Fleur froze at that last remark, feeling an uncomfortable chill run through her. Yes, of course it had been Mia’s idea that she should prolong her holiday—plus the fact that he should spare some of his valuable time to act out the genial host. Let there not be any doubt about that! she thought. She bit her lip, wondering what to say after that.
‘Oh, by the way, I very stupidly forgot to give you back your handkerchief—the one you lent me when we were in Truro? I’ll let Mia have it when we get together next week.’
‘Oh, yes…I remember,’ he said casually. ‘But don’t worry about it, Fleur, I’ve got others.’
For some unaccountable reason, neither of them wanted to be the one to hang up first, and Sebastian said seriously, ‘Don’t let them harass you at work, Fleur. I don’t want all that rest and relaxation to be swallowed up now, and ruined by undue pressure.’
Fleur was frankly amazed at his genuine concern. Did he really care whether she was hassled or not? She swallowed and said quickly, ‘No, I promise to do only my fair share, and to be sensible, not to stay on too long after hours.’
‘Well, I hope you mean it,’ he said firmly. It had been noticeable how well she’d begun to appear after the first day or so at Pengarroth Hall, how that winsome, wistful, rather tired look had been replaced by a healthy glow to her cheeks, by a tantalizing sparkle in her large eyes. Cornish air had obviously suited her, he thought.
She stifled a yawn. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go to sleep,’ she said softly. ‘I know it’ll be a busy day tomorrow.’ She crossed her fingers as she said it. Yes, she would be busy—cleaning her flat!
He paused before answering. ‘Yes, of course. So…I’ll be back in town myself in about ten days…and I’ll be seeing Mia at some point. Perhaps we could all get together for a drink.’
‘Perhaps.’ Fleur smiled. ‘Goodnight, then, Sebastian.’
As he rang off, Sebastian stared moodily into the dying embers of the fire. More than anything in the world at that precise moment, he wanted to be somewhere else. And he knew where that was. He wanted to be with Fleur, wanted to be holding her close to him, to mould her body to his, to possess her…fully…and all his senses rushed at him as he remembered the feel of her mouth on his when they’d kissed the other night. But he didn’t think she’d given it another thought…there’d been no look, no word, not the slightest sign that it had had the impact on her that it had on him. She liked men—oh, yes, he was sure that she liked men. She just didn’t want to be…how could he put it…cornered by anyone in particular. She wanted to be a beautiful Mary Celeste, sailing alone.
He stood up, kicking aside a footstool irritably. There was not the remotest chance that the relationship he wasn’t sure he wanted would ever come to anything. The best thing for him would be to try and forget that he’d ever met Fleur. But how the devil was he going to do that?
CHAPTER NINE
IN HER kitchen on the Saturday evening ten days later, Fleur stood rather precariously on her short stepladder and started to paint the ceiling, wielding the large brush back and forth vigorously.
Having used up some of her holiday, plus more time since, in spring-cleaning the flat, she’d come to the conclusion that the kitchen had gone beyond needing a mere clean-up—it needed redecorating. And, once she’d made up her mind that that was what she was going to do, she’d lost no time in buying everything that was needed. She’d decided that this time the walls would be the palest green—which would suit the oak cabinets—with the skirtings and other woodwork gloss white. And when she’d completed the job, she thought, straining her head back and looking upwards at the rather challenging area to be done, she’d have a great time purchasing some new stuff—towels and tea towels, and maybe replacing some of her china as well. All to blend in. She felt the definite need to inject something new, something original, something to kick-start the new year.
She’d been welcomed back to work with open arms by her colleagues, who’d all said how well she looked and teased her that she’d put on weight, and soon it felt to Fleur that Pengarroth Hall and her time there was becoming a distant memory. But lives were built on memories, she thought now, and she had so many locked away into hers…things she would never, ever forget.
Bending to dip her brush carefully into the paint pot, her thoughts were of Sebastian—as they seemed so often to be—and she was glad she’d not heard anything from him since his phone call. Time was already passing so rapidly, and it was only time which would help her to push him further and further away from her, so that he stopped being the first thing on her mind each morning when she woke and the last thought each night before going to sleep. But it wasn’t just him, Sebastian Conway, she tried to convince herself. It was Pengarroth Hall and its atmosphere, it was Pat and Beryl’s friendship, and the clear, melting Cornish air. As her thoughts ran on, she grimaced slightly as she remembered Rudolph Malone’s visit. His appearance on the scene had been the one thing—apart from Sebastian’s reaction to it—to mar the perfect holiday. Then she shrugged. Who cared, anyway? She’d never come face to face with that silly man again.
She was about three-quarters of the way through the area to be painted when the doorbell sounded, and its unexpected intrusion almost made Fleur drop the brush. She paused, frowning. Who would call on her without ringing first? she asked herself. And at nearly nine o’clock on a Saturday night? She put down the brush and began to climb down from the ladder cautiously but, before she could get to the door, the bell rang again—twice in quick succession.
‘OK, OK, hang on a minute…’ she called. ‘I’m just coming.’
As she went into the hall, she glanced at herself in the long mirror—heavens, what a sight she looked! She was wearing the oversized and stained decorator’s apron—an old one of her father’s—which she always used, and had tied her hair up in a knot with a tatty scarf to keep it in place and to protect her hair from any white splashes. The only make-up she had on was a big smudge of ceiling white on one cheek—which was also on her hands, she noticed, rubbing them down the apron hurriedly.
Going forward quickly, she peered into the security peephole—and gasped in surprise and a certain degree of horror. Sebastian, she thought—what on earth?
She opened the door and they both stood there for a moment without saying a word, Sebastian looking at her up and down, a curious expression on his face.
‘Oh—I’ve obviously come at a bad time,’ he began, and Fleur cut in at once, standing aside. Well, how could she be offhand or unwelcoming—even if she was in no fit state to receive guests?
‘It’s all right, Sebastian, come in,’ she said quickly. ‘Though you’ll have to take me as you find me,’ she added.
He entered, but stood there, just taking in her appearance for several seconds and there was absolutely nothing Fleur could do to make herself look anything other than grubby and unattractive. But, as he stared down at her, Sebastian’s only thought was how utterly seductive she looked…There was something so appealing in the hastily drawn-back hair, the untidy scarf, the careless dabs of white on her skin. He could as easily have swept her up into his arms and covered her mouth with kisses as on those other times when, immaculately turned out, she had stirred his desire. He couldn’t help fleetingly remembering the time she’d stood at the top of the staircase looking like a society darling—he knew which picture he would want to keep close to his heart.
‘I won’t ask you what you’re up to, because I can see for myself,’ he said casually, following her into the sitting room. ‘I didn’t realize you were a painter and decorator.’
‘It’s my kitchen,’ she explained. ‘I decided that it was some time since it had had a makeover—and a new year seems appropriate to change things a bit, don’t you think?’
He was wearing well-cut trousers, a purple shirt, open at the neck, and an expensive long dark coat—and,