by Penny Jordan
‘And started to write?’
‘And started to write,’ he agreed, ‘among other things. And that’s something that still hasn’t lost its appeal. What do you fancy for lunch?’
It was so mundane a question that Heather almost laughed. They could have been any married couple working comfortably together, sharing…. She fought back the thought, worried that she should ever have had it, frowning. ‘Is an omelette okay?’
‘Yes… yes, fine.’ She tried not to watch him and lost the battle, as he moved round the kitchen, obviously quite at home, quick and efficient as he prepared their meal. ‘It’s getting colder,’ he told her, as he handed her a warmed plate with a fluffy light omelette on it. ‘I don’t know whether that’s because the temperature is dropping, or because there’s something wrong with the heating. I’d better go out and have another look at the generator after lunch.’ Just as he finished speaking the lights flickered again, suddenly going out.
‘Damn!’ Race swore feelingly. ‘Looks like the generator’s gone. Hang on.’ He got up and went to the kitchen cupboards, producing two old-fashioned oil lamps. ‘Roy MacNeil loaned me these last year—I’ll see if I can get them working.’
Without the illumination of the electric lights, the cottage was quite dark, and suddenly colder. Heather realised, shivering, despite her shirt and thick jumper, the sudden reality of just how cold it would be without the heating striking through her.
‘I’ll do that,’ she offered. ‘I do know how, my aunt and uncle live in a small village and keep some for emergencies. You could go and see if you can get the generator working again.’
‘Thanks!’ Race released the lamps to her without any demur, and Heather bent over them, not looking as he walked towards the door. He was gone over fifteen minutes, returning with his arms full of logs, and Heather’s heart sank when she realised what they meant. She had managed to light the lamps without too much trouble and their soft glow illuminated the kitchen.
‘It’s no go with the generator,’ Race told her. ‘I’ll go back and get the gaz for the cooker, and bring in some more logs. Can you manage to get the fire going? Strange, I hadn’t thought of you as being so practical.’
‘Because I’m a model my head must be stuffed with cotton wool, is that it?’ Heather taunted. ‘I didn’t think you were so predictable.’
He laughed at her sardonic comment, watching her twist up paper for the fire. ‘There’s obviously much more to you than a pretty face and a sexy body,’ he agreed. ‘Tell me more about your family. Have you any brothers and sisters?’
So there were some things Jennifer hadn’t told him. ‘No,’ she told him curtly, refusing to enlarge on her denial. ‘Hadn’t you better go and get that gaz?’
She had the fire well alight by the time he had finished fitting the gaz cyclinder to the cooker, giving the mechanism a final turn before testing it. A reassuring jet of flame burned on the ring, and he grunted his satisfaction before joining her in front of the fire. ‘Full marks,’ he approved, watching her, bending towards her and grasping her chin before she could move out of the way, and then licking his finger and rubbing it across the bridge of her nose, the oddly intimate gesture stifling her breath in her throat. ‘You’ve got a dirty mark on your face,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t you like talking about yourself?’
Why, oh, why did she always fall into the trap, relaxing one moment and then feeling her stomach plunge as though she were shooting up in a high-speed lift the next, when he caught her off guard with an unexpected question?
‘What makes you think I don’t?’ she countered, biting her lip when he murmured, ‘Answering a question with another question is highly defensive. Why are you always so anxious to keep the world at bay? People normally only do that when they’ve been badly hurt. Is that it, Heather,’ he asked her smokily, ‘is that what it’s all about? Have you been hurt?’
‘It’s none of your damned business!’ she managed to get furiously. Who the hell did he think he was? Some sort of amateur Freud?
‘When did it happen?’ he pressed, ignoring her obvious reluctance to talk. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Why? So that you can gloat? So that you can throw it in my face? All right, I will tell you,’ she cried recklessly. ‘Yes, I was hurt… and it was all my own stupid fault, because I was crazy enough to believe someone might actually love me. Me! The girl every boy loved to make fun of!
‘Are you happy now?’ she asked in a high, tense voice. ‘Have you heard what you wanted to hear? Is that clever brain of yours working overtime on how you can turn it to your advantage? Well, you can’t,’ she told him grittily. ‘What I learned then inoculated me for all time against men like you….’
‘And no one’s going to get the chance to hurt you again?’ Race said softly. ‘But I don’t want to hurt you, Heather. I just want to make love to you.’
Didn’t he know that it was the same thing? That by making her love him he would ultimately hurt her when he eventually rejected her? Making her love him? Heather shivered. He hadn’t mentioned love, he had simply talked about possession of her body. What was the matter with her?
‘What about your parents?’ he asked conversationally. ‘Where do they live?’
‘Nowhere, they’re dead,’ she told him tonelessly. ‘Jennifer’s parents brought me up. Anything else you want to know, like are all my teeth my own?’
‘Are they?’ he countered tauntingly. ‘You’re as prickly as a hedgehog, reluctant to give even the slightest bit of yourself away, hoarding everything away like a miser.’
‘And you’re trying to dissect me to discover what makes me tick,’ Heather retorted, ‘hoping that I’ll lower my guard and….’
‘And what? Remember that you’re a woman? The fire seems to have caught properly now,’ he told her, standing up so suddenly that her eyes travelled automatically along the length of his legs, the fabric of his cords stretched tight over taut muscles, his eyes looking down into hers registering the emotions revealed in them, his mouth a lazy smile of satisfaction as he watched her.
It was cold in the kitchen without the central heating, and during the afternoon when Race suggested that they could share the table in the living room to work on, Heather was too chilled to demur. He helped her carry her work through, asking her several questions about what she was doing, both intelligent and interested. In other circumstances, without the sexual overtones and implications implicit in their relationship, without her fear and hatred of his sex, they could have been friends. She admired his work and sensed that he would help her with hers if she were to ask, but she was reluctant to do so, to take anything from him in case he turned round and demanded payment. She was too proud to take anything she was not prepared to pay for, especially when she knew the coin he would demand.
Just after six he leaned back in his chair and stretched, the movement pulling the wool fabric of his shirt taut across his chest, bones cracking in his fingers. He was superbly fit, and Heather wondered what sports he indulged in to keep that way. There wasn’t an ounce of superfluous fat on his body, and yet neither was it in the slightest musclebound. His nails were cut short, clean and well cared for, his hair shiny with health and vitality, his body reminding her of a lean, coiled animal in the peak of physical condition.
‘What time’s dinner?’
Heather glanced at her watch. ‘Any time you’re ready. Are you hungry?’
‘Now there’s a leading question.’ She blushed and hated herself for doing so as he laughed and stood up, tensing when his hands descended on her shoulders. ‘Relax, you’re as tense as a piece of fine-drawn wire. These muscles,’ he pressed her shoulders, ‘can’t you feel the tension in them?’
She could, and it was useless protesting to him that until he touched her she had been perfectly relaxed. She could feel his fingers moving against the back of her neck stroking and coaxing locked muscles pushing aside her hair and sliding down inside her jumper as he massaged her shoulders. She wanted t
o tell him to stop, but somehow the words wouldn’t come, as heat stroked through her body from the fingertips kneading her flesh. She closed her eyes, telling herself that she might as well try and relax, unaware of the shaken breath she expelled, unaware of anything but the sensual stroke of Race’s hands, until suddenly they were withdrawn, his lips touching the back of her neck briefly before he straightened to say, ‘That’s better, you seem much more relaxed now. It’s typing that does it.’
‘Thanks very much.’ How tight and cold her voice sounded. She could only pray that he hadn’t guessed how much his touch had affected her.
‘My pleasure. If you’re very good I’ll teach you how to give a body massage—it’s very therapeutic’
She could see the amusement glinting in his eyes and knew that she had coloured, wild images of her hands against his body flooding through her mind, appalling her with their intimacy.
It was all part of a deliberately planned campaign, she thought bitterly when her colour had died down. Race was using her own vulnerability as a weapon against her, constantly making her aware of him, tightening the coil of fear cum anticipation within her and then releasing it, each time tightening it a little further. She ignored him as she prepared their dinner. The casserole was cooked and she added more vegetables, thickening the stew slightly, clearing her work away so that she could lay the table. Race had gone upstairs, and she could hear the sound of running water. He was probably having a shower, and she frowned wondering whether the fire heated any hot water. She would have to ask him when he came down.
He arrived just as she was about to serve the meal, his cords and shirt exchanged for narrow black pants and a matching shirt, open at the front, moisture still glinting on the fine hairs darkening his chest. When he saw her eyes widen he said solemnly, ‘One most always observes the niceties of life. Why don’t you join me? Something like that black dress you wore at the studio would be very nice.’
Heather wanted to hit him for the look in his eyes. How was it possible for one man to arouse so many varied and contrasting emotions inside her? One part of her yearned to march upstairs and refute his implied allegation that she looked unfeminine by putting on the sexiest thing she could find, the other wanted to show him exactly how little his opinion mattered by staying exactly as she was. In the end she simply told him that she felt too cold to change, which wasn’t far from the truth. He must be much hardier than she was, because he was wearing far less and looked perfectly at ease whereas her feet and legs were already quite cold.
To her relief Race told her that the fire did heat the water. She would have a hot bath before going to bed, she decided as he said approvingly that she was a very good cook. The only problem was, where was she going to sleep? She looked at the small settee, which was nowhere near long enough to accommodate her, but which would have to do. She would have to pile her coat on top of it to keep her warm unless she could find any more bedclothes, but at least she would have the comfort of the fire. Deliberately she looked away, not wanting Race to guess what she was thinking. He wouldn’t force her, he had said. Well, time would tell, but she was banking on him having told the truth.
A little to her surprise he insisted on helping her with the washing up, and when it was finished he went to sit by the fire, selecting a book from the shelves and settling down to read it. How long did he intend to stay there? Heather wondered. She could hardly go to bed until he left.
She went upstairs to see if she could find any bedclothes, and managed to unearth a couple of thin blankets from the airing cupboard in the bathroom. They were better than nothing and would have to do. She daren’t attempt to take the duvet, because she was sure Race would re-possess it.
When she went back downstairs he was still engrossed in his book, and she went into the kitchen intending to make them both a drink, alarmed to discover how much colder it was. She had brought a battery radio with her and she switched it on, waiting to hear a weather forecast. It hadn’t stopped snowing all day, the wind still keened outside. She knew it was impossible for her to leave.
‘Come and sit down. I’m not going to pounce on you and devour you, you know.’
Once again he had caught her off guard, and weakly she let him finish making the coffee and carry it through into the living room. ‘You intrigue me,’ he told her when they were sitting down. ‘Such a mass of contradictions….’
‘And because I intrigue you, you want me?’ Heather said tightly, suddenly angered by the way he was looking at her, slowly undressing her as he had done once before, caressing her so blatantly that she only had to close her eyes to feel his hands against her body.
‘That and… other reasons,’ Race admitted, smiling. ‘At least I’m honest,’ he told her. ‘You want me too, but you won’t admit it. I could take you to bed now and make you admit it, but I don’t want that, Heather.’
‘No, you want total victory,’ she said bitterly, ‘total capitulation….’
‘Yes,’ he agreed softly, no longer smiling. ‘That’s what I want, and that’s what I mean to have.’
CHAPTER FIVE
IT was no good—no matter which way she turned, she was still frozen, Heather thought tiredly, her mind and body craving sleep, but too cold for her to relax her hold on consciousness, too aware of Race, no doubt sleeping comfortably in the bedroom above her. She tried not to think about him, but it was impossible; he filled her mind as no man had done since Brad, and part of her ached to be with him right now. The knowledge shocked her and she tried to dismiss it, to push it out of her mind, telling herself that she was simply reacting to the psychological war he was waging on her to wear down her resistance.
Her feet were almost numb, aching with cold. Perhaps a hot drink would warm her up a bit. Shivering, Heather pushed back the covers and huddled deeper into the old dressing gown she had brought with her, camel-haired and shabby, but tonight she was grateful for its comfort.
The flagged kitchen floor felt icy beneath her feet, her breath white in the coldness. In the living room at least there was the heat of the banked-down fire, although it was not enough to remove the ice from her veins. She filled the kettle, reaching for a mug, shivering so badly that she knocked it to the floor, fortunately without breaking it. She was just waiting for the kettle to come to the boil when she heard footsteps behind her, and tensed automatically. Race! Why had he come downstairs?
‘What was all that crashing about?’ he demanded, coming over to her. He was wearing the same robe he had worn that morning, and Heather hastily averted her eyes from the deep triangle of tanned flesh and dark hair exposed.
‘I… I was cold,’ she admitted, ‘and thought I’d make myself a drink.’
‘Cold?’ He reached out and touched her hand before she could withdraw, cursing fluently as he felt the icy chill of her skin. ‘Cold? You’re frozen. Enough is enough, Heather,’ he told her authoritatively. ‘Protest as much as you like, but I’m not leaving you down here to freeze. You’re coming back to bed—with me.’
She did protest, covering the surge of sensation exploding inside her with only half assumed anger.
‘Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve already told you, I’ve no intention of forcing you to submit to me. When I take you, it’s going to be because we both want it. Quite frankly, right now you’re the one who’s got her mind on sex, not me—all I’m thinking about is the possibility of coming downstairs tomorrow morning and finding you suffering from hypothermia. You aren’t used to these conditions. I bet it’s years since you lived anywhere that isn’t centrally heated?’
Heather couldn’t deny his sardonic comment, and suddenly she ached to be warm again, too much to offer any substantial protest when Race swung her off her feet and carried her towards the door. Her hands went to his shoulders automatically to steady herself, her breath held, fearing that he would drop her—after all, she was no petite five foot nothing, but his breathing barely registered any strain, only a brief, mocking smile acknowledging
her alarm and the reasons for it.
‘Put your arms round my neck,’ he told her calmly. ‘I won’t drop you—at least, not without some warning.’
The sensation of being held in his arms was a vaguely traumatic one, taking her back to a time when her father had carried her like this, when she had been part of an intimate family unit. Her aunt and uncle loved her, she knew that, but her uncle was small, plump and balding, and when she had gone to them after her parents’ death she had been taller than any of her cousins and almost as tall as her uncle. He had never picked her up, he wasn’t that kind of man, and the knowledge of how much she had missed that essential physical contact swept over her. Because she was tall she had been expected to stand alone, and not even to herself had she admitted her need to be treated occasionally as though she were vulnerable and fragile.
They were at the top of the stairs, Race bending his head as he kicked open the bedroom door. ‘Relax,’ he told her softly, ‘I’m not about to pounce on you.’
He had obviously lit one of the oil lamps when he heard her moving about downstairs and long shadows danced on the ceiling and in the corners of the room. The air was bitterly cold, but the bed, when Race pulled back the duvet and dropped her on to it, still held traces of his body heat, so blissful to her cold limbs that she barely noticed when he extinguished the lamp and got in beside her, the bed depressing under his weight, fear feathering along her spine until she realised he was lying with his back to her, apparently not in the least disturbed by her presence. The minutes ticked by as she tried to relax, willing her tense muscles into submission, wishing she could stop shivering with the cold that seemed to have bitten deep into her bones. She was still wearing her dressing gown, and she curled up inside it, her feet and legs icy, her teeth still chattering. Race seemed to be asleep, warmth radiating from his body, reaching out to envelop and draw her closer, compelling her to inch towards him with the same primaeval need that draws moths to flutter round a flame.