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‘To moving in? Oh, but surely—?’
‘Surely what I’ll do now is the gentlemanly thing and let you off the hook, now that I know you don’t want me. I’m afraid not,’ he told her calmly. ‘I’ve already wasted far too much time looking for somewhere suitable, and besides, like you, I feel that the kind of comments that Vanessa was making are best refuted by being totally ignored. Which way?’ he asked her.
Automatically she told him, and then lapsed into a numb silence as they covered the miles in easy comfort. He was a good driver; the Jaguar was bliss to ride in. It smelled of leather, and the passenger seat seemed to curve itself around her body. Within twenty minutes they were turning into the drive. She saw Oliver frown as he noted the rickety gates and unkempt drive, although all he said when he eventually stopped the car in front of the house was, ‘Excellent situation…for a family. Do you have much land?’
‘An acre of garden and a good-sized paddock,’ Charlotte responded automatically.
She never used the front door, keeping it bolted and barred at all times, but now she reflected that perhaps she ought to have new locks put on it so that Oliver could use it. That way she would be decreasing the risks of their paths crossing too frequently. The risks…what risks, for heaven’s sake?
She saw the way he studied the house as she opened the porch door. When he followed her into the kitchen, she found herself gabbling that she was waiting for the joiner to start work on the new units, and quickly stopped herself. Why on earth was she apologising to him? What did it matter to her what he thought of her home?
But to her surprise he said easily, ‘My mother died last year. It was months before I could bring myself to do anything about her house. There’s always such a feeling of betrayal and guilt involved in the death of a parent, isn’t there? A feeling of reluctance to change anything. I suppose it’s all part of the natural healing process. The trouble is that nowadays we’re all too geared to the media vision of instant everything to accept that some things take time. Do you miss him?’
‘Not really,’ Charlotte admitted. ‘He wasn’t easy to get on with and we weren’t really close. I suppose it was guilt that brought me home in the first place, and guilt that kept me here.’
She was surprised to discover how easy it was to admit it to him.
‘I’d better show you the rooms,’ she said awkwardly, opening the kitchen door and waiting for him to follow her.
In the end she showed him all through the house, and then the garden. He was surprisingly knowledgeable about the latter for a man who lived in London, and when he said quietly, ‘Would you mind if I tried my hand at resuscitating your vegetable plot?’ Charlotte said the first thing that came into her head.
‘But you won’t be here long enough. You said six months.’
‘Yes, I know. So the garden is out of bounds to me, is it?’
‘No…no… Of course not.’
What had she said? She had no intention of sharing her garden with him as well as her home. The trouble with Oliver Tennant was that he never reacted in the way she expected, and so he was constantly catching her off guard. She had no idea why he would want to bother himself with her neglected vegetable garden, but now it seemed she had given him permission to do so, just as she had tacitly agreed to accept him as her lodger.
There were still various minor details to sort out. It was almost eight o’clock before he finally got up to leave.
Charlotte walked out with him to his car. As he opened the door he turned round. Instinctively she stepped back from him.
‘By the way,’ he said calmly, ‘there’s just one more thing.’
Charlotte waited patiently, and was stunned when his head descended towards her own and he said quietly in her ear, ‘Look at me, Charlotte. I don’t think you’re sexless, far from it. Shall I prove it to you?’
The shock of his words immobilised her for just long enough for his hand to settle firmly against her jaw and gently turn her face towards his own, so that his mouth could feather slowly against her skin until it came to rest against hers.
A shudder of shock racked her as her senses registered the moist warmth of his lips and their gentle persuasive movement against her own. Her eyes, wide open and dazed, stared into his. She couldn’t believe this was happening, but it was. His free hand was resting on her waist, propelling her forward to close the gap between their bodies. She could feel the heat coming off his skin—or was it her own flesh that was giving off that warmth? The hand on her jaw stroked her throat and then her nape, the long fingers burrowing under her hair, while her pulse jerked frantically and her heart pounded in her chest. And all the time his mouth was moving on hers, slowly, subtly, seductively, so that her insides were turning fluid and molten and she was automatically obeying the silent command of his mouth and responding to the growing pressure of his kiss.
