Tara hadn’t met Susan’s father, although she had heard a lot about him. Susan adored him and talked of him constantly. Tara had built up the impression of a kindly, indulgent man who was no match for his aggressive, domineering wife.
‘Is your mother coming back as well?’ Tara asked unenthusiastically. She had only met Susan’s mother once and had gained the distinct impression that Hilary Harvey hadn’t liked her; an impression which was confirmed when Susan had confided artlessly that her mother generally disliked all her friends.
The Manor House had been built during the reign of Queen Anne and the mellow late afternoon spring sun bathed the front of the building in a golden glow. Tara, always acutely sensitive to moods and surroundings, felt touched by a nostalgia she could barely understand as she brought her cycle to a halt several yards from the house.
‘Come on,’ Susan called, less attuned to the golden perfection of the afternoon. ‘I’m hungry!’
A housekeeper looked after the house in Susan’s mother’s absence; providing meals and a watchful eye, although it was far less strict than Tara’s mother’s, and Tara was often slightly shocked by the amount of freedom Susan was allowed.
Even now she felt a little surprised by the ease with which she had been able to persuade her mother to allow her to stay overnight with Susan.
When they had first met Susan had talked glibly of the sophisticated life she had led with her mother, but once she had realised that Tara wasn’t impressed by her tales of wild parties at her Swiss boarding school, of the drinks and drugs indulged in by the teenage set in which she claimed to move, Susan had swiftly dropped her pseudo-sophisticated image.
Mrs Lear, the housekeeper, expressed relief when she saw that Tara was with Susan.
‘It’s my daughter,’ she explained briefly. ‘Her husband rang me a few hours ago. Gayle has started the baby and Jonathan wants to stay with little Peter while he’s at the hospital. I didn’t want to leave Miss Susan on her own, but if you’re staying overnight…’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Tara assured her. ‘You go to your daughter, Mrs Lear, don’t worry about us.’
When Mrs Lear had gone Tara briskly set about preparing an omelette for their evening meal, watched by Susan with undisguised awe.
‘Grief!’ she exclaimed watching Tara’s expertise. ‘I can’t even boil an egg.’
‘You’re going to have to find a rich husband, then,’ Tara teased, ‘or hasn’t your mother told you yet that the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?’
‘My mother believes that the best way to get a man is to buy him,’ Susan retorted cynically, the bitter expression on her young face shocking Tara into silence. She had heard rumours in the small town about Susan’s mother, but had naïvely dismissed them as mere gossip. What was Susan implying? That her mother was unfaithful to her father? No one apart from Susan seemed to mention Mr Harvey. Susan’s mother was the one who controlled the family reins. Susan had once told her that her mother had been left a lot of money by her parents and that this money was invested in various businesses in America, where Susan’s grandparents had lived. But what of Susan’s father? What did he do for a living? Susan had said vaguely once that he was abroad ‘working’, and knowing how sensitive she was on the subject of her parents Tara had been reluctant to pry. Susan was fiercely defensive of her father, but privately Tara suspected he was too gentle and weak to stand up to his strong-willed wife, even to protect his child. She knew it was wrong of her, but she tended to despise him a little. Couldn’t he see that Susan needed him?
This thought was very much uppermost in Tara’s mind when she undressed for bed in the room next to Susan’s. As she had discovered during previous visits to the Manor House, Susan suffered from frightening nightmares, often crying out in the night for her father, although in the morning she appeared to rem
ember nothing of them.
She didn’t know which was worse, Tara mused as she slid in between the expensive pure cotton sheets—having a father one rarely saw, or being deprived of one altogether as she had been.
She fell into a light sleep from which she woke abruptly, ears straining in the heavy silence without knowing what she was listening for.
It was the dryness of her throat that prompted her to go downstairs to the kitchen in search of a cooling drink. She knew the house well enough not to need to switch on any lights. The kitchen door was ajar and she pushed it open, automatically flinching as her bare feet came into contact with the icy cold ceramic floor tiles. She was just about to turn on the cold tap when the atavistic prickling of the tiny hairs on her arms warned her that she wasn’t alone. She swung round in panic at the precise moment that strong fingers gripped her bare upper arms, warm male breath brushing her hair as an incredulous voice proclaimed softly, ‘Sue?’
Responding automatically, Tara stammered, ‘Sue’s in bed. I’m her friend Tara…’
‘Lord, yes,’ the husky voice continued tiredly. ‘She mentioned you in her last letter.’ Her arms were released and Tara saw his bulky shadow move as he reached for the light switch.
As the harsh brilliance flooded the kitchen she blinked hazily, forgetting the transparency of her thin cotton nightdress—a year old and almost outgrown, the thin fabric stretched tight across the taut swell of her high breasts. When she opened her eyes she reeled in shock, recognising even in her naïvety and inexperience the potent masculinity of the man standing opposite her. Tiredness did nothing to detract from the lean suppleness of his six-foot-odd frame, a thin black polo-necked wool sweater clinging to the powerful muscles of his shoulders and chest, narrow black trousers revealing the taut thrust of male hipbones and thighs. Against her will Tara’s gaze returned to his face, and her eyes rounded with surprise as they recognised the smouldering sensual appeal of dark blue eyes and the dangerous attraction of the hardboned, totally male face in which they were set.
‘Who… who are you?’ she demanded hesitantly at last, striving to hang on to her dignity and the responsibility Mrs Lear had thrust upon her shoulders. The hideous possibility that this man might be some undesirable acquaintance of whom Susan’s mother would undoubtedly disapprove could not be ignored. One glance had been sufficient to convince her that this man, whoever he was, was no fit companion for a fourteen-year-old girl. He bore all the signs of experience and cynicism which even Tara recognised as being a lethal and highly explosive mixture, and yet despite her revealing attire there was nothing in the icy blue eyes to make her feel uncomfortable as they skimmed quickly over her pale worried face and slender, coltish body.
‘Where’s Mrs Lear?’ he demanded calmly, ignoring Tara’s question, indifference giving way to anger as her expression betrayed her and he exhaled smokily, his eyes darkening. ‘Don’t tell me Hilary’s left Sue in this barn of a place with no one but another schoolgirl for company?’
‘Mrs Lear had to leave unexpectedly,’ Tara told him hurriedly, recognising instinctively the tone of authority in his voice and wanting to protect the housekeeper. ‘How did you get in? The doors were locked—I checked myself.’
‘And now you’re looking at me as though I were Lucifer himself,’ he mocked softly. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. Nothing so dramatic. I used this.’ He produced a key, and grimaced suddenly, flexing his shoulders. ‘God, I’m tired! Transatlantic flights are a refined form of torture. There wouldn’t happen to be any milk in the fridge, would there?’ When Tara nodded he dropped wearily into a chair, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning backwards eyes slightly closed, hands clasped loosely in front of him. ‘Be a good girl and pour me a glass,’ he said softly without moving.
Compelled by a will stronger than her own, Tara did as he demanded, and placed the glass in front of him on the table.
‘It’s all right, I don’t bite,’ he told her sardonically, making her jump as she pushed the glass hesitantly towards him, and she wondered how he had known she was nervous when his eyes were closed.
‘How is Sue?’ he asked when he had drained the glass. ‘She’s had a rough time recently, poor kid. Hilary isn’t the best of mothers. No comment?’ he said wryly. ‘Tactful but unnecessary. Hilary herself makes no secret of the fact that she finds motherhood an unwanted chore. Now why are you looking at me like that?’ Suddenly the blue eyes were open, watching her with an unwavering glance that was acutely perceptive.
‘I’ll get you something to eat,’ Tara heard herself saying nervously. ‘You must be hungry. Travelling always makes me feel hungry.’ She was babbling nonsense, but she couldn’t seem to stop, her eyes constantly avoiding those searching blue ones as she bustled about the kitchen.