He looked at her with studied ease, aware from the set of her shoulders, the slightly clenched fists, that she meant what she said.
‘We’re almost at the car park.’
‘You don’t need to play the gentleman,’ she retaliated with heavy sarcasm.
‘In this instance, I choose to.’ He scanned the wide apron of bitumen with its lines of parked cars, identified hers, and crossed towards it.
Anneke walked ahead of him and unlocked and opened the passenger door, then stood aside as he placed the carry-bags onto the seat.
He straightened, and she was suddenly intensely aware of his height, his proximity, and the faint musky aroma of cologne and man.
He looked down at her, saw the tilt of her chin, the residue of anger that tightened her expression. Without a word he lifted a hand and trailed the tips of his fingers down one cheek and splayed them along her jaw.
Then he smiled and lowered his head down to hers, capturing her mouth with his own in a gentle evocative kiss that was all too brief.
‘Drive carefully.’ Without a further word he turned and navigated a line of cars to his own powerful Range Rover.
Frustrating, irritating man, she accorded, adding a few descriptive and vividly pithy curses as she crossed round and slid in behind the wheel.
She reversed, then eased her sedan out onto the street. By the time she arrived at her aunt’s cottage she had devised numerous ways to render him grievous bodily harm, as well as concocting the most bizarre series of menus that she could summon to mind.
Anneke unpacked the carry-bags, poured herself a cold drink, and checked her watch. Three hours until she needed to begin dinner preparations.
Housework, she decided. She’d clean and dust and polish. Busy hands, healthy mind. Well, hers was filled with vengeful thoughts, which somehow made a mockery of that particular saying.
When she’d finished, everything sparkled and the cottage was redolent with the smell of beeswax. And the richness of freshly baked fruit cake.
It was after five when her mobile rang, and without thinking she wiped her hands, then reached for the unit and activated it.
Nothing. Only an eerie silence echoed her customary greeting. Her fingers shook slightly as she disengaged the phone.
Rationale dictated it was just a crank call. She doubted it was Adam. Although she couldn’t discount the possibility he might take a perverse delight in causing her a degree of nervous anxiety.
It was just after six when she delivered Sebastian’s evening meal.
‘Stay and have a drink with me.’
Anneke looked at him, saw the unbound hair and noted its unruly state—almost as if he’d raked his fingers through the length on more than one occasion.
Maybe the plot wasn’t working out, or the characters weren’t performing as they should. Or he was struggling through a bout of writer’s block.
‘Thanks, but I don’t drink.’ Not entirely true. She adored good French champagne, and reserved the partaking of it for special occasions. As this wasn’t one of them, and she seriously doubted he had a bottle of Dom Perignon or Cristal on ice, it was simpler to decline. ‘Your meal will get cold, and so will mine,’ she said easily, and turned towards the door.
He made no attempt to dissuade her, and when the door closed behind her he crossed to the table, removed the cover and examined the contents of the tray.
It could have been worse. He moved to the bank of cupboards, took out a skillet and reached into the refrigerator for a large T-bone steak.
When it came to the dessert, he scraped off the cream, took a tentative bite, then opted for fresh fruit. He washed it down with bottled mineral water, then spooned freshly ground beans into the coffee-maker, poured water into the cylinder and switched it on.
The glass carafe had just begun to fill when there was a crashing sound from the adjoining cottage.
He was out of the door and running, Shaef at his side, adrenalin pumping, his mind actively selecting one scenario after another as he covered the set of steps in one leap and pounded on the door.
A MUFFLED and very explicit curse fell from Anneke’s lips as she surveyed the mess at her feet.
Cut flowers were strewn in an arc across the floor, water pooled in a widening puddle, and Aunt Vivienne’s prized Waterford crystal vase lay shattered in a hundred shards on the laundry’s ceramic-tiled floor.
There was no one to blame but herself. Unless she counted a fractional second’s distraction at the insistent and distinctive peal of her mobile telephone.
‘Anneke.’ Forceful, authoritative, demanding. Sebastian’s voice penetrated the evening’s stillness, accompanied by the heavy, insistent rap of knuckles on wood.
‘OK, OK,’ she responded in resigned exasperation. ‘I’m in the…’ Her voice trailed to a halt as he appeared at the screened laundry door.
‘Hell,’ he cursed quietly, taking in the scene at a glance. Her legs were bare, so were her feet.
‘Apt,’ she responded drily.
‘Don’t move. I’ll be back.’
He was, within minutes, with a bucket, pan and brush.
‘Don’t throw out the flowers.’
‘They’re likely to contain hidden pieces of glass.’
‘Crystal,’ she corrected without thought, and incurred a dark, sweeping glance.
‘Waterford, thirty-five years old, wedding gift. You want the pattern detail?’
‘There’s no need to be facetious.’
‘Likewise, you don’t need to be so particular.’
‘Oh, go soak your head in a bucket!’
His smile held a certain grimness. ‘Nice to have your gratitude.’
She wanted to burst into tears. She treasured beautiful things. Loved the art and symmetry of exquisite crystal and porcelain. To have a piece break by her own hand was almost akin to killing a living thing.
He glimpsed the momentary desolation, caught a flash of something deeper, and fought the temptation to pull her into his arms. Such an action, he knew, would only earn him the sharp edge of her tongue.
‘Vivienne has plenty more flowers in the garden,’ he offered mildly, ignoring her protest as he deftly swept everything into the bucket, then dealt with the water.
‘Vacuum cleaner. Hall cupboard?’ Had to be. Both cottages were similar in design.
Twice the vacuum hose rattled as the cleaner sucked up undetected shards of crystal, and she stepped onto a towel he spread on the floor while he completed the task.
‘Thanks,’ she added, aware she owed him that, at least. She could have coped, dispensing with the mess, but it was likely she’d have cut herself in the process.
Dammit, she didn’t want to owe him. Nor did she particularly covet his company. He made her feel…uncomfortable, she conceded reluctantly.
As if he was all too aware of the sexual chemistry between them, and content to wait and watch for the moment she felt it.
Well, she had news for him. She could pin it down to the precise moment she’d walked into Aunt Vivienne’s kitchen the first night she arrived