The man moved in one lithe movement, rising to his feet. He was tall, well over six feet, his body strong and powerfully muscled.
In silence he turned away, moving a few feet to lean against a wide tree trunk, his back to her.
Deborah stared at him for a few seconds, a sense of unreality gripping her. She heard the metallic click of a lighter, the faint aroma of Turkish tobacco. He was smoking a cigarette.
She shuddered violently and began pulling on her clothes as quickly as she could. They stuck to her wet body uncomfortably and her hands were shaking.
It must be late, she decided, as she pulled tight the belt of her jeans. The sky was darkening, striped with yellow and purple and deep dusty pink. The trees were darker, powerful silhouettes against the fire of the sky.
She pushed back her hair, and cast another furtive glance at the man who stood only feet away from her. Her heart beat faster as she began to move, hoping to get away before he noticed. But in her agitation, she didn't move silently. Twigs cracked noisily beneath her sandals and as she looked over her shoulder, she saw that he had heard her frantic escape. Her foot caught in a slender tree root poking up from the soil and she lost her balance, falling towards the ground.
It all happened in a second but again she had that feeling that everything was moving in slow motion. The man moved with swift panther-like grace, covering the distance between them so quickly. He caught her before she hit the ground, pulling her up against his hard body, steadying her.
She felt the strong grip of his hands against her shoulders, burning through the thin material of her T-shirt, as he set her back on her feet.
She looked up into his dark face, her head falling back, and the breath caught sharply in her throat.
Out of the shadow, she could see him clearly now. She guessed he was in his mid to late thirties, much older than the men she was used to.
He had a hard-boned serious face, all planes and angles, the cheekbones high beneath smooth tanned skin, the jaw harsh and uncompromising. His hair was almost black, brushed back from his face, touching the collar of his shirt at the back. His mouth was strong and beautifully moulded, but it was his eyes that held her attention, that held her wide gaze with no effort at all. A dark narrowed grey, beneath black sweeping brows, they mirrored his experience, his wisdom and something else—a shadowed unsmiling expression that Deborah could not understand.
She dragged her own eyes away with a great effort of will, her heart pounding.
'Thank you.' The murmured gratitude came out breathlessly.
In silence the man released his grip on her shoulders, his hands falling to his sides, and Deborah felt strangely bereft.
She turned away, unable to think coherently, her mind chaotic. From that moment on, it was always that way. His touch, his mere presence had been enough to drive any sane thoughts from her head. She had known from that very first moment that her life would never be the same again. One glance at him had warned her that he was a man who lived by his own rules, a man who faced the world alone and forced it to give him what he wanted. He was sure of himself as only the wise and the strong can be. He was everything she had ever dreamed about in a man.
That first summer evening, he had walked her back to the cottage, despite her trembling protests. They had not talked much. He had seemed pre-occupied with his own thoughts, brooding, silent. And Deborah had kept her head down, shy and flustered by his attention, ridiculously tongue-tied for the first time in her life.
He had introduced himself as Jake Logan. Even his name was hard and strong and uncompromising, and of course, she recognised it immediately. He was a brilliant, much acclaimed playwright, lionised in both England and the United States. His plays were complex and sensitive, enjoying long, fantastically successful runs.
Incredibly, his identity hadn't surprised her. There was something about him that told of power and success, something cool and hard and indefinable.
He had taken her out to dinner the following evening. Deborah was already wildly and irrevocably in love with him. She was hardly able to eat a thing at the discreetly expensive hotel restaurant in Windermere. He had made her laugh that evening. His easy charismatic charm had knocked her off her feet, and somehow he had elicited her life story, storing away every careful detail almost before she realised she had opened her mouth.
Back at his huge old house in the early hours of the next morning, she had prowled the rooms with delight, staring out of the ceiling-high panoramic windows at the clouded fells, bright beneath the silver moonlight, at the dark mysterious lake beneath them. And she had denied herself by thinking that she wouldn't sleep with him.
He was almost a stranger, and how could she be so fiercely in love with a stranger? How could she have looked into those dark grey eyes and lost herself so completely?
Unknown to her, Jake watched the secret smile that touched her vulnerable mouth. She let her hands drift over a bronze statue that stood in front of the window.
Wasn't this what she had longed for, ached for? A love like this? The deeply-passionate, unconventional, impulsive side of her was straining towards the night's inevitable conclusion. And when she turned round to find Jake staring at her, any doubts had melted away like snow in tropical sunshine.
He hadn't pushed her or forced her. He had only reached for her, his powerful hands strangely gentle, his eyes very dark, hypnotising her. The touch of his mouth had made her burn with emotion and a desire so strong and all -encompassing that it overwhelmed her.
As he touched her, caressed her, kissed her, unable to disguise his hunger for her, she responded mindlessly, aware of her power over him, aware that he was teaching her about love, about herself. He was teaching her things she had never even dreamed of.
And when he finally raised his dark head, and held her away as he regained his sanity, her eyes had mirrored her surprised confusion. Her smile was that of a temptress when he told her he was taking her home—immediately, before he couldn't help himself. In reply she had pulled down his head, using her innocent mouth and her tentative fingers until he could not resist her.
Jake had given her a fulfillment she hadn't believed herself capable of. She remembered the smooth hard warmth of his body, the strength of his taut muscles, the hungry expertise of his mouth.
Oh yes, Jake had taught her everything about love, about herself, but he had also taught her about need and jealousy ...
'Can't you sleep either? This bloody heat ...' Oliver's voice cut into her deep reverie, making her jump.
She hadn't even noticed him entering the lounge. He switched on one of the lamps, cursing under his breath as his toe connected with the leg of the table.
'Why the hell are you sitting in the dark?' He sounded irritated. He hated it when he couldn't sleep. He hated anything that interfered with the rhythm he had created for his life.
Deborah looked up at him, still far away, blinking against the sudden glare of light.
'I'm thinking.' Her voice sounded small. The memories of Jake still hurt her, more than she cared to admit even to herself.
'Oh.' Oliver's one word held a wealth of meaning. He walked over and poured himself a large measure of scotch, then moved across to the window, where he stood staring out into the darkness.
Deborah watched him, absently staring at his lean brown body above the cotton shorts he wore.
'This must be the hottest summer I can remember,' Oliver remarked as he swallowed back his scotch.
'Yes, I suppose so,' Deborah answered vaguely, but she was thinking, no, the hottest summer was the one I spent with Jake. It said so on the radio.
Oliver turned, reaching for a cigarette. 'It's Logan, isn't it?' he said, touching a flaring match to the tobacco. 'Why, in God's name can't you just forget him? How long are you going to torture yourself?'
Deborah shrugged, ignoring his anger. There had never been any love lost between Jake and her stepbrother. Oliver had seen that violent possessive side of Jake, he had been o
n the receiving end of it. Oliver hated violence in any shape or form, and Jake's dark savagery had scared the hell out of him. He had freely admitted that.
He was impatient with Deborah for not putting the whole thing behind her. He watched the tell-tale signs now and his face softened as he said casually, 'Do you want to talk about it?'
She smiled knowing he was making an effort to curb his irritation. 'Thanks, but I don't think so.'
'As you wish.' He seemed unconcerned, drawing deeply on his cigarette and turning back towards the window.
Deborah looked at him, his shoulders hunched against the long bleached linen curtains. They knew each other very well and she suddenly realised that it wasn't just the heat that was keeping him awake.
'What's the matter?' she asked quietly, glad to be able to think about him, to shift her mind from herself.
Oliver was silent for a moment, then he turned to look at her, smiling wryly. 'Clever. For a girl so wrapped up in her own problems, you're surprisingly perceptive tonight.'
Deborah stood up, took his glass, and poured them both another Scotch, passing his, then curling up on the sofa with her own.
'So, tell me,' she prompted lightly. Oliver sighed, his face hard. 'Beatrice rang this afternoon, while you were in town.'
Deborah bit her lip. No wonder he had been so sharp with her all evening. 'And?'
'And she asked if she could fly out for a few days. Said she needed a break.' Oliver swallowed down his scotch in one long mouthful, his eyes lowered.
'Does she know I'm here? What did you tell her?' Deborah stared, surprised. He had not mentioned it over dinner, or any time during the evening.
'I told her that she couldn't come, that I was busy— too busy to fool around with her.'
'Oh, Oliver.' She was suddenly sad, knowing what it must have cost him to turn Beatrice down.
'Oh, Oliver, what?' He mimicked her voice, not unkindly, but with a wry self-deprecating mockery. 'There was nothing else I could do.' His shoulders lifted. 'God, I could even hear David talking on another 'phone.'
'Then, why was she'
Oliver didn't let her finish, his eyes shadowed as he said bitterly. 'Who knows? Another rough patch, maybe. She was probably trying to hurt him, or was she just trying to use me? Either way, I can't take any more of it. I can't even fool myself that it's going somewhere.'
Deborah sighed, her heart aching. Beatrice Maitland was a beautiful woman, a married woman. Oliver was deeply involved with her, fighting a love that was far too strong, in his battle to free himself. Beatrice was a fashion model who worked for Deborah's boss Cole Sullivan, modelling the clothes Deborah designed. Oliver had been introduced to Beatrice at a party thrown by Cole at his London flat, a year or so ago.
Deborah had dragged Oliver along because he had been moping round the house, utterly depressed. The painting he had been working on refused to come together. He couldn't paint. It was incredible he had ever thought he could. He might just as well give up his career and get a job as an insurance salesman. He went on and on as she dressed for the party. She had ignored him. She had heard it all before.
Beatrice Maitland had dominated the room, and, she had taken one look at Oliver's blond good looks and moved in.
After that they had rarely been seen apart. Beatrice had left her husband a month before she met Oliver, and she was more than ready for Oliver's eager attention.
And although their relationship had been stormy and passionate, Deborah had only realised Oliver's desperate involvement when Beatrice returned to her husband David, six months later.
Since then, it had been an on-off thing. Oliver had tried to keep away from Beatrice, and Deborah was fully aware of what that had cost him. Beatrice's marriage was by no means perfect and she kept Oliver on a string, knowing that he loved her too much to resist.
It was an impossible situation and Deborah had come very near to hating the beautiful model.
Oliver had changed with this love. He drank heavily now, hating himself for his weakness, though the walls of his flat were lined with photographs and drawings of Beatrice. His work was suffering, too. He was subject to bouts of deep depression, all hidden carefully beneath that sharp tongue and flippant mask.
Nobody else guessed except Deborah and that was only because they shared the same house and he could not hide behind his mask twenty-four hours a day.
Sometimes she felt responsible. If she hadn't dragged him to that party . . .
And sometimes she tried to imagine how it would all end. David Maitland was rich and successful and Deborah secretly wondered if Beatrice would ever leave him. It seemed she valued material wealth above all else.
She looked at her stepbrother now, and knew exactly how he felt.
'Perhaps . ..' she began, unable to bear the weariness she saw in his face, wanting to reassure him in some way.
'I'm going back to bed,' he cut in, rejecting her sympathy before it was uttered. 'I want to go to Paleokastritsa tomorrow, to take some more photos. Do you fancy coming with me?'
Deborah nodded, pushing back her pale hair. 'Yes. Early?'
'As soon as it's light, that's the best time.'
He walked towards the door, stopping to look back at her. 'Have you decided about Tess's party yet?'
'No.' Deborah's voice held all her uncertainty.
'Well, I think we should go.'
It was the first positive thing he'd said about it, and Deborah's head jerked up. 'Why?' she asked baldly.
'You know very well.' He half-smiled.
'But if'
'If Logan is there, so what? It's more than likely that he will be. You can cope, and anyway, I'll be with you.'
'I'll decide tomorrow.' She had been thinking of Jake, remembering so painfully she couldn't make the decision until her mind was clear of those memories.
'Don't be a coward, Deborah,' Oliver said wickedly, watching her flushed cheeks and lowered eyes.
'Like you?' she retorted, stung.
'Yes, like me,' he agreed, without malice, then laughed. 'I'll see you in the morning. Don't forget, dawn.'
She didn't answer, listening to the slamming of his bedroom door, and then to the silence broken only by the whirring of the crickets in the garden outside.
It looked as though she had backed herself into a corner. Of course she would have to go to the party. She couldn't hurt Tess. And there was no guarantee that Jake would be there.
And if he is? a tiny voice in her head argued. If he is, will you be able to face seeing him again? She couldn't answer that. She couldn't even begin to imagine how she would react if she met him face to face. She had spent the past three years trying to avoid such a meeting.
Soon after they had parted she had met Cole, through Oliver's introduction and had jumped at the offer of working in his Los Angeles headquarters for nine months.
She had nearly bitten his hand off, terrified of running into Jake in London. And those months in America had helped, the furious, totally alien pace of downtown Los Angeles forcing her to concentrate, to forget her own pain for hours at a time.
By the time she returned to England the fear had lessened. And apart from the three tragic months of her marriage, she had spent the last couple of years between Los Angeles and London. In all that time she had seen Jake only twice. The first time, although only at a distance, had hurt her so much that she had stood paralysed, unable to move a muscle. She could remember it so clearly. She had been shopping on Bond Street, a last minute birthday present for Cole, gold cufflinks specially engraved. She had slipped out of the studio for an hour, hoping that nobody would notice her absence, and had been emerging from the jewellers when she saw Jake on the other side of the road. He was talking to another man who she barely registered. Her eyes were fixed on Jake with a shaming intensity.
He was smiling, that cool charming smile that had always turned her knees to water, his eyes narrowed, faintly cynical.
She watched him push an impatient hand through
the darkness of his hair, a painfully familiar gesture that squeezed her heart with agony. Every easy, graceful movement he made had registered like physical blows, her eyes hungry on the powerful masculinity of his body. Then he was gone, sliding inside the long black chauffeur-driven car, disappearing in seconds, so that she wasn't sure whether or not it had all been a wishful dream. He had not seen her. Ridiculously that had hurt, although she had been unable to think of one good reason why it should.
That tiny incident kept her alive, and depressed her terribly for months afterwards. It wasn't the same as seeing him in the newspapers, reading about the success of his plays, the latest beautiful woman he was being seen around with, as she always did with an eagerness that made her hate herself. It wasn't the same at all. It changed her, hardening the protective shell she had built around herself.
As she thought of it now, she wondered whether she had the strength to face him again. She stood up, slowly walking to the windows, staring down at the dark mysterious Mediterranean. And yet, she thought fatalistically, what choice did she have if she ever wanted to get over him.
'Oh God, Jake,' she whispered aloud, pressing her face to the smooth, cool glass. 'When will I ever be free of you?'
CHAPTER TWO
Oliver's villa was situated in the hills above Benitses, on the east coast of Corfu, so it was a fairly long drive to Paleokastritsa.
Deborah woke before dawn after a restless, almost sleepless night. She pulled herself tiredly out of bed aware that the sun would soon be up. Her brief snatches of sleep had been haunted by dreams of Jake, and in the darkness before dawn it was hopelessly depressing to realise that the thin shell of emotional strength she had been building up over the past three years was still fragile enough to come crashing around her ears at Tess's telephone call.
Angry at her own inability to control her feelings, she showered and quickly dressed in jeans cut off at the knees, and a sleeveless T-shirt.
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