and had had to dress accordingly. These days she thought herself fortunate if she was able to buy herself a decent skirt and blouse, never mind blowing half a month’s salary on an expensive cocktail outfit. Glancing through her wardrobe she had dismissed most of its contents as unsuitable almost instantly—they were ‘officey clothes’, geared to executive lunches and board meetings. The odd dress she possessed was equally unsuitable, which left her normal uniform of jeans and a sweater or the pleated skirt and jumper she had worn when nursing Uncle James—he had hated the sight of women in trousers, and seemed to think that her soft heathery skirt and its toning cashmere jumpers were the right sort of thing for her to wear, and knowing how ill he really was she had purposely dressed to please him.
What did women normally wear in these circumstances? Her mind switched irresistibly to glamorous black silk négligés heavily trimmed with lace; but somehow she couldn’t imagine Adam Henderson being impressed by such a garment, even had she possessed one.
In the end she compromised with a plain black skirt and a pretty cream angora jumper with some self-embroidered detail on the boat-shaped neckline. She was still wearing the sheer silk stockings she had worn beneath her suit and she left these on, slipping her feet into a pair of lower heeled shoes.
Ready by nine thirty, she had spent the intervening fifteen minutes prowling restlessly round the small living room, much to Balsebar’s annoyance.
Fifteen minutes later when the imperious rap on the old-fashioned door knocker heralded Adam’s arrival, Balsebar did not, as other, less intelligent canines were wont to do, burst into a volley of barking. Instead he slid silently from his perch on the chair he had adopted as his and padded silently behind Brooke as she headed for the door.
The rooms in the Lodge were small, especially when compared with both Abbot’s Meade and the Dower House that went with it, but that surely did not account completely for the sense of suffocation she experienced when Adam stepped into the tiny hall, Brooke thought breathlessly.
Like her he had changed, switching the formality of his dinner suit for a pair of dark trousers in fine mohair and a white silk shirt, open at the throat beneath a grey leather blouson jacket.
‘Very prompt.’ He congratulated her as she closed the door behind her. Unlike his clothes his manner was anything but casual, his grey eyes moving over her with a gleam she recognised from her days working at Harrods during the New Year sale. Stepping hastily away she cannoned into Balsebar who signalled his disapproval with an unnerving howl.
Having seen the effect of this peculiarly nerve-shattering sound on the unsuspecting before, Brooke was a little surprised to see Adam’s grin.
‘Let that be a warning to you,’ he murmured as he followed her into the sitting room, ‘it isn’t always wise to step too hard on a member of my sex.’
‘Sometimes it’s unavoidable,’ Brooke snapped back feeling thoroughly unnerved, ‘you will get underfoot.’
‘What a strange attitude in a lovely lady. I thought that was where you loved having us—right under your dainty heels.’
‘It appears to me that you have a very jaundiced view of the relationship between the sexes,’ Brooke told him, indicating a bottle of sherry and asking if he would like a glass.
After briefly scrutinising the label he nodded his head. ‘Full marks,’ he told her accepting the glass she handed him. ‘For some reason that escapes me, the majority of your sex seems to prefer a revoltingly sweet version of what is really a most pleasant drink. Perhaps they think it reinforces the sweetness inherent in their natures.’
‘Or perhaps they think that your sex prefer pure syrup to something a little more astringent,’ Brooke retaliated. A little to her surprise amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was, she realised on a small start of shock, the most compellingly attractive man she had ever met, and not just on a physical level.
‘Well,’ he drawled in the soft way she was becoming familiar with, when he had finished his drink, ‘that was the appetiser, now I’m ready for the main meal, but first….’
Balsebar, who had thus far ignored the presence of their guest, got slowly to his feet as Adam produced his cheque book.
Watching him in fascinated horror Brooke saw him flick it open and produce a pen.
‘You’re very businesslike,’ she managed to mutter faintly, hoping that the frail stem of her sherry glass wouldn’t snap beneath the tense pressure of her fingers.
‘I’ve found it pays.’ Adam agreed urbanely. She wasn’t quite in the same mould as his previous conquests, this tall redhead who was looking at him as though he had suddenly crawled out from under a stone. Fool, he mocked himself cynically, they’re all the same inside the packaging, every last one of them, and this one had made no secret of the fact that she was available—at a price.
As though he sensed her tension Balsebar gave a warning growl deep in his throat, padding silently to Adam’s side, the teeth that Brooke knew could deliver a painful little nip, slightly bared.
Adam merely laughed, and said, ‘I think it might be best if we conduct the rest of our business upstairs—without the presence of your watchdog. As it is …’ he glanced at his watch and frowned slightly, ‘I have to be back by twelve, I’m expecting an overseas call….’
His sheer cold-bloodedness made Brooke seethe. Even if she was madly, desperately in love with him, his attitude would chill her, freezing her into an inability to respond to him. Was he always like this, she wondered in awed fascination. If so, no wonder he had to pay his women to…. She shivered slightly her thoughts skidding to a standstill as she looked into his eyes. Cold he might seem outwardly, but inwardly…. The heat of that grey glance seemed to sear deep into her skin, warming her blood to a pulse beating rhythm that was totally alien and yet somehow intensely familiar.
‘What’s the matter? Having second thoughts?’ The grey eyes narrowed; the effect of his total concentration on her almost hypnotic. It was very disturbing, this ability he seemed to have to follow her thoughts, and now perhaps was as good a time as any to let him see that on this occasion his male aggression and the power of his cheque book weren’t going to be enough to get him what he wanted.
As this was the conclusion she had anticipated when she agreed to see him Brooke couldn’t understand the too dry tension of her mouth; the emotion that could almost be fear which crawled down her spine. Unconsciously straightening her back she stared up at him. He must be at least six foot two she thought irrelevantly, because she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes—an advantage he was making full use of as he stared assessingly back at her.
‘I’m afraid I am,’ she agreed, giving him a small smile, ‘Naughty of me isn’t it?’
At any other time the sickening coyness of her response would have nauseated her, but now there was only a primaeval instinct for survival; an inner voice that urged her to turn and run and which she determinedly withstood, praying that the man standing opposite her wouldn’t guess that her knees were shaking and that her stomach was churning sickeningly.
‘Naughty?’ One dark eyebrow rose. ‘Oh I wouldn’t say that. Unwise perhaps … maybe even greedy….’ He moved as he spoke, grasping her arms with a swiftness that left her in a state of acute shock. No one had ever ignored the keep off signs she posted round her the way this man was doing.
The low growl coming from Balsebar’s throat brought her back to reality, steadying her shaken nerves. ‘I
