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Adam let out a long-held breath. And with it went a good deal of the tension which had knotted his muscles for the past year or so and given him daily headaches. The air was crystal-clear like champagne and he felt like running, laughing, letting go of all the things that weighed him down.
‘Magic,’ he murmured, when he crested the hill.
He could see right across the island, the bay he’d just left on one side, a new one on the other. Glittering granite rocks littered the mouth of this sandy cove, giving it a film-set appearance. Beyond were dozens of small islands and above him wheeled elegant black and white birds, assailing his ears with a strange, piping call. This was Trish’s home. She’d described it often enough, but the reality left him breathless.
Invigorated, he strode towards the rose-covered cottage on the beach. He felt less depressed. And, given his self-inflicted task, couldn’t for the life of him understand why.
‘Enjoy your walk?’ asked Trish provocatively.
‘Very much,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘What are the tall purple flowers in those doll-sized fields called?’
‘Whistling Jacks—a kind of gladioli. They come up after the narcissi. We sell them on the mainland The hedges protect them from the gales.’
‘I see. And there were some black and white birds—’
‘With a red beak and eye? Oyster-catchers.’ She looked at him curiously. He seemed very interested for a city man.
Adam looked impressed. ‘It was fascinating, walking up that lane. I suppose you know the names of all those peculiar-looking plants. Those giant ones, for instance.’ He grinned. ‘Twelve feet tall with blue flowers?’
‘Echiums,’ she said promptly. ‘We can grow a lot of exotic plants because we rarely have frost or snow.’
Adam’s face was soft with pleasure ‘I haven’t been so close to wildlife for years. I envy your knowledge.’
She liked his admiration and basked in it for a moment before she said, ‘I know about my world, you know about yours. You think it’s clever to know the names of birds and plants I’ve lived with all my life. I goggle at anyone who knows computer-talk as well as plain English.’ Suddenly she felt that they were getting too cosy and decided to end their chat ‘I’ve taken your luggage upstairs,’ she said, mustering a more impersonal tone.
‘Trish! You shouldn’t have done that!’ he protested at once.
‘Don’t go all macho on me!’ She grinned, incapable of remaining aloof for long. ‘I’m as strong as Rambo,’ she told him, flexing her biceps like a body-builder. ‘I’m not fragile and feminine like Louise.’
He appeared to be about to contradict her, then changed his mind. ‘She’s tough in a different way,’ he said.
Hard as nails, thought Trish, uncharitably. She frowned at her tart jealousy and vowed to think well of his fiancée.
‘Anyway, you’re a guest here. My Job is to look after you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I’d better show you around. That’s the sitting room in there..’
He peered at the cheerfully cluttered room with its comfortable chintz chairs, rows of bookcases and the incomparable view of jagged islands in the sapphire sea.
‘Sunny aspect. I’ll enjoy sitting in there with you,’ was his verdict.
‘I’m usually busy baking in the evenings,’ she said quickly ‘You’ll have to watch Coronation Street on your own.’
‘I rarely get to see any TV,’ he said, with a smile at her cheeky put-down. ‘I usually work in the evenings too.’
‘Poor Louise!’ she murmured sympathetically, leading him through to the conservatory at the back.
‘She works alongside me.’
Trish suppressed her involuntary flinch. ‘Great for intimacy.’
‘I’ll say,’ he replied enthusiastically.
Her lips compressed for a moment, then she remembered that he was a paying guest, nothing more.
‘I’ve laid on tea for you.’ On her best welcoming be-haviour, she pulled out the white wicker chair. ‘You have breakfast in here, squeezed in between the geraniums and petunias. Or outside, if it’s warm enough. Dinner ditto’
‘Wonderful,’ he said, when she’d expected him to turn his nose up at the cramped conditions.
‘I’ll go and make the tea and bring tonight’s menu,’ she continued pleasantly. ‘Help yourself to tea bread. The flapjacks and Dundee cake were made today Any preferred brand of tea?’
‘Earl Grey with lemon.’ He seemed to be fighting down laughter. ‘Join me, Trish. And stop being so damn formal!’
‘You’re getting the same treatment as anyone who comes here!’ she said indignantly. ‘I can’t deviate from the script—I’d forget something!’
She left him laughing, and as she put the kettle on to boil she knew she was longing to be on easy terms with him again. Should she sit with him or not? There were a thousand Jobs she could be doing. Her conscience and desires had a brief tussle. One cup of tea—just to be friendly, she decided, pleased with her cool compromise.
Surrounded by tumbling passion flowers and scarlet geraniums, and with jasmine shedding petals on his head, Adam had stretched out his legs and was finishing a sticky slab of tea bread. He slowly licked his fingers, his eyes fixed on the garden but his mind miles away. On Louise, Trish supposed. Then a small curl of erotic pleasure tweaked at her breasts as he sucked his forefinger in very sexy contemplation.
‘Right! Tea!’ she cried merrily, as though she were producing vintage champagne ‘I can only stop a moment. The weeds in the garden are in danger of taking over the whole island!’
Adam’s rich chuckle warmed her body. ‘It’s an amazing place! Like a jungle!’ he said, leaning forward in admiration, as if he were seeing it for the first time.
Flattered, Trish nevertheless felt a pang. He had been mooning over Louise. He was missing his fiancée already.
Subdued by this, she poured the tea then took a golden flapjack, noticing that he’d removed his sweater and had rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. His bare, oak-coloured arm lay along the edge of the chair, close to hers. An inch more and they’d be touching.
Something drastic happened to her throat. She began to choke.
‘Hold on!’
Adam leapt up and banged her on the back. Her coughing fit ceased but he continued to massage either side of her spine. She let him. A deep warmth invaded her body through the thin T-shirt, loosening tendon, muscle and sinew. The massage became slower. She could hear him breathing. Every inch of her was aware of him and tingling with an electric tension. A light touch of something—his fingers, perhaps?—brushed the nape of her neck and then he was moving back to his chair.
‘OK?’ he asked abruptly.
No. Aroused. Angry. Resentful... ‘Thanks to you. Good thing you were here!’ she said vigorously, in an effort to drive the devils from her body. ‘Think how awful it would be, having “Suffocation from home-made flapjack” on your death certificate!’
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