AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Just as swiftly that thought was replaced by something much more cynical: it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference. Even if her father could have been persuaded to approve of her relationship with the village wild boy instead of threatening fire and brimstone there wouldn’t have been a happy ending. The black-eyed, half tamed, young Dexter had never loved her. Had just lied about it because he’d wanted sex with her, happy enough to go find it elsewhere when he’d had a fistful of her father’s money as a pay-off.
Now the downward sweep of his eyes, the curl of his long, hard mouth told her that he’d noted her weird appearance and had fastened on what was obvious: the clear outline of her svelte body showing through the ghastly overall, modesty secured, but only just, by the tiny black bra and briefs.
Quelling the impulse to run right out of here, she lifted her chin a fraction higher and coolly asked, ‘You wanted something?’
‘You.’
Eyes like molten jet swept up and locked with hers and for a moment she thought he meant it. Meant just that. Her bones trembled, heat fizzing through her veins, her breath lodging in her throat. Until a deep cleft slashed between his dark brows, the lazy, taunting smile wiped away as he moved closer.
Of course he hadn’t meant he wanted her the way he once had. Wildly, passionately, possessively. He just wanted to check the hired help was actually working, not sitting somewhere with her feet up, painting her nails.
Which was just as well because she didn’t want him, most certainly she didn’t. Until he touched her, the merest brush of the backs of his fingers as he stroked the heavy fall of midnight hair away from her face and everything inside her melted in the shattering conflagration of present desire and remembered ecstasy.
Dry-mouthed, she could hardly breathe, the air tasting thick and heavy on her tongue as he touched the wet spikiness of her lashes with the tip of his forefinger and said heavily, ‘You’re upset, Caro. I didn’t mean that to happen, I truly didn’t.’
Concern in those black, black eyes, a bone-melting softness. She remembered how that look could slice straight into her heart. Remembered that time, all those summers ago, a moonlit night, she’d collided with a sapling oak because when she’d been with him she’d seen nothing else. The same look as then, as he’d stroked the soft white skin of her shoulder, as if his touch, his love, could have stopped the slight abrasion from hurting, prevented a bruise from forming. She hadn’t doubted the sincerity of his concern for her then.
But she should have done.
‘I thought there might be something here of sentimental value,’ he told her softly. ‘Souvenirs of your childhood, photograph albums, whatever; things you might like to keep. Mrs Skeet has your father’s personal effects. I know she intended to contact you. I’ll arrange for the two of you to meet up while you’re here.’
His hand lay lightly on her shoulder and her whole body tightened in rejection of what he was now and what he had been. Unwittingly, her eyes came up and levelled on his mouth. It looked as if he’d kissed more women than he’d had hot dinners. And as a well-worn cliché it probably hit the mark.
‘No need,’ she answered, keeping her voice steady, hard, even. ‘I’d already decided to contact Dorothy. So far…’ she shrugged his hand away ‘…I’ve found nothing of any value or interest apart from these letters which I intend to keep. But I’ll continue looking.’
Oh, how she wished she didn’t look so darned ridiculous! That Dorothy’s cast-off overalls had been made from good, solid cotton, something, anything, that didn’t reveal her skimpy underwear to eyes that were now hard, definitely ungiving. Because she’d rejected his concern as certainly as if she’d physically pushed the words back down his throat?
‘Not now.’ He turned away from her. ‘Carry on in the morning. I told Linda we’d eat out this evening; she’s got enough on her hands without having to feed us.’ He paused in the doorway, turned to look at her, his voice hovering between frustration and amusement, ‘Change out of that whatever it is—nightdress?—and be ready to leave in thirty minutes.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I’M SURE you must be hungry by now. You barely touched your lunch.’ No hint of that deeply unsettling caring in his voice now, just a smoky curl of amusement.
It was eight o’clock and the light was beginning to fade from the clear, evening sky. His teeth gleamed whitely against the olive tones of his skin as he switched off the ignition and gave her the self-assured, chillingly predatory smile that sent a rapid succession of shivers down the length of her spine.
She could have said with truth that she was absolutely ravenous, that it was his fault she hadn’t been able to swallow more than a mouthful of her lunch. But she gave a brief dip of her glossy dark head and told him, ‘Slightly,’ instead.
Expecting the village pub she’d dressed as down as she could, given the selection of clothes she’d brought with her. But they’d ended up on the forecourt of what looked like a
formidably exclusive eating house in the depths of the country and if the female clientele were all wearing little black numbers she’d stick out like a sore thumb in her cream linen trousers, toning Italian sweater and Gucci loafers.
Not that she was going to let it bother her, she decided as her assumption proved correct. In any case, Ben Dexter, immaculately suited, with his darkly virile looks, his obvious sophistication, stole all the attention. And sitting opposite him as they were handed menus as large and difficult to handle as broadsheets she wondered why he was bothering to try to impress her.
For the same reason he’d wanted to impress the locals when he’d bought the Langley Hayes estate—despised poor boy makes good?
He’d impressed her far more twelve years ago when he’d had two burning ambitions: To make her his wife and to achieve the financial success to keep her in style. At least, that was what he had said, and she’d believed him. Gullible fool that she’d been!
Oh, the success had come, no doubt about it, and she hadn’t been interested in being kept in style—but as for making her his wife, nothing had been further from his lying, cheating mind.
She handed her menu to a passing waiter, glad to be rid of it. She said, lightly, coolly, ‘I’ll be a little late starting in the morning. I need to walk down to the village to see if Angie Brown still carries a stock of jeans and shirts. I need something serviceable if I’m going to spend half my time rooting around in the attics. And I was wearing one of Dorothy Skeet’s overalls. I don’t go to bed in billowing yards of flowery stuff.’
Suddenly the black eyes were laughing at her, his mouth a sinful curve, and she knew it had been a huge mistake to remind him that he’d suggested she was wearing her nightdress when he said, ‘What do you wear to bed these days? Tailored silk pyjamas? There was a time when our bed was the softest, coolest moss we could find, if you remember. Or, if it rained, and it rarely did, the sweetly rustling hay in your father’s stable loft. Neither of us wore a stitch back then.’
And then, without missing a beat, while thick hot colour swept into her cheeks and something nameless twisted viciously inside her, he said, ‘The village store altered five years ago when Angie retired. The new owners don’t stock clothing. But I need to drive into Shrewsbury tomorrow; you can come with me. You can shop while I keep my appointment with my solicitors.’ He broke a bread roll with those long, strong fingers, buttered one ragged half and added softly, ‘There’s a rather good trattoria in Butcher Row. We can meet there for lunch.’
Just like that! Oh lord, let me get my composure back, she prayed, willing her pulse beat back to normal. Dropping explicit reminders of the past into everyday conversation was going to do her head in if he persisted. Best to ignore it. Hope it was a one-off.
‘I would have thought you’d have used a firm of slick city lawyers.’ She took up the conversational ball, ignoring his reference to the long, stolen nights they’d spent together, hoping that in future he would do the same. If he didn’t then she’d be forced to have her say, and she didn’t want to have a stand-up fight with him, risk him complaining to Edward, putting the job she loved in jeopardy. Much better to try to hold her tongue on the vexed subject of their past and keep their present relationship as businesslike as it was possible to be under the circumstances.
