‘But Pen doesn’t have exclusive rights, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’ Mark was watching her over the top of his mug. ‘Plus, he’s a nice guy and it would do you good to go out—flutter your wings a little.’
He paused. ‘After all, you know what they say about all work and no play.’
‘I have heard it before,’ she admitted tautly. ‘But even if Justin isn’t messing Penny about, it makes no difference. I—I shan’t be accepting his invitation. And I’ll take my drink to my room, if that’s all right.’
‘It isn’t,’ he said laconically. ‘To use a cliché—we need to talk.’
She lifted her chin. ‘If it’s about Justin, it’s pointless.’
‘May I know why?’
‘I’d have thought it would be obvious—especially to you.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll be moving very soon. End of story.’
‘But I’d be happy to pass on your new address.’ Those amazing green eyes were watching her steadily. ‘Except, of course, you don’t have one—do you? Because you haven’t been able to find anywhere else to live in London. Isn’t that the truth of it?’
She looked down at her hands, clasped round the mug. ‘No.’ It hurt to have to admit her failure and to him of all people. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘So what are you planning to do?’
She hunched a shoulder, still not looking at him. ‘Go back to my parents’ home.’
‘But that isn’t what you want.’
‘I don’t really have any other choice.’
He nodded. ‘And, of course, you think Justin may hesitate over pursuing you back to whatever rural fastness you came from.’
‘It’s hardly likely.’ The fragrant chocolate was smooth comfort against the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘But, as we’ve only just met, it’s not a major concern. And I’m sure someone as attractive as Justin won’t feel too put out.’
‘Possibly not.’ He was leaning back against the cushions, those endless legs stretched out in front of him, his gaze meditative. ‘But it seems a pity to reject him out of hand. So why don’t you forget the looming deadline for your departure and stay on here?’
She almost spilled her chocolate. ‘Stay—here?’ Her voice was hoarse.
‘Why?’
‘Because I think you deserve a chance.’
Her mind was reeling. ‘With—Justin?’
‘No, to finish your book, you little idiot. Your love-life’s your own business. But you need peace and quiet in which to work, and I can provide that.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I’m seriously grateful about tonight.’
‘But I already said—we’re quits.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘maybe I’ll ask another favour some time, if that makes you feel better.’
She wasn’t sure how it made her feel, so she sipped at her chocolate as she tried to collect her random thoughts.
Eventually, she said, ‘I don’t think Miss Randall will be very pleased when she finds out.’
He shrugged. ‘Why should she care? You’re being invited to continue your occupation of my spare room, sweetheart, not move into my bed.’
The muscles in her chest seemed to clench oddly. She had to control her voice. ‘But you don’t want me here. You’ve made that clear.’
‘I won’t be here a great deal myself. I have several trips abroad coming up, and maybe a flat-sitter isn’t such a bad idea.’ He smiled at her. ‘And you like the place, don’t you? I’ve noticed the way you move round it—the pleasure with which you look at things—handle them as if they were precious.’
She tried for lightness. ‘I didn’t realise I was under such close observation.’
‘Security.’ He echoed her tone. ‘I had to be sure you weren’t a burglar’s moll.’
He finished his chocolate. ‘So—are you going to stay? I’m offering the same terms as Kit.’
She hesitated. ‘In that case, yes, please.’ She tried a smile. ‘Although I could always cook you the occasional meal.’
He shook his head. ‘This evening was a one-off. Same roof—separate lives. That’s the deal.’
‘Of course.’ She put down her empty mug and rose. ‘In that case, thank you, Mr Benedict, and … I wish you goodnight. It seems it’s my turn to be grateful.’
‘One other thing.’ As she reached the door, his voice halted her. ‘My name is Mark. Think you can remember that?’
She said huskily, ‘I … can try.’
And, as she went away from him, down the passage to her own room, she found herself wondering if she’d found the perfect solution to her problems—or just made the biggest mistake of her life. She realised she could not find an answer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TALLIE woke the next morning, uneasily aware that she was still unsure whether she’d made the right decision.
She sat up slowly, looking round her tranquil, sun-filled room, telling herself it was perfect—the ideal working environment. Reminding herself how much she’d written there over the past week in spite of everything.
Why, even last night, instead of going straight to bed, she’d sat down and finished the scene she’d been working on, although not in the way she’d originally intended, she admitted wryly.
Because after The Kiss which Hugo Cantrell had inflicted on the kicking and struggling Mariana, they’d been interrupted by the sound of feet thundering up the rickety stairs and furious voices baying for blood. And, instead of using her as his shield, Hugo had inexplicably picked Mariana up in his arms and strode with her to the window.
‘Here.’ He pushed a leather purse heavy with coins into her hand. ‘My winnings. Now, go while you can, because they won’t spare either of us.’
And, before she could scream in protest, he’d pushed her slender body through the narrow casement, dropping her into a hay-wagon passing below.
And as she lay, winded but otherwise undamaged, she heard from the inn the crashing of splintering wood and the chilling sound of a man shouting in pain.
That, at least, was what she’d originally planned.
Well, maybe even the nastiest pieces of work had their moments of weakness, Tallie conceded reluctantly. As Mark Benedict had surprisingly demonstrated last night.
But even if she’d let Hugo slip out of character for a few minutes, and she wasn’t sure why that had happened, he was still the villain of the piece and nothing was going to change that.
And Mariana was definitely not going to return at some point, to find him broken and bleeding, so that she could bandage up his injuries with her torn-up petticoat and nurse him back to health in some remote barn.
Because any spare petticoats she had would be devoted to William, wounded during his gallant actions at Salamanca, probably by a sabre cut during Le Marchant’s charge, she thought. Because he was the hero, and she must make sure the reader knew it.
But it was last night’s decision that was still at the forefront of her mind as she showered and dressed. The flat seemed deserted when she emerged from her room, and for a moment she thought Mark had already