Escape Me Never (4 page)

Mrs Barrett didn't seem to hear her. 'I thought to myself—well that explains the pretty dress, and the way of doing your hair, and I was so pleased for you. Jodie liked him too,' she added.

'She met him?' Cass's head felt hollow.

'When I came up—to make sure everything was all right—she came with me, and they had a nice little chat.' Mrs Barrett gave her an anxious look. 'It
was
all right, wasn't it, Mrs Linton? When I looked in, he was sitting in that chair over there, and he said you'd been restless so he'd given you a drink, and made your pillows more comfortable. I'm sure no one could have been more concerned, that's why I thought…' her voice tailed off lamely.

Cass was burning again, but this time with embarrassment, not delirium. She managed a taut smile. 'No, he isn't a boyfriend,' she said quietly. 'Just—a colleague of sorts, and I can't imagine why he should have gone to all this trouble.'

'Flowers he brought too,' said Mrs Barrett. 'I left them in your living room, because my mother used to say flowers in a sick room could be funny. I'll get them for you, now you're awake.' She bustled off to return a moment later with about a ton of freesias arranged in an ornamental basket. 'Don't they smell lovely,' she said ecstatically. 'I'll put them on the chest of drawers where you can see them.

She was right about that, Cass thought wearily later. Wherever she looked in the room, the freesias seemed to be there, in the corner of her eye. When she got up to go to the bathroom, she carried them back into the living room, and put them in the middle of the small dining table. She didn't want them in her bedroom, reminding her constantly of him—the interloper who'd been there. Not a dream, not delirium, but reality. And how dared he? she thought, trying to work herself up into a rage, but finding she was still too listless to make the effort. All she really wanted to do was cry weakly, but she couldn't do that. She'd shed her last tear a long time ago.

When evening came, she felt well enough to get up. She ate the supper which Mrs Barrett provided—a fluffy omelette flanked by grilled tomatoes—by the fire, then switched on the television. Some commercials which she and Roger had designed for a client were scheduled for their first showing, and Cass hadn't been entirely happy about the filming. The client, a fitted kitchen manufacturer, had insisted on having a particular actress feature in the commercials for reasons, Cass gathered, of a sexual rather than an artistic nature. Roger had roared with laughter about it, but Cass hadn't been so amused, watching take after take being ruined. And the girl was still wooden, she thought, viewing the finished product critically. If the fitted kitchen industry collapsed, she would probably never work again. Or if the client's wife found out, Cass thought drily.

As she switched off the set, she heard her front door buzzer. Mrs Barrett, she thought, returning for the tray.

'Come in,' she called. 'It isn't locked.'

She sank gratefully back on to the sofa, curling her legs under her.

He said, 'Don't you think you should keep it locked. I might have been a burglar.'

Cass jumped, every nerve ending jangling, as she stared at him, leaning against the door jamb.

She said, stammering, 'What—what are you doing here?'

'Checking the invalid's progress,' he said pleasantly, and strolled forward.

She said hurriedly, 'I'm fine,' aware as she spoke, that she was involuntarily tucking the folds of her dressing gown further around her feet and legs, and that the hazel eyes had taken sardonic note of her action.

'Yes, I'd like to sit down,' he said mockingly. 'And, no, I won't have any coffee, thank you.'

Cass flushed. 'Well, I'm not offering,' she said grittily. 'Perhaps you'd leave.'

'Not when I've only just got here.' He shrugged off the supple suede car coat he was wearing, and dropped it across the arm of the sofa, then sat down opposite her, stretching out long legs. He was more casually dressed this evening, she couldn't help noticing, with dark brown pants moulding themselves to his body, and topped by a matching roll neck cashmere sweater. She looked away hurriedly, fiddling with the sash of her robe. 'Besides, I want to talk to you, and you were in no fit state for conversation when I called yesterday.'

'Why did you?' She glared at him.

'To see if your sudden illness was genuine, or just a convenient excuse for avoiding me.'

'You flatter yourself, Mr Grant,' Cass said defiantly. 'I'm hardly concerned enough about you and your boundless male egotism to go to those lengths.'

He raised eyebrows. 'You never miss a chance, do you, Cass? I'll bet you're the pride of the local sisterhood. Even when you're struggling back from the 'flu, you're punching your weight. Actually, I thought I should reassure you.'

'About what?' She gave him a wary look.

'The
Eve
cosmetics account.' He paused. 'You seemed to think there might be—strings attached. You're wrong.' He gave her a long look. 'And you're also wrong if you thought I'd tell Finiston about your unique method of turning down dinner invitations.' His smile was thin. 'So if you were expecting repercussions, there's no need.'

Cass bit her lip. She couldn't pretend that it wasn't a relief. 'Thank you,' she acknowledged stiltedly.

'Please don't mention it,' he said, too courteously. 'Now the next item on the agenda. Why the hell did you hand me all that "I'm a married woman" garbage, when you've been a widow for at least four years?'

Cass lifted her head defiantly. 'To try and convince you that I wasn't interested in you or your invitations. You didn't seem prepared to take no for an answer.' She paused. 'How did you find out?'

'A few casual questions at Finiston Webber. It was amazing the amount of information that was volunteered.'

'Including my address,' she said bitterly.

He laughed. 'No, I got that from the telephone book. So, if you want to keep my visits here as another of your little secrets, then there's nothing to stop you.' He linked his hands behind his head, and watched her from beneath lazily drooping lids. 'Your colleagues regard you as something of an enigma, did you know that?'

'It's not something they're likely to discuss with me,' she said flatly. 'Perhaps you'd extend me the same courtesy, and keep out of my personal affairs.'

He gave her a mocking look. 'But there don't seem to have been any, Cass. Even the mildest approaches have had the brush-off. Why? And don't tell me your heart's in the grave,' he added cynically. 'The vibrant creature who sold me an advertising campaign didn't give that impression at all.'

'That's typical masculine arrogance,' she said stormily, her breasts rising and falling jerkily. 'None of you can believe that it's possible for a woman to lead a full, satisfying life without a—a tame stud somewhere in the background.' She took a deep breath. 'Well, believe this, Mr Grant. I've been married. My husband is dead. I have a child and a career, and I love both of them. There's no need, no room in my life for another—relationship. Incredible as it must seem, I'm just not interested.'

The long lashes lifted, and the brilliant hazel eyes searched her flushed passionate face remorselessly. 'Do you prefer women perhaps?'

The breath caught in her throat. 'Oh.' She almost threw herself off the sofa. 'Of course. The obvious explanation. If not one sexual connotation, then another. My God, you make me sick.' She paused, swallowing thickly. 'Now—get out. Just because I don't fancy you, doesn't give you the right to force yourself into my home and insult me.'

'Is that what I did?' He rose, and, barefoot as she was, she felt dwarfed although she'd always regarded herself as being of reasonable height for a woman. But it wasn't just a physical thing, she thought. It was a question of personality, an aura of vibrant, sensual masculinity which was almost tangible, making the small living room seem cramped.

He said softly, 'Why the hostility, Cass? Why the aggression? When other men have tried to get near you, you've always let them down lightly. What makes my treatment so different? From the moment you ran into my arms in that corridor, you looked as if you'd been poleaxed. All afternoon, I was watching those beautiful wounded eyes, and asking myself "Why?" I'm still wondering.'

'Because for a moment you reminded me of my late husband,' she said shortly. 'Now, will you please go?'

The dark brows snapped together, and his mouth compressed tautly. He gave a short, unamused laugh. 'I suppose I should have expected that. But I didn't.' He shook his head.

'All right, Cass, I'll go and leave you to convalesce in peace.'

At the front door, he paused, the lean tanned face sardonic. "Well, good evening, Ms Linton. It's been—instructive, if nothing else. And I forgive you for lying to me about your marriage. Because, I have to confess, I lied to you too. I implied my dinner invitation had no sexual motive. It wasn't true. I wanted to get you into bed, Cass. I still want to, and I will.'

Before she could guess his intention or take evasive action, he took her by the shoulders, pulling her towards him in one swift, effortless movement. She cried out, but the sound was instantly muffled under the brief, searing pressure of his mouth.

It was over almost at once. He smiled at her.

'And sooner,' he said softly, 'rather than later. Sleep well, darling.'

And was gone.

Cass was still shaking two hours later, but from rage, she assured herself over and over again, not any other emotion.

She turned and punched savagely at an inoffensive sofa cushion. The sheer sexual arrogance of the creature. He clearly hadn't listened to one word she'd said, so securely armoured in his own conceit that it made him deaf to any point of view but his own.

And when she got back to work, gallingly, she would have to maintain a surface civility towards him at least. Or she could go to Barney, and ask to be taken off the account, she thought frown, only that would involve her in all kinds of explanations, she would much prefer to avoid.

But there had to be some way to convince the Rohan Grants of this world that she was not just—there for the taking, the frustrated widow of joke and insinuation.

She hated milky drinks, but she made one for herself before she went to bed, in the hope that it would help her sleep, then lay tossing and turning until far into the night.

But contrary to all expectations, she felt fine when she woke the next morning. Perhaps temper had helped burn out the few remaining germs, she thought drily.

After breakfast, she went downstairs to collect Jodie.

'I see your visitor was back,' Mrs Barrett commented archly as she let Cass in.

Cass smiled coolly. 'A little problem at work.' And that was putting it mildly, she added silently.

'Well, I don't know,' Mrs Barrett said, vexed. 'You'd think they'd leave you alone when you're poorly.'

'There's no justice, Mrs B.,' Cass said cheerfully. 'But I'll take care it doesn't happen again.' And how.

Her reunion with her daughter was everything she could have desired. Until they got back to their own flat, that is.

'Mrs Barrett's nice,' Jodie remarked. 'She lets me watch unsuitable things on television. She calls it "the box".'