Escape Me Never (17 page)

She could not afford to give herself away like that, she thought desperately. At the moment, he seemed prepared to stay aloof as he'd promised, but she wasn't stupid enough to think that he'd let this situation continue indefinitely. He was playing a cat and mouse game with her, that was all, and she could only hope she would be able to get away from the cottage before he tired of playing games, and made his move. Or, at least, that she would have the strength to resist him.

She was watching without interest some old film on the television set in the sitting room, when he came in.

'That's enough for today,' he said. 'I'm now going to have a bath before I start on dinner.'

'Fascinating,' she said coolly. 'I hope you don't want me to wash your back.'

'Actually, it was more in the nature of a warning,' he said drily. 'At the moment, the cottage has only one bathroom, and there's no lock on the door. I didn't want you to walk in on me by mistake, and think it was some elaborate trap.'

He vanished, leaving her to digest what he'd said. She stayed where she was until she knew he was downstairs again. She could hear the clatter of implements from the kitchen, and sniff various delectable odours beginning to drift through the house. She bit her lip in bewilderment. The man who'd spent the afternoon gardening, and was now cooking dinner for them both seemed to bear no relation at all to the brilliant, unpredictable head of a vast company who'd stormed his way into her life a few weeks earlier. Rohan Grant snapped his fingers and a hundred people jumped.

Had Serena Vance ever seen him like this? she wondered painfully, barefoot, in old, faded denims, and an equally ancient shirt open almost to the waist. Totally relaxed, she thought forlornly, while she, on the other hand, felt as if she was being operated by wires.

At last she ventured upstairs herself. She'd chosen the smallest of the three bedrooms, and he'd made no comment at all.

She would have a bath, she thought, and see if the water could get rid of some of her tensions. But she wouldn't change her clothes. She'd looked through the case which Marcia had provided, and seen the glamorous velvety caftans, clearly intended for intimate evenings at the fireside—something she needed to avoid at all costs. Her own nondescript jeans, and bloused top were a much safer bet.

When she entered the kitchen some twenty minutes later, he was standing at the stove, grilling steaks.

'It's almost ready,' he said. 'Would it be too much like domestic slavery to ask you to toss the salad?'

Silently, Cass complied, watching him serve the steaks on to platters and stow them in the warming oven.

'Soup first.' He brought two fragrantly steambowls to the table.

After the first spoonful, she said almost wonderingly, 'You really can cook.'

'Yes.' He sent her a mocking grin. 'Did you think it was just a line?'

She shrugged. 'It just seems—out of character. I mean—you have all these hordes of people working for you.'

'Yes,' he said. 'And I expect good service from them too. But I also believe in self-sufficiency,Cassie. Being able to cope if necessary in any situation. I thought it was something we had in common.'

'Perhaps,' she said. 'But it's a game for you, whereas it's been a necessity for me.

It was his turn to shrug. 'There's a bad recession going on. Other companies have folded. Maybe Grant's will be next.'

'Do you really think so?' she asked sceptically.

'No,' he said. 'But, if it did, I'd simply start again from scratch. I'd survive.'

She believed him.

She drank the rest of her soup, and watched while he fetched the steaks, and the jacket potatoes which were to accompany them.

'And, of course, Mrs Barber's always lurking in the background,' she remarked as she helped herself to salad. 'Ready to take over when you get tired of this homely bucolic charade.' She smiled tightly. 'Once I've departed, you can go back to being a scourge of industry all over the world. It's a role you're far better suited to,' she added casually. 'I can't think how they're managing without you.'

The hazel eyes glinted. 'Before my father retired, he gave me several pieces of advice,' he said slowly.' 'Among them were—never think you're indispensable, and—always make time for your private life.' He paused. 'As he and my mother have been happily married for over forty years, I felt it could be worth following.'

'But presumably his private life was never conducted quite so publicly as yours,' Cass said sweetly. 'Tell me—what does Miss Vance think of this cottage?'

His brows drew together reflectively, 'I think—"Too sweet, darling, and quite terribly quaint" was the general reaction.'

So—she had been there, Cass thought, slicing at her steak with real viciousness. She managed a little laugh. 'Well, traditional British architecture is hardly her kind of thing. Miss Vance's idea of a listed building is probably Tiffany's.' She paused. 'Has she been privileged to see the— domesticated side of your nature?'

Rohan grinned, and offered her a platter of bread, which she refused with a curt shake of the head. 'I can't say she ever showed any interest in my culinary skills.' He sighed. 'But you can't win them all.'

Cass realised she was getting into deep water, and it seemed safer suddenly to make for the shore.

She ate the rest of her meal in silence, declining the fruit and cheese he offered as dessert, asking for coffee alone.

'Why don't you take it along to the sitting room,' Rohan said as he poured it. 'Or will your conscience permit you to sit and watch me struggling to clear up unaided?'

She glared at him as she rose from the table. 'If anyone's conscience is troubling them, then it should be yours,' she said. 'You forced me to come here.'

He gave her a level look. 'I plead guilty,' he said. 'Yet you're still here.'

'Your friend with the taxi is otherwise engaged,' she said.

'My condolences,' he drawled. 'Another few hours of stoical endurance for poor Cassandra.'

She winced. 'Please don't call me that.'

'It's your name, and it's beautiful.' he said quietly. 'And it's time it had pleasant associations for you. Stop locking your skeletons into cupboards. Take them out into the light of day' and see them for what they are—ancient history. The present is what matters, and the future.'

'Yes, sir,' she said rigidly. 'Thank you, sir. Is that the end of today's lecture on homespun philosophy?'

His glance was edged. 'Just be thankful I'm restricting myself to words, darling.'

Curled into a corner of the sofa, her legs tucked under her, nursing her untouched coffee, she tried to be thankful, but it wasn't easy. But it would be over soon, she tried to reassure herself. And when she walked away, her self-respect at least would be intact, if not her heart.

What she must not do was allow Rohan to lull her into a false sense of security. All this gardening, and cooking and keeping at a distance might impose a facade of convention, but they were in an abnormal situation, and she must not forget it.

He'd made no demur when she'd chosen her bedroom, but later, on her way downstairs, she'd passed the open door of his room, and seen the wide double bed which dominated it. In spite of his assurances, he clearly didn't expect to sleep alone when he stayed at the cottage, she thought. His own words, '
The next time we're in bed together
' haunted her. He believed it would happen. He intended it to happen.

She wished with all her heart that she'd learned to drive. His car was there, under the lilacs, the perfect means of escape to hand, and totally beyond her. She could start walking, of course. But she was by no means certain she could remember the tortuous route which had brought them to the cottage, and, besides, how long would it take him to follow and find her, once he'd realised she was missing?

She was so lost in her own thoughts, brooding in the firelight, that she did not hear him coming along the passage. When the main light was suddenly switched on at the door, she started violently, spilling the coffee.

'Oh,' she exclaimed distressfully, getting to her feet, and mopping at herself with her hand.

He was at her side instantly. 'My God, have you scalded yourself. I didn't realise you were in the room. I thought you'd gone up…'

She was shaking. 'I'd forgotten the coffee. It was cold anyway—but the upholstery…'

'Damn the upholstery,' he said, passing her an immaculate handkerchief. 'I'm afraid your clothes have taken the worst of it.'

She'd already realised that. 'And they're all I've got to wear.'

His face hardened. 'My sister ransacked her wardrobe for you,' he said tersely. 'But if wearing her things is really so impossible, there are machines in the kitchen which will wash the stuff you're wearing, and dry it too by morning.'

Cass bit her lip. 'Thank you.'

"Or I could burn them on the bonfire with the rest of the rubbish,' he went on, as if she hadn't spoken. 'God knows that's all they deserve. What in hell do you think, Cassandra? That if you shroud yourself in ugliness for the rest of your life, no man's going to take a second glance at you, and you'll be safe?' He gave a short derisive laugh. 'Well, I'm here to tell you you're wrong. Shapeless clothes can be intriguing in themselves. And when a man's seen you—touched you as I have, not even a sack tied over your head's going to cloud
that
particular memory.'

'Please.' She didn't look at him, scrubbing fiercely at her stained jeans. 'Please don't talk like that. Will you show me—how to operate the washing machine?'

He shrugged. 'Leave the things outside your room. I'll attend to them later.' His voice sounded curt, dismissive, and Cass decided it might be safer to be dismissed.

She said, 'Thanks' again, and added a subdued, 'Good night.'

As she hurried back from the bathroom, she could hear the sound of voices from the sitting room, and guessed he had switched on the television, which did not, hopefully, suggest that he had plans for seduction in mind.

She liked to have fresh air while she slept, and she perched on the window seat to deal with the casement, even though she wasn't tired in the least. It was too early, she thought, leaning her forehead against the coolness of the pane, and, besides, she felt too restless, too disturbed to rest.

Her mind kept returning obsessively to the man downstairs. In daylight the situation had been almost bearable. But now that darkness had closed round the cottage, she felt shut in, vulnerable. The night had inescapable connotations, which she didn't want to have to contemplate. Because—if—that door opened, she had no real idea what she would say—how she would react.

The night was cool, and Marcia's pretty voile nightgown was thin, but her body was burning with a pulsing fire she could neither explain nor control. And if Rohan Grant could achieve that effect without one touch, one kiss, what would he do to her if he decided to exert some pressure, she wondered desolately.

All the same, when she heard the door behind her open, she could hardly believe it. She turned slowly and stared at him, her eyes widening endlessly as two strides brought him into the centre of the small room.

She heard the stammer in her voice. 'W-what do you want?'

'Your clothes,' he said enunciating carefully as if she were deaf—or just plain stupid. 'You were supposed to leave them outside for me. Or have you decided to risk wearing some normal gear tomorrow instead?'

Her jeans and top were lying on the bed. All he had to do was reach out a hand and pick them up, but by the time she realised that she was halfway across the room to fetch them—only checking when she saw him watching her, saw the total absorption, the frank sensual appreciation as he studied the cling of the flimsy nightgown to her breasts and thighs as she moved.

Her face was burning as she snatched up the bundle of clothing and held it out to him. 'Here,' she said stormily.

He smiled derisively at her tone, but his hazel gaze was riveted to her mouth.

His hand reached out and closed round one slim bare arm, drawing towards him not forcibly, but firmly, brooking no resistance.

If she'd been burning before, now the first beguiling warmth of his mouth on hers made her shiver. It had been all eternity since the last time she'd felt his body against hers, known the insidious enchantment of his lips parting hers, the subtle invasion of his tongue…

Blindly, she swayed towards him, and felt, incredulously, the grip on her arm tighten as he put her away from him.

'Good night,' he said pleasantly. 'If you need anything in the night, then you know where to find me.'

With incredulity, she watched the door close behind him, then sank down on the edge of the narrow bed as if she'd been poleaxed, burying her fevered face in her hands.

It was late when she woke the following morning, and the sun was streaming into the room through a gap in the pretty sprigged curtains. For a moment she stared around, disorientated, then, remembering, she collapsed back on the pillows with a little groan, resisting an impulse to drag the covers over her head and stay there forever.

She sat up again, very slowly. She'd lain awake for what seemed hours the previous night, listening for Rohan coming to bed. When, at last, she'd heard his footsteps on the stairs, she'd tensed urgently, burrowing down in the bed, wondering crazily whether she could fool him into thinking she was asleep when he came into the room.

Only, he had not come into the room. He'd walked past. Ears straining frantically in the dark, she'd heard him go into the bathroom, then later the quiet closing of his door. After that, silence.

And while Cass had been trying to figure out whether her predominating emotion was relief or disappointment, she'd fallen asleep.

But she was wide awake now, she thought drily. Wide awake, and worried.

She began to push aside the covers, then paused, as she saw her jeans and top neatly folded, lying on the window-seat. It made her feel vulnerable to know that he'd been in her room while she was asleep. And not for the first time either, she thought, her mind flicking frowningly backwards to that bout of 'flu when she'd half-woken, and seen him there.