A Stranger's Kiss

his hands high where she could see them, as if that would make her feel safe. ‘Why do you deny it?’
    ‘I need a little more than electricity to switch me on, Adam. I need someone who will love me all the time. Not just in the gaps between visiting Jane and her baby.’
    ‘Jane? What on earth has she got to do with us?’
    ‘Everything. That’s why she wanted to see me today, Adam. She needed reassurance.’
    ‘About what, precisely?’ His voice jarred against her breast bone. He was angry now, but there was nothing she could do about that. Jane would have to deal with him herself. She seemed more than capable.
    ‘You’re the expert on hormones, Adam. She’s just had a baby. She feels vulnerable. She wanted to be sure that I was no threat to her. I did my best which, heaven knows, is more than you deserve.’
    His sudden harsh laughter was like a knife. ‘Is that why you’re dressed like a dowd?’ She made no answer. ‘It doesn’t work, my lady. Don’t you know that would turn heads dressed in a sack?’ Without warning he reached across and tugged the ribbon free from her hair, loosening it with his hands, his fingertips kindling hot trails of sensation, sparking dangerous desire that raced through her bloodstream like vintage champagne.
    ‘No!’ She wrenched herself away and ran back into the inn, ignoring his bellow of rage at her escape.
    The landlady took one look at her face when she asked to use to the telephone and ushered her through to her sitting room to call a taxi, then left her tactfully alone to repair the damage to her tearstained face, brush out her hair.
    She sat in the back of the cab as the miles flew past trying not to think. But her mind seemed to have gone into overdrive and the only thing on it was Adam Blackmore. Vivid images flashed before her in an endless procession. His eyes as he launched an attack on an unwary opponent across the boardroom table; his eyes burning her up with desire. His hands firmly gripping a steering wheel; his hand touching a baby’s cheek; his hand against her skin.
    ‘Is this it, miss?’
    The driver’s voice jerked her back to the reality, the pain of now. ‘Oh, yes. Thanks. How much do I owe you?’
    ‘The gentleman paid, miss.’
    ‘Gentleman? But how did he know...?’ She saw the driver’s expression alter to one of interest and stopped. It must have been obvious what she would do. Or maybe the landlady had told him. ‘Can you tell me how much it was so that I can repay him?’
    She passed Frank on her way into the mews reporting all was well into his radio and he raised his hand in greeting. She responded vaguely. Adam had apparently ignored her polite little note demanding his withdrawal. Well, he was hardly likely to worry about her safety after the dreadful things she had said to him this evening.
    Her face burned at the recollection.
    She had portrayed herself as the wanton he had believed her to be. Some wanton, who cried because the man she loved lusted after her. Her hand flew to her mouth and she ran for the bathroom.
    * * *
    It didn’t take her long to pack. Her godmother was always too distracted with her own affairs to be over-interested in anyone else’s. A week with her would clear the air and give her breathing space to get herself under control.
    She had telephoned Beth, who sensing Tara’s distress, but keeping any curiosity to herself, offered her car for the journey.
    ‘It’ll take forever on the train. And don’t worry about the office,’ she forestalled her. ‘I’ll get someone in if I need help.’ She paused. ‘I take it you don’t want your address given to anyone who might ask?’
    ‘No one will ask.’ She stopped overnight at a small hotel and telephoned Lola to warn her of her imminent arrival. Her complete lack of surprise was exactly what Tara needed. It would be a relief to spend a few days with someone who didn’t know or care that Adam Blackmore existed.
    * * *
    She spent the days walking, reading, listening to music and watching Lola paint the delicate water colours with which she illustrated her books on the world’s flora. She had been her mother’s best friend from her school days, the only contact she had with the young unknown faces in old albums of photographs, and when the mood took her, a fund of stories.
    Lola had been in India on a field trip when her parents were killed by a lorry plunging out of control across a motorway barrier. She had immediately returned to England to