The Seduction Trap (9 page)

Mr Cherub himself, she thought, reminding herself to be wary. This man wanted the cottages-something her mother had explicitly warned her about. If she didn’t keep on her toes she’d find her sentimental nature surfacing, and she’d be striking a deal with him over the breakfast table.

Tessa tightened her resolve. He was working on her for his own ends. That made her angry. She’d let him play all his cards, ooze his practised charm, and then she’d coolly turn him down. That would please her mother.

Calmly she tilted her head on one side and said sweetly, ‘Tell me your plans. I’m fascinated.’

Was that a sardonic smile or just her imagination working overtime? Whatever the reason for the curve to his sensual mouth, he leaned forward confidingly.

‘Obviously I have a duty to the village, Tessa. There are people who might envy the fact that I own so much land and property. But with that power comes one hell of a responsibility. I have to maintain the church, the market hall, the very fabric of the village. Each roof, every gutter, window-frame and chimney is my concern.’

‘It’s quite a load on your shoulders,’ she said, shaken by his fervour. ‘Do you mind? Doesn’t the responsibility prevent you from doing other, more exciting things?’

‘Being right here at this moment is incredibly exciting,’ he said softly, gazing directly into her eyes. The hidden core of his passion reached her-a raw and consuming passion which would ensure he carried through his plans. She quailed a little at the intensity of it and wondered if he’d meant her to see how powerfully he was driven to succeed, how deep his feelings were for his village. After all, he’d been absent for nearly half of his lifetime and must have dreamed of returning for years.

‘Tessa,’ he said with quiet urgency, trapping her hand beneath his, ‘let me tell you this: I mean to stamp my mark here so strongly that it’s never forgotten.’

Not literally here, she hoped, nervously looking down at their hands. She was aware of her pulses leaping strongly beneath his fingers where they circled her wrist. The pressure of his grip increased, causing an erratic fluttering which he must surely feel.

‘Don’t spoil Turaine,’ she urged jerkily. The slow progress of his smile held her fascinated gaze. ‘Turaine? That will be an easy conversion, compared with some I’m planning,’ he said drily, smiling at some secret thought of his own.

‘What other conversions are you involved in, then?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Conversions of the mind,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Oh. Planning consent, you mean,’ she said, knowing how red tape could hamper the progress of restoration. He smiled, but didn’t comment. ‘As far as Turaine is concerned, don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of changing something unique. You don’t tamper with real beauty. You leave it alone, let it breathe, feed it. ..’ He sighed with pleasure. ‘I love beautiful things. Don’t you?’

‘To a point. It depends on how thin the paint is on top and what’s underneath. Sometimes there’s something rotten there.’

She was thinking of the beautiful David.

‘You’re right. You have to look deeper, search for signs ...

agitate the surface a little and observe what happens.’ He lifted her hand with his and allowed her fingers to trail down her own face. It felt like satin. It also felt alarmingly hot. ‘I’m talking about real beauty. Take Turaine, for instance-’

‘Yes, let’s,’ she croaked, failing to sound brisk and castigating herself for that fact. Why did he have to keep touching her?

‘Well, it’s the people who make it what it is,’ he said quietly, playing with her fingers with such concentration that her heart leapt every time she looked at his lowered lashes resting thickly on his strong cheekbones. So she screwed up her toes and took a deep interest in an ant, crawling into the jam-pot.

‘They are its heart, its soul,’ he went on. ‘No one with any sensitivity would dream of altering the essence and spirit of Turaine. Anything I undertake must be done with the greatest of tact and care. Modernising on such a scale and with such sensitivity will mean an upheaval for them and a headache for me, but it’ll be worth it. My family name will be respected again. That’s very important to me. You do understand that, don’t you?’ he finished appealingly. Reeling from his fervour, she withdrew her hand on the pretext of brushing crumbs from the table. Guy leaned back in his chair, his intense emotions gradually subsiding, and she felt her pulses returning to their normal beat. But her conviction now wavered. Her mother might be wrong. A misunderstanding, perhaps.

Feeling a little limp, Tessa carefully saved the ant from drowning in a jammy paradise, watching it stagger stickily away. Guy seemed to be watching her closely.

‘Too much of a good thing,’ she explained, indicating the disappearing insect.

‘I’m all for surrendering to hedonism myself.’ So was she, apparently! she thought helplessly. The warmth of the sun, the aroma of orangeblossom and chocolate croissant, a sexy man inches away, and she was ready to fling herself into the abyss! Idiot.

‘Like drowning in jam?’ she flipped defensively. ‘I can think of better things to drown in.’

So could she. Like his fluid and eloquent tones, his fathom-deep eyes and the treacherous waters of sensuality which were putting her out of her depth. Aimlessly she fiddled with the jam-spoon, ladling a large dollop onto her plate and fixing her mind ruthlessly on facts, not feelings. Slowly the lassitude in her veins eased and she could think almost clearly again. ‘What about The Old Bakery?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Could you throw that in with your grand plans and smarten it up a little?’

‘Sorry.’ He flashed her an apologetic smile. ‘I couldn’t include your cottages in the scheme. All the time they’re privately owned, they don’t come under my care. I hope you understand,’ he went on absently, his gaze fixed on. the piece of croissant she was popping into her mouth. Her face fell in disappointment. She chewed for a moment, a little uncomfortable with his scrutiny. Hastily she licked her lips in case they had jammy edges. His eyes seemed to follow every curl of her pink tongue and she had some difficulty bringing herself back to the point.

A sip of scalding coffee soon brought her mind to heel. She was supposed to be discovering why he’d done his best to charm her. Also if he did actually want the cottages, as her mother had claimed. Only one way to find out. Bull at a gate. ‘Would you like to buy the cottages from me?’ she asked sweetly, letting her eyes widen with innocent enquiry. He looked blank and she grudgingly had to admire his self-control. ‘I had the impression that you were hoping to acquire them from my mother. Was she planning to sell?’ she asked innocently.

‘I knew she badly needed money and I was willing to offer her a reasonable price rather than see the buildings fall about her ears through neglect,’ he said evasively. ‘They are part of the fabric of Turaine, part of its history. The Old Bakery was the bread shop. Next door is The Bakehouse, the one beyond is

called Oven Cottage. The equipment should still be around somewhere. I’d hoped to preserve it. But now the properties are yours and I imagine you’ll want to keep them.’ This time, she thought she detected the merest trace of tension in his voice. And then she saw the give-away. A slight tremor in his hand as he poured himself a second cup of coffee. He must have noticed it too, because he put the jug down even though his cup was only half-f.

Interesting, she mused. He was on edge. Disappointment flooded through her. She’d hoped her mother was wrong. It seemed not. Guy was being nice to her for his own selfish reasons. And this time, she vowed, she wouldn’t let herself be bettered by a ruthless man!

TESSA’S eyes narrowed. She resented being played like a fish on a line and felt like making him sweat. ‘I might hang onto the cottages,’ she said airily, testing his reaction. Not surprisingly, there wasn’t one. A plan began to form in her mind. ‘I don’t have a job at the moment,’ she said casually, ‘and I have some savings left. I could stay here and work on their restoration myself. They’d be an investment.’ She flung him a bright and perky smile.

Guy’s face didn’t move a muscle. He lifted his cup and drank, then produced a convincing frown and looked deep into her eyes as if he’d thought of something worrying. ‘I wouldn’t advise it. You’d get yourself into debt, like your mother. You’ve seen the condition of The Old Bakery. The other two houses aren’t much better.’ He gave a rueful laugh. ‘I imagine they’re holding each other up. It’ll take considerable funds and time to bring them up to a decent standard-and an expertise I doubt you have. You’d need quite advanced skills, to say nothing of a working knowledge of French to deal with builders and so on. It would be like throwing your money and time into a bottomless pit.’

‘I spent five years with a team of craftsmen and tradesmen on the restoration of a stately home. I know more than the next person about damp and dry rot.’ She smiled with far more assurance than she felt, and was pleased that he looked annoyed.

What was she going to do with the cottages? Her mother had told her not to let Guy have them. That meant eventually selling them to someone else, or quietly doing them up herself from the proceeds of the income they made from the holiday lets-whatever that might be. Getting a job over here to support herself was out of the question, with her ignorance of French.

‘Oven Cottage still retains the oven,’ he told her idly. ‘It’s blocked off at the moment. It’s as large as a room and built like a beehive, which gives it immense strength. You’d need a team of navvies with pickaxes to make any impression on it.’ Making a great show of quartering the chocolate croissant, Tessa hid her qualms and said blithely, ‘I’ve picked up a lot of skills. I’ve even wielded a pickaxe. It’s surprising what you can do if you persevere. It might be rather fun doing my own restoration. I can see that The Old Bakery has a lot of potential.’

‘I’m impressed,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I think even my builders might refuse to take on such work virtually single-handed.’ As bad as that? she thought in alarm, but smiled a confident smile. ‘I’ll see. I’ll do an assessment of each cottage over the next few days,’ she said importantly, hoping to impress him. He leaned forward. ‘Don’t delay,’ he advised. ‘You’ll have one almighty insurance claim from one of your unfortunate holidaymakers if you don’t do something soon. From a cursory assessment of the exteriors, I think all the roof timbers are unsafe. At a guess, I’d say you had trouble with termites. Or maybe the capricorne beetle. You know how devastating that is.’

‘Er... yes,’ she said, hoping she sounded knowledgeable about a creature she’d never heard of. It sounded as bad as the death-watch beetle. Just her luck. ‘If I can’t tackle the work, I can find a local builder, she said airily.

‘No. I don’t think you will.’

‘No local builders?’ she hazarded.

‘Two. But I’m afraid,’ he said with regret, ‘that no local of any description would set foot in any of your cottages.’ Her eyes narrowed. He was trying to put her off! ‘Surely they’re not haunted?’ she suggested sarcastically. Unperturbed by her waspishness, Guy reached for the coffee¬pot. ‘In a way. Your mother’s made them a no-go area.’ Tessa bristled. ‘Oh, yes? And how has she done that?’ He hesitated, searching for the right words. Tessa’s lips parted anxiously when she saw his expression. ‘There isn’t an easy

way to tell you this. But I’m afraid you have to know.’ His eyes flicked up, guarded but glittering. ‘The local hatred of Estelle Davis is such that her daughter, is not welcome here. You’ll be ignored. Maybe worse. And it won’t be at all pleasant.’ A chill settled about her. Deja vu. Back to her schooldays. The memories surged up, hurtful and destructive. The loneliness, the sense of being friendless and talked about behind her back. Her hand trembled, making her knife clatter on the plate. She let go of it, twisting and turning her fingers together in alarm. ‘You’d better explain,’ she mumbled croakily. There was a brief softening of his eyes and then they became veiled. ‘I’m sorry, Tessa. There’s a good deal of bad feeling about your mother. She left debts everywhere-with the butcher, the grocer, the bartender... All of the people who have small turn-overs and small profits and who rely on the honesty and integrity of their customers.’

Tessa hated what she was hearing and the sinking feeling in her stomach sank a little further. She didn’t like to think that her mother had behaved so badly.

‘Oh,’ she said in a hurt little voice. ‘Local people.’ It was unforgivable. . .if he was telling the truth. She’d have to find out.

‘It might make things a little difficult for you, as her daughter, if you stay,’ he explained. ‘Apart from refusing to do any work for you on any of the houses, people will be expecting to be paid on the nail before they let you buy anything at all, even food. Maybe they’ll even refuse to serve you. Memories here are long and grudges grow alarmingly.’

‘I’m not the one who owes the money,’ she protested. ‘They won’t see it that way. It’s a matter of honour, isn’t it? I am sorry. I’d advise you to leave before you get waylaid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go now.’

‘Go?’ Tessa looked puzzled, having expected him to slip in an offer for her properties now her resistance had been suitably lowered.

He gave a cool smile. ‘Sorry. Can’t stay. I only came to put you in the picture. I hope you’re not besieged by Estelle’s creditors. They terrified her-and she’s as hard as nails.’ Tessa jumped up in alarm and covered the movement by beginning to stack dishes on the tray.

Guy immediately helped. ‘Don’t bother with these! I want to be alone now,’ she said shakily. Her mind whirled like a clockwork motor out of control-going nowhere, doing nothing, just churning round and round. Her mother had left her in an impossible position. Were the cottage lettings supposed to cover all the debts that had been incurred? Startled from her reverie, she looked down as Guy caught hold of the tray, his hands warm against hers. ‘At least let me carry this in for you,’ he murmured. ‘Listen, I can build a dry-stone wall,’ she said edgily. ‘If I can heave chunks of granite around and slap turf on the top, I can manage a tray of breakfast things!’ And when he raised his hands in surrender she picked up the tray, feeling immediately ashamed. ‘I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m just worried.’