Edge Of Temptation

‘Lucy, for God’s sake—–’

‘Oh, please. Let her go on!’ Catherine’s fingers clenched painfully. ‘I’d rather hear the truth than a pack of lies!’

‘Miss Tempest!’ It was Lucy’s protest that rang out then. ‘I must repeat, whatever loyalty you may feel towards your uncle, this is not your affair, and coming here in an abortive attempt to appeal to my husband’s good nature—presuming on a relationship you may once have thought you had—–’

Catherine gulped. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean this—childish aberration you nurtured for my husband …’

‘Shut up, Lucy!’

‘He told me about it,’ Lucy continued, ignoring Rafe’s furious command, and his fingers digging into her shoulder. ‘I suppose you thought it gave you an advantage. Your uncle thought so, obviously. But being insolent is not going to solve anything!’

‘I warn you, Lucy—–’

But Catherine had heard enough. She could feel the hot colour surging into her cheeks, and knew that if she didn’t get out of here soon she would be tempted to slap Lucy’s taunting little face. So he had remembered, she thought bitterly, but it gave her no satisfaction. What had he said? What could he have intimated for his wife to get such an impression? It was galling and humiliating, doubly so, because she had never dreamed he suspected her infantile infatuation.

Brushing a hand across her eyes, she hurried blindly towards the door. She had to get out of here. It had been a waste of time coming. The decision was already made, and Rafe Glyndower had only been humouring her. She hated him for that. Hated him, for making a fool of her, for humiliating her in front of his wife. She would never forgive him. Never!

She had the impression that there was somebody in the hall as she stumbled awkwardly across it, someone standing on the stairs who watched her uneven progress with wide, curious eyes. But she didn’t stop to look. She wrenched open the heavy door without waiting for anyone’s assistance, and ran down the steps to the Renault, uncaring of the rain.

Fortunately, she had not locked it, but her cold fingers fumbled with the handle, and she had just managed to jerk it open when other fingers closed around her arm. Hard fingers, they were, but long and sensitive, powerful in their determination not to let her go.

‘Catherine, wait!’

The voice was familiar, much too familiar, and she struggled urgently to free herself, her long honey-coloured hair falling forward in a curtain, hiding the heated contours of her face.

‘Let go of my arm, Mr Glyndower,’ she said, with what she hoped was convincing coolness, but she knew from his angry oath that he had no intention of complying.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he told her harshly, and she lifted trembling fingers to loop back her hair.

‘There’s nothing more to be said, Mr Glyndower,’ she exclaimed unevenly. ‘And—and I’m getting wet.’

‘So am I,’ he retorted, and then, with an impatient glance back towards the house, he bundled her into the car and got in beside her, forcing her to scramble over into the passenger seat.

The Renault was a small car, hardly big enough to accommodate a man of his size, and with the rain drumming on the roof outside and running in a concealing shroud down the windows, Catherine felt a suffocating sense of constriction. Their combined breathing clouded the windows, concealing them behind its enveloping mist, and she shifted as far away from him as the narrow confines of the car would allow.

‘Now …’ Rafe rested his elbow upon the steering wheel and pushed back his hair with a weary hand. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? No decision has been made, whatever my wife may have said—–’

‘I don’t believe you!’

‘Why not?’

Catherine bent her head. ‘Why should your wife lie, Mr Glyndower?’

Rafe sighed. ‘She wasn’t lying—–’

‘There you are, then!’ Catherine was indignant.

‘—she was—anticipating.’

‘In other words, she knows what your decision is going to be!’ declared Catherine, sniffing as drops of rain trickled down her nose from the dampness of her hair. ‘You’re splitting hairs, Mr Glyndower.’

‘I’m speaking the truth,’ he retorted, turning his head to gaze impatiently at the clouded windows. ‘For God’s sake, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Like Lucy says, this has nothing to do with you, Catherine.’

‘I think it does, Mr Glyndower.’

‘And for God’s sake, stop calling me Mr Glyndower.’

Her breath caught in her throat. ‘What would you have me call you, Mr Glyndower? Rafe? I don’t think your wife would like that.’

He turned to look at her then, and she flinched beneath the cold contempt in his eyes. He had the longest lashes of any man she had ever known, but they did little to conceal his antagonism at that moment, and she shrank back in her seat, half afraid he was about to strike her.

‘My wife is not my keeper,’ he enunciated harshly. ‘Whatever you may have heard to the contrary.’

Catherine flushed then. ‘I—I didn’t say she was.’

‘No.’ He conceded her protest. ‘But I’m not a fool. I know what people think, but they’re wrong. Do you understand?’

Catherine shrugged. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘No, it’s not. But it may help to remember that when the decision is finally taken.’

Catherine licked her dry lips. ‘You—you are going to allow mining in the valley, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, God!’ He rested both elbows on the steering wheel then, cradling his head in his hands and hunching his shoulders. ‘I don’t see what else I can do,’ he muttered heavily. ‘The estate’s almost bankrupt as it is.’

Catherine caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Can’t you—can’t you borrow money? From—from a bank or somewhere?’

He looked at her pityingly. ‘On what collateral? A crumbling manor house and a few uneconomic acres of land?’

Catherine hesitated. ‘But I thought—that is—isn’t Mrs Glyndower’s father—I mean—–’

Rafe’s mouth thinned. ‘You mean isn’t Hammond Redvers a wealthy man?’ Catherine inclined her head a trifle awkwardly, and he nodded. ‘Yes, Redvers has capital. And he’d invest it in Penwyth if he had the chance.’

‘He would?’ Catherine was confused and showed it.

‘Oh, yes.’ Rafe shifted his long legs uncomfortably. ‘Would you like to know what he has in mind?’ He raised dark eyebrows, and gaining her silent assent, explained: ‘He would like to sell the valley to one of those leisure consortiums. You know what I mean? Some kind of holiday complex, with swimming pools and sporting facilities, pony trekking, a marina—you name it, he’s thought of it.’

Catherine was horrified. ‘A—holiday camp?’

‘Well, I understand that designation doesn’t appeal these days. Complex, is the word they use. But generally speaking, they mean the same.’

‘With cabins, and things?’

‘Accommodation would be provided,’ Rafe agreed dryly, watching her growing concern.

‘That—won’t happen,’ she exclaimed. ‘Will it?’