The Seduction Game. Sara Craven

the plan at all. Dean’s Mooring was going to belong to the Lyndon family, thereby ensuring the privacy of Silver Creek.

      Oh, Dad, you should have made your move earlier, she reproached her absent parent. Now it could be too late.

      ‘A direct question at last.’ Adam spooned coffee into the cafetière, his movements economical and unhurried. As if, somehow, he was right at home in his surroundings, she thought uneasily. ‘We’re making progress.’

      ‘Yet that,’ she said, ‘was not a direct answer.’

      ‘The night is young.’ He smiled at her, without mockery or calculation, and she felt the warmth of it uncurling insidiously in her deepest self.

      The night, she thought grimly, had better start ageing pretty damn quickly.

      She found a packet of oatcakes and tipped them on to the platter, then cut a chunk of butter into an earthenware dish.

      ‘This is becoming a feast,’ Adam commented as he brought the cafetière to the table. ‘Maybe you’ll let me cook for you on Caroline one evening. Repay the hospitality a little.’

      ‘In that case, you should ask Mrs Pritchard instead,’ she returned coolly. ‘This was her feast, not mine. I was planning poached eggs on toast.’

      His brows lifted. ‘Real spinster fare,’ he drawled. ‘Is that how you see yourself?’

      ‘I don’t think my self-image is up for discussion. And this is simply a meal—not a therapy session.’ She pushed the platter towards him. ‘There’s good Cheddar, some Brie, and the blue one’s Roquefort.’

      ‘And trespassers will be prosecuted, or worse.’ He cut some cheese. He had strong hands, she noticed unwillingly, with long fingers and well-kept nails.

      ‘Talking of trespassing,’ she said. ‘What exactly brought you to this backwater?’

      ‘I’d always promised myself I’d explore this stretch of river,’ he said, after a pause. ‘As I had some time off, I decided this was as good a time as any.’

      ‘There isn’t a lot to see, and even less to do.’

      ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But between a little gentle sketching and taking Buster for long walks I manage to keep busy.’ He began, deftly, to peel an apple. ‘So, what brings you here?’

      Tara shrugged. ‘I told you. I like to keep an eye on the house while my parents are away.’

      ‘I hope they appreciate how protective you are.’ His eyes glinted at her.

      ‘Indeed they do,’ she said. ‘And with good reason.’

      ‘I gather they’ve been using the house for many years.’ He cut his apple into quarters. ‘They’ve never thought of selling it?’

      Tara gasped. ‘Of course not,’ she said roundly. ‘Why on earth should they?’

      Adam gave a faint shrug. ‘The right price might be an incentive,’ he countered.

      ‘Never in this world.’ Tara sat up very straight, her face flushed. ‘A lot of family memories are tied up in this house.’

      The straight brows drew together. ‘Is that necessarily an issue?’

      ‘Naturally it is.’

      ‘Then they must be unique,’ he drawled. ‘When sentiment and money clash, sentiment usually comes off a poor second.’

      ‘It’s nothing to do with sentiment,’ Tara said quickly. ‘This is their second home—their sanctuary, if you like. When my father worked in the City it was an important means of relaxation for him. We used to come down nearly every weekend to walk and sail. It was Dad’s pressure valve. He’d never get rid of it.’

      She glared at him. ‘So, if you’re looking for a cheap weekend retreat, go and look somewhere else,’ she added with emphasis.

      ‘You’re very keen to see the back of me.’ His mouth twisted in amusement. ‘If I was the sensitive type, I might get a complex.’

      ‘Oh, not you.’ Tara took a bunch of grapes, relishing the cool sweetness against her dry throat. She leaned back in her chair, meeting his gaze squarely. ‘You just have to learn that money can’t buy everything you see.’

      ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ he said with suspicious meekness, leaving Tara to pour the coffee with the vexed consciousness that she’d just sounded like a pompous idiot.

      She’d allowed this stranger—this intruder—to get under her skin somehow. As if they were playing some game to which he alone knew the rules, she thought uneasily.

      She passed him a cup of coffee, offering milk and sugar with a polite murmur. He declined.

      ‘Have you been down here long?’ she asked as she sipped the strong, fragrant brew.

      ‘About ten days altogether.’

      Her spirits rose slightly. Presumably that indicated holiday, and he’d be back to work and out of her hair after the weekend.

      ‘Have you had good weather?’

      ‘Sunshine and showers. Pretty much what you’d expect for the time of year.’ He was grinning again. ‘I feel as if I’m being interviewed by a minor royal.’

      Tara smacked her cup back into its saucer. ‘I thought you preferred direct questions.’

      ‘When they lead to an exchange of information.’ The blue eyes challenged her again. ‘Not when they’re being used as a barrier to hide behind.’

      ‘You have a vivid imagination,’ she said coldly. ‘What am I supposed to be hiding from, pray?’

      ‘I wish I knew,’ he murmured.

      ‘I’m sorry if you don’t find me particularly scintillating company,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘But I’ve had a very long and rather trying day.’

      ‘With myself as the chief trial, no doubt,’ he said cheerfully. He swallowed the rest of his coffee and pushed his chair back. ‘So, to prove my heart’s in the right place, I’ll rid you of my presence as soon as I’ve helped with the washing up.’