house.
Phoebe found she was becoming interested, more or less in spite of herself. Apart from the drawing room, which had been crammed with people, she hadn't seen a great deal of the house on her first visit. But, to her relief, Carrie drew the line at showing her the master bedroom, merely pointing out its closed door in passing.
Up in the nursery area, Phoebe was instructed about the care of Tara's clothes and toys, and shown where everything was kept.
'You won't have to do any actual cleaning. Mrs Watson from the village comes three times a week for that. But you'll be expected to keep these rooms tidy,' Carrie told her. 'Miss Tara's not a great one for putting things away, so you'll have to be firm.'
It doesn't matter, Phoebe wanted to yell, because I'm not staying. I've decided, once and for all, that I don't dare. Because, heaven help me, I can't trust myself.
In reality, she said nothing. Just smiled rather wanly and nodded.
Lunch was home-made broth with crusty bread, and fresh fruit to follow. In spite of her emotional turmoil, Phoebe ate everything that was put before her.
She was shown how to operate the dishwasher and the washing machine. Then, under Carrie's critical eye, she dealt with a basket of ironing deftly and neatly, and replaced a missing button on a small dress.
'My, the days are drawing in.' Carrie shook her head as she .looked out of the window. 'It'll be quite dark soon, and I've left a few things on the line in the orchard. Bring them in for me, there's a good girl.'
The strong wind had twisted most of the garments round the washing line, and it nipped at Phoebe as she struggled to free them.
Above its shrill whine, she heard Dominic quietly say, 'Phoebe.'
She dropped the final pair of Tara's woollen tights into the clothes basket and turned slowly to face him. She hadn't heard his approach over the damp grass, but, even before he'd spoken, she'd felt a sharp ripple of awareness—was conscious that her mouth had already begun to curve into a smile, which she had to hastily wipe away.
He was standing a few yards away from her. Even in the fading light, she could see that the dark face looked strained. That his tall figure was tensed—against what? The possibility of rejection?
But that was ridiculous, she thought. He was still the arrogant Dominic Ashton. Still the Dark Lord of a dream that could so easily develop into yet another nightmare.
A man to avoid. To evade. And soon.
He said simply, 'I'm going to collect Tara from school. Will you come with me?'
And against every instinct, against all reason, Phoebe heard herself say, 'Yes.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
D OMINIC didn't speak. But for a moment Phoebe thought he was going to step forward—reach for her in some way—and every nerve in her body was suddenly tense and tingling.
She swallowed, clutching the basket of clothes as if it were a shield. Because if he touched her she didn't know what she would do. How she would react. And the realisation frightened her, sent her mind spinning.
It was as if she was joined to him by some intense, mutual need that she had never thought to experience, and that she couldn't begin to understand.
He hadn't moved a muscle, but all the same she felt— taken. Stamped for ever by some mark of possession.
Then, as if the invisible cord between them had been slashed with a knife, she was just as suddenly free again, her legs shaking under her, her heart thudding against her ribcage.
He said laconically, 'Get your coat. I'll see you on the front drive in five minutes.' And he turned and went, leaving her staring after him.
After she'd left the clothes basket in the kitchen, explained to Carrie where she was going and fetched her jacket from her room, she had an excuse to be breathless when she joined him on the drive.
He was waiting beside the little Peugeot she'd last seen in the car park beside the market.
'You'll have the use of this while you work for me.' He handed her the keys. 'Let's see
Phoebe found she was becoming interested, more or less in spite of herself. Apart from the drawing room, which had been crammed with people, she hadn't seen a great deal of the house on her first visit. But, to her relief, Carrie drew the line at showing her the master bedroom, merely pointing out its closed door in passing.
Up in the nursery area, Phoebe was instructed about the care of Tara's clothes and toys, and shown where everything was kept.
'You won't have to do any actual cleaning. Mrs Watson from the village comes three times a week for that. But you'll be expected to keep these rooms tidy,' Carrie told her. 'Miss Tara's not a great one for putting things away, so you'll have to be firm.'
It doesn't matter, Phoebe wanted to yell, because I'm not staying. I've decided, once and for all, that I don't dare. Because, heaven help me, I can't trust myself.
In reality, she said nothing. Just smiled rather wanly and nodded.
Lunch was home-made broth with crusty bread, and fresh fruit to follow. In spite of her emotional turmoil, Phoebe ate everything that was put before her.
She was shown how to operate the dishwasher and the washing machine. Then, under Carrie's critical eye, she dealt with a basket of ironing deftly and neatly, and replaced a missing button on a small dress.
'My, the days are drawing in.' Carrie shook her head as she .looked out of the window. 'It'll be quite dark soon, and I've left a few things on the line in the orchard. Bring them in for me, there's a good girl.'
The strong wind had twisted most of the garments round the washing line, and it nipped at Phoebe as she struggled to free them.
Above its shrill whine, she heard Dominic quietly say, 'Phoebe.'
She dropped the final pair of Tara's woollen tights into the clothes basket and turned slowly to face him. She hadn't heard his approach over the damp grass, but, even before he'd spoken, she'd felt a sharp ripple of awareness—was conscious that her mouth had already begun to curve into a smile, which she had to hastily wipe away.
He was standing a few yards away from her. Even in the fading light, she could see that the dark face looked strained. That his tall figure was tensed—against what? The possibility of rejection?
But that was ridiculous, she thought. He was still the arrogant Dominic Ashton. Still the Dark Lord of a dream that could so easily develop into yet another nightmare.
A man to avoid. To evade. And soon.
He said simply, 'I'm going to collect Tara from school. Will you come with me?'
And against every instinct, against all reason, Phoebe heard herself say, 'Yes.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
D OMINIC didn't speak. But for a moment Phoebe thought he was going to step forward—reach for her in some way—and every nerve in her body was suddenly tense and tingling.
She swallowed, clutching the basket of clothes as if it were a shield. Because if he touched her she didn't know what she would do. How she would react. And the realisation frightened her, sent her mind spinning.
It was as if she was joined to him by some intense, mutual need that she had never thought to experience, and that she couldn't begin to understand.
He hadn't moved a muscle, but all the same she felt— taken. Stamped for ever by some mark of possession.
Then, as if the invisible cord between them had been slashed with a knife, she was just as suddenly free again, her legs shaking under her, her heart thudding against her ribcage.
He said laconically, 'Get your coat. I'll see you on the front drive in five minutes.' And he turned and went, leaving her staring after him.
After she'd left the clothes basket in the kitchen, explained to Carrie where she was going and fetched her jacket from her room, she had an excuse to be breathless when she joined him on the drive.
He was waiting beside the little Peugeot she'd last seen in the car park beside the market.
'You'll have the use of this while you work for me.' He handed her the keys. 'Let's see
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