Rival Attractions & Innocent Secretary(25)

'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.