Passion's Prey

by Rebecca King

  'Truro isn't much out of the way. —I shan't mind you making a detour.'

  'Well, that's really considerate of you.'

  'Not at all.' He lifted his good shoulder in graceful acknowledgement. 'You see, I've got an appointment with an old lady who apparently has a load of stuff about the Tristan legend—old manuscripts and so on — which I just may be able to use.'

  'I'm sorry, Jared, I really am. Look, I'll give Mike Preston a ring—he's started a taxi service out of the village and he's very reasonable.'

  'No.' He scowled down at her. 'Do I have to remind you it was your darn cat that's got me into this mess?'

  'That's emotional blackmail,' she retorted heatedly. 'And, anyway, I think you're just being bloody-minded. But,' as he regarded her in stony silence, 'as it's my fault you can't drive, I'll pay Mike's bill.'

  'I've got a couple of phone calls to make—and I suppose I'd better change out of this. So,' he glanced across at the wall clock, 'we'll leave in an hour.

  She simply wasn't going to be amrollered like this.

  'I'm sorry, Jared,' she jutted her soft chin determinedly, 'but it's absolutely out of the question.'

  CHAPTER NINE

  When Petra came down the path Jared was leaning up against the Aston Martin, sleek in a charcoal-grey sun and white shirt. One black leather toecap was tapping the ground.

  'I thought I said an hour.'

  Petra gave him a smouldering look. 'Just be grateful I'm coming at all.'

  'Oh, but I am—I really am. Besides, the extra ten minutes were well worth it.' And his gaze travelled lingeringly over her from head to foot.

  She'd despised herself when, instead of remaining in her jeans and sweater, she'd hurtled upstairs, torn them off and changed into a slim-cut pale turquoise wool dress and matching jacket. And now she despised herself a hundred times more for being glad that she had. There was something in those eyes when they rested on her . . .

  Oh, come on, she told herself scathingly. It's just one of the tricks of the trade for a seasoned sexual campaigner like Jared Tremayne to make a woman feel intensely aware, as never before, of her body under her clothes, her skin stroking gently against her slip. And, as she was fully aware of the tricks, she wasn't going to fall for them, was she?

  'I'll run the Mini round and load up the cakes,' she said crisply.

  'Don't bother. Well take this one.'

  As he gestured to the Aston Martin her jaw dropped. 'But I can't drive that thing. I've never driven anything half the size.'

  'Well, now's your chance, then.' He held the car keys out to her, that cool challenge in his voice again, and she snatched the keys out of his hand.

  'If I crash it, well—don't say I didn't warn you.'

  'I won't. But, in any case, I'm sure that you drive at least as well as you make . . . ' their eyes met ' . . . cakes.

  Now, let me give you a hand with those boxes.'

  'You'd better not. You'll strain your wrist.'

  'Oh, of course—mustn't forget my wrist, must we?'

  He opened the boot lid and she slung in her jacket, his grey overcoat, the black high-heeled shoes she hail brought to change into, and finally pin in the pink heart-shaped cake boxes. Then, feeling just a little queasy, she said with a fair attempt at nonchalance, 'Right, let's go, shall we?'

  Opening the door, she got into the driver's seat as Jared slid in beside her. They both reached for their seatbelts, turned in the same instant to slot them into place, and their fingers brushed. She felt the electricity run up her arm and instinctively flicked her fingers as though she were shaking water off them. But then, focusing all her attention on the bewildering array of controls before her, she leaned forward, switched on the engine, and the sleek grey beast growled into life

  * * *

  'Take this next right turn.' Jared jabbed a finger.

  'Right? But surely Penzance is left?'

  'Just take this turning and don't argue,' he said curtly, and with no more than one mutinous crash of the gears she obeyed, driving on until —

  'In here.'

  'Here?'

  'Are you changing into a parrot or something?' he snapped. 'Here.'

  'But—it's the heliport.'

  'Good grief, the girl can read. Pull in over there. Yes, this'll do.'

  He eased himself out and strode off in the direction of the small terminal building, leaving Petra to watch suspiciously as he disappeared through a swing door. What on earth was he up to now? She didn't trust him an inch. Well, if you were wise you didn't trust Jared Tremayne, did you? Not as far as you could throw him, which wouldn't be very far. He reappeared with a young man in jeans and a dark green sweater. They were deep in what looked like quite a heated discussion, the man gesticulating as he tried to make a point. You're wasting your time, honey, she though ironically, and, sure enough, finally he gave a resigned shrug, nodded, then turned and went back into the office.

  She sat where she was, watching as Jared came towards her, that easy confidence—no, call it what it was—downright arrogance showing in every loping stride. Some men—even young ones—walked with constraint, as if they were already bowed under shackles. Not Jared, though. He'd saunter through life, free and untrammelled, and a woman could no more tie him down than a soaring wild eagle . . . And all at once she felt a vicious little stab of pain as he bent towards her open window, his black curls ruffling in the wind, his white teeth showing in a triumphant grin.

  'Settled everything to your satisfaction?' she enquired with a saccharine smile.

  'Perfectly, my sweet.' He opened her door. 'Out you get.'

  'But I don't understand. Where's your appointment? Here?' She looked around her at the neat, anonymous buildings.

  'Not exactly.' He was removing their jackets and attache case from the boot.

  'Wait,' as he went to close it, 'let me change my shoes.'

  She kicked off her driving casuals and wriggled into the high-heeled pumps.

  'Ready when you are, Mr Tremayne.'

  The young man, who had made an instant change into a smart navy blue uniform and white peaked cap, was beside them, and Petra, her elbow held in Jared's iron grip, found herself trotting across the Tarmac towards a blue and white helicopter.

  As the man climbed aboard SHE jerked her arm free. 'What's going on?'

  'We're having a little ride, that's all,' Jared replied suavely. 'My appointment's in St Mary's.'

  'St Mary's? You mean—across in the Scilly Isles?'

  'Is there another?'

  'But you said it was in Penzance!' she exclaimed furiously. 'You lied to me, Again.'

  'Not really. I said we were going to Penzance. Well—we've come to Penzance, haven't we?'

  'I suppose so,' she said sullenly, but then, acutely conscious of a pair of frankly curious eyes on them both, lowered her voice a fraction. 'But, if you really are going over there, there's no need for me to come. I'll wait for you here.'

  She looked past the helicopter—really a very small one—to the windsock at the far end of the field, tugging at its moorings in the freshening wind, and she ran the tip of her tongue round her lips. 'I've—er—I've never been in a helicopter before.'

  'My, my. First the Aston Martin now a helicopter. Two new experiences for you in one day.'

  He paused. 'What a pity you didn't join me in that whirlpool bath. That would have made a third.'

  Another pause. 'And, who knows, it might even have led to a fourth . . . ?'

  Petra, the colour scorching her chilled cheeks, glowered up at him. 'All right, damn you. I'll come.'

  'I'm so glad. It would have been so undignified for you, having to be dragged aboard.'

  And, stone-faced, she climbed in and sat as far into the corner as she could . . . Jared stopped for a last word with the pilot, then vaulted down on to the ground beside her.

  'That was wonderful.' Petra, her face glowing with the memory of them twenty-minute hop over turbulent green, lace-cap waves, smiled up at him,
all her ill humour gone.

  'Glad you enjoyed it.' His eyes well on her radiant face, but then, as the engine revved and the rotor arm begun to pick up speed, he put his arm round her and ran her out into the open.

  'But where's he going?' The helicopter was already lifting off, and beneath her surprise she felt an inexplicable twinge of fear. She swung round on him. 'Why isn't he waiting for us?'

  'He has another job to do before coming back for us.' Jared, sounding supremely uninterested, steered her through the small airport building and out to a waiting taxi. In minutes they had driven across the tiny island to Hugh Town, past the harbour, and then the taxi stopped outside a pleasant grey-stone villa overlooking the sea. The driver turned. 'This is Mrs Jenkins's house.'

  'Thanks.' Jared took out his wallet.

  'There's a nasty blow coming up.' The man pointed to where, low on the horizon, sombre clouds were massing. 'You'll never—'

  'How much do I owe you?' Jared extracted a note and handed it to him. As they got out Petra inhaled deeply. What a wonderful scent. I suppose it's the daffodils they grow here—I've heard that you can smell them everywhere on the islands.'

  'Maybe—or maybe it's just coming from them,' Jared replied prosaically, pointing to a large clump of yellow jonquil at the side of the path.

  The door opened as they reached it, revealing a small white-haired old lady.

  'Mrs Jenkins?' He smiled warmly down at her and held out his hand. 'I'm Jared Tremayne.'

  'How nice to meet you, Mr Tremayne. And this is your young lady that you told me about.'

  'Oh, but—' she began hastily, then Jared's hand was on her arm, squeezing her into silence. Mrs Jenkins led the way into a pretty sitting-room with a small conservatory beyond. The table was littered with papers, some yellowed with age, news cuttings, and a large scrapbook. Its cover was faded, and a faint smell of lavender came up from the pages.

  'I hope I've found everything for you.' She was fidgeting with the papers. 'Only you took me rather by surprise with your phone call this morning.'

  This morning? Petra looked sharply at Jared, who met her stare with a bland look, then, still holding her gaze, said, 'Oh, I'm sure you have, Mrs Jenkins ... ' another, even warmer smile ' ... and I'm only sorry I couldn't give you more warning. As I explained, my plans are so, well—

  fluid, at the moment.'

  Jared and the old lady sat down side by side on the chintz sofa. Petra settled herself in an armchair on the other side of the open fire while he took a preliminary glance through the papers.

  'But this is wonderful, Mrs Jenkins. You must have spent years getting all this together.'

  'Oh, no, my dear.' She laughed softly. It was Jack—my husband. The King -Arthur legends—

  especially the Tristan and Iseult ones—they were a lifelong passion for him.'

  Passion . . . Strange how that word was always cropping up.

  'From when he was a boy he was proper amazed about them. He was always telling the stories—to our children, then the grandchildren . . . anyone who'd listen.'

  'And can you remember them?'

  'Well, I do . . . ' To Petra's surprise, she looked round at her, her cheeks peony-red ' . . . but some of them aren't very nice.'

  'Oh, you needn't worry about embarrassing Petra,' Jared replied with a casualness that set her teeth on edge. 'She doesn't shock very easily, I assure you. And I'd be really grateful if you could tell me some—' a gently teasing smile '—any you want to, that is.'

  'Well,' she began hesitantly with an anxious look at the portable tape-recorder which he had unobtrusively switched on, 'folks do say that the Scillies are all that's left of Prince Tristan's kingdom of Lyonesse, with all the rest long since drowned beneath the waves . . . '

  And gradually the words began to flow as she relaxed under the spell of Jared's charm. Really, he could charm all the birds out of the trees if he wanted to . . . Sitting back into the depths of her armchair, Petra felt safe enough to let her eyes stay on him. In the warm room, he had discarded his jacket and tie—they lay in a heap on the floor. Now the top buttons of his white shirt were open, revealing the strong olive-toned shaft of his neck, and a little sprinkle of dark hairs. His black curls were dishevelled, where the blustery wind had ruffled through them. As she gazed at those rumpled curls he bent forward to pick up some of the papers. She watched as he flicked through them, frowning slightly; then he turned to smile encouragingly at Mrs Jenkins.

  And in that moment, with his attention a million miles away from her, Petra's heart gave a sudden, sickening lurch. The fire of love that this man had kindled in her at sixteen—she'd thought it was long-dead ashes. But nothing had changed, and now, without a second's warning, it had blazed up in her face. A drowning man saw his whole life, and in one searing instant Petra saw everything. She didn't love Simon—she loved Jared, with the love she had denied for so long They were persuaded to stay for tea, and homemade scones and cream, and Petra went numbly through the meal, forcing down a scone and smiling stiff-lipped every time one of the others spoke to her. She barely looked at Jared, but every ounce of her being was alive with him, and when at last he got to his feet, casually buttoned up his shirt, put on his tie then his jacket, she could barely breathe for the pain.

  Mrs Jenkins forced some of the papers on to him. 'Take them, my lover.' Petra, raw with emotion, felt her eyes brim with tears at the gentle endearment. 'Since my Jack died they've never been out of that old trunk upstairs. He'd be glad to think someone was interested.'

  'Goodbye, Mrs Jenkins.' Impulsively Petra hugged her.

  'Maybe you'll come back and see me one day when you're married.' And she patted her left hand with its diamond solitaire.

  'I—' Petra's voice faltered as she felt a pair of coolly mocking eyes on her, but then at the wistfulness in the old lady's voice she forced a brilliant smile. 'Yes, of course. 'Then she followed Jared down the path.

  Indoors, they had been insulated. Now the gusting wind tore at her hair and skirt, lashing that brave clump of jonquils to the earth. As the first icy mindrops spattered against their faces she gasped with the shock.

  'We'd better get back to the airport before it's any worse.'

  But his only response was to catch hold of her arm and begin hurrying her down the narrow lane that led to the harbour.

  'There's no point.' He had pulled up in the lee of a building, but still had to shout to make himself heard over the wind and the screeching gulls. 'The pilot won't be coming back for us till tomorrow.'

  'Tomorrow?' White-faced, she stared back at him, the sudden panic writhing in her. 'What do you mean? I've got to get back.'

  He shrugged. 'Tomorrow. This should have eased by then, but just now I'd say it was a forcenine sou'wester at the very least.'

  'Well, we'll get a boat, then—a plane—anything,' she said desperately.

  'Sorry, no can do. Everything will be grounded.'

  'But we—we can't stay. I won't' 'If you're that desperate to get away from me you'll have to try swimming.' He grinned down at her, his eyes alight. He'd always loved storms—the wilder the better—and now her obvious disquiet was no doubt merely adding to his pleasure. But she couldn't hide it. Petra was shaken to the core by that blazing revelation and the violence of the gale was blowing her mind, so that she was barely aware of Jared, his arm round her, towing her along.

  'We'll find a hotel,' he shouted in her ear.

  A hotel? Spend the night in a hotel? The nightmare was increasing by the second. 'But won't they be closed at this time of year?'

  'Not all of them.' As he turned up her jacket collar his fingers brushed against her neck, and she stiffened, terrified that he would sense the tremor which ran through her body. But he merely seized her hand again in a firm grasp. 'OK—let's go.'

  They turned up a narrow street, crossed a courtyard and ran, Petra gasping for breath, into a spacious foyer.

  'Sit down there.'

  Jared motioned her towards an armch
air by the fire, and, going across to the reception desk, rang the bell. When a young woman appeared they had a very brief conversation—which Petra, still wrapped in her own tumultuous thoughts, did not catch

  — then he was advancing on her.

  'It's all right—they'll take us. Up you get.'

  Her legs seemed to have lost their strength, but he lifted her easily to her feet.

  'Wait a minute.' She clutched at his wrist, then demanded, 'Where am I sleeping?'

  The corner of his mouth twitched. 'You can take that suspicious look off your face. You have your own suite

  — entirely to yourself.'

  'I'm so pleased.' She jutted her chin haughtily, and followed him to the lift As he put the key into the lock of ONE of the bedroom doors she glanced up and down the carpeted corridor. 'It's very quiet.'

  'Maybe we're the only guests.'

  'But—were they open?'

  'We're here, aren't we?' He pushed open the door and, flicking the light switch, gestured her past him into the room, attractively furnished in shade, of apricot and cream. 'My suite's next door. Just tap the wall if you need anything.'

  Closing the door behind her, she leaned up against it, her hands splayed against the wood. For the first time since those blinding seconds of revelation she was alone, and she tried desperately to calm her swirling thoughts. In that stunning instant her whole carefully ordered life had been set on its head—and now guilt, fear, anger raged inside her as fiercely as the storm outside. How could she have let it happen? And—a low moan was wrenched from her—how could she have betrayed Simon?

  But you haven't. She clung desperately to a last slender thread of cold sanity. You haven't—

  and you're not going to. You are not going to surrender to this love, because if you do it will destroy you. Jared doesn't love you he only wants you—and if you give way to him you'll be consumed in the loveless passion that he feels for you.

  She pushed herself upright, then, moving like a clockwork toy, she locked the door and kicked off her wet shoes. Her jacket and dress were soaking as well, so she hung them on a chair in front of the radiator.