The Tycoon's Forbidden Temptation Read online

  Afterwards they explored the town’s shops and paused to study the illuminated outline of the castle in the darkness of the late autumn afternoon before returning to the car to drive to the hotel where they were to dine.

  There was no need for them to return to change, Tom had assured Chelsea. The hotel he had chosen served first-class food in an atmosphere geared to appreciation of the dishes rather than the patrons’ clothes.

  It was nearly seven when they reached it via a narrow winding country road, and Chelsea was delighted to see that the hotel incorporated what had once been one of the Border peel towers.

  ‘Until a few years ago it was a private house,’ Tom told her. ‘It’s been extended at the back and modernised, and they seem to do quite well from people coming up here for peace and quiet, and as I said, the restaurant has a very good reputation.’

  Despite the fact that he lived at home with his parents, Tom had travelled extensively before working in New Zealand, and Chelsea found him a far more entertaining companion than many of the so-called ‘sophisticated professional’ men she knew in Melchester.

  The hotel restaurant was attractively designed and furnished to take the most advantage of the natural, exposed stone walls and floor without in any way sacrificing either comfort or warmth. A huge open fire at one end of the room supplied the latter, and Chelsea noticed when she was handed her menu that the choice was every bit as extensive as she would have found in a London restaurant.

  ‘I can recommend the steak,’ Tom told her. ‘It will be best Scotch beef.’

  Heeding his advice, Chelsea gave her order. After a brief consultation with the wine waiter, Tom asked for her preference.

  During the evening the restaurant gradually filled up, and although the staff were obviously busy, Chelsea found it a pleasant change not to be hurried away so that someone else could occupy their table.

  Feeling pleasantly mellow, she thanked Tom for the evening as they eventually sauntered out to the car. Somehow when she was with him she found it unnecessary to adopt the defensive tactics she used with other men. Ridiculous though it sounded, in many ways he could have been the brother she had never had; a true friend whom one could depend on… Steady, she warned herself as he unlocked the Range Rover; you’ve known him less than a month… She glanced sideways into his pleasant, cheerful face.

  ‘Warm enough?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve really enjoyed today.’

  ‘Me too. You know, it’s a real treat to take out a girl who isn’t constantly expecting compliments; who doesn’t try to turn every conversation into personal channels…’

  For the first time that she could remember Chelsea found that she was not dreading the inevitable goodnight kiss at the end of their ride with any sense of trepidation. She glanced at Tom surreptitiously. He radiated a warm steadfastness, a sturdy dependability. Her mouth quirked upwards in faint self-mockery. She was getting soft in her old age; longing for the protective caring male—but to protect her from what? she wondered soberly. That part of her nature so brutally revealed to her by Slade Ashford? Tom would never arouse her as Slade had done; she knew that instinctively and was reassured by it. Slade had reminded her too acutely of Darren and how close she had come to giving herself completely to the playwright. Deep down inside her but hitherto unacknowledged was the fear that there was vulnerability in passion, in giving oneself wholly into the keeping of another human being, and having been so vulnerable once she intended to make sure that she never was again. With Tom she would never feel vulnerable.

  It had started to rain and the hypnotic sound of the windscreen wipers lulled her into drowsiness. She relaxed into her seat, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. Tom glanced at her and smiled. He had enjoyed their evening together, and hoped it would be the forerunner of many. He liked Chelsea for her honesty as much as her beauty. He was honest enough to admit that she had an untouched quality which appealed very strongly to him.

  The sudden cessation of movement woke her. She opened her eyes with a start, smiling wryly as she realised that they were parked in front of the Dower House.

  ‘How very rude of me,’ she apologised, ‘falling asleep like that.’

  ‘Umm, pity you woke up when you did,’ Tom grinned. ‘I was rather fancying the handsome prince bit. In fact…’ He bent towards her, his left arm curving round her shoulders, and drew her gently towards him.

  There was ample opportunity for her to withdraw, but strangely enough she had no desire to do so. When he did kiss her, it was a tentative gentle kiss.

  ‘Tom…’

  ‘I know,’ he said ruefully, ‘it’s late and you have to be up early in the morning. Me too, but I have enjoyed this evening, Chelsea, and I’d like to think there’ll be others.’

  His mouth was smiling, but there was a question in his eyes that couldn’t be ignored.

  Impulsively Chelsea nodded her head.

  ‘Good. I suppose you’d better go in before Mrs Rudge comes out to see what we’re doing.’

  She paused by the front door to wave Tom off, a new buoyant mood taking hold of her. She had enjoyed the evening; they had a good deal in common, and if their relationship threatened to lack the intense sexual electricity generated by other couples, she for one did not regret the omission.

  Her hand was on the door when it was jerked open from the inside, almost causing her to lose her balance.

  The first thing her startled eyes encountered was a pair of male thighs encased in expensive cream gaberdine. Her glance travelled mutely upwards, and bewilderment gave way to consternation as she found herself looking into Slade Ashford’s icy-cold green eyes.

  ‘You! But…’

  ‘I’m the last person you expected to see again?’ he jeered. ‘What do you do? Map out an area and then fish it dry?’

  ‘You followed me up here? But…’

  ‘You thought you’d covered your tracks too well? You had,’ he agreed curtly. ‘I didn’t come up here looking for you, but finding you is an added bonus and one of which I intend to take full advantage. You still owe me, just in case you’re in danger of forgetting. I shouldn’t have thought a place like this would appeal to a woman of your… talents.’

  Chelsea’s stupefaction evaporated in a wave of anger at the contempt in his voice.

  ‘What happened?’ he demanded contemptuously. ‘Did you cheat on one man too many, or has it finally dawned on you that even looks like yours don’t last for ever and that a doting husband is still the best form of insurance available to women like you—teasing bitches who get their kicks leading men on and then dropping them flat. Someone ought to warn young Tom about you!’

  ‘Warn? Just who do you think you are?’ Chelsea stormed at him. ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘I could ask the same question of you.’

  ‘Contrary to what you seem to think, I’m here to work,’ Chelsea snapped. ‘I’m employed by the firm working under the National Trust up at Darkwater.’

  For a moment it seemed to her that he looked surprised, but his eyes were shielded quickly by the thick dark fan of his lashes before she could be sure of what she had seen, his voice dulcet as he drawled, ‘And Tom, I take it, is merely a pleasant little diversion to help while away the time?’

  ‘He’s a gentleman, which is far more than can be said for you,’ Chelsea said bitterly.

  ‘Because he says goodnight with a chaste, adoring kiss? Oh yes, I saw it. But it didn’t turn you on, did it?’

  ‘Implying, I suppose, that your kisses did?’ Chelsea flung at him, too furious for caution. ‘God, the male ego really is incredible! You just can’t believe that I might have found your touch revolting; that I might…’

  ‘Merely have agreed to come back to my flat with me because you thought you were on to a good thing? Like I’ve just said, you still owe me, Chelsea, and I’m a man who always collects his dues.’

  Just for a moment she was tempted to wrench open the door an
d run as far and as fast as she could, but then common sense and pride prevailed. She was not going to show fear before Slade Ashford of all men!

  Fighting against the shock of his totally unexpected appearance, she marshalled her senses sufficiently to remember that while he had been insulting and questioning her, she still had no knowledge of what he was doing at the Dower House. She had just opened her mouth to demand an explanation for his presence when the door to the kitchen was suddenly opened and Mrs Rudge emerged to demand belligerently, ‘So there you are, Master Slade. Yon supper’s getting cold. Oh, it’s you back, is it?’ she sniffed when she saw Chelsea, before turning aside to mutter quite audibly under her breath about the lack of consideration of people who turned up at all hours without warning, masters of Darkwater or not.

  The blood drained from Chelsea’s face, her eyes darkening to amethyst as she stared up at him.

  ‘You own Darkwater?’

  She didn’t need his mocking assent to confirm her shocked whisper; she could read the answer in the cold green eyes and wondered dully how she had missed the proprietorial stance of the lean body, the arrogant air of ownership implicit in the hard gaze. She couldn’t stay here now, knowing whose roof she was under. First thing in the morning she would have to telephone Jerome and ask to be taken off the job.

  Firmly she refused to allow herself to feel disappointment that she would never complete the task of restoring the tapestry. How could she do so now? It was a job that demanded absolute concentration and dedication; she wouldn’t be capable of either with Slade Ashford’s presence to contend with. On a suddenly stifled breath she remembered his threat that there was still an outstanding debt between them. The tranquillity of the Borders was ruined for her now for ever; all at once it was all too easy to imagine the valley stained red with the blood of Armstrongs and Grahams.

  Hardly any imagination at all was required to picture Slade Ashford riding at the head of a band of Border reivers intent on death and destruction, and perhaps even the abduction of an enemy’s daughter.

  It was a long time before she fell into a fitful sleep disturbed by nightmares filled with cloaked riders and the harsh sounds of warfare and burning peel towers while she herself fled despairingly on foot from the horseman pursuing her, knowing without the need to turn her head that the eyes fixed so steadily on her fleeing form would be the colour of polished jade.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHELSEA was up early, showering quickly in the bathroom off her bedroom and then dressing in serviceable jeans and a checked shirt, pulling them on with brisk determined movements.

  As she stepped out of her room the door opposite opened and Slade Ashford stood there, a towel draped round his neck, his body bare to the waist. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked away hurriedly, her face burning from his openly sexual exploration of her slim jeans-clad frame.

  ‘Tell Mrs Rudge to hurry up with my tea, will you?’ he demanded carelessly.

  It was unnecessary for her to pass on the message, because she bumped into the housekeeper in the hall. Mrs Rudge’s mouth was compressed into grim disapproval, as she muttered, The old master wouldna ha’ tolerated none of this. You’ll find your breakfast in the dining room,’ she told Chelsea. ‘Coming and going without a word of warning… inconsiderate, that’s what he is!’

  Her brother-in-law had mentioned that Slade Ashford had widespread business interests, and Chelsea wondered how frequent his trips north were.

  Unable to face any breakfast, she hurried straight to the study and picked up the phone, quickly dialling Jerome’s home number.

  He answered almost straight away, sharp anxiety giving way to pleasure as he heard Chelsea’s voice.

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me you’re not feeling well!’ he warned her before Chelsea could speak. ‘Louise has just been rushed into hospital with acute appendicitis.’

  Louise was the only other skilled embroiderer he employed, and Chelsea’s heart sank. She had been hoping to persuade him to allow her to swop jobs with Louise, but in the present circumstances she could scarcely do so now. Louise’s job was nearly complete, and Chelsea knew that the National Trust were anxious to have work on the tapestry completed as quickly as possible.

  ‘Chelsea, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘I was just ringing to tell you that the tapestry is coming on very well.’

  ‘Thank God for that! I badly needed some good news.’

  They chatted for a few minutes and Chelsea was just hanging up when a soft footfall made her spin round, the receiver clutched in one hand as she glared angrily up at the tall male figure lounging against the closed door, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans emphasising the powerful muscles of his thighs.

  ‘Another string to your bow?’ Slade drawled. ‘Does your employer know you make personal phone calls during his time?’

  ‘That was my employer,’ Chelsea gritted at him, ‘and for your information, I was ringing him to ask if I could be taken off this job.’

  ‘Why? Scared I’ll blow your cover?’

  Anger flooded moltenly through her veins.

  ‘Nothing you could do could frighten me,’ she told him furiously.

  ‘No? Then perhaps it’s time it did.’

  Before she could stop him he had crossed the room, grasping her wrist with one hand while the other removed the telephone receiver. Before she had time to react she was trapped between Slade and the desk. Fear coursed through her at the proximity of his body; her own acutely sensitive to the heat coming off it; the dark hairs sprinkling arms bare to the elbow where he had rolled up his shirt sleeves. A muscle beat in his jaw, and she realised that his eyes were not, as she had thought, completely green, but flecked with yellow like those of a jungle animal, holding her in thrall.

  ‘No!’

  The sharp denial rang out between them, then the electric silence was suddenly broken as the telephone rang shrilly.

  ‘This I believe is where we came in,’ Slade drawled sardonically as he released her and reached for the receiver. ‘But it isn’t over between us yet by a long way, Chelsea.’

  Her legs were shaking as she stumbled out of the study. Mrs Rudge was waiting outside, so close to the door that Chelsea was sure she had been eavesdropping.

  ‘Gallivanting off again he’ll be now, no doubt,’ she commented, sniffing disapprovingly. ‘The master should have married and got himself some sons.’

  Sentiments with which she was totally in accord, Chelsea reflected bitterly as she forced down a piece of toast and drank her coffee scalding hot in her haste to be gone from the table before Slade reappeared.

  Where before she had loved the remoteness of Darkwater, now she wished it was closer to the village and that it was possible for her to find accommodation there, but she knew that it was impossible. For one thing she hadn’t brought her car north with her, and for another she already knew that there was no hotel or efficient public transport service from the village to Darkwater. Like it or not, she was forced to accept Slade Ashford’s hospitality until her work was completed.

  And the annoying thing was that there was no way the work could be rushed without risk.

  There had been an overnight frost that made a lacy wonderland from dead bracken and grasses. A rabbit scampered away as Chelsea walked down the drive, a plover hung against the autumn blue of the sky. Gradually as she walked her anger started to drain away, and her mouth began to twitch slightly as she started to appreciate the macabre humour of the situation. Slade Ashford must have been as shocked as she had been herself!

  She bit her lip, suddenly remembering his arrogant claim that all was not at an end between them. She had sensed on the night of the party that he was not a man to make a fool of lightly, but she had told herself that no harm had been done, and hone would have been if their paths hadn’t chanced to cross again like this.

  For a moment she toyed with the idea of telling him the truth, but dismissed the idea as too danger
ous. She had no guarantee if she did that he would not simply return to Melchester and savagely undermine all that she and Ann had done.

  No, there was simply no other course open to her but to carry on as though nothing had happened and hope that given time he would either tire of seeking retribution or come to see that he had been mistaken in her.

  The phone rang while she was busily engaged in checking the dyed embroidery silks which had been delivered that morning.

  It was Tom on the line, and Chelsea acknowledged with a pang of remorse that Slade Ashford’s presence had almost driven Tom from her mind.

  ‘Just wanted to thank you for last night,’ Tom told her cheerfully, ‘and to coax you into coming out to dinner with me again tonight—some friends of mine are having a dinner party.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Chelsea told him warmly. Going out with Tom would mean that she wouldn’t be forced to spend an evening in Slade Ashford’s company.

  When he had hung up her work engrossed her, and studying the faded design of stitched figures under a strong lamp and a magnifying glass she forgot everything in the wonder of the story stitched by so many busy female fingers so very long ago.

  Slade Ashford would have fitted better into those times than the 1980s, she thought wrathfully at one point. He was the archetypal macho male with firmly entrenched views about women’s inferiority; their lack of any right to the same sexual freedom he so clearly and arrogantly demanded for himself.

  Busily feeding her growing anger, Chelsea ignored temporarily her own view that women who indulged in sex purely for sex’s sake were a very rare breed indeed and that unlike men most women were vulnerable through the emotional commitment they gave automatically and sometimes unknowingly whenever they gave their bodies.

  When the growing darkness made further work on the tapestry itself impossible Chelsea returned to the photographs and drawings, working out in her own mind her next task, and feeling a tiny thrill of pride as she studied the work she had already done.

  ‘How demure—and how deceptive!’