'I think there are some deck-chairs in the shed,' she began uncertainly. 'But-'
Oliver shook his head. 'Leave everything to me. Give me half an hour.'
Half an hour …
* * *
Now she had five minutes of that half-hour left, Charlotte saw, as she stood in front of her bedroom mirror and stared at her reflection.
What did one wear for an al-fresco meal in the garden with a man who wanted one as a friend? She had no idea, having no previous experience of such a thing, and in the end, after she had showered, washed and dried her hair and replaced her make-up, she had dressed uncertainly in a pair of jeans nearly as old and snug-fitting as Oliver's had been, although hers were clean, and a long-sleeved, soft pink top in T-shirt fabric, which had a pretty scooped neckline and a row of buttons down the front.
She had chosen the top because it was light and cool without being in any way brief or revealing. Only, as she went downstairs to join Oliver in the kitchen, she realised that she had not allowed for the intensity of his effect on her body, and she prayed that the now familiar tightening of her nipples was not visible to him through the fabric of her top.
Like her, he was wearing jeans-clean ones-and a soft cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, with the sleeves rolled back to reveal the warm strength of his forearms.
A wicker hamper stood on the kitchen table and with it was an ice bucket complete with champagne and two glasses. Her eyes widened as she looked at it, an unfamiliar warm sense of pleasure igniting inside her as she realised that he must have been thinking of this … of her … while he was in London.
Or was she reading too much into what he had said? She darted him an uncertain glance, and was immediately reassured by the warmth of his smile, almost as though he knew what she was thinking … what she was feeling. But that was impossible, of course; there was no way he could know. He was just being pleasant. He was lonely, and wanted her company.
'Chairs,' she began vaguely, trying to concentrate her mind on something mundane.
'All organised. If you could carry the champagne, I'll bring the hamper.'
As they walked out into the garden, still warm, as he had forecast, still bathed in sunshine, he started to tell her about the sale of his business, and of the visit he had managed to make to a friend who worked for one of the London agents who specialised in dealing with large houses and country estates.
'It seems they may have a buyer for Hadley Court,' he told her as he guided her down the path that ran alongside the lawn. 'He's going to get in touch with us later in the week when he's made contact with his client. I've given him your number as well as mine. His client is a private buyer, wanting a property for his own occupation.'
'Oh, that's marvellous!'
It was impossible to conceal her relief. She stopped on the path and turned towards him, her eyes shining, her face turned up to his, and then she tensed as she saw his expression change.
Her mouth had gone oddly dry; she could hear the shallow rapidity of her own heartbeat. An odd lazy heat seemed to be engulfing her.
He's going to kiss me, she thought dizzily … but then, just as she was about to step closer to him, he moved back, so that she had no option but to follow him along the path. Hot colour flooded her as he backed off from her and moved away.
'Where are we going?' she asked him, striving to appear unconcerned and relaxed, praying he hadn't realised she had thought he was going to kiss her.
'Here,' he told her, gesturing towards the small orchard tucked away at the bottom of the garden.
The soft grass beneath the trees was thick with fallen blossom, the evening air heavy with its scent. Under the largest of the trees was a rug heaped with cushions. The setting was idyllic, like something out of a painting … a scene set for seduction.
Seduction? Did Oliver intend to seduce her? The sheer unexpectedness of what her senses were telling her shimmered through her, creating a warm welling of delighted shock, so that bubbles of disbelieving amusement combined with a heady sense of having strayed into a magical world of fantasy whirled into her bloodstream, making her buoyant and light-headed.
Like her, he had stopped walking, and now they faced one another. How did one ask a man if he was merely trying to provide a comfortable setting for a shared meal or whether it was something more intimate that he had in mind? And why would Oliver want to make love to her? Her face burned suddenly as she remembered how he had seen her this morning.
Did he think this was what she wanted? Had he gone to all this trouble simply because he felt sorry for her? Did men make love to women they felt sorry for?
Suddenly very deflated and miserable, she said uncomfortably, 'Oliver, I-'
'I'm hungry,' he interrupted her firmly. 'Let's eat, and then we can talk.'
He sounded so matter-of-fact and calm that it seemed idiotic that she should have thought even for a split second that he might have intended to make love to her, and so she followed him into the orchard and allowed him to settle her comfortably against the cushions, while he opened the hamper and removed its contents.
Charlotte blinked in astonishment at the luxury of the food inside. No sandwiches here, but instead tiny delicate quiches filled with salmon and other delicacies, so mouth-wateringly delicious that they were impossible to resist.
The champagne, cool and refreshing, bubbled in her glass.
And, as Oliver drank his own, he said softly, 'This is how champagne should be drunk: in a warm garden filled with the scents of summer, with a beautiful woman by your side.'
Charlotte started to tremble. She gulped at her champagne to hide her agitation, and said quickly, 'I can't believe this food is for a picnic. It's so luxurious.'
There was fresh salmon and an appetising collection of salad and vegetables, crusty French bread, strawberries and thick cream, all served on china with silver cutlery, and a beautifully starched tablecloth and napkins.
Luxury indeed.
'It's the kind of hamper they do for events such as Glyndebourne,' Oliver told her.
When had his eyes narrowed to that sharp, almost glinting intensity that seemed to see through the defences she was trying to put up against him?
'More champagne?'
She stared at him, and then realised that her glass was empty. She let him fill it, and drank it quickly while he watched her with unnerving intensity.
Despite the deliciousness of the food, she could barely touch it; she was too tense, too on edge. The champagne, though, was a different thing. She drank three full glasses and felt its mellow, uninhibiting effect on her body. She couldn't stand the tension any longer.
Recklessly she turned to Oliver and asked huskily, 'Oliver, are you going to make love to me?'
For a moment he was silent, and then he asked in turn, 'Is that what you want me to do?'
It wasn't the answer she had wanted. She bit her lip and stared at him, her mind suddenly fogged and confused by the champagne, her body and its desires, ignoring the cautioning whispers of her brain, challenging her to say fiercely, 'Yes. Yes, I do.'
Oliver was so still that she thought she must have shocked him, but it was too late to retract now, too late to wonder dizzily why she had behaved in such an outrageous fashion, and to wonder even more why she should feel so unconcerned about it. She had never experienced before this extraordinary sense of being so cut free from her normal anxieties and self-doubts-perhaps because she was not normally in the habit of drinking so much strong champagne on an empty stomach.
'I've been thinking about this all day,' she heard Oliver saying thickly as he drew her towards him, his hands stroking the fragile bones of her shoulders, and then moving up to slide into her hair and tilt her head, so that she couldn't have avoided the descent of his head even if she had wanted to.
He tasted of champagne, she recognised absently, as his mouth met hers-not as it had done before, in an explorative, gentle kiss, but open and moist, so that her heart leapt in heady response to the tension within him, and her body rejoiced in the sheer pleasure of knowing she aroused his desire.
While he kissed her, his hands shaped the back of her head, then her back itself, right down to her waist and beyond until they were cupping her bottom and pulling her into his body.
Now her earlier fantasy took on the shape of reality. It was true that her top and his shirt were between them, but she could still feel the rapid thud of his heart against her body, and her stomach clenched on the sensation of her breasts pushing against his chest, wanting a more intimate contact with his flesh.