The Price of Retribution. Sara Craven

in even more trouble.’

      He smiled at her. ‘So that’s the first thing we have in common.’

      ‘And probably the one and only.’ She managed to infuse her tone with a note of faint regret.

      ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ She shrugged again. ‘You own the company. I work for it.’

      ‘And you find that an insuperable obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance?’

      ‘I think it has to be.’ She gave him a reflective look. ‘And if you’re honest, so do you.’

       Except honesty isn’t really your thing, is it, Mr Mighty Publishing Tycoon?

      He spoke slowly, his lean, brown fingers toying with the stem of his glass in a way that dried her throat in some inexplicable manner. ‘If you’re asking whether or not I usually date my employees, the answer is an emphatic “No.”’ He added, ‘Besides, this isn’t really a date.’

      She flushed. ‘No—no, I understand that.’

      ‘But it will be next time.’ It was said casually, almost thrown away, and, with that, the wine arrived, followed almost immediately by their first course choices, and Tarn, biting back an instinctive gasp of surprise, was left floundering, even wondering if she’d heard him correctly.

      Because it was all happening too fast. And this was not part of the plan at all. He was not supposed to be in control. She was.

      She tried to concentrate her whole attention on the gnocchi in its wonderful creamy sauce, but, in spite of herself, found that she was stealing covert glances at him under her lashes. No matter what her secret feelings might be, she could not deny his attraction. Or this slow, almost inexorable build in her physical awareness of him. His mouth—the way his smile lit his eyes, just as Evie had said—his hands…

      All of them things she had not allowed for. And what she least wanted to deal with.

      But, for now, there was chat. In any other circumstances, an easy, relaxed exchange of views on books, music and the theatre. Perfectly normal and acceptable. But, here and now, feeling more like a journey through a minefield.

      Don’t be paranoid, she whispered silently. Where’s the harm in his knowing you like Margaret Atwood and John Le Carré? What does it matter if you prefer Bach to Handel and Mozart to both of them? Is it a state secret that your favourite Shakespeare play is Much Ado about Nothing?

      For heaven’s sake, relax. You needed to engage his interest. You’ve succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. So capitalise on it.

      The saltimbocca was served, delicate veal escalopes wrapped round prosciutto and sage leaves, accompanied by green beans and lightly sautéed potatoes. The white wine, fragrant as a flower, was poured.

      Caz raised his glass. ‘I should propose a toast,’ he said. ‘“To us” seems slightly presumptuous at this stage, so let’s drink to the health of your patient instead, and hope for a complete recovery.’

      Her hand jerked, and a few droplets of wine splashed on to her shirt as she stared at him.

      She said huskily, ‘What do you mean?’

      His brows lifted in faint surprise. ‘I was told you were back in London because of a family illness. Did Rob Wellington get it wrong?’

      ‘No, he’s perfectly correct,’ she said. She drew a deep breath. Forced a smile. ‘I—I suppose I didn’t expect him to pass it on.’

      ‘He feels you’ll become a potentially valuable member of the workforce, and is worried we’ll lose you.’ He paused. ‘I imagine you’ll be planning to return to the States at some point—when there’s no longer any cause for concern.’

      ‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘But it probably won’t be any time soon. Progress is steady but slow, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Is it a close relative who’s sick?’

      ‘My cousin.’ She met his gaze calmly. ‘She hasn’t anyone else.’ After all, Aunt Hazel was out of the equation for the foreseeable future, so it was almost the truth and easier to remember than an outright lie.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It must be very worrying for you.’

      ‘Well, yes, it was at first,’ Tarn said. And how dare you say you’re sorry when you don’t mean it—utter some meaningless, clichéd regret when it’s all your fault that it ever happened.

      She swallowed back the words—the accusations that she wanted to scream at him. Introduced a bright note into her voice. ‘But I hope she’s over the worst of it now.’

      That was good, she thought. That suggested an eventual happy outcome on the horizon. And not a hint of breakdown, or isolation, or the kind of secrets that would lead to destruction.

      At the same time, she didn’t want to answer any more questions in case the answers became too revealing, so she decided to drag the conversation back to less personal topics.

      She looked down at her plate. ‘You were right about the veal,’ she added lightly. ‘It’s delicious—absolutely marvellous.’

      ‘So you’d risk having dinner with me again?’

       Oh, God, out of the frying pan straight into the fire…

      She drank some of her wine, letting it blossom in her mouth, while she considered what to say.

      ‘I don’t think that would be altogether appropriate.’ She permitted herself a rueful shrug.

      ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘For the reasons already stated?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘And not because you find me physically repugnant?’

      She leaned back in her chair. ‘Now you’re laughing at me.’

      ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Simply trying to establish quite an important point. Well?’

      She hesitated. Sent him a defensive look. ‘You don’t make things easy, do you?’

      ‘Perhaps not,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe because I prefer to aim for—ultimately and mutually rewarding.’

      The words seemed to shiver along her nerve-endings as if her senses were suddenly awakening to undreamed-of possibilities. Her skin was warming as though it had been brought alive by the stroke of a hand. Her nipples were hardening, aching, inside the lace confines of her bra. And while the immediacy of her response might be shocking, it was, to a certain extent, understandable.

      Because instinct told her that Caz Brandon was not simply suggesting the likelihood of sensual delight, but offering it to her as a certainty.

      An overwhelming prospect for someone of her ludicrously limited experience, she thought, and stopped right there, suppressing a gasp.

      Oh, dear God, what was she doing to herself? Was she going completely crazy? Because she knew perfectly well that whatever he might be promising was never going to be fulfilled.

      Evie, Evie, she whispered under her breath. If this is how he came on to you, no wonder you simply fell into his hands. He could make anyone believe anything.

      Yet she was in no real danger, she reminded herself emphatically. Not when she could visualise her foster sister lying in that bed, in that clinical room, her slender body reduced to painful thinness, and her once-pretty face a haggard mask of unhappiness. That was the image that would armour her against succumbing to the wiles of the man confronting her across the candle-lit table.

      He said, ‘I was always told that silence means consent. But with you I need assurance. Does it?’

      She pulled herself together, and met his gaze directly. She said in