Daphne Clair - Edge Of Deception

When she came out of the bedroom holding a small bronze leather bag, Sholto was lounging in the living room doorway, his arms folded, looking patient. He looked up and she saw a stirring in his eyes that took her back eight years, to when they’d first known each other. She paused, and he straightened, his hands falling to his sides. ‘Very nice,’ he said, his voice clipped.

He turned away to open the door for her, and they stepped outside.

His car, a sleek, roomy, dark blue vehicle, was parked on the road outside. He ushered her in and she subsided onto the smooth leather.

‘It smells new,’ she said as he got in beside her.

‘It is.’

Of course, she thought wryly.

‘I took the liberty of using your phone while you were in the bedroom,’ he told her. ‘As it’s Saturday night, I’ve booked a table.’

‘Did you have trouble?’

‘I tried a couple of places. This one is in Mount Eden. Okay?’

Mount Eden Road curved its way about the base of the dormant volcano and stretched along several miles to meet up with Mount Albert Road at a busy intersection. There were a number of good restaurants along its meandering length. ‘That’s fine,’ she said.

The restaurant was full, but not very large, and the service friendly and efficient. Perusing the menu, Tara began to feel hungry. ‘Pork with apricot sauce,’ she decided, and when Sholto suggested a bread basket selection to start with, she agreed.

‘Tell me about your shop,’ he invited as she nibbled on a piece of crusty herbed bread.

Her tension eased as she described how she’d been working in an antique shop for a time, and later bought one that sold mainly second-hand junk, gradually getting rid of the stock until she’d achieved a more upmarket image.

‘And that’s been successful.’

‘Very.’

He said thoughtfully, ‘I’d never pictured you as a businesswoman.’

‘I had some expert help from several people.’

‘Anyone I know?’ His eyes rested enigmatically on her while he absently tore apart a slice of olive bread.

Tara stiffened. She tried to sound casual. ‘Derek Shearer gave me some advice.’

Sholto’s strong fingers flicked some crumbs to the side of his plate. ‘Derek’s a first-class accountant.’

He wasn’t looking at her. Tara forced herself to relax. ‘Yes, he still does my tax return for me every year.’

The deep blue gaze pinned her suddenly. ‘I’m sure that’s not all he does.’

‘He’s a good friend. As you should know.’

‘Really? Perhaps that’s a matter of opinion.’

The air between them was charged, now. Tara’s hand convulsed on the napkin in her lap, crushing the starched linen. Her mouth was dry.

‘Who else...helped you?’ Sholto asked. He leaned back, making an effort, she thought, to appear nonchalant.

Tara swallowed. ‘Lots of people,’ she said vaguely. ‘You wouldn’t know them. The other shopkeepers have been good to me. It’s a small centre, and we all help each other when we can.’

Sholto nodded, and picked up his knife to spread a butter curl on his bread.

Over their main course he asked, ‘Where do you get your stock from?’

‘Various places. The antiques and collectables from second-hand dealers, opportunity shops, auctions, flea markets, the new things direct from craftspeople—woodworkers, potters, embroiderers. I even sell a few books—nicely bound old volumes and limited editions printed on a hand-operated press by a local couple. And quite a lot of imported goods from Asia and the Pacific Islands.’

‘I could help you there.’

‘I don’t need your help!’

His brows lifted at her sharpness, and she said, ‘Thank you.’

He gave a short, breathy laugh. ‘Touchy, aren’t you? Let me put it another way. Maybe we can do business together.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Sounding slightly impatient, he said, ‘How do you think I built up my business? I make it a policy never to pass up an opportunity. You retail Asian and Pacific goods—I import them. We might both benefit from—using each other.’

‘I thought,’ she said delicately, ‘we’d found that unsatisfactory.’

Sholto shoved his plate to one side, although there was still some food on it. Leaning forward, he said, ‘I was talking of business—commerce—but if you insist on making this personal, just be sure you really want to cross swords with me.’

Tara’s fingers gripped her fork hard. For a moment she kept her eyes fixed on the remains of her dinner, not sure why she had thrown that jibe at him. Sholto had never been one to ignore a challenge. Fatally, she could feel a stirring of excitement deep down. Did she want to cross swords with him? Was that what this edgy, half-pleasurable, half-painful tension that she’d felt ever since seeing him yesterday was all about?

Living with Sholto was a knife-edge experience, and one she’d vowed never to repeat. But in spite of the anger and hurt, and the bitterness that had accompanied the break-up of their relationship, she’d not felt wholly alive since—not until she’d kissed him last night in an act of reckless bravado, and been shaken to the core when he kissed her back.

‘What can you offer me?’ she asked obliquely.

She dared to look at him, and saw the narrowing of his eyes as he debated his answer. ‘What do you want from me?’ Before she had a chance to reply, he drew back in his chair, his expression changing to a smooth, urbane mask. ‘I have silks from Japan, carved goods from Indonesia, woven hats and black pearls from the Cook Islands—’

‘Pearls?’

‘Pearls.’

‘Aren’t they very expensive?’

‘Some are. The perfect specimens go to jewellers, mostly. But the odd-shaped ones that are not so valuable can make charming pendants, and some are still attached to the shell. A lot of people like those as ornaments.’ He paused, regarding her thoughtful expression. ‘Interested?’

‘I’m always interested in unusual ornaments or jewellery. I don’t go in for perfect strings of pearls or mass-produced stuff. But your odd-shaped black pearls—each one would be different, wouldn’t it? That’s what my customers like, something unique and quirky. I’d like to see some.’

‘No problem. Tonight, if you like?’

‘Tonight?’

‘Why not? The warehouse is five minutes from here. I carry a key.’

They skipped dessert and had coffee and liqueurs. Both of them had drunk sparingly of the wine Sholto had ordered, and Tara had no worries about letting him drive her.

He turned towards the city, and eventually drew up in a car park outside a bulky, darkened building with a single light glowing outside. ‘We’ll go in the side door,’ he said.

When they’d stepped inside he touched her arm in the darkness and said, ‘Hold on, I’ll deactivate the security alarm and get the lights on.’

He moved a few yards away, and then she blinked as fluorescent bulbs flickered and steadied and shed their pale light on tiers of shelving filled with boxes, piles of larger containers, and two forklift trucks parked neatly in a corner. ‘There’s a showroom upstairs,’ Sholto said, and led her to an uncarpeted wooden stairway against one wall.

They climbed up into the shadows, and at the top Sholto paused to switch on more lights. A hand on her waist urged her forward, and she stepped onto a gleaming dark red rug with black and gold patterns.

It was like Aladdin’s cave. There were more luxurious oriental rugs overlapping one another on the floor, shimmering silk wall hangings, a huge gold paper fan painted with peacocks and a black one with cherry blossoms. Appliquéd quilts in stunning colour combinations were heaped on a long trestle table, and carved coffee tables and sandalwood chests stood against the walls. Bamboo furniture held samples of teak carvings, and long strings of tiny stuffed animals with jewelled eyes and brocaded bodies hung from the rafters.