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On Sunday morning the church bells were ringing and Saira decided to go to morning service. She had always attended with her aunt and it felt only right that she should do so now.
The small church, its pews each with their own individual doors, was almost full, and many eyes turned in her direction. Some people smiled, some were openly curious, and Saira had no doubt that they all knew who she was.
The young vicar’s sermon was amusing yet moral and Saira began to feel uplifted, until she turned to leave and saw Jarrett Brent a few rows behind her. Their eyes met, he smiled, briefly, perfunctorily, and then turned his attention to the girl at his side.
She was small, dark and fragile-looking, with a classic bone-structure—and she was wearing a hat! The only young woman to do so. It suited her without a doubt, she looked stylish and elegant, and Saira felt immature and gauche in her cotton dress and jacket, her hair in its usual plait.
So Jarrett did have a girlfriend after all! Was it serious? He had said he lived on his own for the moment. Perhaps they were planning to get married? The girl was gazing adoringly at him, it was obvious they had a very deep relationship.
Deliberately she hung back until he had gone. She wouldn’t have said that this girl was his type, she looked very fragile and meek, not as though she could stand up to a man like Jarrett Brent. Or was that the type he preferred? Did he like to boss his women around? And why was she wondering about it? What did it matter to her?
Mrs Edistone appeared at her side while she was still deep in thought. ‘Good morning, Saira. I see you got in, then?’
Saira nodded and smiled. She had seen the woman’s curtains twitch several times and knew that her comings and goings had been carefully monitored.
‘The squire gave you a key?’ asked the old lady, leaning on her stick, looking as though she was prepared to talk for a long time.
‘Yes,’ answered Saira.
‘I suppose he’s not a bad man,’ Mrs Edistone reflected thoughtfully, ‘always very pleasant if you meet him in the street, very pleasant indeed, very pleasant. How did he seem to you?’
‘Very pleasant,’ repeated Saira seriously, while inside she was dying to laugh. ‘Very pleasant’ were the last words she would use to describe Jarrett Brent. Very disagreeable, very uncooperative, very everything else, but ‘very pleasant’? Not on your life.
Saira had a ham sandwich and salad for her lunch and when two o’clock came and went and he had still not brought her the requested proof she decided to go up to the house again. She refused to sit around all day waiting.
As she walked up the long drive Saira wondered whether the pretty girl would be there? Or indeed whether her antagonist would be in? It was feasible that he had taken his girl out to lunch and they might not be back yet, perhaps this was why he had not come. But she had no doubt that Mrs Dour, as she had nicknamed his housekeeper, would put her in the picture; she would probably take great pleasure in turning her away.
To Saira’s amazement she felt her heart beating much faster than normal, and she took a few deep breaths to calm herself as she pushed the bell and waited. It was a long time before anyone came, she had rung again and was on the verge of leaving when the heavy oak door swung inwards and Jarrett Brent himself appeared. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ was his greeting, and he looked irritated at being disturbed.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ confirmed Saira loudly and aggressively. ‘I’ve been waiting for those papers. Have you found them yet?’
‘Actually, no.’ The annoying sardonic smile was in place, his true feelings well hidden.
Her eyes flashed. ‘I bet you haven’t even looked.’
‘I have been rather busy,’ he admitted.
And Saira knew who he was busy with right now. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair tousled; he looked as though he had dressed in a hurry.
‘Let’s get one thing quite clear,’ she said fiercely, ‘I’m not moving off this doorstep until I get what I came for.’ She planted her feet firmly on the ground, stood tall, and looked him full in the eyes.
His lips quirked. ‘That could prove extremely uncomfortable, because I’ve just remembered that the papers in question might be in my office safe and not here. I’m afraid I can do nothing about it until tomorrow.’
‘Might be in your office safe?’ she questioned in disbelief, her voice rising as her temper increased. ‘You mean you’re not sure?’ It was unbelievable.
‘I’m as sure as I can reasonably be.’
‘I think you’re lying,’ she spat. In fact she was absolutely sure he was lying. ‘I think that for reasons known only to yourself you’re keeping me waiting. I think you’re devious and conniving and I cannot think what my aunt saw in you.’
He lifted his shoulders, still with that infuriating smile on his face, not at all perturbed by her outburst. ‘You’re at liberty to think what you like.’
Saira stamped her foot. ‘Lord, you’re impossible. This is a most intolerable situation.’
‘Actually I’m rather enjoying it.’ The smile turned to a grin.
‘You would,’ she returned sharply, hating the way he was so in control of himself while she was in danger of losing her composure altogether. ‘I’m the one who’s being messed around. If the papers are in your office safe, and I don’t believe for one second that they are, why couldn’t you have told me that in the beginning?’
‘Because it wouldn’t have been half so much fun,’ he admitted. ‘Are you always this fierce and fiery, this impatient?’
Saira could see nothing funny at all in the situation and she glared, her green eyes flashing like jewels. ‘Impatient? I’m not impatient, I’m just anxious to set the matter straight. You’re procrastinating deliberately and I demand that you go and find your deeds right now this very minute. Either that or tell me the truth—that you don’t own Honeysuckle Cottage.’
‘Why don’t you believe me, Saira?’ His own patience suddenly snapped, his mouth tightening, his eyes growing hard; but his voice was soft, and all the more menacing because of it. Saira felt the unspoken threat.
‘Give me a good reason why I should.’ She glared belligerently and drew herself up to her full height, which was still nowhere near tall enough to meet his eyes on the same level, especially with two steps between them. Saira fumed. She felt so impotent; he was playing with her like a cat with a mouse and she was unable to do anything about it.
‘My word is not usually doubted.’ He spoke the words easily but his arrogance showed through, incensing Saira even further.
‘I’m doubting it now,’ she flung savagely. ‘You’ve fobbed me off for long enough. I refuse to move until you go and find those deeds.’
‘Darling, who is it?’ A gentle voice came from behind Jarrett and as he turned Saira saw his female friend. The girl looked calm and self-assured and there was no sign that she and Jarrett had been making love a few minutes earlier. But Saira was not fooled; she had had plenty of time to tidy and compose herself.
‘Joy, come along and meet Miss Carlton.’ He brought the other girl forward into the doorway, and when he took her hand Saira felt a stab of impatience. Here he was, playing around with this girl when there were far more important matters at issue.
The dark-haired girl, who looked impossibly delicate, smiled and eyed Saira curiously.
‘Joy, this is Saira Carlton, Lizzie’s great-niece; you remember Lizzie, don’t you? And Saira, I’d like you to meet Joy Woodstock.’
The two girls shook hands and Saira noticed that he hadn’t actually said who Joy was. A deliberate omission, she felt sure. He wanted to keep her guessing; it was all part of the game he was playing. Despite having met him two or three times now, she still knew nothing at all about him—nothing except that he was claiming her inheritance!
‘Why don’t you ask Saira in, darling, instead of keeping her standing here on the doorstep?’ The fact that the girl showed no curiosity proved to Saira that he had already discussed her, that she probably knew every detail, knew he was playing some dishonourable game with her where Honeysuckle Cottage was concerned.
‘Would you like to come in?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness and a twinkle in his eye, because he knew perfectly well that she would refuse.
‘Would it be worth my while?’ she asked, chin high, eyes challenging.
‘If you’re asking whether I will produce the evidence you require, then the answer is no; but if you’d like to join Joy and me for a cup of tea, then you’re welcome.’ His eyes dared her to accept and Saira almost agreed— except that she would be hurting no one but herself. Did she really want to sit and see these two making eyes at each other? The answer had to be no.
This man sickened her—although she could not deny his overt sexuality. Her awareness of it increased each time they met—and it was a source of great annoyance. She was not interested in this side of him, not one little bit; Joy was welcome to his body and his bed.
‘Thank you for your offer, but no,’ she said with careful politeness. ‘I came here for one thing only and as it’s not forthcoming I will return to my aunt’s cottage. But, Mr Brent, my patience is not without its limits. Please make sure that you have the necessary papers available for me tomorrow.’
It was an unnecessary speech, but she felt better for it, and without even waiting for his answer, catching only a glimpse of Joy’s surprise, she spun on her heel and headed swiftly back towards the cottage.
I seem to be spending all of my time walking up and down this drive, she thought humourlessly. There was no end to her torment. This man really was taking a great deal of pleasure out of her helplessness. And most definitely she would get in touch with Mr Kirby in the morning, whether Jarrett Brent came up with proof or not. It would still only be his word. She had to make very sure of her legal position before giving anything up to him.
CHAPTER THREE
THAT night Saira dreamt about Jarrett, a vivid, disturbing dream where he came to the cottage in the middle of the night and made love to her. To begin with she had fought him, fought desperately to keep him away, but he had worn down her resistance and she had given in, and her body had experienced such feelings of intense pleasure that when she awoke they still persisted.
For a few moments she remained curled in a cocoon of mystic warmth and happiness, hugging the feelings to her, and then the realisation of what she was nurturing hit her like a body blow and she sprang out of bed absolutely disgusted with herself.
This man was her enemy, for goodness’ sake—and yet the pleasure had been so real it was unnerving. She could remember it as clearly as if it had actually happened— and she had to face him today! Her cheeks burned at the thought and her only saviour was that he would not know what was going on in her mind.
The dream, and the feelings that went with it, were even more amazing considering the way she felt about men at this particular stage in her life. Tony had done such a good job of hurting her that she did not want to enter into a relationship with any other man for a very long time, perhaps ever.
Even the fact that she had let Jarrett make love to her in her dream went against all the principles she had ever held. She did not believe in sex before marriage. Both of her sisters had got pregnant before they were married and she was determined it was not going to happen to her.
Tony had accepted her wishes without question and, looking back now, it was obvious that he had never truly been in love with her, and there had definitely never been any explosion of feeling between them such as she had experienced in her dream. That had been unreal, like the stuff you read about in romantic novels.
She would have loved to shower now and rid herself of the feel of Jarrett from her body. Not that her aunt had a shower anyway, but she could have bathed—if there had been hot water! Everything was conspiring against her—and she blamed Jarrett Brent totally; he was the instigator of all this.
She couldn’t and wouldn’t accept that her aunt had sold out to him. He was taking advantage of the situation, he was trying to swindle her out of her rightful inheritance. He wanted the cottage, he wanted to do it up and possibly sell at a profit, and he was prepared to go to any lengths to get it.
After washing in cold water and dressing in a pair of jeans and a yellow T-shirt, Saira ate her now usual breakfast of cornflakes, tidied the kitchen and cleaned the bathroom, and still it was too early to ring Mr Kirby. She went into the village and took some photographs; of the cottage, of the village street, of the church, of all things to remind her of Amplethwaite, everything except Frenton Hall!
It puzzled her that Jarrett Brent lived alone in such a huge place. Was it a family home? Had he lived there all his life? She could not remember hearing the name Brent before, but maybe it was that she hadn’t listened, hadn’t taken it in when she was a child.
Soon after nine she phoned Mr Kirby’s office, only to be told, much to her disappointment, that he was out visiting a client. ‘Can I get Mr Kirby to ring you?’ asked his secretary.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Saira answered. ‘I’ll call back this afternoon.’ She had not expected this, not first thing on a Monday morning, and she fumed impatiently as she made her way back to the cottage.
At one she made herself a cheese sandwich and at half-past Jarrett Brent knocked on the door. Saira felt a deep depression settle over her. There could only be one reason for his visit—he had come to gloat, he had brought the necessary proof that he owned the cottage!
It was a disquieting, disturbing thought, because although she had asked for it, she had not really expected it, or wanted it even, but as she opened the door and saw him standing there in a pair of beige linen trousers and a darker brown polo shirt, all thoughts of deeds fled. Saira relived again her vivid dream and felt an impossible heat pervade her body, even her heart clamoured and she thanked God he couldn’t see the turmoil inside her.
She saw him in a different light today, she saw not her enemy but a sexually attractive man who had the power to bring her whole body to such fever pitch that it was frightening. OK, it had all been a dream, but the feelings were still there and they scared her to death and her eyes were wide as she looked at him.
His brows rose in a crooked line. ‘You’re looking at me as though I’m a ghost or something. Is there anything wrong, Miss Carlton?’
She swallowed hard and pulled herself together, his formal use of her name helping to rationalise her feelings, to put a certain amount of space between them. It allowed for no intimacies and she liked that, she wanted to forget the all too real feel of his body against hers in the dream. He was a hard-muscled man and yet his skin had been smooth, only faintly covered with hair, nothing rough, nothing to put a barrier between their two bodies.
She found herself wondering whether he really was like that and then shook her head angrily. ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she invited with reluctance, ‘but actually I was wondering why you’re empty-handed, why I get the impression that you don’t come with good news?’ She deliberately made her tone sharp.
His eyes narrowed. ‘On the attack already?’ But his voice was cold too and Saira knew this wasn’t going to be a pleasant meeting.
‘It’s pretty obvious I’ll be angry when you’re messing me around like this,’ she retorted. ‘I don’t like being kept waiting. If you can’t provide proof then why don’t you admit it? Please sit down.’
‘There’s been a hold-up,’ he told her, dropping into her aunt’s rocking chair, completely relaxed, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hands linked behind his head, his eyes watchful on hers.
Saira’s chin lifted fractionally as she perched herself on the edge of a chair opposite, and her fingers curled. She was ready to do battle. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. My estate manager has been taken ill and I have no idea where to look in his highly personalised filing system.’ He looked at her levelly as he spoke, but a sudden quiver to his lips made her suspicious.
‘You said they were in your safe,’ she reminded him.
He lifted his shoulders. ‘Mine, my estate manager’s— what difference does it make?’
She eyed him furiously. ‘A hell of a lot. Why don’t you quit stalling and tell me the truth?’
‘Come, come, Miss Carlton, losing your temper will get you nowhere.’ He was almost smiling but not quite; it was just his lips that curled.
Blue eyes met green and Saira was the first to look away. It was unreal how one single dream could have such a devastating effect. She hated this man and yet felt such a strong physical awareness that it almost took her breath away. ‘Doesn’t your estate manager have a secretary?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice cold, not wanting to give him the merest hint of the turmoil inside her.
‘I’m afraid not.’ His answer was delivered so easily, so perfunctorily, that she knew he was lying, yet she knew equally as strongly that he would never admit it.
‘So what are you suggesting?’ How she wished she were a man so that she could take a swipe at him. She needed to do something, she needed to get him out of her system, he really was the most aggravating man she had ever met.
‘You could go home, leaving me your address, and I’ll get in touch with you eventually.’ He was still totally relaxed, totally in control; they could have been discussing the weather, or something equally uninteresting, certainly not the major issue of Honeysuckle Cottage.
Saira felt incensed and bounced to her feet. ‘No, most definitely not. I categorically refuse.’ Lord, what did he take her for, a fool?
‘What, to give me your address?’ He made no effort to move himself, looking up at her with that irritating smile that made her want to lash out at him.
She shook her head, pigtail flying. ‘To go away without getting what I want. Hell, will you stop playing games with me?’ Never in her life had she been so angry so often. She was not usually a volatile person. This man rubbed her up the wrong way—and she felt sure he was doing it deliberately, that he took great pleasure out of goading her, though for what reason she had no idea.
‘Games?’ His brows rose as though he wondered how she could possibly think such a thing. ‘I’m perfectly serious, lady. But it’s your prerogative to do whatever you wish.’
Saira glared. ‘I don’t care about prerogatives, I care about justice. You’re stringing me along, aren’t you? You’re not producing the deeds because you don’t possess them, although for reasons known only to yourself you’re letting me believe that you can’t lay your hands on them.’
She paused and drew in a deep breath. ‘But if you want to play dirty we’ll see what my aunt’s solicitor has to say when I get in touch with him later. Maybe he has the deeds, I don’t know, I never asked him, but I’ll find out, you’ll see, and then I shall expect an apology, a big one.’
Finally he rose to his feet but he was completely unperturbed by her outburst; in fact he was highly amused, his smile wide, his teeth very white and slightly uneven.
‘You needn’t look so happy,’ she cried, her chest heaving, her eyes over-bright, ‘I mean it. I’ve had enough of your procrastination.’
Jarrett Brent shook his head slowly, his blue eyes steady on her face, the smile still there. ‘You’re quite a woman, Miss Carlton.’ And he took a step closer.
Saira stepped back in panic, remembering her dream, aware that it would be all too easy to become intoxicated by his raw, sensual maleness.
‘I’ve never met such a wildcat before.’ His voice went a note lower.
‘You wouldn’t have done so on this occasion if you hadn’t treated me so badly,’ she returned sharply, defensively, her heart beginning to pound.
‘I’m not complaining,’ he assured her. ‘You have a healthy temper and I admire it. I like a woman who sticks up for her rights.’
‘How can you possibly like me, Mr Brent, when I’m the enemy?’ She kept her tone hard, it was imperative she did not let her anger slip.
‘Enemy?’ His brows lifted. ‘I don’t see you in that light. A firebrand, a spitfire, a woman intent on fairness, but not my enemy, no. And don’t you think it’s about time we dropped the formalities?’ His voice deepened even further. ‘My name’s Jarrett. I’d like you to use it.’ Again he took a step closer and now there was only inches between them.
The way he was behaving, Saira could see her dream becoming reality, and if he should dare to touch her she would be unable to resist him; the barriers had already been dealt with. It was stupid to give such importance to a dream but she could not help it; it had been so real, was
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