His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All. Sara Craven
moved away from the wall he’d been leaning against and came towards her.
‘I was just about to leave you a note,’ said Caz.
Tarn, aware that her jaw had dropped, hurriedly restored it to its proper level, thankful he could not hear the tattoo that her pulse was drumming.
As she’d pushed her trolley up and down the aisles, she’d been rehearsing what she would say, how she would behave when she next saw him. Now here he was, lithe and attractive in pale chinos and a dark blue shirt, its sleeves rolled back over his tanned forearms, its open neck revealing a dark shadowing of chest hair.
And suddenly her wits seemed to have deserted her.
She said with an assumption of cool, ‘And what was the note going to say?’
‘It’s a lovely day. Let’s spend it together.’
‘Brief and to the point.’ She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. The nervous twist in her stomach. ‘But what about your friends?’
‘They’re going to have a short, sharp shop, then get back to Surrey. Grace tires easily these days.’
‘Yes, I suppose she would.’ Tarn forced a smile. ‘The perils of motherhood.’
His tone was laconic. ‘It’s reckoned to have its compensations too.’ He paused. ‘So will you come with me?’ He added softly, ‘We can treat it as a journey of discovery.’
Tarn hesitated. ‘I’ll have to put my shopping away.’
‘Of course.’
‘And change.’ She glanced down at her black cut-offs and crisp white blouse, thankful that the track suit and tee of her cleaning marathon had been safely consigned to the laundry basket.
‘Unnecessary,’ he said. ‘What more do you need for a trip to the seaside? Apart from a jacket, maybe.’
This time her smile was genuine if a little startled. ‘The coast? That would be lovely.’
‘You unpack your groceries,’ he said. ‘I’ll make coffee and we’ll argue about whether to go south or east. The Channel or the North Sea.’
She nodded. ‘Fine,’ and unlocked the door.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Caz commented as he followed her into the spotless kitchen.
‘I enjoy housework.’ Which was just as well, she reflected, as she’d certainly done enough of it when she was living at Wilmont Road. She began to empty the first bag. ‘If all else fails I can always apply to the MacNaughton Company for a job.’
‘I used them at one time.’ Caz filled the kettle, set it to boil and found the cafetière. ‘But I’m not sure I’d recommend them. Anyway, who’s talking about failure?’
She passed him the fresh pack of coffee she’d just bought, telling herself that Evie must have obtained the paperwork about the cleaning company from him. Something she should have realised. Aloud, she said, ‘No-one can predict the future.’
‘I can.’ He took the coffee from her, and held onto her hand, looking down at the palm and tracing a line with his fingertip. ‘And I foresee a long and happy life.’
His touch shivered through her senses as if his hand had stroked her naked body.
She detached herself with a self-conscious laugh. ‘I don’t believe in fortune telling.’
‘Not even when the fortune is being arranged for you?’
‘Particularly not then.’ She made her tone crisp. Continued putting things away in cupboards. Did not look at him.
‘In other words, I’m rushing you into something you’re not ready for. Mea culpa.’ He paused. ‘Is that why you looked again as if you were confronting your worst nightmare when you saw me just now?’
‘I was just surprised, that’s all.’ In order to reach the fridge, she would have to get past him, so she put the items for cold storage on one side. ‘I—I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.’
The dark brows lifted sardonically. ‘Really?’ He spooned coffee into the cafetière. ‘I thought I’d made my intentions pretty clear.’
Tarn shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m having trouble believing that you have any intentions.’
He gave her a swift grin. ‘For someone who doesn’t like to be rushed, lady, that sounds suspiciously like a hint for a declaration.’
‘No—nothing like that.’ Her protest was instant. ‘It’s just that—Oh, for heaven’s sake, everyone knows that you’re involved with Ginny Fraser. And how many others before her? How many so-called declarations have there been?’
Tell me about Evie. Offer some explanation—express some compunction for what you’ve done to her. I’m giving you this chance…
He said quietly, ‘I’ve never pretended I’ve lived like a Trappist monk while waiting for the right woman to walk into my life. Ginny had her career and I had mine. Our relationship has been—convenient. It is now in the past.’
Consigned to oblivion—like Evie.
She watched him fill the cafetière with boiling water, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She said, ‘But Ginny wasn’t the only one. What about the others? What happened to them?’ ‘You’re beginning to make me feel like Bluebeard,’ he commented unsmilingly. ‘All I can tell you is that I never made any woman a promise I wasn’t prepared to keep. And that, my lovely one, will also apply to you.’ He paused. ‘Now shall we relax a little and discuss how to spend our day?’
In the end, they drove to Whytecliffe, a village on the South coast set on a small bay.
She’d been surprised to find a sleek black convertible two-seater parked a few yards from the apartment block.
‘No Terry?’ she asked.
‘A driver is more convenient on working days. But at weekends, I like to drive myself. And as I said—we’re spending the day together.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘Don’t you trust me to take care of you?’
‘Of course.’ But, in truth, she wasn’t altogether sure. This car looked to have a lot of power under its pared-down lines.
Hood down, they headed out of the city, and Tarn soon realised she hadn’t the least cause for concern. He was a terrific driver, positive without being aggressive, treating other road-users with consideration.
‘So where are we going?’ she asked as they left the suburbs behind.
‘It’s a surprise.’
And a very pleasant one, she discovered, as they eventually wound their way through narrow lanes with the sea shining in front of them, and reached Whytecliffe.
It was small and sleepy in comparison to other nearby resorts, its harbour catering primarily for private sailing dinghies rather than the fishing smacks of the past, while further round the bay, at the foot of the chalk cliff, a row of brightly painted beach huts stood sentinel over the stretch of sand and pebbles leading down to the sea.
The village itself had a Norman church, and a pleasant main street, partly cobbled, which housed a few shops and cafés. They walked slowly, her hand in his because he’d reached for it and she couldn’t think of a solitary reason to deny him, looking into the windows of the various antique shops, as they went and wandering round the small gallery displaying the work of local artists.
There was also a bistro-type restaurant which turned out to be only open in the evenings, but Caz declared that was unimportant and headed for the solitary pub overlooking the breakwater.
‘The Smuggler’s Chair.’ Tarn looked up at the swinging sign above the door. ‘That’s a strange name.’
‘And