Running From the Storm (14 page)

Rising to her feet, she urged jerkily, ‘Shall we get on? The storm seems to be easing off a little.’

Another bright flash of lightning and a further onslaught of rain against the windowpanes gave the lie to her words.

‘That sounds remarkably like wishful thinking,’ he observed ironically.

‘I suppose it does,’ she was forced to admit. ‘It’s just that I should be working.’

‘Think of this as working.’

She looked at him.

‘Isn’t keeping a prospective buyer happy an essential part of your job?’

‘Well, yes,’ she admitted.

‘And, in view of the amount of money involved, I imagine I rate as a fairly important buyer?’

There was no need to answer.

‘That being the case, presumably you came hoping to clinch the deal?’

Knowing it was useless to deny it, she agreed reluctantly, ‘You could say that.’

‘Well, to have any chance of succeeding,’ he told her, raising an eyebrow, ‘You’ll need to pander to me.’

Registering the expression of mingled dismay and vexation on her face, he went on, ‘So for heaven’s sake stop hovering. Sit down again and try to relax.’

Seeing nothing else for it, Caris did as she had been bidden.

She was afraid he would bring up the past once more, but he seemed in no hurry to break the silence. While she waited for the storm to subside, she simply sat and gazed into the fire.

The deep pile of glowing embers, the leaping flames, the bright sparks that flew upwards when one of the logs settled, proved to be almost hypnotic.

Tired after the previous night’s disturbed sleep and emotionally drained, she felt her eyelids begin to droop.

Watching her, Zander thought she was even lovelier than he remembered. Then, her beauty had been fresh and untouched, that of a girl. Now it was that of a mature woman, with a sadness, a vulnerability, a poignancy, that was haunting.

Realizing that she was in danger of drifting off, Caris stirred herself and glanced up to find that Zander was watching her through half-closed lids.

The expression of mingled pain and longing on his face made her catch her breath but in an instant a shutter came down, hiding his emotions.

Disturbed afresh, she moved restlessly.

‘Something wrong?’ he asked.

‘I was just wondering how much longer it’ll be before we can go.’

‘Hard to say. We could be here for hours yet.’

‘I certainly hope not!’ she exclaimed with feeling. He clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘That’s a black mark against you.’

Then, with mockery in his green eyes he went on, ‘As a valuable potential buyer, the very least you could do is
pretend
to be enjoying my company.’

Realizing he was out to rattle her, and knowing the only way she could hope to win was by playing him at his own game, she retorted with saccharine sweetness, ‘How could you doubt it?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Then why sound as if you couldn’t wait to get away?’

She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘It’s just that I’m dying for a cup of coffee.’

‘That’s not a bad idea. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘If you can rustle up some coffee, I’ll give you full marks. But in my opinion you’ll need to be a miracle worker.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t claim to be that. But we do have running water and—’ he leaned forward to poke the fire, sending the orange flames leaping ‘—a good, hot stove to heat it on.’

‘So all we lack is the coffee,’ she murmured drily.

Undaunted, he said, ‘Oh, you never know. There’s quite a lot of stuff left in the cupboards. I’ll take a look.’ He rose to his feet.

On one of her previous visits, whilst glancing in the various cupboards to assess the storage space, Caris had noticed quite a good supply of tinned food and store-cupboard items, but she had seen no sign of any coffee.

She shook her head. ‘I rather think you’ll be wasting your time.’

‘Want to bet?’ he asked jokingly.

In the same vein, she answered, ‘I was taught never to bet for money.’

‘So what shall we bet for? What would you like if you win?’

Fairly confident of doing just that, she took a deep breath and chanced his wrath. ‘I’d like to leave here straight away, regardless of the weather.’

‘Very well. And if
I
win—’ he pretended to consider ‘—let’s say … a kiss for old times’ sake, shall we?’

Sudden panic had her blurting out, ‘No! No, I—’

‘Afraid of losing?’ he taunted.

‘Not at all. But if there
is
any coffee, it has to be fit to drink.’

‘That goes without saying.’

She pressed home her advantage. ‘Let’s say an unopened pack or jar.’

‘Unopened?’ He ran thoughtful fingers over his chin before agreeing. ‘Okay.’

For no good reason, his prompt acceptance of her terms made her feel a shade uneasy.

Watching her expressive face, he asked, ‘So is the bet on? Or do you want to chicken out?’

Dismissing the unease and telling herself they would soon be out of here, she informed him decidedly, ‘The bet’s on.’

‘Good,’ Zander said with soft satisfaction and, crossing the kitchen, he opened the door of one of the huge cupboards.

As she watched incredulously, he reached up to the second shelf and produced a cafetière and a sealed pack of coffee.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to drink it black, but in the circumstances …’

Feeling as if she had been winded, she asked hoarsely, ‘How did you know they were there?’

‘I noticed them earlier,’ he admitted.

As if reading her unspoken thoughts, he added, ‘They were a little way back, so unless you were six inches taller you wouldn’t have noticed them.’

Biting her lip, she silently berated herself for being fool enough to bet. She should have realized he was setting a trap.

Having half-filled the cafetière with water, he spooned in the coffee and set it on the stove. Then while it heated, he pulled the low table into place and found and rinsed a couple of mugs.

When the cafetière started to bubble and the fragrant aroma of coffee drifted on the air he filled the mugs and set one in front of her.

Dropping into the chair opposite, with a glance at the streaming windows he observed, ‘It seems to be raining harder than ever.’

‘Well, we can’t stay here much longer,’ she burst out.

‘Why not? We’re warm and comfortable, and the cupboards are well stocked with canned food, so we can rustle up a meal of some kind if we get hungry.’

It sounded very much as if he was pleased by the prospect. Convinced now that he was playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game, keeping her here while he waited for her to crack, her blood ran cold.

But she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how rattled she was. She bit back the panicky rush of words that rose to her lips and, trying to look unmoved, picked up her mug of coffee.

But he hadn’t failed to notice her agitation, and as she prepared to take a sip he warned, ‘Careful; it’s very hot, and I wouldn’t like you to burn your mouth.’ With a little mocking smile, he added, ‘I haven’t yet collected on our bet.’

It sounded like a threat and she had to repress a shiver. She couldn’t bear it if he kissed her.

While she made a pretence of drinking her coffee, she tried to focus, to sort out something workable from the seething mass of thoughts filling her head.

Suppose she simply refused to stay any longer? It wasn’t professional, and it could well mean losing the sale. But there were other people interested, she reminded herself.

A sudden, disturbing thought brought her up short. What if he wouldn’t allow her to leave? What if he was determined to drag up the traumatic past—ask questions she didn’t want to answer?

Don’t be a fool
, she scolded herself,
he can’t
make
you stay
.

But in her heart of hearts she knew he could if he so wished. He was much bigger and stronger than she was, and if he was angry enough to coerce her …

A glance in his direction showed he had finished his own coffee and was leaning back, enjoying the warmth with catlike indolence, his eyes closed.

Perhaps to make things easy she could slip out while he was dozing? It would mean leaving him to lock up, but surely he would do that? And when he returned the keys to the office she would take care not to be alone.

For a while she watched him surreptitiously, then when he showed no sign of stirring she rose to her feet, picked up her bag and briefcase and, leaving the bunch of keys on the table, moved noiselessly towards the door.

‘Going somewhere?’ The lazy enquiry stopped her in her tracks.

Her heart throwing itself against her ribs, she turned to look at him. He didn’t appear to have moved, but now she could see the gleam of his eyes through their thick curtain of lashes.

‘I have to get back to the office.’ Relieved that her voice was steady, she added, ‘I take it that you’ll lock up when you leave?’

‘Isn’t abandoning a potential buyer rather unprofessional?’ he asked mildly.

‘It depends on the buyer.’

‘Very well, run. But you can’t go on running. I know where to find you, and sooner or later you’re going to have to talk to me, face up to the past.’

Closing her mind to his words, she fled.

The rain was still torrential, bouncing off the paving stones, gurgling in the gutters, dripping from the climbing plants and streaming down the shallow channel that directed it away from the house.

Though her car was quite close, without a mac she was saturated in seconds. Pulling open the door, struggling to hold it against the wind, she jumped in. Too relieved that she had escaped to worry about her drenched state, she wiped water from her eyes, fastened her seat belt and turned the key in the ignition.

There was a click, then nothing.

Taking a deep breath, she tried again.

Still nothing.

The problem she’d had starting the car earlier had gone clean out of her head, and now she groaned.

Why did it have to happen today of all days?

Driven by desperation, it took several more tries to convince her that it wasn’t going to fire; the engine was dead.

Which meant she would have to wait for a taxi.

While the lightning flashed and thunder ripped the heavens apart, she opened her bag and felt for her phone.

When she couldn’t immediately find it, she looked more carefully.

Still it failed to come to light.

It took a third and more thorough search to convince her it wasn’t there.

Her heart like lead, she realized she mustn’t have picked it up that morning. Harassed by her dream and thoughts of the past, hurrying to try and leave them behind, she must have left it on charge.

Now what was she to do? Though Zander’s hired car was standing there, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—ask him for help.

But what if he’d left the car unlocked and the keys in the ignition?

Choked by excitement, she pulled on her mac, struggled out and hurried towards his car buffeted by the wind and rain.

The door was unlocked, but to her disappointment the ignition was empty.

Unless she was willing to return with her tail between her legs—which she wasn’t—that left her with just one option: to walk as far as the road and try to get a lift back to town.

With the storm still raging it wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but she was already cold and soaked to the skin so it wouldn’t make all that much difference, she told herself stoutly.

As she turned, a fierce gust of wind sent her staggering offbalance; she stumbled and fell, grazing her shins and knees on the rough stone.

Picking herself up, she gritted her teeth and, head down against the elements, started for the driveway.

She had only gone a matter of yards when her arm was caught and held. His voice raised above the noise of the storm, Zander was demanding, ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? Where are you going?’

Pulling her arm free, she told him shortly, ‘My car won’t start and I’ve forgotten my phone, so I’m going to try and get a lift back to town.’

Holding on to his patience, he pointed out, ‘The drive must be the best part of a mile long, and even if you get as far as the road there aren’t likely to be many cars out and about in these conditions.’

As he spoke an extra-strong gust sent them both staggering.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ he urged. ‘You’ll never make it. Come back inside.’

The rain was beating into her face and the wind was stopping her breath. She hesitated. Then, feeling suddenly exhausted, chilled to the bone and trembling in every limb, she allowed herself be hurried into the house and back to the warmth of the kitchen.

Dripping wet and still shaking, she went to stand by the stove. She looked a sorry sight. Stray wisps of hair hung around her pale face, blood trickled down her legs and a puddle of water was starting to form at her feet.

Zander was equally wet, his fair hair plastered to his head, rain drops running down his face, his clothes clinging to his tall frame.

She rounded on him and, through teeth that had started to chatter, cried, ‘Damn you! This is all your fault.’

Wiping water out of his eyes, he said mildly, ‘Do I take it you’re blaming me for the inclement weather, for your car refusing to start and for the absence of your cell phone?’