Edge Of Deception
Daphne Clair
I'm Getting Married!While Tara wished her ex-husband well in his intended marriage, she couldn't deny her attraction to him. There was just no future in it - Sholto had made it clear that he couldn't forgive or forget her, and the edge of deception that colored their past seemed a chasm neither one of them could bridge.Yet five years after their bitter parting Tara finally realized the truth - she still loved Sholto Hearne, loved the man who had accused her of an unforgivable sin - adultery!
Edge Of Deception
Daphne Clair
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u4f4717a5-ef3f-5f16-8662-b18f4cee6740)
CHAPTER TWO (#uf0fd581a-c99f-5826-bd75-bfb356337c17)
CHAPTER THREE (#u81a56f09-1ce9-58d3-a4a7-acef5ed48074)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ue237aad8-ef12-57d0-8418-dc2953cf24f9)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
HE HADN’T CHANGED.
It was Tara’s first thought when she saw him across the big, crowded room. There must have been nearly forty people there, standing about in groups with glasses in their hands, some of the men as tall as he, but her eyes found Sholto unerringly, as though he’d called her name. As though her heart, her mind, her body, had recognised his presence and known where to look for him.
What had brought him back to New Zealand?
Business, of course. Herne Holdings, his import and export business, still had a branch in Auckland as well as others in Hong Kong and Sydney, shipping goods from country to country all around the Pacific rim.
Perhaps it was the intensity of her gaze that made him turn his head from the woman at his side and meet Tara’s eyes. She saw the small movement, quickly controlled, that betrayed his discomposure. Something flared in the Prussian-blue eyes below the dark slash of his brows, something compounded of recognition and antagonism, sending a hot shiver along her spine. And then he shifted slightly so that a broad shoulder in expensive charcoal tailoring partially obscured his companion, his sleek black head bent to concentrate on what she was saying.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ Chantelle was asking at Tara’s side. ‘Dry white? Or sparkling?’ Her brown eyes, peeking from under a bouncy fringe, were enquiring.
‘I’d like a stiff gin and lemon,’ Tara heard herself say, wrenching her attention away to focus on her hostess. ‘Happy birthday,’ she added. ‘As instructed, I didn’t bring a present, but I’d love you to pick something you’d like from my shop. Pop in any time.’
She scarcely heard Chantelle’s delighted rejoinder.
Maybe she should just leave. But that would entail some kind of explanation—and besides, Sholto had seen her. She didn’t want him to think she was running away.
She avoided looking in his direction as she accompanied Chantelle to the polished mahogany bar in the corner of the room—which was two rooms, really, the dividing doors pushed back for the party.
Chantelle’s husband, Philip, appeared and greeted Tara with a kiss on her cheek. ‘What can I get you?’ he asked, slipping behind the bar.
Chantelle relayed Tara’s request.
‘Hard day?’ he enquired. The doorbell pealed, and Chantelle hurried off to answer it. Philip poured a generous measure of gin into a glass and topped it with lemon squash, adding a couple of ice cubes and a slice of fresh lemon before handing her the glass. ‘Business booming in the antique trade?’
Tara took a swallow of the drink before answering. ‘Real antiques are rather slow to move, but I’m doing well with other things. Furniture recycled from used native timber taken from demolition sites is a good seller. The prices are not as high as for antiques, so more people can afford them.’
‘Swings and roundabouts, eh? Chantelle says she’s selling more potted plants than cut flowers these days. Sign of the times, do you think?’
A man plonked a couple of glasses down on the curved bar, gave Tara a friendly, interested smile and said, ‘Same again, please, Phil.’
Tara returned the smile briefly and took a couple of steps away, burying her nose in her glass. Philip had made the drink strong; maybe it would calm her leaping nerves.
‘Tara.’
She knew he was near just before the deep, midnight voice spoke behind her. A spot between her shoulder blades, bared by the off-the-shoulder flame-red party frock and the swept-up style she’d imposed on her unruly burnished-bronze hair, felt as though a fiery finger had touched it.
Unconsciously standing taller, she turned slowly, making sure her face revealed none of her feelings, praying that her eyes, more green than hazel when her emotions were disturbed, would not betray her.
‘Sholto.’ She moved her lips in what she hoped was a reasonable facsimile of a smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Nor I you.’ Close up he was as devastating as ever, but her first impression had been wrong. There were subtle changes—a fine crease between the black eyebrows, a few more at the corners of the fathomless smalt eyes, and his mouth looked harder, without the faint promise of tenderness that had once been implicit in its firm lines. The light gleamed on his hair, and she realised with a pang that a few strands here and there had turned grey.
‘You look older,’ she said involuntarily. He would be thirty-eight now.
Not even trying to smile, he said, ‘I am—five years older. So are you—but you don’t show it.’
‘You needn’t flatter me,’ she said with a hint of tartness.
‘I wasn’t.’ His gaze moved over her in a chillingly clinical way. ‘You’ve changed, but not aged. Hard to believe that you’re—what?—twenty-seven.’
‘Thank you.’ Tara’s voice was curt. She took another sip of her drink. ‘Are you in Auckland on business?’
He seemed to hesitate before saying, ‘Not entirely, this time.’
Someone bumped into her back, propelling her forward a little, the liquid in her glass slopping up to the rim but not spilling. Sholto reached out and closed his warm hand about her arm, steadying her.
‘Sorry!’ A man holding two beer glasses aloft stepped into her vision, a flustered smile on his face.
‘It’s all right,’ she murmured.
Sholto still held her; she could feel his fingers on her flesh like a brand. He turned, bringing her to his side. ‘We can’t stand about here,’ he said. ‘I’ll find a quiet corner where we can talk.’ He began steering a path through the crowd, taking her with him.
Tara resisted. ‘We should have talked a long time ago, Sholto. It’s a bit late now.’
His fingers tightened fractionally, impatience in his face as he angled his head towards her. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
What could he possibly have to say to her? ‘Tell me here.’
A man on the outskirts of a laughing group must have heard the combative note in her voice. He looked round curiously, momentarily catching her eye.
Sholto’s breath feathered her ear as he bent to speak into it. ‘Believe me, this isn’t where you want to hear it.’
He didn’t relinquish his grip, and reluctantly she went with him. Better to capitulate than make a scene.
He led her through a doorway into a short passage and, opening another door opposite, found a switch and turned on the light.
‘Philip’s study?’ Tara hesitated. Chantelle’s husband was the advertising manager of a community newspaper and brought some of his work home. The small room was dominated by a wide desk on which stood a computer surrounded by paper trays and folders. Shelves and filing cabinets lined the walls up to the ceiling.
‘I’m sure Phil won’t mind.’ Sholto drew her inside and shut the door before releasing her arm. There was very little space to move, even though Sholto remained standing just in front of the door.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
The only chair was a leather-covered swivel one before the desk. Tara glanced at it and said, ‘No, thanks.’ She felt at enough of a disadvantage without having him tower over her. As long as she remained standing in her high-heeled red shoes there was only a matter of inches between their respective heights.
Sholto looked at her thoughtfully, then shrugged.
‘So, what’s the big secret?’ Tara asked.
‘It’s no secret—that’s rather the point.’
‘If it isn’t a secret, why on earth did you need to drag me in here? It’s going to look a bit rude, you know. I’ve barely arrived.’
‘I know exactly when you arrived.’ His teeth snapped together.
Fleetingly Tara wondered if he’d been as aware of her presence as she had been of his, even before he looked up and saw her.
He said, ‘I wish I’d known you were going to be here—’
‘If I’d known you were going to be here I’d never have come!’
‘Do you hate me so much, Tara?’ he enquired softly.
Dark lashes swept down to conceal the look in her eyes. ‘As much as you hate me.’
The silence stretched. Then the beautiful, spine-tingling voice spoke at last. ‘I never said I hated you.’
She looked up, her eyes holding his in challenge. ‘You said you loved me—once.’
‘It was true—once.’
She had thought she’d got over being hurt by him, buried her feelings for him in the grave of their dead love. But the dispassionate admission somehow found an unguarded place in her heart, making her inwardly wince.
‘No,’ she said, striving to equal his coolness. ‘You lusted for me. I don’t believe you know what love is.’ Maybe he was incapable of either love or hate. Of any really strong emotion.
He didn’t move, and his face remained stony. ‘If that’s what you want to believe,’ he said, as though it didn’t matter to him.
She had never wanted to believe it. She’d come to that conclusion inevitably, as the result of bitter heartache. His indifference still stung. But she’d matured since their last encounter. ‘Why don’t you spit out what you want to say,’ she invited him, ‘and let me go back to the party? I came here to enjoy myself. And I’m sure the lady you just left is missing you.’
‘Still a good-time girl?’ he jeered, his hands going into his pockets as he leaned back on the door. ‘All right. This isn’t the time and place I’d have chosen, but I’d rather you heard it from me than as party gossip. I would have written to you, if I could find your address. I’m getting married. The lady I left just now is my fiancée.’
Thank God for make-up. Would the light foundation, the touch of blusher, hide the sudden drain of colour from her cheeks? She fervently hoped so. Her hand made a small movement, an involuntary groping for the chair, but she quickly halted it. She wasn’t going to let him know that she felt as if she’d been punched in the midriff, that a strange, hollow void had just opened somewhere near her heart.
Despite the casual stance, his eyes were watchful, as though he was getting ready to catch her.
I won’t let him have the satisfaction, Tara vowed. She lifted the forgotten glass in her hand and swallowed most of the drink, giving herself time to recover. Her voice was admirably steady when she said, ‘Congratulations. You must introduce me. She does know about me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well—’ she gave him a bright, unseeing smile ‘—I hope it works out for you both.’
‘Thank you.’ His voice was clipped, and for the first time she thought she discerned a faint discomfort. ‘You’re here alone, tonight?’
A pity she hadn’t arrived with some gorgeous man in tow. Trying to recall the woman Sholto had been with, she had a vague impression of pale, smooth hair falling to white, sloping shoulders, of a full mouth and compact curves. ‘Yes, I am,’ she admitted, ‘this time.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘From choice,’ she assured him coolly. Not that it was any of his business.
A tight smile touched his mouth. ‘I never imagined otherwise. Trawling, are you? I don’t suppose you’ll leave on your own. You’re as lovely as ever—to look at.’
Her eyelids flickered at the brief, deliberate pause. She hoped he didn’t realise how deep the barb had gone. ‘Isn’t it time we went back?’
‘Yes.’ Decisively he took his hands from his pockets and opened the door, waiting for her to precede him.
A perverse impulse stopped her as she was passing him, her eyes defiantly lifting to his. ‘I wish you luck,’ she said, and leaned forward to place a light kiss on his mouth.
That was what it was supposed to be—proof that she wasn’t shattered, that she wished him well. But, tantalised by the warm familiarity of his mouth, the seductive scent of his skin, her lips lingered wistfully.
She felt an answering movement of his mouth, and his hands gripped her shoulders as his lips opened and drove against hers.
‘Sholto?’
At the sound of the enquiring feminine voice, he thrust Tara away so roughly that her back came jarringly in contact with the door frame. She saw the fierce desire in his eyes before they turned murderous and then he dragged them from her to the woman standing hesitantly by the open door to the lounge, where the party went on noisily behind her.
‘Averil.’ Sholto held out his hand, stepping forward to draw her to his side.
As Tara shakily straightened herself, Sholto put his arm about the other woman. ‘This is Tara,’ he said, his voice hard, uninflected. ‘I’ve told you about her. Tara, I want you to meet Averil Carolan, my fiancée.’
CHAPTER TWO
AVERIL GAVE HER a stiff smile. Her eyes were the light, almost achromatic hue of bleached denim. Although she wore high-heeled shoes, her head was barely level with Sholto’s black tie, the pale hair contrasting with his jacket as his arm curled possessively about her shoulders. There’d be blond hairs adhering to the fine wool when he took his clothes off, Tara thought.
Banishing the picture edging into her mind, she held out her right hand. ‘How nice to meet you. I was just giving Sholto my best wishes for you both.’
Averil’s hand briefly met hers. ‘Thank you.’ She glanced up at Sholto, whose expression was enigmatic, his eyes resting on Tara with suspicion lurking in their depths.
The solid feel of the glass tumbler in her left hand was comforting. She tried a social answering smile, and asked, ‘When is the happy day?’
‘Soon,’ Sholto said, as Averil answered, ‘We haven’t decided—’ and then looked at him again, apologetically.
Sholto explained, ‘There hasn’t been time to discuss the details. We only bought the ring yesterday.’
So the engagement was new. ‘I’m sure you’ll work something out.’ Tara kept the smile in place. Turning it on Averil, she said, ‘May I see it—the ring?’
Averil’s left hand was half concealed in the pastel pink folds of her skirt. Tara saw it clench before it was reluctantly proffered for her inspection.
The large oval diamond flanked by two smaller ones suited Averil’s slim, tapered fingers and pink-painted nails.
‘Lovely,’ Tara said perfunctorily, her own ringless fingers clamping even harder on her glass. Tipping it to her lips, she emptied it completely. ‘Well, I think I’ll get myself another drink and join the party. Have a good time, you two.’
She turned away from them, making blindly for the lounge doorway and wending her way back to the bar. No one was there, but she helped herself to more gin from one of the variety of bottles standing on the counter, splashing a liberal amount into the glass before adding squash. Her hand shook and she spilled a few drops.
When she looked about, the room seemed to blur before her eyes, the sounds of chatter and laughter rising to a raucous hum until she wanted to cover her ears.
She held herself tightly together, taking three deep breaths. Perhaps she shouldn’t have poured another gin. The final humiliation would be to get herself drunk and do something stupid. She’d snatched a couple of sandwiches at lunchtime, between customers, and had eaten nothing since. Although she’d never felt less hungry, some food would be a good idea.
As she went in search of it, a warm male hand fell on her shoulder. ‘Tara! Chantelle said you were here! I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Andy—’ Tara turned with resignation. Andrew Paget towered over her, a wide grin showing perfect teeth that went with his over-long flaxen curls, guileless summer-sky gaze and carefully nurtured, brawny frame. A dazzling white T-shirt two sizes too small accentuated his sun-bed tan, and designer-label dress jeans lovingly hugged dramatically muscled thighs and calves.
She couldn’t help smiling back at him. Andy had that effect on women. There was not a lot between his surgically flattened ears to complement the magnificent body and the Greek-god face, but she’d known him when he was an undersized kid with unevenly mown sandy hair and a mouth full of brand-new dental braces. Behind the fragile self-assurance engendered by a late growth spurt and the correcting of his disastrous teeth and ears, followed by a determined regimen of body-building, lurked the child who had endured the nickname of ‘Wingnut’ from the day he started school.
Tara had always had a soft spot for him during the two years they’d both attended the same school, before her father sold his hardware business in a Waikato town to invest in a new business selling how-to books to supermarkets and garages, then later bought out a surplus goods firm in Auckland. When Andy turned up years afterwards working in a sporting goods store in the small suburban mall where Chantelle and Tara had their own shops, his metamorphosis had stunned and amused her.
The women his new image attracted had improved Andy’s confidence considerably, but that in no way changed the basic sweetness of his nature. Only, his conversational powers were extended by any discussion that ranged beyond football, pop songs, the innards of cars and the esoteric mysteries of body-building. He’d got his job less, she suspected, on any perceived sales ability than on the advertising value of his mere presence, kitted out from the store’s range of expensive sports clothing.
‘What did you want me for?’ she asked him.
His grin widened. One thing Andy had learned from the parade of women competing for his delighted attention was a rather obvious form of sexual banter. His gaze dropped innocently over the figure-hugging red dress that stopped well short of Tara’s knees and returned to her eyes, mischief dancing in his.
Before he could say anything, she told him crisply, ‘I need to eat. Put those muscles of yours to good use, will you, and carve me a path to the food?’ She’d glimpsed a couple of tables against the wall of the other room, laden with filled dishes.
Andy took her hand and did as she’d asked, fetching up before one of the tables with a look of triumph. Tempted to say, ‘Good boy,’ and pat him, she settled for, ‘Thank you.’ As she picked up a plate and began placing a selection of nibbles on it, she added, choosing her words more carefully this time, ‘Why were you looking for me?’
Shoving a sausage roll into his mouth, Andy apparently swallowed it whole. ‘Chantelle said you’re on your own.’
‘Yes, I am.’ She hadn’t brought anyone because she figured that would make it easier to slip off home early. These days parties tended to pall after a couple of hours, and she usually avoided them. Did Chantelle think she’d be lost without a partner?
Looking round idly, her gaze skittered away from Sholto and Averil, talking to Philip and another man. Chantelle didn’t know, did she? No, she told herself. If she had, she’d have warned me.
‘So’m I.’ An oyster patty followed the sausage roll, leaving a fragment of pastry on his lower lip.
‘What?’ Absently she reached up and removed the flaky crumb, dropping it onto the edge of her plate.
‘Alone,’ he explained. ‘I don’t know anyone.’
Light dawned. Andy was shy, and had made a beeline for the one person he knew well. Childhood insecurities died hard. ‘I don’t know many people, either. Shall we stick together?’ She smiled at him kindly, then bit into an asparagus roll, cool and bland.
Andy picked up another from the table and popped it into his mouth. ‘Chantelle introduced me to this woman,’ he muttered, furtively looking about the room. ‘Over there.’ Quickly he averted his eyes, and Tara’s curious glance over her shoulder failed to identify which woman he meant.
‘Didn’t you like her?’ she asked, finishing the roll and picking up a club sandwich. Andy was almost fatally friendly. She couldn’t imagine him taking an instant dislike to anyone, especially a woman. He was so overwhelmingly grateful for their interest that he practically fell over himself trying to please them.
‘Like her?’ He looked as though the concept was beyond him. ‘She—she’s a professor! At the university.’ His expression was one of awe bordering on terror.
Tara bridled. What had the woman done—deliberately intimidated him? If so, she was both cruel and a snob. It wasn’t Andy’s fault that he’d not been blessed with an academic brain like some people. ‘What did she say to you?’
‘Say?’ He looked at her blankly. ‘Not much. “Hello,” and “What do you do?” is about all, really.’ He swallowed. ‘I g-got her a drink and then took off to find you.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Nothing. She doesn’t look like a professor. But how could I talk to her?’
‘Just the same way you talk to me.’ If the professor didn’t like football, cars or pop music, she could at least have pretended to. Maybe she’d learn something. But maybe Andy hadn’t given her the chance.
He shook his head. ‘She’s one of those intelligent women. What could I say to her?’
A smile lurking on her mouth, a pastry case filled with creamed corn poised in her hand, Tara raised her brows at him.
Andy looked at her silently, then blushed to the roots of his golden locks. ‘Sorry, Tara! I didn’t mean you aren’t—I just meant—I mean, she—’
Tara laughed aloud, placing a comforting hand on his bronzed arm and patting it. ‘Never mind, I know what you meant. I was teasing you.’
Relief washed over his superb features. ‘Oh—good. That’s all right, then. I wouldn’t want to offend you, Tara.’
‘You haven’t.’ She picked up her drink and hooked a casual hand into his arm. ‘Come on, let’s circulate.’
She didn’t particularly want to circulate, but she wasn’t intending to lurk in corners all night, either. Unable to stop her eyes from travelling to where she’d last seen Sholto, she found her gaze colliding with his dark stare. His eyes flicked to Andy and back to her face, a corner of his mouth momentarily curling in contempt before he looked away.
Shaken and hot with rage, she tightened her grip on Andy’s substantial arm.
‘Ow!’ he protested, looking down at her in surprise.
Hastily she loosened her fingers, horrified to see the curved indentations of her fingernails showing red against his hair-dusted tan. ‘Andy! I’m sorry!’
Recovering, he grinned. ‘Just give me warning next time, huh? Women don’t usually mark me there! If you like I’ll show you—’
‘No, I don’t like,’ she said repressively. ‘Behave yourself or I’ll throw you to your professor and leave.’
‘Awp!’ He looked cowed. ‘I’ll behave, promise!’
Tara put on a friendly smile and without difficulty struck up several conversations, watching Andy regain some assurance as the women predictably reacted to his looks and diffident charm, and the men regarded him with covert envy.
He seemed to be getting on with a group of mainly young people who shared his musical taste, and she was murmuring an excuse to leave his side when he grabbed at her hand and said in lowered but panic-stricken tones, ‘Don’t go away!’
A young woman with a cuddly figure and halo of short, gingery corkscrew curls had joined the group, and one of the others said, ‘Jane—have you met Tara and Andy?’
‘Hi, Tara.’ Jane gave Tara a smile that lit her rounded, unpainted face, and then turned to her companion. ‘Andy and I met earlier, didn’t we?’
Andy nodded, a strangled sound rising from his throat. His fingers convulsed around Tara’s, making her suck in her breath, but she heroically refrained from complaint.
This was Andy’s professor?
‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said about the ThreadBears,’ Jane told him. ‘Hardly anyone’s heard of them yet, but in my opinion they’re the best group this country’s produced since Crowded House.’
‘You like them?’ Andy sounded stunned.
‘I think their music is really interesting,’ Jane said. ‘Don’t you? Did you see their latest video clip on TV last night?’
‘You like the ThreadBears?’ Andy repeated.
‘Yes, I do.’ Jane’s smile faded as she looked enquiringly up into his face, and then widened again. ‘I know,’ she said resignedly. ‘You thought I’d only be interested in fossils or dead languages or logarithms or something.’
Cautiously, he said, ‘What are logarithms?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Jane answered cheerfully. ‘I’ve always been too intimidated to ask. Something to do with maths. My field is popular culture.’
Perhaps she wasn’t quite so young as her curls and fresh complexion made her appear.
It took a few minutes for Andy to progress from uneasy monosyllables to entire sentences, but Jane’s enthusiasm and her respect for his opinions soon opened him up. He gradually relaxed his death grip on Tara’s hand, eventually freeing it so that he could wave his own hand to make a point.
‘I’ll fetch some more drinks,’ she murmured, taking his empty beer glass in nearly numbed fingers. He hardly noticed as she slipped away.
Near the bar a few people were dancing to a tape player. One of the guests was dispensing drinks, and Philip was among the dancers, his arms wrapped about his wife.
‘Been married fifteen years, those two,’ the man behind the bar confided as he poured a beer for Andy and an iced tonic for Tara, ‘and look at them. Beauty, isn’t it?’
Tara smiled, hiding a pang of envy. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘They’re very lucky.’
She picked up the glasses and turned carefully, to find her way blocked by a white designer shirt and charcoal dinner jacket. Sholto, holding two empty wine glasses.
He was inches away, both of them halting suddenly to avoid a collision. He looked at the drinks in her hands and said softly, so that only she could hear, ‘Doesn’t Lover-boy have the manners to fetch his own drink—and yours?’
‘He’s having an interesting conversation. I offered.’
‘Conversation?’ Sholto drawled. ‘I have it on good authority that the guy’s as thick as a couple of four-by-twos and his conversation is on a level with Neanderthal man’s.’
Tara might have admitted the general premise, but she’d never have put it so brutally, nor discounted Andy’s many and not unimportant virtues. Angry, she said, ‘Jealousy will get you nowhere, Sholto.’
‘Jealousy? Over you?’ The contempt was back, in his voice. ‘Dream on, darling.’
Annoyingly, she flushed. As he made to walk round her, she said, ‘I wasn’t talking about me. Almost every man here is jealous of Andy’s physique—and his looks. Just as every woman admires them.’
‘Every woman?’ His brows rose.
‘Is Averil an exception? Well...’ she paused pointedly, then shrugged ‘...perhaps,’ she conceded doubtfully. ‘There’s no accounting for taste, is there?’
‘Perhaps she’s not as easily impressed by the flagrantly obvious as...some.’ Sholto turned his head, his eyes going towards the group about Andy’s large frame. ‘Hadn’t you better get back to him, though? He probably has a short memory span.’
Involuntarily her eyes had followed the track of his. Jane, her lively, piquant face uplifted, was talking animatedly, while Andy grinned down at her, fascinated. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Andy’s memory,’ she said. ‘Does Averil know about yours?’ If he was going to hit below the belt, he could expect to be hit back.
‘Mine?’ His eyes narrowed, gleaming under the thick lashes.
‘Does she know you’re likely to forget that you’re married?’
‘I never forgot that I was married,’ Sholto said bitingly after a loaded moment. ‘There was no chance of that.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ she said, giddy with the knowledge that she’d made some impression on his apparent imperviousness. ‘You did fool me for a while.’
‘You fooled yourself.’ His voice hardened, dark satin over steel. ‘It was you who wrecked our relationship, Tara. You believed what you wanted to, and indulged in a childish revenge. Well, it doesn’t matter to me now.’
She couldn’t answer that—he always managed somehow to have the last word.
He stepped around her and went up to the bar, and she returned to Andy’s side and stayed there for the rest of the interminable evening, leaning on his shoulder and pretending to listen, and laughing at the appropriate times.
When the crowd began to thin out and a surreptitious survey showed no sign of Sholto and his fiancée, she found Chantelle and said good night. ‘Lovely party,’ she added.
‘We enjoyed it,’ Chantelle said. ‘Are you all right?’ Her eyes turned searching, shrewd.
‘A bit tired, maybe.’
‘Philip said you were talking to Averil’s fiancé.’
‘Sholto—yes,’ Tara said steadily. ‘Do you know him well?’
‘Averil’s Philip’s cousin, though they don’t get together very often, she’s away so much. Is Sholto a friend of yours?’
Tara shook her head. ‘Not exactly. I hadn’t seen him in years. Well, thanks again.’ She turned away, making for the door.
Outside the house, the quiet suburban street was lined with parked cars. She walked rapidly along the pavement towards hers, looking round as she heard footsteps behind her.
‘It’s only me,’ Andy said.
‘I didn’t realise you were leaving, too.’ She waited for him to fall into step beside her. ‘Did you bring a car?’
‘Yeah, but I’ll pick it up in the morning. I’ve had a couple too many beers.’
‘How are you getting home?’
‘Walk it off, I guess. Maybe I’ll pick up a cruising taxi later.’ They passed under the shadow of an overhanging tree, and Andy stumbled, flinging a heavy arm over Tara’s shoulders to help regain his balance. Automatically she hitched her own arm about his waist, shoring him up. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Never could hold my liquor.’
‘Why drink it, then?’ Tara asked reasonably. She hadn’t noticed him drinking all that much.
‘Aw, come on,’ Andy protested. ‘A man’s gotta—you know.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘I was okay until the fresh air hit me.’
He still had his arm about her when she stopped by her car. ‘You’d better get in,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you home.’
‘You don’t hav’ta do that.’
‘You’re not safe to walk in your condition.’ She lifted his arm with two hands and slipped out of his hold to go round the car and unlock the doors. The latches leaped up with a loud thung.
Andy rested his arms on the roof of the car as he smiled muzzily at her. ‘No one’s going to mess with me,’ he assured her.
He was probably right. But there were other dangers for a man in his state. ‘You could get hit by a car,’ she argued.
He put his chin on his linked hands. ‘I’m not that drunk, honest.’
Tara opened her door and stood holding it as she looked over at him. ‘The door’s unlocked. Get in.’
‘Nah.’ Andy shook his head. ‘I’m okay.’
‘You are not okay! I’ll take you home.’
He straightened finally. ‘All right, then. Thanks.’ He opened the door and folded himself into the seat.
With a sigh of relief, Tara slid into the driver’s seat beside him. ‘Do up your safety belt.’
‘Wha’?’ He was leaning back, eyes closed, his hands loosely dropped between his knees.
‘Your safety belt.’ She sighed and reached across his substantial bulk to pull it down from its housing and across his broad chest to the clip between the seats. ‘There.’ She fastened her own belt and started the car.
Andy snoozed all the way, and she wondered if she’d have to help him inside, but the nap seemed to help sober him, and when she dropped him outside his flat he thanked her nicely and walked slowly but almost steadily to his door, waving at her before he closed it behind him.
‘That’s my good deed for the week,’ Tara muttered to herself as she drove away. At least it had diverted her for a while from thinking about Sholto. And his impending marriage.
Black depression hit her, and she swallowed hard. Damn him, why did she have to meet him again? Just when she was able to spend days at a time, even whole weeks, without thinking of him?
* * *
TARA SLEPT BADLY in spite of the late hour that she’d gone to bed. Dressing in the morning for work, she chose a summery, low-necked frock printed with yellow daisies in the hope that it would cheer her up and detract attention from the hollows under her eyes. Thank heaven it was Saturday and at lunchtime she could shut up the shop and spend the rest of the day alone. Last night she’d had a surfeit of people.
She and her assistant, Tod Weller, were kept busy all morning, leaving her scant time to stand about thinking. She stayed after Tod had gone home, nibbling on a filled bread roll from a nearby cafe while she rearranged the stock, not because it needed it really, but to give herself something to do.
She hauled a couple of recycled-wood chests from the rear of the shop to the window, and draped two bright linen tablecloths across their corners, allowing much of the fabric to fall on the floor. Then she placed some smaller things among the folds—a glass paperweight, a bronze statuette, a branched candlestick of gleaming brass.
Her stock was an eclectic range of old and new. She specially loved antiques and second-hand knick-knacks, but also appreciated the brash colours and exciting forms of modern design, and the exotic charm of craft objects from other countries. Tara’s special talent, she’d been told, was her ability to juxtapose styles in unexpected combinations that enhanced the qualities of each. She stocked anything that took her fancy and that might catch a customer’s eye.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon pottering, and it was almost five o’clock when she opened the door and stood in the doorway fumbling in her bag for her key.
She had the key in her hand when she became aware of someone behind her and looked around, startled.
He was a big man, wearing a dark-visored motorcycle helmet that obscured his face. Steadying her breath, Tara said, ‘Can I help you?’
His voice was muffled by the helmet. ‘Money.’
Tara’s heart lurched. She tried to step back and slam the door in his face, but he was too quick for her, pushing it hard so that it swung back and she had to move further inside to avoid being hurt.
And, of course, he came after her. ‘Money,’ he repeated. ‘What do you do with it?’
‘I...it’s gone,’ she lied. There was a small safe in the back room where they kept the takings and the cash float over the weekend, but it was well hidden behind an oriental hanging on the wall. ‘I don’t keep money in the shop.’
He gave her a shove and grabbed at the bag in her hand, upending it so that everything fell on the floor, including her wallet. Snatching that up, he opened it, pulled out the several notes that it contained and stuffed them into a pocket of his leather jacket before throwing the wallet on the floor again. ‘You’ve got a safe,’ he said. ‘Show me!’
He was probably guessing. But even if he was he might be prepared to use violence before he’d be convinced. Better to lose her takings than risk that.
She thought about it a bit too long, saw his hand make a fist and tried to dodge, but he caught her cheek and sent her staggering against a solid oak sideboard, painfully banging her head, hip and elbow on the wood, and sending a small china jug to the floor, where it smashed to pieces.
Her instinct was to retaliate, but there was no weapon within reach and common sense dictated compliance. Besides, she was a little dizzy from the pain of the blow to her head. ‘All right,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I’ll show you.’
She took him into the back room used as office and storage space and pulled aside the hanging, opened the safe without a word and handed him the tin cash box.
The man stowed it bulkily inside his jacket and pushed her again. ‘What’s in there?’ he demanded, nodding his helmeted head towards the door behind her.
‘It’s a toilet.’
He grabbed her arm and shoved her inside the tiny room. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t come out for twenty minutes or you’ll be sorry.’ He slammed the door.
Tara leaned an ear against the panel, closing her eyes in a mixture of relief and hope. She heard his booted feet on the floor, and the muffled voice shouted, ‘Twenty minutes! Or you’ll get it.’
He was making his getaway, not hanging about to see if she obeyed. She knew that, but her ears strained, her heart thudding. Had he gone all the way to the door? Would he wait for a minute—five, ten? Or just run? Was that the roar of a motorbike she could distantly hear? What direction did it come from?
She was shaking. The painted wood against her ear, her cheek, felt cold. She wanted to be sick. How long had she been standing here, too afraid to get out, to move?
The longer she delayed the more time he had to get away. Cautiously she turned the door handle, then paused. Nothing happened. She opened the door a crack, holding her breath, peering through the inadequate aperture. Still nothing.
Gathering her courage, she opened the door properly, looked through the connecting doorway to the shop. The place seemed empty. The telephone was on the desk in one corner of the back room. She dived for it, and with trembling fingers dialled the emergency number.
* * *
HOURS LATER she opened the door of the turn-of-the-century Epsom cottage she’d restored and refurbished, and thankfully closed it behind her. The police had been great, but trying to remember every detail that would help them and poring through photographs of likely suspects had taken its toll. Someone had given her coffee and a biscuit, and the phone number of a victim support group.
Her legs were unsteady as she walked across the dimmed living room, drawn by the light blinking on the answering machine sitting on a graceful antique writing bureau. She turned on a side lamp and pressed the play button on the machine, listened to a message from the library about a book she’d requested, another from a friend offering to sell her a ticket to a charity concert, and then jerked to attention as Sholto’s voice filled the room. ‘I’ll phone again later,’ he said, adding, ‘It’s Sholto,’ as though she didn’t know his voice, didn’t react to it with every pore.
He had phoned again later, and again, each time with the same message, leaving no number for her to return the call.
Tempted to replay the tape just to hear his voice again, Tara clenched her teeth and reset it instead. She wasn’t a mooning adolescent now; she was a grown woman and she’d got over Sholto. Not easily, but at last. There was no way she was going to fall into that maelstrom of emotion and pain again. If he did repeat his call she would let the machine deal with it.
In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator and her stomach turned at the sight of food. Closing the door, she made herself more coffee and nibbled on a dry cracker. And found herself back in the living room, leaning against the door jamb and staring at the phone.
When it rang she almost dropped the half-finished coffee in her haste to intercept the rings before the machine cut in. Snatching up the receiver, she managed a breathless, ‘Hello? This is—’
‘Tara,’ Sholto said. ‘I’ve been phoning you all day.’
‘I was at the shop,’ she said. ‘I heard your message—messages.’
‘You work in a shop?’
He didn’t know, of course. ‘I own a shop. Bygones and Bibelots. Mostly it’s just called Bygones, though.’
‘Antiques?’
‘Yes, and some new stuff. A mixture.’
‘You work late.’
‘No, not really.’ She swallowed, remembering the man in the dark-visored helmet. The shadows in the unlit corners of the room were deepening and she had a sudden urgent desire to turn on all the lights in the house. ‘What did you want?’
‘I shouldn’t have said some of the things I did last night.’
Tara didn’t answer immediately. Was this some kind of apology? Although his tone was aloof rather than conciliatory.
‘I was caught off balance,’ he said.
‘So was I,’ Tara admitted. She’d said some fairly waspish things herself. ‘I wasn’t expecting you there.’
‘I suppose I spoiled the party for you.’
It was an apology—or at least probably as near as Sholto was likely to come to one.
‘Th-that’s all right.’ Dismayingly, she heard her voice wobble. Tears slid hotly down her cheeks. ‘It was j-just unlucky, I guess.’
‘Tara?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Are you all right?’
She wasn’t crying because he was marrying someone else, she told herself fiercely. It was too humiliating that he should think so. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Tara—what is it?’ He sounded cautious.
She could put the phone down. Only he’d be sure then that she was crying over him. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I got robbed, that’s all—’
‘Robbed?’ For a moment there was silence, before he said urgently, ‘Where? At your shop? Are you hurt?’
‘N-no,’ she gulped. ‘Not really—not badly.’
‘Do you have someone there with you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Sholto—no! I’m all right.’
But he’d already hung up and all she heard was the hum of the dial tone.
CHAPTER THREE
THE DOORBELL buzzed imperatively fifteen minutes later. Tara had spent the time stemming the stupid tears, rinsing her face in cold water and rather unsuccessfully trying to cover up the aftermath of her crying jag with make-up.
She didn’t switch on the passage light and avoided raising her eyes to Sholto’s as she opened the door and said quickly, ‘You had no need to come rushing over. How did you know where to find me, anyway?’
‘Your address is in the phone book.’ He stepped inside and closed the door himself, and then his hard fingers lifted her chin, and he reached out his other hand to the light switch by the door.
His brows contracted as he saw the swelling on her cheekbone. He cursed under his breath. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘The police surgeon checked me over. It’s only bruises.’
‘Only! There are others?’
‘A couple. You know I bruise easily. I was lucky—it could have been worse.’ She shivered, thinking how much worse it could have been, and folded her arms across herself, turning away. ‘Now that you’re here, you’d better come in.’ She led the way to the living room.
‘Your back!’ he exclaimed, and as she looked round, startled, he said, ‘The bruise on your back, it’s already gone blue.’
Tara flushed. She’d forgotten about it, although she’d had to invent a story for the doctor. She’d noticed a bit of stiffness after she got up this morning, but there was nothing visible when she peered in the mirror, and she’d thought no more about it as she donned the dress that dipped even lower at the back than in front. Over the afternoon the bruise had evidently coloured up, although it couldn’t have been too bad earlier. Tod hadn’t noticed. ‘That must have happened last night,’ she said.
‘Last night?’ he repeated sharply. ‘What did that great ape do to you?’
Tara gaped at him. ‘If you mean Andy—’
‘I mean the guy you were draping yourself over all night, the one you brought home with you, even though it was obvious he was smashed out of his mind.’
‘He was not! And what makes you think I brought him home?’
‘I saw him get into your car. As a matter of fact, I thought you were trying to argue him out of it—I was half out of my car, intending to come to the rescue, when you leaned over and kissed him, so I figured you didn’t need help after all.’
Kissed him? She’d leaned over to fasten Andy’s safety belt. She supposed that from a distance it might have looked like an embrace. ‘Where were you, anyway?’ She’d thought that he and Averil had been long gone by then.
‘Sitting in my car, some way behind you.’
So what he’d seen could only have been through the windows of other parked cars. And he’d jumped to conclusions.
But surely they’d left the party before she had. Why hadn’t they driven off? Necking, she supposed, not able to wait until they got to—where? Averil’s place? Or did they share? ‘Couldn’t keep your hands off each other?’ she heard herself suggest. ‘How sweet! Just like a couple of teenagers!’
Something flickered in his eyes. His mouth straightened. ‘Actually, we were blocked by another car. The party appeared to be breaking up, so we thought we’d wait a while until someone moved it.’ Not that it was any of her business, his tone implied.
Neither was her taking Andy home any of his. But she said, ‘I drove Andy to his flat—and left him there.’
‘Too far gone to perform, was he?’ Without waiting for her comeback on that, he said, ‘So where did that bruise come from?’
Tara let her lip curl derisively. ‘Don’t you remember?’
His brows drew together. ‘Remember what?’
‘When your fiancée found us kissing last night—’
‘You kissed me!’ he interrupted harshly.
There was no reason, Tara decided, to let him get away with that. She tipped her head to one side and smiled, slowly. ‘When you were finishing what I’d started,’ she said deliberately, ‘and we were interrupted, you shoved me against the door frame—rather hard.’
He’d already been turning to Averil then, and by the time he’d looked back at Tara she’d been standing upright again.
Colour darkened his cheekbones and quickly receded, leaving them oddly sallow. ‘I did that?’ he queried finally.
Tara nodded.
He hauled a rasping breath into his lungs. ‘I had no idea!’ He sounded almost shaken.
‘It wasn’t intentional,’ she conceded. ‘I do realise that.’
‘Does it hurt?’
Tara shook her head. ‘I’m not permanently damaged—by either you or the robber.’
She thought he almost winced. ‘Where did it happen?’ he asked. ‘The robbery—at the shop?’
‘Yes. He made me open the safe and took all this morning’s takings.’
‘Is that much?’
‘Quite a lot. It was a busy morning. I’m not thrilled about it, but it won’t put me out of business.’
Sholto moved further into the now well-lighted room, looked quickly at the two roomy, comfortable sofas, the faded oriental rug, the old heavily framed pictures, the antique bureau in one corner, the exotic wall hangings, and then returned his gaze to Tara’s face. ‘You were upset when I phoned.’
‘Reaction. You were the first person, apart from the police and the doctor, that I’d spoken to since it happened.’
‘How are you feeling now?’
‘I’ll be all right. It was kind of you to enquire, but unnecessary.’
He glanced again about the room. ‘You live alone?’
‘Yes. What about you? I mean,’ she added hastily, ‘where did you come from, tonight?’ Was Averil waiting impatiently somewhere for him? She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask.
‘I’m staying in a hotel in the city. Averil’s parents live in a small flat.’
And was she staying with them, or with him at the hotel? ‘Chantelle said Averil’s away a lot. What does she do?’
‘She’s a flight attendant.’
‘The Hong Kong route? Is that how you met?’
‘Yes. Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?’
She hadn’t expected him to stay. Tara shrugged. ‘Do you need an invitation? Please sit down, if you want to.’
‘And you?’ He indicated politely.
She sank onto the nearest sofa, and he sat on the other one, at right angles to hers, his arm resting on the back as he twisted to face her.
‘So...how have you been?’ he asked her.
The deep, quiet voice sounded caring, sincere. She thought she’d probably fallen in love with Sholto’s voice before she’d fallen for the man. Marginally. Her almost instant emotional involvement had been cataclysmic—she’d scarcely had time to draw breath before she was in over her head.
And floundered for nearly three years, until the next cataclysm had propelled her out of his life, leaving her alone and struggling to stay alive.
Not in material terms, of course. He’d made sure she was financially amply provided for—conscience money, she had told herself bitterly. But emotionally she’d been annihilated, and it had taken her years just to regain some kind of equilibrium.
Last evening she’d discovered how fragile that equilibrium was. The news of Sholto’s engagement had sent her spinning. All night she’d been reliving in her mind every detail of their ultimately disastrous relationship, besieged by grief and despair. She wondered if Sholto had ever experienced even a twinge of regret.
‘I’ve been fine,’ she told him. ‘I have a very nice life.’
It was true, if one went by the surface things. She had a small but adequate circle of friends, a thriving if modest business, a delightful little home in a fashionable and pleasant suburb. Epsom was an area of desirable real estate, well-established and only minutes from the centre of Auckland city, but tranquil and almost crime-free, with tree-lined streets and a high proportion of gracious older homes among newer, architect-designed dwellings.
She didn’t have a lover. Didn’t want one, she reminded herself firmly. She preferred her life as it was—conventional and uncomplicated.
‘And you,’ she said, ‘are obviously thriving.’ He looked more confident, more handsome than ever. And he’d just got engaged to a woman who was pretty and presentable in every way, even if, in Tara’s possibly biased opinion, a trifle colourless. ‘I suppose business is booming?’
A small shrug. ‘It’s doing well,’ Sholto conceded. He looked down at his polished shoes for an instant, and then up, with an air of deliberation. ‘I’m going to be running it from Auckland again. Averil wants to settle here. She comes from a close-knit family.’
‘Is she giving up her work?’
‘Giving up flying, anyway.’
‘Had enough of the high life?’ Mentally Tara slapped herself. Bad puns weren’t any way to conduct a sophisticated conversation.
Sholto’s eyes sharpened for a second. ‘She wants children.’
Did he know how much that hurt? Probably not, but he’d been defending Averil, all the same. Driven by some obscure demon, Tara said flippantly, ‘And you’ll be happy to keep her barefoot and pregnant, I suppose.’
He moved abruptly, dropping his arm from the sofa back and linking his fingers on one long, impeccably trousered thigh. ‘I’ll be happy to keep her happy,’ he said softly.
She’d asked for that. With an effort she refrained from closing her eyes, staring unblinkingly into his until hers stung.
‘Well,’ she said then, ‘you’ve assured yourself I’m still in one piece, and I expect Averil will be waiting for you. Thanks for your concern—’ She stood up rather quickly and then gasped as the room spun before her surprised eyes. ‘Oh!’
A hand gripped her arm. ‘Sit down,’ Sholto ordered, and pushed her back onto the sofa. ‘Are you sure that doctor examined you properly?’
‘Yes. I’m not concussed or anything. Just a bit of delayed shock, I expect. I shouldn’t have got up so fast.’ Experimentally, she moved her feet, ready to try again.
Sholto bent and scooped them onto the sofa. ‘Don’t move! When did you last eat?’
‘Um—I had a cracker when I came home, with coffee.’
‘A cracker!’ he said with disgust.
‘I wasn’t hungry. At lunchtime I ate a filled roll.’
‘One roll?’
‘It was quite substantial,’ she protested.
‘Do you have any brandy?’
‘You know I hate it.’
‘I’ll make you some more coffee. Where’s the kitchen?’
‘You can’t—’
‘Where’s the kitchen? Never mind, I’ll find it.’
‘I’m really all right, now—’
He was already walking out of the room. At the door he looked back at her and said, ‘Stay there.’
Tara subsided. Humiliatingly, she felt tears gathering again. It was such a long time since anyone had looked after her, and tonight she was feeling vulnerable. The afternoon’s experience had affected her more than she’d realised.
When Sholto returned with a steaming cup she took it from him gratefully. He sat down on the end of the sofa by her feet and said, ‘You’ve got no food here.’
‘I was going to get a few things on my way home,’ she said, ‘but everything else that happened sort of killed that idea. There is bread, and a couple of eggs. And I’m sure I’ve got packets of pasta meals in the cupboard.’
Sholto grimaced disparagingly. ‘Drink that up,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take you out for supper.’
Tara nearly spilled the coffee she was sipping. ‘You can’t! What about Averil?’
‘Averil is somewhere in the skies over Asia at this moment,’ he drawled, glancing at his watch.
‘Even so, what will she think about you spending the evening with me while her back is turned?’
‘I said supper,’ he reminded her mildly. ‘Nothing more. And Averil isn’t the jealous type.’
Tara lowered her eyes and took some more coffee. Averil, it seemed, was a paragon of all the virtues. ‘Will you tell her?’ she asked, realising that she’d tacitly agreed to go out with him.
‘Probably,’ he replied indifferently. ‘I certainly won’t be making a secret of it.’
And would Averil be as complacent about it as he obviously expected? Tara wondered. She hoped he wasn’t in for a nasty surprise.
When she’d finished the coffee he said, ‘Do you want to change?’
With a visible bruise on her back she’d better, Tara supposed. As he stood up, she gingerly brought her feet to the floor.
‘Take it slowly,’ Sholto advised, grasping her arm. ‘Do you need any help?’
‘No, I’ll be okay.’
‘Take your time,’ he reiterated, ‘there’s no hurry. Yell if you need me.’
She walked to the bedroom as he watched her, and firmly closed the door.
With a bit more care and attention this time, she managed to almost disguise the mark on her cheek, and the sea-green cotton dress she put on had sleeves and zipped up to her neck at the back, although the front was moderately low. She fastened her hair up with several pins and a Victorian tortoiseshell comb.
When she came out of the bedroom holding a small bronze leather bag, Sholto was lounging in the living room doorway, his arms folded, looking patient. He looked up and she saw a stirring in his eyes that took her back eight years, to when they’d first known each other. She paused, and he straightened, his hands falling to his sides. ‘Very nice,’ he said, his voice clipped.
He turned away to open the door for her, and they stepped outside.
His car, a sleek, roomy, dark blue vehicle, was parked on the road outside. He ushered her in and she subsided onto the smooth leather.
‘It smells new,’ she said as he got in beside her.
‘It is.’
Of course, she thought wryly.
‘I took the liberty of using your phone while you were in the bedroom,’ he told her. ‘As it’s Saturday night, I’ve booked a table.’
‘Did you have trouble?’
‘I tried a couple of places. This one is in Mount Eden. Okay?’
Mount Eden Road curved its way about the base of the dormant volcano and stretched along several miles to meet up with Mount Albert Road at a busy intersection. There were a number of good restaurants along its meandering length. ‘That’s fine,’ she said.
The restaurant was full, but not very large, and the service friendly and efficient. Perusing the menu, Tara began to feel hungry. ‘Pork with apricot sauce,’ she decided, and when Sholto suggested a bread basket selection to start with, she agreed.
‘Tell me about your shop,’ he invited as she nibbled on a piece of crusty herbed bread.
Her tension eased as she described how she’d been working in an antique shop for a time, and later bought one that sold mainly second-hand junk, gradually getting rid of the stock until she’d achieved a more upmarket image.
‘And that’s been successful.’
‘Very.’
He said thoughtfully, ‘I’d never pictured you as a businesswoman.’
‘I had some expert help from several people.’
‘Anyone I know?’ His eyes rested enigmatically on her while he absently tore apart a slice of olive bread.
Tara stiffened. She tried to sound casual. ‘Derek Shearer gave me some advice.’
Sholto’s strong fingers flicked some crumbs to the side of his plate. ‘Derek’s a first-class accountant.’
He wasn’t looking at her. Tara forced herself to relax. ‘Yes, he still does my tax return for me every year.’
The deep blue gaze pinned her suddenly. ‘I’m sure that’s not all he does.’
‘He’s a good friend. As you should know.’
‘Really? Perhaps that’s a matter of opinion.’
The air between them was charged, now. Tara’s hand convulsed on the napkin in her lap, crushing the starched linen. Her mouth was dry.
‘Who else...helped you?’ Sholto asked. He leaned back, making an effort, she thought, to appear nonchalant.
Tara swallowed. ‘Lots of people,’ she said vaguely. ‘You wouldn’t know them. The other shopkeepers have been good to me. It’s a small centre, and we all help each other when we can.’
Sholto nodded, and picked up his knife to spread a butter curl on his bread.
Over their main course he asked, ‘Where do you get your stock from?’
‘Various places. The antiques and collectables from second-hand dealers, opportunity shops, auctions, flea markets, the new things direct from craftspeople—woodworkers, potters, embroiderers. I even sell a few books—nicely bound old volumes and limited editions printed on a hand-operated press by a local couple. And quite a lot of imported goods from Asia and the Pacific Islands.’
‘I could help you there.’
‘I don’t need your help!’
His brows lifted at her sharpness, and she said, ‘Thank you.’
He gave a short, breathy laugh. ‘Touchy, aren’t you? Let me put it another way. Maybe we can do business together.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Sounding slightly impatient, he said, ‘How do you think I built up my business? I make it a policy never to pass up an opportunity. You retail Asian and Pacific goods—I import them. We might both benefit from—using each other.’
‘I thought,’ she said delicately, ‘we’d found that unsatisfactory.’
Sholto shoved his plate to one side, although there was still some food on it. Leaning forward, he said, ‘I was talking of business—commerce—but if you insist on making this personal, just be sure you really want to cross swords with me.’
Tara’s fingers gripped her fork hard. For a moment she kept her eyes fixed on the remains of her dinner, not sure why she had thrown that jibe at him. Sholto had never been one to ignore a challenge. Fatally, she could feel a stirring of excitement deep down. Did she want to cross swords with him? Was that what this edgy, half-pleasurable, half-painful tension that she’d felt ever since seeing him yesterday was all about?
Living with Sholto was a knife-edge experience, and one she’d vowed never to repeat. But in spite of the anger and hurt, and the bitterness that had accompanied the break-up of their relationship, she’d not felt wholly alive since—not until she’d kissed him last night in an act of reckless bravado, and been shaken to the core when he kissed her back.
‘What can you offer me?’ she asked obliquely.
She dared to look at him, and saw the narrowing of his eyes as he debated his answer. ‘What do you want from me?’ Before she had a chance to reply, he drew back in his chair, his expression changing to a smooth, urbane mask. ‘I have silks from Japan, carved goods from Indonesia, woven hats and black pearls from the Cook Islands—’
‘Pearls?’
‘Pearls.’
‘Aren’t they very expensive?’
‘Some are. The perfect specimens go to jewellers, mostly. But the odd-shaped ones that are not so valuable can make charming pendants, and some are still attached to the shell. A lot of people like those as ornaments.’ He paused, regarding her thoughtful expression. ‘Interested?’
‘I’m always interested in unusual ornaments or jewellery. I don’t go in for perfect strings of pearls or mass-produced stuff. But your odd-shaped black pearls—each one would be different, wouldn’t it? That’s what my customers like, something unique and quirky. I’d like to see some.’
‘No problem. Tonight, if you like?’
‘Tonight?’
‘Why not? The warehouse is five minutes from here. I carry a key.’
They skipped dessert and had coffee and liqueurs. Both of them had drunk sparingly of the wine Sholto had ordered, and Tara had no worries about letting him drive her.
He turned towards the city, and eventually drew up in a car park outside a bulky, darkened building with a single light glowing outside. ‘We’ll go in the side door,’ he said.
When they’d stepped inside he touched her arm in the darkness and said, ‘Hold on, I’ll deactivate the security alarm and get the lights on.’
He moved a few yards away, and then she blinked as fluorescent bulbs flickered and steadied and shed their pale light on tiers of shelving filled with boxes, piles of larger containers, and two forklift trucks parked neatly in a corner. ‘There’s a showroom upstairs,’ Sholto said, and led her to an uncarpeted wooden stairway against one wall.
They climbed up into the shadows, and at the top Sholto paused to switch on more lights. A hand on her waist urged her forward, and she stepped onto a gleaming dark red rug with black and gold patterns.
It was like Aladdin’s cave. There were more luxurious oriental rugs overlapping one another on the floor, shimmering silk wall hangings, a huge gold paper fan painted with peacocks and a black one with cherry blossoms. Appliquéd quilts in stunning colour combinations were heaped on a long trestle table, and carved coffee tables and sandalwood chests stood against the walls. Bamboo furniture held samples of teak carvings, and long strings of tiny stuffed animals with jewelled eyes and brocaded bodies hung from the rafters.
‘The pearls are over here,’ Sholto said, taking her arm in a light hold.
They were in a large display case. Sholto opened up the glass front and took out an oyster shell that fitted his palm. The moon glow of the mother-of-pearl gleamed in the fluorescent light, and embedded under its filmy surface were two luminescent black pearls, nestled side by side.
Tara touched them with a gentle finger, and Sholto said, ‘Take it.’
She held the shell, warm from his hand, and said, ‘This is lovely.’
Some of the shells in the case held one pearl, others two or even three. ‘And here—’ Sholto lifted out a tray covered in white satin ‘—are the pearls alone. These are all odd shapes.’
Several were quite large. She picked up one about the size of the bowl of a teaspoon that had formed into an almost perfect heart. ‘This would sell.’ It had the soft lustre typical of pearl, made mysterious by its black colour. ‘How much?’
‘Wholesale? We sell them in lots.’ He turned aside and found a list taped to the side of the case, pulled it off and handed it to her. ‘Here you are.’
She glanced down the price list. ‘I’d like to order some.’
‘Phone first thing on Monday and ask for Noel, the warehouse manager. I’ll tell to him expect your call.’
‘Thank you.’ She relinquished the heart and said, ‘I want that one in my selection.’ She picked up another pearl, vaguely resembling a flower. ‘And this.’
‘Fine, just tell Noel.’
‘One of my suppliers does jewellery at home. Maybe I could get her to set some of these to order for my customers.’
Tara replaced the flower and ran a fingertip over a cluster of fused pearls. ‘They’re nice to touch—that satiny patina over such hardness.’
He didn’t answer, and she looked up enquiringly, to find him regarding her with an oddly brooding look in his eyes, his mouth curled faintly at one corner as if he’d remembered something unpalatable.
Tara dropped her hand and stepped back.
‘Seen enough?’ Sholto asked curtly.
‘Yes. Of the pearls. Do you mind if I look around a bit?’
‘Feel free.’ He turned to replace the tray and close the cupboard.
She had caught sight of a number of huge floor cushions and beanbags crowded into a corner. She bent to pick up a cushion, and several more tumbled to the floor and lay on the rug around her feet. The cushion she held was covered in a patterned fabric of large birds and flowers, the design outlined with stitching and stuffed to give a raised effect.
‘Like it?’ Sholto had strolled silently over the rugs and was standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets.
‘Very much. Are there many in this style?’
He came over and helped her find some, each a different colour, a different pattern. ‘Put the ones you want aside,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll tell Noel to keep them for you.’
He helped her to pile them separately, and said, ‘Is that the lot?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ She found herself too close to him as she straightened up, and stepped back hastily, catching her heel in the edge of one of the overlapping rugs and sprawling backwards as her shoe came off.
The rugs cushioned the fall, but surprise kept her from trying to rise for a moment or two.
When her eyes met Sholto’s—a long way up—she blinked with shock. His mouth was clamped tight and his eyes were smouldering. ‘Get up!’ he said harshly. And then, as though belatedly recalling his manners, he extended a hand to her.
Ignoring it, Tara struggled to her feet, only to falter on her unshod foot.
Sholto grabbed her arm. ‘For God’s sake!’ he muttered. She felt the brush of his breath against her cheek, smelled the scent of him—soap and wool suiting and an underlying masculine scent that evoked a rush of confused memories.
He swooped without releasing her and picked up her shoe, holding it ready for her. ‘Here,’ he said impatiently.
She looked down at his dark head and lifted her foot, felt him slide the shoe on. As she put her foot down again he straightened, his hold loosening. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself?’
Tara shook her head. ‘Thank you.’ The movement made her aware that a tendril of wavy hair had escaped down her neck. Sighing, she lifted her arms to push it back into place, taking out a pin to secure it. Which only made things worse, several more strands escaping to tumble over her neck and ears. ‘Oh, damn!’ she said as two gleaming pins fell to the rug. Her hair was the bane of her life. Thick and determined to curl, it was almost unmanageable when long, as now, but when she’d had it cut short she hated the way it went into childish curls all over her head, making her look like an elderly caricature of Shirley Temple.
Gathering the over-abundant mass in one hand, she bent to pick up the pins, then stood and ruthlessly twisted it into a knot, crossly relocating pins to keep it there.
Sholto had buried his hands back in his pockets. His voice sounding oddly strained, he said, ‘You missed a bit.’
‘Where?’ She felt around and, discovering the ringlet just behind her ear, fumbled to tuck it in.
‘Why do you bother?’ Sholto asked. ‘Most men would prefer it in its natural glory.’
He used to love her to wear her hair loose. He liked to play with it, arranging it about her head against the pillow, or pulling her on top of him and removing the pins so that her hair fell over her shoulders like a cloak, and then he’d tangle his fingers in it and draw her head down to kiss her while the bronze waves floated around them, cocooning them and drifting softly against his skin.
Tara jabbed a pin against her scalp, banishing the erotic picture from her mind. ‘I’m not interested in pleasing most men,’ she said. She just liked to keep her wild mane of elflocks under control and out of her way, and had never ceased wishing for fine, straight hair—like Averil’s.
‘Just one?’ Sholto asked.
She looked at him and surprised a brief expression of chagrin on his face, as though he hadn’t meant to say what he had.
She could have said, Not even one. But he had Averil, and her pride wouldn’t let her admit to having no man in her life. She smiled enigmatically and said, ‘Some men like it pinned up—they get a kick out of taking it down.’
His answering smile was thin and unpleasant. ‘And I suppose you get a kick out of having them do it—among other things.’ The way his gaze dropped over her body was enough to make her shiver. She’d never before met quite that blend of total dislike and blatant, deliberately offensive desire, stripping her defences as though he’d mentally undressed her.
Lust, she reminded herself, despising the way her senses burned in unspoken answer. If it had been anyone else but Sholto she would have been repelled by that look.
‘You said you don’t hate me,’ she whispered, shaken.
‘Hate you?’ His eyes were veiled now, meeting hers. Mockery twisted his mouth. ‘How could anyone—any man—hate something as decorative as you? I’d have to be a Philistine.’
‘I’m not a thing.’ She didn’t know anyone else who had his ability to turn a compliment into a deadly insult. ‘I’m a person, not some objet d’art.’
Not for the first time, she wondered if that was how he’d thought of her all those years ago—something pretty to enhance his home and his life.
‘Your caveman loves you for your mind, does he?’ Sholto rocked slightly on his heels, looking almost as though he was enjoying himself. Only the deep, angry spark at the back of his eyes gave him away.
About to shout at him, Andy is not a caveman, and he’s not mine! Tara checked herself, forcing calmness into her voice. ‘At least Andy recognises that I have one.’
Sholto’s eyelids flickered. She saw the material of his trousers tauten across his abdomen as he clenched his knuckles inside his pockets. ‘Meaning?’ he enquired tersely.
‘Meaning it’s more than you ever did! Do you patronise Averil the way you did me? Is it her brains or her body that attracted you? Or couldn’t you resist the idea of having your very own air hostess? I believe that’s a common male fantasy.’
His face had changed subtly at the mention of Averil’s name, almost as though she’d doused him in cold water. Was it possible that for a few minutes he’d forgotten about his fiancée?
‘What would you know about male fantasies?’ he jeered, but then he moved abruptly, taking his hands from his pockets. ‘Come on, it’s time I took you home. This conversation is getting out of hand.’
She couldn’t agree more, Tara thought, relief and reluctance warring inside her as she walked beside him to the stairs. It hadn’t been a comfortable conversation, but she’d felt the adrenaline singing in her veins. In an odd way she’d almost enjoyed skirmishing with Sholto, giving as good as she’d got. At least for a few minutes she’d felt truly, tinglingly alive.
CHAPTER FOUR
HE TOOK HER HOME and saw her to the front porch, standing by as she fumbled for her key.
‘Thank you for the dinner,’ she said, pushing open the door. ‘And for...worrying about me.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said, ‘if a little mixed.’
Tara gave a soft laugh. ‘That goes for us both.’
‘I suppose so. Will you be all right now?’
‘Yes. I’ve hardly thought about the robbery all evening.’
‘Good.’ He hesitated a moment longer, and she wondered if he expected to be asked inside, but when she looked at him his eyes were focused on her mouth.
Tara blinked, her heart giving a hard thud against her ribs.
Then he was looking over her shoulder at the wall, saying in a strangely distant voice, ‘I’m glad to have taken your mind off it. Have a good night’s sleep.’
He turned and headed down the path.
* * *
ON SUNDAY he phoned. ‘Just to check that you’re okay,’ he said, still with that detached note in his voice. ‘No after-effects?’
‘None,’ Tara assured him crisply. The bruise on her cheek was coming out, going blue, but she wasn’t a shivering jelly of nerves. ‘I’m back to normal.’ Almost. Her main emotion in regard to the robbery was anger; she wasn’t going to allow a thug like that to have any long-term effect on her.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Sholto said formally.
‘Thanks for enquiring.’
‘Not at all.’ He sounded positively cool now. ‘Look after yourself.’
He had put down the phone before she could say any more.
* * *
SHOLTO must have been as good as his word. When Tara phoned the Herne Holdings warehouse on Monday morning and asked for Noel, she got a friendly greeting from a man who said he’d been expecting her call, and who failed to keep the curiosity out of his voice. ‘Sure,’ he said, when she asked for delivery of the goods she’d chosen. ‘No problem. They’ll be there this afternoon.’
When they arrived she arranged the cushions haphazardly in a corner, and placed some of the pearl shells with their trapped half-formed pearls on the two chests she’d moved into the window on Saturday. The single pearls went under the glass counter inside the door—it didn’t do to keep small, valuable trinkets where light fingers could easily transfer them to pocket or bag.
‘Nice,’ Tod commented, picking up one of the shells. ‘Where did you find them?’
‘Herne Holdings,’ she said briefly.
Tod, a rangy twenty-year-old whose olive skin proclaimed his part-Maori heritage and contrasted strikingly with light green eyes, pushed a long, glossy black curl off his forehead. She knew he thought it looked sexy, but he was forever shoving it away, torn between vanity and convenience. ‘They’re big importers, aren’t they?’
‘And exporters, yes.’
‘Didn’t know we dealt with them.’
‘We do now. At least we have, this once.’
Tod adjusted the brocade waistcoat he’d rescued from a box of assorted clothing and linen Tara had got for a song at auction, and checked that the rolled-up sleeves of his white silk shirt were at the right length for a look of casual elegance. ‘Thought they only supplied department stores and big furniture shops.’
Tara looked up from checking through her invoice book. ‘They seemed quite happy to supply me.’
Two customers wandered in, and Tod turned his attention to them. ‘Hi! Anything I can help you with?...Sure, you look around all you want, just give us a shout if you need information or anything, okay?’
He was a good salesman, not too pushy. She was lucky to have him, Tara thought. Sometimes a customer—usually an older woman—would string him along, asking questions, pretending to be interested in some purchase but unable to make up her mind, just to keep him dancing attendance because he was young and friendly and good-looking. When they left the shop he’d smile ruefully at Tara, and sometimes she’d tease him a little. Neither of them minded, really. There were a lot of lonely people in the world, and maybe another day the customer would come back and buy something.
Tod had been horrified at the news of the robbery, and bravely said that he wished he’d been there instead of Tara. ‘I’d have seen him off,’ he muttered darkly. ‘He wouldn’t have got me to open the safe.’
Tara tried to look impressed, biting her tongue. Mildly, she said, ‘If you are here and it happens again, I don’t want any heroics, Tod. Your life is more important than any amount of money. And that’s the boss talking, okay?’
‘Yeah, okay,’ he reluctantly agreed.
If nothing else, she thought, he could save face by referring to boss’s orders. Not, she hoped, that the situation would ever arise.
One of the pearls on a shell went that day, and two more on the next. ‘We should order some more,’ Tod said.
She’d contacted the woman who picked up shells, stones and bits of coloured glass washed up on beaches, combining them with gold or silver wire or chains to turn them into intriguing earrings, necklaces and bracelets. The craftswoman was thrilled at the idea of custom-made black pearl jewellery. ‘I’d love to try it,’ she said. ‘I could never afford to pay for the pearls myself.’
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