by Rebecca King
She stood quite motionless as he lifted his hand and very slowly unpinned her heavy coil of hair. It fell through his fingers and on to her shoulders in a gleaming red-gold curtain, and she heard his breath hiss softly in his throat.
'I told you ten years ago, you should always wear it like this.'
'Ten years ago!' she blurted out. 'You mean you remember?'
As she gazed at him in shocked dismay he moved closer, so that he blotted out the light entirely and his face was a dark blur, swooping down on her. Before she could draw even one jagged breath his mouth had closed with hers and his tongue had slid between her lips, stifling her heated protest.
He tasted sweet yet salty and warm, probing the moist recesses of her mouth in a blatantly erotic assault that set her senses spinning. Her eyelids fluttered, then fell beneath the weight of her lashes, and she clutched helplessly on to his shoulders. She tensed fractionally as his hand slid inside her jacket, then she felt his fingers begin to glide up and down her spine, setting up a friction, agonisingly sensuous against the silky fabric of her blouse, so fine that it was no more than a second skin.
Moments before, Simon too had kissed her and held her to him like this, but Jared's lips, his tongue, his hands were obliterating all memory of that other embrace. In Simon's arms she'd felt becalmed on a tranquil sea; now she was being driven before a raging tempest—swept helplessly on to rocks of self-destruction!
Violently she jerked her mouth free. His arm still held her, but so lightly now that all she had to do was take one single step back and she was free. But she could not move, could do nothing t0 break out of the charmed circle his kiss had woven round her, and she lifted dazed eyes to his—glittering, crystalline, triumphant.
'Now do you see, Petra?'
'No! No, I don't,' she cried with all the vehemence she could conjure up. You . . . and your kisses—they mean nothing to me.'
'All right, my sweet—if that's really what you want to believe.' A fleeting chimera of a smile curved his lips. 'And who knows? You just keep telling yourself that and you might even persuade yourself that it's true.'
He raised his hands slightly in a contemptuous gesture of dismissal, and after a second's indecision she turned to flee. But as she fumbled blindly with her door-handle his mocking laugh floated through the darkness to her.
Sobbing for breath, she flung herself into her cottage then locked the door, bolted it top and bottom and leaned against it as violent tremors shook her slender frame. CHAPTER FIVE
Petra set her case on the ground then wearily hauled Sam's travelling basket out of the car boot. Reaching in her jacket pocket for her key, she hurried down the path to her cottage. At this rate, Simon would be here before she'd got their New Year's Eve meal organised; the roads weren't icy today, so he'd have a clear run down from his mother's. Abruptly an upstairs window of the next-door cottage was flung open, and before she could stop the reflex action her eyes flew upwards, to widen with shock. Framed in the window was a young woman, barely older than herself. A highly attractive young woman in a frothy pale cream neglige, dark hair tumbling in abandoned disarray around her slim shoulders. She was in the main bedroom. Jared's bedroom. As Petra stood paralysed, still staring blankly up at her, she yawned, stretched voluptuously then knelt down, leaning her arms on the low sill. Petra finally came to, and, desperate now not to be seen, turned away—but too late.
'Hi.' The friendly greeting wafted down, forcing her out of sheer common politeness to halt.
'Good morning.' She raised her head again reluctantly, to be met by a warm smile.
'You must be Petra, Jared's neighbour.'
So his ... house-guest was American. 'That's right.' She managed a stiff little smile and set Sam's basket down on the path.
'What a wonderful day.'
'Er—yes.'
'And what a marvellous view. I do envy you, waking up to this every morning.' The woman gestured towards the cliffs and the wide expanse of shimmering pale green sea.
'Yes.' What's the matter, Petra, Gran would have said, cat got your tongue? But it was no use—she was having to squeeze out every word past a huge obstruction in her throat. The young woman went on smiling down at her but then, as they both heard Jared's voice from further back in the bedroom, she turned her head, said something in reply, which Petra did not catch, and with a last little wave disappeared.
Petra was frozen, transfixed to the spot. She heard Jared's voice again, quieter this time, a soft laugh, then there was silence. Realising that she was staring blank-eyed at one glossy leaf of the ivy that covered her cottage wall, and terrified suddenly that they might think she was eavesdropping, she snatched up the cat basket and went on down her path. Inside, she dumped her case, then opened the lid of Sam's wicker prison. The big cat leapt out with an indignant yowl.
'All right, baby, we're home now. I've to get you some food.'
But she spoke mechanically and when she went to open the tin of cat food her hand was shaking. It was only then that she registered that not just her fingers but her whole body was trembling uncontrollable. Very carefully she tipped the meat into Sam's dish and set it down on the floor but as she slowly straightened up a spasm of nausea shot through her so that she had to press the back of her hand hard against her mouth to quell it.
What on earth was the matter with her? She asked herself angrily. After all, she knew - had known for years - that Jared was a highly sexed male animal, so in that case she shouldn't be in the least bit surprised, should she?
And anyways, what was it to her if he chose to entertain a different young woman in his bed every night of the year? If she hadn't stoop up to him the other evening on his doorstep, hadn't torn herself away from his drugging kisses, she would surely have been the next in a very long line. In fact, maybe it was only because he'd drawn a blank with her that he'd summoned this one.
And she, of course, had come running.
— all the way across the Atlantic...
The phone, crashing into her thoughts, was a welcome relief, but even so for a moment she barely recognised the voice.
'Simon?' her grip tightened on the receiver. 'Why are you ringing? You haven't had an accident, have you?'
'No - no, I'm fine. But look, Pet ...' he cleared his throat, and some instinct told her what was coming
'... I'm afraid I'll be seeing the New Years in up here.'
'Your mother's ill again,' she said dully.
'Yes, I'm afraid so. She's been much better since Christmas, but this morning she woke up with one of her heads.'
Oh, yes, which one was that? Petra asked silently, then trust the unworthy thought from her.
'So now I've had to send for the doctor. Darling—are you still there?'
'Yes—yes, Simon, I'm here' Somehow she pulled herself together 'But that means I shan't see you before you go up to Shropshire for the new term.'
'That's right. I'm hoping to leave here on the third.' He hesitated. 'I am sorry, my sweet. But you're coming up to the school in February for a week, and I promise I'll make it up to yon then.'
'Yes, of course. Bye, Simon. I hope your mother's better soon. Oh—and happy New Year.'
She replaced the receiver but then stood for a few seconds, her hand still resting limply on it, staring at nothing, until finally she dragged herself out of her reverie. The room was still decorated for Christmas—although she'd been going away, she had brought in holly and evergreens and set up her Swedish angel chimes, but somehow it all looked dead and unwelcoming now, and even the little tree in the corner seemed almost a sick joke this morning. She'd tear all the decorations down right this minute. But no—even as she went to scoop all the cards off the mantelshelf, she stopped. Simon wasn't coming, but she and Sam would still have a cosy evening and help the New War in together. Of course, she'd have in blot out all thoughts of how Jared would be seeing it in, but surely that wouldn't be any problem. All she had to do was bring down the steel shutters over that segment of her mind . .
. Her lips tightened momentarily, but then, after switching on the tree lights, the lit the red candles on the chimes and stood smiling faintly down at them until the tiny gilt angels began revolving with a soft tinkling sound.
All at once, though, she shivered. In her outdoor clothes she hadn't registered it—now she realised just how cold the house was. And yet, surely she'd set the central heating to come on?
But in the kitchen the boiler was silent, and, when she clicked the time switch forward, nothing happened.
Of all the days! It hadn't been right since that power cut, and the engineer she'd called in just before she went up to Liskeard had muttered something about its 'seizing up' and the folly on buying second-hand gas boilers.
Ah, well, happy New Year to you too, Petra, my girl, she thought wryly. This really was going to be one for the record books. But at least she could light the log fire in the sitting-room and spend the evening roasting herself in front of that—or maybe she'd just get through the day somehow, fill a hot-water bottle and take herself off to bed for an early night. Perhaps that was the best thing, anyway. She felt utterly drained, the grey miasma of fatigue which had been seeping into every part of her brain as she'd driven the last few miles from Gran's dragging now at each bone-weary limb.
She heard the sound of a car door closing, then footsteps on Jared's path, Desperately she willed herself not to go near the window, then found her feet taking her, of their own volition, across the tiled floor. Jared's grey Aston Martin was parked beside his gate. Why was it, she asked herself inconsequentially, that, while other people were HAPPY to drive perfectly respectable cars, Jared Tremayne had to hire a sleek grey shark masquerading as a car?
The two of them came into her line of vision, he in his cream sheepskin, white cords and a navy Breton fisherman's cap, she in a casual fuchsia-red suit and white sweater. The dark hair, Which had tumbled on her shoulders as if someone had been running loving fingers through it, was swept up now in a smooth chignon. She'd been right, Petra thought: she was much of an age with this woman—but trailed a galaxy behind her in chic sophistication. A perfect mate for Jared As he opened the passenger door he smiled down at his companion, and for a moment the two dark heads were very close together. Quite unable to drag herself away, Petra clutched on to the cold rim of the sink until her knuckles were white, and a violent feeling almost of hatred took possession of her, then ebbed, leaving her weak and ashamed.
She stayed motionless until the car was out of sight, then turned back into the room. Her glance fell on the pine dresser and she saw that her collection of old copper jelly moulds had all taken on a greenish patina of verdigris. Impetuously she swept them up, dumped them on the pine table, and began polishing them feverishly.
When at last they were gleaming as they had never gleamed before she put them back. As she did so Gran's two antique warming pans hanging on the wall caught her eye. She unhooked the nearer one and began rubbing its patterned surface as though it were a darkly saturnine face that she was trying to scrub into oblivion.
She was just finishing the second one when she heard the Aston Martin screech to a halt outside. Her hands stilled for a moment before she returned the pan to its place. Deliberately keeping her back to the window, she was carefully checking that it was hanging level, when there was a perfunctory knock at the door.
Her heart gave a sudden lurch and she swung round, just as Jared stepped inside.
'Oh—do come in, please,' she said waspishly.
'Hi, Petra.'
He made no effort to come further in, just stood looking at her, but very deep inside her she felt the fear uncoil. He didn't have to do anything, she thought despairingly—he just had to stand there and she felt the raw masculine power emanating from him, the vibrant potency that he exuded from every pore of that beautiful olive-skinned body. She had to get rid of him—and fast.
'Don't let me keep you.' She screwed the top on the tin of polish and put it away.
'Keep me? From what?'
'Your guest, of course.'
'Oh, Kate, you mean?'
Who did he think she meant? Or did he have a dozen adoring slaves waiting for him next door?
'Yes, she said she'd seen you. I want going to bring her round to introduce you.' His gaze was boring into her now 'But we ran out of time. You know how it is, I'm sure.'
His careless tone caught at her raw nerves, but all she said, tight-lipped, was, 'Of course.'
'I've just taken her to catch the London train. She has a flight out to LA this evening.'
He advanced further into the room, then stood, his thumbs hooked into the belt of his white cords, smiling lazily at her from beneath the navy cap, perched at a rakish angle on his unruly black curls. There was something about that smile that got to her. It was the sleek, smug, unbearably complacent smile of a cat—a male cat—who, while just cleaning his whiskers after his last saucer of double cream, saw the next dishful coming into view . . . Well, in this case, those sleek male instincts were way off beam.
'Did you have a good Christmas, Jared?' She was pleased with the cool hauteur she'd managed to infuse into her voice.
'Yes, thanks. Did you?'
'Not really. First Mum, then Gran went down with this flu that's doing the rounds. So I had to take over and—'
'No wonder you still look like a wrung-out dish-cloth, then,' he cut in brusquely.
'Well, thank you.'
'Of course, you went off before I had a chance to wish you the compliments of the season.' He gave her a slanting glance.
'Yes—well, I was afraid the weather would close in before I got to Gran's. They were forecasting snow for the moors.'
In fact, she hadn't had the faintest idea what was forecast. Following that scene on his doorstep, she'd got up very early after a sleepless night, parcelled up the last few cake orders, packed Sam into his basket, and driven hell for leather to the safety of her grand" mother's. Snowdrifts could have been piled six feet deep and she'd have been none the wiser.
'Mmm.'
Ignoring his obvious disbelief, she went on brightly, 'I suppose you're going out for New Year?'
'No, I've got a load of food and drink in the car boot.'
'Well,' she even assembled a casual smile, 'do have a good time, won't yon?'
'Mmm,' he repeated, then stood, his thumbs still jammed in the belt of his cords, rocking gently on the balls of his feet. 'What about you? Is your fiance,' he managed subtly to make it a four-letter word, 'spending the evening with his beloved?'
All she had to do was say, 'Yes, of course he is,' get rid of Jared, then sit light. But her fractional hesitation had been too long. 'He isn't coming, is he?' He looked down at her, that faint cat and-mouse smile at his lips.
'No.' Another fatal pause. 'His mother's ill, but I'm—'
'Well, well.' He was so smooth, so damnnably at his ease. 'So we're both on our own tonight.'
'Yes,' she replied tightly. 'Although I've got Sam, of course, so I shan't be lonely. Not in the least.'
But you'll be cold.' In spite of his chunky navy sweater and that gorgeous sheepskin, he shivered suddenly. What's up with your heating, for heaven's sake?'
It's broken down.' The words were out before she could recall them. 'I suppose—' she hesitated, then '—you can't mend gas boilers, can you?' 'Sorry.' He shook his head firmly, then glanced round, and through the open doorway caught sight of the illuminated Christmas tree in the sittingroom. 'Trying to cheer yourself up?' He looked down at her, rather an odd expression on his face.
'No, of course not. Hey, what do you think you're doing?'
She followed him through to the other room, then, as he hitched up his cords and went down on his haunches beside the tree, said, 'No—leave it alone, will you? What did you do that for?'
she added belligerently as the lights died.
'Now, Petra.' He came to his feet again, very close to her, so that she caught the warm, spicy tang of aftershave. 'I simply could not rest easy in
my snug little nest—'
'Snug little love-nest, you mean, don't you?' The words leapt out of her.
'Do I?'
'Well, she was in your bedroom, wasn't she?'
'So she was.' He eyed her thoughtfully. 'What's bugging you, Petra?'
'Bugging me? Nothing. Should there be?'
'I'd hate to think you were—er —jealous.'
'Jealous!' The angry colour sizzled in her cheeks. 'Why on earth should I be?'
He shrugged. 'That's your problem, not mine. But, anyway, I can't possibly think of you in this freezing mausoleum while I—'
'Oh, don't waste your thoughts on me, please, Jared.' Her voice was mid-steeped. 'I'll light the fire—'
'What with? I burned the last of your logs over Christmas.'
'Well, of all the—'
'So the least I can do is have you round to my place—that's the only fair change.' And he blew out the Swedish chimes, so that the little tinkling noises faded. 'No—no, I'm not coming.' She threw him a defiant look and, turning on her heel, went back to the kitchen. She yanked the curtains further back with an angry little snap of the wrist, but then had to stand motionless for a moment, her eyes closed, as a wave of dizziness went through her.
'Petra.'
She started violently as two strand arms went round her from behind, drawing her back until she was held tightly against a hard—very masculine
— body. She struggled frantically, but she might as well have tried to break steel bands. The more she fought him, the more Jared, using, she knew, just n fraction of his strength, pulled her closer to him, until she was conscious of every line and contour of that powerful, sinewy frame.
'Petra,' he repeated softly, his breath stirring the fine hairs on her neck, 'you are coming, either on your own two legs
— or in my arms. You choose.'
'J—just go away, Jared, please.'
But her body's unthinking respond to the feel and touch and smell of him was bewildering her, so that her words came out as a shaken little sob.