The Devil at Archangel by Sara Craven

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