Old Desires/A Stranger's Kiss (2-in-1 edition) (21 page)

‘What’s so amusing?’ he demanded.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

He stared for a moment as if she was quite mad, then shrugged and started the car. The conversation on the way into London was a one-way affair in which he briefed her on the meeting, who was to be there and what notes he wanted her to take.

The journey home was accomplished in silence, with Adam deep in thought and apparently forgetting that he had Tara with him, he drove straight into the car park beneath Victoria House.

He caught her glance. ‘I need those notes tonight, Tara. How long will it take?’ He didn’t bother to ask if she could do it. He simply expected that she would.

‘Does your permanent secretary work these hours?’ she asked.

‘Finding it too much for you already, Tara? Not got what it takes after all?’

She ignored this. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ He frowned, not understanding the question. ‘Your secretary. Jenny told me that she’s on sick leave.’

‘So you’ve met Jenny.’

‘She came up to see me. She had the oddest notion of making me feel welcome. Explaining where everything was and telling me the names of a few people I might need to know.’

She had also taken the trouble to explain that Adam rarely interfered with the running of his many business interests, leaving it to the bright young men he put in charge, offering advice only when it was applied for. He spent his time working on new ventures, apparently. Developing new ideas.

‘Oh, yes.’ He wasn’t in the least bit put out by her implied criticism. ‘Jane is...’ He hesitated and Tara caught a flash of white teeth in the subdued light of the car park as if something had finally amused him. ‘No need to concern yourself. Jane isn’t suffering from anything infectious,’ he assured her.

So his lunch appointment had been with his secretary. Clearly she wasn’t that sick. ‘That’s not much comfort, Adam. Malnutrition isn’t catching.’

‘Sarcasm will get you nowhere with me, Tara. I am aware you haven’t had time for a meal and I’ll organise some supper for us upstairs. You can eat when you’ve finished.’

‘Thank you.’ But her dry tone drew no response.

The private lift whisked them swiftly to the penthouse suite and Tara went straight to her office and began to work. She was tired, hungry and ridiculously close to tears which wasn’t like her. But the day had been fraught with tensions, she had missed breakfast because she overslept and if she allowed herself to think about it too much she would begin to shake.

‘How much longer?’

While she had been working Adam had changed from his dark business suit. Now pale, well-washed denims stretched tightly across his hips and thighs, emphasising the arrogant maleness of the man. Tara dragged her eyes back to the printer.

‘It’s printing now.’

‘Then come and eat,’ he said, leading the way to his apartment and another world.

His drawing room was vast. The pale polished floor seemed to stretch forever, interrupted only by Persian rugs and furniture that would have been equally at home in a modern art gallery. One wall consisted of the familiar arched windows beyond which the lights of the May Valley were spread beneath them. Opposite, the wide expanse was broken by an open fireplace where flames flickered over an enormous log. The fireplace was flanked on either side with a pair of Mark Rothko canvasses, huge subtle areas of colour that seemed to suck her in and wrap around her mind.

Tara stopped in the doorway, silenced by the simple beauty of it.

‘Well?’

‘I...’ She couldn’t think of any comment that did not sound banal and instead offered him the faintest smile. ‘I was just wondering if you expected me to polish the floor in my spare time.’

His eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘You won’t have any spare time, Tara.’

‘Oh?’ Her smile was forced. ‘You do realise that I charge by the hour?’

‘And double after six o’clock I have no doubt. I guarantee that I’ll get every penny’s worth,’ he said, his buccaneer’s eyes appearing to dance in the shifting light from the fire. Or perhaps she was just feeling light-headed for want of food. As if he could read her mind he led her across to a table laid for two and pulled back a chair.

‘Help yourself,’ he commanded and while she ladled rice and a rich, spicy beef dish onto two plates, Adam poured them both glasses of a rich red wine.

She ate slowly, with total concentration, savouring every mouthful, until replete, she sat back with a little sigh.

‘Do you feel better now?’ he asked with apparent amusement.

Hunger pangs assuaged she was prepared to be generous. ‘Much,’ she assured him.

‘I’ll pass your compliments to the chef.’

‘You didn’t cook it yourself?’ she asked, in mock surprise. She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, regarding him with total innocence. ‘Of course not. Silly me. Why would you bother to cook when you obviously own the wine bar at the bottom of the lift shaft?’

‘Why indeed?’ Adam stood up. ‘Come and sit over here.’

‘I can’t do that. There’s the little matter of washing up, or have you forgotten about getting every penny’s worth?’

She gathered the dishes onto a tray and carried them through into a gleaming white galley kitchen. He followed her and took the tray from her hands. ‘Leave them.’ His smile was provoking. ‘Eating time I’m prepared to pay for, but washing up is strictly on your own time.’ He slid his hand under her arm and led her firmly from the bright kitchen to the shifting, fickle light of the fire.

‘It’s real!’ Tara exclaimed in delight and relieved to have an excuse to pull free of his disturbing fingers, bent down to hold her hands out to the flames. ‘I thought it was one of those gas things.’

‘I have no interest in fakes, Tara.’ He waited while she curled up in a huge leather armchair, then handed her a brandy before stretching out in a chair opposite her, his long legs propped on the hearth. He sipped his drink. ‘Of any sort.’

She cupped her hands around the glass and stared down for a moment at the pale liquid, watching the firelight strike sparks of amber from the crystal. Over dinner the evening had somehow ceased to be about business. This was not the office. This was the penthouse apartment of an attractive— her mind shied away from the blandness of the word. Attractive was not an expression that evenly remotely applied to Adam Blackmore.

She regarded him from beneath the screen of her lashes. There was nothing bland about him. He was as invigorating as standing beneath a mountain waterfall and had much the same effect on the ability to breath. Her experience in such matters was limited, but she knew without any doubt that he was the most potently desirable man she had ever met. And the most dangerous.

The evening had taken a subtle turn so that she had hardly noticed when they had moved away from business. And now they were sitting together before the fire sipping brandy in a manner that implied a perilous intimacy.

She put her glass down and straightened from the chair. Maybe this was an accepted part of his relationship with his permanent secretary, but there was a limit to how far she would go to take Jane’s place.

She was his temporary secretary. She wasn’t prepared to take the same role as his lover.

‘I’d better make sure that the printer hasn’t jammed,’ she said, but he caught her hand as she moved quickly past him and taking her by surprise, spun her into his lap.

His eyes fixed her, held her momentarily in his power. ‘The printer can look after itself,’ he murmured, softly into her neck so the words vibrated against her skin and Tara knew that if she allowed her head to fall against his shoulder and parted her lips he would take everything she was prepared to offer and more.

But there had been something altogether too calculating in the momentary glimpse she had caught of his eyes before he closed them and she shivered. ‘So can I, Adam. But I’d prefer to get up without an unseemly struggle.’

He raised his head and she caught a gasp between her teeth. Whatever his original intentions, there was no doubting the desire that turned his eyes black in the shifting light of the flames.

It had been a long time since she had wanted to lie back in a man’s arms. It was nearly seven years since Nigel’s death and in all that time no one had broken through the shell she had erected to protect her heart.

Almost in panic she tried to move, but he held her firm and despite her brave words she knew that if he chose to keep her captive she would be hard pressed to free herself without resorting to the unforgivable. And she faced the disturbing truth that if he insisted upon kissing her she might never want to be free again.

For a moment his eyes challenged her to defy him, to ignore the warmth of his body against her own, to ignore the way his mouth curved with sensuous insolence, inviting her to make the first move and risk the surging desire that had surfaced so abruptly when he had kissed her in the wine bar.

It was hard. Harder still to ignore clamour of her blood pounding with wild impatience through her veins and the way her skin was tingling, begging to be stroked by the long fingers holding her against him, teased by the broad tip of his thumb, already far too close to a betraying nipple, erect against the soft cloth of her dress.

Another moment would have been a moment too long but without warning he stood up with her, surprising a soft cry from her lips. He smiled then, and set her gently on her feet.

‘You’re right, Tara. Better check the printer. Then I’ll walk you home.’

Her hands were shaking as she shuffled the papers into some semblance of order. She managed to slip them into a folder and turned, holding it as a kind of defence against him as he followed her into the office.

He took the file from her and threw it onto her desk. ‘Come on. It’s late.’ He helped her into her coat, his face expressionless as she pulled nervously away and quickly fastened the buttons. He summoned the lift and stood back to let her in. He paused with his finger on the button. ‘I never gave you the promised grand tour.’

‘I think I’ve seen more than enough,’ she murmured, but she refused to meet his eyes.

‘Enough for tonight,’ he agreed.

They walked in silence along the quiet street and turned into the mews.

‘I’ll see you in the morning, Tara,’ he said, and took the wayward strand of hair that never wanted to stay tidily in place and tucked it behind her ear. For a moment his fingers lingered there against the sensitive skin, threatening to upset the delicate poise of her equilibrium and pitch her into his arms.

‘What time do you want me to start work tomorrow?’ Tara asked, jerking away from his touch.

‘Whatever time you arrive, my sweet, you can be sure I will already be at work,’ he drawled, impudently aware of the effect he was having.

She risked a defiant smile. ‘You don’t really expect me to fall for that one, do you, Adam? I’ll be there at nine. A fourteen-hour day is about my limit.’

‘We’ll see.’ He bared his teeth in a smile and raised his hand in salute. ‘Goodnight, Tara.’

She closed the door and leaned heavily against it for a moment, still feeling the dangerous heat of his fingers against her skin. Her hand strayed to the spot and she jerked it away, furious with herself. Adam Blackmore was an arrogant, overbearing tyrant who knew nothing about her. He just thought she would make a temporary substitute in every way for his secretary, poor woman. Well, that wasn’t her scene, she thought angrily. No matter how attractive, how desirable he might be.

She pushed herself away from the door. The first thing she needed was a warm drink if she was going to sleep. And every fibre of her being told her she would need all the sleep she could get. Every nerve ending was jangling from a day in the presence of Adam Blackmore.

She pulled a face. Forget the day. Every nerve ending was jangling from a few moments curled in his lap fighting all the instincts that urged her to wrap her arms around his neck and let him take her on that grand tour.

Her fingers strayed to her little brooch. ‘Some help you were,’ she said, then lifted the framed portrait from her mantelpiece and looked at it long and hard. The face that smiled back was unbelievably young, from another world when she was eighteen and life was very simple. ‘Why did it have to be him?’ she demanded. But the photograph had no answer and she replaced it with a sigh.

The light was winking on her answering machine, but she ignored it. It could wait until she had made her cocoa. She set some milk to boil and quickly changed into a pair of pink and white spotted pyjamas and slipped on a matching wrapper.

She made some cocoa, then set it on the coffee table and stared at the answering machine for a moment. It was probably nothing important. Nothing that wouldn’t keep until the morning. Still. She pressed the button.

There was a sharp rap at the door. ‘Drat the man,’ she swore to herself. She flung open the door. ‘Adam this isn’t funny...’ The words trailed away. ‘Jim.’

‘I have got to talk to you, Tara.’ He pushed passed her before she could close the door.

The recording clicked in and Beth’s voice filled the room. ‘Tara, Jim Matthews has been at the office again today. Blasted man actually offered me money to tell him where you live.’ She chuckled. ‘If he hadn’t been so cheap I might have been tempted. I forgot to mention it when you phoned, but I thought you’d better know that he hasn’t given up.’ The machine clicked off and began to rewind.