The Seduction Trap. SARA WOOD

mother swallowed your father whole—and he allowed that to happen. It’s clear that you think you should do your best to love your parents unreservedly, but you really should try to see them for what they are—’

      ‘This is none of your business!’ Angry with him for resurrecting some of the feelings and thoughts she’d suppressed in herself, Tessa marched into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of tea. There was no milk so she put in a hefty dose of sugar to take the bitterness away. When he appeared in the doorway, she flung him a resentful look. ‘You’re not to criticise my parents again!’ she declared heatedly.

      He strolled into the room, pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I won’t make promises I can’t keep.’

      Annoyed, she slid into a chair opposite and stiffly poured him some tea. After a moment, she saw that he was watching the way her fingers twisted and fidgeted together where they lay on the food-stained oilcloth. Quickly she put her hands on her lap, where they couldn’t be seen.

      Deprived of any diverting activity, she found her gaze roaming the kitchen, noting the dirt and disarray, the old-fashioned stone sink, the unwashed dishes with congealing food and the evidence of her mother’s last meal strewn over the table in front of them.

      ‘She certainly left in a hurry,’ Guy observed, a curl of distaste to his mouth.

      ‘Poor Mum. It must have been horrid.’

      Tessa felt a huge lump swelling up in her throat and couldn’t speak any more. Her shoulders slumped with weariness. She ached with hurt—for her mother, for herself and for her father. Oh, dear God, how was she ever going to tell him that there would be no reunion? Tears trickled down her face again and she angrily swept them away. Stupid reaction. First things first. Food, before she fainted dead away.

      ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat, is there?’ she asked hopefully.

      Guy abandoned his thoughtful study of her expressive face, rose and searched the cupboards. ‘Not a lot here… Unless you fancy cereal with tinned tomatoes. Or I could do pasta with anchovy sauce,’ he offered casually.

      He could do it? He looked too masculine to know one end of a saucepan from the other! But Tessa felt too tired to argue. ‘OK by me. The pasta, I mean. Thanks. I couldn’t lift a finger, let alone an anchovy.’

      Two dark eyes twinkled at her in amusement. ‘Where are you going to sleep tonight?’

      Listlessly she watched him lighting the gas beneath a saucepan of water. ‘Here. Where else?’

      ‘In that case, I’ll see what it’s like upstairs when I’ve done the sauce. You’re exhausted, aren’t you?’ he said softly, suddenly crouching down beside her chair.

      Tessa found herself inches away from his compelling face. Overwhelmed by the urge to hurl herself in his arms and seek solace, she merely nodded and said, ‘Whacked. I could sleep for a whole week. It’s the longest journey I’ve ever made. In more ways than one.’

      Her limpid green eyes met his. She wondered if she was swaying. It felt like it. Her mouth opened to ask him something but she forgot what it was because his eyes kindled with a gentle warmth which she found irresistible. And which set her off again. ‘Oh, Guy!’ she cried tremulously.

      ‘It’s OK,’ he said into her hair.

      Tessa’s dazed mind tried to work out how she’d landed up in his comforting arms and if it was all right that his mouth seemed to be warming her scalp. I’m in the arms of a stranger, she thought in surprise. A stranger who hates my mother!

      Yet she didn’t care. The way he stroked her was so soothing. Someone was offering her sympathy, and boy, did she need it at that moment!

      ‘I’m not usually so tearful. In fact it’s quite out of character for me,’ she mumbled snuffily into the softness of his pale green jacket. ‘I don’t usually fling myself boldly at strangers.’

      ‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ he murmured. ‘But you’ve been badly let down. I understand your reaction.’

      The velvet voice flowed into her mind and body, relaxing it and liquefying her exhausted muscles. She sighed. ‘I feel flattened.’

      ‘Sure. We’ll sort everything out in the morning, eh? Right now,’ he whispered, ‘we’ll stick to priorities. Food, then sleep.’

      ‘Mmm,’ she said muzzily. ‘Thanks.’

      She lifted her head and gave him a wobbly smile, which faded rapidly, turning into horror. Her mascara—a beauty aid she’d only just started using—had made dreadful splodges on the shoulder of his expensive jacket!

      ‘Look!’ she screeched. ‘I’m sorry! I’ve made a mess—I don’t usually wear make-up; it was for Mum, because Dad always told me she was so beautiful—what are you grinning at?’ she fumed.

      In answer, Guy went to the sink and wet his handkerchief. ‘You have mascara all down your face. It looks like a map of the Nile Delta,’ he said in strangled tones. His back was to her but she could see that his shoulders were shaking. Tessa looked at him suspiciously when he returned, but his mouth seemed under control. ‘Lift,’ he ordered, indicating her chin.

      Sitting there, her huge eyes dewy with tears, sure that her face was as unattractive as it could be, she contemplated the command, the wet handkerchief, and cringed. Something hurt inside her her own willingness to be soothed by yet another good-looking guy with suspicious motives. First he’d been obstructive, now he was doing a Mother Teresa act. Odd.

      He took the decision out of her hands, tipping up her chin with one finger and carefully rubbing her face dry. Again. She vowed silently that it was to be the last time, positively the last time. Being soothed by Guy could become habit-forming.

      ‘You amaze me,’ he commented. ‘When I told you your face was dripping mascara, you didn’t whimper, “Oh! Is it? I must look a sight!” nor did you cover your face coyly with your hands.’

      ‘No point,’ Her eyes, green like wet grass, twinkled at his falsetto imitation of a coquette. ‘I obviously look ridiculous. Funny enough to make you laugh. I saw your shoulders joggling about.’