Irresistible Temptation (13 page)

'Does that mean there aren't any?' Olivia raised her brows.

'Certainly not,' he drawled, and laughed out loud at the suddenly arrested expression on her face. 'For one thing, I've been commissioned to make sure you continue to work for us. I gather you have doubts. I'm supposed to charm them away.'

'I can't think why you should want to.'

'Because you're sweet-tempered, decorative, and a pleasure to have about the place,' Declan said promptly, startling an unwilling laugh from her in turn. 'You also seem to know Scriptec inside out, which makes you almost unique and definitely irreplaceable.' He paused. 'I might lose another file tomorrow.'

Olivia shook her head. 'I don't think so. And you have the Hogarth technician to fall back on.'

'Ah,' he said softly, the silvery eyes glinting at her. 'But I'd much prefer to fall back on you.'

'And there are software programs coming out all the time which locate missing stuff on the hard drive,' Olivia went on, trying to ignore the fact that she was blushing again. 'FailSafe is supposed to be good. I suggest you consider it.' She paused. 'So much less trouble than a human being.'

'I'm really beginning to think so. However, I tend to leave the technical details to other people,' he said, with a touch of dryness. 'I've learned basic skills, but I'm not a lover of machines.'

'But you work in a high-tech media,' Olivia objected.

'Because I'm obliged to. Left to myself, I'd probably be stuck in my garret, using a quill pen.'

'Some garret.' She smiled reluctantly as their first course arrived.

They'd chosen
bruschetta
—toasted wedges of garlic bread, some thick with pat£, others with a delicious mix of tomatoes, olives and olive oil.

'Wow,' Olivia said as she took the first bite. This packs quite a punch.'

'Don't worry,' Declan said soothingly. 'Garlic's fine as long as you both have some. I mention it for future reference only,' he added swiftly as her brows snapped together. 'Maybe you'll come here with Jeremy.'

'I thought we'd agreed not to mention him.'

'A slip of the tongue.' His voice was smooth. 'Forgive me, and let's concentrate on our food.'

That was easily done. They finished off the Frascati with the black linguine and scallops which followed, and drank Chianti with their main course of venison, served with a sharp cherry sauce.

They talked over the meal, avoiding vexed topics, Declan keeping her amused with stories of the famous and the infamous that he'd encountered during his journalistic career, and encouraging her to talk about herself too—asking her about her family, her childhood, all her early hopes and dreams.

And Olivia, forgetting that he was one of television's most skilled interrogators, responded happily.

They had fruit and cheese for dessert, ending with tiny cups of strong espresso coffee and Strega.

By the time they'd finished, Olivia had the feeling that the buttons of her dress were straining uncomfortably. She sat back with a sigh of pure repletion.

'That was so wonderful.'

'I'm glad you enjoyed it.' The amused note in his voice made her wonder if her enthusiasm had been as totally unchic as her sightseeing programme. 'But has it softened your heart towards Academy Productions?'

'I—don't know.' She felt oddly flattened. 'I told the agency I'd consider it, but I don't think it's—my kind of environment.'

Declan lifted his glass, studying the colour of the Strega. 'If it's any incentive,' he said, 'you wouldn't be working exclusively for me.'

'Oh, but it's not that,' she said hurriedly. 'Besides, we have a truce—don't we?'

'So we do,' he said softly. 'I was almost forgetting. But a truce often means a temporary cessation of hostilities. I'd prefer a lasting peace. What do you think?'

She felt totally at a loss. She looked down, tracing the rim of her saucer with a forefinger.

'Yes.' She swallowed. 'If that's what you want.'

'Yes,' he said, 'Believe me, I want that—very much.'

She had the curious sensation that she was enclosed in some private world with him, held in thrall by the lamplight. His words were like fingers gently brushing her skin, making her shiver inwardly. Turning her mouth dry.

And if she looked up, met the intentness of his silvery gaze across the table, she knew she would be lost for ever.

In a voice she barely recognised as her own, she said, 'We seem to be the last people here. Maybe we should leave.'

'I don't think Gianna will throw us into the street quite yet Would you like some more coffee? Another Strega?'

'No, thank you.' She sounded like her maiden aunt But the last thing she needed in the world was any more alcohol.

That was it, of course, she thought She'd had too much wine. That was why she was thinking nonsense. The only reason.

She tried a small laugh. 'I may be working tomorrow— somewhere. I really should go home.'

'Just as you wish,' Declan said, and signalled for the bill.

In the taxi, she sat huddled defensively in her corner, trying to make herself invisible, remembering what had happened with Jeremy. Dreading history repeating itself.

But Declan showed no sign of wishing to leap on her. On the contrary, he seemed totally lost in his thoughts, she thought, stealing a glance at his profile.

'Well, thank you again,' she said, too brightly, as the cab dropped them both at Lancey Terrace.

'I enjoyed it too, Olivia.' He paused. 'Friends?'

The breath seemed to catch in her throat Because it occurred to her with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning that she didn't want to be friends with Declan at all. She wanted…

She closed her mind against the appalling—the unutterable idea that had come to her. Banished it Exorcised it for ever.

She said huskily, 'Well—not enemies, anyway.'

Then I'll make do with that.' He held out his hand. 'Let's say goodnight as convention demands.'

Because she had no choice, and good manners demanded it, she put her hand in his. And felt him pull her gently forward. She should have resisted. But instead she allowed him to draw her close. So near, indeed, that the points of her breasts were grazing his chest.

There was no doubt about his intention, she realised dazedly. She looked up at him, pleadingly, her lips parting to say no, and felt his mouth cover hers, warmly, sensuously, lingeringly. Was aware of her body blooming—melt-ing in sudden sharp delight which only ended when he lifted his head and stepped back.

'God bless convention,' he murmured. 'Sleep tight, Olivia.'

Hand pressed to her burning lips, heart drumming unevenly against her ribs, she watched him walk away down the street And could only be thankful he would never have the least idea how desperately she wanted to call him back.

The alarm shrilled and Olivia turned wearily over, punching it into silence. She lay back on her pillow, arms folded behind her head, and stared up at the ceiling.

'What a mess,' she said aloud 'What an unholy, boiling mess.'

How long could it be before Jeremy knew that she'd not only been out to dinner with another man, but stood in a London street and allowed him to kiss her? And not a peck on the cheek either, she thought dismally. But the real thing.

Declan was probably telling him now, over the cereal and croissants. Always supposing he hadn't woken him the night before with the glad tidings. She suppressed a groan.

Oh, she'd seen the trap. She'd been on edge all evening. But she'd walked into it just the same.

You could be deeply, sincerely in love with someone, but that didn't mean lust was off the agenda. Someone had told her that a long time ago, but she'd never believed it until now.

And that was all she felt for Declan, she told herself with emphasis. Simple, old-fashioned lust.

After all, she reasoned, he was attractive, successful, and powerful—a heady mixture of aphrodisiacs indeed. He'd fed her wonderful food and paid her special attention. He might even have flirted with her a little, she thought uncertainly. Anyway, he'd done everything right.

Except that he wasn't Jeremy—and he should have been. Because that was the kind of evening she'd wanted— longed for—when Jeremy had taken her out, instead of the fiasco that had actually ensued.

So how could it be that Declan, a stranger, seemed to know almost by instinct what she would like?

More experience, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she remembered the redhead in the towel and the blonde in the restaurant There was probably little he didn't know about pleasing women—in every way.

Looking back, she supposed that she'd wanted him to be Jeremy so much that somehow some of the feelings she'd been experiencing—her confusion, loneliness and need— had been transferred to him.

That was the only excuse she could make, and pretty pathetic it was too.

Because, in truth, there was no valid excuse.

And if Jeremy was furious with her, she would have no one to blame but herself.

She pushed back the covers and trailed into the kitchen to put the kettle on, only to be confronted by Declan's pink roses waiting for attention.

She groaned inwardly. She ought not to keep them, she thought, touching one delicate bud with a tentative forefinger. They were a dangerous reminder of something best forgotten. But they were just too lovely to throw away.

While waiting for the kettle to boil, she cut the stems and arranged the roses in a jug she found in one of the cupboards.

She showered and dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt She'd just finished breakfast when Sasha tapped on the door.

'Hello, darling. I just wanted to tell you that I've decided to have those panic buttons installed, and someone will be calling this afternoon. I don't think women living on their own can be too careful'

'Sasha—please don't go to extra expense on my account I'm not nervous—really.' Olivia spoke awkwardly. After all, she thought, she wouldn't be staying here much longer. She'd either be moving in with Jeremy or going back to Bristol to lick her wounds.

'It's just a precaution. I'm sure we'll never need them.' Sasha's gaze alighted on the jug of roses. 'Darling—how beautiful. Pink roses.' She sent Olivia a shrewd glance. 'You have an admirer.'

'Heavens, no.' Olivia forced a laugh. 'They're just a thank-you gift. I—I did someone a favour.'

'The first flowers I ever received from my beloved were pink roses.' Sasha spoke softly, her bright eyes glinting with sudden moisture. 'He said that crimson roses were the flowers of passion, but pink blooms meant true love that would last for ever. And so it was with us,' she added with a sigh.

'In this case, I imagine they were the last bunch left in the shop,' Olivia said crisply.

Sasha tutted reproachfully. 'How very unromantic, darling. Anyway, I came to say that if you're out this afternoon, I'M let the workman in.'

After Sasha had flitted away, Olivia found herself wondering again who the 'beloved' she referred to had been.

I must ask Declan, she thought idly, then stiffened. What am I talking about? That's the last thing I need. No more cosy chats under any circumstances.

It shocked her to realise how much personal information he'd extracted from her the night before—as if he was compiling a dossier, she thought darkly.