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‘It seems they may have a buyer for Hadley Court,’ he told her as he guided her down the path that ran alongside the lawn. ‘He’s going to get in touch with us later in the week when he’s made contact with his client. I’ve given him your number as well as mine. His client is a private buyer, wanting a property for his own occupation.’
‘Oh, that’s marvellous!’
It was impossible to conceal her relief. She stopped on the path and turned towards him, her eyes shining, her face turned up to his, and then she tensed as she saw his expression change.
Her mouth had gone oddly dry; she could hear the shallow rapidity of her own heartbeat. An odd lazy heat seemed to be engulfing her.
He’s going to kiss me, she thought dizzily… but then, just as she was about to step closer to him, he moved back, so that she had no option but to follow him along the path. Hot colour flooded her as he backed off from her and moved away.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked him, striving to appear unconcerned and relaxed, praying he hadn’t realised she had thought he was going to kiss her.
‘Here,’ he told her, gesturing towards the small orchard tucked away at the bottom of the garden.
The soft grass beneath the trees was thick with fallen blossom, the evening air heavy with its scent. Under the largest of the trees was a rug heaped with cushions. The setting was idyllic, like something out of a painting…a scene set for seduction.
Seduction? Did Oliver intend to seduce her? The sheer unexpectedness of what her senses were telling her shimmered through her, creating a warm welling of delighted shock, so that bubbles of disbelieving amusement combined with a heady sense of having strayed into a magical world of fantasy whirled into her bloodstream, making her buoyant and light-headed.
Like her, he had stopped walking, and now they faced one another. How did one ask a man if he was merely trying to provide a comfortable setting for a shared meal or whether it was something more intimate that he had in mind? And why would Oliver want to make love to her? Her face burned suddenly as she remembered how he had seen her this morning.
Did he think this was what she wanted? Had he gone to all this trouble simply because he felt sorry for her? Did men make love to women they felt sorry for?
Suddenly very deflated and miserable, she said uncomforta
bly, ’Oliver, I—’
‘I’m hungry,’ he interrupted her firmly. ‘Let’s eat, and then we can talk.’
He sounded so matter-of-fact and calm that it seemed idiotic that she should have thought even for a split second that he might have intended to make love to her, and so she followed him into the orchard and allowed him to settle her comfortably against the cushions, while he opened the hamper and removed its contents.
Charlotte blinked in astonishment at the luxury of the food inside. No sandwiches here, but instead tiny delicate quiches filled with salmon and other delicacies, so mouth-wateringly delicious that they were impossible to resist.
The champagne, cool and refreshing, bubbled in her glass.
And, as Oliver drank his own, he said softly, ‘This is how champagne should be drunk: in a warm garden filled with the scents of summer, with a beautiful woman by your side.’
Charlotte started to tremble. She gulped at her champagne to hide her agitation, and said quickly, ‘I can’t believe this food is for a picnic. It’s so luxurious.’
There was fresh salmon and an appetising collection of salad and vegetables, crusty French bread, strawberries and thick cream, all served on china with silver cutlery, and a beautifully starched tablecloth and napkins.
Luxury indeed.
‘It’s the kind of hamper they do for events such as Glyndebourne,’ Oliver told her.
When had his eyes narrowed to that sharp, almost glinting intensity that seemed to see through the defences she was trying to put up against him?
‘More champagne?’
She stared at him, and then realised that her glass was empty. She let him fill it, and drank it quickly while he watched her with unnerving intensity.
Despite the deliciousness of the food, she could barely touch it; she was too tense, too on edge. The champagne, though, was a different thing. She drank three full glasses and felt its mellow, uninhibiting effect on her body. She couldn’t stand the tension any longer.
Recklessly she turned to Oliver and asked huskily, ‘Oliver, are you going to make love to me?’
For a moment he was silent, and then he asked in turn, ‘Is that what you want me to do?’
It wasn’t the answer she had wanted. She bit her lip and stared at him, her mind suddenly fogged and confused by the champagne, her body and its desires, ignoring the cautioning whispers of her brain, challenging her to say fiercely, ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
Oliver was so still that she thought she must have shocked him, but it was too late to retract now, too late to wonder dizzily why she had behaved in such an outrageous fashion, and to wonder even more why she should feel so unconcerned about it. She had never experienced before this extraordinary sense of being so cut free from her normal anxieties and self-doubts—perhaps because she was not normally in the habit of drinking so much strong champagne on an empty stomach.
