Книга - Catching Katie

Catching Katie
Sophie Weston






“I want everything. I’m not a moderate man.” (#u5c7262b1-d8d0-5e17-9a47-87b24467037f)About the Author (#u9469ba1b-09d3-5cf1-ba57-948b637175f9)Title Page (#uf82952a8-62d1-527f-99db-b8f6d9f2db09)CHAPTER ONE (#uc0c0f011-f4af-5e45-bff2-25ca7ff6a20f)CHAPTER TWO (#u98b46071-4c84-5d91-97cc-619bf90209ab)CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“I want everything. I’m not a moderate man.”

“Everything?” Katie stared. “What does that mean?”

“It means I want you, body and soul. No secrets.

No lies.”

It sounded wonderful. It sounded terrifying.

“I can’t,” said Katie from her heart.

Haydon did not argue. He just looked at her for an unreadable moment. Then he said very quietly, “Will you tell me why?”

But she made a despairing gesture, not answering. He caught her hand. Katie’s whole body tingled. She should have pulled her hand away. She knew it, but she did not move. All she knew was that she had never felt like this before.

“Is there someone else?” Haydon asked evenly.

“No,” she said.

“But there has been?”

She almost told him then. But she did not know where it would lead. Or rather, she did know, exactly, and she was not feeling brave enough.

Not yet. Not quite.


Born in London, Sophie Weston is a traveler by nature who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed it so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of the city with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories.




Catching Katie

Sophie Weston







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU’RE not serious.’

Katie Marriott paused in the act of extracting herself from the bottom of the stairs. She was clasping a large artist’s easel. She was of medium height but it was bigger than she was.

‘Yes, I am,’ she said. Or rather puffed. The easel was not heavy but it was awkward, and she had wedged and balanced and pulled it down four flights of stairs. ‘I need it for my work.’

She squeezed past and found that a lock of curly red hair had tangled in a wooden joint. She detached it, wincing. Then she put both arms round the easel again and, locked in a rigid embrace, began to back toward the front door.

Andrea leaned against the doorpost and watched.

‘You look as if you’re dancing with an alien,’ she remarked helpfully.

Katie’s back was beginning to arch under the pressure.

‘Thank you very much for your support,’ she gasped over her shoulder.

Andrea took pity on her. She stepped forward and briskly righted the easel.

‘There has got,’ she announced, ‘to be an easier way to carry that thing than this. Doesn’t it collapse?’

Thus relieved, Katie straightened. She rubbed the back of her neck.

‘No, that was me collapsing,’ she said ruefully.

But Andrea, ever practical, was considering the problem. At last, she propped the easel against the wall and started twirling butterfly nuts decisively. There was a clunk and three sections abruptly telescoped. Katie stared, amazed.

Andrea dusted her hands. ‘Didn’t you know it did that?’

Katie shook her head. ‘I knew it was supposed to but I bought it second hand. I haven’t ever been able to undo those things. If only I had your strength,’ she mourned.

‘It’s not strength; it’s in the wrist action,’ Andrea said practically. ‘That’s what Home Economics does for you.’

‘All that beating egg whites by hand,’ Katie agreed. ‘I’ve heard about it.’ She looked at the easel and gave a sudden spurt of laughter. ‘I’ve been moving this thing round from room to room, trying to find the best light for painting, and every time I did, I collected a new set of bruises.’ She reached out and rotated a butterfly nut ‘I should have consulted you earlier.’

‘You’d do much better to get yourself a man,’ Andrea told her roundly. ‘They’re designed for moving furniture.’

Katie laughed even harder. ‘Too much like work.’

When she had stopped choking, she picked up the easel and headed for the small van outside. Andrea took hold of the last bags in the hall and followed.

‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘All right, you couldn’t ask anyone home as long as you were living with Claire and Judy. Not while they were scratching each other’s eyes out. But now that you’re going to be on your own, why don’t you do something about your social life?’

Katie shook her head. ‘I have to fit my painting round full-time teaching as it is. What time do I have for a social life?’

She stuffed the easel into the back of the van. Andrea handed her one of the bags.

‘Books,’ she said briefly. ‘Stuff them down there.’

Katie wedged them obediently. Andrea peered in the other bag.

‘This looks like bath stuff.’ She picked over the contents. ‘Soap, bath oil, shampoo. Anything precious?’

‘No, but it might leak.’ Katie closed the van doors and held out her hand. to hold them.’

They got in and set off. Andrea drove with care. Katie sat beside her, clutching the bathtime unguents upright and reading the road map over the top of them.

Andrea said, ‘Do you mind if we go via the supermarket? Time got away from me last night and the cupboard is bare.’

Katie looked out at the London pavements, diamond-bright in the morning sun.

‘Be my guest. My time’s my own.’

If she had not been clutching spillable liquids she would have stretched with delight. As it was she flexed her shoulders voluptuously. She was almost purring.

Andrea laughed. ‘Anyone would think you haven’t enjoyed sharing a flat with two of London’s hippest swingers.’

Katie nodded gravely. ‘No more unloading other people’s knickers from the machine before I can do my washing. No more queuing for the telephone. No more booking the bath. Oh, bliss.’

All he wanted, thought Haydon Tremayne, was peace and a bath.

The overnight plane from New York had been full and late. Now there were too many pushing bodies round the baggage carousels and so many people were shouting into their mobile phones that Haydon could not hear himself think. He said so.

‘Redirecting whoever was meeting them,’ said the respectful airline official beside him. It was the first time she had greeted this newest of the company’s non-executive directors and she was working hard at it. Haydon Tremayne had the reputation of being as tough as he was gorgeous. And he was gorgeous.

She looked at him and sighed. Tall and athletic, dark good looks—definitely not a typical millionaire. At least not in her experience. A movie star maybe. She had met plenty of those too. Except no movie star had that air of taking harsh decisions hourly—and not regretting a single one. She would not like to get on the wrong side of Haydon Tremayne.

And then he surprised her again.

‘The great technological advance,’ he said sardonically. ‘For which I and my kind are responsible.’

She looked up. His blue eyes were lit with wicked laughter. She smiled back, relaxing a little.

She touched her own mobile phone. ‘Would you like me to notify anyone?’

He shook his head. ‘Not a problem.’

Of course, she thought. It would not be a problem for the owner of Tremayne International. No doubt he had a brigade of personal assistants looking after the practical details.

He confirmed it. ‘Bates will wait as long as it takes. That’s what I pay him for.’

She was sure he was right. Bates, whoever he was, would do just that. Haydon Tremayne had the superb assurance of a man who had not been disobeyed in a long time.

‘Well, at least we should be able to get you through this quickly.’

Gorgeous though he undoubtedly was, Haydon did look tired, she thought sympathetically. No—more than tired; wiped out. She led him quickly through Customs and out onto the main concourse. In spite of his exhaustion, Haydon gave her a warm smile.

‘Thank you,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I really appreciate your help. Goodbye.’

she shook hands. ‘Goodbye.’ She surprised herself by adding, ‘I’d go home and have a good rest if I were you.’

A weary smile lit his eyes. ‘I’m not even going to wait that long. I’ve been thinking about stretching out on the back seat of the Roller for the last three hours.’

It was true. He was so tired that he felt his bones crumbling inside him, but he was not worried. He scanned the crowd. Thank God all he had to do was keep upright for another few minutes and then Bates would take over.

Bates was a rock, Haydon thought. He was always waiting when he said he would be, on the same spot—just to the side of an automatic door, away from the push of the crowd—always immaculate, always blessedly silent. Thank God for Bates.

‘Haydon,’ called out a voice.

Not Bates. Bates called him Mr Tremayne in public and Harry in private, or when he forgot. Mr and Mrs Bates had been with him ever since Carla had announced that millionaires’ wives did not keep house. In fact the voice sounded horribly like Carla’s for a moment. He braced himself.

But it was not Carla, the unregretted first Mrs Tremayne. It was Viola Lennox. Who wanted to be the second.

‘Haydon. Over here.’

What had that girl said? Go home and have a good rest? Just exactly the plan he had himself. He looked at Viola, advancing on him vivaciously, and assessed his chances of carrying it out in the immediate future. None.

She was upon him.

‘Viola,’ said Haydon without enthusiasm. ‘What are you doing here?’

Viola was not deterred. She was bright-eyed and quite determined that he was delighted to see her.

Haydon groaned inwardly. Asleep on his feet and he had to play social games. Oh, well, Bates would be along in a moment and then he could make his escape. In the meantime he pulled himself together and held out his hand with composed good manners.

But Viola was not interested in good manners. She flung her arms round him.

Haydon recoiled, but tiredness slowed his reactions. It was too late. She was kissing him full on the mouth.

‘Darling,’ said Viola.

Haydon swayed.

Viola cuddled in closer. ‘It’s been so long,’ she murmured.

Haydon let his case fall and stabilised himself with care. Then he caught her by the wrists and held her away from him.

‘What’s this?’

Viola’s eyes fell. ‘You seem to have been away for ever,’ she cooed. But her laugh sounded forced.

This, thought Haydon grimly, is entirely my own fault.

Break the rules once—just once—and you’ve got only yourself to blame.

He said drily, ‘You knew exactly how long I was going to be away, Viola. My secretary arranged a meeting for next week.’

She looked pained. ‘But that’s business.’

‘Oh, God,’ muttered Haydon under his breath.

The Tremayne board had decided some months ago that they needed a PR campaign to fight off a rumoured takeover bid. He had reluctantly agreed, and he had to admit Viola Lennox and her team had done a good job.

The problem had arisen one evening when, after a long day and a longer official dinner, Viola had made it more than clear that Tremayne International was not all she was interested in.

Haydon had been feeling very alone that night. He’d stayed. He’d regretted it immediately.

Being Haydon, he was used to facing unpleasant truths and then dealing with them. So he had told her so. Viola had not appeared to hear him.

She had gone on not hearing him for months. Haydon had got more and more suspicious. Take this morning—Viola was not normally demonstrative. He would have said the spontaneous kiss was utterly out of character. And yet . . .

He said gently, ‘Viola, I’m out on my feet. This is no time to talk if you want me to make sense.’

She nestled into his shirt-front. ‘Then don’t let’s talk,’ she murmured.

Haydon looked at her incredulously.

She caught herself at once and smiled appealingly. ‘Oh, it’s good to have you back. I’ve thought about you so much.’

Now why didn’t that ring true? Haydon thought. He looked at her: expensively disarranged hair, long, shapely legs, a skirt that professional women’s fashion decreed should be three inches above the knee, black suit with red facings. The facings, he noted with his usual precision, were exactly the same colour as her crimson nails. And lips. For her own private reasons she might have chosen to start behaving like a Labrador puppy. But she was still turning herself out like the successful career woman she was. Even on a Saturday morning, meeting the man she professed to be in love with.

He let go of her wrists. ‘Have you?’ he said drily.

Viola’s eyes fell away from his. ‘I was beginning to think I’d missed you—you’re so late. Was it a terrible flight? I’ve been here for ages.’

Haydon said coolly, ‘There was no need. Bates is collecting me.’

The luxury of the beautifully maintained Rolls Royce had never seemed more desirable. Nor had Bates’ unemotional welcome.

Viola laughed up at him. ‘Oh, no, he isn’t. I gave him the day off.’

Haydon went very still.

‘You did what?’ he said softly.

His subordinates would have recognised danger signs. Viola seemed oblivious.

She repeated it blithely. ‘I thought it was time you and I had a good talk. This looked like the ideal chance.’

Haydon stared at her in disbelief. Viola ignored it. Now she had made her announcement, she stopped being puppyish. She disengaged herself briskly and made for the exit. Her high heels tapped like hailstones on the shiny floor.

‘Come along,’ she flung over her shoulder.

Haydon picked up his case and followed. But if she had looked she would have seen his expression was unpromising in the extreme.

She had brought her car, a red sports job that matched her nails. It was three months old. Haydon knew that because Viola had not been able to talk about anything else for weeks. It had taken him some time, but eventually light had dawned. She had wanted him to make her a present of the racy new car.

It was then that Haydon had got really suspicious. He’d stopped their occasional dates and began to detach himself at once. And now Viola wanted a good talk.

Haydon was torn. His every instinct told him to tell Viola to get lost. He could take a taxi home easily enough. But conscience stirred uncomfortably. If he had not spent that night with her, she would never have started this.

He said quietly, ‘Do you think now is such a good time to talk? I haven’t been to bed for three days. I could be less than my flexible best.’

Viola waved his objections aside. ‘This is the rest of our lives we’re talking about,’ she said in reproof.

He looked at her gravely for a moment.

‘You’re talking about,’ he corrected.

But she was sliding behind the steering wheel and did not hear him. Or pretended not to. Haydon shrugged. If that was the way she wanted to play it, fine.

So he flung his case into the back and inserted his long frame into the passenger seat. He clipped his seat belt and, stretching, tipped his head back against the headrest.

New York time, it was around four o’clock in the morning. Haydon closed his eyes.

Viola started to talk at once. She was in full flood before she had even negotiated the short-term car park. By the time they were on the motorway for London she was well into the middle of a carefully rehearsed speech.

Haydon let it wash over him. He was regretting Bates’ absence more by the minute. Why did women always want to make a drama out of everything? At the craziest times, too.

‘It’s just stupid to let things drift,’ Viola said with energy. ‘We’re both adults. We both know what we want.’

For the first time an answer was clearly required. Haydon opened his eyes.

‘We do,’ he agreed drily.

It was the right answer. Superficially, at least. And Viola Lennox was not one for hearing the subtext, he thought.

She gave an indulgent laugh. ‘The trouble with you, Haydon, is you’re just scared to commit. You got burned once, so you think it will happen again.’

‘No. It won’t happen again,’ he said quietly.

So quietly, it seemed, that Viola did not hear that either.

‘You channel all your feelings into work so you don’t have to take any emotional risks. The world is full of men like you.’

Haydon sighed. ‘Would you say full?’

‘My therapist says all successful men are out of touch with their inner child. The trouble is. . .’

Haydon switched off. There was only so far conscience would carry him. When Viola started talking about her therapist, it gave out. Oh, Bates, Bates, where are you? he mourned inwardly.

Viola continued to analyse his character for the next ten miles. Traffic lights did not give her pause. Roadworks did not deflect her. The monologue took them over Westminster Bridge, through the Saturday-morning shopping traffic and into the quiet Georgian square where Haydon had his house.

All the time he looked out of the window, neither contradicting nor encouraging. Eventually Viola stopped the car outside his door. She swung round to face him.

‘Well?’ she said.

Haydon brought his attention back. ‘Well, what?’ he said wearily.

‘What are you going to do about it?’

He looked bored. ‘Your therapist, thank God, is no concern of mine.’

She was disconcerted. ‘What?’

‘This taradiddle. Didn’t you say it was your therapist’s idea?’

Viola bit her lip. ‘Of course not.’

Haydon raised his eyebrows. They were startlingly dark. When raised they soared upwards until they nearly touched his hairline. One besotted girlfriend had said they made him look like a samurai warrior.

Viola thought he just looked like a devil, a mocking, indifferent devil. She began to wonder whether her careful strategy had been so clever after all.

But she was an intelligent woman and she had been in the world of negotiations for a long time. If there was one thing she knew, it was how not to be discouraged by the first setback. She had always known that getting Haydon Tremayne to the altar would not be easy.

She pulled herself together and said quietly, ‘I told you what Madame Piroska said because that’s what I think too. She put everything in perspective for me.’

‘Then I’m glad for you,’ Haydon said politely.

He undid his seat belt and got out of the car. Viola sat watching him as he tipped the seat forward. For all its compactness, his case was not easy to get past the obstacle of designer seats and headrests. The sports car was not really intended to carry anything in the back except the odd makeup bag, he thought drily. Viola frowned.

‘Haydon, you can’t run away from this.’

He finally extracted the case. He did not reply. But he closed the car door with a finality that was an answer all on its own. Viola discarded her seat belt and whipped out of the car. She faced him across the roof.

‘Look,’ she said rapidly, ‘we’ve had some fun. But we’re not kids. We both need some stability in our lives. And we get on well—very well.’

It was hard to sound sexy at ten o’clock on a brilliant summer morning, with a car in between you and the object of your attentions. Especially when the man in question was not trying to hide his derision. But Viola gave it her best shot. She even lowered her lashes to give him a long, smouldering look. It was supposed to remind him of exactly how well they had got on.

It did not have the desired effect. Derision became outright amusement. Viola abandoned the tactic.

She said sharply, ‘You can’t keep me on a string for ever.’

The amusement was wiped away on the instant. His eyes hardened. ‘Is that what I’m doing?’

‘You know it is.’ She leaned forward, one fist on top of the car roof. ‘I never know where I am. You—’ She broke off.

A ramshackle van had drawn up behind them with a squeal of unoiled brakes. Viola glared at it impatiently.

‘Oh, this is impossible,’ she exclaimed. ‘Let’s go indoors and get some coffee, for heaven’s sake.’

She turned towards the front door.

Haydon said without expression, ‘I think not.’

Viola swung round. She looked as if she didn’t believe her ears. Haydon gave her a faint, weary smile and the angry protest died on her lips.

He picked up his case and came round the front of the car.

‘It was good of you to meet me,’ he said. He did not even try to sound as if he meant it.

Behind them two girls in tattered jeans started unloading the van. They did not do it quietly. Haydon winced.

‘But now I’m going to crash out. If I can.’

Viola did not like that. ‘Haydon—’

‘No coffee,’ he said with finality. ‘Look,’ he said, struggling to be honest, ‘I’m sorry if anything I’ve done has misled you. The truth is, marriage is not for me. No amount of talking will change that.’

Viola swallowed. Two spots of colour burned high in her cheekbones. She did not say anything.

There was a loud crash, followed by peals of girlish laughter. It was the last straw. Furious, Haydon swung round.

A collapsed artist’s easel lay drunkenly against the privet hedge next door. The two girls caught sight of his expression and their laughter died.

‘This is a residential square,’ he flung at them in icy tones.

They got their breath back.

‘Well, excuse us for breathing,’ one of them said.

She was a short girl with wild frizzy hair and a pugnacious expression. Her companion murmured something conciliatory. The companion had long legs and a swirl of auburn hair but Haydon was immune. His eyes skated over both equally with glacial indifference.

He was curt. ‘Then breathe quietly.’

The companion became rapidly less conciliating. She took a step forward.

‘I have a right to move my stuff.’ Her voice was shaky but she looked him straight in the eye.

No one had ever looked at Haydon like that, especially not a woman. Even before he made his first million women had been intrigued by him. These days they either fawned on him or—occasionally—tried to pretend to ignore his tall, distinguished attraction. Even now, the frizzy-haired girl had a distinctly speculative look.

But the other one—Haydon could not remember any girl looking at him with dislike before. Particularly not when she was shaking with anger and nerves at the time. For a moment he was taken aback.

Her hands clenched into fists. ‘I’m sorry if we disturbed you.’ She did not sound as if she meant it. ‘Moving isn’t a quiet business.’

Haydon was blank. ‘Moving? You mean—?’ He gestured at the articles on the pavement with disbelief. They looked as if they had been salvaged from a junk yard. ‘You’re moving that? In here?’

The girl flushed but her chin came up. It was a particularly pretty pointed chin, he noticed irrelevantly.

‘And why not?’

Viola said pleadingly, ‘Darling—’

Haydon ignored that. He stared at the girl, his eyes hard. ‘Are you squatters?’

‘Of course not. I’m house-sitting for the Mackenzies.’ Her voice wobbled all over the place. This time though it was due to pure fury, Haydon thought.

He found he liked the light of battle in the girl’s eyes. It infuriated him.

‘Prove it,’ he snapped.

‘Darling—’

‘Mrs Harding interviewed me.’ The girl flung it at him like a javelin.

‘Oh.’ Lisa Harding was Bob Mackenzie’s sister. Haydon knew her slightly.

The girl could see she had scored a winning point. She allowed herself a smile which bordered on gloating. ‘Would you like to see my references?’ she taunted.

Haydon’s eyes narrowed to slits. Light of battle was one thing. Triumph he did not like.

‘I’ll discuss that with Mrs Harding,’ he said.

‘Darling,’ said Viola again, her tone a command. ‘This is no time to get sidetracked.’

She moved, scarlet heels tapping on the glittering pavement, and aligned herself beside him. She looked the two girls up and down. She was very self-possessed.

‘You can’t leave that thing here.’ She did not even look at the battered van but it was clear what she meant.

‘Watch me,’ said the girl with the auburn hair.

Viola gave a faint smile, her superiority undented.

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want it towed away.’

The girl snorted. ‘You can’t have a car towed away because it lets down the tone of the neighbourhood.’

Viola said briskly, ‘You would be surprised what I can do if I set my mind to it. Now tidy up your bits and pieces and move that thing.’

She turned away as if there was no more to be said. The auburn-haired girl did not agree.

She said with deceptive mildness, ‘Are you threatening me?’

Viola was taken aback. For the first time she looked uncertain. She turned to Haydon, laying her scarlet-tipped fingers on his arm beseechingly.

Even in his present jet lagged state it was an appeal to which he had to respond. He had been watching the sharp little exchange as if he was in a dream. Now he roused himself.

‘Miss Lennox is right. This is an area where the parking is reserved for residents,’ he said. ‘The police can remove anyone else.’

The girl bit her lip. She did not like it but she was clearly trying to contain her anger. ‘We won’t be here long. We’re only unloading.’

Suddenly all the tiredness was back. Haydon could feel himself swaying. He jerked himself upright and said more coldly than he meant, ‘Well, try to keep it civilised.’

The girl picked up a big piece of hardboard with a garish picture on one side of it and took a hasty step forward.

‘You mean like not throwing things?’ she asked sweetly tossing it at the other girl. Viola gave a small, ladylike scream. The other girl caught the picture, but only just.

All tiredness left Haydon abruptly. ‘That was a very childish thing to do.’

The girl’s eyes glittered. The tilt of that chin was now positively militant. She glared at Haydon.

‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ she agreed.

She picked up the easel. It was more unwieldy than the picture and rocked in her hands.

‘They say we should all release our childhood repressions,’ the girl said thoughtfully. She looked very young and determined. And not at all in control of the easel.

‘My car,’ screeched Viola, diving forward.

Haydon had a sudden, inexplicable desire to laugh. He turned his head away.

‘What would Madame Piroska have to say about that?’ he muttered.

But Viola was not listening. She had lost her air of superiority in simple alarm.

‘If you scratch my car, I’ll sue you till the pips squeak,’ she shouted.

The girl tossed back her auburn hair and cast her a look of unutterable scorn. Viola’s alarm escalated to panic.

‘You c-can’t,’ she stuttered.

The girl smiled. ‘You’d be surprised what I can do if I set my mind to it,’ she retorted with satisfaction.

Viola was pale. ‘That’s pure vandalism.’

Even the girl’s companion seemed a bit disconcerted.

‘Katie,’ she protested.

Haydon took charge.

‘This is nonsense. And you know it.’

He removed the easel from the girl’s hand with efficient ease. She glared, her eyes hot.

She said in a low, shaking voice, ‘Don’t you tell me what I know and don’t know.’

Haydon’s brows twitched together. The girl had been shaking with nerves at the start of the encounter. Now she was hell bent on war. It was amusing—and very odd. He knew that if he had not been so tired he would have got to the bottom of it. But those sleepless hours were catching up with him.

He said dismissively, ‘Then don’t behave like a fool.’ And turned away.

The girl stamped in temper. It was a hard stamp and it sent the easel rocking. Before Haydon knew what was happening, the thing had swung up in his hand and banged hard against the passenger door. There was a nasty silence as they all stared at the long, irregular scratch.

Viola let out a wail.

‘That’s torn it,’ said the frizzy-haired girl.

Furious with himself, Haydon cast the easel away from him. It fell squashily into the hedge.

‘If you have damaged my easel, you will replace it,’ announced the auburn-haired one. She was clearly on a roll.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Haydon. He was no longer amused.

She showed her teeth in a smile that was an open challenge.

‘Just trying to keep things civilised,’ she mocked.

Their eyes locked. Haydon did not trust himself to speak. He turned on his heel and stormed into the house. Behind him the girl laughed.

He was so irritated that he forgot that he had refused Viola entry. With one last angry glance at her maltreated car, she strode into the house after him. Then Mrs Bates appeared in the hallway. Haydon’s irritation reached new heights. He turned.

‘I told you, Viola. No coffee. No heart-to-heart. Just go away,’ he said with great firmness.

‘But—’

He held the front door open for her. ‘Goodbye, Viola.’

‘Wow,’ said Andrea as they stormed off. ‘You really told him. I’ve never seen you like that.’

Katie leaned against the lamppost. Not just her hands, her whole body was shaking.

‘Nor have I,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

Andrea pursed her lips. ‘Don’t you?’

‘No.’ Katie was honestly puzzled. ‘Do you?’

‘I’d say your hormones just met a worthy opponent,’ Andrea said cheerfully.

‘What?’ Katie was horrified.

Andrea laughed aloud.

They took everything inside. Eventually a fair amount of it was stashed in the hall while Katie decided what to do with it, but at least it was not littering the pavement any more. Katie began a systematic search for instant coffee.

Andrea looked round the chromium and white kitchen and words failed her.

‘It’s more like a laboratory than a kitchen,’ said Katie gloomily. ‘What’s more, the machines all look alike. I tried to wash a blouse in the cooker last night.’

Andrea shook her head. ‘The size of it,’ she said at last. ‘It’s a football pitch.’

Katie looked over her shoulder from the third cupboard door she had opened. ‘I’ll get plenty of exercise racing from the fridge to the stove,’ she agreed with a grin.

Andrea was awed. ‘If this place doesn’t teach you to cook, nothing will.’

‘Nothing will,’ Katie said firmly. The cupboard was full of gold-edged china. She shut the door and moved on. ‘If God had meant us to cook he wouldn’t have invented takeaway pizza.’

‘I wish I thought you didn’t mean that.’

Andrea taught Home Economics at the same school as Katie taught art and spent her spare time writing what she claimed to be the ultimate cookbook. In theory, Katie was illustrating it. But it had rapidly emerged that Katie did not know a sauce Béarnaise from a rice pudding. From time to time Andrea invited her home and did her best to remedy her education. But, as they both acknowledged, it was an uphill struggle.

Now Katie said cheerfully, ‘While I can work the microwave, I shan’t need anything else.’

Andrea shuddered.

‘As long as I can tell it from the burglar alarm, that is.’

‘Burglar alarm!’ Andrea was startled. She looked round as if she expected one of the silent machines to bite. ‘Is this stuff gold-plated or something?’

Katie shook her head. ‘It’s the area. Oh, they’ve got some antique furniture and a couple of good pictures. But mainly it’s because this is the sort of road that professional burglars like. Well, you saw what those two were like out there. There’s even a millionaire next door.’

‘Really? How do you know?’

‘Mrs Harding told me. Ah!’ She emerged from the seventh cupboard with a jar in her hand. ‘Coffee at last. Unless you want to hold out for freshly ground beans? There are bound to be some somewhere.’

‘Black, no sugar,’ said Andrea. Hard-working schoolteachers could not afford to be coffee snobs. She leaned on the counter as Katie plugged in the kettle. ‘Do you suppose that was him just now?’

‘Who? The millionaire?’ Katie turned back, startled by this novel thought. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t think so. The millionaire is quite old, I think. And antisocial.’

Andrea nodded. She was disappointed, but she was a realist. ‘He might have come on like Napoleon but he certainly wasn’t old.’

‘Nor antisocial,’ said Katie with irony. ‘Not with a blonde like that in tow.’

Andrea sighed. ‘She was a knockout, wasn’t she?’ Her tone was wistful.

Katie gave her a sharp glance. She knew Andrea was sensitive about her lack of height and her untameable hair.

‘Probably got ingrowing toenails,’ she said briskly. ‘And a heart like Cruella De Vil.’

Andrea laughed suddenly. ‘And you,’ she said, ‘have got a heart like chocolate fudge.’

Katie opened her eyes wide, disconcerted. ‘Me?’

‘You. I wouldn’t know what to do if I was a knockout blonde. But it’s nice of you to comfort me. That kettle has boiled by the way.’

Katie found mugs and spooned coffee granules into them. Andrea leaned her elbows on the counter.

‘You know, it’s odd,’ she mused. ‘You’re so gorgeous yourself. And yet you seem to know exactly what it’s like to be plain and difficult. I think that must be why the kids like you so much.’

Katie’s hands did not falter. ‘The kids like me,’ she said without excitement, ‘because they get to make a filthy mess in my class and they can bop around to Lucifer’s Eleven at the same time. Teenage heaven.’

She poured boiling water on the granules. Andrea took her mug.

‘And who brought the tapes of Lucifer’s Eleven in to school in the first place?’

Katie relaxed. She gave her wicked grin. ‘I like them.’

‘Your eardrums are depraved. I’m surprised Douglas hasn’t confiscated them.’

Katie tensed imperceptibly. ‘My eardrums?’

‘The tapes. I suppose he’s too relieved there’s one afternoon a week when the escape committee have a truce.’

Katie nodded. They taught at a big school with a lot of children from deprived families. Truancy was a problem.

‘I guess.’

‘In fact, Douglas must love you.’

Katie jumped. She disguised it by pretending that her coffee was too hot, but she was not sure Andrea was deceived. Douglas Grove’s attentions were becoming an embarrassment, especially as he was the headmaster. She did not know how much her colleagues had noticed. She did not want to give any reason to confirm whatever rumours there might be.

So she said lightly, ‘Me and Liam Brooker. He’s teaching the upper fourth salsa in their gym lesson.’

‘Liam Brooker is a maverick,’ Andrea said wistfully. She did not notice the strain in Katie’s voice. ‘Be warned. He’s also a ladies’ man.’

‘Not this lady,’ said Katie, relieved at the change of subject.

Andrea cocked an eyebrow. ‘No? You sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

The older girl looked at her curiously. ‘Why? I mean, he’s fun and he’s cool and he’s even good-looking in a battered sort of way. And you’re on the loose.’ She thought about it. ‘You haven’t got someone you’re hiding away, have you?’

Katie laughed. ‘No.’

‘Then why isn’t the dashing Liam in with a chance?’

Katie’s eyes danced. This at least was one area about which she had no secret traumas at all. ‘Three reasons. One—he doesn’t fancy me. Two—I don’t get involved with men I work with. Three—I don’t fancy him.’

Andrea was dissatisfied. ‘Why not? Every other woman in the school does.’ Although neither of them was going to admit it, this included Andrea herself.

Katie shrugged. ‘I guess I’m just different.’

‘Not that different,’ said Andrea drily. ‘You’re twenty-four. You’re unattached. Where’s the problem?’

Katie hesitated. ‘Let’s just say, I’d think very carefully before. I gave my heart.’

Andrea snorted loudly. ‘Who has time to think? You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You could be right,’ Katie admitted. She pushed her half-drunk coffee away from her. ‘I’ll just put my painting stuff into the conservatory and then I’ll take you out for brunch. It’s really great of you to give me a hand like this.’

‘Any time,’ said Andrea, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Especially if you’re going to ask me over to play in this kitchen.’

Katie was stacking squares of hardboard and canvas under her arm.

‘Sure, if you want to,’ she said.

‘Really? Would it be all right?’

Katie was amused. ‘I’m house-sitting. I’m not in purdah. Mrs Harding said I could do what I want within reason.’

Andrea put down her own coffee and picked up the sketchbooks.

‘What does that mean? No Roman orgies?’

They went downstairs to the double-height conservatory. Katie dropped her load with relief and propped it behind a cane chair.

‘Well, not trash the place. And I can’t sublet, of course. Oh, and I’m not supposed to party loudly. The millionaire next door is freaky about noise.’

Andrea grinned and handed over the sketchbooks.

‘Kiss goodbye to Lucifer’s Eleven in the home, then,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be a long, boring summer.’

Haydon shut the door on Viola with finality. After a discreet couple of minutes Mrs Bates emerged from the kitchen.

‘You must be tired after your journey,’ she said. She was much too professional to refer to the altercation she could not have avoided overhearing. ‘Breakfast? Coffee?’

Haydon pushed a hand through his hair. He was beyond discretion. The Bateses had been with him a long time.

‘Women,’ he said explosively. ‘What I need is a strong drink. How is the whisky in the study?’

‘Ah.’ Mrs Bates looked uncomfortable. ‘Dr Davison arrived last night. He was working late and. . .’

Haydon sighed. Andrew Davison was an old friend and a distinguished researcher. But he left borrowed rooms in turmoil.

‘You mean the study looks like a cyclone hit it and you don’t even know where the whisky decanter is, let alone whether it’s full?’ he interpreted.

Mrs Bates chuckled. ‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘And I suppose Andrew is not up yet? So his papers are everywhere and you don’t like to tidy them in case you misplace something vital.’

Mrs Bates rode his annoyance with the ease of long practice. ‘You said yourself his work is very important.’

‘Yes.’ Haydon breathed hard. ‘I did, didn’t I? God preserve me from out of town friends.’

‘Why don’t you sit in the summerhouse?’ Mrs Bates suggested soothingly. ‘It’s a lovely morning and you’ll be quite comfortable. Bates put up the rocker. I’ll bring you out some breakfast.’

Haydon gave her a narrow-eyed look. ‘Alicia, are you pacifying me?’

‘Just trying to be practical,’ the housekeeper assured him. She added temptingly, ‘The coffee’s fresh-brewed.’

He flung up his hands. ‘Oh, very well. Whatever you say. Just make sure everyone keeps away from me until I feel human again.’

In the end Andrea would not stay for brunch. The dilapidated van was borrowed and she had to return it to her cousin’s boss. She hesitated, though, looking at Katie with concern.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? I mean, I know it’s a smashing gaff and everything. But it’s not like sharing, after all.’

Katie made a face. ‘After the last three months I’m never going to share again,’ she said with resolution. She hugged Andrea. ‘Believe me, being on my own is going to be a luxury.’ And, seeing her friend was still doubtful, she added, ‘First I’m going to have a Jacuzzi for the first time in my life. And then I’m going to paint the lilac tree in the garden. Heaven. Really.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Andrea. ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing. But if you get lonely, just give me a ring.’

‘I won’t get lonely,’ said Katie.

Haydon was passing the telephone on his way to the garden when it rang. On pure instinct he picked it up.

Viola did not even wait for him to give the number. ‘Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me,’ she hissed.

She had to be on her mobile phone.

‘You shouldn’t drive and telephone at the same time,’ Haydon said calmly.

She ignored that. ‘I’m sending you the bill for the damage to my car.’

He sighed. ‘And I’ll be happy to pay it.’

‘You’d better.’

Haydon was so tired he felt light-headed. This, he thought, is ludicrous. He said so.

Viola gave a bark of unamused laughter. ‘It certainly is. I thought we were going to have a sensible talk.’

‘We did,’ Haydon said levelly. ‘There is no more to be said.’

‘Now that’s just where you’re wrong. I have plenty more to say.’

He could believe it. He said wearily, ‘Just send me the bill for the car, Viola.’

‘Oh, no. I’m not letting you walk away from this.’

He stiffened. But before he could demand an explanation, she spat ‘You owe me, Haydon. You’ll pay, believe me.’

And she cut the connection.


CHAPTER TWO

THE summerhouse was tucked into the end of the rose garden. It was a cool octagonal building, open on two sides to the scents of early summer. Haydon sank into the newly oiled canvas rocker with a sigh of relief.

Bates brought out the tray and placed it noiselessly on a pine table beside him.

‘I am sorry about this morning,’ he said. ‘Miss Lennox really convinced me that you wanted her to meet you in my place.’

‘I’m sure she did,’ Haydon said drily. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Nevertheless, I was at fault. I should have checked. I will next time.’

Haydon shuddered. ‘No next time,’ he said with resolution.

He lowered one shoulder and twisted his head away from it, feeling the tension like a knotted rope down his neck. Bates would have thought it intrusive to express sympathy, but he poured a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice without being asked.

‘Shall I book you into the Glen for a few days? Tomorrow?’

When the pace of his life took too great a toll Haydon went to a Spartan health hydro. It was very popular and most patrons faced a waiting list. But Bates was quite right in believing the Glen would have made a place for Haydon at less than a day’s notice.

Haydon hesitated, tempted. But in the end he shook his head regretfully.

‘I’ve still got work to do. And I don’t want to miss the rest of Andrew’s visit. Maybe next week.’

Bates looked concerned. Haydon did not encourage fussing. On the other hand, Bates had never seen him look so exhausted. He hesitated, but in the end said, ‘You really do look very tired.’

Bates gave him the juice. He still looked worried. Haydon smiled.

‘If I can get this deal sorted out, I’ll go to San Pietro,’ he promised.

Bates knew Haydon’s Tuscan retreat. He looked relieved.

‘I should think it would be very pleasant at this time of year,’ he said sedately.

Haydon tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘No phones. No women.’ He let out a long sigh.

Bates waited. Haydon neither opened his eyes nor spoke again. After a moment Bates removed the glass from his unresisting hand. He left quietly. Haydon did not stir.

The Jacuzzi, Katie found, was rather alarming. It had almost as many instructions as the burglar alarm. She read them carefully. But still, when she turned it on, the bath became a multi-jet fountain, soaking the walls and the rosecoloured carpet.

She mopped up, unpacked dry shorts and shirt, and retreated. Her hair dripped down her back in damp rats’ tails. The sun, she thought. That was what she needed. A good book and a cheese sandwich and she could stretch out in the lush garden and dry out.

But first there was something she had been putting off for a week. She braced herself.

The phone was answered on the second ring by a bark.

‘Yes?’

Her mother hated the telephone and never sounded encouraging anyway.

‘Hello, Mother. It’s Katie. I thought I’d let you know I’ve moved.’

Her mother’s voice warmed into interest. ‘You’ve left that dead-end job?’

Katie sighed. Her mother had high ideals and absolutely no practical sense. She had been furious when Katie had decided to teach instead of devoting her time to painting. ‘You will suffocate your creativity,’ her mother had said darkly. ‘Just like I did when I married your father.’

Since she had married because Katie was on the way there was not much Katie could say to that one. Her mother did not seem to understand the realities of life. She just wanted Katie to be a free spirit and go where her inspiration took her. She thought Katie’s desire to eat very poorspirited.

Now Katie said patiently, ‘No, Mother. I’m still selling my soul for a mess of pottage. But I’ve moved house. I thought you’d want my new phone number.’

‘Oh.’

Katie gave it to her. Her mother wrote it down.

‘I didn’t know you were leaving the flat.’

‘I wasn’t. There were developments.’

Her mother would not be sympathetic if she told her about the traumas of the last fortnight. She took little interest in love affairs, and none at all in other people’s traumas. She would never have let herself get caught in between two warring flatmates. Predictably she showed no interest.

‘So where are you now?’

‘I’m house-sitting. On my own, this time.’

‘Good,’ said her mother. ‘You’ll be able to get on with your painting without those silly girls wasting your time.’

‘They were my friends,’ squawked Katie in protest. Even now, her mother’s single-mindedness could shock her.

She could almost see her mother shrug. ‘Never thought about anything but clothes or boys,’ she said, dismissing them.

Since that had been exactly the cause of their acrimonious break-up, Katie could not really argue with that.

She did, however, point out, ‘That’s life, Mother.’

There was a giant snort from the other end of the telephone. ‘Not for a serious artist,’ said her mother with conviction. ‘It’s time you faced up to it and did something about your talent.’

She rang off, briskly convinced that she had done her best for her only child.

‘Thank you, Mother,’ said Katie to the buzzing line.

Telling her father the news took an even shorter time. As usual, he was not at home. As usual, the crisp message on his answering machine reduced her to monosyllables. Katie left him the bare details of her new home. Her father always seemed to reduce her to a curt little voice, she thought, despairing. Even when she wanted to sound friendly she could not.

A drip detached itself from her hair and ran down her spine.

‘Sun,’ Katie told herself aloud. She shook her shoulders, as if that would get rid of the uneasy feeling talking to her parents always gave her. ‘I have a new home and the sun is shining. All is well with the world. Believe it.’

Haydon tipped his head back and watched the sun dance off the edge of the apple blossom. When he half closed his eyes the light refracted off his eyelashes into a thousand rainbows. His body felt light. He picked up the glass and drained his juice, then heard the glass fall to the floor as his hand missed the teak table. God, I must be more tired than I realised, he thought.

That must be why those girls in their battered van had irritated him. The redhead had looked as if she’d wanted to hit him. Shame, that. She’d been quite impossible, of course, with her travelling junk shop of belongings and her nasty temper. But still there had been something about her. He could not quite remember what. But something.

Bees hummed. The sun was warm on his skin. Haydon’s eyelids drooped. He slept.

Katie took a sketchpad and her chalks onto the lawn. Any other girl would have donned a bikini and stretched out in the sun, but Katie had her own reasons for not sunbathing. She did not even possess a bikini.

Instead she folded her long legs under her and began to sketch the lavish prospect: sky-blue grape hyacinths under a fall of star flowered jasmine, golden iris, wallflowers the colour of imperial velvet and perfumed like a night in paradise; lilac. . .

Katie drew a long breath of sheer happiness.

Her fingers flew. She forgot her parents, both the old tensions and new difficulties alike. Flowers bloomed on the paper. She hardly seemed to touch it and the image was there: half-formed, enigmatic, but somehow utterly the thing it was supposed to be. Katie worked like lightning, hardly believing her luck.

It was the lilac that was her downfall.

The tree was heavy with the drooping white blossom, but, try as she could, she could not get the curve of branch and flower. She left them and went on to draw the little lilies of the valley, cat-faced pansies, waving grasses. But time and again dissatisfaction drove her back.

She uncoiled herself. There was a branch about half-way up. It looped over the wall into the neighbouring garden but it had exactly the right arc, the right fall of blossom. It was out of reach from the ground but not impossibly high. It was touching the wall, though. Katie had done some conscientious research for her gardening responsibilities and she remembered that trees could get fungus if their branches were allowed to rub against brickwork.

‘Pruning,’ she said aloud. ‘That’s what it needs.’

And, incidentally, she would get her branch of lilac to paint without risking a terminal crick in the neck. Benefit all round, she thought, pleased. She went in search of secateurs.

Ten minutes later she was regretting the whole idea.

The lilac tree was old and sturdy. But it was not exactly the sort of tree you climbed when you were five foot ten and had never been a champion gymnast. Nevertheless, it had stood a long time, and one unwise assault was not likely to bring it crashing to the ground. Or so Katie found herself trying to believe.

‘I can do this,’ she said between clenched teeth. ‘I can.’

She looped an escaping swatch of soft hair behind her ear and applied herself to the problem. She also held onto the branch for dear life.

It had not looked this difficult when she’d started. The branch had looked nearer, the lilac tree had definitely been half its present height and there had been no sign at all of the dog on the other side of the wall. The dog was now jumping excitedly against the wall that divided the gardens. As it did so, it showed a fine set of healthy teeth.

Normally Katie liked dogs well enough. But she averted her eyes from those teeth. If only someone would come out of the house and put a muzzle on the wretched creature. Even the bad-tempered man who had not liked Andrea’s van would have been better than no one.

‘Hello?’ she called out tentatively.

Haydon Tremayne stirred, not opening his eyes. He frowned. Something had disturbed him. He did not know what it was. He did not like it.

Somebody wanted him to do something. No, not somebody: a woman. Again. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? He turned his head away from the source of the noise.

‘No,’ he muttered.

No response. The house looked as deserted as the summer garden. No sign of this morning’s bully. No one to catch her if she fell out of the lilac tree. Katie set her teeth. She was on her own.

‘I got myself into this. I can get myself out of it. I can.’ She said it aloud. It seemed more convincing that way.

The tree wobbled. She clutched convulsively at her branch. There were twigs in her hair and her bare arms would carry the scratches for a long time. If she got down at all.

‘Nonsense. Of course I’ll get down.’ It was, Katie thought, the bracing tone she used to her least talented pupils. It did not convince them either.

Below her the dog reared up on its back legs. At its full height both paws reached high enough up the wall to come within touching distance. It barked once. It was not reassuring.

‘Good dog,’ said Katie without conviction.

It seemed to encourage the animal, she saw dismally. Not taking its eyes off her, it set up a pleasurable barking that would, surely, have roused the neighbourhood—if there was anyone about to be roused. The dog began to drool.

Haydon was not sure whether he was dreaming. He turned his head restlessly. He knew he should be moving, doing something. Even on this warm Saturday, he had a load of work. So maybe it was the voice of conscience sounding through his head like a wild hunt. He became aware of a vast indignation at a world which would not even let him drowse in his own garden for half an hour. He stirred angrily, trying to burrow into the canvas cushions under his head and shut out the noise.

The barking increased to decibels a rock band would envy. If she had not been clinging desperately to the trunk of the tree, Katie would have put her hands over her ears. She could only pray that the touchy millionaire was not at home. Or her tenancy of the house would be over in less than twenty-four hours.

‘Hush,’ Katie hissed.

The dog took no notice. The tree seemed to sway. She grabbed. She heard an ominous cracking.

The dog backed off and began to charge the wall. He gave the impression, thought Katie sourly, that he had not had a game like this in months. The tree swayed further.

‘Shut up, you stupid animal,’ she yelled.

Peering through the branches, she tried to quell the dog with a basilisk glare. It was a bad mistake. The ground was much too far away. Her branch dipped towards it.

‘Stay-calm,’ she told herself. Her shaky tone belied the heartening words.

The dog thudded rhythmically against the wall. The tree creaked. Katie gave a squeak of pure terror and shut her eyes.

Haydon gave up the unequal struggle. He opened his eyes. Something was pounding in his head. He should not have let himself fall asleep in the chair like that. At least, not on an empty stomach and a week’s jet lag, he thought muzzily. He could feel the beginnings of one of his infrequent but devastating migraines.

He regarded the extravagance of early summer with blurred indignation. The garden was deserted. In the windless air, the branches were still. A few early bees buzzed. The guard dog his insurance company insisted on was chasing one along the wall. But that was all.

Or was it? He stood up, rather unsteadily, and went to the summerhouse entrance. Bracing himself against the lintel, he tried to focus.

The Great Dane was flinging itself up the wall, barking. Either the target bee had no sense of self-preservation at all or something strange was happening. Haydon’s eyes narrowed. Yes, there was definitely something wrong with the lilac tree next door. In spite of the windless day its blossoms were waving wildly.

Haydon was a scientist. It cost him a wince, but he swung round to check the apple trees, just to be certain. He liked to be in control of his facts. Yes, he was right, the branches of his own trees were as still as stone. So there had to be someone in that lilac tree.

Haydon came suddenly and sharply alert. He forgot his incipient migraine. He stood very still, listening.

Was it her imagination or was the tree beginning to tilt into the wall? Katie opened her eyes and scanned the neighbouring garden feverishly. The bully might have gone about his business, the millionaire might be away—she prayed that he was—but was there not supposed to be a couple who looked after him? What she needed here was a friendly man with a long ladder. If—

The tree definitely lurched. Katie stopped thinking.

‘Help!’ she yelled.

The sound sliced through his brain. Haydon swung back to the tree. He was suddenly, blindingly angry. He began to run.

Katie was clinging like a monkey to the wildly dipping branch. Her foothold had gone; the dog was hitting the garden wall with the regular thump of a pile-driver; she felt sick.

And then, out of nowhere, a furious voice shouted. It was shockingly close. And everything seemed to go into slow motion.

The branch touched the ground. Her grazed hands began to slip. Katie flung her weight forward desperately. But it was too late. With what seemed to her incredible slowness, the branch splintered. It broke.

Katie hurtled to the ground. On the wrong side of the wall.

Frantically, she tried to remember from long-ago gymnastics classes the best way to fall. Don’t brace yourself. Was that it? And roll when you hit the ground.

So Katie was rapidly turning herself limp as a rag doll when she received another, deeper shock. A pair of muscular hands took her round the waist as she whooshed past. And then there were two of them rolling as they hit the ground.

Katie forgot all about gymnastics classes and trying to minimise the physical damage. She yelled like a banshee.

Her captor brought their headlong tumble to an abrupt halt.

‘This,’ he said in tones of barely controlled fury, ‘is too much.’

For a moment Katie found herself on top of a deeply rising chest, staring down into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. The bluest and the most coldly angry. Then he gave a lithe twist and she was underneath him. For a shattering moment Katie breathed in the hot scent of his skin. Then his head blotted out the sun.

As a kiss, it was more like a declaration of war.

‘No,’ said Katie.

Or at least that was what she tried to say. It did not come out quite like that. To her fury it sounded, even to herself, like a groan of surrender.

Her tee shirt had rucked under her as she landed. Now one hand found her naked skin. Normally just the touch of alien fingers on her waist would have had Katie cold with horror. But she was beyond thinking about her normal reactions. And she was certainly not cold.

She felt his hand splay out against her spine: hot as fire, strong as steel. Then he was lifting her effortlessly against him. He was not brutal. But the sheer power of the movement made her tremble. Not with fear.

She groaned again. It did not sound like a protest this time either.

The man’s mouth lifted. Katie knew vaguely that she ought to wrestle her way out of his arms. Get to her feet. Escape.

She did not move.

It was as if the unaccustomed hand on her skin had scrambled her brains. She was all sensation. Hot and cold and utterly bewildered. With a little sigh her head fell back.

Haydon stared down at his captive. He was shocked at the primitive fury that had shaken him. Even more shocked at the no less primitive feelings that had succeeded it. They surged through him now. The girl was not even trying to get away. Suddenly he wanted—oh, God, he wanted. . .

Katie felt oddly remote. She was helpless to resist the magnetisation of her senses and she knew it. It gave her a pleasant sense of irresponsibility. She lay there, delighting in it, every nerve quickened in expectation. Her eyes drifted shut, her lips parted—

Haydon hauled himself off her and stood up in one furious leap.

Katie’s eyes flew open in shock. The tall figure was blocking the sun, hands on hips. Against the glare of the summer sky, his face was in shadow. But there was no doubt of his feelings as he looked down on her. He was incandescent with rage. Her remoteness evaporated. She came back to the present with a bump.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ His voice was harsh with strain and he flexed his hands as if he did not know what to do with them.

Katie hardly noticed. She was too shocked. Coming back to the present was like walking into a cold shower. Instinctively her hand went to her midriff and encountered bare flesh.

For a moment she was absolutely still with horror. Her tee shirt was tangled under her armpits. He would have seen. He had to have seen.

Distress held her immobile for a moment. Then she gave a little sob and jack-knifed upright. She was shaking so much she had trouble hauling her tee shirt back into place.

The man said nothing. That made it worse. She bent her head so she did not have to see the disgust in his eyes.

But disgust did not seem to be uppermost in his mind. He was ferociously angry. More than angry.

‘Nice try.’ He flung at her. The irony was biting.

Katie was bewildered. So bewildered she almost forgot her distress.

‘What?’

Haydon was bringing himself under control. He was still furious but it was a colder, more deliberate fury.

‘Diversionary tactics,’ he said. ‘Brilliant.’

‘Diversionary—?’

Katie was so confused she forgot she was not going to look him in the face. She tilted her head, shading her eyes against the sun.

He hunkered down beside her as if they were having a friendly conversation.

‘I’ve met some skilled operators in my time. But you are up there with best,’ he told her pleasantly.

Katie shivered. She did not like his tone.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

And he was much, much too close. She leaned away from him as far as she could. She winced. The sun was beginning to make her eyes water.

‘Oh, well done,’ said the hateful voice softly.

Katie stared. He touched a finger along her cheekbone. It was very gentle and quite unbelievably insulting.

‘Real tears,’ he mocked.

Katie made a discovery. She might have come back to her senses but her instincts were still out there, humming with response. And that insulting touch reignited every one of them.

‘Oh, hell,’ she said faintly.

Haydon’s eyes narrowed in triumph. ‘So you admit it?’

Katie made another discovery. Now that she was thinking clearly again, she recognised him. He was the vigilante who had challenged her and Andrea this morning. The one with the blonde girlfriend. Her dismay gave way to dawning temper. She scrambled to her feet. The man made no attempt to help her.

‘Thank you for your concern,’ she snapped.

She ignored him, running her fingers through her tangled hair. The man stood up and Katie retreated a pace. Holding his eyes defiantly, she checked quickly that her tee shirt was in place. It was. Perhaps he had not seen after all. She began to feel better. And hotly indignant.

‘That dog should be chained up,’ she flung at him. ‘I could have broken something falling off that wall.’

He watched her cynically. Then shrugged. ‘Every trade has its risks.’

Katie was brushing twigs off her shorts. She looked up at that, glaring.

‘What trade, for heaven’s sake?’

‘At a guess, I’d say breaking and entering,’ her adversary said coolly.

‘Breaking—?’ She was incredulous. ‘You’re out of your mind.’

He raised one eloquent eyebrow. The ruins of the lilac branch lay some distance away. The dog was gnawing at it happily. Katie realised with a shock that if the dog had not had the branch to play with he would in all probability have piled in to take part in their undignified tussle. It made her even more furious.

‘You can’t think I fell out of that tree deliberately?’ she said hotly.

He seemed to consider that. ‘No,’ he allowed at last. ‘I don’t imagine you wanted to attract my attention.’

Unwillingly, Katie remembered exactly how much of his attention she had attracted. Rather too vividly. It imposed a constraint on her righteous anger. Embarrassed, she looked away.

‘I was trying to pick a branch of lilac,’ she said hurriedly.

This time he raised both eyebrows.

‘I wanted to paint it,’ she flung back in the face of that patent disbelief.

‘Sure.’

‘I did.’

He crossed his arms. ‘And who let you into the Mackenzies’ garden?’

‘No one. I mean, I did myself, of course. I—’

He nodded as if that was exactly what he’d expected. ‘So you broke into their garden as well as this one?’ He reached out a hand and took her by the elbow. ‘Come on.’

Katie jumped. He was mad. But his touch was an all too eloquent reminder. She had nearly surrendered to that terrible throbbing magnetism. Was it only minutes ago? Andrea had seen it coming, too. What was it she had said about hormones?

Furious with herself, Katie shook his hand away.

For a second his eyes flared. She’d been right, she thought. They were the most brilliant blue she had ever seen. Their expression shocked her. Then, in a blink, it was gone and he was shrugging again.

‘OK. Then you come into the house under your own steam.’

‘What?’

His voice was dangerously calm. ‘I am not letting you out of my sight.’

All Katie’s nerves leaped into tingling awareness again. She swallowed. ‘Why?’ she managed.

‘Oh, I like the innocent bewilderment,’ he congratulated her blandly. ‘It’s even better than the tears. You’re very good, you know. It’s just your misfortune I’m not the protective type.’

She shook her head, confused.

‘Don’t bother,’ he told her, his voice hardening. ‘If you think I’m leaving you alone to make your escape, you’re not using that sharp brain of yours.’

‘But—’

‘Forget it. I’m going to the police. You stick by my side until they get here.’

‘The police?’ Katie’s voice rose to a squeak.

He gave her a cool, surprised look. ‘Of course.’

‘But I haven’t done anything.’

It did not move him an inch. ‘Because I was here and able to prevent you,’ he said pleasantly. ‘That doesn’t change your intentions. They should interest the police.’

‘Look,’ Katie said feverishly, ‘I’m house-sitting for the Mackenzies.’

Her adversary looked bored.

Her voice rose several tones. ‘I am. I told you this morning. Don’t you ever listen?’

He was certainly not listening now. His face was like granite. ‘Tell that to the police.’

He gestured towards the house. Katie hesitated. But there was no help for it. One look at his face told her he was not going to move until she went inside. And she really did not want him touching her again. She bit her lip and went towards a large open French window.

The dog stopped chewing the branch as she went past. It raised its head in mild interest.

‘Good dog,’ said Katie sarcastically.

‘It is indeed,’ agreed the man. He was following altogether too close on her heels. To Katie’s ears he sounded disgustingly pleased with himself. ‘If the dog had not barked, I might not have known you were breaking in until it was too late.’

Katie stopped, and turned so abruptly he almost walked into her.

‘Listen to me, you complacent bully,’ she said with heat. ‘You can call the police if you like, but you’re only going to look like an almighty fool when I prove who I am.’

He did not like that, she was glad to see. His brows twitched together. He did not exactly back off but it did seem to give him pause. He scanned her face for a long, unnerving moment. Something in her outrage must have got through to him at last, Katie thought.

‘All right,’ he said after a minute. ‘Convince me.’

She let out an explosive sigh of relief.

‘Well—’

‘Inside,’ he interrupted.

‘I’d rather—’ Katie began.

But he had put his hand between her shoulderblades to guide her indoors. At once she felt a wave—no, a blast—of sensation. It was shocking and unwelcome and it made her forget everything she had been going to say.

Katie swallowed. And went without another word.

In the shadowed room he waved her to a deep sofa. Still shaken, Katie sat down without protest. She looked at him from under her lashes. If he had felt that zing of electricity when he touched her, he was hiding it well. The face he turned to her was utterly non-committal. She straightened her spine.

She said crisply, ‘I really am house-sitting while the Mackenzies are away. I answered an advert in The Times.’

He considered it. ‘All that proves is that you have good information. So you know the Mackenzies are away. Fine. But you must see that there are other ways you could have found out than by them pressing the key into your hand. And—I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me—I find that less than reassuring.’

He had a point. Katie was fair-minded enough to admit that—at least to herself. She did not, of course, tell him so.

Instead she muttered, ‘Lisa Harding—er—engaged me.’ She added resentfully, ‘I told you that this morning too.’

He looked at her for a long moment. You could not tell from his expression whether he knew what she was talking about. Certainly there was no sign of recognition in the cold eyes.

He sighed. ‘This morning I had other things on my mind. Tell me about this deal you have with Lisa. What references did she take?’

Katie stopped being fair-minded. Her temper flared. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘It’s my responsibility to make this place secure. And keep it that way.’

‘Oh.’

Lisa Harding had been desperate. She had checked with the school that Katie was who she said she was, but she had not asked for references. And she had given Katie only the sketchiest breakdown of her task. Neighbours had barely figured. All Katie knew about the next-door house was that it was owned by a millionaire who was a fanatical anti-noise freak but fortunately was seldom in residence. A security expert had not been mentioned.

Katie looked doubtfully across at the man. He did not look like anybody’s staff.

She said slowly, ‘How do I know that?’

‘What?’ She had disconcerted him.

‘You might be pulling a double bluff,’ she pointed out. ‘Perhaps you are the intruder.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Burglary,’ said Katie, warming to her theme. ‘I fell out of the tree and disturbed you.’

‘You did that all right,’ he muttered.

Katie decided not to hear him.

‘Saturday must be the perfect day. Especially if the old boy who owns the place is away. So you start accusing me while I’m still disorientated. Before I can ask you what you’re up to,’ she finished triumphantly.

The man appeared to be speechless. Katie found it exhilarating. She beamed.

He said curtly, ‘This is nonsense and you know it.’

‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’

He gave her a look of acute dislike. ‘You may have observed that the dog knows me. Stupid though the creature undoubtedly is, it is a trained guard dog. Its job is to challenge intruders. As you found.’

Katie had not thought of that. ‘Oh.’

‘Tell me about this advertisement,’ he said in a neutral tone.

Katie grimaced, remembering. ‘I thought I was really lucky to find it.’ She was unconscious of the wistfulness in her voice.

The man’s eyes sharpened. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I’ve only been in London nine months but I’ve lived in six different places—not counting the floors I’ve slept on in between,’ she said ruefully. ‘The last one was a shared flat in Clapham.’

‘The place you moved out of today?’

She nodded.

He said slowly, ‘What went wrong?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ said Katie bitterly. ‘It was great for a while. Lots of fun. We had great laughs together. Then one of the girls started an affair with another one’s boyfriend and it all fell apart. Sex,’ she added, ‘can be a great mistake. ’

Quite suddenly, the man’s lips twitched. It made him look horridly sexy, Katie thought. On top of everything else, it wasn’t fair. She looked away.

He said gravely, ‘Which one were you?’

She was startled into looking him in the eyes. ‘What?’

‘The betrayer or the betrayed?’ he explained.

‘Oh.’ Katie gave a choke of startled laughter. ‘Neither. Much worse than that.’

His eyebrows flew up. ‘Worse?’

‘I was the one they were still both talking to,’ she said drily.

Haydon bit back a smile. ‘I see,’ he said gravely. ‘Exhausting.’

‘You can say that again.’

Between the weeping, the hurt pride, the recriminations and the unpaid bills, Katie had been at her wits’ end. All she had wanted was to find somewhere, anywhere, to live on her own once more.

That was when she had seen the advertisement. A reliable person was wanted to live in a South London house and care for the garden while the owner was abroad for three months. The house was a comfortable walk or a short bus ride from the school where she taught. She did not know anything about gardening but, heck, there was always the public library. It had seemed like the answer to a prayer.

Some of this she told him. She would have been surprised and annoyed if she had guessed how much she did not tell him that he still managed to piece together.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sophie-weston/catching-katie/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.