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