There was an incredulous snort at the other end of the line. 'Well, I hope you're right, my love,' replied Joan dubiously. 'But if it doesn't, you just come and stay at my place. I'll leave the key under the first flowerpot in the potting shed for you. I don't expect I'll be away for more than a week, but you make yourself at home whether I'm there or not.'
Feeling more than a little disturbed by this conversation, Rose muttered a few words of congratulation about the new baby, then said goodbye and replaced the receiver. What exactly had Joan meant? If only she had come right out and told Rose the truth, instead of dropping these mysterious hints, it would have made things much easier. As it was, Rose felt a profound uneasiness, without being sure of the reason for it. Why couldn't Greg be trusted with an impressionable young woman? Was he notorious as the village heartbreaker? And what had Joan meant by referring to the way Greg had 'got on so well'? Of course, owning his own boat was quite an achievement, but surely not enough to justify the undertone of awe in the woman's voice? As she emerged from the telephone booth Rose was so preoccupied with these tantalising problems that she must have taken a wrong turning somewhere among the maze of back alleys. Instead of heading along the cliff path, she found herself going higher and higher up the western side of the gorge towards the road that led inland. With an exclamation of annoyance, she stopped still and looked about her to try to get her bearings. And then she saw him.
On the opposite side of the gorge, in one of the few alleyways wide enough for driving, a man who could not be anyone but Greg Trelawney was stepping out of the passenger seat of a candy-pink sports car. It was too far away for Rose to see his features clearly, but there was no mistaking the glossy, dark hair, the tall, muscular lines of his body, clad in denim jeans and a red checked shirt, or the lithe, animal grace with which he moved. As Rose stared in bewilderment, he came round to the driver's side of the car, halted as if he was speaking to the blonde girl behind the wheel and then bent forward. To Rose's astonishment, the girl suddenly flung her arms around his neck and pulled him down towards her in a desperate gesture.
Rose told herself that she shouldn't watch, that this was obviously something private, yet she stood rooted to the spot in horrified fascination as the man tore himself free of the girl's clinging embrace. He seemed to hurl a few exasperated words at her and then strode away without looking back.
The blonde girl put her hand over her eyes and dropped her head in a movement of such pathos that Rose's heart went out to her. Then she rammed the car into gear, turned it jerkily in the driveway of a cottage and drove away in the direction of the main road. Rose stared after the dark-haired man who had now disappeared down a flight of steps and was only intermittently visible between banks of lavender and brightly painted front doors. For a moment she felt a terrible sense of betrayal, then reason asserted itself. It wasn't Greg, it couldn't possibly be Greg! He had told her he was going over to Pisky Bay to fetch his boat, so how could he be here quarrelling with some blonde girl in Polperro at the same time? It was impossible. It must be just a chance resemblance to some other man, perhaps even a relative of his. Shaking her head, Rose made her way back in the direction she had come and this time managed to find the right path.
She had been at home for nearly two hours before Greg finally returned and even then his arrival took her by surprise. She had been sitting on the back terrace, expecting him to appear along the cliff path, when suddenly she heard the sound of a car drawing up outside the front gate. Thinking it might be somebody to call on Greg, she went back inside the house and almost collided with him in the tiny front hall.
'Oh, goodness, you gave me a fright!' she exclaimed. 'I thought you'd walk back along the cliff path.'
He smiled ruefully and gestured at her two large suitcases, which he had just set down on the floor. 'Too much like hard work with that little load,' he retorted. 'I met a friend down by the harbour and he gave me a ride.'
'Oh, of course!' agreed Rose in confusion. 'I'd forgotten about the suitcases.
I'm sorry if they were a nuisance to-you.'
Greg shook his head. 'No need to apologise, but we must get a few details straight. Charlie's coming back quite soon to give me a lift to Plymouth and
I don't want to keep him waiting. I'll just dash into my room and change my clothes, then we'll sort everything out.'
He vanished into the front bedroom and returned five minutes later looking negligently handsome in jeans, a striped navy and white polo top and leather docksider shoes. The intent, brooding look which had lit his face earlier in the day had disappeared and his manner was brisk and practical. Rose was reminded of an office manager giving orders to his staff as he ticked off his instructions on his lean brown fingers.
'OK. Any emergencies where you need to use a telephone, go to the Vinces'
house about a hundred yards along the cliff towards Polperro. Take your pick of the upstairs bedrooms and just use anything you need in the house.
There's plenty of food in the fridge and a washing- machine and drier if you want to do any laundry.'
'That's a relief,' said Rose. 'I've got a mountain of really grotty clothes in one of my bags that have been accumulating since I left Australia. By the way, can I do any washing for you while I'm at it?'
Greg hesitated and his eyes darted towards his bedroom door. 'No, don't bother,' he said. 'I'll do it myself next weekend. Now, what else did I need to tell you? Oh, yes. You'll find some drawing paper and pencils in the cupboard in the conservatory. Why don't you try sketching up some plans for what you want done with your cottage while I'm gone?'
'That's a good idea,' agreed Rose. 'I really ought to go over and measure up the place first, though.'
'No need,' said Greg crisply. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a notebook and tore off the top sheet. 'I've written down all the measurements for you already.'
Rose stared down in disbelief at the neatly drawn scale plan in front of her.
Every measurement was meticulously noted on it, even the width of fireplaces and the stairwell.
'How on earth did you manage that?' she demanded. 'It seems like hours of work.'
Greg's eyes narrowed with amusement and he picked up a leather bag which he had left lying on the floor and brandished a small tool.
'A laser measuring device,' he explained. 'You just point it at the place you want to measure and it does the rest automatically. A boat builder's best friend.'
'I'm impressed!' marvelled Rose.
'Good,' murmured Greg, and suddenly his efficient manner ebbed away as his eyes met hers. Then he spoke in that husky voice that sent tiny thrills of excitement coursing pleasurably up Rose's spine. 'Are you impressed enough to come to the beach with me on Saturday and perhaps have a meal afterwards?'
Rose looked gravely down at the diagram in her hand, deliberately keeping him waiting, but her eyes danced.
'Yes,' she said at last.
'I'll look forward to it,' promised Greg, touching her cheek.
'So will I,' she said rather breathlessly. And then, not knowing how to cope with the intensity of his gaze, she deliberately changed the subject. 'Did you get a chance to talk to Joan?'
He shook his head. 'No, I didn't even try,' he admitted. 'I knew she'd give me an ear-bashing about luring you off to my house, so I just left a note in her letter box saying that you were staying in Polperro for a while and that you'd phone her next week.'
Rose was amused by the slightly shifty look that flitted over Greg's face as he said this, and she was just about to explain that she had telephoned Joan herself when the doorbell rang. Greg went to open the door and ushered in a
young man of about twenty-five, who nodded at Rose and rubbed his hands together, while his bright brown eyes darted restlessly around.
'Rose, this is my friend Charlie Polglaze. Charlie, this is Rose Ashley.'
'Pleased to meet you,' said Charlie. 'Ready to go, eh, Greg?'
'Whenever you ar
e,' agreed Greg.
'Coming out to say goodbye to us, my love?' asked Charlie.
Rose followed them out into the driveway where a battered old estate car with its back full of lobster pots and fishing gear stood waiting. Charlie grimaced humorously at it and then raised his eyebrows at Greg.
'So where's your car?' he demanded. 'In the garage getting serviced?'
Greg nodded impassively. 'Yes, that's the trouble when you have an old bomb,' he agreed- 'You're forever getting work done on it.'
Charlie seemed to find this exquisitely funny for some reason. He pumped Rose's hand vigorously and then climbed into the car, muttering to himself.
'Old bomb...old bomb! Forever getting work done... hur, hur, hur.'
Greg led Rose aside a little way so that they were sheltered from Charlie's gaze by a large purple buddleia bush, then he took her by the shoulders and gazed warmly down into her eyes. For a moment she had the intoxicating sensation that he did not want to let her go.
'You're beautiful,' he said in a low voice. 'Do you know that?'
She shook her head, gazing back at him searchingly to see if he was teasing her. A confusing rush of feelings swept through her. Cynicism, disbelief, a turbulent yearning to trust him. With a faint, twisted smile, she shook her head.
'It's true,' he insisted. 'Beautiful, courageous and far more passionate than you've ever guessed. But I'll show you, Rose. When I come back, I'm going to make you face the truth about yourself whether you like it or not.'
Rose felt as if her whole body was scorching with fever as she walked unsteadily back into the house. She heard the noisy retreat of Charlie's old car down the driveway, and it was with a feeling of relief that she slammed the front door of Greg's cottage behind her. Her heart was thudding violently and she leaned back against the door, her eyes straying sightlessly round the hallway and her breath coming in shallow gulps, as she tried to recover her poise. Greg's words still rang in her ears and she shook her head in torment, trying to free herself of the echo. Was he just spinning her a line?
Was this all part of some carefully orchestrated plot to lure her into his bed?
Did he do this sort of thing to any woman he found remotely attractive? Or did he really recognise something unique, special, intensely passionate in her, Rose Ashley? She wished he would move more slowly, give her a chance to feel safe with him, yet wasn't that like asking an erupting volcano or a tidal wave to move slowly and let people in its path feel safe? A deep shudder went through her as she realised that Greg was like some tempestuous natural force, incapable of moderation himself and determined not to condone it in her. But could she trust him? Or was he just making a fool of her?
Her wandering gaze alighted suddenly on the door of Greg's bedroom with clothes strewn untidily on the floor. In a desperate attempt to regain her sense of normality, Rose decided she would do a load of washing. She opened her own suitcases and took out her dirty laundry, then picked up Greg's scattered garments and made her way to the tiny utility-room tucked out of sight behind a door leading off the kitchen. As she was dropping the clothes into the washing-machine a sudden pang of uneasiness went through her. But why? What was it nagging at the back of her mind? Something that puzzled her. She looked down at the clothes in search of inspiration but there was nothing there to jog her memory. Nothing in the least bit extraordinary about them. Two pairs of faded jeans, underwear, socks, two red checked shirts, one with a green stripe through the red, the other with a navy stripe. The clothes he had been wearing when she had first met him...
Suddenly Rose set down the box of detergent with a gasp of indignation as enlightenment dawned.
'The liar!' she breathed. 'The low-down, scheming, unscrupulous fiend!'
For Rose had suddenly discovered what had been troubling her. When Greg had rowed her ashore from the Merastadu he had been wearing jeans and a red checked shirt with a navy stripe. Yet the following morning when she had found him in her kitchen cooking breakfast his shirt had had a green stripe. Which meant that he had brought a change of clothes with him when he had left the yacht.. .and that meant that he had plotted to spend the night ashore in her cottage right from the very first moment! Obviously he had deliberately hung around pruning the creepers and lighting the fire just waiting for the rain to come down and give him an alibi. And all that talk about dangerous coasts and rocks that would tear the bottom out of a boat in the darkness had been just an attempt to play on her guilt and pity... The devious, unscrupulous wretch! Handling the detergent box as if it were full of gunpowder, Rose shook it viciously over Greg's clothes, slammed down the lid of the washing-machine and turned the knob with a furious twist. She was still seething when she marched back into the hall of the tiny cottage and began mechanically to tidy up. What should she do? Should she leave in protest? But her heart sank at the thought of all that was involved in doing that, at least tonight. It was growing dark outside now and she couldn't face walking down to Polperro by torchlight to find a telephone and call a taxi.
Or even, for that matter, walking across to the Vinces' place and trying to explain her position.
What made her most angry was the feeling that she had been taken for a ride and that Greg must have been laughing up his sleeve the whole time at her gullibility. But why had he done it? Why did he want to spend the night with her so urgently that he had deceived her? Presumably because he was attracted to her. Perhaps he had even had the nerve to think she might go to bed with him that very first night. But if he had thought that, why had he stopped short after merely kissing her? Not that she would ever have yielded to him, but he must have seen, must have felt how passionately she was responding to him! Rose gave a low groan at the memory of her own indiscretion. Yet surely the way that he had stopped at her insistence meant that he must care at least something for her feelings? She took a deep breath, trying to calm her unruly responses. She felt angry, yes, but in a way almost flattered by Greg's unscrupulous pursuit of her. And realising that she was flattered made her even more angry! But did any of it really matter? All right, so he had kissed her, but he hadn't gone to bed with her, so no real
harm had been done. Had it? Yes, she thought with a fresh spurt of annoyance. Because here I am feeling thoroughly unsettled, sparking with crazy impulses, thinking about him all the time instead of about my work, my cottage, my mother, my missing passport, my new life... Oh, I wish I'd never met him! As she thought this she gave one of her half- open suitcases an impatient kick. To her surprise, a large brown paper parcel slid out of it on to the floor.
'What in the world...?' she began, picking it up with a puzzled frown. 'This can't be mine.'
Then she looked more closely at the parcel. Scrawled on the front in black Biro in a bold, vigorous hand were the words, 'To Rose. Welcome to Cornwall. Love, Greg.' With a sense of profound misgiving, she tore open the package and looked inside.
'Oh, my goodness,' she breathed, setting the contents down on the hall table with trembling fingers. 'Now why in the world did he do that? And just when I'd decided he was an unscrupulous swine, too!'
A wistful, luminous smile played about the corners of her mouth as she looked down at Greg's present. Neatly folded in front of her were the clothes she had admired in the shop at Polperro. The cream woollen sweater decorated with hand-embroidered flowers in coloured silk. Pink, yellow, green, blue. But mainly blue, a pale, forget- me-not blue which would exactly match the colour of her eyes. And a romantic, swirling, blue muslin skirt to match. Rose's eyes pricked with sudden tears.
'Oh, Greg,' she said softly.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE following morning Rose woke early, feeling full of energy and purpose.
The first thing she had to tackle was another really good look at her cottage to see what needed to be done to it. It was a glorious, sunny day, so she spent many hot, energetic hours weeding and clipping back shrubs as well as giving the inside of the cottage a thorough scrub. Obedient to Greg's instructions, she took a sk
etch-pad and pencil with her and tried to figure out what repairs would be needed, but the results were daunting. With a sinking feeling Rose realised that the entire place would have to be gutted, rewired, replumbed, repainted and probably refurnished.
By late afternoon she was exhausted, and caught a bus back to Greg's cottage. Later, revived by a hot bath and a meal, she walked into Polperro and telephoned her mother in Australia. Luckily, her mother's news was good. She was still in hospital, but recovering well from the operation and hoped to join Rose in England within a month. She was anxious to hear about Rose's first impressions of Cornwall and the cottage. Not wanting to alarm her, Rose did not mention the decrepit state of the building, or the disaster of her missing passport, although she did admit with elaborate casualness that she had met some of the local people.
'You sound so odd,' said her mother. 'Just brimming with excitement. You haven't fallen in love, have you?'
'No,' retorted Rose sharply. 'It's...it's just the sea air!' -
Yet when Greg arrived on Friday evening, Rose couldn't help wondering whether her mother's shrewd diagnosis made twelve thousand miles away might not be right. Rose had been in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to a meal and had not heard the car, so his arrival took her by surprise. At the sound of footsteps in the hall she came hurrying out, pulling off an apron and smoothing back her hair, then stopped shyly in the doorway to look at him. He was just as tall and disturbingly magnetic as she remembered and his vibrant presence seemed to fill the whole house. For a moment they stood wordlessly looking at each other and a strange, invisible
current of attraction seemed to spark between them. Then Greg's gaze tracked lingeringly down over her body.
'I see you got your present, my love,' he murmured.
Rose flushed and looked down at the embroidered sweater and the soft, clinging folds of the skirt that she was wearing.
'Yes. Thank you,' she said, wondering why she had to sound like such a total fool. 'And it was awfully sweet of you. You shouldn't have done it, Greg. It was far too expensive a present, especially for a stranger.'
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