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CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE FIRST THING Lucas heard when he walked through the door was the sound of music. His steps stilled and he paused to listen, even though he was running late. Irish music. Some softly lilting air which managed to be both mournful and uplifting at the same time—in the way of all Irish music. He frowned as he heard a peel of laughter which sounded familiar and then the chink of crystal, followed by more laughter.
With a quick glance at his watch he moved swiftly towards the library, quietly pushing open the door to see his guests standing with their backs to him, listening to something Tara was saying as she tilted a bottle of champagne into someone’s glass.
He almost did a double-take as for a moment he felt as if the light were playing tricks on him, because the woman in question looked like Tara and sounded like Tara, and yet...
He screwed up his eyes.
And yet...
Surely that wasn’t Tara?
Her hair was scooped on top of her head but for once there wasn’t a riot of frizzy curls tumbling around her face. The sleek red waves were coiled like sleeping serpents—emphasising the slim, pale column of her neck. He swallowed, because her hair wasn’t the only thing which was different. She was wearing a dress. And stockings. And... Again, he frowned. She had on some flirty little apron which made her look... She looked as if she was about to leave for a party where the specified dress code was Sexy French Maid. His groin grew rocky and he realised he didn’t want to focus on her appearance, or the evening was going to become one long endurance test before he could take her to bed.
He realised his guests must have heard him for they were turning to greet him and as he apologised for his lateness he saw a wry look on Brett Henderson’s face—because, as a world-acclaimed movie star and key member of British acting royalty, he wasn’t used to being kept waiting.
But Lucas’s somewhat garbled explanations about late planes and fog on the San Franciscan runway were cut short by a dismissive wave from the Irish Embassy official.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, Lucas—we’ve been fine here.’ Seamus Hennessy beamed, and so did his wife, Erin. ‘We’re hardly missed you at all and Tara’s been looking after us grandly, so she has!’
For the first time since he’d walked in, Tara turned to look at him and gave a shy smile, which contrasted with the sensual allure of her outfit, and Lucas was taken aback by the resultant shiver which rippled its way down his spine as he met her heavy-hooded amber gaze. He found himself wishing he could just dismiss the guests, skip supper and take her straight to bed—yet his need for her unsettled him.
‘Do you all have drinks?’ he questioned pleasantly. ‘Good. Tara? I wonder if I could have a quick word in the kitchen.’
He didn’t say anything as they left the library and neither did he comment as they passed the dining room, even though he could see she must have gone to a lot of trouble to lay the table for dinner. Unlit candles protruded from centrepiece swathes of fragrant greenery mixed with cherry-coloured roses, and all the crystal and silver was gleaming beneath the diamond shards of the overhead chandelier. He waited until they were in the kitchen and completely out of earshot before he turned on her and the feelings which had been growing inside him now erupted.
‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘You don’t look like you!’
Faint colour stained her cheeks as she glanced down at her outfit before looking up again to meet his accusing gaze. ‘You mean you don’t like it?’
‘I told you to buy yourself some new clothes,’ he ground out. ‘Not to look like the personification of every man’s fantasy maid.’
She screwed up her face. ‘It’s an apron, Lucas!’ she said crossly. ‘And perhaps you ought to make your mind up about where you really stand! You were always criticising my old uniform for being too frumpy and now you’re complaining that this one is too sexy!’
Confused, he shook his head. ‘It’s the way you wear it,’ he said slowly.
‘Or rather, the way you perceive it—which is your problem, not mine. Make up your mind what it is you want because I haven’t got the time or the appetite for this. And now, if you’ll excuse me—’ she lifted her chin in as haughty a gesture as he’d ever seen her use ‘—I really do need to get on with serving dinner.’
He wanted to reach out and stay her with a hungry kiss but something stopped him and it wasn’t just pride. It was anger. And jealousy—and he didn’t do jealousy or possession.
But the true and very bitter fact seemed to be that he did.
He forced himself to snap out of his foul mood and, since he often hosted dinners without a woman by his side, it shouldn’t have been a problem. Seamus and Erin were easy company and Salvatore di Luca’s latest squeeze worked for the United Nations and had some very illuminating things to say about the current political situation in Europe, which usually would have interested him. But for once he found his attention wandering and the biggest fly in the ointment was Brett Henderson flirting like crazy with Tara. And she wasn’t exactly discouraging him, was she? Did she really have to simper like that as she told him how much she’d enjoyed the film in which he’d played a shape-shifting wizard?
Lucas was forced to watch as the mellifluous Englishman returned the love-fest by purring all kinds of compliments about his housekeeper’s home-made lasagne.
‘A really lovely woman in a nearby Italian store taught me how to make fresh pasta!’ she was telling him proudly.
‘What, here? In cynical old New York City?’ joked Seamus.
‘Tara has a particular naïve charm all of her own,’ said Lucas coolly, and he couldn’t miss the look of fury she directed at him as she brought out the tiramisu.
Eventually they all went home and Lucas tried to ignore the sound of Brett asking Tara for her email address. And it wasn’t until Seamus and Erin had extracted a promise that the housekeeper would attend a ceilidh at the embassy that they finally took their leave.
The apartment seemed very big and very quiet as Lucas walked back into the library and found Tara clearing away glasses. ‘Did you give Brett your email address?’ he demanded.
‘And if I did? Is that such a crime?’ She straightened up to look at him and he had never seen such a look of quiet fury in her eyes. ‘Unless you think...’ She shook her head as if in disbelief. ‘Unless you really think that I would encourage one man in a romantic fashion, when I’m in a physical relationship with another?’
