Bittersweet Deception. Liz Fielding

now and stared once more across the park to the serene vista of a lake and beyond it, on a slight rise, a small Grecian temple. Fullerton Hall was all so much larger than she had imagined, so much grander, and yet not the least bit daunting.

      Her first impression had been of warm brick, flowers and, despite the carved stone beasts that defended the footbridge to the entrance, of welcome as the house had smiled at her, rose-pink in the dying sunshine of a fine April evening. It had quite taken her breath away.

      She flexed her toes against the thick carpet, stretched and luxuriated in the simple pleasure of a hot shower without for once having to worry about the electricity bill. Then, dressed in jeans, a soft cream shirt and a fine rose sweater that reflected a blush on to her pale translucent skin, she found her way down the back stairs to the kitchen. It was warm and comfortable but Kate didn’t linger, eager instead to explore the gardens nearest to the house before beginning work.

      The kitchen door led to a small courtyard paved with bricks and brightened by tubs of early tulips. A hand pump next to a covered square brick wellhead had been recently painted black, as had the wrought-iron gate let into the old brick wall almost hidden by an ancient wistaria vine.

      Kate opened the gate and stepped down into the walled kitchen garden. Neat, well-raked gravel paths edged with low-growing herbs divided beds planted with early vegetable crops and tender salad plants being coaxed under cloches.

      She bent to crush a few leaves of lemon thyme between her fingers, breathing in the scent. ‘This,’ she told a watchful robin, ‘is going to be this cook’s paradise.’

      ‘Then perhaps you’d better be a little careful what you pick if you venture into the orchard.’

      Kate spun around, shock sending her pulse-rate into overdrive. Jason Warwick was standing in the gateway in the wall, and regarding her inscrutably down his long, not quite straight nose. For one brief moment she dwelt on the agreeable picture of an angry fist breaking it.

      ‘My name is not Eve, as you already know, and it’s the wrong time of year for apples,’ she declared vigorously as she rose, trying to ignore the athletic grace of his figure and the way his well-cut beige cord trousers clung to his hips. She concentrated on the safer area of his chest concealed under a soft wool shirt of a deeper shade. Then she averted her eyes. There was nothing safe about Jason Warwick, and it would be a grave mistake to think he was less deadly in casual clothes than in the black broadcloth and starched linen he had been wearing on their previous encounter.

      ‘Your name is of considerably less interest at this moment than why you’re trespassing in my garden,’ he replied evenly, but she was not deceived. He was angry.

      But he had met his match. ‘Your garden indeed! I’m not the one trespassing. You are. This house belongs to Lady Maynard.’

      ‘Does it, now?’ The touch of amusement that twisted his lips made her vaguely uneasy but, hands on hips, she stood her ground as he towered over her. ‘You’re nearly right. But since Tisha Maynard is my aunt and this is my home, I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.’

      ‘You are Tisha’s nephew?’

      His eyes narrowed at her use of his aunt’s given name. ‘I don’t know what tale you’ve told my aunt to inveigle your way in here. Whatever it is, you’d better make your excuses and leave.’ He took a step forward and grasped her firmly by the arm. ‘Right now.’ He turned and began to walk back to the kitchen, his fingers digging into her flesh as she resisted.

      She ignored the pressure of his fingers on her arm, only fleetingly wondering why it was possible to dislike a man and everything he stood for yet still be aroused by him. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said. But even as the words left her lips she knew it was too horribly possible that Jason Warwick was the nephew Lady Maynard had so casually mentioned, although she couldn’t understand how anyone could be casual about owning such an obnoxious relative. Perhaps that was the reason she hadn’t bothered to mention who he was.

      His face darkened as she dug her heels in. ‘Don’t make it worse by pretending not to know. What on earth do you think you’re doing here?’

      ‘Perhaps you should ask your aunt, Mr Warwick, before you start flinging accusations about.’ She pulled her arm free and tugged at her sweater, then wished she hadn’t as his eyes lingered on the outline of her breasts.

      ‘Oh, I’ve a fair idea what you want. But if you think because I kissed you once, you’ll be a welcome addition to my household, you are mistaken. This is my family home. I share it with my aunt. When I’m here, Kate, I sleep alone.’

      ‘You must be glad of the rest,’ she snapped back. ‘I certainly won’t be disturbing you. I had no idea you would be here.’

      He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. She knew he was tall. In the close confinement of Tisha Maynard’s kitchen, his height had commanded attention. But here, in the early-morning garden, there was something so physical about him that she instinctively stepped backwards. His hand shot out and caught her wrist, preventing her further retreat. ‘You expect me to believe that?’ His fingers tightened and he shook her slightly, like a naughty puppy. She couldn’t believe the gall of the man.

      ‘Is it so impossible?’ she demanded. ‘Or is your ego so inflated that you believe every woman you kiss can’t wait to leap into bed with you? Let me tell you,’ she continued, with reckless abandon and an equal disregard for the truth, ‘I’ve been kissed by men just as accomplished as you!’ His eyes gleamed and she fervently wished she had chosen her words more carefully. Her intended put-down had somehow developed into a compliment of sorts.

      ‘Have you, now? Well, I suggest you pick one of them out of a hat and go right back to the lucky winner. You’re not wanted here.’

      ‘Is that so? Perhaps you should check with Lady Maynard first. Maybe she has other ideas.’

      His eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me.’ It was not an invitation she felt capable of refusing.

      ‘Lady Maynard has just signed a six-month contract with me. And she was the one who insisted that there should be a no-break clause. She didn’t want me to change my mind.’ She paused briefly. ‘I can’t imagine why she thought I might.’

      He ignored the gibe. ‘Six months?’ He frowned. ‘What on earth…?’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll just have to come up with some particularly heart-rending reason for leaving. She won’t stop you even if you signed a hundred no-break clauses. I promise,’ he added fervently.

      ‘Why should I do that, Mr Warwick? I’m extremely happy with the arrangement.’ That was true as far as it went. But Tisha Maynard, in her throwaway comment about a nephew, had not thought fit to mention who he was, or she would never have come within a hundred miles of Fullerton Hall.

      ‘That could change. Very quickly.’ His eyes blackened as they insolently travelled the length of her, from narrow feet encased in immaculate white trainers, by way of slender legs and a tiny waist—a figure that, dressed in jeans, might be described as boyish by the careless onlooker—to a face that certainly could not. A full, sensuous lower lip, a nose as straight as an arrow and fine grey eyes that were flashing angry warning signals that any man would ignore at his peril. But Jason Warwick wasn’t any man. He eventually arrived at the smooth coil of shining black hair that crowned her finely shaped head.

      It was a look calculated to insult, to put a rocket under the blood-pressure of any woman with half an ounce of spirit, and he raised a pair of well-marked brows, inviting her response, clearly expecting an explosion that would wreck any chance of her staying. No contract was that watertight.

      But he had no idea how much she needed this job. That despite her one slip from reality in his arms, she had three years of hard-won self-control to call upon.

      Kate Thornley refused Jay Warwick’s invitation to self-destruct and retaliated in kind, forcing herself to return the slow, assessing examination that he had subjected her to and making very sure he understood exactly