friends, maybe drink some wine, and, later, go out for a meal, even if she wasn’t strictly dressed for it. She tried to think of an excuse she could give Andy at the wine bar for not working that evening— the first time she would ever have let him down.
He went on, ‘I was going to say that tea at Fortnums would be nice.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Lovely.’ And tried not to feel disappointed. Reminded herself that it was still early days and the fact that he didn’t want to rush her into anything was a good sign. A sign that he respected her. And a warning that she must let things develop at their own pace.
She was still thinking that as they walked up Piccadilly. As they reached Fortnums and paused at the door because someone was coming out.
‘Natalie,’ Josie said, ‘I didn’t know you could afford places like this.’ She turned, self-assured and smiling, to look at Gareth. Tallie watched her eyes widen, her gaze become fixed. There was a pause— a count of a few heartbeats—then she said, ‘And who’s this?’
‘Gareth Hampton. A—a friend from Cranscombe.’
‘Goodness,’ Josie said lightly. ‘And to think I used to go out of my way to avoid the place.’ She smiled. ‘Well, friend from Cranscombe, I’m Natalie’s cousin, Josephine Lester, and I bet she hasn’t told you about me either.’
‘No.’ Gareth’s voice sounded odd, almost hoarse. ‘No, as a matter of fact, she didn’t.’ He was staring at her too, his face set, almost stunned.
Tallie had the oddest impression that the pair of them were locked into some kind of exclusion zone—surrounded by a barrier like a force field which she would never be able to penetrate. It was such a strong impression that she almost took a step backwards.
She heard herself say in a small wooden voice she barely recognised, ‘We were going to have tea.’
Was aware that they’d both turned and looked at her in surprise, as if they’d forgotten her very existence. Then realised that was exactly what they’d done.
Josie was smiling again. She said softly, ‘What a lovely idea.’
Somehow, Tallie found she was pushing up her sleeve, glancing at her watch. ‘Only I didn’t realise how late it’s getting, and I’m due at work pretty soon.’ It was still only mid-afternoon, but she knew numbly that she could have said she was off bungee-jumping from the dome of St Paul’s without it registering with either of them. She shared a swift meaningless smile between them. ‘So, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your tea.’
She went off, walking fast enough to convey an impression of haste—someone who needed to be somewhere else—but not so fast it would look as if she was running away.
Especially when there was nowhere to run to.
If the flat had seemed cramped before, it quickly became a living nightmare. It seemed that, no matter what time of the day or night she ventured out of her room, Gareth was there, and it was a minor consolation to know that Amanda was no more pleased with the situation than herself, or that she and Josie were constantly bickering about it.
‘No live-in boyfriends,’ she heard Amanda say stormily. ‘That was the rule we made, yet here he is.’
‘But he doesn’t live here,’ Josie returned. She gave a little throaty giggle. ‘He just—stays over sometimes.’
‘Seven nights a week is hardly “sometimes”,’ Amanda said coldly, going into her room and slamming the door.
Tallie did her best to be unobtrusive, speaking politely if it was required, her face expressionless, determined not to reveal the bewildered heartache that tore into her each time she saw Gareth or heard his voice.
Once, and only once, she came back from work and found him there alone. She halted in palpable dismay, then, muttering, ‘Excuse me,’ made for her room.
But he followed. ‘Look, Natalie, can we lighten up a bit?’ he asked almost irritably. ‘It’s bad enough getting filthy looks from Amanda, without you creeping about as if I’d delivered some kind of death blow. And now Josie says you’re moving out altogether.’
He added defensively, ‘For God’s sake, it’s not as if there was ever—anything going on between us. You were Guy’s little sister, that was all.’
Not for me—never for me…
She swung round to face him. ‘And you were just being kind— giving a child a day or two out. A few treats. Was that it? I—I didn’t realise.’
‘Well, it could never have been anything more than that.’
‘Why not?’ She was suddenly past caring. ‘Am I so totally repulsive?’
‘No, of course not.’ He spoke reluctantly, clearly sorry he’d ever begun the confrontation.
‘Then what? Because I’d really like to know.’
He sighed. ‘Are you sure about that?’ He hesitated, clearly embarrassed, then plunged in. ‘Look, Natalie—it was perfectly obvious you’ve never been to the end of the street, let alone round the block. And I couldn’t deal with that. In fact, I didn’t even want to.’
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘I thought men liked that—knowing they were the first.’
‘Not me.’ He shook his head. ‘I still have the scars from my one and only time with a virgin. My God, I had to spend hours pleading, a good time was not had by all, and afterwards she expected me to be eternally grateful.’
She stood, stricken, remembering low-voiced, rather giggly conversations at school between more worldly-wise friends, admitting that ‘it’ had hurt ‘like hell’ the first time—that, all in all, it had been messy, uncomfortable and incredibly disappointing. And then, the next time—miraculously—had begun to improve.
But it wouldn’t have been like that with us—with me. I know it…
The thought came, aching, into her mind, and was instantly dismissed. Because the truth was she didn’t know anything of the sort. And, anyway, the important thing now was to walk away, not crawl.
She lifted her chin. ‘Well, whoever she was and, believe me, I don’t want to know, my sympathies are entirely with her.’ And she sauntered into her room, closing the door behind her.
It was, she thought, the last time she’d ever spoken to him. And maybe much of the pain she still felt about him was not so concerned with his preference for Josie—no one, she told herself, could help falling in love, and what she’d witnessed might have been a genuine coup de foudre—but the cruelly dismissive way he’d spoken about her sexual ignorance, as if it was some kind of blight. That it was her own fault that she hadn’t been putting it about since she’d reached the age of consent.
However, it was impossible to erase him from her mind altogether, because he was still the image of William, her fictional hero, and too deeply entrenched in her imagination to change. Except that William was kind, loyal and tender, and Mariana would have the happy ending she deserved.
Unlike me, she thought, and sighed swiftly.
But she couldn’t feel too dispirited for long—not in this lovely room. She loved the entire flat, especially the kitchen, and the wonderful en suite bathroom with its aquamarine tiles, huge power shower and enormous tub. But the office had to be her favourite of all—a big room filled with light and completely fitted out with pale oak furniture.
It was completely uncluttered, with not a stray scrap of paper in sight. Well, not until she’d arrived, anyway, she thought, wrinkling her nose. It was slightly more lived-in now.
Nor could she relate the Kit Benedict she’d encountered to all this orderly professionalism. Frankly, it had never occurred to her that working in the wine trade would require him to set up this kind of dedicated workplace at home.
Unless, like herself, he moonlighted, she thought, which in turn would explain how he could afford the array of suits with designer labels, the expensive shirts and handmade shoes she’d found in the master bedroom’s fitted closets as she’d tried to make space for her own few things.
But, whatever Kit did in this room, he kept strictly to himself because everything was securely locked up—the desk drawers, the cupboards, the filing cabinets and the bookcases, which seemed, she noted with surprise, to be devoted to mathematics and scientific topics.
Not that it matters to me, Tallie told herself firmly. Unless it’s illegal and the Metropolitan Police suddenly arrive.
But that was an unlikely scenario and, in the meantime, she had the use of the desk and the printer, and she provided her own stationery so she had no need or wish to pry any further.
She got up, stretching, then collected together the completed pages slipping them into the waiting folder before wandering off to the kitchen to put together some pasta carbonara.
She ate, as usual, from a tray on her lap in the sitting room. There was a dining room across the passage, but she never used it as it was clearly designed for smart dinner parties, not solitary suppers, and she found it a little daunting.
There was a drama series she wanted to watch on television and, while she was waiting for it to start, she took her plate and fork into the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher along with the utensils she’d used.
When she got back with her coffee, she found the start of her programme had been slightly delayed by an extended newscast. The situation in the African state of Buleza had deteriorated swiftly over the past few days. The initial coup had been defeated but the rebels had regrouped and a full-scale civil war had broken out. All British nationals had been evacuated from the capital, but there’d been concern over a group of engineers constructing a bridge across the Ubilisi in the north of the country who’d been cut off by the fighting.
According to the excited tones of the reporter covering the story, the men had now been traced and air-lifted to safety across the border. From there, they would be flown home, and the Foreign Office had a number for concerned relatives to call.
For once a happy ending, Tallie thought as the signature tune for her programme began and she curled up in her corner of the sofa to enjoy it. And that’s what we all need—more happy endings.
The last of the groceries safely put away, Tallie straightened, moving her shoulders wearily. Thank goodness that’s over for a while, she thought.
Shopping was never her favourite pastime at the best of times, and this afternoon the supermarket had been busy and the bus hot and crowded, forcing her to stand with her two heavy bags. To make matters worse, the journey had been held up by a collision between a car and a van. No one had been injured, but both vehicles had been damaged, tempers had been frayed and the police called as a result, so she’d got off and walked the last half mile back to the flat.
It was a humid, overcast day, as if a storm was threatening, and she felt grimy and frazzled, her hair sticking to her scalp. She’d have a shower before she prepared the salad for her evening meal, she decided with a sigh of anticipation.
In the bedroom, she chose clean underwear and a fresh pair of cotton trousers with a green scoop-neck top and left them on the bed. She undressed in the bathroom, thrusting her discarded clothing into the laundry basket, then stepped into the shower. She shampooed her hair vigorously and turned the water pressure to full as she rinsed the lather away, before beginning to apply her rose-scented body wash to her skin, smoothing away the remaining weariness and lingering aggravation of the day, then letting the water stream over her, lifting her face, smiling, to its power.
Then suddenly—shockingly—she became aware that she was no longer alone. Glimpsed a dark shadow, tall and menacing, outside the steamy glass of the cabinet. Felt the gush of cooler air as the sliding doors of the shower were wrenched open and someone—a total stranger—was standing there, staring in at her. A lean pillar of a man, wearing a shirt and trousers in stained and scruffy khaki drill.
Tallie had a horrified impression of black tousled hair, an unshaven chin, hands clenched aggressively at his sides and dark brows snapping together in furious astonishment as ice-cold green eyes swept over her.
She shrank back instinctively into the corner, cowering there, her voice cracking as she tried to scream and failed. As her own hands rose in a futile attempt to cover her body—to conceal her nakedness from this…predator, who was turning the worst—the ultimate nightmare into harsh reality. As fear warred with shame under his gaze.
Where had he come from? Had he been hiding somewhere in the flat, biding his time—choosing his moment? Her mind ran crazily like a rat trapped in a maze. Yet the door had been locked when she’d returned from shopping, and she’d re-locked it behind her. It was the most basic security precaution, and never neglected, so how could he have got in?
‘Turn that bloody water off.’ He spoke above its rush, his voice low-pitched and well-modulated, but grim as an Arctic wind. ‘Then, sweetheart, you have precisely one minute to explain who you are and what the hell you’re doing in my flat before I call the police.’
Ridiculously, the word ‘police’ brought a kind of fleeting reassurance. It wasn’t the kind of threat a rapist or a psychopath would use— was it? she thought desperately, her fingers all thumbs as she forced herself to deal with the shower flow, shivering with panic and burning with embarrassment at the same time. And he’d said ‘my flat’, so what was going on—apart from her own imminent death through shame?
‘I’m waiting.’ He took a towel from the rail and threw it towards her and she snatched at it, huddling it almost gratefully round her body as she struggled to make her voice work.
‘I’m looking after the flat while Mr Benedict is away.’ It was hardly more than a shaken gasp.
‘Is that a fact?’ He looked her over again, standing with his hands on his hips, the firm lips twisting. ‘Well, now Mr Benedict is back and I made no such arrangement, so I suggest you think up another story fast.’
‘No, you don’t understand.’ She put up a hand to push the sodden tangle of hair back from her face and the towel slipped. She grabbed at it, blushing. ‘My agreement’s with Kit Benedict— who’s in Australia. Are—are you a member of his family?’
‘I’m the head of the damned family,’ he returned icily. ‘Kit, unfortunately, is my half-brother, and you, presumably, are one of his little jokes—or compensation for some misdemeanour I have yet to discover. Payment in kind rather than cash. My welcome home present.’
The green eyes narrowed, their expression becoming less hostile and more contemplative, bordering on amusement, and Tallie felt fresh stirrings of panic under his renewed scrutiny.
‘Under normal circumstances, of course, I wouldn’t touch Kit’s leavings,’ he went on, as if he was thinking aloud. ‘But there’s been nothing normal about the past few eternally bloody days, and maybe finding a naked, pretty girl in my shower is immaculate timing. A hint that a few hours of mindless enjoyment could be just what I most need.’ He began to unbutton his shirt. ‘So put the water on again, darling, and I’ll join you.’
‘Keep away from me.’ Tallie pressed herself against the tiled wall as if she was trying to disappear through it. Her voice was hoarse and trembling. ‘I’m not anyone’s leavings, least of all your brother’s. We had—we have a business agreement, that’s all.’
‘Fine.’ He dropped his shirt to the floor and started to unzip his trousers. He slanted a smile at her. ‘And now your business is with me, only the terms have changed a little.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she insisted more fiercely. ‘I’m just here as the caretaker. Nothing more.’
‘Then take care of me,’ he said equably. ‘You can start by washing my back.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I won’t.’ She swallowed. ‘And I warn you now that if you come near me—if you dare try and lay a hand on me, I’ll have you charged with rape. I swear it.’
There was a taut silence, then he said softly, ‘You actually sound as if you mean that.’
‘I do.’ She lifted her chin. ‘And you’d better also believe that I’m not involved with Kit and I never was, and never would be either. I think, in his own way, he’s almost as obnoxious as you are.’
‘Thank you.’ There was an odd note in his voice.
‘I came here simply to do a job and, until a few minutes ago, I didn’t know you even existed. I thought this was his flat.’
‘I’m sure it pleased him to give that impression.’ He shrugged a bare shoulder, setting off a ripple of muscle that she would have preferred not to see. ‘It always has. But let me assure you that the flat is mine and so is everything in it, including that inadequate towel you’re clutching, and the bed where you’ve apparently been sleeping,’ he added silkily, watching the colour storm back into her face at the implication of his words.
‘In reality, I’m Kit’s occasional and very reluctant host. And currently, for some reason which I’m sure you’re eager to share with me, I seem to be yours too.’
She made a desperate stab at dignity. ‘Naturally, I do see that you’re…owed an explanation.’
‘Perhaps we should postpone any discussion on the extent of your indebtedness for a more convenient moment.’
His soft-voiced intervention had her biting her lip, but she pressed on doggedly, ‘However, my reasons for being here are perfectly genuine. I—I have nothing to hide.’
‘No?’ he queried, the green eyes measuring her with dancing cynicism. ‘You could have fooled me.’
He strode over to the door and took down the bathrobe that hung there. ‘And now I intend to take my shower whether you remain there or not,’ he said as he returned. ‘So I suggest you put this on and make yourself scarce—if your maidenly reluctance to pleasure me is actually genuine.’
He paused, holding the robe. ‘Is it—or could you still be persuaded to offer a weary traveller the comfort of that charming body?’
‘No,’ she said, teeth gritted, ‘I could not.’
He shrugged again, tossing the bundle of towelling into her arms. ‘Then go. However, I should warn you that I’m still considering having you charged with trespass.’ He observed her lips parting in a silent gasp of alarm and went on, ‘But some good coffee—black, hot and strong—might help your cause.’
‘Is that an order?’ She tried a defiant note.
‘Merely a suggestion,’ he said. ‘Which you’d do well to heed.’
He watched with open amusement as Tallie turned her back to manoeuvre herself awkwardly out of the wet towel and into the robe.
‘Your modesty is delightful, if a little belated,’ he commented dryly as she sidled out of the shower cabinet, looking anywhere but at him, the robe thankfully drowning her from throat to ankle. ‘I’ll join you and the coffee presently.’
He paused. ‘And don’t even think of doing a runner, because I would not find that amusing.’
‘You mean before you’ve counted the spoons?’ She glared at him.
‘Before any number of things.’ He stripped off the khaki trousers and kicked them away. ‘I suggest the sitting room as suitably neutral territory. Unless you have a more interesting idea?’ he added, his hands going to the waistband of his shorts. ‘No? Somehow I thought not.’
And, as he casually dropped his final covering and walked into the shower, Tallie turned and fled, hearing, to her chagrin, his shout of laughter following her.
CHAPTER THREE
DON’T even think of doing a runner…
If only I could, Tallie thought bitterly as she switched on the percolator and set a cup, a saucer, cream jug and sugar bowl on a tray. I’d be out of here so fast, my feet wouldn’t touch the ground.
But, unfortunately, it wasn’t as simple as that. For one thing, she had nowhere else to go. For another, nearly everything she owned was in the master bedroom—and so, now, was the master. In her haste to get away from him, she’d even left her change of clothing strewn across the bed. His bed, she reminded herself, groaning inwardly.
She’d steeled herself to creep back at one point to retrieve it, but the bathroom door had been wide open, the sound of the shower only too audible, and she dared not risk being seen—or seeing him again either, she thought shuddering, so it had seemed more sensible to turn away.
Which meant that when she did have to face him in a short while, she’d still be swamped in yards of towelling that also didn’t belong to her. But at least she’d be covered this time, she thought, a wave of heat sweeping over her as she remembered that remorseless green-eyed gaze assessing every detail of her quivering body.
Not to mention the way he’d casually stripped in front of her, which had almost been more of an insult…
Tallie swallowed. People reckoned that there came a time when you could look back at moments of truly hideous embarrassment and laugh about them, but she couldn’t imagine any moment, however far into the future, when she would be able to find the events of the last half hour even remotely amusing. When remembering them would not make her want to curl up and die of shame.
She was already cringing at the prospect of her next confrontation with him. It had already occurred to her that her agreement with Kit Benedict had been purely verbal, and that she hadn’t a scrap of paper to back up her claim that she was flat-sitting on his behalf.
That the real owner, however vile, probably had every right to regard her presence as trespass. But not to assume she was involved in some sordid relationship with his brother, she told herself hotly. A discarded plaything that could be…handed on for his own use. Or who might even be willing for that to happen.
If she was being honest, she had to admit she’d had a lucky escape. That if he’d decided her protests were simply coy and not to be taken seriously, then her nightmare could have taken on a whole new dimension that she didn’t want to contemplate. His hands—touching her. That mocking mouth…
Shivering, she hurriedly refocused her train of thought.
Too good to be true…
Her own words came back to haunt her. Well, she knew the truth of that now. Realised how stupid she’d been to ignore the obvious pitfalls in such a casual arrangement. To dismiss the clear anomalies between the Kit Benedict she’d met and this serene, luxurious background he’d apparently appropriated as his own.
He’d never really belonged here, she thought. And she’d always suspected as much. But then, for God’s sake, neither did Real Owner—the sexist thug with his scruffy hair, filthy clothes and three-day growth. He was even more out of place—like the brutal invader of a peaceful foreign territory. Inexperienced as she was, she’d sensed the danger in him, the anger like a coiled spring threatening to erupt.
Shivering, she wandered restively out into the passage, noting that the door to the master bedroom was now firmly shut. There was no sound from beyond it, or anywhere else, but the stillness and quiet she’d cherished suddenly seemed to have turned into an oppressive silence beating down on her. As if she was waiting for some other dreadful thing to happen.
Don’t think like that, she advised herself, swallowing, as she retreated to the kitchen. Put those ghastly minutes in the bathroom behind you and try to behave normally. Moving in here was obviously a mistake, but you’re not a criminal and he must see that.
She set the coffee pot on the tray and carried it through to the sitting room, placing it on a charming walnut table in front of one of the sofas.
Television, she thought. Men liked television. The first thing her father and Guy seemed to do when they walked into the house was switch on the set in the living room, whether or not there was anything they wanted to watch. Real Owner might well think along similar lines.
She clicked on to one of the major channels and stood for a moment, adjusting the sound. The picture on the screen was coming from an airfield, showing a plane coming in to land, and a group of weary, dishevelled men disembarking from it. About to turn away, Tallie sent them a casual glance, then paused, her eyes widening as she realised that the tall figure leading the ramshackle party down the plane steps looked horribly familiar.
No, she thought, transfixed in spite of herself. No, surely not.
‘Glad to be safely home are the British engineers, who found themselves stranded by the civil war in Buleza,’ said an authoritative voice-over. ‘At the press conference following their arrival, Mark Benedict, the chief consultant on the Ubilisi bridge project, said it had been a major target for the opposition forces and, as a result, completely destroyed.’
Mark Benedict, she thought with a swift intake of breath. Mark Benedict… Then it really was him. It had to be.
She heard a step behind her and turned. ‘My God,’ she said huskily. ‘You were out there—in that African country where there’s been all the terrible fighting.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And, believe me, I don’t need any reminders.’ He took the remote control from her hand and the screen went blank.
He was hardly recognisable, Tallie thought blankly, apart, of course, from those amazing eyes. He certainly hadn’t the kind of looks she admired but, now that he was clean-shaven, she had to admit that he had a striking face, with high cheekbones, a strong beak of a nose and a chin that was firm to the point of arrogance.
Altogether, there was a toughness about him that Kit signally lacked, she decided without admiration, something emphasised by the line of an old scar along one cheekbone and the evidence of a more recent injury at the corner of his mouth, accentuating the cynical twist which was probably habitual with him.
The over-long dark hair had been combed into some kind of damp, curling order and the lean, tawny body was, thankfully, respectably clad in chinos and a black polo shirt.
He looked at the coffee tray. ‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘you can take away the cream and sugar, because I never use them, and, at the same time, bring me a mug in place of the after-dinner china. And, while you’re there, bring another for yourself.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ Tallie lifted her chin. ‘After all, it’s hardly a social occasion.’
‘A fair amount of business can also be settled over coffee.’ His tone was quiet but brooked no arguments. ‘So why not just do as I ask, Miss—er…’
‘Paget,’ she supplied curtly. ‘Natalie Paget.’
‘And I’m Mark Benedict, as I expect you already know.’ He paused. ‘Please don’t look so stricken, Miss Paget. I assure you that you’re just as unpleasant a shock to me as I am to you. So let’s sit down with our coffee in a civilised manner and discuss the situation.’
‘Civilised,’ Tallie brooded as she trailed back to the kitchen with the unwanted items, was not a word she would ever apply to her unwanted host. But ‘discuss’ was hopeful, because it didn’t suggest that he was planning to bring charges immediately.
However, knowing that all she was wearing was his bathrobe still placed her at a serious disadvantage, no matter how businesslike the discussion. As he was probably well aware, she told herself bitterly.
On her return to the sitting room, she accepted the mug that he filled and handed to her and sat down on the sofa opposite, hiding her bare feet under the folds of the robe—a nervous movement that she knew was not lost on him.
‘So,’ he began, without further preliminaries, ‘you say Kit’s in Australia. When did that happen and why?’
She looked down at her coffee. ‘He went at the end of last week,’ she returned woodenly. ‘I understand it’s a business trip— visiting various vineyards on behalf of the company he works for.’
The hard mouth relaxed into genuine amusement. ‘Well, well,’ he said softly, ‘I bet Veronica didn’t consider that was an option when she wangled the job for her baby boy.’ He paused. ‘He didn’t ask you to go with him?’
‘Of course not.’ Tallie stiffened indignantly. ‘I hardly know him.’
‘That’s not always a consideration,’ he murmured. ‘And, where Kit’s concerned, it could be a positive advantage.’ He leaned back against the cushions, apparently relaxed, but Tallie wasn’t fooled. She could feel the tension quivering in the air, like over-stretched wire. ‘Anyway, if it was such a brief acquaintance, how did you get to find out about this place?’
‘It was his own suggestion,’ she said defensively. ‘He knew I was looking for somewhere cheap to live for a few months.’
His brows lifted. ‘You regard this as some kind of doss-house?’ he asked coldly.
‘No—on the contrary—truly.’ Tallie flushed hotly. ‘I suppose when I came here and saw what it was like, I should have realised there was something…not right about the arrangement. But I was desperate, and grateful enough not to ask too many questions. And, anyway, I thought I could repay him by being the world’s greatest flat-sitter. Looking after it as if it was my own.’ She swallowed. ‘Even better than my own.’
‘Or, knowing he was going away, you could have decided to squat here.’ His eyes were hard.
‘No, I swear I didn’t.’ She met his gaze bravely. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask my former boss at the wine bar. He was there when your brother made the offer.’ She took a gulp of the hot coffee to hearten her. ‘Besides, a squatter wouldn’t know about forwarding the mail to the lawyers, or have a key, or been told the security code—any of it.’
‘You’ve been working in a wine bar?’ He frowned slightly.
‘Why not?’ she challenged. ‘It’s a perfectly respectable occupation.’
‘Respectable—sure.’ He studied her curiously. ‘But as a career? I’d have thought you’d want better than that.’
‘Well,’ she said tautly, ‘as we’re total strangers, that’s hardly for you to judge.’ She paused, then added reluctantly, ‘Besides, I also had a day job working as a secretary for a temps agency. The bar was…extra.’
‘I notice you keep using the past tense,’ Mark Benedict commented. ‘Am I to take it that you’re no longer gainfully employed?’
‘I’m no longer wage-earning,’ she admitted. ‘But I am working.’
‘At what? Your questionable duties as flat-sitter won’t take up too many hours in the day.’
She bit her lip, unwilling to expose her precious plan to his undoubted ridicule. She said primly, ‘I’m engaged on…on a private project.’
‘As you’ve gate-crashed my home, Miss Paget, I don’t think the usual privacy rules apply. How are you planning to earn a living?’
She glared at him. ‘If you must know, I’m writing a novel.’
‘Dear God,’ he said blankly and paused. ‘Presumably it’s for children.’
‘Why should you presume any such thing?’ Tallie asked defiantly.
‘Because you’re hardly more than a child yourself.’
‘I’m nineteen,’ she informed him coldly.
‘I rest my case,’ he returned cynically. ‘So what kind of a book is it?’
She lifted her chin. ‘It’s a love story.’
There was a silence and Tallie saw a gleam of hateful amusement dawn in the green eyes. ‘I’m impressed, Miss Paget. It’s a subject you’ve researched in depth, of course?’
‘As much as I need,’ she said shortly, furious to discover that she was blushing again.
‘In other words—not very far at all.’ He was grinning openly now. ‘Unless I miss my guess—which I’m sure I don’t, judging by your terrified nymph act when I walked in on you just now.’
Tallie’s blush deepened hectically.
Oh, God, I might as well have ‘Virgin—untouched by human hand’ tattooed across my forehead, she thought, loathing him.
He was speaking again. ‘And you’ve actually staked your economic future on this unlikely enterprise?’
She was almost tempted to tell him about Alice Morgan. Make him see that it wasn’t all pie in the sky but a calculated and considered risk, except that it was none of his damned business. And, anyway, why should she explain a thing to someone who’d already mortified her beyond belief and was now going to ruin everything else for her?
‘Yes,’ she said, icily. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that pretty well explains why you snatched at the chance of living here when Kit dangled it in front of you.’ He paused. ‘Are you paying him rent?’
She shook her head. ‘Just—my share of the utility bills.’
‘Which can be pretty steep for a place this size. So how can you possibly afford them?’
‘By working day and night for months and saving every possible penny,’ she said huskily. ‘In order to give myself some dedicated time—a window of opportunity.’
‘You seem to have mastered the jargon anyway,’ he commented dryly as he refilled his mug. ‘Where were you living before this?’
‘I was sharing a flat,’ she said, ‘with my…my cousin and a friend of hers.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Then you have a place to go back to.’
Tallie stared into her mug. She said with difficulty, ‘No—no— I don’t. I—really can’t do that.’
She was expecting him to demand another explanation, but instead he said with a kind of damning finality, ‘Then you’ll have to find somewhere else, and quickly. Because you certainly can’t remain here.’
She’d known it would almost certainly come to that, but hearing it said aloud was still a blow. Not that she intended to meekly acquiesce, of course. This had been the perfect haven until he’d turned up, and she wasn’t giving up without a fight.
She said, ‘But there is nowhere else. Besides, I was invited by your brother. I was relying on him. Does that make no difference to you?’
‘None at all,’ he said brusquely. ‘And if you’d known him better— or used a little common sense—you’d have saved yourself a lot of trouble. Because Kit had no right to make such an arrangement with you, or anyone else. And, in future, he certainly won’t be staying here either,’ he added grimly. ‘So Veronica can go hang herself.’
He’d mentioned the name before. ‘Is that Kit’s mother?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’ His tone was clipped.
‘Then perhaps I could speak to her about all this. Ask her to contact Kit and get it sorted out. After all, she must know that the flat doesn’t belong to him, and she might help.’
His mouth curled. ‘I don’t recommend it. For one thing, Kit is the apple of her eye, and therefore can do no wrong. She would simply blame you for misunderstanding one of the dear boy’s misguided acts of kindness.’ His voice was cynical. ‘Besides, she’s always regarded anything with the name Benedict attached to it as communal property and encouraged Kit to do the same.’
He paused. ‘And she would almost certainly regard you as some female predator in pursuit of him, and decide that he’d gone to Australia simply to get away from you.’
Tallie stiffened. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
He shrugged. ‘Undoubtedly, but that won’t stop her, and I can promise you that a penniless would-be writer isn’t at all what she has in mind for her only chick. So I’d steer well clear, if I were you.’
‘If you were me,’ she said, ‘you wouldn’t be in this mess.’
His smile was reluctant. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘So what happens now?’ She tried for nonchalance, and missed. ‘Do I get thrown—bag and baggage—into the street?’
He was silent for a moment, his mouth compressed into grimness. ‘How long have you been living in London?’
‘A year,’ she returned defensively, guessing what was coming.
‘Long enough to make friends who might put you up on a temporary basis?’
She didn’t look at him as she shook her head. She must seem absolutely pathetic, she thought. A genuine Natalie No-mates. Yet several of the girls she’d worked with had invited her for a drink after work, which might have been a first step to friendship. But she’d always been obliged to refuse because she’d been working and she needed to keep every penny of her earnings for the future.
And, of course, there was Lorna, friend from her school days, who’d help if she could in spite of the inconvenience, especially if she discovered Tallie was in dire straits. Only it simply wasn’t fair to impose that kind of pressure on her, she told herself. No, she had to find her own solution.
‘And before London?’ He sighed abruptly. ‘No, don’t tell me. You lived at home with your parents, probably in some nice village full of nice people.’
‘And if I did?’ she demanded, stung by the weary note in his voice. He looked tired too, she realised for the first time, with the scar deepening the strained lines beside his mouth and the shadows beneath those amazing eyes, reminding her of the ordeal he’d just returned from.
My God, she thought. In a moment I’ll be feeling sorry for him—if I’m not careful.
She rallied herself. ‘What’s wrong with village life?’
‘Nothing, in theory,’ he said. ‘In practice, it’s not the ideal way to equip yourself for life in the big city. Too big a jump to reality. Which is why I can’t simply get rid of you, right here and now, as I’d like to do, because it would be like throwing a puppy out on to the motorway.’
Tallie gasped indignantly. ‘How bloody patronising is that? Kindly don’t treat me like a child.’
‘Well, you certainly didn’t appreciate my willingness to treat you like a woman,’ he said softly. ‘If you remember…’ His voice died into tantalising silence and the green eyes swept insolently over her, as if the protection of the thick folds of towelling suddenly no longer existed. Making it hideously, indelibly clear that he hadn’t forgotten a thing about their initial encounter, and might even be relishing the memory.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sara-craven/one-night-with-his-virgin-mistress-39893138/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.