His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All

Forbidding herself to laugh, she tried to free herself. ‘There’s no need for this. I can manage—really.’

‘Is it the reference to Nanny that’s worrying you?’ Caz looked up at her, his hazel eyes warm and amused. ‘Do you think I’m going to revert to childhood and play “This little piggy”? Or are you afraid I’m a secret foot fetishist seizing his opportunity?’

‘It’s just—inappropriate,’ Tarn managed lamely, aware that some totally foreign instinct was prompting her to wriggle her toes into the palm of his hand, and not just for warmth either.

‘Is it?’ He was grinning openly now. ‘I do hope so. I’d hate to be politically correct at a moment like this.’ He traced the delicate bone structure of her slender toes with the tip of a finger. Cupped the softness of her heel. ‘They’re adorable,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe these foot fetishists have a point.’

‘Caz.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Don’t—please.’

‘Why not? Isn’t this where women like to see men—kneeling at their feet?’

‘I am not “women”.’ Tarn could feel that betraying heat spreading through her body again. ‘And I want to put my shoes on.’

‘In a minute. This is a new experience for me, and I like it.’ He bent his head and kissed each instep, warmly and lingeringly. ‘They taste of salt,’ he whispered.

The breath caught in her throat. She said with difficulty, ‘People—there are people coming. You must get up.’

Caz shook his head. ‘And lose this perfect opportunity? Not a chance.’ He looked up at her, and there was no laughter in his gaze. It was serious and intent. ‘Tarn, my sweet, my lovely girl, will you marry me?’

‘You—you said you wouldn’t rush me.’ Her voice was a whisper too.

‘I dare not wait,’ he said quietly. ‘After all, you came out of nowhere. I’m terrified that you may disappear in the same way.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I—I won’t do that. But it’s too soon. You must see that.’ She spread her hands almost beseechingly. ‘We—we hardly know each other.’

‘Something I’m seriously trying to redress,’ he said. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed? Sweetheart, we can catch up on the details as we go. But I think I knew from that first moment that you were the one. I guess it was too much to hope that you felt the same.’

He added almost harshly, ‘But now that I’ve found you, Tarn, I can’t let you go, and I won’t. Not when I love you and want you to be my wife. You and no-one else for the rest of our lives.’

‘This isn’t fair…’

‘I think there’s a cliché that covers that—something about love and war.’

But this is war, she cried out silently, from the pain and confusion inside her. It’s just that you don’t know it yet.

Aloud, she said, stumbling over her words, ‘I—I have to think. You must give me time. We have to be sure.’

Caz sighed ruefully. ‘My darling, I am sure. Now, I just have to convince you. But I’ll be patient. I won’t even ask if you love me in return. Or not yet.’

He took her loafers and fitted them back on to her feet. ‘There you go, Cinderella. They fit. Now you can’t turn me down.’

‘You may believe you’re Prince Charming,’ Tarn said, forcing herself somehow to speak lightly as she scrambled up from her rock. Struggling to behave as if the whole world had not turned upside down. ‘But this couple walking their dog probably think you’re an escaped lunatic.’

Caz turned towards the elderly man and woman, walking arm in arm along the beach, their Jack Russell scampering ahead of them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he called. ‘Isn’t this a wonderful day?’

The man looked dubiously at the sky. ‘I reckon we’ve had the best of it, and it’s clouding over for rain. The weather’s always treacherous at this time of year.’

Treacherous, thought Tarn. Why had this man, this stranger, chosen that of all words?

‘Darling, you’re shivering, and our coats are in the car.’ Caz spoke with compunction. He untied the sweater looped casually around his shoulders. ‘Wear this.’

Obediently, Tarn pulled the enveloping softness over her head, knowing as she did so that the freshening breeze from the sea was not the problem, and that a dozen layers of cashmere would never be enough to alleviate the icy numbness building inside her. Possessing her. Making her feel she would never be warm again.

Oh, God, she thought desperately. What have I done? And what am I doing? I don’t seem to know any more.

Worst of all, I’m not sure I know myself. And that terrifies me.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_9463c14b-e974-5a61-ba6b-8c66a991cdac)

IT WAS a largely silent journey back to London.

Caz was quietly attentive, asking if she was warm enough, or if she’d like to listen to some music. Tarn assented politely to both propositions, hoping that the second option would avoid any more discussion of his plans for their future. However, she declined a further suggestion that they should stop somewhere for tea.

She wanted to get back, she thought, because she needed to think. To work out what to do next. If that was possible.

The CD he picked featured a woman singer she did not recognise, with a deep, almost harsh bluesy voice, whose lyrics were, without exception, a disturbing exploration of love, and all its confusing complexities.

Something else Tarn could well have done without.

She told herself that everything Caz had said to her on the beach was entirely meaningless and just part of a well-worn routine. That he’d probably gone on his knees to Evie in exactly the same way.

Yet, in spite of all that, she could still remember how the look in his eyes had made her breathless and the way his smile had reached out to touch her. Could feel the clasp of his hand round hers as they returned to the car, strong and sure as if he would never let her go, and catch the familiar scent of his cologne on the sweater she was still wearing.

Which, of course, she could return. Disposing of all those other sensations was an entirely different matter.

How, she asked silently, was it possible for him to sound so sincere? To almost make her believe…

She stopped right there. That was not a line she needed to follow.

Although for him to want her had been, of course, an essential part of her plan. She’d intended to rouse him to a fever pitch of unsatisfied desire, before slamming him into limbo, harshly and very publicly. And thanks to Lisa, she’d already worked out the perfect occasion.

‘Each June, there’s a garden party at a house called Winsleigh Place,’ her editor had told her. ‘Everyone in the company is invited from the directors to the cleaners and catering staff. Coaches are laid on to take us all there and back, so no-one is tempted to drink and drive. There’s a wonderful buffet lunch, with non-stop champagne, and in the evening, a dance, with more glorious food. And Caz provides it all.’

So the entire Brandon ensemble would hear the unpleasant truth about their supposed Lord Bountiful, Tarn had resolved, even as she smiled and said with perfect truth, ‘It sounds perfect.’

But today’s turn of events had thrown her scheme back into the melting pot. If she refused his proposal, she would have revenge of a sort, but it would be a private matter between the two of them, and she wanted more than that.

On the other hand, if she agreed, then she would almost certainly attend the garden party as his fiancée, and any attempt to discredit him would reflect just as badly on her. People would wonder how she could possibly have become engaged to him, knowing what she did.

And I wouldn’t be able to answer them, she thought.

Unless, of course, he intended to keep her under wraps until he was tired of her, as he’d clearly done with Evie. A thought that twisted inside her like a knife.

But even that possibility seemed totally unable to negate any of the feelings towards him that had taken such an astonishing and unwelcome hold on her almost from the beginning, and intensified so alarmingly over the last forty-eight hours.

She felt as if two entirely different women were occupying her skin and fighting for the domination of her mind. And she had to make sure that the right one became the ultimate winner.

Because she could not let herself be beguiled by the sensuous passion of his mouth, or give way to the kind of impulse which had almost led her to stroke the dark silk of his hair as he knelt at her feet.