Copyright © 1991 Jill Mansell

Cover image © Nina Chakrabarti

The right of Jill Mansell to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law,
this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing
of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production,
in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the
Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978 0 7553 5187 9

This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

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About Jill Mansell

Jill Mansell
Author photograph by Charlotte Murphy

Jill Mansell started writing fiction while working in the NHS, after she read a magazine article that inspired her to join a local creative writing class. She has since written over twenty Sunday Times bestsellers, including The One You Really Want and You And Me, Always, and her books have sold over 11 million copies around the world.

Jill's hobbies include buying stationery, particularly magical new colours of ink for the fountain pen she uses to write all her books. She lives in Bristol with her family.

Jill keeps in touch with her readers on Twitter - @JillMansell - and Facebook - /OfficialJillMansell.

About the Book

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Mad about a man who's dangerous to know? Surely it's better to go solo . . .

When Tessa Duvall, a struggling artist, reluctantly agreed to accompany her best friend Holly to a party at the elegant Charrington Grange Hotel, she had every intention of sneaking off early. For parties full of strangers bored the knickers off Tessa and this one proved to be no exception – until she encountered Ross Monahan, whose wicked reputation was as high profile as the hotel he owned and ran with such panache.

But while Holly set about ensnaring his reluctant brother Max, Tessa simply accepted Ross for what he was, a sensational one-night stand . . . until she realised, weeks later, that one-night stands can have far-reaching consequences . . .

Also by Jill Mansell and available from Headline

This Could Change Everything
Meet Me At Beachcomber Bay
You And Me, Always
Three Amazing Things About You
The Unpredictable Consequences Of Love
Don't Want To Miss A Thing
A Walk In The Park
To the Moon And Back
Take A Chance On Me
Rumour Has It
An Offer You Can/t Refuse
Thinking Of You
Making Your Mind Up
The One You Really Want
Falling For You
Nadia Knows Best
Staying At Daisy's
Millie's Fling
Good At Games
Miranda's Big Mistake
Head Over Heels
Mixed Doubles
Perfect Timing
Fast Friends
Solo
Kiss
Sheer Mischief
Open House
Two's Company

Praise for Jill Mansell

'A warm and thoughtful read, populated with engaging characters . . . I raced through it’ Daily Mail

‘Smart and grown-up chick lit at its very best’ Good Housekeeping

‘Bursting with humour, brimming with intrigue and full of characters you’ll adore’ Heat

‘Her plots avoid the almost-clichéd chick-lit trope of how to have it all and instead tell hard-to-put-down tales of everyday life in an unpredictable way . . . Mansell’s fiction is a happy leap away from the troubles of today’ Sunday Express

‘You’ll fall in love with the characters in this lovely tale’ Sun

‘This is a warm, witty and romantic read that you won’t be able to put down’ Daily Mail

‘As frothy and moreish as a summer cocktail . . . your beach bag will be empty without it’ Heat

‘To read it is to devour it’ Company

‘[S]teeped in romance and humour, this is the ideal book for Valentine's Day’ Candis

‘If you enjoyed One Day, this will be right up your street . . . Written with heart and humour, this is chick lit at its best’ Sunday Mirror

'A romantic romp full of larger than life characters' Express

‘A skilfully constructed, believable and brilliantly written novel about love’ Heat

'It's riotous' New Woman

'Fast, furious and fabulous fun. To read it is to devour it' Company

'A light-hearted and likeable tale' Prima

'A jaunty summer read' Daily Mail

'Frothy fun' Bella

'Slick, sexy, funny stories' Daily Telegraph

For my brother, Paul,
because I’m proud of him.
And because now
he’ll have to read this book . . .

Chapter 1

Parties full of strangers bored the knickers off Tessa.

‘Well, you’re damn well coming to this one,’ declared Holly impatiently. ‘You haven’t been out for weeks and it’s going to be brilliant. Everyone’s going. And just think, play your cards right . . . show a bit of leg . . . a bit of cleavage . . . and you, too, could find a husband like mine!’

Tessa wiped her hands on her already paint-streaked sweatshirt and picked up the bottle of ridiculously expensive Chardonnay which Holly always insisted on buying because she liked the label, and which neither of them properly appreciated. Pouring herself half a mugful and wincing at its icy dryness she said, ‘I don’t have a cleavage.’

‘What God didn’t give you, Sellotape will,’ pronounced Holly. ‘They showed us how on Blue Peter.’

‘And I haven’t been out for weeks’ – Tessa mimicked Holly’s despairing tones – ‘because I have been working. Working pays the rent. It even occasionally allows me to eat. I simply can’t afford to mix in your kind of social circles.’

‘You can’t afford not to,’ countered Holly. ‘These are the people who commission poverty-stricken artists to paint absurdly flattering portraits of their revolting children.’

‘Besides,’ Tessa went on, surveying the almost-finished canvas before her and beginning to realize that Holly wasn’t going to let her wriggle out of this one, ‘you aren’t married.’

Holly grinned, refilling her own mug with a flourish. ‘Ah! I didn’t say I had a husband, I said I’d found him. All that remains now is to exert a little gentle pressure.’

‘And I suppose he’ll be there tonight.’

‘There is that small chance,’ conceded Holly smugly. ‘After all, it is his party.’

From the living-room window of Tessa’s tiny cottage, perched on the side of one of the rolling, north-facing hills overlooking the spectacular elegance of the city of Bath, she could see in the far distance the equally spectacular and elegant Charrington Grange Hotel.

Even if Holly hadn’t been working there for the past two months and regaling her with endless details about it, Tessa would have heard of it. Everyone knew of the Charrington Grange Hotel, owned and run by the Monahan brothers and built up from nothing – well, scarcely anything – over the last fifteen years into one of the foremost country hotels in England. Originally a gracious Georgian residence commanding breathtaking views across the city from its position at the very top of the south-facing hills above Bath, it had fallen into hideous disrepair during its forty-year occupation by an elderly and eccentric Monahan maiden aunt. By the time of her eventual death the roof was barely intact, the walls of the gracefully proportioned rooms were streaked with damp and the entire place was overrun by the dotty old woman’s grand passion – several hundred decidedly unhousetrained cats.

Pulling every conceivable string between them, the notorious Monahan brothers, Ross and Max, had somehow managed to raise the vast amount of capital necessary to transform the crumbling old house into an opulent hotel catering to the very wealthiest clientele.

The Press had had a field day at the time. The very idea that Max Monahan, moody and unpredictable, and Ross, with his mile-long reputation for carousing, heart-breaking and generally misbehaving, could pull off such a stunt was so ridiculous it was laughable. Max, the elder brother by two years, having been sent down from Oxford following a particularly outrageous prank involving a prostitute dressed as a nun and a visiting trade union leader, had rapidly established himself as a star broker on the Stock Exchange. Six months later, the day after his twenty-first birthday, he had abandoned this glittering new career, disappearing to the Caribbean and returning eighteen months later with the completed manuscripts of not one but two fat novels. These thrillers, with their winning combination of sex, violence, tension and wit were wildly successful, yet at the time Max had doubted whether he would want to do it again. It had been fun finding out that he could, but it was scarcely what he termed a proper job.

In the end, however, the vast sums of money offered, the luxury of being virtually his own boss, the flexible hours and the ease with which he conjured up fresh plots, won the day. To Max Monahan, writing was a doddle and the rewards were too great to pass up. He rapidly became established as one of those few lucky writers whose books were read by everyone. Over the years he had grown more level headed and now, with his astute business brain and almost ruthless determination to pile success upon success, he was recognized as the more down to earth of the two brothers. The Charrington Grange Hotel was owned jointly between them and although Max didn’t work there full-time he was involved in all the major decision-making and both he and Ross still lived there. Blockbuster novels remained his major – and considerable – source of income, but the hotel acted as an antidote to the solitude which writing entailed, and because he didn’t need to sweat over a word processor for eight hours a day like some writers he’d heard of, there was still plenty of time left over in which to enjoy himself.

Ross Monahan, on the other hand, devoted his entire life to enjoyment. Tessa had never made a particular point of reading the gossip columns but even she was aware of his wicked reputation. Expelled from more schools than anyone cared to remember, his notorious passion for fun was equalled only by his stunning good looks and lethal charm. Incapable of remaining in one place for more than a few weeks, in his early twenties he was the archetypal playboy, his outrageous exploits hitting the papers almost weekly. Men despised and envied him; women – apart from those whose hearts he had broken – adored him.

If everyone had been amazed when he had appointed himself manager of The Charrington Grange, they had been well and truly astounded when they finally realized what an out-and-out success he was actually making of the job.

And fifteen years on, Ross Monahan was still doing it, running the hotel with such panache and enjoyment that he had made it seem scarcely like work at all. Having always moved in the most glittering and outrageous circles, he had turned The Grange into a kind of open house for those who played as hard as he did. It was quite simply the place to stay if you wanted to have a really good time – and could afford to pay for it.

And according to Holly, Ross Monahan was absolutely lethal with women.

‘Gorgeous, gorgeous!’ she had informed Tessa, shortly after going to work for him. ‘But definitely dangerous to know. When I first met him I made a solemn vow with myself not to get involved.’

‘But you have,’ guessed Tessa, observing the sheepish look in her friend’s eyes. Holly had shrugged and smiled. ‘Given half a chance I would have done,’ she’d admitted. ‘But the bastard isn’t interested. For God’s sake, Tess, he treats me like a friend!’

And now Holly was planning on treating him like a brother-in-law. She was passionately in love with Max, only Max didn’t know it yet. Tessa, who adored Holly but sometimes despaired of her, suspected that it would all end in tears and that most of them would land on her own inadequately small shoulders.

Meanwhile, Holly was returning in less than two hours to pick her up and take her along to this horrible party. And she really didn’t have a single suitable thing to wear.

Two hours later, gloomily surveying the other women at the party, Tessa realized that she’d been even more right than she’d feared.

‘I told you,’ hissed Holly, grabbing her arm and trying to drag her backwards through the French windows leading on to the terrace. ‘Look, hardly anyone’s noticed yet. Why don’t we whizz back to my place and find you something decent to put on? You can’t stay here dressed like that.’

‘Stop panicking.’ Tessa dug her heels in like a dog and prised Holly’s fingers off her elbow. ‘I’m being understated. If anyone says anything I’ll tell them that designer labels are passé.’

‘Mine isn’t,’ retaliated Holly, shocked. In order to reassure herself, she glanced in a nearby mirror, admiring the strapless, emerald-green Fendi creation which enhanced her generous breasts – no need for Sellotape there – and expertly played down her slightly too-generous hips. Then she turned back to face Tessa, whose black, cotton-jersey dress was looking plainer by the second. In Holly’s eyes the severity of the cut did Tessa no favours at all, encasing her as it did from neck to knees and almost completely obscuring the enviably slim figure beneath. Worse still, she was wearing no jewellery whatsoever and her fingernails, although at least scrubbed clean of oil paint, were unvarnished. Sometimes she didn’t understand her friend at all.

‘Oh well,’ said Tessa with more hope than conviction, ‘maybe I’d better just go home.’

‘Shut up!’ shrieked Holly, so vigorously that her breasts jiggled in their casings. ‘I’ve got you here and you’re not running away now. Oxfam dress or no Oxfam dress, you’re staying.’

Tessa grinned. ‘How did you know it was from Oxfam?’

Holly raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s the only place you ever shop, stupid.’

Ross Monahan was doing what he did best: circulating, having fun and idly wondering whom he might take to bed with him at the end of the evening. It was a game which amused him, particularly when so many of the women were so blatantly obvious. Jennifer Johnson, with her rich-but-thick fiancé standing less than six feet away, had pressed herself against him and all but stuck her tongue in his ear. Sally Paige-Latimer had made a particular point of telling him that she didn’t have to get back to London until tomorrow evening and that daft bitch Clarissa Fox had actually taken his hand and shoved it down the front of her dress so that he might experience – first-hand, so to speak – the wonder of her expensive new silicone implants.

Liberating a fresh glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, Ross loosened his bow tie and moved across to the fireplace at the far end of the room, from which strategic position he could see exactly what was going on in both the ballroom and the hall beyond. The party was going well; the two hundred or so guests were clearly enjoying themselves judging by the amount of noise and laughter, and Max, in particular, appeared to be having a good time. At present he was being cornered by Holly King, who was looking like an over-decorated Christmas tree, but whose incredible boobs undoubtedly owed nothing to silicone. Watching her now as she tossed back her equally bouncy red-gold hair for the third time in less than a minute and placed her hand on Max’s arm as she spoke, Ross was amused to find his suspicions confirmed. Holly was besotted with his brother. And a big, curvy, talkative red-head like Holly was just about the last type of woman that Max would ever go for.

For a moment Ross almost felt sorry for Holly, of whom he was extremely fond. He had had his doubts about her when she’d applied for the job on reception, noting her appallingly patchy c.v. and recognizing that her family’s wealth meant that if she didn’t feel like working she didn’t have to. But sensing his concern, she had assured him that she would work ‘like stink’, and for a moment she had so reminded Ross of himself that he had given in. He had taken the risk and Holly hadn’t let him down. In the two months since she had been working at The Grange she had committed some appalling faux pas, but her sense of humour, punctuality and willingness to learn had more than made up for it. And the customers adored her, despite her appalling dress sense.

Then he stiffened. Clarissa-better-than-natural-Fox was beelining towards him once more and right now he simply couldn’t face her. Them. Whatever, he had to escape.

Taking a sharp left turn and assuming his purposeful I’m-the-Manager expression, Ross stepped through the open French windows out on to the terrace. Couples, couples everywhere. If he didn’t move fast, Clarissa would catch up with him and do something even more outrageous in the open air. All of a sudden the memory of her overpowering perfume and ungentle fingers was almost nauseating.

Tessa, sitting alone on a grassy slope beyond the terrace, was hugging her knees and wondering whether this was really the most boring night of her life or whether there had been another she’d forgotten about. Maybe there was something lacking in her character, she decided, unconcerned. Apart from the spectacular view before her, she couldn’t think of one single, even halfway decent, reason for being here. Holly had disappeared with Max, she didn’t know anyone else and no-one had shown the slightest inclination to strike up a conversation with her. According to Holly, of course, she should gatecrash their cliquey little groups and announce with suitable drama: ‘I’m an artist! And talented too! Wanna portrait of your wife . . . husband . . . brats . . . pets?’

But she couldn’t. And leaving now was the best idea she’d had in years.

The next moment a hand touched her shoulder and she leapt a mile.

‘Sshh,’ said Ross, easing himself into a sitting position beside her and sliding his arm around her waist. Behind them, he could hear the fast, neurotic tap of Clarissa’s too-high heels as she searched the terrace. Tilting his dark head towards Tessa’s, he murmured, ‘I need saving.’

‘So I’ve heard.’ Recognizing him at once, she couldn’t help smiling. ‘Although I rather had the impression that you were beyond redemption.’

Ross pinched the inside of her elbow in retaliation. ‘All lies. I’ve been a virgin since I was twelve. Speaking of which’ – with his free hand he grasped Tessa’s slender fingers and raised them to his lips – ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. You are?’

‘I am a guest at your brother’s party,’ said Tessa, unable to prevent herself admiring the chiselled perfection of his mouth. ‘And you are a bullshitter, Mr Monahan. I warn you, I’m quite immune to bullshit.’

Ross laughed. In the background Clarissa’s footsteps faded in despondent retreat, but all of a sudden Clarissa no longer mattered. This girl, this guest-at-his-brother’s party, was quite beautiful. She was also a natural blonde with slanting green eyes and silky dark eyelashes who was wearing no make-up whatsoever, no overpowering perfume and none of that disgusting lacquer with which so many women solidified their hair. In her highnecked, plain black dress, bare brown legs and flat black leather shoes, she was more alluring than any of the other exposed and over-made-up women he had seen tonight.

He noticed the empty wine glass on the grass beside her. ‘Look, can I get you anything?’

‘A taxi would be nice.’ Tessa, who had also heard the retreating female footsteps, began to rise to her feet. Alarmed, Ross yanked her back down beside him.

‘You can’t be serious! Apart from the fact that it’s not even nine o’clock, we’ve only just met.’

‘Maybe the excitement is simply too much for me,’ she replied, her voice betraying her amusement. ‘Maybe I can’t wait to rush home and record every thrilling detail in my diary. Maybe I just don’t like parties.’

‘Maybe you don’t like me,’ countered Ross, feeling absurdly put out. He wasn’t used to being laughed at, however gently. And he certainly wasn’t accustomed to being rejected. This girl wasn’t playing games, he realized, she meant it.

Tessa shrugged. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘Then at least give me a chance.’ Now it was his turn to stand up, pulling her with him and keeping a firm grip on her hand. She wore no rings, and her unpainted nails were cut short. ‘You could begin by telling me your name.’

‘Where are we going?’ countered Tessa. He was walking so fast she almost had to run to keep up. ‘If you’re thinking of showing me your etchings, forget it.’

‘What do you think I am?’ Pretending to be affronted, then realizing that it wasn’t such a pretence after all, he pulled her in the direction of the conservatory. ‘We’re going to get to know each other. In the non-biblical sense, of course.’

Three hours later Ross silently conceded defeat. He knew nothing more about her now than he had when he’d first spotted her sitting alone on the grassy slope beyond the terrace. Every question was parried, every overture firmly rebuffed. However hard he tried, she remained totally unimpressed. He had practically told her his life story and he still didn’t even know her name.

He had never wanted a woman more badly in his life.

‘You really shouldn’t be here with me,’ said Tessa, allowing him to refill her glass from the bottle he had retrieved from its hiding place behind a huge tropical fern. The conservatory, with its domed glass roof, stained-glass side-panels and strategically positioned amber-tinted spotlighting, was like a small jungle. And since Ross had taken the precaution of locking the door behind him, they were both unobserved and uninterrupted, surrounded only by lush foliage and the scent of exotic blooms. In the distance could be heard the muted sounds of revelry, as the party continued without them.

Ross leaned back in his seat, white wrought-iron and strewn with silk cushions, and stuck his feet up on the table. ‘Why on earth not?’

‘People will wonder where you are.’

He winked. ‘It’s my party and I’ll hide if I want to. What’s the matter – am I boring you?’

In order to avoid answering, Tessa sipped her drink. Despite her cool front she actually wasn’t having as easy a time of it as Ross supposed. Initially, being only too aware of his horrendous reputation, she had taken everything he said with a bucket of salt. And although maybe she still did, he was managing to get to her anyway. This side of Ross Monahan, the side that was charming and funny and so effortlessly capable of winning people over, was bloody hard to resist. Particularly, thought Tessa ruefully, when he had managed to fill her glass with Bollinger at least twice as often as he had his own.

‘Stop ignoring me,’ said Ross, snapping a feathery fern off at the stem and trailing its slender tip across the back of Tessa’s knuckles. ‘I asked you a question. Am I boring you?’

‘To death,’ she smiled, moving her hand out of reach. ‘But don’t stop. Yet.’

Chapter 2

I must be drunk, thought Tessa, kicking off her shoes and sinking into a sitting position on the edge of the vast, canopied bed. When a man like Ross Monahan urged you to spend the night at his place and assured you that you were quite welcome to the bed – he would be happy to sleep on the settee – you knew you were playing with fire.

Either drunk or crazy, she told herself as she pulled her dress over her head, threw it in the direction of a large, red-velvet chair and wrapped herself in the dark blue towelling robe he had left for her.

But she knew she wasn’t that drunk. She was enjoying the game which had begun so many hours earlier. The challenge had been thrown down and she couldn’t resist it. She was going to seriously enjoy being the only woman in the history of the world to have slept in Ross’s bed . . . alone.

His suite of rooms on the top floor of the hotel was as sumptuous as she had imagined, particularly since seeing the rest of The Grange earlier. Like stowaways, they had remained closeted in the conservatory until the early hours of the morning when the last guests had departed, either roaring off into the night in their smart cars or retiring to their rooms in the hotel.

Then, taking her hand, Ross had given her the full guided tour, showing her the elegant sitting rooms, the restaurant, the squash courts, the superb gym and the spectacular indoor swimming-pool built inside a second, even larger, conservatory, illuminated by underwater lighting and surrounded on three sides by more tropical vegetation. Ross was as proud of the hotel as a new father. Tessa had been touched by his enthusiasm. But if he was under the impression that she would be so overwhelmed by this display of his success that she would leap into bed with him, he was going to be disappointed.

Saying no was much, much more fun.

Firmly securing the belt of the far-too-big robe around her waist, she threw back the bedcovers and slid between cool white sheets, just as a cautious knock sounded at the door.

‘It’s OK, I’m decent.’

‘Pity,’ said Ross lightly. He was still dressed, and carrying a folded blanket over one arm.

Tessa gestured at the bed. ‘This is awfully kind of you. You’ll probably have a terrible time trying to sleep on that settee.’

‘Probably.’ He gave her a mournful look, then grinned. ‘But I’ll survive.’

She watched him fling the blanket over the narrow leather Chesterfield. ‘And it’s four-thirty now. Nearly time to get up again anyway.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

‘I’m very grateful.’

‘Absolutely no problem.’

Tessa pulled the covers up to her chin and smiled at him. ‘You’re a true gentleman.’

‘I believe you,’ said Ross. ‘Thousands wouldn’t.’

She watched him hover for a few seconds beside the sofa, wondering no doubt if she might change her mind. Then, giving him one last big smile, she plumped up her pillows and turned over. ‘Mmm, well, thanks again. Good night.’

Tessa didn’t know what time it was when she shifted in her sleep and first realized that she was no longer alone in the bed. Her bare leg was resting against another bare leg, definitely not her own. Sleepily, almost subconsciously, she stretched out her hand and encountered a smooth, warm back. She became aware of the very faint scent of aftershave and toothpaste, and the quiet, regular breathing of someone deeply and peacefully asleep.

To her great surprise, Tessa was neither shocked nor annoyed by this invasion of her privacy. It was, after all, his bed and a narrow, slippery leather Chesterfield was about as conducive to a good night’s sleep as a tin bath.

In fact, she realized drowsily, she had forgotten quite how nice it felt to lie next to another body, accidentally brushing against an arm or a hip, sharing each other’s warmth and enjoying the primal instincts of simply being together.

With a guilty start she came properly awake. For the way her fingertips were trailing down Ross’s spine wasn’t in the least bit accidental. And, without even realizing it, her own left leg had managed to fit against the curve of his right one with all the snugness of a missing piece in a jigsaw.

This was taking the enjoyment of sharing each other’s warmth a little too far.

Regretfully easing her leg back to her own side of the bed and removing her hand from his back, she closed her eyes and attempted to distract her mind from its traitorous wanderings. She had always believed that physical intimacy – not just sex – was something like a video recorder or a Magimix: what you didn’t have, you didn’t miss, it just faded from your mind and became unimportant.

It had been almost a year since her last relationship had ended. At first, of course, she had missed the hugs and the kisses – and the sex – but certainly not enough to go rampaging round Bath in search of males, any males, with whom to satisfy the need for physical contact.

And pretty soon she had become used to being and sleeping alone once more. The withdrawal symptoms had been mild. Because hugging and kissing and sex weren’t physical addictions like heroin. They were something that was nice but also quite possible to live without.

On the other hand, a year was a long time.

Faintly appalled by her own weakness, Tessa realized that what she was experiencing now was a surge of sexual longing. Her fingers had found their way back to Ross’s shoulder and the need to touch him had grown, become a compulsion.

My God, I’m a nymphomaniac, she thought, smiling to herself in the darkness, but at the same time almost frightened by the strength of her feelings. Her stomach was taut with anticipation, her breathing shallow. Adrenaline was pumping through her body, galvanized both by her desires and her daring as she rolled fractionally closer towards the warm, perfect, wonderful-smelling and oh-so-forbidden body lying just inches from her own. And of course it was the very worst body in the world to have engendered such feelings for, because Ross Monahan had the most awful reputation in the world as a womanizer.

She had so enjoyed herself earlier, proving to him that she was immune to his legendary charms. And now look at me, thought Tessa, helpless and inwardly squirming with lust. A pathetic wreck, at the mercy of her hormones. Sometimes, just sometimes, nature was a real bitch.

‘I hope you realize and appreciate,’ murmured Ross almost inaudibly, ‘what incredible self-control I’ve been exercising for the last twenty minutes.’

Tessa let out a shriek and sprang away from him as if she’d been electrocuted. Shocked to the core and hideously embarrassed to realize that he’d been awake the entire time, she buried her face in the pillow and shuddered with mortification. How he must be laughing at her now.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned over. ‘I didn’t say stop,’ he pointed out gently.

Tessa, still buried in the pillows, couldn’t speak. When his hand touched her hair she remained utterly rigid. The humiliation was unendurable.

‘In case you’re interested,’ continued Ross, his tone almost conversational, ‘I would rate that very same twenty minutes as possibly the most erotic of my entire life.’

‘Shut up,’ squeaked Tessa, wishing she were dead. But to add further to her dreadful shame the seeds of longing were still there. His fingers were now lightly exploring the sensitive skin at the back of her neck and she wasn’t pushing him away. She couldn’t push him away. The sensations he was evoking were absolutely exquisite.

‘You know,’ he murmured minutes later, ‘this is what sex counsellors prescribe couples as therapy for impotence.’

With a tiny resurgence of her old spirit, Tessa retorted, ‘How on earth would you know?’ and gasped softly as his magical fingers slid along the line of her collarbone.

‘I read it in a book.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘The couple are finally so turned on by all the touching that in the end they can’t help themselves and bingo! Problem cured.’

‘Really,’ whispered Tessa, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Oh yes, really.’ Reaching for her, Ross turned her over to face him finally. In the darkness she could see his eyes glittering like coal as he peeled open her towelling robe and slowly pushed it away from her shoulders. ‘I’m beginning to think,’ he said, tracing the outline of her mouth with the tip of his index finger, ‘that these sex counsellors might really have a point.’

It was like being told to execute an intricate dance with a world champion, thought Tessa hazily, and suddenly discovering that you knew all the steps. Every response, every rhythm, was sheer perfection. They moved together, so finely tuned to each other’s needs that there was no awkwardness, no hesitation . . . and no doubt. After all the anticipation they were both so ready that no further foreplay was necessary but still they continued, wordlessly prolonging the ecstasy, not wanting it to end a minute sooner than it might. When Ross kissed her mouth she felt faint with longing, her hands caressing him in return, her body pressing against his.

And when, finally, the waiting became unendurable they moved together at precisely the same moment and she caught her breath as he entered her. Closing her eyes so that he wouldn’t see the tears of sheer happiness seeping beneath her lashes, all she could think of was: perfect. And just as she thought it, Ross murmured that very same word aloud.

‘Well, that was rather pleasant,’ said Ross afterwards, propping himself up on one elbow and grinning down at her. God, she was beautiful. With careful precision he smoothed a damp strand of blonde hair away from her cheek. He was a man of wide, possibly panoramic, experience with women, but he was truly shaken by the depth of emotion he was feeling now for this girl. Somehow it hadn’t been just a great lay. And whatever else it was quite unnerved him. It was new, uncharted territory.

Because he didn’t know what else to do, he resorted to banter. ‘Think I should write to the sex counsellor and tell him I’m cured?’

‘You must be relieved, after all those terrible years of celibacy,’ said Tessa, misinterpreting the expression in his eyes. The fun was over, he’d got what he wanted and now he didn’t know what to do with this girl so inconveniently still here in his bed.

Be fair, it was what we both wanted, she told herself. And it had been fantastic, after all.

But it was still just a tacky little one-night stand, nothing more, and now they had to pay for it, enduring all this terrible awkwardness, being polite to each other and pretending that they weren’t complete strangers who had both simply happened to fancy a quickie . . .

In the cold light of dawn, which it was by this time, she realized that what had seemed miraculous and wonderful just minutes earlier, now appeared instead to be something sad and somewhat sleazy.

And Ross didn’t help matters at all by choosing this particular moment to say, ‘Look, I still don’t know your name. You have to tell me who you are now.’

Tessa glanced out through the window at the pale grey sky and the misty hills in the distance. Then she closed her eyes. ‘I thought you knew. I’m your tart for the night.’

‘I want to know,’ he insisted, and she shook her head, sickened by the game he felt he had to play.

‘What on earth for?’

‘So that I can phone you.’ His tone was half-joking, half-serious. He couldn’t understand why she had so suddenly drawn away from him. This was a situation he had never encountered before.

‘Oh, please!’ sighed Tessa in deep despair. There was nothing else for it. To climb out of bed, hunt for her clothes and walk three miles home at six-fifteen in the morning was too humiliating, too sleazy and much, much more than she could handle right now.

So she took the only other alternative currently available, turned over on her side – away from Ross – and went back to sleep.

After dozing fitfully for a while Ross rose at seven-thirty. Gazing down at the girl in his bed with her long, glossy blonde hair strewn across the pillows and her left arm only half-covering her small but perfect breasts, he didn’t dare awaken her. He couldn’t stand it if she was going to carry on with that I’m-a-tart routine.

What the hell was he to do?

In the end, because there was no way he could miss his nine o’clock meeting with an extremely influential American businessman in Bath and because she had mentioned last night that the friend who had driven her to the party had left and she wasn’t sure she had enough money on her to pay for a cab home, Ross stuck a rolled-up fifty-pound note into the top of the almost empty champagne bottle he had brought up to the room with him last night. Placing it on the bedside table, he scribbled a note and rested it against the bottle.

Then, still wishing that he had the nerve to kiss her awake, make love to her all over again and tell her what last night had really meant to him, he took what clothes he needed from the wardrobe and soundlessly left the room.

Sorry, urgent business meeting – had to go.
Please feel free to call room service for
breakfast. And please do leave your phone
number – I will call you. R.
PS Money for cab home.

The wages of sin, thought Tessa, poking the rolled-up fifty-pound note into the bottle and watching it slowly unfurl as it soaked up the dregs of the champagne. That he had felt obliged to leave money for her just about said it all.

Holly’s dark green sports car screamed to a halt outside Tessa’s cottage at midday, as Tessa had known it would.

‘So what happened to you?’ Holly, incapable of wearing anything so mundane as jeans and a sweatshirt, looked like an explosion in a flowerbed. The scarlet, violet and pink jacket and dress were new and had obviously cost a bomb. Tessa suspected that she’d been misery-buying, which meant all had not gone according to plan with Max.

‘I had a headache,’ she said, clearing a pile of unprimed canvases off the sofa and gesturing to Holly to sit down. ‘I couldn’t find you to tell you I was leaving.’

‘What time was that?’

Tessa pretended to think. ‘Tennish? I caught a cab.’

‘Lies!’ exclaimed Holly triumphantly. ‘I drove back here at eleven-thirty and you weren’t home then.’

‘Must’ve been asleep.’ Tessa turned away, gathering up a pile of old newspapers and carrying them through to the kitchen.

‘Sweetie, I threw stones at your bedroom window.’

‘I wondered why it was broken.’

‘Tell me, tell me,’ begged Holly, following her into the tiny kitchen and cornering her against the fridge. ‘You’ve met someone gorgeous. Who is he?’

‘What happened with Max?’ countered Tessa, stalling for time. Holly grimaced and plucked meaningfully at her new clothes. ‘The bastard cost me three hundred pounds. He was charming for almost ten minutes and then he introduced me to this French girl, Dominique something-or-other. She’s a doctor, for heaven’s sake. The next thing I knew they were dancing together and I was left holding up the wall. And she had a tattoo on her thigh,’ she concluded with disgust. ‘No doubt Max spent the rest of the night investigating it at extremely close quarters.’

‘It’s a very nice dress, anyway.’

‘And it’s very nice of you to say so, my dear.’ Holly shook her head, smiling. ‘But as a way of changing the conversation, it sucks. Now tell me this instant who you spent the night with, Tessa Duvall, or there’ll be very big trouble indeed.’