she felt an odd reluctance to rummage through his
things to find the comb he had offered. There was an implied
intimacy in such an action that she felt she should avoid at all costs.
She glanced perfunctorily in the mirror and tried to reduce the worst
of the tangles with her fingers. She looked—different, she thought.
The sun and wind had; put more colour than usual in her face, and her
eyes looked strangely bright. She glanced rather doubtfully down at
herself. The jeans fitted her closely, and the rather skimpy top clung
to her slight curves as if it loved them. She tugged at it tentatively,
wondering if there was some way of making it less revealing, then
stopped, vexed with herself. She was over-reacting. There was no
need for all this concern. Hadn't he said himself that he had no
designs on her?
She turned away and walked out through the beaded curtain into the
living room. Devlin was at the far end, busying himself with a coffee
pot and mugs, and he glanced round as Christina entered. She
hesitated, the aroma of the coffee suddenly beguiling in her nostrils.
That breakfast she had enjoyed suddenly seemed to have been a long
time ago and when he held a brimming mug out to her, it was churlish
to refuse.. So she accepted it with a murmured word of thanks and sat
down on the edge of the studio couch. For a few moments she was
tense in case he came to sit beside her, but he seemed content to prowl
about the room, sipping at his coffee.
It gave her the opportunity to study the room more closely. It had a
casual comfort that she had not encountered up at the house and
which had an appeal all its own.
But it was essentially a masculine apartment. There was a rack of
guns on one wall, and a clutter of serviceable-looking fishing
equipment against another. There were no signs of female occupation
even on a temporary basis.
She cleared her throat of a slight huskiness. 'Have you lived here
long?'
'For the past four years—since my parents died. This was their
place—their retreat if you like. They built the landing stage for their
own boat.'
Christina glanced at him, startled. She had forgotten for a moment
that he must be the son of Mrs Brandon's sister Madeleine who had
died with her husband in some kind accident at sea. She wondered if
it was painful for him to be reminded of the fact, but his enigmatic
expression gave her no clue.
'And you live here alone?' Now what had possessed her to ask him
that? she wondered despairingly as he sent her an amused glance.
'What an improper question,' he said lightly. 'You surely don't
expect me to answer it.' 1
Her face flaming, Christina bent her head over her coffee mug.
'Besides,' he went on, his tone hardening slightly, 'I'm quite sure that
my aunt—or someone—has already dropped you a hint about my
wicked lusts and other depravities. I assumed that's why you took to
your heels when you saw me this morning. On the other hand, it may
have occurred to you that running away can be a very provocative
thing to do.'
'I certainly didn't mean to be provocative.' She tucked an errant strand
of hair back behind her ear with fingers that trembled slightly;
'Perhaps it was simply that I didn't want to talk to you—or anyone
else. I was enjoying being alone.'
'That's a strange admission from a professional companion.' He stood
looking down at her. 'Or have you decided to forget about that
particular piece of fiction?'
'It happens to be fact,' she said tautly. 'I'm sorry that you can't accept it
as such. But even if I do have a liking for solitude at times, it won't
affect your aunt. I shan't neglect the duties she's paying me for.'
'That's a Christina statement,' he said lazily. 'And I don't doubt the
sincerity behind it—or its truth. My aunt wouldn't allow you to
neglect her. But you stick to your guns, little one. Keep telling
yourself that you've been brought here to be a companion. Only don't
try telling me.'
'Why
things to find the comb he had offered. There was an implied
intimacy in such an action that she felt she should avoid at all costs.
She glanced perfunctorily in the mirror and tried to reduce the worst
of the tangles with her fingers. She looked—different, she thought.
The sun and wind had; put more colour than usual in her face, and her
eyes looked strangely bright. She glanced rather doubtfully down at
herself. The jeans fitted her closely, and the rather skimpy top clung
to her slight curves as if it loved them. She tugged at it tentatively,
wondering if there was some way of making it less revealing, then
stopped, vexed with herself. She was over-reacting. There was no
need for all this concern. Hadn't he said himself that he had no
designs on her?
She turned away and walked out through the beaded curtain into the
living room. Devlin was at the far end, busying himself with a coffee
pot and mugs, and he glanced round as Christina entered. She
hesitated, the aroma of the coffee suddenly beguiling in her nostrils.
That breakfast she had enjoyed suddenly seemed to have been a long
time ago and when he held a brimming mug out to her, it was churlish
to refuse.. So she accepted it with a murmured word of thanks and sat
down on the edge of the studio couch. For a few moments she was
tense in case he came to sit beside her, but he seemed content to prowl
about the room, sipping at his coffee.
It gave her the opportunity to study the room more closely. It had a
casual comfort that she had not encountered up at the house and
which had an appeal all its own.
But it was essentially a masculine apartment. There was a rack of
guns on one wall, and a clutter of serviceable-looking fishing
equipment against another. There were no signs of female occupation
even on a temporary basis.
She cleared her throat of a slight huskiness. 'Have you lived here
long?'
'For the past four years—since my parents died. This was their
place—their retreat if you like. They built the landing stage for their
own boat.'
Christina glanced at him, startled. She had forgotten for a moment
that he must be the son of Mrs Brandon's sister Madeleine who had
died with her husband in some kind accident at sea. She wondered if
it was painful for him to be reminded of the fact, but his enigmatic
expression gave her no clue.
'And you live here alone?' Now what had possessed her to ask him
that? she wondered despairingly as he sent her an amused glance.
'What an improper question,' he said lightly. 'You surely don't
expect me to answer it.' 1
Her face flaming, Christina bent her head over her coffee mug.
'Besides,' he went on, his tone hardening slightly, 'I'm quite sure that
my aunt—or someone—has already dropped you a hint about my
wicked lusts and other depravities. I assumed that's why you took to
your heels when you saw me this morning. On the other hand, it may
have occurred to you that running away can be a very provocative
thing to do.'
'I certainly didn't mean to be provocative.' She tucked an errant strand
of hair back behind her ear with fingers that trembled slightly;
'Perhaps it was simply that I didn't want to talk to you—or anyone
else. I was enjoying being alone.'
'That's a strange admission from a professional companion.' He stood
looking down at her. 'Or have you decided to forget about that
particular piece of fiction?'
'It happens to be fact,' she said tautly. 'I'm sorry that you can't accept it
as such. But even if I do have a liking for solitude at times, it won't
affect your aunt. I shan't neglect the duties she's paying me for.'
'That's a Christina statement,' he said lazily. 'And I don't doubt the
sincerity behind it—or its truth. My aunt wouldn't allow you to
neglect her. But you stick to your guns, little one. Keep telling
yourself that you've been brought here to be a companion. Only don't
try telling me.'
'Why
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