hands and Saira noticed that he hadn’t actually said who Joy was. A deliberate omission, she felt sure. He wanted to keep her guessing; it was all part of the game he was playing. Despite having met him two or three times now, she still knew nothing at all about him—nothing except that he was claiming her inheritance!
‘Why don’t you ask Saira in, darling, instead of keeping her standing here on the doorstep?’ The fact that the girl showed no curiosity proved to Saira that he had already discussed her, that she probably knew every detail, knew he was playing some dishonourable game with her where Honeysuckle Cottage was concerned.
‘Would you like to come in?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness and a twinkle in his eye, because he knew perfectly well that she would refuse.
‘Would it be worth my while?’ she asked, chin high, eyes challenging.
‘If you’re asking whether I will produce the evidence you require, then the answer is no; but if you’d like to join Joy and me for a cup of tea, then you’re welcome.’ His eyes dared her to accept and Saira almost agreed— except that she would be hurting no one but herself. Did she really want to sit and see these two making eyes at each other? The answer had to be no.
This man sickened her—although she could not deny his overt sexuality. Her awareness of it increased each time they met—and it was a source of great annoyance. She was not interested in this side of him, not one little bit; Joy was welcome to his body and his bed.
‘Thank you for your offer, but no,’ she said with careful politeness. ‘I came here for one thing only and as it’s not forthcoming I will return to my aunt’s cottage. But, Mr Brent, my patience is not without its limits. Please make sure that you have the necessary papers available for me tomorrow.’
It was an unnecessary speech, but she felt better for it, and without even waiting for his answer, catching only a glimpse of Joy’s surprise, she spun on her heel and headed swiftly back towards the cottage.
I seem to be spending all of my time walking up and down this drive, she thought humourlessly. There was no end to her torment. This man really was taking a great deal of pleasure out of her helplessness. And most definitely she would get in touch with Mr Kirby in the morning, whether Jarrett Brent came up with proof or not. It would still only be his word. She had to make very sure of her legal position before giving anything up to him.
THAT night Saira dreamt about Jarrett, a vivid, disturbing dream where he came to the cottage in the middle of the night and made love to her. To begin with she had fought him, fought desperately to keep him away, but he had worn down her resistance and she had given in, and her body had experienced such feelings of intense pleasure that when she awoke they still persisted.
For a few moments she remained curled in a cocoon of mystic warmth and happiness, hugging the feelings to her, and then the realisation of what she was nurturing hit her like a body blow and she sprang out of bed absolutely disgusted with herself.
This man was her enemy, for goodness’ sake—and yet the pleasure had been so real it was unnerving. She could remember it as clearly as if it had actually happened— and she had to face him today! Her cheeks burned at the thought and her only saviour was that he would not know what was going on in her mind.
The dream, and the feelings that went with it, were even more amazing considering the way she felt about men at this particular stage in her life. Tony had done such a good job of hurting her that she did not want to enter into a relationship with any other man for a very long time, perhaps ever.
Even the fact that she had let Jarrett make love to her in her dream went against all the principles she had ever held. She did not believe in sex before marriage. Both of her sisters had got pregnant before they were married and she was determined it was not going to happen to her.
Tony had accepted her wishes without question and, looking back now, it was obvious that he had never truly been in love with her, and there had definitely never been any explosion of feeling between them such as she had experienced in her dream. That had been unreal, like the stuff you read about in romantic novels.
She would have loved to shower now and rid herself of the feel of Jarrett from her body. Not that her aunt had a shower anyway, but she could have bathed—if there had been hot water! Everything was conspiring against her—and she blamed Jarrett Brent totally; he was the instigator of all this.
She couldn’t and wouldn’t accept that her aunt had sold out to him. He was taking advantage of the situation, he was trying to swindle her out of her rightful inheritance. He wanted the cottage, he wanted to do it up and possibly sell at a profit, and he was prepared to go to any lengths to get it.
After washing in cold water and dressing in a pair of jeans and a yellow T-shirt, Saira ate her now usual breakfast of cornflakes, tidied the kitchen and cleaned the bathroom, and still it was too early to ring Mr Kirby. She went into the village and took some photographs; of the cottage, of the village street, of the church, of all things to remind her of Amplethwaite, everything except Frenton Hall!
It puzzled her that Jarrett Brent lived alone in such a huge place. Was it a family home? Had he lived there all his life? She could not remember hearing the name Brent before, but maybe it was that she hadn’t listened, hadn’t taken it in when she was a child.
Soon after nine she phoned Mr Kirby’s office, only to be told, much to her disappointment, that he was out visiting a client. ‘Can I get Mr Kirby to ring you?’ asked his secretary.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Saira answered. ‘I’ll call back this afternoon.’ She had not expected this, not first thing on a Monday morning, and she fumed impatiently as she made her way back to the cottage.
At one she made herself a cheese sandwich and at half-past Jarrett Brent knocked on the door. Saira felt a deep depression settle over her. There could only be one reason for his visit—he had come to gloat, he had brought the necessary proof that he owned the cottage!
It was a disquieting, disturbing thought, because although she had asked for it, she had not really expected it, or wanted it even, but as she opened the door and saw him standing there in a pair of beige linen trousers and a darker brown polo shirt, all thoughts of deeds fled. Saira relived again her vivid dream and felt an impossible heat pervade her body, even her heart clamoured and she thanked God he couldn’t see the turmoil inside her.
She saw him in a different light today, she saw not her enemy but a sexually attractive man who had the power to bring her whole body to such fever pitch that it was frightening. OK, it had all been a dream, but the feelings were still there and they scared her to death and her eyes were wide as she looked at him.
His brows rose in a crooked line. ‘You’re looking at me as though I’m a ghost or something. Is there anything wrong, Miss Carlton?’
She swallowed hard and pulled herself together, his formal use of her name helping to rationalise her feelings, to put a certain amount of space between them. It allowed for no intimacies and she liked that, she wanted to forget the all too real feel of his body against hers in the dream. He was a hard-muscled man and yet his skin had been smooth, only faintly covered with hair, nothing rough, nothing to put a barrier between their two bodies.
She found herself wondering whether he really was like that and then shook her head angrily. ‘I suppose you’d better come
