Only it won’t be under my roof.’
‘And what the hell has it to do with you?’
He shrugged, unruffled. ‘As I mentioned, he’s married. Maybe I have more scruples.’
And, as if on cue, a girl’s voice called, ‘Declan—Declan, darling, where are you?’
Olivia, glancing toward the hall, could see long bare legs descending the stairs. Up to that moment she’d thought no one could be wearing less than her reluctant host, but she was wrong.
The redhead who now appeared and stood, posing coquettishly, in the doorway was using a peach-coloured towel as an inadequate sarong.
‘Darling,’ she said, pouting reproachfully. ‘I woke up and couldn’t find you. It was horrid.’ She glanced towards Olivia, her glance hardening fractionally. ‘But I didn’t realise you were—entertaining.’
Her laugh was slightly metallic. ‘If this is your latest, then your taste must be slipping.’
Indignant colour flared in Olivia’s face at this piece of gratuitous rudeness, but before she could speak Declan stepped forward.
‘Wrong on all counts, Melinda, my sweet. Ms Butler is just a passing acquaintance.’ He sent Olivia an edged look. ‘And, hopefully, passing out of my life for good very soon. Now go back to bed, and I’ll see you presently.’
The girl sent him a radiant smile, the tip of her pink tongue caressing her lower lip. ‘Is that a promise?’ she asked huskily.
‘Trust me.’ His voice was low-pitched, intimate. The air in the room seemed suddenly alive—electric.
For a shocked moment, Olivia was aware of a slight frisson—a tingle down her own spine.
The Owner might be loathsome, but he was also undeniably sexy—if you liked that sort of thing. As the redhead falling out of the peach towel obviously did, for she was turning and trailing obediently back upstairs.
Olivia felt oddly desolate, suddenly. But small wonder, she thought. After all, she’d arrived expecting a blissful reunion with Jeremy, leading to a passionate consummation, and instead here she was, an intruder, forced into the role of voyeur in someone else’s love-life.
There was a strange silence in the room that she needed to break.
She cleared her throat. ‘I gather you don’t have any moral scruples about your own conduct?’
‘Correct.’ His grin was unabashed. ‘But I’m not married, and never have been. That makes a difference.’ He paused. ‘Nor am I a home-wrecker.’
The atmosphere tingled again.
Olivia said coldly and clearly, ‘If you’ll give me this woman’s address, I’ll go.’
He picked up a message pad and wrote on it. ‘It’s on the other side of the garden. You’ll be able to pick up a black cab at the end of the road if you can’t walk that far with your luggage.’
‘I hope you don’t expect me to thank you effusively.’ Olivia accepted the slip of paper, then stalked into the hall and picked up her case.
‘I gave up believing in miracles a long time ago.’ He unfastened the front door and held it open for her. ‘Goodbye, Ms Butler.’
‘Oh, that’s such a final word,’ she said with saccharine sweetness. ‘I much prefer au revoir, don’t you?’
‘Not,’ he said, ‘where you’re concerned. I’ll tell Jeremy where he can find you. Against my better judgement, I may say,’ he added grimly.
The door slammed, shutting her out into a sunlit day which seemed suddenly to have lost its warmth.
‘To hell with him,’ she muttered, hefting her case down the steps. ‘Jeremy will be back soon—and then our life together will begin.’
She gave a last look back at the house.
‘And there isn’t a thing you can do about it,’ she added defiantly, just as if he was listening.
She walked away, without looking back, but found herself wondering, at the same time, if he was standing at one of the windows, watching her go. And, if so, precisely why should it matter to her anyway?
BROODINGLY, Declan stood at the study window, watching Olivia’s slim figure walk away. He was already regretting the quixotic impulse to suggest Sasha as a temporary refuge for her.
I should have taken her to Paddington—put her on the next train west. Saved a hell of a lot of trouble all round, he told himself irritably.
He saw her stop and put down her case, flexing her fingers before transferring it to her other hand and walking on. Her straight back looked gallant, and somehow vulnerable, and he cursed silently. He knew that if he’d been dressed he’d have felt obliged to go after her. Help her with the bloody thing. Take her to Sasha’s and introduce her, even.
And yet there was no obligation on his side. On the contrary, he reminded himself bitterly. All he’d probably done by his intervention was make a bad situation worse.
For a moment or two he let his thoughts dwell unpleasantly on Jeremy Attwood, and the things he would have to say to him on his return.
That done, the ball would be in Jeremy’s court. This is his damned mess. Let him sort it out, he told himself curtly as he turned determinedly away from the window.
In the meantime, he had a problem of his own to deal with.
He went swiftly up the stairs to the first floor. The drawing room was there, with its panoramic view over the garden, but he didn’t waste a glance on it, heading instead for the door at the back of the room which led to his private suite. For his next task he needed to be fully dressed, with his head firmly together.
He stepped through into the narrow passage, and turned right into his dressing room, grabbing some underwear, a white cotton shirt and a pair of jeans. He was on his way into the bathroom opposite when he realised that his bedroom door at the end of the passage was standing ajar, and he knew he’d left it closed.
Still holding his armful of clothing, he moved noiselessly along the passage, his foot tangling in something lying on the floor in front of the door. Mouth tightening, he recognised the peach towel from the guest bathroom on the second floor, and swore under his breath.
He pushed the door wide, and stood in the doorway. Melinda was propped artistically against the pillows of his bed, the covers draped across her hips.
‘Hello, darling.’ Her smile was pure invitation. ‘What an age you’ve been. Did you manage to get rid of the little brown mouse?’
Declan leaned a shoulder against the doorpost. He felt unutterably weary. ‘What are you doing, Melinda?’
‘Waiting for you, darling, what else? You did tell me to.’
‘No.’
