The Virgin's Seduction

Jake regarded her enquiringly, and with evident unwillingness she was obliged to explain. ‘I changed my name when I moved to London,’ she said tersely. ‘Lots of actors do the same.’

‘Mmm.’ Jake accepted this. But then, because he was intrigued by her apparent reticence, he added, ‘And what about Eve? Is she some elderly contemporary of your mother’s?’ Faint amusement touched the corners of his thin mouth. ‘Doesn’t she approve of you, or what?’

‘Heavens, no!’ Cassandra spoke irritably now, and he wondered what he’d said to arouse this reaction. ‘Eve is—a distant relative, that’s all. Mummy brought her to live with her—oh, perhaps ten years ago.’

‘As a companion?’

‘Partly.’ Cassandra huffed. ‘She actually works as an infant teacher at the village school.’

Jake made no response to this, but he absorbed both what she’d told him and what she hadn’t. It seemed from his observations that Cassandra resented this woman’s presence in her home. Perhaps she was jealous of the relationship she had with Cassandra’s mother. Possibly the woman was younger, too, though that was less certain. Whatever, Jake would welcome her existence. At least there would be someone else to dilute the ambivalence of his own situation.

They reached the village of Falconbridge in the late afternoon. The traffic on the Newcastle by-pass had been horrendous, due to an accident between a car and a wagon. Luckily it appeared that no one had been hurt, but it had reduced the carriageway to one lane in their direction.

The last few miles of the journey had been through the rolling countryside of Redesdale, with the Cheviot Hills in the distance turning a dusky purple in the fading light. Despite his misgivings about the trip, Jake had to admit the place had a certain mystery about it, and he could quite believe Roman legions still stalked these hills after dark.

A latent interest in his surroundings was sparked, and he felt a twinge of impatience when Cassandra shivered and hugged herself as if she was cold. ‘This place,’ she muttered. ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want to stay here. Give me bright lights and civilised living every time.’

‘I think it’s beautiful,’ said Jake, slowing to negotiate one of the blind summits that were a frequent hazard of the road. ‘I know a lot of people who live in London who would love to leave the rat race and come here. Only not everyone has the luxury of such an escape.’

Cassandra cast him a disbelieving look. ‘You’re not trying to tell me that you’d prefer to live here instead of San Felipe?’

‘No.’ Jake was honest. Much as he liked to travel, there was nowhere quite as appealing as his island home. ‘But I was talking about London,’ he reminded her. ‘You have to admit, there are too many people in too small a space.’

‘Well, I like it.’ Cassandra wasn’t persuaded. ‘When you work in the media, as I do, you need to be at the heart of things.’

‘Yeah.’

Jake conceded the point, but in the six months since he’d known her Cassandra had only had one acting role that he knew of. And then it had only been an advertisement for some new face cream, though she’d told him that advertising work certainly helped to pay the bills.

They approached the village over an old stone structure spanning a rushing stream. The original Falcon Bridge, he concluded, glad they hadn’t encountered another vehicle on its narrow pass. Beyond, a row of grey stone cottages edged the village street, lights glinting from windows, smoke curling from chimneys into the crisp evening air.

‘My mother’s house is on the outskirts of the village,’ Cassandra said, realising she would have to give him directions. ‘Just follow the road through and you’ll see it. It’s set back, behind some trees.’

‘Set back’ was something of an understatement, Jake found. Turning between stone gateposts, they drove over a quarter of a mile before reaching the house itself. Banks of glossy rhododendrons reared at one side of the drive, while tall poplars, bare and skeletal in the half-light, lined the other.

Watersmeet looked solid and substantial. Like the cottages in the village, it was built of stone, with three floors and gables at every corner. There were tall windows on the ground floor, flanking a centre doorway, uncurtained at present and spilling golden light onto the gravelled forecourt.

‘Well, we’re here,’ said Cassandra unnecessarily, making no attempt to get out of the car. She gathered the sides of her fake fur jacket, wrapping it closely about her. ‘I wonder if they know we’re here?’

‘There’s one way to find out,’ remarked Jake, pushing open his door and swinging his long legs over the sill. He instantly felt the cold, and reached into the back to rescue his leather jacket. Then, pushing his arms into the sleeves, he got to his feet.

The front door opened as he buttoned the jacket, and a woman appeared, silhouetted by the glowing light from the hall behind her. She was tall and slim, that much he could see, with what appeared to be a rope of dark hair hanging over one shoulder.

Obviously not Cassandra’s mother, he realised, even as he heard Cassandra utter an impatient oath. The distant relative? he wondered. Surely she wasn’t old enough to be the housekeeper Cassandra had mentioned?

The protesting sound as the car door was thrust back on its hinges distracted him. Turning his head, he saw Cassandra pulling herself to her feet and, unlike the other woman’s, her face was clearly visible.

‘Eve,’ she said, unknowingly answering his question, her thin smile and tightly controlled features an indication that he hadn’t been mistaken about her hostility towards this woman. ‘Where’s my mother? I thought she’d have come to meet us.’

The girl—for he could see now that she was little more—came down the three shallow steps towards them. And as she moved into the light cast by the uncurtained windows Jake saw her pale olive-skinned features were much like his own. He guessed her eyes would be dark, too, though he couldn’t see them. She barely looked at him, however, her whole attention focussed on Cassandra, but he saw she had a warm, exotic kind of beauty, and he wondered why she was content to apparently spend her days looking after an old woman, distant relative or not.

Her mouth compressed for a moment before she spoke. Was it his imagination or was she as unenthusiastic to see Cassandra as she was to see her? ‘I’m afraid Ellie’s in bed,’ she said, without offering a greeting. ‘She had a fall yesterday evening and Dr McGuire thinks she might have broken one of the bones in her ankle.’

‘Might have?’ Cassandra fastened onto the words. ‘Why is there any doubt about it? Shouldn’t she have had her ankle X-rayed or something?’

‘She should,’ agreed Eve, and Jake noticed that she didn’t let Cassandra’s agitation get to her. ‘But she wanted to be here when you arrived, and if she’d had to go to the hospital in Newcastle…’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve arranged for an ambulance to take her in tomorrow—’

‘An ambulance!’ Cassandra snorted. ‘Why couldn’t you take her?’

Eve’s face was a cool mask. ‘I have a job to do,’ she replied flatly. And now she looked at Jake fully for the first time. ‘Would you—both—like to come in?’

CHAPTER TWO (#uf8960a72-22b9-5108-95ef-30eb5988334c)

AN HOUR later, Eve was able to escape to her room to change for supper.

She’d spent the time between the guests’ arrival and now escorting Cassie to see her mother, showing Jacob Romero to his room—Ellie had been adamant that Cassie shouldn’t sleep with her lover under her roof—and arranging with Mrs Blackwood for refreshments to be provided in the library.

Eve, herself, had done her best to keep out of Cassie’s way after she’d delivered her to her mother. Out of Jacob Romero’s way, too, with his deepset eyes and dark, attractive features. She didn’t know what she’d expected Cassie’s escort to be like. She only knew she couldn’t call him her boyfriend. There was nothing remotely boyish about Jacob Romero, and from the moment she’d seen him standing beside his car in the courtyard she’d felt a curious sense of foreboding that she couldn’t quite place.

She supposed she’d been expecting someone older. Cassie was forty-six, after all. But Romero was obviously much younger. Tall—he was easily six feet and more—with a well-muscled chest and a flat stomach tapering to narrow hips, he looked strong and virile. An impression increased by his hair, which was cut very close to his head.

He looked—dangerous, she thought. Dangerously attractive, at least. And sexy—a description that in his case wasn’t exaggerated. It was easy to understand what Cassie saw in him. What troubled Eve most was that she could see it, too.

She pulled a face at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table. Then, shedding her shirt and jeans onto the floor, she went to take her shower. She was being fanciful, she thought. Ten years ago, feeling a man’s eyes upon her wouldn’t have bothered her so much. But she’d been harder then, wary and streetwise. In the years since she’d come to live with her grandmother she’d become softer. She’d let down the guard she’d had since she was old enough to understand.

Drying her hair later, she mentally ran through the contents of her wardrobe. Nothing very exciting there, she acknowledged. Skirts and blouses or sweaters for school; jeans and sweaters for home. For the rare occasions when she went out her grandmother had bought her a little black velvet dress, with long sleeves, a scoop neckline, and a skirt that skimmed her kneecaps. But this was not that kind of occasion, and she had no intention of attracting Cassie’s curiosity by wearing something totally unsuitable for the evening meal.

She was tempted to leave her hair loose, something she often did in the evenings after she’d washed it. But once again she decided against drawing attention to herself. She plaited the glossy black strands into the usual single braid, securing it with a narrow band of elasticated ribbon.

After far too much deliberation, she put on a V-necked top made of elasticised cotton. Bands of ivory ribbon hid the shaping both around her arms and above and below her breasts, contrasting with the rest of the garment, whose jade-green colour complemented her pale skin.

She almost took it off again when she saw how well it suited her. She’d bought the top on one of her infrequent trips to Newcastle, and had pushed it away in a drawer because she’d thought it was unsuitable for school. Now, looking at it again, she saw she’d been right. It was more in keeping with the teenage girl her grandmother had found subsisting in a draughty squat.

But it was too late to be having second thoughts now. Besides, she doubted she’d be eating with her grandmother’s guests. She had no intention of leaving the old lady to eat alone, or of playing gooseberry to Cassie’s t?te-?-t?te.

Zipping on a pair of black cords, she paused only long enough to stroke her lids with a dark brown shadow and run a peachy gloss over her mouth. Then, slipping her feet into heelless mules, she left her room before she could change her mind.

Watersmeet was a fairly large house, but over the years Eve had got used to it, and now she hardly noticed its high-ceilinged rooms and wide corridors. Some years before she’d come to live here central heating had been installed, but the boiler struggled to keep the place at an ambient temperature. Consequently, at this time of year, fires were lit in all the downstairs rooms that were used.

Eve went first to the kitchen, to see how Mrs Blackwood was coping. The elderly housekeeper wasn’t used to having guests, but very little fazed her. At present, she was rolling curls of homemade cream cheese in slices of ham, and an avocado dressing waited to be served in tiny ramekins to accompany each plate.

‘Her Ladyship won’t eat any of the dressing,’ Mrs Blackwood explained, when Eve commented on the arrangement. The woman meant Cassie, she knew. Her grandmother didn’t watch the calories these days. ‘Just hope she approves of the sea bass,’ she continued. ‘I asked Mr Goddard to deliver it specially. I know how fussy she is about eating meat.’

Eve smiled. ‘I’m sure it will be a delicious meal,’ she said warmly. ‘What have we got for dessert?’

‘Bread and butter pudding and ice cream,’ said Mrs Blackwood at once. ‘I know it’s fattening, but it is Mrs Robertson’s favourite. I thought she deserved something really nice, after having that fall and all.’

“Mmm.’ Eve nodded appreciatively. Mrs Blackwood’s bread and butter pudding, which she made with brioche and peaches, was famous in the village. She usually contributed individual puddings whenever the church had a coffee morning, and it always sold out at summer bakes and Christmas fairs.