and his eyes were smouldering. ‘Get up!’ he said harshly. And then, as though belatedly recalling his manners, he extended a hand to her.
Ignoring it, Tara struggled to her feet, only to falter on her unshod foot.
Sholto grabbed her arm. ‘For God’s sake!’ he muttered. She felt the brush of his breath against her cheek, smelled the scent of him—soap and wool suiting and an underlying masculine scent that evoked a rush of confused memories.
He swooped without releasing her and picked up her shoe, holding it ready for her. ‘Here,’ he said impatiently.
She looked down at his dark head and lifted her foot, felt him slide the shoe on. As she put her foot down again he straightened, his hold loosening. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself?’
Tara shook her head. ‘Thank you.’ The movement made her aware that a tendril of wavy hair had escaped down her neck. Sighing, she lifted her arms to push it back into place, taking out a pin to secure it. Which only made things worse, several more strands escaping to tumble over her neck and ears. ‘Oh, damn!’ she said as two gleaming pins fell to the rug. Her hair was the bane of her life. Thick and determined to curl, it was almost unmanageable when long, as now, but when she’d had it cut short she hated the way it went into childish curls all over her head, making her look like an elderly caricature of Shirley Temple.
Gathering the over-abundant mass in one hand, she bent to pick up the pins, then stood and ruthlessly twisted it into a knot, crossly relocating pins to keep it there.
Sholto had buried his hands back in his pockets. His voice sounding oddly strained, he said, ‘You missed a bit.’
‘Where?’ She felt around and, discovering the ringlet just behind her ear, fumbled to tuck it in.
‘Why do you bother?’ Sholto asked. ‘Most men would prefer it in its natural glory.’
He used to love her to wear her hair loose. He liked to play with it, arranging it about her head against the pillow, or pulling her on top of him and removing the pins so that her hair fell over her shoulders like a cloak, and then he’d tangle his fingers in it and draw her head down to kiss her while the bronze waves floated around them, cocooning them and drifting softly against his skin.
Tara jabbed a pin against her scalp, banishing the erotic picture from her mind. ‘I’m not interested in pleasing most men,’ she said. She just liked to keep her wild mane of elflocks under control and out of her way, and had never ceased wishing for fine, straight hair—like Averil’s.
‘Just one?’ Sholto asked.
She looked at him and surprised a brief expression of chagrin on his face, as though he hadn’t meant to say what he had.
She could have said, Not even one. But he had Averil, and her pride wouldn’t let her admit to having no man in her life. She smiled enigmatically and said, ‘Some men like it pinned up—they get a kick out of taking it down.’
His answering smile was thin and unpleasant. ‘And I suppose you get a kick out of having them do it—among other things.’ The way his gaze dropped over her body was enough to make her shiver. She’d never before met quite that blend of total dislike and blatant, deliberately offensive desire, stripping her defences as though he’d mentally undressed her.
Lust, she reminded herself, despising the way her senses burned in unspoken answer. If it had been anyone else but Sholto she would have been repelled by that look.
‘You said you don’t hate me,’ she whispered, shaken.
‘Hate you?’ His eyes were veiled now, meeting hers. Mockery twisted his mouth. ‘How could anyone—any man—hate something as decorative as you? I’d have to be a Philistine.’
‘I’m not a thing.’ She didn’t know anyone else who had his ability to turn a compliment into a deadly insult. ‘I’m a person, not some objet d’art.’
Not for the first time, she wondered if that was how he’d thought of her all those years ago—something pretty to enhance his home and his life.
‘Your caveman loves you for your mind, does he?’ Sholto rocked slightly on his heels, looking almost as though he was enjoying himself. Only the deep, angry spark at the back of his eyes gave him away.
About to shout at him, Andy is not a caveman, and he’s not mine! Tara checked herself, forcing calmness into her voice. ‘At least Andy recognises that I have one.’
Sholto’s eyelids flickered. She saw the material of his trousers tauten across his abdomen as he clenched his knuckles inside his pockets. ‘Meaning?’ he enquired tersely.
‘Meaning it’s more than you ever did! Do you patronise Averil the way you did me? Is it her brains or her body that attracted you? Or couldn’t you resist the idea of having your very own air hostess? I believe that’s a common male fantasy.’
His face had changed subtly at the mention of Averil’s name, almost as though she’d doused him in cold water. Was it possible that for a few minutes he’d forgotten about his fiancée?
‘What would you know about male fantasies?’ he jeered, but then he moved abruptly, taking his hands from his pockets. ‘Come on, it’s time I took you home. This conversation is getting out of hand.’
She couldn’t agree more, Tara thought, relief and reluctance warring inside her as she walked beside him to the stairs. It hadn’t been a comfortable conversation, but she’d felt the adrenaline singing in her veins. In an odd way she’d almost enjoyed skirmishing with Sholto, giving as good as she’d got. At least for a few minutes she’d felt truly, tinglingly alive.
CHAPTER FOUR
HE TOOK HER HOME and saw her to the front porch, standing by as she fumbled for her key.
‘Thank you for the dinner,’ she said, pushing open the door. ‘And for...worrying about me.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said, ‘if a little mixed.’
Tara gave a soft laugh. ‘That goes for us both.’
‘I suppose so. Will you be all right now?’
‘Yes. I’ve hardly thought about the robbery all evening.’
‘Good.’ He hesitated a moment longer, and she wondered if he expected to be asked inside, but when she looked at him his eyes were focused on her mouth.
Tara blinked, her heart giving a hard thud against her ribs.
Then he was looking over her shoulder at the wall, saying in a strangely distant voice, ‘I’m glad to have taken your mind off it. Have a good night’s sleep.’
He turned and headed down the path.
* * *
ON SUNDAY he phoned. ‘Just to check that you’re okay,’ he said, still with that detached note in his voice. ‘No after-effects?’
‘None,’ Tara assured him crisply. The bruise on her cheek was coming out, going blue, but
