When he reached her side, Tarn said, ‘Do you know everyone here tonight?’
‘I know some, but I think a lot of the others believe they know me because of some past introduction.’ His voice was rueful. ‘If I had to remember their names, I’d be in difficulties.’ He handed over her drink. ‘Here’s to Act Two.’ He added softly, ‘And I don’t necessarily mean the play.’
‘Ah, but I do.’ She sent him a smile. Made it teasing. ‘It’s absolutely wonderful—especially as I haven’t the faintest idea what to expect next.’ She gave a faint whistle. ‘Lance Crichton certainly knows how to put the audience’s emotions through the wringer.’
Caz nodded. ‘When Bateman made that last entrance, I thought the woman next to me was going to fly out of her seat.’
Tarn shuddered. ‘I thought I might too. Although I’ve never heard of the actor who plays him. Proving how out of touch I am.’
‘Rufus Blaine? He did a season at Stratford in minor roles, and people at the time were saying he was a star in the making. I think this Bateman portrayal has confirmed that.’ He paused. ‘Curious, isn’t it, how the wicked usually get far more interesting roles than the good?’
Tarn shrugged. ‘It sometimes seems the same in real life.’
‘Isn’t that a little cynical?’
‘Probably.’ She added lightly, ‘Blame it on Bateman, and the shocks in store for us. I can hardly wait.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ He hesitated. ‘I was afraid you were regretting having accepted my invitation.’
‘What made you think that?’
‘You seemed very quiet when I came to pick you up.’
‘Did I? Perhaps I find dating the boss a daunting prospect.’
‘Has it occurred to you that I might be a little daunted too?’
‘Frankly, no. Why should it?’
He said slowly, ‘Because you’re different. There’s something guarded—unfathomable about you, Tarn.’
Why—because I’m not a pushover, falling enraptured at your feet?
‘A woman of mystery?’ she asked, brows lifted. ‘Flattering but untrue, I’m afraid. What you see is what you get.’
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that only time will convince me of that.’
At that moment, the bell sounded to signal their return to the auditorium.
And she really had been saved by it, Tarn thought, quashing a sudden bubble of hysteria as she walked sedately beside him back to the stalls. Because Caz Brandon was going to be no pushover either. He was far too perceptive for his own good—or hers.
Dear God, she thought, I shall have to be so careful. So terribly careful.
THE word ‘Careful’ sang in her brain as she sat tautly beside him in the back of the car on the journey back to the flat, waiting for him to lunge at her.
But it didn’t happen. Instead he chatted about the play, the performances, and the almost unbearable tension of the final act. And when the car drew up outside the apartment block, he dismissed her protests and escorted her to her door.
He watched as she fumbled in her bag for her key. ‘Am I going to be asked in again for coffee?’
‘My flatmate will be asleep,’ she said, hoping that a wide awake Della wouldn’t suddenly appear to make a liar of her. ‘I—I don’t want to disturb her.’ She added, ‘Besides, your driver’s waiting.’
‘Of course,’ Caz said softly, and smiled at her. ‘And I can wait too.’
His gaze travelled down to her mouth and she knew that he was going to kiss her. Knew as well that there was no realistic way she could avoid this. That she must, at least, appear willing if her long term plan was to succeed.
Her whole body stirred as he bent towards her, and she felt the slow, painful thump of her heartbeat echo through every nerve-ending in her skin. Careful…
His hands were gentle on her shoulders, drawing her towards him, then his lips touched hers, brushing them swiftly, lightly in a caress as fleeting as an indrawn breath. A tease that promised but did not fulfil.
Then he released her and stood back, the hazel eyes quizzical as they scanned her flushed face.
‘Goodnight,’ he said quietly. ‘Sleep well. I’ll be in touch.’ And went.
As she walked on unsteady legs into the sitting room, she heard from the street below the sound of the car pulling away, and stood rigidly, one clenched fist pressed against her breast.
Clever, she thought stormily. Oh, God, he was clever. But she could play games too. And somehow—however difficult it became—she intended to win.
Her interior warning to take care continued to hang over her, as the spring days brightened and lengthened, and Caz’s campaign began in earnest.
However Tarn soon realised that he seemed to be keeping it deliberately low-key, not crowding her or bombarding her with demands for her company. Certainly not trying to sweep her off her feet as he’d done to Evie with high profile dates. But a couple of times a week, they dined together, or visited a cinema, or went to a concert or another play, the arrangements invariably made through text or voicemail on her mobile phone.
It would have been much easier, she thought unhappily, if she hadn’t been forced to remind herself quite so often that the time spent with Caz was simply a means to an end and nothing more. Because that should have been a given.
She didn’t want to enjoy any part of these occasions, much less allow the reasons for them to slip from her mind, even momentarily. It worried her too that when she was alone, she sometimes found that she was smiling to herself, remembering something he had said or done, and was then forced to pull herself together, thankful that, knowing what he really was, she had the power and the will to resist his charm.
And, as she told herself, it was a relief that was all she had to fight. Because one element of their relationship did not vary. Each time he brought her home, he kissed her briefly, grazing her mouth with his, just once and departed. Leaving her restless and wondering what he was doing on the other five days and nights when she didn’t see him, apart, of course, from the occasional glimpse at work, generally on his way to or coming from a meeting, and immersed in conversation.
Although Tarn was busy too. Lisa had been given the go-ahead on the celebrity short story series, and they were in contact with the ‘A’ list they’d drawn up, so she had little time in office hours to let her mind wander in his direction.
Which, as she reminded herself forcefully, was all to the good.
What was not so good was the realisation that she was actually enjoying the job she’d embarked on so carelessly. That she would regret having to resign in order to substantiate her harassment claim.
In connection with this, she’d expected that by now her involvement with him would have got around via the usually efficient office grapevine, adding weight to her eventual complaint against him.
Every day, she went in prepared for knowing looks, smothered grins, and whispered remarks. But there was nothing. If anyone knew or even suspected, they were keeping very quiet about it.
Maybe when he’s going out with nobodies like Evie and myself, he prefers to keep his private life strictly under wraps, she thought, recalling that Evie hadn’t featured in many of the pictures in the scrapbook.