just a ‘temporary assignment’, he explained vaguely. That was all she could glean. Her father could be infuriatingly obtuse when he chose to be.
After coffee, leaving them all discussing the final requirements in the big, book-lined library where the conference was to be staged, she strolled out through the French doors, across the wide, sloping lawn towards the rustic summer-house in the far corner.
Dreamily, she breathed in the summer-night smells, the heavy sweetness of roses and honey-suckle. Smelling the flowers made her think of her mother. She’d died when Ana was nine, but she’d been mad on gardening. Ana could remember walking with her in the garden, on a summer’s evening. If she could be granted three wishes by some obliging fairy, she’d use all three to wish her mother alive again, to have her here when she came home…
It was dusk. Rapidly getting dark. There was no one around. Impulsively, maybe as an extension of her sad train of thought, she launched softly and passionately into Juliet’s speech to Romeo, begging him to stay longer in their secret garden tryst. She was huskily declaiming into the darkness, ‘"…it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark…Believe me, love, it was the nightingale…"’ when a dark figure separated itself from the shadow of the summer-house. She choked to a halt, with a gasp of fright.
‘It’s OK, it’s only me.’ Considering she hardly knew him, Jed’s deep, amused voice was oddly reassuring.
Trembling with reaction, she found herself clutching her arms around herself, half laughing, half furious.
‘Do you suppose we’re doomed to bump into each other in gardens?’ Embarrassment made her speak more sharply than she’d intended. ‘What are you doing, creeping round out here in the bushes?’
‘Same as you?’ he suggested neutrally. ‘Except I wasn’t spouting Shakespeare to myself.’
‘You recognised it?’ she murmured, with reprehensible sarcasm. ‘You don’t look the type to know any Shakespeare.’
Why, why, why was she driven to be so unbearably bitchy towards him? Because his sardonic gaze was making her feel extremely silly? Inwardly wincing, outwardly braced for retaliation, she stared up at him. Tall and motionless, his face in shadow, he was eyeing her up and down slowly. They were standing very close together. An electricity seemed to have invaded the air between them.
A few minutes ago she’d been conscious of the garden, the sounds and scents of the summer evening. A distant hoot of an owl in the woods. Small rustles in the undergrowth. Now she was aware only of him.
‘I’d imagine most people would recognise that particular speech from Romeo and Juliet. And what “type” looks as if he knows Shakespeare?’ he queried, with bleak humour. There was an ominous glitter in his gaze, visible even in the shadowed darkness. ‘Should I be wearing an arty beard and a floppy bow-tie?’
Nervously, she took in his appearance. The suit he’d evidently felt to be de rigueur at dinner had been swapped for black chinos and a charcoalgrey polo shirt, open at the neck.
‘No,’ she assured him, unsteadily, ‘you look fine as you are…’
The casual outfit made him look slightly less intimidating. The portable phone was still in evidence, hooked on to a dark leather belt at his waist. Whatever this conference-duration role entailed, he obviously took it very seriously, she deduced. Perhaps he had to be alert and ready twenty-four hours a day, to field urgent calls from delegates arriving from Switzerland or Hong Kong or Timbuktu…?
‘Sorry…was I interrupting an important rehearsal?’ he queried, deadpan.
‘I was just strolling in the garden,’ she pointed out rather stiffly, ‘enjoying the night air. Smelling the roses and…’
‘Is that what that perfume is?’ There was that teasing, taunting tone in his voice again. For some reason, she sensed that he wasn’t talking about the flowers. He’d made no move to touch her, but his eyes seemed to be touching her. The shortness of the brown silk skirt hadn’t bothered her before. Now she felt vulnerable, acutely aware of the bare length of her legs. The night air felt cool on her slender thighs. Her underwear—small lacy cream briefs—seemed too skimpy beneath the thin summer clothes. Without quite understanding why, she was beginning to wish she’d donned an all-encasing bodysuit, armoured herself against whatever this man was doing to her emotions…
‘It could be mine,’ she admitted. Her voice was unrecognisable—husky, strained with suppressed emotion. ‘I got rather carried away when I was spraying it on after my shower earlier…’ And hadn’t she sprayed on a little more, before she came out here after dinner? Just in case she bumped into him again? The small prod of honesty made her blush in the deepening dusk.
The hard mouth twitched as he stared solemnly down at her. Could he read her mind? Had he somehow detected that her effort with her appearance tonight had been inspired by meeting him? It was a humiliating thought, and yet the notion that he was silently mocking her made her feel angry, indignant and rebellious at the same time…
Some demon inside her prompted her to step closer, go on tiptoe in her flat brown leather sandals, steady herself with one tentative hand on his shoulder, and lift her chin so that the slender curve of her neck was exposed.
‘It’s Fleurs du Jardin—do you like it?’ She spoke in a light, matter-of-fact tone, but her eyes held his, with a steady challenge. She was inwardly overcome with horror at her audacity, but for the life of her she couldn’t stop herself.
Her heart hammering, heat flickering over her skin, she waited as he thoughtfully considered her. Taking her chin in his thumb and forefinger, he twisted her head to the side. Bending slowly, he lowered his head to within a hair’s breadth of making contact, and inhaled the sweet warm scent at the hollow of her clavicle.
‘Not quite to my taste. A little too…girlish, maybe…’
But his voice had altered. There was a slight thickening in his tone. She stiffened at the subtle put-down. Too girlish? How old was he? she wondered indignantly. Around thirty? Mortified, she took a shaky step away from him. She felt a very ‘spoilt’ urge to slap his face, and suppressed it hastily.
‘I’m not a girl, I’m a woman,’ she said idiotically.
The green gaze narrowed. A twitch of laughter at the corner of his mouth should have completed her mortification, should have sent her running for the safety of her bedroom, but she felt transfixed, frozen to the spot. Her brain seemed to have frozen too. The only part of her working overtime was her heart, hammering away like an express train. She’d never felt so vulnerable, so emotionally confused, in her life.
There was a hoarse hint of humour and masculine impatience as he spoke again. ‘Shouldn’t you be going inside to bed, Miss French? Instead of roaming round the gardens trying to seduce strange men with your perfume?’
‘Trying to seduce…?’ She glared at him in stunned humiliation. ‘You think I’m trying to seduce you? Your conceit is unbelievable! And if I want to roam round the gardens, well, I can do what I like—I live here!’ she finished hotly, in spite of the anxious thud of her heart.
Quite at variance with her words, her pulses were racing frantically. Heat was glowing all over her body. Inwardly, she was appalled at herself. The accuracy of his taunt was unbearable. Just then, stepping closer, inviting him to smell her perfume…what else had she been doing but playing around on the fringes of seduction? But surely more flirtatious than seductive? Did he think she was cheap? That she made a habit of this, God forbid? What was the matter with her? She’d had casual boyfriends since she was about fifteen. She mixed with male students every single day at college. But never before had she felt this frightening pull of attraction. Towards a virtual stranger…
‘And you claim you’re not spoilt?’ The softly laconic goad cut like a whip. ‘How old are you, Ana?’
‘Nineteen! I’ve just finished a year at drama school! And I’m not spoilt,’ she told