The Final Seduction. Sharon Kendrick

reacting. She was an engaged woman—she wasn’t supposed to find other men attractive. She put on her most repressive expression. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked him primly.

      ‘Well, that rather depends, doesn’t it?’ He smiled appreciatively and Shelley was dazzled, flattered. She blushed and his smile curved.

      She had never met anyone like him in her life. There was something frighteningly potent about his lazy Latin allure. His was an instinctive sensuality, sweet and seductive as sugar. He was the apple in her Garden of Eden.

      He pointed to a long, low silver model—the most expensive in the showroom. ‘Will you take me for a drive in that, cara?’

      ‘Me?’ Shelley shook her head. ‘Oh, no—I can’t do that. I’ll have to get Geoff for you. I’m afraid I don’t drive.’

      ‘Oh, yes, you do.’ He smiled again. ‘You must drive men crazy all the time—with those aquamarine eyes, set in skin the colour of alabaster.’

      She couldn’t help blushing again at the outrageous compliment. Afterwards she wondered why he had been attracted enough to flirt with her. Her hair had been scraped back into a simple chignon and she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up. Later still she realised that it had been her innocence which had ensnared him, just as it had ensnared Drew.

      Unusually, he persuaded Geoff to let him take Shelley for a drive in the car, but then Shelley thought that he probably could have persuaded the tide to turn back, if he’d wanted it to. He was an art dealer—he had his own gallery in Milan. He used extravagant words to describe the paintings he bought and Shelley was fascinated. He told her she was as pretty as a picture, and he would give her a job any time she wanted one.

      He bought the car—in cash—to Geoff’s delight, and the following day sent flowers to thank her for her help. A subtle, fragrant mass of sweet peas, and she guiltily buried her nose in the bunched pink and mauve blooms and breathed in their scent. But she left the flowers on her office desk—she didn’t dare take them home in case her mother quizzed her about them—and by the next day they had wilted.

      She was edgy. Drew had been working so hard that she had hardly seen him. She was getting on for twenty-one and life seemed to stretch out in front of her like a flat, straight road. So when Marco casually offered to take her for a drink after work she found herself wavering. ‘I’m not sure.’

      ‘You have a boyfriend?’

      She held her left hand up. ‘Fiancé,’ she said pointedly.

      ‘Maybe I should ask his permission?’

      ‘Oh, no—don’t do that!’ said Shelley hastily.

      He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m going back to Italy next week,’ he explained. ‘Maybe I’ll call you next time I’m over. Can you get up to London easily?’

      It would be easier to get to Mars! She would never see him again. And he was exciting, different, Italian. Drew had travelled the world and met lots of interesting people like Marco. What, then—what harm could come of a simple drink?

      She had never drunk in the Westward Hotel before. It was on the other side of the village and only the richer tourists could afford to go there, even though the splendour of the place was gradually becoming faded with time.

      He led her to a table with a breathtaking view of the sea, and the smell of old leather and the dazzling views and the iced champagne went to her head and made her dizzy.

      When Marco drove her home, he stopped a little way from her house and it was like watching a film of someone else’s life when he leaned over to kiss her. Shelley told herself it was nothing more than curiosity which made her open her lips beneath his. She’d only ever been kissed by Drew before.

      But the kiss was like chocolate; she couldn’t stop at one. And it took every bit of will-power she possessed to tear herself out of his arms and run towards the house—with the sound of Fletcher barking madly in her ears and guilt staining her cheeks.

      And she hadn’t seen the dark figure who stood watching from the shadows of the trees…

      The memories dissolved like a dream, and Shelley glanced down at her watch to see that she had been standing gazing at the empty beach for almost an hour. So did that mean Drew really had been here, or had she dreamed that up, too?

      Slowly she made her way back along the sea-road to where she had left her car, feeling as flat as last night’s champagne.

      It was ironic, really. She had been thinking how much she had changed and matured. But if that were the case, then how could she so badly have underestimated the impact of seeing him again?

      Had she thought she would be immune to him after all this time? Or—worse—imagined that he would pull her into his arms and tell her that he’d never forgotten her?

      She slid into the driver’s seat and started up the engine.

      Time to go home.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      SHELLEY’S old house looked smaller than she remembered. And scruffier. Paint was peeling from the window panes and the windows themselves were so grubby that they looked like a ‘before’ shot on a detergent commercial. But the small lawn at the front of the house had been kept clipped and tidy, the borders all neat and weeded. Now who had been responsible for that? she wondered as she unloaded the small box of groceries from the car.

      She let herself into the house, having to push the door hard to get it open past the small heap of yellowing circulars which had piled up. She shivered. It was cold—bitterly cold—with the smell of damp and disuse penetrating her nostrils with a dank, chilly odour.

      She went through the hall and into the tiny sitting room, where the floral wallpaper was beginning to peel in parts, and looked around, nostalgia creeping into her soul like an old friend. On almost every surface stood a photograph—all of Shelley in various stages of growing up.

      There she was as a chubby baby, peering out from beneath a cotton bonnet in her pram. There as a toddler on the beach, sucking her thumb and screwing her eyes up at the camera. Another showed her in a too big uniform, self-conscious and proud on her first day at school. And there—a shot of her as an adolescent—leggy and gawky—a child on the brink of womanhood.

      But the photo she stared at longest showed her with Drew. It must have been taken around the time they’d become engaged—because there was no pretence or coyness about the way they really felt for one another. His arm was placed lightly around her shoulders but they weren’t looking at the camera—just staring into each other’s faces—giggling with happiness.

      Biting her lip, she turned and abruptly left the room, and went upstairs to her old bedroom.

      Nothing had changed there, either. Not a single thing. The frilly white cover dotted with pink rosebuds still lay flounced on the small, single bed. The boab nut that Drew had bought her still sat on the sill of the window where she used to watch him walk home from work. She had even kept the piece of tinsel he had tied around it, though it didn’t glitter as brightly any more.

      She looked down at the small back garden which had been her mother’s pride and joy, and blinked in astonishment. Because, just like the front, it had obviously been well looked after, its tidiness contrasting with the general neglect inside the house.

      Carefully clipped herb bushes lined the gravel path and two bay trees stood in white boxes on either side of the back door. While at the end, contrasting beautifully against the dark wooden fence, stood the misty mauve blur of Michaelmas daisies. For a moment it was like being transported back in time. Shelley swallowed and tore her over-bright eyes away—thinking that she might faint if she didn’t have a cup of tea soon.

      She went into the kitchen, noting how old-fashioned the free-standing units looked, and how dingy the paint was. How dingy everything was, really—when she compared