Secrets: One Night in His Arms / Taken for Revenge, Bedded for Pleasure. PENNY JORDAN
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could not do—not any longer.
As she brought the Discovery to a halt outside the house she hastily averted her eyes from the spot where last night … What had happened last night was something she had no intention of dwelling on nor trying to analyse; it had been a mistake, an error of judgement, a total and complete aberration and something which had, no doubt, been brought on by some kind of jet lag, some kind of inexplicable imbalance, and it really wasn’t worthy of having her waste any time agonising over it.
Unlocking the huge door, she turned the handle and took a deep breath as she pushed it open and stepped inside. Resolutely ignoring the echoing sound of her own footsteps, she hurried to where she and Ran had left off their inspection the previous day. In her bag she had an inventory and a plan of the house, but an hour later she was forced to admit that it was proving far less interesting inspecting the rooms on her own than it had been yesterday, with Ran’s informative descriptions of the rooms and their original uses.
From previous experience she knew that in a very short space of time she herself would be completely familiar with the house’s layout and its history, but right now … She gave a small scream as a mouse scuttled across the floor right in front of her. She had always had an irrational fear of them—they moved so fast and so far, and she had never totally got over an unpleasant childhood experience of having one jump towards her as it ran from one of the stable cats.
She was working her way along the upper floor when she suddenly heard Ran calling her name. Stiffening, she stood where she was. Mrs Elliott must have told him that he would find her here. In her bag she had the report and the costings he had commissioned for treatment of the wet and dry rot. Firmly she walked towards the door, opened it and called out, ‘I’m up here, Ran …’
‘You shouldn’t have come here on your own,’ he cautioned her as he came down the corridor towards her.
‘Why not? The house isn’t haunted, is it?’ she mocked him sarcastically.
‘Not as far as I know,’ he agreed, ‘but the floors, especially on these upper two floors, aren’t totally to be trusted, and if you should have had an accident—’
‘How very thoughtful of you to be concerned, Ran,’ Sylvie interrupted him. ‘Almost as thoughtful as it was of you to commission these reports.’
As she spoke she removed the reports from her bag and waved them under his nose. ‘Or am I being naive and would ‘‘self-interested’’ be a much truer description?’
Ran started to frown.
‘I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, Sylvie,’ he began, but she wouldn’t let him go any further, challenging him immediately,
‘Don’t you, Ran? I read the reports from the surveyors this morning. Tucked in at the back of the estimates you’d obtained was this …’
Coolly she handed him the costing for the work on the Rectory.
‘So?’ Ran shrugged after he had scanned the piece of paper she proffered.
‘This particular costing relates to work that needs to be carried out on the Rectory, your own private house,’ Sylvie pointed out patiently.
‘And …?’ Ran demanded, frowning at her before telling her, ‘I’m sorry, Sylvie, but I’m afraid I’m at a loss to understand exactly what it is you’re driving at. The Rectory needed some work doing on it to put right the dry rot the surveyors found, and—’
‘You decided to slip the bill for that work in amongst the bills for the work that was needed on Haverton Hall, to lose it amongst the admittedly far greater cost of the work needed here!’
‘What?’ Ran demanded ominously quietly, his expression as well as his voice betraying his outrage.
‘I don’t like what you’re trying to suggest, Sylvie,’ he told her sharply.
She shook her head and told him thinly, ‘Neither do I, Ran. But the facts speak for themselves.’
‘Do they?’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘I rather think it’s your overheated imagination that’s doing the ‘‘speaking’’ through your totally erroneous interpretation of them,’ he told her through gritted teeth.
‘You can’t deny the evidence of this report,’ Sylvie reminded him sternly.
‘What evidence?’ Ran demanded. ‘This is a report and an estimate for work on the Rectory—work which I have had carried out at my own expense; the only reason the report and costing is there at all is because I omitted to remove it when I had the documents copied for you …’
‘You’ve paid for the work on the Rectory yourself?’ Sylvie queried in disbelief.
Ran’s mouth thinned.
‘Perhaps you’d like to see the receipts,’ he challenged her.
‘Yes, I would,’ Sylvie responded doggedly, refusing to let him cow her even though she could feel her face starting to burn self-consciously and her stomach beginning to churn as she contemplated just how foolish she was going to look if Ran did produce such receipts.
‘Mrs Elliott tells me that you’re going out for dinner this evening.’
Sylvie stared at him, thrown by his abrupt change of subject.
‘Yes. Yes, I am,’ she agreed.
‘There isn’t a decent restaurant for miles,’ he told her, ‘and certainly not one that offers fresh wild salmon; it’s always been one of your favourites … ‘
‘Perhaps my tastes have changed,’ Sylvie said a little loftily, adding robustly, ‘Unlike yours …’
As he started to frown she explained sweetly, ‘I saw your … friend. She called at the Rectory just as I was leaving. I’m sure she’d be more than delighted to share your salmon with you, Ran,’ she told him coolly. ‘Now, about those receipts …’
Inwardly Sylvie shivered a bit as she saw the anger flare in his eyes but outwardly she stood her ground. It was, after all, her job to make sure that the Trust wasn’t cheated—by anyone.
‘Of course,’ Ran told her formally, inclining his head as though in defeat, but then, just as Sylvie started to draw a relieved breath, he gave her a dangerously vulpine smile and told her softly, ‘But I’m afraid it will have to be this evening as I have a business meeting tomorrow morning and then I shall probably be away for several days …’
‘With your … friend …?’
Later Sylvie could only despair over whatever it was that had led her to make such a dangerously betraying and provocative remark, but inexplicably the words were out before she could stop them, causing Ran, who had been on the point of turning away from her, to turn back and slowly scrutinise her from head to foot before asking her softly, ‘If you mean Vicky, is that really any of your business … or the Trust’s …?’
He had caught her out and Sylvie knew it. It most certainly was not part of her duty as the Trust’s representative to ask any questions about his personal life, and she was mortified that she had done so.
‘If you want to see the receipts for the work on the Rectory then it will have to be this evening, Sylvie,’ Ran was repeating briskly. ‘Shall we say about eight-thirty?’
Before she could say anything else he had gone, striding across the dusty floor and leaving her to watch his departing back.
It was a good ten minutes after she had heard the noise of his Land Rover engine die away before Sylvie felt able to continue with her work. Her intelligence told her that their antagonism was coming between her and the normally wisely efficient way in which she dealt with even the most awkward of the Trust’s clients, but her emotions refused to allow her to back down, to climb down. If she was wary of him, suspicious of him, then she had every right to be.
And