The Temptation Trap. Catherine George

tucking in escaping damp tendrils, threw open the door, then stared blankly at the man standing in the porch.

      This was no elderly gentleman. He was tallish, with high cheekbones in a suntanned face, and a mop of thick black hair in need of a barber. And at a guess he was a mere few years older than she was. And equally surprised—dumbfounded even. He wore a light tweed jacket with jeans, polished loafers and a plain white T-shirt. And something about him was familiar. And very, very attractive. As she met the dazed look in his slanted eyes Rosanna stiffened, astounded by a deep-down flicker of reaction. And as though he sensed it he moved towards her involuntarily, then stopped dead, the hand he’d half raised dropping to his side again.

      ‘Good evening,’ he said huskily at last. He cleared his throat. ‘My name’s Fraser.’

      ‘Hello,’ said Rosanna, pulling herself together. ‘My mother said you were coming tonight.’

      ‘Would you like proof of my identity?’ He produced a yellow card with a photograph and signature that confirmed he was E. A. Fraser, a member of the National Union of Journalists. ‘If you want confirmation your best bet at this time of night would be the offices of the Sunday Mercury.’

      ‘Is that where you work?’

      ‘Not any more. But I’m well-known there. Someone would vouch for me.’

      Rosanna shook her head, telling herself she’d imagined that first, startled moment of rapport. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary. I gather you’ve already met my mother. Do come in.’ She smiled, determinedly polite, and held out her hand. ‘I’m Rosanna Carey.’

      Her visitor shook her hand formally, then followed her along the hall to a small sitting room, where French windows opened on a long, narrow garden at the back of the house.

      ‘Thank you for seeing me, Miss Carey.’ His careful formality belied the look in his eyes, which were still riveted to her face. ‘Your mother told me she had some papers I could borrow.’

      ‘Quite a lot of them. I did some rummaging in the attic for you.’ Rosanna made no mention of her mother’s holiday. Bad idea to say she was living temporarily and alone in the house. ‘My mother couldn’t be here this evening. She asked me to deputise for her.’

      ‘It’s very kind of you.’ Her visitor looked away at the garden at last, breathing in appreciatively as the scent of roses came wafting in on the warm evening air. Someone was mowing a lawn nearby, and there were faint shouts from children playing in a garden a few houses away. ‘This is very pleasant. I miss a garden.’

      ‘Do sit down. Can I offer you a drink?’ Rosanna smiled, her eyes dancing suddenly. ‘I had sherry and biscuits lined up. I thought you’d be nearer my grandmother’s age than mine.’

      He smiled, his teeth gleaming white in his tanned face. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

      ‘Relieved, not disappointed,’ she assured him lightly. ‘I’d braced myself for a formal exchange with someone venerable. Though I’d better make it clear at the outset that I’ve got reservations about passing on some of the things I found.’

      ‘Letters?’ he asked quickly.

      She nodded. ‘Very private ones.’

      He eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then got to his feet. ‘Look, could we go out for a drink? Miss Carey, you don’t know me from Adam. So just to reassure you I’m not about to nick the silver I vote we adjourn to neutral ground while I ask my questions.’

      ‘Are you writing some kind of article?’ asked Rosanna curiously.

      ‘No. This is nothing to do with any newspaper.’ He took a book from his briefcase and handed it to her.

      Rosanna looked at the cover, eyebrows raised. ‘Savage Dawn, by Ewen Fraser,’ she noted, and turned to the back cover to look at a photograph of the author. Ewen Fraser. Of course. That was why his face was familiar. His book was a runaway bestseller. She’d read quite a lot about him recently. And not just about his books. ‘No wonder I thought I knew you.’

      ‘You’ve read it?’ he said, pleased.

      She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I haven’t. But you’ve been in the news lately. One way and another,’ she added deliberately. Candid camera shots of Ewen Fraser, usually with some gorgeous female in tow, had appeared regularly in the press since his book made the bestseller list.

      His wide, expressive mouth twisted in distaste. ‘Don’t believe everything you read, Miss Carey—other than my book, of course. That was researched with great care,’ he said shortly, obviously nettled by her reference to his private life. ‘Savage Dawn is set in the Zulu wars. It’s selling so well my editor wants a follow-up with a descendant in the same military family in the First World War. Which is why I’m interested in anything you can tell me about your grandmother.’

      Rosanna frowned. ‘Why my grandmother?’

      ‘If you’ll come and have a drink with me I’ll explain.’

      She thought for a moment. It was easy to see women, her mother included, took to Ewen Fraser on sight. Rosanna couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d reacted the same way herself. Which was a first. ‘All the necessary papers and records are here, Mr Fraser. We could hardly go through them in a pub. If you’ll settle for a drink here we can go through the papers in peace.’

      The leap of pleasure in his eyes ignited a second little flicker of heat inside her, to her consternation. ‘I’d like that very much,’ he said with emphasis. ‘Thank you for sparing me the time.’

      Rosanna took a quick look at her father’s drinks supply. ‘You don’t look like a sherry type to me. Whisky? Brandy?’

      Ewen Fraser smiled. ‘Any hope of a beer, please?’

      Rosanna went off to the kitchen, relieved to find the fridge yielded up a couple of cans of her father’s favourite bitter. She collected a tankard, found some nuts and put them in a dish on a tray, added a tonic water for herself, then went back to her guest.

      Ewen Fraser’s manners were too good to plunge into immediate discussion of the reason for his visit. He told Rosanna he lived in Chelsea, and that the idea for his best-selling novel had come from a series of articles he’d done for the Mercury on famous military heroes. While still working as a journalist he’d written two previous novels, but Savage Dawn was his first bestseller, and these days he wrote full-time. Rosanna, in return, told him she was a teacher, and shared a basement flat in Bayswater with a friend.

      ‘Where do you teach?’ he asked.

      ‘I started out at a small, private school, replacing someone on maternity leave. After that I was lucky enough to get a junior post at my old school, but it meant an academic year to fill in, so up to Easter I did some supply teaching. Along the way I did a course in computers and word-processing.’ She smiled at him. ‘Technology comes in handy these days.’

      ‘I’m impressed,’ he said, raising his tankard to her. ‘So what are you doing until the autumn term? Holiday?’

      She shook her head. ‘An old college friend started up on his own last year. He works from home and argued it would hone my computer skills if I gave him a hand for a bit, so like a fool I agreed.’

      ‘You obviously regret it.’

      Rosanna’s eyes kindled. ‘Charlie Clayton wants a slave, not a secretary. He’s an insolvency accountant, needs everything documented—not that I mind that part. But his wife goes out to work in the City every day, so Charlie expects me to provide coffee all the time, make him lunch, go shopping sometimes, even iron a shirt in an emergency.’

      Her visitor’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘The last straw, obviously. Is that what you’ve been doing today?’

      ‘No. The Claytons went off on holiday last week. Thank goodness. The workload up to that point was so heavy I decided it just wasn’t on for the money he’s paying me.