Running From the Storm (8 page)

‘So what happened? Did he turn out to be married? Some men can be heartless,’ Julie added, with all the experience of an eighteen-year-old.

‘No, he wasn’t married.’ Suddenly unable to go on, Caris said huskily, ‘It just didn’t work out.’

At that precise moment the door opened and a man walked in, making speaker and listener alike jump guiltily.

Stirred into action, Julie whipped away the cups and vanished into the back room, while Caris struggled to pull herself together.

What on earth had she been thinking of, sitting pouring out her heart to Julie like some love-sick teenager when she should have been working?

After looking at a display of properties for sale, the newcomer approached her desk.

With a pleasant smile, Caris listened to his requirements and agreed to show him over two likely houses at his convenience.

By lunchtime she had talked to several more potential buyers, provided whatever information and photographs they requested and arranged at least half a dozen appointments for the following week.

All she needed to do now was decide on the best way to handle that afternoon’s viewing.

Normally she said very little, careful to apply no pressure and to allow the various properties to speak for themselves. But the sheer importance of the Gracedieu sale made her wonder if that was the right thing to do; would it be better to adopt a bolder, more positive approach?

She sighed. It would almost certainly depend on what kind of man her new client was. And that she didn’t know.

In the past it had always helped her to find out as much as she could about potential purchasers, especially the more important ones.

But Julie had taken this particular phone call while Caris had been out, and the only information the girl had been able to supply was that the new client was a Michael Grayson, and it had been his PA who had rung to make the appointment.

A few cautious enquiries on Caris’s part had merely established the fact that Michael Grayson was the big boss of Grayson Holdings. Which didn’t give her much to go on.

After eating a takeaway sandwich and drinking a cup of coffee, she freshened up in the small cloakroom.

A glance at her watch told her it was a quarter to one. Her appointment wasn’t until two-thirty, but even for the more routine viewings she liked to be early. It gave her a chance to relax and go over all the relevant facts and figures so she had them clear in her mind before her client arrived.

Having checked her appearance, she put all the necessary paperwork into her briefcase, collected her mac and shoulder bag, and braced herself for the task that lay ahead.

Looking up from her computer, Julie said, ‘The best of luck. I hope you get a quick sale, though I won’t hold my breath. People think twice before spending that kind of money.’

Then more positively she went on, ‘Mind you, it only takes one.’

‘I’ll hold on to that thought,’ Caris promised a shade drily as she headed for the door.

Her hand on the latch, she added, ‘I’m hoping to be back before your boyfriend calls for you, but if by any chance I’m not will you lock up?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I’ll see you on Tuesday. Take care and have a good weekend.’

‘You too.’

Making her way out to where her car was parked, Caris found the sullen sky was pewter-grey with threatening black clouds looming on the horizon. But it had stopped raining, for which she gave thanks.

When she turned on the ignition the car engine, which normally started straight away, coughed, hesitated and died. Afraid that it wasn’t going to start, she tried again and again, getting more and more flustered.

She was just about to give up and go for a taxi when it finally sprang into life. Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, she put it into gear, let out the clutch and headed out of town.

Gracedieu, an extensive area of undulating parkland, was about seven or eight miles beyond Spitewinter and still relatively isolated despite the housing developments that were creeping ever closer.

Once Caris had left the main road, the rolling countryside was pretty, the quiet lanes pleasantly green and leafy with late spring.

Any other time she would have enjoyed the drive, but once again memories of Zander and the past were crowding in, filling her mind.

But she wouldn’t dwell on the past. She wouldn’t! Making a determined effort, she turned her thoughts to the afternoon ahead and the possible outcome.

Reaching South Lodge, she jumped out to open the tall, black wrought-iron gates with their gilded spikes and ornate hinges.

Presuming that Michael Grayson would be coming in the same way, she left them open. Sliding behind the wheel once more, she drove between stone pillars topped by crouching lions.

Gracedieu, though well-built and elegant, hadn’t been lived in for a number of years and looked forlorn and deserted, its garden a wet tangle of weeds and shrubbery.

As her small car climbed the long, winding drive—now somewhat neglected and overgrown between glossy banks of budding rhododendrons—she thought how different it must once have looked, with enough gardening staff to care for it.

The manor house itself stood on fairly high ground but, screened by mature trees, it wasn’t visible until she had rounded the last bend in the drive.

Though she had visited it several times in the past few weeks, it still had the ‘wow’ factor, and when she drew to a halt on the paved forecourt she paused to gaze her fill and imagine what it must be like to live there.

It was built of old mellow stone, a perfect example of a period manor house but in miniature. Its barley-sugar chimneys were creeper-entwined, many of its mullioned windows partially obscured by delicate trails of ivy, and its walls were festooned with scented honeysuckle and climbing roses, the early ones already in bloom.

It was utterly and completely charming. Had Caris been a multi-millionairess …

But she wasn’t and never would be, she reminded herself wryly. She was just an ordinary woman with a job to do, so she’d better gather her wits and do it. She was a good hour early, so she would have ample time to take another look at all the relevant details before Michael Grayson got there.

Rather than staying in the car, she would go into the house and work in the kitchen. So long as she kept an eye on her watch, she could be outside in plenty of time to greet her client.

The air was heavy and oddly still, as if it were waiting with bated breath for the coming storm, but the rain was holding off and a few rays of weak sun were struggling to shine through a break in the clouds. She hoped it was a good omen.

Leaving her own set of keys in the ignition and her mac on the passenger seat, she picked up her briefcase and bag and made her way across the forecourt to the studded oak door.

Above the stone lintel of the door was a riot of sagging wisteria, and damp trails of it touched her neck as she selected one of the heavy, ornate keys from the big bunch that was weighing down her shoulder bag and let herself into the hall.

It had beautiful linenfold panelling, a big stone fireplace and polished oak floorboards, stippled now with light and shade. At one end was a minstrels’ gallery, while at the other an oak staircase rose to a landing with long, tracery windows.

There were still some pieces of furniture scattered about and one or two mediocre paintings in heavy frames hung on the walls.

Crossing the hall, Caris opened the door to the large living-kitchen. With its black beams and inglenook fireplace, it was one of her favourite rooms. She always felt the past was present there, like some friendly ghost.

Towards the end of his long life, Gracedieu’s previous owner had lived in this room and it was still fully furnished with an oak table and chairs, a period coffee table, two comfortable-looking armchairs, several sheepskin rugs and, incongruously, a modern divan bed on castors.

Huge cupboards held piles of household goods and linen, and a black stove stood in the fireplace with a stack of split logs on either side.

Crossing to the table, she put her belongings down and went to open a window a crack to let in some fresh air.

A riot of pale cream roses clambered damply up the outer wall and over the stone sill. Breathing in their haunting fragrance, she sat down at the table, opened her briefcase and started to go through the documents it contained—Or, rather, tried to.

The scent of the roses brought back vivid memories of Owl Lodge and the roses there, and instead of the printed pages all Caris could see was the past more real in her mind than the present …

Once she had agreed to stay the night at Owl Lodge, she had been beset by doubts.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Zander. The awful truth was, she wasn’t at all sure she could trust herself.

Though she was certain that he wouldn’t try to force her in any way, he was a red-blooded man; suppose he turned up the heat? If he touched her, kissed her, would she be able to resist him?

But her youthful mistake had taught her a lot. After having been badly burnt once, surely she would have enough self-respect and pride, enough willpower, not to repeat the experience?

Or would she?

Wasn’t it Oscar Wilde who had said, ‘I can resist everything but temptation’? And Zander was temptation personified.

He and Karl weren’t in the same league. They were both Lotharios, of course, but Karl had proved to be shallow, selfish and immature; only her own naivety had made him seem irresistible.

Zander, on the other hand,
was
irresistible. A mature, sophisticated, complex man with a depth, warmth and smouldering sex-appeal that never failed to ignite an answering spark.

Where he was concerned, she seemed to have little or no willpower. However, if she allowed herself no more erotic imaginings and kept a firm grip on her troubled emotions …

Sitting watching the doubts and worries flit across her face, Zander remarked with amusement in his tone, ‘There’s no need to look quite so apprehensive. I’m not about to leap on you and make mad, passionate love to you.’

Knowing he was making fun of her, she assured him a shade stiffly, ‘I never thought you were.’

‘Unless that’s what you want, of course?’

‘It isn’t.’

‘Then you’ve nothing to fear from me. Now, where were we before the lights went out?’

Relieved by the change of subject, she said, ‘About to decide what to eat.’

‘Of course. Though, now there’s no electricity, sadly our options are reduced to what can be made on the stove.’

‘But I still get to choose?’

‘You bet!’

Wondering how he’d take the suggestion, she said, ‘What I’d really like is something quite simple.’

Lifting an eyebrow, he waited.

For a few seconds she said nothing, her attention riveted by the way the red-gold firelight flickered on his face, turning it into an Aztec mask.

‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘The suspense is unbearable.’

‘If you have any bread …?’

Rising to his feet, he said, ‘We certainly have. Ben’s wife has left sourdough, milk and a good selection of fresh food in the fridge.’

He was back almost immediately with a nice-looking loaf, a breadboard, a knife and a plate, which he put on the low table.

‘So what do you want to do with this bread?’

‘I’d like to toast it on the stove and have it with lots of jelly and peanut butter, if you have any?’

‘We sure do. Smooth or crunchy?’

‘Oh,
crunchy
.’

‘Have I already mentioned that you’re a woman after my own heart?’

Watching him begin to slice the bread, she asked, ‘Can I make the toast?’

‘Do you want to?’

She nodded. ‘Please. I’ve always enjoyed making toast on a fire.’

He pretended to consider. ‘I could be chivalrous and insist on doing all the work myself, but I’ve often thought that male chivalry springs from a selfish desire to have all the fun, so go ahead.’

Putting the plate of bread on the hearth, he handed her a long-handled fork and watched as she knelt on the mat, favouring her damaged ankle, and started to toast the first piece.

When he returned from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with more plates, knives, jam, a large jar of peanut butter, napkins and a fresh pot of coffee, she was just finishing a somewhat wonky pile of crisp, golden-brown slices.

He thought that with her deep-blue eyes sparkling, and her cheeks flushed from the heat, she made an enchanting picture.

As she leant forward, intent on her task, the lapels of her over-sized robe gaped a little, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of the soft curves of her breasts.

He looked at her and wanted her. Wanted her with every fibre of his being.

She put the last slice of toast on the plate. Glancing up unwarily, she met his eyes—eyes that had darkened to the deepest shade of jade—and read the smouldering passion in them.

Her own eyes widened and, transfixed, she found herself unable to look away as every nerve-ending in her body zinged into life and she burned with an answering passion.

The little stack of toast sliding off the plate broke the spell. Feeling oddly shaky, as if she had just found herself on the verge of some shattering experience, she dropped the toasting fork and began to re-stack the slices.