prey had escaped. And I’ll huff and I’ll puff, she thought tiredly, and I’ll blow your house down. Leaning back, jumping nervously at every crash from outside, she stared at the fire. Flames were beginning to lick round the log. Hungry, devouring, but she was alive, safe, and in the house of Andrew Beckford, known to his friends as Beck. Her employer. A man she’d been avoiding for the past few weeks of working for him. Because it was best.
The first time they’d met, last November, she had thought it would be just another job, another client. She hadn’t expected to like him. From the little she had known about him—that he was a marine archaeologist, respected mountaineer, explorer, a crewman in one of the Tall Ships Races—she had expected him to be arrogant, condescending, and he hadn’t been like that at all. A tall man with steady grey eyes and brown hair, he exuded a quiet confidence. There had also been an air of sadness about him, of hurt, and, like the fool she sometimes was, she’d allowed her heart to rule her head and agreed to work for him. She should have refused, because when she had discovered that he was engaged to the beautiful Helena it was too late.
She could hear the soft movements he made in the kitchen. With no electricity, he must have gas, or an Aga if he was able to boil a kettle, but it was an absent thought.
When he returned carrying two mugs, she turned her head to watch him. He handed her one, and went to stand by the fireplace, staring down into the fire. The flickering shadows curved his face into a mask, made it unfamiliar, stark; only the eyes seemed alive, bright, intelligent.
‘Were you coming to see me?’ He spoke quietly, gaze still on the fire.
‘No, I’d left my notebook at the centre. I tried ringing you…’
‘I wasn’t there.’
‘No. I should have left it until tomorrow, but I needed to check some figures.’
‘And being an impatient sort of person…’ he murmured.
‘Yes. I didn’t know a gale was imminent. I didn’t see the weather report. I knew March was supposed to be windy, but…’ She felt awkward. Nervous of being alone with him. ‘And then I missed the turning,’ she continued with false brightness. ‘What’s with the dragons?’
‘Dragons?’
‘Mm. The Muted Dragon, Dragon’s Rest. St Maxim’s Forest known for them, is it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A local legend, I expect.’
‘I should have asked the one I met. If I’d had time, that is. Trees falling on you tend to limit conversation somewhat. Sorry,’ she apologised with a wan smile. ‘I always ramble when I’m tired. It’s been one hell of a day.’ And was liable to get worse. Her awareness of him in the intimacy of the darkened room was ten times worse than it normally was. Unable to sit still, she put her coffee on a nearby table and got to her feet. Hands shoved into her jacket pockets, she walked across to the window. ‘What were you doing out? Looking for damage?’
‘No, I was on my way home. The road was blocked. I left the Land Rover and walked.’
‘Lucky for me.’
‘Yes.’
Turning, she gave him a small smile that he probably couldn’t see in the dark room. ‘I loved that car. Stupid, isn’t it? I mean, get a life, Carenza…’ Tailing off, she returned her attention to the darkened window. All she could see was herself. She was never at a loss for words. Never. And now she couldn’t think of one.
‘Are you hungry?’
She shook her head. ‘I had something earlier.’
‘Then if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’d better empty the freezer.’
‘Yes, of course.’
When he’d gone, she returned to the chair and picked up her mug. Both hands wrapped round it for warmth, she stared at the fire. Miss No Brain, she scolded herself. All it needed now was for the beauteous Helena to come wafting in. Even an idiot could have sensed the tension between them—not that she thought Helena an idiot—she didn’t know her, didn’t want to know her—but she couldn’t have failed to miss the fact that Beck was as aware and tense as she was. Which naturally begged the question, why? If he was in love with Helena, why would he be attracted to herself? Because he was. She knew he was. The pair of them had been as inarticulate as teenagers. And Beck wasn’t a man for inarticulateness. He wasn’t a shy man.
Resting her mug on her knee, she continued to stare into the fire. Continued to think about him. Speculate. As she had been doing since the first time she met him.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, only remembered waking. Opening her eyes, she stared blankly at the fire. It was freshly banked, warm and cosy. A blanket covered her, and the wind had stopped. Silence. Complete and utter silence. Grey light filled the room, and she turned to look at the window. A window framed by expensive curtains. It was raining, she saw.
Allowing her gaze to roam, she pulled a face, partly envious, partly wry. The whole room was expensive. Being an interior designer, she could tell, almost to the last penny, how much it had all cost. Not entirely to her taste with all those small tables holding lamps, too much like something out of a magazine, but tasteful, she supposed. The only thing she really liked was the fire.
She’d never been in the house, never been alone with him. On the few occasions when they had met, it had always been in the centre when other people were present—and she couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep. Too many late nights, she supposed, and a weekend spent chasing clients who owed her money. And the day-to-day tension that she might see Beck, of course. Who was engaged to Helena. And women knew, didn’t they? When another woman was attracted to their man?
You can sometimes be very silly, Carenza. Masochistic even. Yes.
With a deep sigh, a wide yawn, she pushed the blanket aside. The knees of her tailored trousers were torn and muddy, her boots caked with God only knew what. Her jacket was creased. And she ached. Stretching to ease her cramped muscles, she went to peer at her reflection in an ornate mirror, and tried to smile. Something the cat wouldn’t have brought in. Her long hair was tangled, her mascara smudged. Wetting a finger, she wiped away the worst of it and then turned away, because there was absolutely nothing she could do about how she looked. She didn’t even have a comb with her.
Walking into the large kitchen, she halted with another dented smile. It was also expensively decorated. A blue enamel Aga stood proudly against one wall; a matching blue hood with a brass rail hovered protectively above it. The stone flags were cold beneath her feet. The oak cupboards and units matched the long table and chairs, the tiles matched the floor, the walls the curtains. Someone’s idea of a country kitchen. Except it wasn’t. She’d been in a great many country kitchens, and they didn’t look like this. There should be muddy wellington boots, raincoats, a dog basket…Where did poor Spanner sleep? Not here, obviously.
There was no sign of Beck, or Helena, but a kettle steamed gently on the Aga. Milk, sugar and coffee had been left on the work surface. Taking a cup from the mock Welsh dresser, she made herself a hot drink and went to stare from the window. The rain was falling heavy and straight. Noisy. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, menacing sound, and she spared a thought for the poor clear-up crews who would be working out in this. She could see a lot of the damage from here. White, ugly scars on the trees where branches had been ripped off, those that were left standing, that was. There were scattered bricks across what looked like
