A Seductive Revenge Read online

  A date, dear God, Josh, what the hell are you doing? What was he thinking? Hell, he’d already done it! ‘Yes, a date,’ he confirmed recklessly.

  So much for not going anywhere with this until he’d explained the situation! Problem was he hadn’t been thinking with his head when he’d turned around and seen her staring at him—staring at him with those big, hungry ‘kiss me’ eyes. All the prepared explanations had vanished on the spot. How did you go about explaining to a woman that the original motivation for seducing her had been revenge? Candlelight and a romantic atmosphere—not to mention a lot of wine—might make the task easier, but somehow he doubted it.

  ‘I could cook if you like, it might be more…’ she coloured prettily ‘…private.’ She really liked the idea of having him to herself but she was also worried about the state of his bank balance. She didn’t want him to feel obliged to make an extravagant gesture. ‘Claire left the freezer crammed with food and she’s a very good cook.’

  ‘That would be good.’ A public place might not be a good idea if she started throwing things when he told her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘IT’S instinct, you know.’

  Josh squinted against the glare of the sun as he emerged from the barn. A man moved out from the shadows of the outbuilding closely followed by a Border collie who growled warningly at the intruder.

  ‘Nice boy,’ the stranger said as he nervously edged away from the dog.

  Josh called the animal to his side with a click of his fingers. ‘What can I do for you?’

  The stranger gave a grin and rocked cockily on the balls of his feet. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘Actually I do,’ Josh contradicted.

  The grin wilted but he made a swift recovery. ‘Came to you straight like a little homing pigeon, didn’t she?’ His lascivious leer brought Josh’s temper to simmering point in a heartbeat.

  Where was his telephoto when he needed it? the journalist wondered, blissfully unaware of the homicidal stirrings seething in the younger man’s breast. He was pretty sure that whatever had been going on in that barn would have made very good copy.

  ‘I’ve not lost the old gut instinct,’ he congratulated himself out loud.

  ‘Or the gut,’ Josh drawled unkindly.

  Tom Channing automatically sucked in the belly which spilled gently over his belt. He smiled tightly; he could afford to be generous. ‘No need to be nasty, Mr Prentice. Does she know?’

  ‘Was that meant to take me off guard?’ Josh enquired in a mildly bored voice.

  ‘Then she doesn’t.’ The journalist smirked triumphantly. ‘I knew I’d seen your face somewhere before, I’m good with faces. Then it came to me—you were that artist bloke they all rave about. On the off chance I looked up your bio and up popped the stuff about your wife snuffing it, and lo and behold her surgeon just happened to be Sir David Graham…you know, I don’t believe in coincidence.’

  ‘You know,’ Josh commented languidly, ‘I guessed you didn’t.’

  ‘You were following her too, weren’t you, that day?’

  ‘This is your story.’ Josh’s casual gesture invited the journalist to continue.

  ‘I don’t know what your game is exactly, but I can guess.’ His smirk made Josh wonder how long he would be able to stop himself rearranging those sickeningly smug features. ‘Have you thought how much more satisfying your little vendetta would be if it became public knowledge?’ He paused to let the idea sink in. ‘How I slept with the daughter of my wife’s killer. How do you like that?’

  ‘A little ambitious syllable-wise for the sort of newspaper you work for, isn’t it? It is the Clarion, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ With a puzzled frown the thickset man produced a rolled-up tabloid sheet from his pocket and proudly displayed the lurid headline to Josh. ‘One of mine.’ He gave a philosophical shrug when the artist type remained stubbornly unawed. ‘Partners…?’

  Josh’s lip curled as he looked at the extended hand and his face hardened. Tom Channing realised for the first time that the big guy wasn’t going to play the game; his friendly air faded abruptly leaving the older man looking just plain mean and spiteful.

  ‘Well, it’s up to you,’ the journalist told him in an offhand manner. ‘I’ll write it with or without your help,’ he warned.

  ‘Tell me, do you like your job?’

  Tom was beginning to feel a bit edgy. He could predict the way people acted in this situation and this guy wasn’t doing any of the predictable things. He didn’t look angry or panicked. He just wasn’t acting the way people did when they realised he held all the cards.

  ‘Sure I do.’ And truth to tell, with his track record with the bottle and a couple of minor disasters that had occurred before he’d dried out the last time, he was lucky he had it, because no other national was going to look twice at him these days. What he needed was a really big story: this story!

  ‘And of course you were really lucky when they didn’t sack you after the Manchester debacle, weren’t you? It probably helped that the editor back then was an old drinking buddy from way back—though he’s retired now, hasn’t he? Tell me, how do you get on with the new broom?’

  ‘How do you know about Manchester?’ There was a slight tremor in the hack’s hand as he wiped away the sweat from his gleaming forehead with the cuff of his shirt.

  ‘You’re not the only one who can do a bit of research, and I have to tell you mine was more thorough than yours. I wanted to know what sort of man gets turned on by scaring a woman, and I found out.’

  A dark flush travelled up the older man’s thick neck. ‘She wasn’t scared!’ he protested.

  ‘Just as your ex wasn’t when you put her in hospital the last time.’

  The blustering journalist coloured unattractively.

  ‘If Flora Graham had been scared she wouldn’t have shown it.’ An admiring light flickered briefly in Josh’s grey eyes.

  ‘All this moral outrage is rich coming from you!’ Tom Channing sneeringly hit back. ‘She was a hell of a lot safer with me than she is with you. My motives are positively pure by comparison!’

  Josh’s nostrils flared as his mouth compressed into a savage white-rimmed line. ‘If you want to keep your job,’ he advised grimly, ‘forget you ever met Flora Graham, forget you even know her name. The only reason you want to hurt her,’ he continued in a soft, controlled voice that really shook Tom—shook him almost as much as the ferocious expression in those spooky pale eyes, ‘is that she is untainted by the sordid world you live in. You hate it because you can’t bring her down to your level, because she’s simply a fine human being.’

  ‘My, you’ve really fallen for her!’ Mentally he was rewriting those headlines; this got better and better, he decided gleefully. His grin faded dramatically as Josh’s fists clenched. This was not your typical effete arty type he was dealing with, he reminded himself. This guy might be greyhound lean but he gave the impression he could cause serious damage if he wanted—and right now he looked as if he wanted! Time to leave…he had his story.

  ‘Got a phone on you?’

  The journalist blinked at the unexpected question.

  ‘Of course you have. Got your boss’s number?’

  ‘Listen, friend, there’s no point you bleating to Jack Baker. He won’t…’

  ‘I don’t mean your new editor, I mean the proprietor, David Macleod, the bloke who owns the whole stinking rag. Ring David and tell him you want to write this story, then tell him Josh Prentice isn’t happy.’ Under the circumstances he felt no qualms about employing a little judicious blackmail; to protect Flora he’d go a hell of a lot further.

  ‘You’re bluffing.’ He stared incredulously at the stony-faced guy in front of him. ‘There’s no way you could have that much clout.’ A shade of uncertainty had entered his voice.

  ‘You of all people should know that money talks and I have serious money,’ Josh explained casually. ‘And good friends. There was
a time when David needed some financial backing and I like to help my friends out… You see, your bio on me left out a few very important details, like I made my first million before I was twenty-one.’

  Tom Channing went pale. ‘You’re having me on!’

  Josh shrugged. ‘Take the risk,’ he suggested generously. ‘I don’t give a damn, but let me tell you one thing—you print a single derogatory syllable about Flora Graham and I’ll take you apart slowly, piece by piece.’

  Tom Channing saw no reason to disbelieve him. It seemed to him that the prospect of this dismemberment seemed to make Prentice very happy. This guy, he decided, was an animal and that contrast of the friendly voice and that Grim Reaper glare really chilled his marrow good and proper!

  ‘Freedom of the press…’ he objected weakly.

  Josh snorted derisively. ‘Principles from you! You sold out any principles you had twenty years back and we both know it. And please don’t give me that “the public have a right to know” bull, or I’ll crack up!’ Josh snarled, showing no immediate inclination to laugh. ‘There’s no national interest involved here. There’s just a vindictive little has-been hack, inventing lurid details to do a hatchet job on someone who’s never done anyone any harm! Try selling this one on the open market and I’ll be forced to reveal how I saw you assaulting Miss Graham after you’d followed her to a lonely secluded spot.’

  ‘I hardly touched her…’ The journalist protested as he saw plan B slip down the toilet.

  ‘You did touch her though, and she didn’t like it; that’s enough to constitute an assault. You’re not the only one who can be economical with the truth,’ he admitted ruthlessly. ‘Her father’s dead, the story’s dead. Do yourself a favour and stop working on your headlines.’

  ‘I don’t need to work on them, fact is one hell of a lot more entertaining than anything I could dream up here, mate.’ The journalist choked.

  Josh’s lip curled. ‘I’m not your mate.’

  There came a time when a man had to cut his losses and make an exit with as much dignity as possible—in this case that wasn’t very much! Tom automatically reached for the packet of cigarettes that lived in his breast pocket. His scowl deepened when he came up empty. He rolled back his sleeve and ripped off the nicotine patch with an expression of loathing. He’d quit next week.

  ‘You haven’t heard the last of me!’ he yelled back over his shoulder.

  The threat didn’t bother Josh but the element of truth in some of the sleaze’s jibes had. Soberly he made his way towards the farmhouse.

  Josh knew the instant the cottage door closed behind him that something was seriously up. Flora stalked back into the small sitting room, without saying anything to him. Her slender back was screaming rejection. He glanced at the flowers in his hand expecting to see the blooms withered on their stems—it had been that sort of look she’d given him and his gifts. He placed the champagne and the flowers on the dresser.

  ‘Sure you could afford them?’ she snapped sarcastically as he entered close on her heels.

  There was a faint tremor in her fingers as she picked up and replaced with exaggerated care a pretty gingerpot decorated with a traditional blue and white design. It was incredibly hard to control her destructive impulses. When she thought about how he’d deliberately misled her she wanted to break things—preferably parts of his highly luscious body!

  She shot him a sideways glance of loathing and saw with growing resentment that the luscious part was still disturbingly applicable. Black suited him, she concluded, taking in the tailored black trousers that suggested the muscularity of his thighs. If she hadn’t discovered what a lying rat he was she’d probably already have unbuttoned that crisp cotton shirt to reveal…she closed her eyes and swallowed convulsively.

  Josh closed his eyes too; knowing he deserved whatever was coming didn’t make this situation any better. Dear God, he had to salvage something out of this mess. ‘I meant to tell you earlier, Flora, but I…’

  ‘Were having too good a laugh at my expense?’ she suggested, placing a hand on one slender hip and thrusting the other out.

  He doubted she even suspected how sexually provocative he found the pose…he wished he had his sketch-book with him…but then drawing things had always been his way of delaying the inevitable. After Bridie’s death he’d painted himself into the ground before he’d stopped still long enough to let the grieving process kick in, and then he hadn’t touched a paintbrush for a long time.

  ‘You must have thought it very amusing when I offered you career advice. Have you ever thought of painting?’ she cruelly caricatured her own starry-eyed enthusiasm. At the back of the drawer were a pile of prospectuses from various art colleges. She supposed she ought to be grateful she hadn’t given him those yet!

  With a dry-eyed sob of disgust she flung the incriminating colour supplement at him with such vigour the staples gave way and sheets of glossy paper scattered around the room.

  ‘Although, compared to some of these critics, my admiration was pretty tepid!’

  ‘You’ve found out what I do?’ he said blankly, picking up a torn sheet of paper that bore a reproduction of one of his earliest efforts. Impatiently he screwed up the paper and dropped it on the floor.

  Flora folded her arms and pursed her lips. ‘Why, how many other secrets do you have?’ She held up her hands. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she pleaded contemptuously. ‘I already know too much about you. You’re nothing but a cheap fake…! Though maybe not that cheap, it seems your paintings go for a small fortune!’ She made this sound like the worst insult of all.

  A thin, ironic smile curved Josh’s lips. ‘It’s not my artistic ability you object to, then, just the fact I’m not starving in some rat-infested attic!’

  How dare he make it sound as if I’m the one being unreasonable? He couldn’t begin to imagine how stupid and humiliated she’d felt when she’d realised who and what he was. It had all been a game for him. Had he ever been going to tell her? she wondered.

  ‘I don’t care if you’re a bloody millionaire! I’m glad you find this funny!’ She sniffed, furiously blinking away the tears of self-pity that stung her eyelids. Her determination to treat him with bland indifference had been long forgotten; in fact she’d forgotten it as the first pang of longing had hit, about the same instant he’d walked through her door. ‘The thing I object to—’ she choked as abject pity squirmed horridly in her stomach ‘—is being laughed at and lied to.’

  ‘Did you let me make love to you because you thought I was a penniless decorator?’ One darkly delineated brow rose enquiringly. ‘Or were you just sorry for me, perhaps?’ he suggested thoughtfully.

  ‘Of course not, no, no on both accounts!’ she hissed, outraged that he could even suggest such a thing. ‘I did that because…’ No! Under the circumstances that explanation was better left unsaid; she’d had a gut full of humiliation for one day! To her intense relief no sarky prompt was forthcoming.

  ‘Then why does what I do for a living make a difference one way or the other?’ he asked instead with infuriating logic.

  ‘It’s not what you do for a living, it’s what you do by way of amusement which makes you a ratbag first class!’ she informed him with lofty disdain. ‘You lie…why, you do it so well, you could lie for Britain!’ Her voice rose shrilly in volume as her contempt mounted. ‘As liars go, Josh, you are world class! And I’m a world-class sap for falling for it. Do you always adopt a fake personality when you’re away from home? Does it make it more difficult for your little local conquests to pursue you when you leave?’

  ‘You’re not a local,’ he pointed out, watching with some fascination the undulations of her heaving, unfettered bosom. It seemed that at some point this evening she’d dressed to please someone—in all probability him—in a discreetly slinky misty blue number that clung in all the right places. ‘And if you want to pursue me I’ll draw you a detailed map; better still,’ he offered extravagantly, ‘I’ll drive you myself.’
r />   Flora’s rapid breathing slowed a little. He sounded flatteringly sincere, but then he did sincere awfully well, she reminded herself.

  ‘As for conquests, you and I both know that I hadn’t slept with anyone for a very long time.’

  Flora felt the colour fade from her overheated cheeks. She suddenly found it impossible to maintain eye contact… ‘I’m no expert,’ she gritted. In fact he must now know that compared to his her sexual repertoire was strictly limited. The sizzling spectre of his raw hunger rose up to add to her wretched confusion. He introduced the subject deliberately to confuse me, she concluded with irrational resentment.

  ‘You know,’ he contradicted confidently. ‘Do you think you could give me a minute without throwing something at me or screaming abuse?’

  If he thought this was abuse he’d led a very sheltered life! ‘Miracles do happen,’ she told him nastily. ‘Even to the undeserving.’

  ‘If you recall, I didn’t say I was a decorator…did I?’

  Flora’s disgruntled sniff acknowledged this. ‘But you didn’t disillusion me!’ Which in her book amounted to the same thing.

  ‘True, but round about the time I should have straightened things out you’d just invited me into your home, Flora, and I wanted an excuse to be there—any excuse.’ The look of stark hunger that flickered over his handsome face was too rawly genuine to be faked.

  Flora caught her breath and blinked, the anger abruptly fled her body and, call her criminally susceptible, but the feelings that eagerly rushed in to fill the vacuum were dreamily sensuous.

  ‘You did?’ she whispered huskily.

  He nodded and his lips quivered to form a faint wry smile. ‘Not that I admitted why I wanted to be there to myself at the time.’ His confession held a savage inflection.

  ‘No…?’ She tried to stiffen her weakening resolve and fan the flames of her fury. ‘What are you doing milking cows anyhow?’

  ‘My brother is married to Nia, Geraint’s sister. That makes me family…sort of. I was up here—’ he paused slightly ‘—visiting.’ Flora was too interested in discovering how he came to be acting as farm labourer in the middle of nowhere to notice the odd, almost belligerent inflection in his voice as he offered up the explanation for his presence on the farm.