'I mean exactly what I say,' he burst out when the waitress had left. 'What do you intend to do once you've recovered from this wretched Martin? Are you going to look for a more suitable lover?'
Rose snorted. 'What's a more suitable lover?' she demanded tartly.
'Someone like me.'
The audacity of it took her breath away. She gave him a swift, stricken look, hoping to find that he was joking. But his dark eyes met hers with a smoky, sensual urgency that killed the hope at once.
'You're not serious?' she faltered.
'On the contrary, I'm intensely serious. I want you, Rose Ashley. And I always get what I want.'
Anger flowed into Rose's veins, hot and rich and useful.
'Don't talk about me like that!' she flared. 'Don't talk about what you want as if I were some object you could snatch. I'm a person with feelings and needs and desires of my own. A person you've only just met. You don't even know anything about me.'
Greg looked at her with an odd, brooding smile. 'You're wrong,' he growled.
'I know a lot about you, Rose. Your fears, your hopes, your good qualities and your bad. And I know the most important thing of all about you.'
'What's that?' she snapped.
He leaned towards her and his voice was so low that she could scarcely catch it. A deep, hoarse secret for her ears alone. 'That you want me just as violently as I want you. And it's been like that from the first moment we saw each other in the pub.'
Rose's face flamed. 'And you think that's a good enough reason for us to go to bed together?' she hissed furiously.
'What better one could there possibly be?' taunted Greg.
'How about love? Respect? Marriage?' cried Rose, almost spitting the words at him.
Greg shrugged, his dark eyes inscrutable.
'Those things are all very well in their place,' he conceded. 'But the most primitive, violent, basic instinct of all is what really counts. The need like a fire in the blood when a man and woman have to have each other, when they'd throw away everything else just for one night of fire together!'
Rose dropped her eyes uncomfortably. She disapproved of everything Greg was saying and yet she could not help being stirred by his words. His gaze seemed to be scorching her...
"That's ridiculous!' she protested. 'It's only self- indulgence. I'd never stoop to that, no matter how much I--'
'No matter how much you wanted me?' taunted Greg. 'Now there's an interesting admission.'
'I didn't admit anything!'
'You didn't have to. It's been in every look and smile and movement you've made since I've met you. We want each other rather badly, don't we, my love?'
She wished Greg wouldn't say these things to her, wouldn't send her reeling off balance like this. His frankness outraged her, but at the same time she couldn't help feeling unexpectedly thrilled to learn that Greg did want her just as badly as she wanted him, that he was driven by the same reckless impulse of passion. Not that she had any intention of acting on her impulses.
It would be sheer lunacy to give in and take him as her lover when they hardly even knew each other... She thrust away the thought that they already seemed to know each other more deeply than many couples did after a lifetime. It was that very sense of immediate intimacy which had sprung up between them that made Greg so dangerous, not only because he made her heart race with desire, but also because he slipped under her defences.
Unlike any other man she had ever met, he seemed to have an uncanny ability to sense her innermost feelings. That made her feel frighteningly vulnerable. Especially when he gazed at her with those searching dark eyes that seemed to see right into her soul...
'Well,' he prompted, 'don't you feel it too?'
'Don't ask me!' she said jerkily.
'Why not?' demanded Greg. 'It's important, isn't it?'
Her eyes met his in a tormented glance and then darted away. 'Yes,' she admitted. 'But I don't know you well enough to be sure of my feelings towards you.'
'Of course you do. Don't stop to think about it, Rose, answer me from the heart. Do you want me?'
'Yes. Yes...no! Oh, stop it, Greg! It's not that simple.'
'Why not?'
She tossed her head, shaking her loose, tumbled brown hair over her shoulders. Why couldn't Greg be content with meaningless small talk like normal people? Why did he have to insist on splintering all her defences and rampaging through to her naked, unprotected heart? Her whole body tensed as she fought off the unhappy childhood memories of her father and the equally bad memories of Martin.
'Are you asking me to become your lover?' she demanded in a tormented voice.
'Yes.'
'I can't!'
'Why not?' he asked, as if nothing could be simpler.
'Because I haven't known you long enough. And because--'
'It doesn't have to happen immediately,' Greg assured her, his eyes filled with blazing light. 'Although personally I'd like nothing better than to take you home this very night and make passionate love to you, Rose. But I can wait, although I'm not naturally a patient man. What I couldn't bear was to go on without telling you how I felt.'
'That's all very well,' said Rose in an exasperated voice. 'But you seem to think it's just like ordering something at a shop. You tell me politely that
you'll wait and then sit back and expect me to give you some kind of delivery date. That's insane!'
'Why?' demanded Greg.
'Because I don't take relationships as lightly as you evidently do!' retorted Rose. 'I don't ever want another lover, unless I'm quite certain that I intend to marry him.'
'I thought you had no intention of marrying,' Greg reminded her with a frown. 'That's what you told me the other day outside the church at Talland.'
Rose gave an exasperated sigh. Why did men have to be so literal-minded?
Why could they only ever grasp what a woman said and not what she meant?
'I probably won't ever get married,' she replied with a toss of her head. 'But if I do remain single, I certainly won't be fool enough to get entangled with another man. And even if I did want to marry, I'd have to be very, very sure of the man I was marrying.'
'Sure of him?' echoed Greg. 'What do you mean by that?'
Rose bit her lip. 'Sure that I could trust him,' she replied. 'What I've seen of men so far doesn't impress me with their trustworthiness. Look at my father with all his mean little infidelities, or Martin, dedicated to making money above all else and trampling over women as if they were only there to serve him and didn't have any feelings of their own. I couldn't live with that kind of pain and suspicion. I'd rather do without marriage entirely than put up with being deceived or exploited.'
Greg suddenly became very busy with the plate of spring rolls, picking up one of the crisp morsels in his chopsticks and dipping it intently into the sweet and sour sauce as if he was only half listening to Rose. She felt a pang of annoyance. After all, he was the one who had started this conversation!
'I'm sorry if I'm boring you,' she said in an offended tone.
He looked up at that, his eyes dark and piercing and mercilessly direct. 'No, you don't bore me,' he said. 'You intrigue me. You're frightened of men, aren't you, Rose? And frightened of yourself?'
'What do you mean?' she asked sharply.
'What fascinated me about you right from the start was the conflict that was obviously raging inside you. So precise, so prim, so polite, so dull! And yet beneath it I could sense the real you, passionate, impetuous, turbulent and far, far more interesting, but afraid to let yourself go. Well, having heard about your father and your lover, I understand why you're hurt and suspicious and I can see that you try and make life safe for yourself by being very controlled and logical but it won't work, my dear. Life isn't like that, love isn't like that, and you're taking things all the wrong way.'
'Oh?' said Rose coldly. 'And what should I do, according to you?'
Greg leaned forward and touched one of the silky strands of br
own hair that was dangling down the front of her sweater.
'Trust your instincts,' he urged. 'Let yourself go. Take risks with life. It will be worth it, Rose, believe me.'
Rose wanted to sneer at him, to retreat, to say that he was quite wrong about her and that she really was as cool and sensible as she seemed on the surface.
But for some reason she couldn't do it, perhaps because she knew deep down that Greg was right and that he understood her more profoundly than any other human being had ever done. She gazed back at him in torment, and slowly shook her head, as if she was refusing some invitation too terrifying and exalting to contemplate.
'Just go with the flow,' he whispered. 'Let it happen, Rose, don't say no to life.'
At that moment the waitress appeared to remove the empty bowls and serve their main course, and Greg released her hand.
Rose felt dizzy with relief at this unexpected reprieve, but gradually realised that nothing had changed. Although Greg's manner had now lost its intensity and he was chatting amiably, helping her to the choicest titbits of chili beef and crisp, savoury Peking duck, it was as if he had woven some potent spell around her that still continued to exert its subtle magic. The rest of the room seemed as shadowy and unreal as a film set, the other diners no more than unimportant extras, as all her attention focused magnetically on Greg. She tried to remind herself that she must tread carefully, must resist his allure, but it was useless. How could she resist someone who seemed to know everything there was to know about her? And who saw beneath her cool, sensible facade to the passionate creature she had always known existed beneath? Rose had never felt such a heady sense of abandon before. Her head was swimming, her face was flushed from the sun and the wine, and she had the intoxicating sense that at any moment she might yield to Greg's command and stop being afraid of life. And she knew that if that happened she would simply fall dizzily and helplessly in love with him. Even now she wanted him with an intensity that shocked and elated her. It would be easy to surrender to him, fatally easy, as easy and urgent as breathing. The empty plates were taken away and replaced by almond cookies and green tea, then gradually those too vanished. At last Greg's warm, strong fingers closed over hers.
'Ready to go?' he asked.
Rose felt as if she were floating as they went down the stairs and along the echoing road that led to the car park. She had only had two glasses of wine, so it couldn't be that, but she felt as if all the normal bonds of convention which constrained her were somehow dissolving and falling away. It was still twilight outside, a mysterious shadowy green twilight that made the lights of houses and fishing boats sparkle like necklaces. As they drove across the bridge to West Looe and emerged into open countryside the scent of freshly cut hay and salt air wafted into the car and filled her lungs. Her feelings were a strange blend of excitement and profound tranquillity and when Greg gave her a stormy sideways glance she smiled back at him without any of her usual reserve. Just for this one night she felt a wildness in her blood, an impatience with the cautious, defensive way she had lived her life until now. It might be madness, but she felt that whatever happened between her and Greg would be deeply, awesomely right. As inevitable and fitting as the arrival of dawn or the falling of leaves in autumn. Something
that was part of the primitive rhythm of life and far too natural to be feared or regretted. For the first time in her life Rose was conscious of her power as a woman and the knowledge transfigured her. Every cell in her body seemed roused into a firestorm of hunger and yearning, an urgent, pulsating need.
As they approached the cottage on the cliff-top, she let out her breath in a soft sigh, stretched back luxuriously into the seat and closed her eyes, rather enjoying the way that the world seemed to be spinning wildly about her, completely out of control.
Greg stopped the car in the driveway and came round to the passenger door.
With the touch of his hand on her shoulder, Rose's eyes flew open.
'Are you feeling all right?' he demanded.
Her breast heaved as she sought for words to answer him and she felt as if her whole body was throbbing and aching with unsatisfied need. A wry smile touched the corners of her mouth.
'I could say that it's too much wine or too much sun or too much jet-lag,' she said huskily. 'But I don't think it's any of those things really. I think it must be pure midsummer madness that's making me feel this way.'
Greg's hand cupped her chin and he looked deep into her eyes with a hungry expression of yearning. 'How do you feel?' he growled.
Some vestige of her old caution overtook her and she flushed and looked away. 'I can't tell you,' she mumbled.
His hand touched her cheek, forcing her head back. 'Look at me,' he ordered.
'Would it help if I tell you how I feel? That this is going to be the most important thing in both our lives? But you already know that, don't you?'
A shudder went through her and she gave a small, assenting nod. Catching her by the hair, he looked fiercely into her eyes.
'You can trust me, Rose,' he growled. 'Whatever happens, I swear you can trust me.' Then, seizing her hands, he drew her out of the car, slammed the door and hurried her into the house. There, as if driven by a common
impulse, they fell into each other's arms. Fire seemed to blaze through Rose's veins as Greg hauled her urgently against him. She could feel the hard, muscular strength of his powerful body through the thin fabric of his clothes and the violent, irregular thudding of his heart. Threading his fingers through her hair, he tilted back her head and kissed her full on her softly gasping mouth. Her lips quivered and then parted to welcome him in. An aching sweetness flooded through her at the warm, demanding hardness of his kisses and her eyes fluttered shut. She felt her body sway enticingly against him and heard his muffled groan as she brushed the most secret part of him. Seizing her by the hips, he ground her body ruthlessly against him, demanding more. A low whimper of longing escaped her and she let him do as he wanted with her, glorying in the merciless caress of his hands as they moved in hectic spirals over her quivering body. When he peeled the sweater over her head and tossed it carelessly on the floor, she did not offer any resistance but watched him from under half-closed lids, feeling every part of her throb with urgent need. Then he slipped his hands inside her thin T-shirt and cupped her warm, full breasts.
'My beautiful, darling Rose,' he breathed. 'Do you know how much I want you?'
A shudder of pure, tingling delight rippled through her as his fingertips stroked her nipples, and she nodded wordlessly.
'Let me take it off,' he said hoarsely and, as deftly as if they had been lovers forever, he drew the T-shirt over her head, slipped off her bra and gazed down at her with a wild, hungry longing in his eyes.
'Greg--' she murmured unsteadily.
'Oh, Rose, I didn't mean this to be so soon, but you don't know what you do to me. You're driving me crazy, my love. Let me touch you, hold you, drown in you.'
With a low groan he sank on one knee, gripped her waist as if he would snap it in two and buried his face in her breasts. The warm tickle of his breath, the thrilling tug of his mouth on her nipple made her cry out with longing and she flung her arms around him and nuzzled his head. He smelled clean and
fresh and primitively virile, with an aroma of salt and shampoo and some strange, herbal masculine scent that brought a flood of warmth pulsating through her.
'Greg--' she gasped again.
'I've wanted to do this from the first moment I saw you. Oh, you're gorgeous, Rose. Warm and soft and giving, totally feminine...we belong together, you know that, don't you?' Rose's breath was coming in shallow gulps and a firestorm of aching, throbbing desire was beginning to ignite in every cell of her body when suddenly there was a disturbance. A vigorous knocking at the conservatory door, followed by a loud hail.
'Hello! Anybody home?'
She froze in panic as Greg leapt to his feet, swearing colourfully under his breath. With a final, exasperated oath he snat
ched up her clothes from the floor and bundled them into her arms.
'Who is it?' mouthed Rose, blushing hotly.
'Hugh Thomas, the bank manager. Run upstairs and get dressed and I'll try and get rid of him.'
Overwhelmed by shock, embarrassment and a turbulent mixture of relief and vexation, Rose scuttled up the stairs, but halfway up she gave a muffled cry of dismay as she saw that her bra was still lying blatantly in the middle of the hall carpet. Hastily she changed direction, ran back down and snatched it up. But at that moment she heard voices approaching from the direction of the conservatory.
'Oh, no!' wailed Rose under her breath. And, without pausing to think, she dived into the kitchen. The voices came closer, with Hugh's lilting tones overriding Greg's.
'No trouble at all,' he insisted. 'We've got more strawberries than we can eat this time of the year, so I thought you'd like a few. I'll just put them in the kitchen for you.'
Rose gasped. This was getting worse and worse! Wildly she looked around for an avenue of escape and her eye lit on the utility-room door. Clutching her disordered clothes against her naked breasts, she darted out of sight just a second before Greg and Hugh entered the kitchen from the hallway. There was a light thud as Hugh evidently dropped a couple of punnets of strawberries on the kitchen table, followed by the scraping of a chair as he made himself at home.
'Actually, Hugh, I'm rather busy,' began Greg.
'Not too busy to listen to me, boyo,' said Hugh sternly. 'Now listen, Greg, the strawberries ate only an excuse and you know it. What I really want is a word with you.'
Rose winced and, as quietly as she could, began to pull on her bra and T-shirt. This sounded as if it could be a long conversation, damn it!
'A word with me... What about?'
'Ingrid.'
'Ingrid?' echoed Greg in an exasperated voice. 'What's Ingrid been doing?'
'Well, in the first place,' said Hugh, 'she came round to me in a great fuss and bother this afternoon because she'd been looking for you and couldn't find you.'
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