The Millionaire's Castle

Chapter 4

But although she did her utmost to explain away what had happened. the feeling of knovcing the house still persisted.

Oh. thought, it was a warm, friendly feeling, so she worry about it.

When she had washed her hands and tidied her hair she descended the stairs and crossed the hall, still with that feeling of being at home, and opened the living-room door.

It was a long spacious room with pale walls and a beamed ceiling, comfortably furnished and homely, as she had known it would be. It was lit by a couple of standard lamps and the glow of a log fire.

Pulled up to the hearth were two soft leather armchairs, and on a low table between them was a tray of tea and a plate of what appeared to be home-made scones, with small dishes of jam and cream.

Glancing up from the chair he was occupying, Michael invited, 'Come and join me.'

Once again rocked by the impact the sight of him always had on her, she obeyed, and, taking a seat opposite, remarked, 'Though the whole house is anything but cold, this is really cosy.'

'So long as the electric pump's working, the central heating keeps the place at a comfortable temperature,' he agreed.

'Strictly speaking,' he went on, 'the fires are only necessary when the electricity supply fails. But I love an open fire, especially in the winter.'

'So do I,' she agreed wholeheartedly.

'Why?'

'Why?' she echoed uncertainly.

'Yes, why?' 'Well, I—I find a fire is visually pleasing. It brings a room to life...

'Go on.'

somewhat fazed by his persistence, she attempted to put her feelings into words. 'As far as I'm concerned, a fire meets some primitive need that's made up of more than just the requirement for warmth.'

It was so close to his own feelings—feelings that Claire had neither understood nor shared—that he was taken aback, But all he could find to say was, 'Very nicely put.'

Unsure whether or not he was mocking her, and deciding

to change the subject, she asked, 'Would you like me to pour the tea?'

'If you wouldn't mind,' he agreed smoothly.

Outwardly serene, she assembled fine china cups patterned with a ring of tiny flowers, and reached for the matching teapot. 'How do you like your tea?'

'A little milk, no sugar.'

Watching her calm face and graceful movements, he frowned a little. She both puzzled and intrigued him. The fact that she knew the house had taken him by surprise, and he wanted to see into her mind, to know how she had managed to come by such detailed knowledge and information.

There had to be some explanation, and sooner or later he would find it, he promised himself as, with a word of thanks, he accepted the cup and saucer she passed him.

Taking a sip, he added, 'It's nice to be waited on occasionally.'

Deciding to play the gracious hostess, if that was what he wanted, she offered him a plate and a scone.

His face straight but his eyes amused, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, he accepted the plate and took a scone. Watching her replace the rest, he queried, 'Won't you join

As she started to shake her head he added persuasively,

Mrs Blair is proud of her scones, and quite rightly.'

'They look very tempting,' Jenny admitted. 'But I don't think so.'

'Why not?' Recalling Claire's horrified expression when he'd suggested that she try one, he added, 'You're not Worried about a few extra calories, are you? You're plenty slim enough.'

'No... Luckily I have the right kind of metabolism, so 1 don't need to worry about putting on weight. It's just that I had such a big lunch.'

'So did I. But we can't hurt Mrs Blair's feelings.'

He smiled at her, a white, slightly crooked smile that put fascinating creases beside his mouth, lit up his face, and warmed his green eyes. 'Tell you what, shall we share one?'

Beguiled by his smile and that teasing glance, and wondering how she could ever have thought him unattractive, she found herself agreeing. 'Why not?'

He split the light, floury scone in two and spread both halves with jam and a generous amount of cream, before cutting each piece into four quarters.

Then on an impulse, he picked up one of the pieces and reached across to offer it.

Without conscious volition she opened her mouth, and he fed it to her.

Thrown by the gesture, she sat like someone in a dream and watched him eat his own piece.

The little ritual was repeated until the scone was all gone. Though she had told herself it was nothing, and tried to appear calm and unmoved, something about the unexpected intimacy had made her feel hollow inside, and her hand was shaking slightly when she lifted her cup to her lips.

WATCHING Jenny, and seeing the slight flush on her cheeks, Michael swndered what on earth had impelled him to act in that way'.

But whatever it had been her reaction had proved surpris ing. Any other newly hired PA would have either backed off or made a big deal of it.

She had done neither.

Though clearly taken by surprise, she had met the informality with a kind of sweet, slightly shy acceptance that he had found oddly moving.

Now she was avoiding his eyes, looking anywhere but at him, and he noticed that the hand holding her teacup wasn't quite steady.

He was wondering how best to restore the status quo the lights flickered and seemed momentarily in danger of going out.

'It looks as though the generator is on the blink again,' he remarked, 'which can be a nuisance when I'm working.' 'It must be,' she agreed in a heartfelt voice.

'If the story's flowing,' he went on, 'I hate to be held up. That's one of the reasons I decided I needed a PA who can take shorthand.'

'Does it go on the blink often?'

'From time to time it gets temperamental and leaves us in the dark.'

Which no doubt accounted for the oil lamps she had noticed scattered around. 'And you've only that to rely on?'

' 'Fraid so. At the moment there's no national-grid electricity on the island. Nor are there any phone lines. Plans are under way to have both by next year, but at the moment a mobile is essential.'

'Oh, dear!' she exclaimed. In the excitement and the rush to get ready, she had left hers on charge.

'You have a problem?'

'It's only that I've just realized I've forgotten to bring mine.'

'Is there anyone you need to get in touch with?'

She half shook her head. 'Not at the moment. I left a note for my flatmate... It's just that I feel lost without my mobile.'

'Well, if the need arises, you can always borrow mine. More tea?'

'No, thanks. What about you?'

He shook his head, and, keen to see her reaction to the rest of the house, suggested, 'Shall we continue the tour?'

She rose and accompanied him to a door at the far end of the room that led through to a red-carpeted library-c*m-study.

It was a large, handsome room with book-lined walls and a wide stone fireplace, in which a fire had been laid ready.

The fireplace itself was ornate, the stone surround decorated with mythical birds and beasts. In the centre of the mantel was a symbol she knew well, a phoenix rising from the ashes. Perhaps that in itself wasn't remarkable.

What was remarkable was that she had known it was there even before she'd looked.

A little shiver ran down her spine.

But she was making too much of it, she told herself

sturdily. That kind of ornamentation was no doubt quite common. She could almost have expected it.

Realizing that Michael was waiting for her, she pulled

herself together and prepared to move on.

He opened a communicating door, and ushered her through. 'At one time this was the dining-room, but it was so little used that I decided to make it into an office.'

It was clear that she had been mistaken in presuming he just rented the house. To be able to make that kind of major alteration, he must surely own it.

The office was sparsely furnished and businesslike, its windows fitted with slatted blinds. There was a smoke-grey carpet, a large desk on which sat a computer and a printer, a black leather swivel chair, a bookcase full of what appeared to be reference books, and a filing cabinet.

With no ornaments or pictures, it was clearly intended as a place to work without any distractions.

Leaving by a door on the far side, they crossed the hall and went through into a large living-kitchen, with comfortablelooking rustic furniture and a big, wood-burning range.

'As you can see, it's been brought up to date fairly recently,' Michael remarked.

Looking at all the mod cons, which included a microwave and a dishwasher, Jenny asked, 'And there's no problem with

the power?'

'so long as everything isn't switched on at the same time, the generator, which is housed through here—' he let her Peep into what had once been a stable block and was now garages '—manages to cope.

Next door to the kitchen is the cold larder, which has been left more or less as it was...

If the kitchen hadn't disturbed her serenity, the larder did. ere Were the shelves and cupboards, the green marble slab

at the far end, and the deep porcelain sink with its old-fashioned water pump, just as she had visualized it.

'And it fits your description perfectly,' he went on softly, 'even to the pump.' Then, like a cobra striking, 'Do you think it works?'

'Oh, yes,' she said with certainty.

'You're quite right. But how did you know?'

Thrown, she stammered, 'Well, I—I didn't really.'

But when he'd asked the question, she had pictured clear water gushing from the spout when the handle was pumped up and down.

Until then she had been trying to treat the whole thing lightly, as though it was some game. Now the strangeness of it threw her, making her feel nervous, unsure, as though she were stranded on thin ice that might give way at any moment and plunge her into dark and unknown depths.

His eyes on her face, he queried, 'And you're sure you've never been here before?'

'Positive.'

She looked and sounded genuinely shaken, and for a moment he was almost tempted to believe her. But only for a moment, then common sense returned, making him wonder what kind of game she was playing.

After his divorce, some women had gone to great and diverse lengths to capture his interest, but none as intriguing or as well planned as this.

But how could she have planned it?

To have come up with such an accurate description of the house, she must have been here before, seen photographs of the place, or been told all about it. And she hadn't known where he was taking her until the very last minute.

Perhaps Paul had mentioned that he did his writing at Slinterwood, and given her detailed information about the place?

Knowing Paul, that didn't seem very likely, but it was the only logical explanation he could come up with. Unless she was clairvoyant.

'Perhaps you have second sight?' he suggested, half in earnest.

A little flustered by the concept, she assured him, 'No, not that I know of. But if I believed in reincarnation, I might think I'd lived here in some previous life.'

'And do you? Believe in reincarnation, I mean?'

'So how do you account for it?' She couldn't.

But still she tried. 'When I've had the chance I've always enjoyed visiting National Trust properties and stately homes... All I can think is, I must have seen, and half remembered, another house enough like Slinterwood to superimpose the two.'

It sounded weak even in her own ears, and a little defensively she said, 'I'm afraid it's the only explanation I can come up with.'

'There could be another one,' he mentioned, his voice even. When she looked at him uncomprehendingly, he went

On, 'Paul knows Slinterwood quite well—perhaps he told you all about it?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

Then, catching the fleeting expression of doubt that crossed his face, she added sturdily, 'You can ask him if you don't believe me. I'd never even heard of Slinterwood until you mentioned it earlier today.' ere was an unmistakable ring of truth in the words that brought him up short, and he found himself saying quietly, 'I do believe you.'

She relaxed a little as they moved on and came to a halt outside the final door.

had never seen before, he had accused her of not caring enough, of lacking warmth and passion and being next door to frigid.

That night, back in her own bed, she had cried herself to sleep. The following morning, rallying a little, she had tried to tell herself that things would improve once they were in their own flat and married.

But her confidence, both in herself and in Andy's professed love for her, had been badly shaken.

Then, not long afterwards, and quite by chance, she had discovered that he was two-timing her.

Their flat had finally been vacated, and she had been taking some things round when she had discovered him in what would have been their bed, with another woman, and the bottom had dropped out of her world.

She had thrown his ring at him, and, feeling used and betrayed, hurt and humiliated and bitterly angry, vowed never to trust another man.

Laura, ever practical, had said, 'You should thank your lucky stars that you found out what the swine was really like before you married him.'

While recognizing the sense of that, it had still taken her months to get over the hurt, to claw back some of her pride and self-respect, and bury her feelings of inadequacy.

So how could she think of herself as vulnerable when it came to a man like Michael Denver? A man who, apart from one brief kiss, had really shown no interest in her as anything other than his hired PA.

Yet somehow she did.

It made no sense, but that one light kiss had moved her in a way that no other man's kisses had.

Though that didn't mean she had to act like a complete numbskull, she scolded herself. She'd always been very successful at masking her feelings, a trait that had helped her

enormously when it came to dealing with difficulties in either her personal or professional life, and that was what she would do with Michael, at least until she got her newly awakened libido under control!

Having succeeded in convincing herself that she'd been fretting over nothing, she pushed any remaining worries to the back of her mind, and, closing the heavy curtains to shut out the darkness pressing against the panes, set about unpacking.

Putting her nightdress and dressing gown on the end of the bed, she stowed the rest of her things neatly away in the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, while she debated changing out of the suit she was wearing.

A lingering caution suggested she should stick with the businesslike image. But while she could see the sense of that, she felt the need to change into something easier, slightly less formal.

Having decided, she stripped off the suit and hung it in the wardrobe before freshening up in the pretty lilac and white bathroom.

Then, making a positive statement, she chose a simple olive-green dress that Laura had disgustedly described as 'matronly', and slipped it on.

Somehow she had to get through their first evening alone together with the guidelines firmly in place and her composure intact.

Hopefully he would want to begin work as soon as dinner

was over—she grasped at the prospect like a lifeline—and Once their attention was fixed firmly on his next book it should make things a lot easier.

When she descended the stairs and made her way to the she found it was empty. Which might possibly mean he was already in his office working.

But that too was empty, as was the library.

She finally ran him to earth in the kitchen where, his

sleeves rolled up and a tea towel draped around his lean hips, he was using two wooden spoons to toss a green salad.

The oak table was already set with a fish platter, a bowl of what looked like home-made dressing, and a basket of crispy rolls. A bottle of white wine waited in a cooler.

Glancing up from his task, he said, 'Two things. I hope you like fish?'

'Yes, 1 do.'

'And I hope you don't mind eating in the kitchen?'

'No, not at all.' Glancing at the glowing range, which had been set in an inglenook fireplace, she observed, 'It's nice and homely.'

'I decided to keep the old range to sit in front of, and cook on if the generator fails.'

Her hair, he noted, was still in the businesslike coil and her dress, with its long sleeves, calf-length skirt and demure neckline, clearly wasn't intended to be provocative.

It didn't look as if she had any plans to vamp him, he thought with wry humour.

But though the dress was conservative, it was far from dull. The silky material clung lovingly to the curve of her bust and waist, and swirled becomingly around her slender legs when she moved.

Aware of his scrutiny, she asked quickly, 'Is there anything I can do to help?'

According to Claire, most women disliked having to get their own drinks, and, deciding to put her to the test, he gested, 'Perhaps you wouldn't mind getting us both a drink

A loaded drinks trolley was standing to one side, and while she surveyed the various bottles he watched her.

When her inspection was over, appearing completely unfazed, she queried, 'What would you like?'

'A dry Martini with ice and lemon, please.'

•Shaken not stirred, presumably?' He grinned. 'What else?' spooning crushed ice into a silver cocktail shaker, she teased, 'Your middle name doesn't happen to be James, by any chance?'

His face straight, so that she didn't know whether or not to believe him, he told her, 'As a matter of fact it does.'

With a composure that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing, she added measures of vodka and French Rrmouth to the ice and shook it thoroughly, before pouring the mixture into two Martini glasses and adding a twist of lemon to each.

Handing him one, she suggested, 'Try this and see if it's to your taste.'

'Thanks.'

As he accepted the glass their fingers brushed and a kind

of electric shock tingled up her arm.

She had read about that effect in romantic novels, but had never believed it could happen in real life. Now, as she found it could, her composure abruptly deserted her.

He made no comment, but the gleam in his eye told her he knew.

he'd taken a sip of the cocktail, he said, 'Spot on.' Then, with a lopsided grin, 'You may have just added bartender to the other things I expect my PA to do.'

She couldn't help wondering exactly what he meant by other things', but was too chicken to ask.

There was a pair of rocking chairs in front of the range with a low table between them, and, trembling inside, her legs none too steady, she took her own glass and went to sit

by the fire.

the salad was mixed to his satisfaction, he discarded the tea towel and joined her by the fire.

Glass in hand, he leaned back comfortably, his legs crosscd neatly at the ankles. 'The meal's ready, but if you're in no hurry.. P'

'Well, no, I'm not... But 1——

'Then I suggest we relax for a while and get to know one another. '

Judging by the expression on her face, Michael thought, she didn 't welcome his suggestion.

That impression was amply confirmed when she humed on, 'I thought you might want to eat straight away so you could work later?'

'No. I wasn't thinking of doing any work tonight.'

'Oh... ' she said, her lifeline gone and her heart sinking. Then rallying, 'So what time will you want to start in the morning?' He shook his head. 'I won't. After the pressures of London life, I usually take a day or two to relax and unwind while I mull over my next plot.'

'Oh,' she said hollowly.

If only he would get down to writing in earnest, she thought in helpless frustration. As soon as he had made a start and his book was absorbing all his attention, she would feel a great deal happier.

'And one ofthe best ways to do that, I find, is to go walking.' Well, at least he'd be out.

'Do you like walking?'

Ambushed by the question, she answered truthfully, 'Yes: Adding, 'Before I went to live in London I used to walk for miles along the beach— Suddenly realizing where her answer might be leading, she broke off abruptly.

But her anxiety was put at rest when he merely said, 'Of course, at this time of the year it depends to a great extent on the weather. Rain's forecast, so if it happens to be heavy It might be expedient to find some other form of relaxation.

The prospect of him ending up housebound because of the weather wasn't one that pleased her.

His face straight but a hint of amusement in his voice, he observed, 'You seem positively disappointed at the thought of not starting work straight away.'

She blurted out the first thing that came into her head. 'I— I've never worked for a writer before and I can't wait to see how a book comes to life, and to know I'm playing some small part in its creation.'

Then grasping at what, hopefully, would be a safe topic, she asked, 'Do you begin by plotting out the various chapters?'

Normally he never discussed his writing with anyone, but as they were going to be working together he decided to go along with it.

'No. I usually start with just a bare idea of the storyline. Then I concentrate on the characters, and their relationship to one other.

'Once I have those things clear in my mind, I start to make preliminary notes,

'If it begins to gel, I'm under way. If it doesn't, I start all over again...

She soon found herself fascinated by what had begun as a mere expedient, and listened eagerly.

Although the conversation wasn't going along the lines he had planned, responding to what he recognized as a genuine and intelligent interest, Michael answered her questions freely.

Though she hadn't stated as much, from the questions she asked it soon became clear that she had read his books.

More than read them—knew them.

By the time he paused to suggest that it might be time to eat, Jenny had f0rgotten both her motive for starting the conversation and her earlier agitation.

When she was seated, he helped her to a selection of seafood and some of the crisp salad before pouring wine for them both.

While they ate a leisurely meal he kept the conversation light and impersonal, and she relaxed even more.

By the time they returned to sit in front of the stove with their coffee, she realized that their first evening alone together was almost over.

Though she was too conscious of him to be totally comfortable, she had not only survived the day, but in some respects thoroughly enjoyed it.

Their cups were empty, and she was about to mention that she would like an early night when, out of the blue, he remarked, 'I find it almost impossible to believe that a beautiful woman like you has no man in her life.'

When, flustered, she said nothing, he fished, 'But possibly you haven't met the right one yet?'

Uneasy about the direction the conversation was taking, but feeling the need to say something, she admitted, 'I was once engaged to be married.'

'Oh, when was that?'

'It ended six months ago.'

'May I ask what happened?'

Endeavouring to hide the feelings that, in spite of all her efforts, were still somewhat painful, she said flatly, 'I gave him back his ring when, a few weeks before we were due to be married, I found him in bed with another woman.'

'So presumably you don't believe in.. .shall we say.. .open• ended relationships?'

'I have some friends who do, but that kind of relationship isn't for me.'

'Even if you really loved the man'? '

'Especially if I loved him.'

And you haven't met anyone you could fall in love with

since your engagement broke up?' 'No,' she answered.

Then before Michael could delve any further,

she put her cup on the low table and rose to her feet.

'Now if you'll excuse me, it's been a long day, and last night I didn't sleep very well...

It was the truth. Anxious about the forthcoming interview, she had been unable to settle, and had tossed and turned for a long time before finally falling into an uneasy doze.

'So I'm really tired,' she added.

He was about to try and persuade her to stay when, seeing her stifle a yawn and noticing that there were faint blue shadows beneath her eyes, he uncoiled his long length and agreed, 'Then bed it is.'

This wasn't at all what she had planned, and, disconcerted, she blurted, 'Oh, please...

Don't let me disturb you.'

'You're not. I was rather looking forward to a reasonably early night, myself.'

The ground cut neatly from beneath her feet, she had no choice but to let him escort her upstairs, switching out lights as they went.

At her bedroom door he paused, and, blocking her way, stood looking down at her.

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she stammered, 'Well, g-goodnight.'

Putting a single finger against her cheek, he said, Goodnight. Sleep well.'

As, his light touch rooting her to the spot, she gazed up at hi

m like a mesmerized rabbit, he bent towards her.

e conviction that he was about to kiss her again galvanized

room, and, followed flinching by away, the sound she brushed of his soft past laughter.him and Into her

Once inside' her heart racing, her breath coming fast, she

leaned against the door panels. A moment later she heard his light footsteps move away, and then the door of his room close.

Angry with herself, and even angrier with him when she recalled that mocking laughter, she wished fervently that, rather than panicking and running away, she had kept her head, She should have stood her ground and made it plain that she had simply come here to do a job and wasn't in the market for a bit of light dalliance. Instead she had acted like a silly, immature schoolgirl.

But then that was the effect Michael Denver had had on her from the start.

She groaned inwardly. However was she going to face him in the morning?

But even as she quailed at the prospect, she realized that something about the little scene that had just taken place didn't quite add up.

Michael was a skilful, sophisticated man, not an inexperienced youth liable to dither, and there had been ample opportunity, not only for him to kiss her, but to start a big seduction scene if he'd really wanted to.

So why, instead of just getting on with it, had he telegraphed his intention?

Had he wanted to see her reaction?

Or had the whole thing been just a charade, a deliberate attempt to fluster her?

Oh, come on! Common sense stuck in its oar. Why should he want to fluster her?

Wasn't she, once again, letting her imagination run away with her? Wasn't it much more likely that she had been totally mistaken? That he hadn't intended to kiss her at all?

If she had misinterpreted what had been just an innocent movement on his part, and bolted, no wonder he had laughed'

She groaned again. It was a toss up which of the scenarios

was worst, she thought as she picked up her nightie before heading for the bathroom to clean her teeth and prepare for bed.

Perhaps, in the morning, after making such a fool of herself, it might be better to tell him that she had had second thoughts and wanted to leave?

But did she really want to leave Slinterwood?

The answer had to be no.

Though the strange rapport she felt with the house made her extremely reluctant to leave it, she was forced to admit that the overriding reason for wanting to stay was Michael Denver himself.

Being in his company wasn't altogether comfortable, but it gave her a buzz, sharpened her perceptions, and made all her senses diamond-bright.

Love was supposed to have the same effect, she mused as she stepped out of the shower and began to dry herself. But though she had thought herself in love with Andy, he had never made her feel so aware, so alive.

Perhaps she had been turned on by the thought of working for a writer of Michael's calibre?