The Seduction Game Read Free

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    However, no one could pretend that housework would ever be Becky’s forte, Tara thought affectionately. But by bringing the same organisational skills to marriage as she had to her career she’d safely ensured she’d never have to do any.
    It would be inconceivable to Becky that anyone would give up precious holiday time to scrub, polish and add the odd lick of paint to a shabby, elderly house. And equally incredible that the same person might actually revel in their self-appointed task, or find it positively therapeutic.
    Tara glimpsed herself in the mirror as she finally headed for the door, cat basket in hand and a furious Melusine giving her a piece of her mind. Marchant Southern would have got the shock of their lives if they could see her now, she thought, grinning as she surveyed her faded denim skirt topped by an ancient sweatshirt. Her hair was bundled up into a baseball cap, and her bare feet were thrust into a pair of canvas slipons which had seen better days.
    But what the hell? she thought as she locked up and went down to the car. I’m not going to be seeing anyone unless I choose. After all, there isn’t another house within miles.
    Or at least another inhabited house, she amended quickly. Which Dean’s Mooring certainly wasn’t. Up to three years ago it had been occupied by old Ambrose Dean, white-bearded and fierce, a loner who had guarded his privacy jealously. After his death, the cottage, which stood about a hundred yards upstream from Silver Creek House, had remained empty, and was fast becoming derelict.
    Ambrose had been a bachelor, and apparently had had no living relatives. Certainly no one ever came to see him. Jim Lyndon, Tara’s father, had spoken vaguely of contacting the lawyers dealing with the old man’s estate and perhaps making an offer for the cottage, but had never actually got around to doing anything constructive about it.
    Maybe I will, Tara thought idly as she started out of London. After all, the parents won’t want to find themselves living next to an eyesore. And I’ve nothing booked in my diary but some serious peace and quiet. I could, maybe, start the ball rolling.
    On the other hand, I could forget about everything that smacks of business and just—chill out. What utter bliss.
    But the road to paradise was not an easy one, she soon discovered. Other people had also decided to make an early start to the Bank Holiday weekend, and traffic was grindingly heavy.
    By the time Tara turned the car on to the rutted track which led to the house her head was aching, and Melusine was expressing vigorous disapproval from the rear seat.
    She parked in the yard at the back and got out, stretching luxuriously and drinking in gulps of the cool early evening air. Then she reached into her bag and found the key.
    The house felt chill and slightly damp as she stepped into the kitchen. There was a strange mustiness in the atmosphere too.
    The smell of loneliness, Tara thought, looking around her. I’ll soon change that.
    As usual, there was a box of groceries waiting on the scrubbed table, courtesy of Mrs Pritchard, and one of her magnificent steak and kidney pies covered by a teatowel resting beside it. Tucked under it was a note, stating that the gas tank was full and the log man had delivered the previous week, together with the various invoices for these services. And, waiting in the big old fridge, was a bottle of Tara’s favourite Chablis.
    Already she could feel the stresses and strains of the past weeks easing away, she thought, heaving a sigh of pure satisfaction.
    Mrs Pritchard, you’re an angel, she told her silently.
    She went back to the car, sniffing at the tubs of lavender that her mother had planted the previous year, and collected the frantic Melusine, who gave her a filthy look and stormed up the clematis-hung trellis on to the shed roof.
    ‘Feel free,’ Tara told her as she unloaded the rest of her things from the car and carried them into the house. From past