Passion's Prey

by Rebecca King

  'You choose,' he repeated, a sliver of steel in his voice.

  'I won't come.' She twisted in his grasp, so that she was looking straight up into those blackfringed eyes, which in the overhead light looked pale grey. 'I know exactly what plans you've got lined up for me.'

  'Oh? And just what might they be?' Behind the bland question lurked that malicious demon.

  'You intend to try to s—seduce me —make love to me.'

  He shook his head decisively. 'No, my sweet. I don't, I promise you.'

  'Oh?' Taken aback by his firm denial, the stammered, 'I—I'm sorry.'

  'I don't intend to try to make love to you. I fully intend for us to make love together.'

  'Oh!'

  The shock of his words drained every drop of colour from her face. She stared up at him for a moment, then very slowly, as her knees buckled, she began to sag against him. Dimly she heard him curse softly, and felt protecting arms go round her, but they could not hold her back from the black pit that had opened at her feet . . .

  * * *

  Someone had changed her bedroom wallpaper to a pretty willow-green and white trellis pattern. She lay on her side, staring blankly at it for a moment, then, hearing a sound behind her rolled over and saw Jared, lounging in a green velvet tub chair, his bare feet propped up on the bed. Beneath the cloud-soft duvet, every limb went rigid. This was the bedroom of Pear Tree Cottage—she knew that for Mrs Pearce had insisted on a tour of inspection when the expensive renovation work was complete. So it was Jared's bedroom—and Jared's bed. Her brain was still fuzzy with sleep but all at once images burst through her haze—of Kate, black hair tumbling to naked shoulders, dark eyes, the laughter in them changing to sudden passion, arms held out in a welcoming embrace as Jared came down to her . . . Her own breathing was quickening to little gasps, and when her gaze swivelled to Jared she saw that he was watching her from beneath hooded lids.

  'H—how did I get here?' It came out as a husky croak.

  'Not on your own two legs, that's for sure.' Uncoiling himself from the chair, he perched on the bed beside her, so close that she was imprisoned against the duvet. 'No—you chose my other alternative, my sweet.'

  'Your arms, you mean?'

  She stared straight ahead at the ridge of green and white duvet just below her shoulders, but then beyond that few eyes fell on the dressing-table pool and she caught sight of a neat pile of clothes: black ski-pants, white f l i n t , aquamarine mohair sweater. Her clothes. In that case . . . She looked down, and her eyes dilated with horror as she saw two pencil-thin shoulder-straps of amber lace and, all too clearly emphasising rather than hiding the swelling curves of her upper breasts, a froth of amber lace and silk.

  She gulped hard on her panic. 'Was it you?'

  'Who undressed you? Of course,' he replied laconically. 'There wasn't anyone else around.'

  'You shouldn't have,' she said unsteadily.

  Between undressing her and getting her into this nightdress, had he—she swallowed—had he carried out his promise—that promise which was more like a threat? Had she surfaced from unconsciousness for just long enough, and yet not to full awareness, so that this time she had not resisted him, surrendering her body to him?

  Surreptitiously she ran a trembling hand over her breasts, her belly and thighs—for some instinct told her that if, lost in the drifting half-shadows of reality, she had allowed herself to be taken then the touch, the feel of Jared would linger still on her flesh . . . But no—her body, she was certain, was still untouched. But even so . . .

  'You shouldn't have,' she repeated. 'Undressed me, I mean.'

  He shrugged. 'I just wanted to get you into bed—maybe I'll rephrase that slightly—I just wanted to put you to bed as fast as possible. Oh, Petra,' as she glowered at him, 'surely we know each other too well for any false shyness?' Lifting his hand, he softly brushed her cheek. 'One of the earliest things I remember is a little girl living three doors away, with long hair the colour of pale flame, tied up with a blue how, bringing me her broken doll to mend.'

  'But that was a long time ago,' she murmured protestingly.

  'True. But I haven't forgotten—and I haven't forgotten either that last night wasn't the first time I've seen you naked.' As her whole body jerked convulsively he added, 'Now, though, you're even more lovely, all long slender limbs and blossom curves. At sixteen, you were like a young, immature filly—now you have the athletic grace and bearing of a thoroughbred.'

  Her eyes flew to his, the bright colour scorching her cheeks. 'Until you said . . . what you did, the other night, I—I didn't think you remembered,' she whispered. He gave her a slanting smile. 'But of course. And your body still smells just as wonderful—

  like all the flowers of summer held captive in my arms.'

  'No—don't! I won't listen.' She gazed up at him, her eyes brilliant green with anger—and shame. 'Now—get out.'

  'Why?'

  As she moved to push back the duvet he put his arm across her, placing his hand on the bed so that she was trapped against his thigh, his head just above hers.

  'Because I'm getting dressed, right now. If you think I'm going to wear a nightdress your mistress happened to leave behind—'

  'My—oh, Kate, you mean. Now look, Petra,' his mouth thinned, 'I don't give a cuss what you think of me—or my morals—but if you know what's good for you you'll keep your views on Kate to yourself.'

  'I'm sorry,' she muttered. 'It's none of my business.'

  'Too damn right it isn't.' He expelled a long, tight breath. 'But anyway, don't worry. I can afford a nightdress each for any number of mistresses. This happens to be yours—I bought it for you for Christmas.' As she stared at him, her protests dying in her throat, he gave her an ironic half-smile, which she barely saw. 'But you disappeared before I could give it to you.'

  'I really wish you hadn't,' she murmured.

  'You feel badly because you didn't get me a present? Don't worry.' Picking up a strand of hair that lay on the pillow, he gave it a soft tug, then let it slip through his fingers. 'You can always make it up to me some other way. I mean—make me a cake,' he added smoothly as her eyes darkened.

  But it wasn't that at all, as he very well knew. Licking her dry lips, she said, 'Look, Jared, it's very kind of you, but I'd really rather not accept it. I—I've got plenty of nighties already.'

  'Oh, I'm quite sure you have. I've seen one of them, remember—and if it's typical, well . . . '

  His voice sank to a soft purr. 'Surely you must see, my sweet Petra, that that delectable body of yours was made for some man to cosset in silk?'

  'Stop it, Jared.' The flush on her cheeks was of sheer anger now. 'I know just what you're doing—and it's not going to work. You shouldn't have bought it for me.'

  'I should have left it to Simon to do that, you mean?'

  'Yes—I mean, no.'

  Under the duvet, her hands clenched at her sides, and she lay gazing up at him, baffled. Little by little, under his tireless, insidious pressure, she could feel her power to defy him being sapped. Like the apple tree in her back garden, constantly laid bare to the Atlantic gales, she was being bent to his will. But she must resist him, she had to there could be no surrender. "Anyway,' she said firmly, 'thank you for looking after me. I'm feeling much better, so—'

  Without warning he rested a warm hand on her forehead. 'Hmm, pretty cool. I don't think you're getting flu. You just flaked out through sheer physical exhaustion.'

  "That's right,' she agreed quickly. Her collapsing in a heap certainly hadn't my thing at all to do with any tensions inside herself whenever he was around. So I can go back now—'

  "And get double pneumonia in that igloo next door? That I simply cannot allow. No—end of conversation,' as she went to break in—pointlessly, as usual, she thought in frustration. 'Do you feel like some lunch?'

  'Lunch?? How long had she been asleep, for heaven's sake?

  'Yes, it's ... ' h e eased back the sleeve of his navy sweater and
glanced at his watch.

  ' . . . nearly one. So, fancy some cold turkey breast, salad, bread rolls?'

  'Well . . . ' Oh, what was the use?' Petra subsided on to her pillow with a fairly good grace.

  'Yes, please.'

  'That's a good girl. I knew you'd see sense.' He straightened up and stood looking down at her.

  'I should think Sam's finished his lunch by now. Shall I call him up?'

  'Oh, you brought him in last night as well.' She smiled at him, a wholly natural smile. 'That was kind of you.'

  'Actually, I had no option—he brought himself in,' he said drily. 'And, from the way he positioned himself at the foot of your bed last night, he seems to regard himself as the selfappointed guardian of your virtue.' He opened the bedroom door and called, 'OK, Sam, she's awake.'

  Seconds later the big cat appeared and, leaping up on to the bed, butted his soft black head into her face, purring loudly.

  'Hello, my baby.' She sat up, taking care to hitch the duvet up with her, and taking him in her arms, cuddled him to her.

  'He didn't scratch you or anything, did he?' She looked anxiously at Jared, who was regarding them both with a rather strange expression in his eyes, but he shook his head.

  'No, we've called a New Year truce. I feed him liver pate, chicken fillet and cold turkey, and he refrains from tearing me limb from limb. And, as you see, Sam,' he addressed the cat, who was eyeing him through narrow green slits, 'I've kept my part of the bargain. She's quite unscathed—

  so far.' His grey-blue eyes locked with hers, then his lips curved in a humourless smile,

  'Funny—last night I was aiming for you to end up in my bed. But not on your own.' And he was gone before she could even think of any response.

  She bent to kiss Sam's head then, when he settled himself to begin grooming, almost apprehensively she lifted the duvet to see exactly what it was she was wearing, and her eyes grew round. The nightdress was full-length, a cool drift of pale amber silk around her body, while the bodice—what there was of it—was composed entirely of narrow flounces of matching silk lace. Putting out a trembling hand, she touched a fold of fragile silk. It was quite simply the most beautiful nightdress she'd ever seen, much less worn. She found herself revelling in the feel of the silk, which clung to her like a caress, imprinting itself on her skin like the touch of a lover's body

  . . . She bit hard on her lip as that tide of shame—and fear—surged through her again. If only it had been Simon and not Jared who had given it to her she'd have shed tears of pure delight. Simon, though, had given her a pretty, early Victorian pillbox in silver and pink enamel. It must have cost at least as much as the nightdress, but even so . . .

  CHAPTER SIX

  Petra flung back the duvet, quite unable to bear the churning unease a moment longer, and leapt out of bed, sending Sam flying. She tore off the nightdress and dragged on her clothes in fevered haste, just pausing to scrape all her hair back from her face to make an uncompromising ponytail. Jared was in the kitchen. When she appeared in the doorway he glanced up, and she saw his lips tighten fractionally, but all he said was, 'I wondered how long you'd dare stay in it.'

  He pulled a chair out for her, and she slid into it, avoiding his eyes and that coolly challenging look in them, which made her feel disturbed, angry—and yet in some strange way elated, all at the same time . . .

  'More coffee?'

  'No, thank you. And thank you for the meal—it was delicious,' she added, all brittle politeness. She pushed back her chair, but as she stood up he demanded curtly, 'Where the hell do you think you're going?'

  'Home, of course.' As his brows came down she went on hurriedly, 'If I ring the heating engineer now he should still get out to me this afternoon.'

  'On New Year's Day? I don't think SO, somehow. And, besides, I've already told you—you are staying here tonight—'

  'Tonight!' Alarm bells screeched in her brain. 'I most certainly—'

  'Tomorrow you may go back, but tonight—willingly or unwillingly—you are staying. Do I make myself clear?'

  Across the table their eyes met, angry green and wintry grey. She would out-stare him—she wouldn't back down. But she felt her own gaze flicker and drop.

  'Suppose I say I won't?' she muttered.

  'But you wouldn't be so unwise.'

  He came to his feet with a lightning grace, and was round the table. Before she could back away, or snatch up a plate and smash it over his head, he pulled her to him and held her tight against him until her furious struggle-subsided.

  'Don't resist me, my sweet.' He spoke very softly, but there was that hint of steel in his voice which sent icy water trickling down her spine.

  'Why not?'

  'Because it makes me all the more determined to have my own way.'

  She tried to push herself clear of him, and this time he allowed her to break his grip, push herself to arm's length.

  'You are a devil, Jared Tremayne Her voice was shaking, but she forced herself to meet his unyielding gaze.

  'If you say so. But, devil or not, you are going to spend tonight in my—warm, snug little nest.'

  He was doing it deliberately, picking up his earlier words.

  'Warm and snug maybe,' she hurled back at him. 'But in our own separate beds.'

  'Well, now, Petra, that is entirely up to you.'

  He was so sure of himself, the arrogance oozing through every lazy syllable. She gave a bitter little laugh. 'Is it?'

  'Oh, yes. One thing I promise you I will not force you. Nothing will happen—ever—between us that you do not want.'

  'Well, that's all right, then. There's absolutely no need for me to worry.'

  'But of course,' he agreed urbanely. 'The very last thing I want you to do is worry.'

  Their eyes held for a split-second longer, then she turned away and began to stack up the plates.

  'Leave that. I'll sling them in the dishwasher later. Now where are you off to?' as she moved towards the door.

  'Oh, it's all right. I'm not running away,' she said acidly. 'I'm going up to get my jacket—

  somehow I feel like a breath of air.'

  'Good idea. I'll join you.'

  'But ... ' her eyes went to the lap-top computer sitting at the far end of the big table ' . . . surely you'd rather work?'

  He gave a humourless laugh.

  'You mean, add to that lot?' He gestured towards the waste-bin, over flowing with fiercely crumpled sheets of paper.

  'It's still not going well, then?'

  'You could say that,' he grunted, then, 'Anyway, in half an hour's time I've got an—er—

  assignation w i t h Amanda. A gorgeous redhead, lovely legs—and much more amenable to my persuasive powers than some females I could mention.'

  He put a firm hand under her elbow and steered her to the door. 'Come and meet her.'

  * * *

  J a r e d was laughing with exhilaration, she heard him above the drumming hoofs of his chestnut mare and the waves breaking on the beach beside them. Touching her heels to the flanks of her jet-black horse, Petra urged him forward, the hair beneath her riding hat strearning behind her in the wind and the spray.

  At the far end of the huge curve of pale creamy sand, Jared slowed and she caught up with him.

  'Enjoy it?' He grinned down at her.

  'Marvellous.' She could hardly speak, the breath torn out of her body by that wild gallop.

  'You still ride well.' His gaze was on her face, and she wiped back some pale auburn strands of damp hair.

  'Thanks. I haven't ridden for years, but Mr Golding was a good teacher.'

  'Well, you earned every lesson—all those Saturdays, mucking out the stables.'

  His horse whinnied suddenly, tossing her head. 'Whoa, Amanda.' He ran a soothing hand down her arched neck and the mare quietened instantly, Catching Petra's eye, he gave her a sidelong smile. 'Told you she was easy to handle. Race you back to those rock'.—I'll give you a start.'

  As he cau
ght her up and passed her she glanced across at him. How superbly he rode, sitting the horse effortlessly. He was leaning forward, low over the flying mane, his hard-planed profile visible beneath the jutting peak of his riding hat.

  He reined up by the line of jagged rocks and sat, watching her canter up to him.

  'Two to me.' His face was still flushed with the sheer exuberance of the ride 'Fancy another race?'

  'No, thanks,' she gasped. 'I've never won a race against you yet.'

  She laughed up at him, her cheeks; glowing wild-rose-pink, her eyes brilliant emerald, but at the sudden expression in his own eyes she glanced quickly away.

  All he said, though, was, 'You know, I'd forgotten, all the years I've been away . . . ' he spoke softly, as if to h i m s e l f ' ... just how beautiful Cornwall is. It's magic.'

  'Yes, it is, isn't it?' she murmured, with a sharp tug of her heart-strings.

  'I love it all year round, but there's something special about winter, isn't there?'

  'Mmm. Yes, there is—it's my favourite time, as well. The colours are not much clearer—I mean, just look at that sea.'

  She pointed to the water's edge, where the waves were surging in, a strange, silvery grey that reflected the winter's sky. Then, further out, they shaded subtly to a pale ice-green, and finally, at the horizon, they deepened to the intense blue-black of ocean.

  'Did you ever see anything so wonderful?'

  She swung round on him, her face alight, and saw that his eyes were not on the sea, but still on her, a strange unreadable expression in them which sent every pulse in her body into a wi ld cacophony.

  'No, I haven't.' After a fractional pause he went on, 'I suppose you know it's only a few miles down the coast to where Tristan is supposed to have landed when he brought Iseult back to marry King Mark.'

  'I didn't know that.' Her voice was still not quite steady. 'But what about the updated version of the story—the one you're working on? Mark isn't King of Cornwall in that, surely?'

  'No, of course not. In Passion he's the head of a multinational publishing company. Although he could just as easily be any up-to-the-minute highflier. He could be—oh, I don't know . . . '

  then, as though plucking the thought out of the air ' . . . headmaster of a boys' boarding-school at the age of thirty.'