by Rebecca King
— they were to Mrs Jenkins, and to book the helicopter, weren't they?'
'Might have been.'
'And . . . ' she sucked in her breath as the realisation hit her ' . . . this place—I don't believe it's really open. You
— you persuaded them to.'
And when he merely shrugged, with a lazy half-smile, 'Oh, God, it's so sordid—so sleazy. What they must think.' Tears of angry humiliation burned her eyes. 'You got them to open just so you could seduce me.'
His face hardened. 'Seduce you? Darling, you were damn near begging me for it.'
She winced as his words hit their mark, but then set her teeth. She would not let him see how the gibe hurt her. 'And you deliberately set out to get me drunk with that wine.'
'Drunk? On a few dainty sips? And in any case . . . '
Without warning he flung back the sheet, and she averted her eyes, unable to bear the sight of that beautiful body which, just hours before, had brought her again and again to such peaks of ecstasy. With deliberate casualness he picked up his robe from the floor, slipped it on and loosely belted it. Padding across to the trolley, with all the grace of a feral panther, he took out the wine bottle, shook the water droplets from it, and turned to her.
'Surely you remember, Petra—my promise that when I took you I intended you to be—I think my exact words were, stone-cold sober.'
He held out the bottle so that she could see the label, then read aloud, his eyes chiselling into hers, "Alcohol-free sparkling wine'.'
With a mock-regretful smile he dropped the bottle back in the bucket. 'And, now that we've settled that little problem to our mutual satisfaction, come here.'
'No.' She backed away from his outstretched arms. 'No, I won't.'
'Why the hell not?'
She wanted to fall in front of him, weeping and beating her fists on the deep-pile carpet. Because you don't love me.
But, instead, she set her head proudly. 'For lots of reasons, which you couldn't begin to understand, but mainly because I choose not. I'm not going to have an affair with you, Jared—
there's no future in it for either of us.'
'No long-term future, maybe. But, just for once, why not live for the present, Petra?' His voice took on a sensual throb. 'We could have a marvellous month together . . . '
She could feel the sexual pull he was exerting on her. Last night he had bent her to his will, but now he must not break her. In the long hours since before dawn she had made up her mind, and, even though inside she was weeping tears of blood, she must stay firm. To finish with him now was like cutting off part of herself, but to go on until he left, and he surely would leave—if she'd had any doubts his last words had told her that—would rip her in half so that she'd never be whole again.
'With no strings attached,' she said in a dead voice. 'That's the phrase, isn't it? No, Jared. I've told you—no.'
His mouth thinned to a razor slit. 'Why do women always have to make a five-act tragedy out of everything?'
'Maybe it's because we have more to lose,' she said tautly.
'Ah, of course. Now we're getting to it. I suppose you see yourself as tarnished goods.' And when she said nothing, 'That's a very old-fashioned view, my sweet.'
'Perhaps I am old-fashioned.'
'So you'll confess all to Polruan, and go down on bended knee to beg his forgiveness. Or maybe you plan on taking a leaf out of Iseult's book, and on the wedding-night—'
'I'm not going to marry Simon,' she said very quietly, and as she held out her left hand, bare of the ring that nestled now in the pocket of her robe, she saw the flicker of triumph in those cool eyes. 'Oh, yes, you've succeeded, Jared. You told me that you were determined to come between us, and you have. When you first came back I said that you brought nothing but trouble, and I was right.'
Her lips trembled, but she forced herself on. 'I could have been happy with Simon. Oh, not wildly, ecstatically so, perhaps—' the way I could have been with you, but she forced that searing thought down '—with none of the passion that you think is so important, but happy.'
'But surely, after last night, you still can't deny that passion matters?'
'No—you've made me see that.' At the memories of their lovemaking a shaft of anguish speared through her. 'And you've also shown me that I don't love Simon. In fact, I knew that before—last night. But what you don't see is that there must be the two—passion and love.' She paused again. 'And with you there's only the passion, isn't there?'
His eyes bleak, he shrugged slightly, then turned away. The simple gesture
— more telling than any brutal verbal rejection—almost broke her finally.
'Just tell me one thing, Jared: how long have you had me set up like this?'
'Only since yesterday, of course, when you told me that you were off up to lover-boy.' He was leaning against the window-frame, one hand propping his head. 'I knew that if I was going to
— save you from yourself,' he half turned and gave her a faintly ironic smile, 'I had to act fast. And Sam's little escapade was too good a chance to miss.'
'Your bad shoulder—that was a lie?'
'Well, I may have—er—exaggerated it a little.'
'And I don't suppose your sprained wrist will prevent you from driving us home?' What a fool she'd been—a gullible fool.
'Of course not.' Straightening up, he came over to her and rested his fingers against her swollen lips. Very lightly, but her whole body jerked slightly under it, and he smiled, that cool, self-assured smile. 'One day, Petra, you'll thank me for this.'
She stared up at him, unable to move for a moment, then turned, blindly fumbling for the door-handle. Without turning, she said, 'I'll wait in my room. Let me know when it's time to leave.'
As she went to close the door he delivered one final barb. 'Oh, just one thing. Don't forget to rumple up your bed. I'm sure you'd hate the maid to know the sordid truth—that it hasn't been slept in.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
'So you're losing your neighbour, dear.'
Petra, locked into her own thoughts, barely recognised Mrs Pearce. She looked at her blankly.
'I'm sorry?'
'Mr Tremayne—he's off this afternoon. Surely he's told you?'
From behind the spectacles friendly but beady eyes peered up at her, and somehow she roused herself from her stupor. 'Oh, no—no, he hasn't.'
'Well, he only let me know yesterday. Seems he's done all he can here, so he may as well be getting back. He's insisting on paying me till the end of March, so I shan't be out of pocket, but I expect you'll miss him, dear.' She paused, obviously waiting for a reply, but Petra could only manage a pale mockery of a smile. 'My George was saying only the other day, it's not natural, a young woman up there—'
'No, really. I'm perfectly happy on my own. I—I love the solitude.'
'Not for much longer, though.' She patted Petra's arm meaningfully. 'We're all looking forward to the wedding—you'll make a lovely Easter bride.' And with a kindly smile she went on into the post office . . .
Petra had chosen to walk down to the village, hoping that the fresh air would drive out the bleak, desolate thoughts which still hammered at her. But as she left the shelter of the straggling village street and turned up the steep lane towards the cliffs the icy wind buffeted her so that she could scarcely draw breath.
* * *
The storm was back, even fiercer than before, but at least it had dropped just for those few hours yesterday to let them get back to the mainland. Jared had driven home, of course—in morose silence, his lean face set—and so fast that she had shrunk back in her seat, hands clenched, as the sleek grey shark gulped down any lesser car that dared to stray into its path. Almost before he'd scorched to a hall outside their cottages she had had her door open and was out, terrified that he would try to stop her, but he'd done nothing. Just let her go—walk down her path, out of his life.
Simon's Valentine cake, in its pink box, had been on the kitchen table, and when she'd se
en it the misery had all but overwhelmed her. Frozen-faced, she'd snatched it up and, unable to bear the sight of it, put it away in the back of the larder. She'd still been standing in the sitting-room, struggling to find the words to tell Simon—words that would hurt her almost as much as they would him—when he had rung her . . .
She plodded up the lane, hands deep in her pockets, her eyes on nothing at all. The wind lashed the stunted hawthorn bushes that lined the rutted track. But this was surely the last Atlantic gale of winter. Soon there'd be pale yellow primroses in the hedgerow. Already there were clumps of wild violets—she could smell their faint perfume—and then the lilac would come, and then the long warm days when she would walk on the beach and swim. And by then she would be glad that Jared had gone . . .
The Aston Martin was drawn up on the grass. Its boot lid was open, ready for him to load up. He wasn't wasting much time—couldn't wait to get away . . . The bitter little thought jabbed viciously at her as, without a glance at his cottage, she hurried to her door. As she closed it she heard Jared's phone ring, then, a few moments later, his front door banged shut. From her small side-window she had an oblique view of him, running down his path, slamming the boot lid down, then, with a blast of the horn, roaring away down the lane. Surely he hadn't gone without one backward glance? No—he hadn't packed, and Mrs Pearce had said something about his leaving this afternoon. So he'd be back—but if he came round to say goodbye . . .
She stood at the window, her fingers picking at a knot in the curtain fabric, then went through to the larder and began putting away the food she had bought. Her eye fell on the pink heartshaped box. So much love had gone into this cake that it seemed a shame to waste it. Maybe she'd pass it on to Joanne for Jason—after all, they'd given her the order for their wedding-cake, so it would be a nice gesture.
'You can always . . . make me a cake.' Without warning Jared's words hit her. She saw his face, with that slanting, ambivalent smile, and as she stood, head bent, a tidal wave of anguish washed over her. It ebbed at last, but still she thought, he won't want a cake from me—not now. But she would make him one. Gran's whiskey cake, she'd said. She'd sneak out and leave it by his gate, then come back and lock her door against him . . .
She had just put the cake in the oven when the phone rang. 'Petra? Joe Pengelly here.'
'Oh, hello, Mr Pengelly.' Normally she would have been surprised. She'd known Joe all her life, gone to school with his twin sons, yet he'd never once rung her. Now, though, it barely registered.
'Can you see anything from your place?'
'See anything?' To her numb mind the question seemed slightly surreal.
'Didn't you hear the maroon go up?' He sounded faintly incredulous.
'Maroon? No.'
'There's a big ocean-going yacht in trouble. In this sea, she'll break her back on the rocks, I shouldn't wonder.'
'Oh, no! Hold on—I'll have a look.'
She rushed over to the big window. The sea, leaden green, was boiling, huge waves breaking long before they crashed against the cliff with a dull, booming sound, which she could hear even through the double glazing.
'Mr Pengelly—no, I can't see anything,' she said breathlessly into the phone. 'There's a big rain squall out to sea and it's blotting out everything. Has the lifeboat gone out?'
'Of course. They launched it half an hour ago.'
And among the volunteer crew were Joe's two sons. 'Try not to worry,' she said awkwardly. 'Dave and Jimmy they're both such marvellous sailors—'
'Oh, they're not there, my lover. They're both down with this flu—weak as kittens, the pair of them. No, it's a scratch crew. They've had to call on Bert Westerby—he's retired, really—oh, and Jared Tremayne.'
Petra's hand clenched on the receiver, her knuckles bone-white. 'You mean—Jared's out there, in the lifeboat?' Her voice seemed to belong in someone else.
'That's right. One of my lads rang him, and he came like a shot. 'Course, he was in the crew that summer before he went away, and he'd said, any time they were short—'
Yes, but that was years ago, and he'll never have been out into the teeth of a force-ten gale . . . With a minute part of her mind she heard Joe say something—she had no idea what—and she replied—no idea what. Then she put down the phone and stood staring out at the wild sea. Somewhere, lost in the flying spray and roaring wind, was Jared . . . A little sob burst from her, then she whirled round, darted through the kitchen, snatching up her anorak, and ran out to her car.
Down on the cobbled quay a little crowd had gathered, huddled in the shelter of the brickbuilt lifeboat station, whose blue doors stood open. As she arrived there were nods and halfsmiles, but no one said very much. What could you say at such a time? The vicar, old Mr Trelawney, would have gone to the little granite church—he always did when there was a rescue bid on—and would be praying quietly, while the rest of the village just . . . waited. Inland people didn't know, she thought bleakly. They were spared this silent agony of waiting, for sons, husbands—sweethearts. Her eyes filled with scalding tears and she turned away, gazing out to the grey horizon so that no one should see them. At last, after an endless time, through the driving rain they all saw the little orange hull of the lifeboat rising and falling as it cut through the waves, and a ragged cheer went up. As it manoeuvred in through the narrow harbour entrance she strained to peer through the rain, searching for one figure, but they were all anonymous in their glistening yellow oilskins and sea boots.
She heard the strident wail of an ambulance weaving its way through the narrow streets, and then the lifeboat was easing in alongside the stone steps that led up to the quay. She saw John Carer, the coxswain—ex-Royal Navy, now landlord of the Star and Garter inn—his usually jovial face showing the strains and tensions of the last two hours . . . and then she saw Jared. He had taken off his oilskin sou'wester, and was bending over a young woman with long dark hair, swathed in a blanket. As he lifted her gently to her feet a surge of such intense joy and relief as Petra had never felt in her life before filled her brimful and left her trembling, so that all she could do was watch as the woman, a youngish man and three children were lifted up on to the quay with kind efficiency by the medical team. As they were helped into the ambulance and driven away one by one the crew clambered ashore, their clumsy movements betraying their near-exhaustion.
Jared came up the steps last but one. He followed the others into the lifeboat station, then emerged a few minutes later, dressed in sweater and jeans. They shook hands, John Carter clapped him warmly on the back, then he turned away. And saw Petra, standing there, motionless, her hands in her pockets.
Very slowly he came up to her and stood, just as he'd done that first morning in her kitchen, his thumbs in his belt, looking down at her, his eyes searching her face. She managed a weak smile. 'Hi.'
'Hi.' But he did not return her smile. Like all the others, his face was showing the strain—
there were white marks beside his mouth where he'd kept it tightly clenched, and his whole body was sagging slightly with weariness. She wanted to take him in her arms and cradle him against all dangers, but instead she said, 'Well—I just came down to see how the rescue went. I'll—I'll go.'
As she turned away he caught her by the wrist. 'Look, I'm sorry, but will you drive me back? I seem to have done something to my shoulder—yes, honestly this time . . . ' he gave her an offcentre little grin, a fleeting glimpse of the old J a r e d ' ... and anyway, if I stand here much longer, I have a nasty idea I'm going to collapse in an unseemly heap.'
'Oh, Jared.' She clutched at his arms, terrified he really would fold up at her feet. 'Of course I'll drive yon?' and she led the way to his car.
When she opened the Aston Martin's passenger door he slid in, and as she sat down beside him he expelled a long, rather shaky breath. 'That has to the most terrifying experience of my whole life. We all thought at one point, when we were broadside on to the y a c h t , t h a t we were going over. I tell you, Petra, I was sc
ared half to death.'
He shot her another crooked half-smile, and at the thought of what could have happened the sickness burned like acid in her stomach.
'And then I thought we weren't going to get them off alive. Do you know that?' he banged his fist down on to the dashboard, 'that guy kept insisting they'd be all right—that they'd run in front of the storm? Oh, God, what fools people are.'
She took his large icy hand between her small ones and, squeezing it, said tremulously, 'But they're all safe now—and so are you.'
When she drew up by his gate a tinge of colour was back in his cheeks. 'Sorry about that back there,' he said ruefully. 'I didn't realise I'd got such a yellow streak.'
'Of course you haven't!' she exclaimed indignantly. 'You went straight away when they rang, didn't you?'
'Yes, but—'
'And you'd go out again right now if they needed you?'
'Well, of course—'
'So there you are, then. It's only liars and fools who say they don't know what fear is. But what you do need right now is a hot meal. I'll get you—'
'No. What I really need is an extremely stiff drink.'
'Well, come into my place, then.' She led the way down her path. 'My whiskey's handy. Oh, no—'
She clapped a hand to her mouth, then as she flung open her door the acrid smell of burning met her nostrils. Snatching up an oven-glove, she opened the cooker and pulled out the cake—a charred ruin. Tight-lipped, she banged her toe down on the kitchen bin, and when the lid shot up she hurled the cake into it, threw the tin into the sink—and burst into tears.
'What the hell . . . ?' Jared pulled her roughly into his arms and cradled her head against his chest. 'Don't, my sweet.'
'I—burnt the cake,' she gulped between sobs.
'So what? It's only a cake. Ssssh.' He stroked her hair, and at the tender gesture she sobbed even harder.
'B—but it was your cake.' Another huge sob, which shook her whole body. 'I was making you a w—whiskey cake.'
Her voice disintegrated again, and as he held her to him she gave herself up to the sheer anguished bliss of standing in his arms, being comforted like an unhappy child. He would never hold her again, and after today she would never even see him, but —