he was attractive: her body had felt the magnetic pull of his attraction as soon as he’d walked in here. But Clare had learnt long ago not to trust men, especially attractive men. Life had always spoilt them; you were a fool if you got involved, you were asking to get hurt. You had to keep them at a distance, freeze them off. Clare was an expert at that by now.
She checked that her desk drawers were all locked, collected her bag and an umbrella, and walked towards Denzil Black. His face still in shadow, he opened the door into the street for her.
‘I have to set the burglar alarm and lock up,’ Clare said.
‘I’ll wait by my car.’
Clare took in the sleek grace and power of the black machine. She wasn’t a car fanatic, so she couldn’t guess the make of it but she didn’t have to know much about cars to realise that this was an expensive luxury item. If Denzil Black could afford this car, he could afford to buy Dark Tarn, which answered one of her secret doubts about him.
When she had finished setting the alarm and locking the shop, she walked over to join him. He watched her, his stare flicking from her short, smooth blonde hair to her long, slender legs and elegant feet. Clare dressed timelessly, in simple, classy clothes which wouldn’t go out of fashion in a few months. She didn’t dress for men, she dressed to look cool, calm and capable, but that was not how she felt under his amused, mocking stare.
Having Denzil Black watch her like that, especially as she slid her long legs into his car, made the back of her neck prickle. She had the feeling that this man was real trouble.
Helen turned from the front passenger seat and gave her a polite smile. ‘Hello, Clare.’
Clare would have liked to ask her some questions about her client, but Denzil Black walked round the car too fast. Before Clare got a word out he was getting into the driver’s seat, so she smiled in a friendly way and said, ‘Hello, Helen. How are you?’
‘Fine,’ Helen said, but Clare thought she looked rather pale. She was a woman in her early thirties with a warm, full figure, rich auburn hair and vivid green eyes. Her skin was usually creamy and flushed, but tonight she had very little colour and her eyes had a languid, almost drowsy look, as if...well, as if she had been making love, Clare thought, startled by her own guesswork.
She quickly looked away, wondering: Was Helen having an affair with her client?
Helen had acquired a reputation for being a flirt lately, ever since her divorce from Paul Sherrard, a well-known local hotelier. As soon as she had been on her own, men queued up to get her attention. You only had to date more than one man a year in this little backwater of a town to get yourself talked about, and ever since she and Paul had split up Helen had been seen around with a succession of other men. None of her relationships had lasted or seemed serious. Maybe she believed that there was safety in numbers. Or maybe she was simply in a wild, reckless mood after her divorce. She and her husband had been mad about each other once, but gossip had it that Paul had had some sort of passing fling with a guest in their hotel, and Helen could never forgive him.
The car started smoothly and shot away from the kerb. Denzil Black clearly knew the way, so Clare didn’t have to give him directions. She sat back, watching his hands on the wheel. There was a faint scattering of black hairs across the back of them; they were long-fingered, deft and powerful. On one wrist she saw a gold watch glint, and he wore a heavy gold signet ring, stamped with what looked like a coat of arms.
She still hadn’t seen his face, but she saw his thick, glossy black hair shine in the light every time they passed a street-lamp. His black coat had an expensive look; cashmere, she suspected, very smoothly tailored. Yes, he definitely had money.
Helen was murmuring to him in a low voice; Clare couldn’t hear most of what she said, but then Helen asked in a husky, almost angry tone, ‘How long are you going to be in the States?’
Denzil Black shrugged. ‘A month, maybe two.’
‘That long?’ Helen sounded desolate. Clare frowned, sorry for her. Clare remembered a time when one man could make her feel like that; it wasn’t an experience she ever intended to repeat. She had not found pain habit-forming.
Denzil Black pulled up at traffic-lights a second later, shot a backwards glance at Clare. ‘If I do buy this property, Helen will act for me while I’m away.’
‘I see,’ Clare said. ‘Do you live in Greenhowe at the moment, Mr Black?’
‘No, but I’ve been staying just outside town, with Helen’s brother and his wife, at their lovely home.’
‘That’s how we met,’ explained Helen huskily.
Clare didn’t know her all that well—they often met on business, to discuss the affairs of clients, but they didn’t meet socially. Clare wasn’t part of the social set, the way Helen undoubtedly was! Her family had always had money and, even more importantly, land. Jimmy Storr had inherited an old Queen Anne farmhouse with several hundred acres of good arable land a mile outside Greenhowe; he farmed while his wife ran a country-house hotel whose small restaurant had a county-wide reputation for excellent cuisine. Laura Storr was a wonderful cook, using fresh ingredients mostly produced on their own farm. They both worked hard, but they played hard, too, led a busy social life, and were very popular.
Clare’s family were not in the same social sphere, which didn’t bother her at all. She didn’t enjoy noisy parties, or belonging to the country club; she didn’t play team sports or give dinner parties. She walked and swam, read a good deal, went to the theatre, or the cinema, saw a lot of her family, and a few close friends. She and Helen Sherrard were miles apart in every way, but Clare had always liked the other woman, just as she liked Helen’s brother and sister-in-law.
She had been sorry for Helen lately, too. After her divorce Helen had been so unhappy, and unable to hide it. I hope she hasn’t been stupid enough to fall in love with someone she hardly knows! thought Clare, and then, in the mirror above his head, suddenly caught the glitter of Denzil Black’s grey eyes. They had very large jet-black pupils which made his eyes seem dark, and heavy lids which were thick-lashed.
Even as Clare looked into the strange eyes, the lids drooped, hiding their expression from her, and he turned his head away, his reflection vanishing abruptly from the mirror.
Clare gave a start, wishing she had had more of a chance to examine his features. She couldn’t help being curious about him. How did he really feel about Helen? Was he taking her to see Dark Tarn as his lawyer, or because of a more personal relationship? Was he hoping that the house might one day be their future home? Clare couldn’t begin to guess at any answers to all those questions.
By now, they were out of town, in the green countryside, rapidly going up Hunter’s Hill, the ancient boundary of Greenhowe. On one side of them lay the grey, wintry sea, far down below steep cliffs, and barely visible in a twilight which was fast becoming night. On the other ran pastures, grazed by sheep, the low-lying land dissected by dry-stone walls, in the distance the dark swell of the moors and hills like a crouching animal stretched out on the horizon.
Dark Tarn could be seen from a distance in almost any direction—a Victorian Gothic building with a medieval flavour, its turrets and battlements dominated the skyline for miles around.
‘My God, it’s creepy!’ Helen muttered.
Denzil Black laughed. ‘Don’t you like it?’ He didn’t sound as if it mattered to him whether she did or not. Clare frowned. Not that it was any of her business,
