The downstairs powder room was empty. Tarn checked the kitchen and utility room, the study, the formal dining room and the games room, but there was no sign of her. He ran lightly upstairs, and stopped to listen on the landing. A faint scratching noise was coming from his bedroom. He walked quietly down the hallway.
April was on her knees working on the lock of the wardrobe door. From the back, she looked like she’d been dipped in red latex. Long, fat red curls jostled the cello curve of her waist and hips, and the spiked heels of her stilettos pointed upwards like daggers. The scissors slipped from her hands. She made a sound of frustration, sank onto her heels and felt around on the carpet.
Whatever she was doing, it was illegal.
Tarn savoured the moment.
The scissors had fallen behind her. He watched her twist awkwardly in the tight rubber dress and pat the worn carpet. The red wig fell forward, obscuring her view of the floor — and his feet. She held it back with one hand and swept the carpet with the other in a vain attempt to find the scissors. Her shoulders dipped and her bottom rose as she widened her search. Above the rollercoaster curve of her spine, her red latex bottom swayed and her cleavage threatened to breach the zipper of the dress. On any other woman it would have looked enticing, but Tarn was unmoved. He knew the exact moment she spotted his white trainers. He waited.
She remained crouched on the floor with the ridiculous red curls spread around her and stared at his shoes. ‘This probably looks really bad.’
Her voice had lost the youthful notes of girlhood. It was pitched an octave lower and was as wary as hell. Tarn didn’t answer.
April kept her eyes on his trainers. ‘I can explain.’ I wanted to collect a pair of pantyhose I left behind nine years ago.
The trainers strolled closer and stopped in front of her. ‘Take the wig off.’ His voice was just the way she remembered it: flat and unfriendly.
As April hesitated, the wig was suddenly lifted from her head. She sank back on her heels as cool air rushed around her ears. She raised her eyes and looked through her false lashes into Tarn Elliott’s chilly brown eyes. He was bare-chested. The part of April’s brain that wasn’t gridlocked with fear noted that it was an extremely nice chest. There were smears of baby oil on his pectorals from the body-glide Susie had given him, and he had goose bumps, but he didn’t seem to notice the temperature. His eyes were colder than the room. Alongside the scars on his cheeks, there were deep grooves etched between his nose and mouth and hollows beneath his cheekbones. His light-brown hair wasn’t army-short and he wasn’t clean-shaven. He was bigger, older and tougher than April remembered. She gulped.
Tarn smiled thinly. ‘April Ritchie.’
The way he said it made her shiver. If lions could talk, she imagined they would say ‘wildebeest’ or ‘zebra’ exactly the same way … right before they hunted them down and ate them. April wasn’t easily rattled, but Tarn had managed it. April tried to read his face, but it was a closed book. She gave him her best hostess smile. ‘Tarn Elliott. How are you?’
Hayley and Susie burst into the room. Hayley stopped so suddenly she looked like she’d been shot. ‘April! What are you doing up here?’
‘And what are you doing down there?’ Susie demanded.
Tarn smiled with satisfaction. ‘Trying to pick the lock on my wardrobe.’