Dalton, who was lounging in a fan-backed wicker chair, rose to his feet at her approach and came to meet her.
She had been praying that his wife would be there, that other guests would be present, but he was alone.
Wearing a white evening shirt, a black bow-tie and a lightweight dinner-jacket, he looked both handsome and charismatic.
Taking her hand in a formal gesture, he said, ‘I must apologize if I’ve rushed you?’
‘No, not at all,’ she murmured, hoping he hadn’t noticed her stiffen at his touch.
Still holding her hand, he queried, ‘Are you happy with your room?’
‘Very happy, thank you… And Cleopatra herself would have approved of the bathing facilities.’
His eyes amused, he said, ‘I doubt it. We’re fresh out of asses’ milk.’
Made uncomfortable by his maleness, his undeniable and unexpected attraction, she withdrew her hand, and asked as lightly as possible, ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Everyone being…?’
‘Well…the rest of your guests.’
She saw his firm lips twitch.
The knowledge that her reference to other guests had appealed to his sense of humour made her add uneasily, ‘Alan said something about there being a small house party.’
‘In the event, I changed my mind,’ Lang Dalton told her smoothly. ‘There are no other guests.’
Feeling as though the ground had been cut from under her feet, she said blankly, ‘Oh.’
‘I hope you’re not too disappointed?’
The gleam in his eye made it clear that he knew how she felt and was enjoying her discomfort.
Recovering her equilibrium, she schooled her expression into an untroubled mask, and answered, ‘No, not at all. Who was it said “Fewer people can only be an advantage”?’
‘Bravo!’
She got the distinct impression that he was applauding her performance more than the sentiments.
His glance moved from her face to the tumble of silky hair, and, lifting his hand, he picked up a loose tendril and straightened it before letting it spring back. ‘Naturally curly?’
‘Yes,’ she said in a stifled voice.
Alan had made no mention of Lang Dalton being a philanderer, so perhaps his intention had merely been to tip her off balance once more.
If so, he’d succeeded.
Head tilted a little to one side, he studied her. ‘With your hair down, you look delightfully young and innocent.’
Though the words were flattering, she felt oddly convinced that no compliment had been intended. In fact his appraisal bordered on the critical, and, wondering if he found her appearance too casual for his liking, she began a shade defensively, ‘Well, I usually take it up, but I…’
‘But you didn’t have enough time…’ He ran the tips of his fingers lightly down one cheek, making her shiver. ‘And you’re not wearing any make-up. Dear me, in spite of your tactful denial, I must have rushed you.’
It was a moment or two before she managed to say jerkily, ‘In this kind of heat I prefer not to wear any make-up.’
‘Truth, or discretion?’ he queried, his smile openly mocking.
‘Truth.’ With well-marked brows and lashes, and a flawless skin, she didn’t really need make-up.
‘Sit down, Miss Vallance.’ He indicated a chair next to his own. ‘Or may I call you Cassandra?’
‘Please do,’ she agreed with distant civility, and sat down with the greatest reluctance. Oh, why wasn’t his wife here?
‘What would you like to drink, Cassandra?’
‘Something long and cold and not too alcoholic, please.’
Seeing him lift a blond brow, she added, ‘I still feel a little dehydrated from the flight.’
‘Then we’ll make it a very weak margarita.’ Crossing to the bar, he rimmed two glasses with salt and poured crushed ice into a cocktail shaker, before asking, ‘Do you like flying?’
Wondering where on earth Alan had got to, she answered abstractedly, ‘I haven’t done a great deal.’
‘How much have you done?’
Lang Dalton, it seemed, didn’t care for any kind of evasion.
‘Just one trip to Paris,’ she said evenly. ‘This is the first time I’ve flown long-haul.’
‘And you didn’t like it?’
‘Yes, I liked it.’
‘But you didn’t want to come to California?’
Startled, she asked, ‘What makes you think that?’
‘It’s quite obvious.’
‘Really, you’re mistaken,’ she protested.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he said shortly, and wondered, Had she any idea who he was? ‘Why didn’t you want to come?’
She racked her brains to find some diplomatic excuse that would sound feasible, but her mind stayed a blank, and finally she admitted, ‘I—I don’t know. There was no real reason.’
Aware that what he saw as her refusal to answer had vexed him, she added helplessly, ‘I just had a strange feeling that things weren’t going to go smoothly, and…’ The words tailed off.
Careful not to look in his direction, she heard the rhythmic shush of the cocktail shaker, then the sound of its contents being poured.
A moment or two later he put a tall, chilled glass into her hand and, taking his seat beside her, prompted, ‘And?’
‘And they didn’t… You and I got off on the wrong foot.’
‘Correction,’ he said softly. ‘You got off on the wrong foot.’
She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’m sorry about that.’
He made no comment, and after a moment she looked away uncomfortably.
While they sipped their drinks, she was aware that his gaze never left her face. Flustered by that relentless scrutiny, she tried to think of something to say, while the silence stretched unbearably.
At length, in desperation, she blurted out, ‘I can’t imagine where Alan’s got to.’
‘If
