Julia James - Diamonds are for Deception - The Carlotta Diamond / The Texan's Diamond Bride / From Dirt to Diamonds

‘Yes, but as Frank and his wife are looking after the place there should be a key on his bunch.’ Having felt through the keys, he said, ‘This might be it. You wait here while I go and make sure.’

From the glove compartment he took out a big, rubber-covered torch. Adding, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he forced open the car door, struggling to hold it against the wind. A second later it slammed behind him, and she saw the beam of his torch moving away along the track.

It was already getting uncomfortably cold, and she found herself hoping against hope that it was the right key.

As though the fates were against them it seemed to be raining harder than ever, and fierce gusts of wind were buffeting the car. Somewhere close at hand she could hear more branches crashing down, and, fearful for his safety, prayed silently, Please God, don’t let anything happen to him…

Feeling alone and vulnerable, she waited in the darkness for what seemed an age, surrounded by the noise and violence of the storm.

A movement close by that seemed to have nothing to do with the wind made her imagination run riot, and she was absurdly relieved when she saw the beam of the torch returning.

Opening the car door, Simon said, ‘Quick as you can. Thank the lord this is the leeward side.’

The torchlight lit his face from beneath, giving it strange hollows and weird angles, turning it into a Hallowe’en mask.

Clutching her bag, she stumbled out.

Throwing an oilskin around her, he gathered her into the crook of his arm, and together they began to pick their way along the track, avoiding the fallen debris as best they could.

Now that she was away from the comparative shelter of the car, rain lashed into her face and the wind beat against her like a malignant force, tearing at the oilskin, taking her breath, sapping her strength.

Hampered by high heels, she knew she would hardly have been able to battle against the storm without his help.

‘Almost there; just across the bridge.’

His words were whipped away by the wind almost before she’d heard them. A second later the torch briefly illuminated an old humpbacked bridge spanning the turbulent water.

They fought their way across the bridge, and almost immediately she saw a welcome gleam of light ahead, then the dark bulk of the cottage and a low stone wall surrounding a garden.

‘Here we are.’ The gate was swinging wildly, and he caught and held it before propelling her through. Latching it securely, he added, ‘Don’t want it banging all night.’

Perhaps it was half-hysterical relief that made his comment seem funny, but she found herself giggling as he hurried her up the path.

When he opened the cottage door they were swept inside by a gale of wind and rain and leaves. Shouldering the door shut behind them, he lifted the streaming oilskin from her shoulders and hung it on a peg, where it immediately began to form a puddle of water on the black oak floorboards.

Glancing around her, Charlotte saw a white-walled, black-beamed room, simply but pleasantly furnished, with a pine table and two chairs, a chintz-covered two-seater settee, several overflowing bookcases and a wheel-backed rocking-chair.

On the far side of the room was an old-fashioned double bed with gleaming brass rails and knobs. It had a comfortable-looking mattress and a small pile of pillows. Standing alongside it was a sturdy bedside table with a candle in a brass candlestick and a box of matches.

As well as lighting the two oil lamps on the dresser, Simon had put a match to the fire, and flames were already leaping and crackling round the logs in the old black-leaded range.

It was a welcome sight.

‘Come on over by the fire,’ he said.

She needed no second urging. Despite the oilskin, she was soaked and shivering, her teeth chattering, so that she was forced to clench them.

Simon, who was equally saturated, his hair dark and plastered to his head, water running in rivulets down his face, must have been just as cold but, she noted with respect, he gave no visible sign of it.

Drawing the heavy folkweave curtains across the windows to shut out the storm, he instructed, ‘Hurry up and take off those wet things. I don’t want your death on my conscience.’

When she had discarded her bag and jacket, and put her saturated courtshoes on the hearth, unwilling to undress any further in front of him, she queried, ‘Is there a bathroom by any chance?’

‘Yes, but I thought I’d use that. Until I’ve lit the water heater and the gas lamp, and it’s had a chance to warm up, it’ll be like the North Pole. You’ll be better in front of the fire. Now while you finish stripping off, I’ll go and dig up some towels and a couple of blankets to wrap ourselves in.’

FEELING awkward and exposed, but grateful for the heat the logs were already throwing out, she stood on the pegged rug in front of the fire and began to struggle out of her clothes. She had just reached her undies when she heard him coming back, and paused.

‘Are you decent,’ he enquired from the doorway, ‘or shall I cover my eyes?’ Without waiting for an answer, he walked in.

The sight of her made him catch his breath.

She was standing in front of the hearth, her slender figure outlined by the flickering fireglow, her long dark hair hanging round her shoulders in dripping rats’ tails. Made transparent by the water, the dainty bra and briefs she was wearing clung to her like a second skin, hiding nothing.

Only too aware that her nipples, already firmed by the cold, were growing even more prominent under his appreciative male gaze, Charlotte felt herself start to blush.

Handing her one of the towels he was carrying, he remarked teasingly, ‘Well at least you’re getting some colour back.’

Blushing even harder, she clutched the towel to her chest and waited for him to go.

Draping a second towel over the rocker, he went on conversationally, ‘I’m afraid Ben has a duvet these days, which means there are no blankets, so I hope you can manage with this?’

This was a lumberjack-style shirt.

‘I’m sure it’ll do fine,’ she said hurriedly.

‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’

As soon as the door had clicked shut behind him she finished taking off her clothes. Then, fastening a towel turban-fashion round her head, she dried herself and pulled on the thick flannel shirt, doing up the buttons right to the neck.

It was a reasonable fit across the shoulders, and she realised its owner must be quite a small man. Still, it came a respectable length down her thighs and would be adequate so long as she moved with care.

When she had finished drying her hair, well aware that left to its own devices it would turn into a riot of tangled curls, she fished in her bag for a comb and combed it through.

At one side of the hearth was a tall three-legged wooden stool, and she draped her wet clothes over it before taking a seat in the rocking-chair and stretching her bare feet towards the flames.

Now she had a moment to think, she found herself dreading the coming night. Being stranded in an isolated cottage alone with Simon Farringdon was the worst possible thing that could have happened.

Though no doubt Sojo wouldn’t have thought so. ‘I’ll leave the rest to you and propinquity…’ The other girl’s voice seemed to echo in her head.

Shivering, though this time not from cold, Charlotte read herself the Riot Act. It was nobody’s fault that they were stranded here, and as nothing could be done about it before morning, it was no use getting panicky. All she had to do was keep her cool and everything would be all right.

Though he was a red-blooded male, and it was clear from the earlier incident in the car that he was sexually attracted to her, she was quite convinced that he wasn’t the kind of man who would try to force himself on her.