Irresistible Temptation (3 page)

'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 tiling 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.' He shook his head. 'I said I'd see you later. Not the same thing at all.'

'Don't be picky, sweetie.' She moved slowly, luxuriously, stretching her arms above her head. 'Doesn't this bring back some happy memories?'

'I won't deny that' Declan kept his eyes fixed steadily on her face. 'But I also remember that you're engaged—to Bill Fenner. Maybe you should, too.'

'Bill's in Warwickshire, staying with his dreary family,' she said with a touch of impatience. 'That's why he didn't take me to the party last night. He can be so boring sometimes.'

'And this is pay-back time—for being boring?' Declan sighed. 'No, Melinda. That's not how it works. Now go and get dressed, and I'll call a cab for you.'

She lifted a hand, admiring the sparkle of the enormous diamond she wore on her left hand.

'Of course,' she said, 'Bill might want to know why I ended up naked in your bed last night. He might feel you'd taken advantage.'

'You actually ended up naked in the spare room bed,' Declan said dispassionately. 'I had to bring you here because you were drunk, and making a nuisance of yourself at the party. I'd have taken you home, but the cab driver refused to go any further in case you threw up. I undressed you for the same reason.' He gave her a level look. 'And Bill will almost certainly
not
want to hear about that.'

'My word, haven't we got virtuous all of a sudden?' Melinda wasn't smiling any more. 'Could this be the influence of Little Miss Well-Scrubbed downstairs?'

'No,' Declan said wearily. 'It's all my own idea. What we had is over now. We've both moved on, so let's leave it like that.'

She threw back the covers and walked towards him, body moving sinuously. 'I could make you change your mind.'

Once, he thought. But not any more. Once he'd have damned all thought of decency, and reached for her. But his mind had stopped wanting her a long time before his body did. A realisation that made him ashamed, because in those last weeks they'd spent together he knew he'd just been using her.

He said more gently. 'You could probably bring a stone statue to life, Melinda. You're a beautiful woman. But you're not my woman—and that makes all the difference.'

'Or perhaps you're just losing it,' she said contemptuously as she went past him. 'And I'll get my own cab,' she threw back over her shoulder.

Maybe she was right, Declan told himself with wry derision as he stood under the shower a short while later. Certainly he hadn't put himself out to find female company lately. And the few dates he'd had had been strictly casual.

He could say he'd been working too hard to pursue any personal relationships. As well as writing a weekly political column for the
Sunday Clarion
, his television commitments were burgeoning. A new series of
Division Bell
was starting next week on First City TV, and he'd also been asked to research and draw up a proposal for a series on Prime Ministers of the past, covering the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Never a dull moment, he thought drily. But it left him with little free time. And what there was he preferred to spend in Ireland, at his parents' stud farm, helping out with the horses rather than doing the social rounds.

However, there'd been a girl at the party last night who'd made her interest in him perfectly clear—until Melinda had started behaving badly, and their hostess had quietly begged him to remove her.

She was an interior decorator, tall, blonde, and definitely attractive, and he had one of her cards somewhere—probably in his jacket.

'In case you want advice about a room,' she'd told him, smiling.

He'd ring her presently, he decided as he towelled himself down. Apologise for his abrupt departure, and ask if she'd like to have dinner. See where it might lead.

She was called Claudia, he remembered, and it was a name he liked. An unusual name—rather like Olivia.

His mouth tightened in irritation. He hadn't planned to throw another thought in her direction. But the image of that slight, lonely figure walking down the road with her case seemed etched on his mind.

All the more reason to call Claudia, he told himself cynically. Because Olivia was bad news, and he wasn't going to waste another thought on her—or any of Jeremy's leavings for that matter.

Sasha was a small woman, slender to the point of emaciation, and draped in a black caftan ornamented with embroidered tropical flowers. She had rich magenta hair which she wore twisted into dozens of little spiral curls, and amazing dark blue eyes, heavily emphasised with kohl. In one hand she held a cheroot. The other was attempting to control a small, brown terrier, spitting out fire and fury on a high-pitched note between a yap and a warble.

Her voice was surprisingly deep and husky, probably, Olivia thought, because of the cheroots.

'So you're Declan's waif.' Olivia was looked up and down, and assessed in one sweeping glance.

'The flat's down here, darling.' She led Olivia down a flight of outside steps to the basement. 'There's only one room, but it has its own separate kitchen, and I had the bathroom fitted two years ago. The rest of the basement I use for storage.'

She opened the living room door, and motioned Olivia to go in. 'The sofa turns into a bed, and I can lend you linen and stuff till you get fixed up. Will it do?'

'It's wonderful,' Olivia admitted. She bit her lip. 'But I must warn you I don't expect to be staying long.'

'People don't.' Sasha shrugged. 'They come and go, and that's fine with me. I'm just a stepping post on their journey.' She paused. 'What about the rent, darling?' The dark blue eyes flicked shrewdly over her again, and she nodded. 'It's seventy-five pounds a week. Can you manage it? You're not working, are you?'

'Not yet,' Olivia said quietly. 'But first thing on Monday morning I'm going to start job-hunting.'

'What sort of thing are you looking for—acting—modelling?'

'Heavens, no.' Olivia felt emotionally battered by the events of the morning, but she managed a weak giggle. 'In Bristol I taught computer systems in offices, but I thought I'd look for a secretarial agency—start by temping.'

'Oh.' Sasha gave her an astonished look. 'You mean real work. Such a novelty. My tenants are usually waiting tables and stacking shelves while they wait to be discovered.'

She swept to the door, the tropical flowers billowing, the dog firmly tucked under her arm. 'When you've unpacked, come on up and we'll have some coffee, introduce ourselves properly. I can brief you on local shops, house rules and things at the same time. Humph and I will be in the kitchen. Just push the door open and yell.'

'Thank you.' Olivia gave her a resolute smile. 'You're very kind.'

Ah, well, darling,' said Sasha. 'Declan sent you. And I'd do anything for Declan.'

So would I, Olivia thought bitterly, as she unfastened her case. As long as it involved red-hot irons and a few gallons of boiling oil.

But she seemed to have fallen on her feet, she admitted, looking round her. The room was large, the furniture was simple and comfortable, and it was spotlessly clean. And amazingly cheap, for London, too. She'd expected to be charged twice or three times as much.

Sasha's kitchen was big, cosy and chaotic. As she went in Olivia was greeted by the small brown dog, warbling menacingly at full throttle.

'Quiet, Humph, you fool.' Sasha, percolator in hand, swept a pile of newspapers, empty envelopes and special offer coupons from the large pine table to the floor with one magnificent gesture. 'You've got to tell friend from foe. He's a Norfolk terrier with the soul of a Rottweiler,' she added. 'Grab a chair, darling, but not the one with the embroidered cushion—that's Humph's.'

She poured the coffee into attractive pottery mugs, set cream and sugar beside them, and offered home-made carrot cake which Olivia fell on thankfully.