LITMIR.BIZ

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in annoyance. Her arms must have tightened on Melusine too, because the cat began to wriggle.

      ‘I’d better take her indoors,’ she said quickly. ‘Well—as I said—thank you.’

      ‘Is that all?’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘I was thinking you could offer me some rather more—tangible form of gratitude.’ The blue eyes watched her coolly, consideringly, lingering, it seemed, on the curve of her mouth.

      She felt a shiver of tension curl down her spine. She’d been a fool to hang around out here, allowing him to needle her, she thought grimly. She should have stuck with cold and dismissive, and got the hell out of it.

      She took a step backwards, trying to be casual. ‘I’ve already been as grateful as I’m likely to get.’

      ‘Are you quite sure about that?’ He sounded faintly amused.

      She thought longingly of her mobile phone, in a desk drawer at her flat in London.

      ‘Convinced,’ she said curtly. ‘Now you must excuse me.’

      If she made it to the front door, she promised herself, she would walk straight through the house, grabbing her bag and Melusine’s basket on the way, out through the back entrance, into her car and off. Destination unknown and unimportant.

      ‘That’s a shame,’ he said softly. ‘You see, for the past hour I’ve been having these amazing fantasies, and you’re the only one who can fulfill them.’

      She must have heard the words ‘her blood ran cold’ hundreds of times, without beginning to guess what it could feel like to have ice crawling below the surface of her skin. But she knew now. Felt the ache of it paralyse her. Stultify her reasoning.

      ‘So, Miss Tara Lyndon.’ His voice was barely above a whisper. ‘Are you going to make all my dreams come true?’

      ‘When hell freezes over.’ Her tone was ragged, but she lifted her chin and stared at him with contempt and antagonism. Maybe if she defied him, let him see she was no one’s push-over, he’d back off.

      He sighed. ‘I was afraid of that. Mrs Pritchard will be so disappointed.’

      Tara had the curious impression she was involved in some kind of alternative reality. Or had her opponent simply escaped from somewhere?

      She said hoarsely, ‘What’s Mrs Pritchard got to do with anything? And how did you know my name?’

      ‘Well, you can’t possibly be Becky. You’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

      He made himself sound like the voice of sweet reason, Tara thought furiously. Was there any family detail Mrs Pritchard hadn’t confided to him?

      ‘And she told me she’d made you one of her steak and kidney pies, because you like them so much,’ he went on, then paused. ‘I got the impression she thought you might be prepared to share it with me,’ he added wistfully. ‘And, after all, I did rescue your cat.’

      Her lips moved for several seconds before any audible words were formed. Then, ‘You—want some steak and kidney pie?’ she asked slowly and very carefully. ‘Is that what you mean?’

      ‘What else?’ His face was solemn, but the blue eyes were dancing in challenge.

      Tara wasn’t cold any more. She was blazing—burning up with temper. He’d made a total fool of her—reduced her to a shaken mass of insecurity—and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She couldn’t even admit it. And they both knew it.

      She swallowed deeply, forcing an approximation of a smile to her rigid mouth.

      ‘Then of course you shall have some.’ She shifted the indignant Melusine to look at her watch. ‘After all, I wouldn’t want to forfeit Mrs Pritchard’s good opinion. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

      ‘My God,’ he said slowly. ‘Under that stony exterior beats a living heart after all. I’ll be counting the minutes.’

      Count away, Tara told him silently. By seven-thirty both I and my steak and kidney pie will be halfway back to London. And I won’t be coming back until you’re safely out of the picture. You may have charmed the Pritchards, but I’m not falling for your line. Not any more. I’ve been there and done that.

      She made herself smile again. ‘Well—see you later.’

      She walked away without haste, and without looking back, although she was aware that he was watching her every step of the way.

      Look as much as you want, she thought. It’ll be your last opportunity.

      As she closed the front door behind her she realised she was trembling all over. She halted, trying to steady her breathing, and Melusine, mewing violently, jumped from her arms and mooched into the kitchen, whisking her tail.

      Tara went up to her room to retrieve her travel bag. She couldn’t resist a surreptitious peep out of the window, but Adam Barnard was nowhere to be seen. The ladder had disappeared too, so presumably he was putting it back where he’d found it. He certainly made very free with other people’s property, she thought, fuming. Well, she couldn’t stop him snooping round Dean’s Mooring, perhaps, but she could tip off the local police about his activities.

      And she could find out which estate agency was handling the sale of the property and express the family’s interest in acquiring it. That would deal with unauthorised use of the mooring.

      She stared across at the cabin cruiser. What was an unshaven scruff like Adam Barnard doing in charge of something so upmarket and glamorous? she wondered uneasily. He couldn’t be the owner, yet the boat didn’t have the look of a hire craft either.

      But for that matter what was he doing here at all—and alone? He didn’t give the impression of a man addicted to solitude. And some women—probably flashy blondes—might even find his brand of raffish attraction appealing, she thought, ruthlessly quelling the memory of her own brief, unlooked-for response to him.

      Just a slip of the reflexes, she assured herself. And no harm done. Which didn’t altogether explain why she was beating such a swift and ignominious retreat.

      Tara bit her lip. To run away, of course, would be an open admission that she found him dangerous. That she’d taken his teasing seriously. And that would put her at the far greater risk of appearing an over-reactive and humourless idiot.

      Although there was no real reason why she should care what he thought.

      And why am I standing here debating the matter, anyway? she demanded vexedly.

      Because you haven’t been able to pigeon-hole him, said a small voice at the back of her mind. Because so far he’s won every round. Because he’s a puzzle you can’t solve. Not yet.

      He’d asked her if she was hiding from something, but she could well have levelled the same question at him. What could possibly have brought him to this secluded patch of river?

      Unless, of course, the boat really was stolen, and he really was some kind of criminal.

      The thought brought a renewed sense of chill. But, to be fair, he’d hardly made a secret of his presence, she reminded herself. After all, making Mrs Pritchard’s acquaintance was tantamount to telling the world.

      On the other hand, he could be mounting some terrific double bluff. Making himself so visible and agreeable locally that no one would suspect a thing.

      It disturbed her that he’d gained so much background information about her family, and so easily, too. If he was just a passing stranger, what possible use or interest could these details be to him?

      Which led her back to the possibility that Adam Barnard did not see Silver Creek simply as a convenient backwater in which to pass a few lazy days.

      So, what was his true motivation? And if he was up to no good could she afford to go and leave the house to his

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