One Reckless Night (7 page)

 
For a long moment she stood, staring up at it, then turned away with a defeated shake of her head.

 
Someone else's picture, she told herself. Someone else's house. And even if I possessed them both, I would find no clues to tie them to the past.

 
But what had she really expected? Coming here had always been a fool's errand.

 
But-in for a penny, in for a pound, she thought with a shrug as she left the room. Her intention had been to return to the kitchen, but instead she found herself making for the broad oak staircase. Perhaps, once she had trodden every floorboard, seen every room, she would be able to exorcise the demons that drove her.

 
And one of those demons would soon be back, she realized with a faint shiver as she went swiftly and softly up the stairs.

 
She could neither explain nor excuse the strange effect that Jake seemed to have exerted on her. He was the last man in the world to have appealed to her in ordinary circumstances. Yet nothing that had happened since she arrived in Emplesham could be deemed ordinary.

 
It was if she had been bewitched-bound by some spell-as soon as she'd entered the village. As if she'd breached some unseen thicket of thorns to reach the lair of the enchanter. ¦

 
And who knew what she might find up here, behind these discreetly closed doors? No secrets, he'd said, but all the same she felt like Bluebeard's bride as she turned the first handle and looked in.

 
Prosaically, it was only the bathroom-but what a bathroom. It was decorated throughout in subtle shades of blue and green, with an enormous square sunken bath. Beautiful ceramic candleholders were stationed at each corner of the wide tiled surround, every one with its own tall, virgin candle.

 
To lie in the bath in the flicker of candlelight would be like swimming underwater through some warm, tropical lagoon, Zanna realized with a swift intake of breath.

 
The carpet under her feet felt soft, and as deep as the sea. Thick fluffy towels waited on the heated rails. The trace of some familiar scent hung in the warm, faintly moist air, and as she sniffed experimentally she recognized Jake's cologne.

 
Well, naturally, she told herself dismissively. He was living in the house. He would use the bathroom. The absence of wet towels on the floor, or traces of shaving soap on the basin and mirror, revealed, too, that he was personally fastidious. But why should he be a slob just because he repaired cars for a living? she reproved herself.

 
He was, after all, a stranger. She didn't even know his real name-any more than he knew hers. So why should anything about him surprise or annoy or please her? She should aim for a calm indifference about every aspect of his life and personality.

 
Her eyes wandered back to the bath. Did he ever lie there, she wondered, her breathing quickening, with the candles lit, imagining he was floating on some balmy, moonlit sea? And did he lie there alone?

 
The image was suddenly too troublesome to contemplate, and she backed hurriedly out, pulling the door shut behind her, controlling the irritating flurry in her pulses before proceeding to the next closed door.

 
A bedroom, she discovered, furnished with the same discreet comfort she'd noticed downstairs, the wide bed covered with an old hand-made patchwork quilt. But no actual sign of occupation.

 
A linen cupboard, a box room, another bedroom-this time with a single bed, but again apparently unoccupied. And behind a door at the far end of the passage a flight of steep wooden steps. Leading perhaps to the servants' quarters? Zanna wondered wryly as she made the cautious ascent.

 
But it wasn't a bedroom at all that awaited her. A faint evocative aroma of oil paint and turpentine reached her, as well as a sudden chill. Zanna looked up and found the moon looking back at her. For a crazy moment she thought she had somehow walked out into the open air, before she realized that almost half the roof had been replaced by an enormous skylight. A studio, she thought. My God, it's an artist's studio. And maybe the very place where the picture of this house was painted.

 
Her fingers fumbled for the light switch. She felt as if she was on the brink of some genuine revelation. But as the light came on she saw, with swift disappointment, that the studio which had indeed been created here under the rafters was almost bare. An easel was folded against a wall and in the corner a draughtsman's chest stood with open, empty drawers. Palettes and brushes, all immaculately cleaned, were ranged on a table. Beside them, a tray held half-used tubes of paint.

 
Whoever had worked in this room had clearly not been there for some time. It was all too orderly-too blank. There wasn't even a discarded sketch to provide the connection she needed.

 
Sighing, Zanna turned off the light, and retreated back down to the landing.

 
One more room to go, and that, presumably, would be the master bedroom. Surely Jake couldn't be using that?

 
But one glance told her she was wrong. The discarded shirt lying across a chair, the brush, comb and toiletries jostling on the dressing table and, most tellingly, the deep red coverlet, matching the canopy of the massive four-poster bed and folded neatly back at the bed's foot-all these shouted his occupation.

 
For a mere caretaker, he certainly took a hell of a lot for granted.

 
But she could understand his choice. It was, undeniably, a beautiful room, with the glowing color of the bed-hangings matched by the twining crimson roses on the thick carpet.

 
She had seen all there was to see up here. Now she should close the door and go back to the kitchen before Jake returned. Yet, inexplicably, Zanna found herself drawn forward, her feet sinking into the carpet as she crossed the room. The satin-covered quilt felt as soft as thistledown under her questing fingers while the sheets and pillowcases were in cool ivory percale. She touched them too, smoothing the palms of her hands over the rounded surfaces of the pillows.

 
His skin would look like burnished bronze against them, she thought bemusedly. And if she bent closer, put her cheek there also, and her lips-like this-she would breathe the scent of him, as if she were lying in his arms.

 
The sheer enormity of what she was thinking-what she was doing-what she was actually desiring-exploded suddenly in her head. She straightened, recoiled as if jerked on wires. Her hands flew to her mouth, as if wiping away a touch-a kiss. In the startling silence she could hear the hoarseness of her own breathing.

 
She had to break the spell of this dangerous enchantment, she told herself feverishly. She'd taken too many risks already. Now she had to get away-to escape without looking back.

 
On her way to the door she caught a brief glimpse of herself in the dressing table mirror. With her disheveled hair, unbuttoned shirt and the dark ribbon round her throat, she was barely recognizable as the girl who'd entered her hotel suite in triumph only hours before. Now, with her bright, startled eyes, and the feverish spots of color burning in her cheeks, she looked like some wild creature of old-some maenad off to a dark and secret revel.

 
Out of character, she thought, and out of control. She snatched off the ribbon, stuffing it into her jacket pocket, then hastily ran her fingers through her hair, trying to subdue it to a semblance of normality. She would not, she thought, under any circumstances use Jake's comb.

 
With one final, almost despairing look at her reflection, she turned and plunged out onto the landing. She was panting when she reached the head of the stairs- where she halted, all the breath leaving her body in one silent, tumultuous gasp of shock.

 
'Enjoy the tour?'

 
She hadn't heard a sound in those last bewildered, bewitched minutes, but he was back just the same, standing with one foot on the bottom stair, resting an arm on the banister, totally at his ease.

 
A faint smile played about his mouth as he looked up at her, but the dark eyes were hooded, enigmatic.

 
She had the curious, appalling sensation that he knew, somehow, where she had just come from. That through doors and walls he had seen that humiliating performance by his bedside.

 
Desperately she rallied her tottering defenses. 'It was-instructive,' she returned coolly. 'Tell me, do your employers know that you sleep in their bed?'

 
His grin widened. They probably guess.' He hunched an indolent shoulder. 'I like plenty of space, Susie.'

 
Innocuous words, on the face of it, but they conjured up a whole torrent of images, each more disturbing than the last. To her horror, Zanna felt an involuntary blush rising.

 
She stayed where she was. 'Did you find my shoe?'

 
'I did, Cinderella, and it still isn't even midnight.'

 
'Don't be absurd,' she said shortly. 'In fact, this whole ludicrous situation has gone quite far enough. I'd like to leave, please.'

 
The smile still lingered. 'That's entirely your own decision, Susie. However, you'll still need your shoe.'

 
He turned away and walked across the hall into the drawing room, leaving her with no choice but to follow.

 
In the doorway she halted, her eyes widening. 'What on earth's this?'

 
A fire had been kindled in the grate, and one of the tables drawn up to the small blaze. A number of plates had been set out on it. Astonished, Zanna recognised vol-au vents and slices of quiche, rolls of pink ham scuffed with asparagus, chicken drumsticks, small bowls of different salads and a stick of crusty bread.

 
She looked at Jake, who was filling mugs from a cafetiere. 'A little something you ran up in a spare moment?'

 
He shook his head. 'I'm only responsible for the coffee. The rest is Trudy's idea. We left the dance before supper, you see,' he added, deadpan. 'So she packed up our share in case prolonged fasting made us ill.'

 
'She can't be serious,' Zanna said faintly. 'I've barely recovered from dinner.'

 
'She's a born provider. You can't possibly hurt her and refuse to try at least a mouthful.' He paused. 'She also sent you this.' He held up a key. 'It opens the side door at the Bull, in case there's no one around when you go back there.'

 
'Oh.' Zanna digested this. 'Well, that was-thoughtful.'

 
'She always is.' Jake put down the cafetiere. 'Why don't you stop hovering and sit down?'

 
'Because I'm not staying.' She held out a resolute hand. 'If I could have the key, please, and my shoes, I'll be on my way.' She encountered the measuring look he sent her and lifted her chin. 'It's getting late and I have an early start tomorrow.'

 
'You have a long drive ahead of you?'

 
The question was casually put, but Zanna stiffened. This was straying onto forbidden territory.

 
'Does it matter?' She let her hand fall to her side.

 
'Probably not.' His smile was easy. 'But, like you, Susie, I have an outsize bump of curiosity. And, as you must be aware by now, you intrigue me.'

 
She gave a brittle laugh. 'Do you regard everyone whose car breaks down in the same light?'

 
'Hardly.' The look that lingered over her from the top of her head to her slender feet was still amused, but frankly and disturbingly sensual at the same time.

 
'And while we're on the subject of cars,' Zanna babbled on, bitterly aware that her betraying blush was persecuting her again, 'perhaps you'd tell me how much I owe you for fixing mine?'

 
'We can discuss that,' he said, 'over supper. So, take a seat and drink your coffee.'

 
There was a seething pause. Then, 'You really like your own way, don't you?' Zanna snapped.

 
'I'd say that was something we shared,' Jake retorted equably. 'Now, are you going to sit down of your own accord, or do I have to fetch you?'

 
Zanna sent him a fulminating look, then, head held high, marched to the sofa and sat down on its edge. 'Satisfied?'

 
'Far from it.' Maintaining a careful distance between them, Jake put the coffee down on a side-table within her reach. 'But the night is young.'

 
'Does it ever occur to you,' Zanna said through gritted teeth, 'that your attitude could be construed as sexual harassment?'

 
'Not often.' He sent her an oblique glance. 'I'm an old-fashioned man, darling. I know exactly how the human race has kept going over the centuries, and it's not through any strict adherence to political correctness, believe me.