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‘I often came to see the previous owner,’ she explained, her spirits at an all-time low. ‘She gave me one to let myself in.’
Zach’s eyes narrowed and fixed on her like heat-seeking missiles.
‘Have you been in the house since she died?’ he shot out suspiciously.
Bristling, she regarded him with the level and reproving gaze of a Victorian schoolmistress confiscating jelly beans from a naughty child.
‘You mean have I nipped in to steal anything?’ she flung back haughtily. ‘Brass fittings? A marble fireplace or two? A staircase, maybe?’
‘It happens.’ He didn’t seem embarrassed by her bluntness. ‘Though I suppose you’re not likely to admit to theft.’
His audacity was breathtaking. Catherine inhaled deeply. It was that or hit him and she didn’t believe in violence.
‘I haven’t stolen anything. In fact, I haven’t set foot in the house since I found Edith in her bed,’ she informed him, the faint tremor in her voice betraying how painful that discovery had been.
‘You found her?’ He seemed to be on the verge of saying something—his sympathies, perhaps—but, thought Catherine darkly, he managed to stop himself in time from doing anything so remotely human. Instead, he grunted. ‘Hmm. I’ll have to take your word for it, then,’ he muttered, but his eyes lingered on her tremulous mouth thoughtfully.
‘Or you could ask around,’ she said, tightening her lips in a rare display of anger, ‘and then you’d learn that I don’t have a dishonest bone in my body!’
To her discomfort, he examined her with clinical detail, as if to check how honest her bones might be. His intense scrutiny brought a flush to her face and she lowered her startled nut-brown eyes to avoid his road-driller stare.
‘Don’t think I won’t do that,’ he snapped.
Her mutinous gaze flashed up to his again. ‘Can’t you read faces? Don’t you realise the kind of person I am?’
He seemed to flinch and withdraw into himself. The hard and impenetrable coldness he was projecting made her shiver, as if she’d stepped into cold storage.
‘I make it a habit never to trust anyone until I have overwhelming proof of their integrity.’
‘You must find it hard to make friends,’ she observed drily.
His gaze burned angrily into her. ‘I’d like that key,’ he growled.
With her own dark eyes conveying her scorn, she eased it off the cork float that had twice saved her boat keys from sinking to the bottom of the river.
OK. She’d blown it. But she wouldn’t be bullied. If standing up to this monster meant that she’d have to leave, then that would have to be her fate.
She had never disliked anyone before, always finding good in everyone she met. But this guy was without any decent characteristics at all.
And he owned Edith’s island! Conquering her misery, she tipped up her small chin in a direct challenge.
‘Take it.’ She thrust the key at him. ‘I won’t be needing it any more,’ she bit out, stiff with indignation.
‘Darn right you won’t,’ he muttered, taking it from her.
Tossing back her tumbling hair and with protesting cherry blossom falling from the ivy tie, she took an angry intake of breath. She felt close to breathing out fire and brimstone and melting Zach Talent where he stood!
‘No. You’re no Edith, breathing sweetness and light. So I doubt that I’ll be popping in to play gin rummy with you,’ she snapped, ‘or to help you patch your sheets or paint rainbows in the bathroom!’
Clearly astonished by her outburst, he hooked up an eyebrow and stared deeply into her defiant eyes—which rounded in confusion when she felt something go bump somewhere in the region of her heart. Shocked, she pressed a fluttering hand to her breast in bewilderment.
An expression of liquid warmth eased the tautness of his face and then was gone. But in that brief flash, when vibrant life lit smoky fires in his grey eyes and the corners of his firm mouth lifted with hungry desire, she felt as though she’d been felled by a thunderbolt.
After a breathless second, while something hot and visceral seemed to link them both in its fatal flames, he spun furiously on his heel to plunge the key into the keyhole with brute force.
Quivering, she stood gazing in horror at his broad and powerful back while he struggled irritably with the tricky lock. What had all that been about?
Sex, she thought—the answer nipping with alarming boldness into her head. She cringed with mortification. Quite unexpectedly, she had discovered that fierce passions lurked beneath Zach Talent’s granite exterior.
And, more shocking, within her, too. He was married! How could she?
The surging fizz of her blood, and the sense of danger and excitement which had electrified the air between them, was something she’d never known before. She had never believed such a force could exist—or that it might one day seek her out.
Love, she’d fondly imagined, would be a gentle, warm sensation. Like sinking into a deep bath. With love, would come the joy of eventually uniting with the person you trusted and adored above all other people. The union would be sweet and beautiful, a meeting of mind and body and soul. Two people expressing the totality of their love.
But she had been taken unawares by the effect of Zach’s raw, sexual attraction. Never had she expected to feel this harsh, primeval urge of nature that owed nothing to love and everything to pure, animal instinct. It was humiliating that she should. And, given the fact that she knew his marital state, it demeaned her.
It only showed her innocence, she thought wryly, that she could be so easily zapped into a quivering mess by a rogue City trader—who was also her unwitting landlord!
How silly to be affected. He certainly hadn’t known what he’d been doing, or that one unguarded and casual look from him could turn her insides out!
Men were supposed to think about sex every six seconds, she’d read. She supposed that she’d been in his eyeline at the time.
She made a face. How she pitied his wife! He’d be a terrible lover. He’d probably fit in his embraces between calls to New York and the London Stock Exchange!
Would he take his mobile to bed? she wondered, warming to her theme. Very likely, she conceded and her face relaxed into a broad grin at the thought of his wife’s fury at being interrupted by a discussion on High Fidelity bonds at a crucial moment.
Stifling a giggle, she was relieved to find that her pulses had stopped careering about in hysteria and that her body had calmed down after its peculiar insurrection.
It had been a blip in her hormonal activity. The result of Zach’s overwhelming good looks and perfect physique. Plus the frisson of being in close proximity with an Alpha male.
She was susceptible to superficial looks, it seemed. Well. If a man could ogle with impunity, so could she.
‘You’re smiling,’ he accused gruffly.
He had pushed the door open and was standing back, waiting for her to enter. With understandable caution she flicked her amused eyes up to his and was horrified to find herself immediately swimming for her life.
‘Isn’t it allowed?’ she retorted.
But her defiance was spoiled by a dismaying huskiness.
He shrugged. ‘Be my guest. But share the joke. Or is it on me?’ he asked suspiciously. And he searched around for bandits again.
She waved a deprecating hand.
‘Forget it. You wouldn’t understand!’
‘Try me,’ he said with underlying menace.
She read too much into that and found herself stupidly blushing.
‘Absolutely not!’
What did he mean by saying the joke might be on him? Why was he so wary of her motives? Desperate to hide her flushed face, she hastily bent to remove her shoes before heading for the farmhouse kitchen, glad to sit down and give her jellied legs some relief.
‘You do know your way around,’ he drawled speculatively, appearing in his stockinged feet.
Nice feet, she noticed. High arches. Crossing one leg over the other, he leant, dark and brooding, in the doorway. And a curl of excitement quickened her breath.
So she gritted her teeth and said nothing. All her energies were concentrated on controlling her wilful hormones in case their eyes met while his brain was connecting with his loins again.
‘Glad you made yourself at home,’ he added with dry sarcasm.
Catherine jumped up. ‘Oh! You must think I’m so rude. I’m sorry,’ she said hastily, remembering her manners. This was his home now. She fixed him with her dark chocolate eyes, suitably apologetic. ‘Forgive me,’ she murmured contritely. ‘It was force of habit.’
His intently focused stare was disconcerting. Something had happened to his mouth. It seemed to be fuller. Beautifully shaped. The tip of her tongue tasted her own lips as if in anticipation.
Wicked, wanton ideas flashed through her mind before she could stop them. Like putting her hands on his warm chest, standing on tiptoe and kissing those classically curved lips till he melted. Appalled beyond belief, she clamped down on the impulse ruthlessly.
Somehow she dragged her gaze away and lowered her thick lashes, sick to the stomach by her runaway feelings. She felt bewildered by what was happening to her strong sense of morality.
‘Habit? Does that mean you lived here at one time?’ he asked in a slow kind of slur, quite different to his earlier speech. And so sexy as to set her nerves jangling. ‘Or did you merely come to stay in the house?’
‘No.’ Hot and bothered, she struggled to regain the clarity of her voice. ‘I’ve never lived here. Though Edith asked me to, a few months after we first met.’
Zach looked puzzled. ‘And you refused?’
‘I like my independence,’ Catherine replied. ‘I’ve lived alone for ten years, ever since I was sixteen. Edith understood, once I’d explained. Our friendship wasn’t affected.’
‘Did you know she had an extensive portfolio?’ he shot out.
‘Not unless you translate that for me,’ she countered, annoyed by his City-speak. ‘I only learnt English and French at school,’ she added with rare sarcasm.
‘She was very wealthy,’ he drawled.
‘Really? Are you sure?’ she said in surprise. ‘She lived very simply.’
‘But she also owned this house and island,’ he pointed out.
‘Plenty of people live in big houses they’ve inherited—yet they’re as poor as church mice. Places like this cost a great deal to keep maintained. If you see someone like Edith making economies, turning worn sheets sides to middle and rarely buying any clothes, you assume they’re hard up,’ Catherine retorted.
His sardonic eyes narrowed. ‘Did she ever help you out financially?’
‘Certainly not!’ Catherine looked at him askance. ‘She wouldn’t ever have been so crass! I stand on my own feet. I’d never respect myself otherwise!’
‘But you were a frequent visitor and made yourself at home,’ he probed.
‘Yes. As a friend. When I called, I’d let myself in. Edith would be sitting there,’ she explained, indicating the comfortable pine armchair on the opposite side of the big table. ‘And I’d sit here.’
Her eyes were misty with memories when they looked up into his and met a blaze of answering fire.
There was a hushed pause while the air seemed to thicken and enfold them both. Catherine floundered. Some kind of powerful force was trying to draw her to him. She could hear the thudding of her heart booming in her ears.
Panicking, she lifted a fluttering hand to fiddle with her hair. The caress of his eyes, as she curled a strand around her ear, made her stomach turn to water.
At last he spoke, quietly and yet with a grating tone, as if something was blocking his throat.
‘If you knew her well, then you might be able to help me.’
‘Help you?’ she repeated stupidly, playing for time while her brain unscrambled itself and began to rule her body again.
Almost vaguely, he glared at his trilling phone, immobilised it and clipped it on to his belt. Then he took a deep breath.
‘Yes. But first I need a coffee,’ he announced, brisk and curt once more. ‘So, for a start, any idea where the kettle might be?’
‘On the Aga.’ Relieved to be involved in something practical, she pointed to the scarlet enamelled stove, one of Edith’s few extravagances. ‘I didn’t turn it off. I thought it would be best if it was cosy and welcoming in here, for whoever came to view the house.’
He looked at the kettle uncertainly, as if he didn’t know what to do with a piece of equipment that didn’t hitch up to an electric socket. She took pity on him, deftly filling the kettle with water and carrying it to the hob.
Her skin prickled. He had come very close and was watching what she did. Slightly flustered by the invading infusion of heat in her body, she lifted the hob lid, put the kettle on the boiling plate then hurried over to the dresser.
As she lifted down the mugs her hand faltered and she stared blindly into space, thinking of the countless times she and Edith had chatted together at this very table.
‘I’ve had groceries delivered,’ Zach announced crisply, rummaging in the cupboards. ‘It’s a matter of finding them. Coffee do you as well?’ He waved an expensive pack of ground coffee at her, only then noticing her mournful face. ‘What’s the matter?’
Catherine bit her lip and unearthed Edith’s cafetière, selecting an herb tea for herself.
‘I miss her,’ she said softly, her eyes misting over again. It was odd. She rarely cried. But her emotions had been tested to the limit over the past ten days. And especially during the past hour. ‘I miss her more than I could ever have imagined,’ she blurted out.
‘Hmm. You were very close, then?’
The low vibration of his voice seemed to rumble through her body. She shuddered, thinking that if this man ever turned his attention to a woman and opened up his emotions, she wouldn’t have a chance.
‘We were like mother and daughter. I was devastated to—to find her,’ she whispered, making a hash of spooning the aromatic coffee into the pot.
The spoon was taken from her hand. For a moment their fingers were linked: warm, strangely comforting. Horrible flashes of fire attacked her loins and she snatched her hand away in appalled fury, turning her back on him and feeling stupidly like bursting into tears of utter shame.
‘Mother and daughter,’ Zach repeated in a voice rolling with gravel. She heard him suck in a huge breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s obvious that her death has touched you deeply.’
She hunched her slight shoulders and could only nod. She didn’t want to break down in front of this hard-hearted stranger. But losing her beloved Edith, with all her merry, wacky ways, plus the prospect of never seeing the island again, just made her want to wail.
‘I—I came to check on her every day. We’d have breakfast together,’ Catherine mumbled painfully. She was torturing herself and she didn’t know why she was confiding in someone she disliked so much, only that she had to do so. ‘She made wonderful bread. We’d lather it with butter and home-made jam or marmalade and watch the birds demolishing our fat balls.’
Zach looked puzzled. ‘Your what?’
‘Fat. Impregnated with nuts and seeds,’ she said listlessly. ‘We melt the fat, stir in the nuts and so on and pour the mixture into pots till it sets. We—I—’ she stumbled, ‘—only provide seed now.’
‘Really?’
