Daphne Clair - Edge Of Deception

‘The pearls are over here,’ Sholto said, taking her arm in a light hold.

They were in a large display case. Sholto opened up the glass front and took out an oyster shell that fitted his palm. The moon glow of the mother-of-pearl gleamed in the fluorescent light, and embedded under its filmy surface were two luminescent black pearls, nestled side by side.

Tara touched them with a gentle finger, and Sholto said, ‘Take it.’

She held the shell, warm from his hand, and said, ‘This is lovely.’

Some of the shells in the case held one pearl, others two or even three. ‘And here—’ Sholto lifted out a tray covered in white satin ‘—are the pearls alone. These are all odd shapes.’

Several were quite large. She picked up one about the size of the bowl of a teaspoon that had formed into an almost perfect heart. ‘This would sell.’ It had the soft lustre typical of pearl, made mysterious by its black colour. ‘How much?’

‘Wholesale? We sell them in lots.’ He turned aside and found a list taped to the side of the case, pulled it off and handed it to her. ‘Here you are.’

She glanced down the price list. ‘I’d like to order some.’

‘Phone first thing on Monday and ask for Noel, the warehouse manager. I’ll tell to him expect your call.’

‘Thank you.’ She relinquished the heart and said, ‘I want that one in my selection.’ She picked up another pearl, vaguely resembling a flower. ‘And this.’

‘Fine, just tell Noel.’

‘One of my suppliers does jewellery at home. Maybe I could get her to set some of these to order for my customers.’

Tara replaced the flower and ran a fingertip over a cluster of fused pearls. ‘They’re nice to touch—that satiny patina over such hardness.’

He didn’t answer, and she looked up enquiringly, to find him regarding her with an oddly brooding look in his eyes, his mouth curled faintly at one corner as if he’d remembered something unpalatable.

Tara dropped her hand and stepped back.

‘Seen enough?’ Sholto asked curtly.

‘Yes. Of the pearls. Do you mind if I look around a bit?’

‘Feel free.’ He turned to replace the tray and close the cupboard.

She had caught sight of a number of huge floor cushions and beanbags crowded into a corner. She bent to pick up a cushion, and several more tumbled to the floor and lay on the rug around her feet. The cushion she held was covered in a patterned fabric of large birds and flowers, the design outlined with stitching and stuffed to give a raised effect.

‘Like it?’ Sholto had strolled silently over the rugs and was standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets.

‘Very much. Are there many in this style?’

He came over and helped her find some, each a different colour, a different pattern. ‘Put the ones you want aside,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll tell Noel to keep them for you.’

He helped her to pile them separately, and said, ‘Is that the lot?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ She found herself too close to him as she straightened up, and stepped back hastily, catching her heel in the edge of one of the overlapping rugs and sprawling backwards as her shoe came off.

The rugs cushioned the fall, but surprise kept her from trying to rise for a moment or two.

When her eyes met Sholto’s—a long way up—she blinked with shock. His mouth was clamped tight and his eyes were smouldering. ‘Get up!’ he said harshly. And then, as though belatedly recalling his manners, he extended a hand to her.

Ignoring it, Tara struggled to her feet, only to falter on her unshod foot.

Sholto grabbed her arm. ‘For God’s sake!’ he muttered. She felt the brush of his breath against her cheek, smelled the scent of him—soap and wool suiting and an underlying masculine scent that evoked a rush of confused memories.

He swooped without releasing her and picked up her shoe, holding it ready for her. ‘Here,’ he said impatiently.

She looked down at his dark head and lifted her foot, felt him slide the shoe on. As she put her foot down again he straightened, his hold loosening. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself?’

Tara shook her head. ‘Thank you.’ The movement made her aware that a tendril of wavy hair had escaped down her neck. Sighing, she lifted her arms to push it back into place, taking out a pin to secure it. Which only made things worse, several more strands escaping to tumble over her neck and ears. ‘Oh, damn!’ she said as two gleaming pins fell to the rug. Her hair was the bane of her life. Thick and determined to curl, it was almost unmanageable when long, as now, but when she’d had it cut short she hated the way it went into childish curls all over her head, making her look like an elderly caricature of Shirley Temple.

Gathering the over-abundant mass in one hand, she bent to pick up the pins, then stood and ruthlessly twisted it into a knot, crossly relocating pins to keep it there.

Sholto had buried his hands back in his pockets. His voice sounding oddly strained, he said, ‘You missed a bit.’

‘Where?’ She felt around and, discovering the ringlet just behind her ear, fumbled to tuck it in.

‘Why do you bother?’ Sholto asked. ‘Most men would prefer it in its natural glory.’

He used to love her to wear her hair loose. He liked to play with it, arranging it about her head against the pillow, or pulling her on top of him and removing the pins so that her hair fell over her shoulders like a cloak, and then he’d tangle his fingers in it and draw her head down to kiss her while the bronze waves floated around them, cocooning them and drifting softly against his skin.

Tara jabbed a pin against her scalp, banishing the erotic picture from her mind. ‘I’m not interested in pleasing most men, ’ she said. She just liked to keep her wild mane of elflocks under control and out of her way, and had never ceased wishing for fine, straight hair—like Averil’s.

‘Just one?’ Sholto asked.

She looked at him and surprised a brief expression of chagrin on his face, as though he hadn’t meant to say what he had.

She could have said, Not even one. But he had Averil, and her pride wouldn’t let her admit to having no man in her life. She smiled enigmatically and said, ‘Some men like it pinned up—they get a kick out of taking it down.’

His answering smile was thin and unpleasant. ‘And I suppose you get a kick out of having them do it—among other things.’ The way his gaze dropped over her body was enough to make her shiver. She’d never before met quite that blend of total dislike and blatant, deliberately offensive desire, stripping her defences as though he’d mentally undressed her.

Lust, she reminded herself, despising the way her senses burned in unspoken answer. If it had been anyone else but Sholto she would have been repelled by that look.

‘You said you don’t hate me,’ she whispered, shaken.

‘Hate you?’ His eyes were veiled now, meeting hers. Mockery twisted his mouth. ‘How could anyone—any man —hate something as decorative as you? I’d have to be a Philistine.’

‘I’m not a thing. ’ She didn’t know anyone else who had his ability to turn a compliment into a deadly insult. ‘I’m a person, not some objet d’art.’

Not for the first time, she wondered if that was how he’d thought of her all those years ago—something pretty to enhance his home and his life.

‘Your caveman loves you for your mind, does he?’ Sholto rocked slightly on his heels, looking almost as though he was enjoying himself. Only the deep, angry spark at the back of his eyes gave him away.

About to shout at him, Andy is not a caveman, and he’s not mine! Tara checked herself, forcing calmness into her voice. ‘At least Andy recognises that I have one.’