Separate Rooms

As she went to her bedroom she could hear him moving around in the kitchen. She would have liked to ask him to leave but couldn’t rake up the energy. The long day, the frustration of the sale, the nasty knowledge that Graham wasn’t about to abandon his pursuit—even though Ben had said they were engaged—had sapped her strength.

So she wouldn’t think about any of it. Not now. After her shower, after Ben had taken himself off, would be soon enough.

Divesting herself of her wet clothes, she tugged on a short scarlet silk robe, belting it securely at the waist and padded out of her room—meeting Ben in the tiny passageway. Suddenly, for no reason she could think of, she felt her face go as red as the silk that clung to every curvaceous line of her body. But he didn’t even seem to see her. He looked straight through her as he imparted briskly, ‘Good girl. I’ll have dinner ready in half an hour.’ He almost smiled. ‘Come as you are, no need to dress for the occasion.’

Huh, she snorted to herself as she shed her robe in the privacy of the tiny bathroom. No need to dress. Come as you are! Was that a build-up to a pass, or wasn’t it! Her face going hot, she rushed to bolt the door and immediately felt silly. He hadn’t even seemed to see her out there, and he certainly hadn’t subjected her to the lascivious slide of the eyes that meant he was mentally undressing her. She had been on the receiving end of just such looks for years now and was perfectly capable of recognising them.

Annoyed with herself for her mental over-reaction, she stepped into the shower and allowed the soothing spray of hot water to relax her and was almost tempted to do as he had said—present herself for dinner in her robe—but thought better of it and pulled on a pair of washed-out jeans topped by a baggy sweatshirt in a faded shade of black that seemed to emphasise the paleness of her skin, the delicate lines of her triangular face and the wildness of her rough-dried, shoulder-length vivid red hair.

Though what he had found to cook was beyond her. She knew for a fact that her fridge was empty, the store cupboard shelves bare of the makings of a meal. She had been too busy just lately to be bothered about such trifles as grocery shopping.

So the aroma of sizzling steak coming from the kitchen was a complete surprise, as was the sight of Ben Claremont with a tea-towel tied around his lean waist, his strong angular features frozen in a mask of concentration as he flipped the meat over then slid it back beneath the grill.

Then the mask dissolved into a smile of such warmth that Honey found her breath snatched away, her voice just for once totally lost as he put a cup of steaming coffee in one of her hands, a small measure of brandy in a tumbler in the other.

‘Go and warm through by the fire.’ He gave her an absent-minded push, turning her round, his hands on her shoulders, very briefly, not lingering. He surely didn’t appear to be the mauling type, she thought in a haze. True, he had held her quite intimately when she’d fallen into his arms as the door to the shop had opened, but that had been purely for Graham’s benefit, a physical back-up to his roundabout announcement that they were an engaged couple. He had certainly lost no time in putting her aside as soon as the other man had stumped away in a rage.

And it hadn’t been Ben’s fault that Graham had taken the so-called engagement news as a direct challenge. He had tried to help her. So she wouldn’t bristle at him because he had taken over, pushing her out of her own kitchen, giving orders.

Besides, she would find it impossible to be angry. He had an uncanny knack of soothing her. Well, some of the time. Like now, with the fire he had made burning brightly in the hearth, the flames throwing dancing shadows and splashes of glowing colour over the ancient carvings on the stone hood, the hot coffee and tiny sips of brandy relaxing her.

The table they’d used last night was already set with two covers. He’d certainly been busy while she’d been taking that shower and when he entered with a platter of steaming steak with fresh asparagus on the side, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm, she smiled at him dreamily and uncurled languorously from the squashy armchair at the fireside.

It was nice, for a change, to be cosseted. No one had done so since her father had died; no one had petted her or really cared about her and what she wanted, or treated her as if she was important, special to them. Not even her mother. Especially not her mother! Avril had only been interested in having a daughter who would conform to her ideas of what a daughter should be. Honey’s personal wishes were disregarded if they didn’t dovetail with Avril’s—as witnessed by the endless arguments over her decision to set up in business on her own, by her refusal to do the sensible thing and give it all up to marry Graham!

The sound of the cork popping, the crisp foam of bubbling magic into cold crystal reminded Honey of her earlier intention to treat him to a celebratory drink and, a quirky smile playing around her mouth, she seated herself at the table, spread her napkin over her lap and told him, ‘Thanks for trying to give Graham the red light. It’s a pity it didn’t work, but you can see what I’m up against.’