Passion's Prey

REBECCA KING PA S S I O N ’ S P R E Y

Who was sleeping in Petra's bed? It certainly wasn't Goldilocks! It took Petra a moment to realize it, but the strange man occupying her bed was Jared Tremayne! The years since their last meeting had been kind to him. If anything, he was more handsome, more charming than ever, certainly more infuriating. Unfortunately, not only was Jared back in the neighborhood—he was the neighborhood! The irrepressible man had moved in next door! Petra had told herself that she had long since gotten over her teenage infatuation for him. She had Simon: safe, sensible, dependable Simon. But Jared evidently found her a lot more fascinating as a grown-up, and the fact that she was involved with another man only made him even more determined to woo her. Could it be that having a hero next door was playing tricks with her heart?

~~~ After ten long and lonely years, the irrepressible Jared Tremayne was not only back but living next door, as outrageous as he had always been. Petra thought she had made it clear that she had seen everything that could possibly be of interest to her as far as Jared was concerned. Yet he continued to pester her, and there seemed no end to his determination. How would it all end?

1993 by Mills & Boon

SPECIAL MESSAGE TO READERS First published in Great Britain in 1992 All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention. DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER? If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this book. All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Mills & Boons Enterprise. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. MILLS & BOON and MILLS & BOON with the Rose Device are registered trademarks of the publisher. Copyright © 1993 by Rebecca King All rights reserved King, Rebecca Passion's prey ISBN 1-84395-162-2 Published by F. A. Thorpe Set by Words & Graphics Ltd. Anstey, Leicestershire Printed and bound in Great Britain by T. J. International Ltd., Padstow, Cornwall.

CHAPTER ONE 'Oh, no!' Petra wailed. 'I just don't believe it.' She flicked the light switch up and down half a dozen times, but her kitchen obstinately stayed as dark as the stormy night outside. A gust of wind hurled a handful of hailstones across the back of her neck, and she hastily closed the door then leaned up against it, eyes closed, her whole body sagging with weariness. What a day. If only she'd known what was coming she'd have stayed safely in bed with the duvet over her head . . . The row with Simon, first here in this very room, glaring at each other over a tableful of half-finished cakes, then continued at long distance via the phone as soon as he'd got back to his school . . . That had upset her dreadfully, forcing her to confront herself— asking deep inside whether she was right . . . And then, probably as a result of her tearful state, she'd ruined the icing on every cake, so that she'd had to scrape it all off into the bin and grimly start again . . . And that had meant she'd missed the last post out of the village . . . And that had meant a breakneck trip across the moors to Bodmin Station to catch the London train, with her elderly car's heater on the blink, so that she was half frozen . . . And now, to get back home and find the power off. No lights, no cooker—no electric blanket, which she'd actually remembered to switch on, promising herself an early night, sitting up in bed eating a heated-up Chinese meal and watching her portable TV, Sam stretched out alongside her, purring loudly. Petra's lower lip quivered with self-pity. Oh, come on, please, no more snivels, she told herself sternly. There've been more than enough of those already today. Straightening up, she unbuttoned her grey wool jacket and, feeling for the peg on the back of the door, hung it up. As she did so she sneezed loudly In the car, the raw December cold had seeped right into her bones—she'd probably catch pneumonia, and then somebody would he sorry. Drawing back the curtains, to allow the pale, rather eerie light outside to filter in, she edged her way carefully across to the larder. She couldn't make a cup of tea, or even a hot milky drink, h u t a slug of the dark Jamaican rum which she used for cooking should put a bit of warmth into her frozen body.

She fumbled for a tumbler, poured a little of the spirit into it, hesitated, then added another slurp. When she held the glass up against the window it was a third full. She hesitated, then thought, Oh, well—desperate remedies. Sitting down at the pine table, she took a cautious sip, then gasped as liquid fire scorched her throat. Heavens, it was potent. No wonder she'd had so many repeat orders for her Boozey Fruit Cake this Christmas! She took another sip, but then all at once, above the sound of the wind howling around the cliff-top cottage, Simon's voice echoed once more round the room, and in her head. 'You've got to marry me, Pet—you must see that. As a headmaster, I'll be expected to have a wife. In fact, at the interview I as good as told them we'd already named the day.' Then her own angry response. 'You had no right to do that—when we're not even engaged.' 'And whose fault's that?' Simon, running his hands exasperatedly through his fair hair. 'God knows, I've asked you times enough. Well, I'm just warning you—I'm not prepared to wait much longer . . .' Abruptly, she gulped down the rest of the rum, to anaesthetise her brain, and stood up. By the time she reached the landing, treading very carefully, her head was spinning and she felt as if she w a s floating inches off the carpet. For someon e who didn't usually drink an d never neat spirits—she'd defin i t e l y overdone the alcohol. Well, at leas t she'd sleep without rocking tonight, as Gran would say. The bedroom curtains were tightly drawn, but her eyes were getting used to the darkness and, moving like a cat, she skirted her dressing-table and felt h e r way down the side of the bed. Her loot came up against something soft, a n d when she picked it up she realised it was her nightdress. She must have forgotten to roll it up under her pillow. Gritting her chattering teeth, she kicked off her shoes, then began pulling off her clothes, throwing them in the direction of the invisible bedroom chair. Then, after dragging her brushed cotton nightie down over her head, she put a hand on the duvet, braced every muscle to meet the shock of an icy sheet, and slid in. She rolled over, curling herself into a ball, then the next instant came up hard against something warm. A body. A naked body. A very masculine body.

Each consecutive thought went through her mind at twice the speed of light, but then, as she opened her mouth to scream, one f i n a l thought came with a little spurt of joy: It's Simon, come back to make up that horrible quarrel. But did she really want to make up in this way? He'd always been perfectly happy not to consummate their relationship until they were married. She too, so wouldn't they both regret it, in the cold light of dawn . . . ? And yet, perhaps if they did make love . . . ? Swallowing down her fears, she turned on her side again. 'Oh, darling, I'm so glad—' she began huskily, and then three things happened almost simultaneously. She put a tentative hand to Simon's head, discovered that instead of his smooth, silky hair her palm was caressing thick, springy curls, and an unfamiliar male voice mumbled s l e e p i l y and very irritably—'What In hell—?' N e x t moment, before she could move, cry out or do anything, a heavy arm came across her, pinning her body to the mattress. Gathering her to him, the m a n sought and found her mouth, sti l l quivering with terror and shock, and his own mouth came down on it, w a r m and hard and vibrantly alive. B u t she must be dreaming—she had to be—was the only half-coherent thought that came spinning through her dazed mind. And then her lips were parting to allow the stranger to greedily plunder her mouth, ravaging its sweetness until she gave a low moan as golden shooting stars flared behind her eyelids. The man groaned deep in his throat and as she arched helplessly towards him he slid his mouth down to rest first against the angle of her neck, where the pulse bounded just beneath the soft skin, then lower still, following the opening of her nightie until his lips found the valley between her soft breasts. 'Mmm. You smell so good.' Petra's eyes jerked open. That voice—she'd thought it unfamiliar, and yet, as the haze in her brain cleared for an instant, she knew with sick certainty that, from long ago, through the mist of time, it was as familiar to her as her own. Dragging herself away from him, she fumbled frantically on the floor for the small torch she kept beside her bed. Her fingers closed on it, then, kneeling up, her breath rasping in her throat,

she switched it on, and a faint sound, half sob, half wild, hysterical laugh, was wrenched from her. Next instant, as the torch hung limply from her fingers, the man snatched it from her. As he swung its small beam directly on to her face she shook her hair forward to screen it, then turned away. But she was too late. He put the flat of his hand against her cheek and forced her head inexorably b a c k , tilting her face so that the torchlight fell full on it. 'Well, well.' When she glanced up at him from u n d e r her lashes she saw in the pale glow behind the torch that the man was l y i n g back again on the pillow—her pillow—one arm behind his dark head, a lazy smile in those black-fringed pale grey-blue eyes. 'Hi, Petra. Long time no see.'

CHAPTER TWO Petra leapt backwards, expelling a long quivering breath made up of anger, shock—and something else very like fear. 'Jared Tremayne! What on earth do you think you're doing in my bed?' 'I should have thought that was perfectly obvious—although I was about to ask the same of you.' He yawned hugely, but even so held out an inviting hand. 'What's the matter, Petra? Still can't keep away from me, is that it?' 'No, it most certainly isn't.' She flared up instantly, fighting down that strange little feeling inside her which for an instant had made her breathing unsteady, her heart twist painfully. 'And anyway—' his words had finally registered '—what are you talking about? This is my bed—in my cottage. Oh, no!' For the first time she looked directly at him, her emerald-green eyes dilating with shock. 'You aren't—? You can't be Mrs Pearce's new tenant.' She gazed imploringly at him, and he smiled wryly. 'How very quick you are tonight, sweetheart. Yes, I've taken a lease on Pear Tree Cottage. But nobody told me that you live here too—that really is a bonus.' The faint irony set her teeth on edge. 'So sorry to disappoint you,' she replied frostily, 'but this is Apple Tree Cottage. It's my house and I live here—alone. Pear Tree Cottage is next door.' But to have Jared Tremayne as a next-door neighbour—even a very temporary one—in the adjoining cottage was appalling enough, she thought with a little spurt of horror. When Mrs Pearce had casually mentioned the other day that the agency she leased her holiday cottage through had phoned her about a winter let she'd been quite glad. After all, the two adjoining houses were far enough out of the village up here on the cliffs for it to be very lonely at times. She'd even thought of inviting her new neighbour to dinner. A hysterical giggle welled up inside her. Dinner? He was in bed with her, wasn't he—and without any invitation? And as for a neighbour—she'd sooner have a fully grown rattlesnake living alongside her than Jared Tremayne. 'I'm sorry, Jared,' she went on, her voice as coolly formal as she could manage, 'I don't know how you got in here, but—' 'Through the back door. It was unlocked.'

So she'd been right when, halfway to Bodmin, she'd thought uneasily that she couldn't remember, in her hurry, actually locking the door. 'But,' she repeated resolutely, 'there is a bed, nicely aired, waiting for you next door. So—' 'You go and sleep there if it's so nice. I'm not budging an inch from this one.' And, as if to underline his words, he let the torch drop on to the sheet between them and turned over on his side away from her. For a moment the old familiar impotent rage when faced with the implacable object that was Jared Tremayne surged through her. She longed to seize him bodily, drag him down the stairs and deposit him on his own doorstep, but instead, far more wisely, all she did was put out a hand and roughly shake his shoulder. 'Now, look here. You just go, will you?' 'Not on your sweet life.' He rolled on to his back once more, and that thread of irritation was back in his voice. 'I've flown in from Los Angeles today, I've driven down from Heathrow, and I'm thoroughly jet lagged.' 'You didn't seem very jet lagged just now.' The words were out before she could stop them, and she felt the warm colour flood into her cheeks as, in the faint light, she saw a slow cat's smile twitch his lips. 'Oh, just the normal reaction of any red-blooded male, I assure you, Petra.' He paused. 'Although I must admit that for a few seconds I did wonder whether all those folk-tales of phantom maidens haunting the Cornish cliffs to lure unsuspecting sailors to their doom might be true, after all.' 'Don't worry,' she snapped. 'I'm just ordinary flesh and blood, I promise you.' 'Flesh and blood, m a y b e . . . ' h i s voice was beginning to slur with fatigue ' . . . but Petronella Tallis, ordinary? Never. Especially if you always wear your nightdresses like that.' She had had to bend forward to catch his final words. Now, glancing down, she saw that, in her hurry to be under the duvet, she hadn't bothered to do up the buttons of her nightie, and the cleavage, almost to her waist, was revealing a horrifying amount of creamy flesh. Clutching the folds of cotton to her, she came upright with a jerk. 'Jared, p l e a s e . . . ' she began uncertainly, but the only reply was a s o f t l y drawn breath, and when, very tentatively, she touched his smooth back i t was as relaxed as a baby's. S h e expelled her own breath in a long soundless sigh, then switched off the t o r c h and sat huddled under the du v e t , her chin on her knees. There n e v e r had been anyone quite like Jared

Tremayne, and no doubt there never would be. The last time she'd seen him—she silently winced at the memory as if she'd bitten on a p a i n f u l tooth—he'd been hardly more than a boy, and yet all the character traits had been sketched in already: the arrogance, the poise, that utterly ruthless streak, the 'I know w h a t I want from life and don't anyone dare stand in my way' attitude which had so fascinated—and terrified—her. And now, nearly ten years on, here they were, fully fledged in the grown man. The final summer before he went away—how old had she been? Just sixteen, so he must have been going on twenty. Which made him thirty now . . . Was he as wild, as unpredictable as ever? Judging by tonight, yes. And, anyway, a streak of wildness that wide could never be buried permanently. He'd never be a respectable pillar of any community, never be a hardworking teacher—and newly appointed headmaster—at a private school. At the thought of Simon, a guilty blush suffused her cold cheeks. So honourable, so upright— what on earth would he say if he could see her now? But what else could she do? She could sleep next door, but what would Mrs Pearce think—and anyway, why should she? But the little bed in her spare room was stripped off to the mattress, and no one had slept in it since Simon, that night when his car battery had packed up. And that was weeks ago . . . The air in her bedroom was icy. She shivered, her teeth chattering slightly, then very slowly she slid down on to the v e r y edge of the mattress, pulled up the duvet and lay staring into the darkness. But sleep did not come for a very long ti m e ; the thought of that naked male body inches away, even if it was thoroughly jet lagged, was just too deeply disturbing . . . ★★★

She woke from a toss-and-turn half-sleep, haunted by a shifting kaleidoscope of pictures from the past which had finally formed themselves i n t o one single image—a dark young face, the devil in his eyes, a tanned hand sweeping back unruly black curls as he turned to smile beguilingly at her, to beckon her towards him, while some instinct deep inside herself brought her dragging, unwilling footsteps nearer and nearer to him.

And nearer and nearer to danger - the danger that passion would ignite within her again and hurl her to her destruction, as surely as though she were to be flung from the cliffs on which her tiny cottage was poised. For that was what passion—sexual passion—did. It destroyed people's happiness, it destroyed their marriages, their families—their lives. ★★★

—

As she moved restlessly in the bed her foot came into contact with a leg, and instantly the

final, faint wisps of the rum-induced haze cleared from her brain. Every muscle in her body tautened, but somehow she resisted the impulse to leap out of bed, clutching her nightie to her. After all, it was her bed.

—

Very cautiously she turned on her side, and in the pale, clear light saw Jared. Her caution

had not been necessary—he was still out for the count, breathing regularly and deeply so she propped herself on one elbow and stared at him, a strange mix of emotions churning inside her.

He was lying on his side, facing her, one lean hand pillowing his cheek, the wiry black curls flopping forward, the grey-blue eyes hidden by the thick black lashes which cast a shadow across the hard-planed cheekbones. His mouth . . . even as her gaze lingered on it, a fa i n t , sensual smile curved the lips. Dreaming of his latest conquest, no doubt, she told herself scornfully and

tried to drag her eyes away, but that face, after all these years, still held a k i n d of fascination for her and would not let her go. It wasn't a conventionally handsome fa c e — it was too strong—and, besides, too much of the devil lurked in i t . Simon, with his combination of brown eyes and wheaten hair, had always been much better looking. And yet, no matter who else was there, from when he'd reached the age of twelve or so, every eye would go to Jared when he entered a room. He'd saunter in, his head carried on his shoulders with all the assurance of a young princeling, and the unconscious grace of a sleek jungle cat. Whatever he was doing, Petra mused, he'd always looked completely right—perfectly in harmony with himself inside his skin. His skin . . . Her gaze moved, as though with a will of its own, to his bare shoulders, the smooth olive skin which, as a young girl, she'd longed to touch, to stroke, and which even now— Horrified, she realised that her fingers were reaching out to him, and clenched them until the nails bit painfully into her palms. That skin—it was a legacy from his mother, of course, the gypsy girl whom Mike Tremayne, one of the local tinners, had become obsessed with, captured and imprisoned in the neat terraced house with the blue-painted door down by the quay. When she was a child Petra saw a production of Carmen on television, and ever after in her imagination Rosa Tremayne was Carmen, in a scarlet skirt, performing a passionate flamenco round the gypsy camp fire, tragically caught between her two lovers. In the end, of course, the wildness in h e r h a d told and she'd gone off, as all the village— except Mike—had known she would, leaving him with the legacy of a son no less wild and impetuous than herself. And then, w h e n Jared in turn had taken himself o f f , Mike too h a d left, to carve out a new life for himself, mining in Australia. And now Jared was back. In her bed but she thrust that thought down. Endearingly asleep, showing a vulnerability that no one who hadn't seen him totally defenceless like this would guess a t . And, suddenly, into her mind flashed t h a t other time . . . She'd been fourteen . . . One of those shimmering summer days when Cornwall really seemed the magical land that legends had created of it . . . She'd been walking along the cliffs and there, in a private little hollow, surrounded by yellow gorse bushes that were droning with the drunken hum of bees, she'd come upon Jared.

He had been sunbathing, lying stretched out, just as he was now, and—just as he was now— naked. She'd stood and stared, the pop song she'd been humming abruptly dead on her lips as strange sensations had stirred into life, vibrating deep inside her like a softly stroked violin. And then h e ' d woken instantly, just like a cat, and l a i n there for a moment before giving her that lazy, crooked little smile. 'Ah, little Iseult,' he'd said, his voice softly mocking her. And, not knowing at all what he meant, she'd turned and fled blindly back down the steep path that led to the village, her breath sobbing in her ears . . . With a sudden violent gesture she thrust back the duvet. As she stood up he muttered irritably, then flung himself over on to his other side, leaving a long expanse of olive-satin back in clear view as far down as the upper curve of his haunch. On each side of his spine, just above the tailbone, there was a neat dimple. Petra stared down at those twin indentations in his flesh, then just as abruptly as she h a d jackknifed out of bed she leaned across and dragged the duvet up to his shoulders. Snatching up the clothes she had abandoned the previous night—she didn't dare hunt around for clean ones—she tiptoed across the room and closed the door soundlessly behind her. In the bathroom, she tried the light switch, and it came on. Thank goodness the power cut was over, but there wouldn't be any hot water for a shower. So she splashed her face and hands with cold, gasping as it stung her soft skin, then, groping for a towel, rubbed fiercely at her face as if to scour her mind clear of unwelcome thoughts. In the cold air her breath frosted the mirror, and through the mist her face stared back at her. She studied it impassively. She'd never been pretty, of course, even as a child. Once she'd heard a woman say to her mother, 'Those looks, Lilian, where does she get them from? Such a shame she hasn't got your colouring.' Then her mother had sniffed, and said in a voice of bitter acid. 'Oh, yes, and look where my colouring's got me.' And the conversation had changed hastily. Her hair was that strange, very light auburn, overlaid with gold, so that when it was newly washed it shone like pale fire. These days she always put it up, out of the way, as she was doing now, her fingers automatically winding the rope of hair over one hand then pinning it at her neck.

But, even so, against it her skin was too pale, almost white, except where it broke out in a burst of milk-coffee freckles at the first ray of spring sunshine . . . Her eyes—beneath straight auburn brows—were that brilliant emerald which people seemed to find disturbing. Her mouth was too wide for her small face, and this morning, she realised as she ran the tip of her tongue round it, still swollen from Jared's kiss. Her glance fell involuntarily to the neck of her nightdress, still unbuttoned, and her eyes followed the sensuous trail that his lips had taken between her full breasts. Unbelievably, after an entire night she could still feel their touch, almost like a bruise, against her soft flesh. Then, even more appalling, as she stared into the wide-eyed gaze of her reflection beneath the cotton she felt her nipples stir into life, just as they had done under Jared's caress. Furious with herself, she tore off the nightie, got into her clothes with hands that managed to be almost steady and, heart in her mouth, tiptoed out on to the landing. But as she passed the bedroom door her footsteps faltered, and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. What on earth was happening to her? Last night—she couldn't deny it—every fibre in her had strained to meet that kiss with an eagerness which now made her feel ill with shame. To have reacted like that to a stranger . . . But it hadn't been a stranger, had it? It had been Jared—and that made it a million times worse. It was only the sound of his voice which had brought her to her senses. What might have happened? No, what would have happened? What madness had possessed her? She hadn't behaved remotely like that, not for ten years—and then it had been with this very same man. What was it about Jared Tremayne, she asked herself helplessly, that he could have this effect on her, an effect as devastating as that of a lighted match tossed casually into dry brushwood? But then as she walked into the kitchen she saw on the table, where she had left them, the rum bottle and her dirty glass, and the relief flooded through her, leaving her weak at the knees so that she had to lean against the pine dresser. Of course! That was what had wrought the mischief, forcing her to behave so—well, so out of character with her real self. For that was the only way to explain her wantonness. As for Jared—well, she might have had a teenage crush on him at sixteen, hut so had every other girl in the village, and now she was a mature woman of twenty-six with a steady, long-time boyfriend, and there was nothing that he could do to her any more. Even so, there must be no

more adolescent-style fantasies woven around him, especially not now that the boy of those dreams was a man—and that man Jared Tremayne. Fantasies were far too dangerous. Impetuously she caught up the bottle and put it away where she could not see it, then, after adjusting the time clock on the central-heating boiler, she began laying her breakfast at one end of the table, setting down each item with a defiant little bang. Last night's gale had not quite blown itself out, and a gust of wind from the southwest whistled round the eaves. As she glanced up she caught another sound—a half-pathetic, halfimperious yowl—and when she opened the back door Sam, his fur blown in all directions at once, came leaping in. 'Oh, poor baby.' Petra bent down and the big cat allowed himself to be picked up and cradled in her arms as he butted his blunt black nose against her cheek, growling softly as he grumbled all his woes to her. 'I know, sweetheart. I know.' She dropped a kiss between his ears, the feel of soft cool velvet under her lips. 'That's quite a beast you've got there.' Her arms tightening instinctively on Sam, so that with a last muffled growl he leapt down and disappeared under the table, she whirled round to see Jared, arms folded, lounging in the doorway. 'Tell me, is it a large cat or a small panther?' 'I—a cat, of course.' As she stared at him, her eyes blank, he straightened up and sauntered across to her. He too had obviously just pulled on his clothes again—a big white sweater and casual dark grey cords— for his hair was ruffled and the strong jaw was fuzzed with dark stubble. 'Morning, Petra.' He stood, his thumbs jammed in his belt, smiling down at her, his teeth white against his olive skin. It was the same smile as always—lazy, ironic, ever so slightly mocking—and as a tight fist seemed to close over her heart she looked down quickly. 'Morning.' She spoke to the cable pattern on his sweater. 'I—I thought you were still asleep.' 'I was—till I rolled on to your half of the bed . . . ' at his words the hateful burning colour scorched into her cheeks ' . . . and the cold sheet woke me.' He jerked his head in the direction of

the table, from beneath which the cat was regarding him balefully. 'What's he called? From the size of that head, he must be a he.' 'Sam.' She did not look up. 'Sam? Why Sam?' 'Well, Samson really. Because he's so big and strong.' Jared laughed softly. 'And his namesake was a sucker for the female sex too, if I remember correctly. Hi, Sam.' Going down on his haunches, he stretched out his hand towards the cat. There was a low, thunderous growl, a snarl showing sharp white canines, and next moment Jared swore violently, jerking back his hand, scarlet blood oozing from a long scratch. 'Oh, Sam—you naughty boy.' Petra gasped with horror as the cat retreated to the corner of the kitchen, his tail lashing, his green eyes blazing with hostility. 'I'm sorry, Jared.' She was hot with embarrassment. 'He's never done that before.' And it was true. Fiercely protective of her Sam might be, but he had never conceived such an instant, violent loathing on sight for anyone before. Even Simon was graciously allowed to pat him on occasion. 'I'm sorry,' she repeated. 'I know he doesn't like men, but —' 'As I say, he obviously prefers the female of the species,' Jared broke in caustically as he straightened up, the blood trickling down his wrist. 'Be careful or you'll get it on your sweater.' Without thinking, she seized his arm and towed him across to the sink, where she thrust his hand under the cold tap. It was a strange sensation to be standing there, so close to him that their hips and legs were brushing against one another, his warm breath on her bent head, the cold water spurting over their joined hands. It sent strange little prickles running all over her body. 'It should be all right now,' she said finally in a brisk, nurse's voice, and, snatching up a clean tea-towel, padded his hand dry. 'I'll put a plaster on it.' He watched as she fetched down a first-aid box from the cupboard. 'Maybe he knows it's thanks to me that he spent last night outside.' 'Oh?' She glanced up questioningly from fixing the plaster, very carefully so that her fingers did not actually come into contact with his skin.

'Yes. I thought I felt something brush past me when I let myself in. On the other hand, maybe he just doesn't like the idea of me moving in next door.' There was a subtle provocation in his voice now, but she resisted the obvious rejoinder, merely agreeing woodenly, 'Maybe he doesn't. But really he isn't that keen on most people. He was cruelly treated, you see, before I got him.' 'How do you mean?' 'I was down on the beach one day and I saw this bag, tied up, just below the tideline. I thought I heard something, and when I opened i t . . . ' her voice trembled at the memory ' . . . there were five kittens inside.' 'You mean, some swine was too yellow to put them down painlessly, and left them there to drown?' She nodded unsteadily. 'Four were already dead, and I thought the other one was. But then he moved a paw and sneezed, so I—I buried the others and brought him home with me. So—well,' she looked up at Jared from beneath her lushes, 'I think perhaps he feels sort of protective towards me.' 'Mmm, probably.' The two males regarded one another coldly for a long moment, before he remarked casually, 'You know, you have eyes just like that darned cat—stunning emerald, the pair of you.' Petra, who had begun to relax her guard just a fraction, tensed again, but then, transferring his gaze to the table, he went on smoothly, 'Now that's what I call a real neighbourly welcome. How did you know I like muesli and orange juice and,' he picked up the jar, 'home-made lemon marmalade for breakfast?' 'Actually, it's my—' she began, but stopped abruptly, her lips tightening as quite deliberately he pulled out a chair and sat down. She had to be careful—very careful. If he was going to be living next door for two or three weeks then the battle lines would have to be clearly defined—right now. He was arrogant and overbearing—yes, but he also possessed, when he chose to switch it on, a million-mega-volt charm. One flutter of those devastating black eyelashes, and his new neighbour would be getting him three square meals a day if she didn't watch out. 'Make yourself at home,' she said, ramming another two slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster. 'After all, you used to be welcomed with open arms at every house in the village, didn't

you? By the women, at any rate.' What demon had driven her to add that? She broke off, but then, at his lazily reminiscent smile, she went on, even more recklessly, 'And not only in the kitchen.' 'If you say so, Petra.' 'Oh, I don't say so, Jared. The whole village did. Mum—' 'Your mother?' he prompted as she stopped abruptly. 'Oh, nothing.' This time, belatedly, common sense prevailed and she clamped her lips shut on her mother's ten-year-old warning, 'You keep well away from that Jared Tremayne, my girl. He's nothing but trouble for any woman who's fool enough to get mixed up with him . . .' 'Your mother,' he repeated. He was leaning back in his chair, watching her, almost as though, Petra thought, the words really had been spoken aloud. 'How is she?' 'All right.' But, as he went on looking at her with those grey-blue eyes that had always seemed to see right into her, she added reluctantly, 'She went to Liskeard to live with Gran last year.' 'And is that when you moved out here?' She nodded. 'That's right. When the coast-guard station was transferred further down towards Newquay they sold off these two cottages—quite cheaply. I managed to buy this one, and Mrs Pearce bought the other one for her holiday lets.' 'And your father—did he—?' 'Come back, you mean?' she interposed, her voice brittle. 'Yes—several times. Not the last time, though. That's when Mum finally divorced him. If I'd had my way she'd have kicked him out years before,' she added fiercely. 'Hmm.' That disconcerting gaze was still on her. 'Do you see much of him?' 'No more than I can help.' Even after all these years, she couldn't quite hide the bitterness. 'After all, my stepmother's made it clear she doesn't want me deflecting any of his fatherly love from their own two children.' 'Poor Petra. I'm sorry.' Before she could pull back he reached across and took her hand, drawing her down into the chair beside him. Her small pale hand lay in his strong tanned one, and as she looked down at his thumb, gently stroking in. TOSS its back, she felt that animal vitality which had always been so much a part of Jared tingle against her own kin like a tiny electric current. She snatched her hand away. 'There's no need to be. I'm fine.'

But he just gave her another of those slanting smiles. 'You know, my sweet, we're two of a kind, you and I.' 'Of course we aren't.' She flared up instantly. 'My father might have gone off—and your mother—but that's as far as it goes. We have nothing, absolutely nothing in common, Jared.' 'Are you quite sure of that?' His voice was silky. 'Quite sure.' And, leaping to her feet, she began reaching down an extra cereal bowl and two coffee-mugs from the pine wall unit. Even so, the tension was still spiralling in her, for she knew, without turning, that his eyes were on her, taking in every curve of her slender body, clearly revealed by the black wool ski-pants and turquoise sweater. But when she began placing the china, very methodically, on the table all he said was, 'Of course, I'd forgotten that these were the coast-guard houses.' She shrugged. 'Yes, well, you've been away ten years. That's a long time.' 'Although there are some things I've never forgotten. Such a s . . . ' without warning he pushed back his chair and came to his feet, very close to her, so that she was forced to take a step back '

. . . what a beautiful, gorgeous—kiss able mouth you have.'

As she stared at him, wide-eyed, he tilted her face up to him and very slowly, as if to savour each moment, brought his mouth down towards her. She stood stock-still, shocked into motionlessness, as his lips took hers with a seductive languor she could not resist. But then all at once the kiss hardened into a fierce intensity. Sliding his hands down her spine, he clamped her tightly to him and, hands splayed ACROSS her buttocks, bent her backwards against the table, making her joltingly aware of every hard contour of his body. She was suffocating as the slow, sweet poison that was Jared crept through her veins, drugging her, drawing her towards somewhere alien, somewhere she knew she must not go . . . But she was powerless to draw back — At a sudden clatter of crockery her eyes flew open and she saw Sam standing on the table, his back arched, tail swishing furiously and eyes spitting green fire at Jared. 'Oh!' The sudden shock brought her sharply back to her senses, and, wrenching herself free of his grasp, she stammered, 'H-how dare you?' Her mouth was tingling so much that she could barely get the words out. Breathing deeply, Jared swung round on Sam. 'That damned cat!' he snarled. 'He's jealous.'

'Well, he's got no need to be, I promise you.' Savagely she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, desperate to expunge not only the feel of his lips but also the memories that, dammed up for so long, had come flooding back— memories of that other time when Jared had kissed her like this, and then gone off, out of her life for ten years, without a word. 'Oh, come on, sweetie.' He was fully in control of himself again now. 'Don't pretend you weren't enjoying it.' Petra sucked in her breath, the searing knowledge that he was right only adding to her outrage. 'Th—that's not true. And, if Simon knew, he'd—' 'Simon?' His voice had hardened perceptibly. 'Yes. Simon Polruan.' She paused a moment then, not at all sure what prompted her to say it, added, 'My fiance.' 'Simon Polruan,' he repeated slowly, then, as if he found it impossible to believe, 'You are engaged to that prissy little—?' 'Don't say it,' she burst in fiercely. Don't dare say it. You haven't seen Simon for years, so you know nothing about him.' 'My dear child,' but there was no tenderness in his voice, only a harshness that made her flinch, 'what that young man was at twenty he will be even more so—at fifty. He is, no doubt, a rigid, ice-cold—' 'I won't listen to you!' She glowered at him. 'You're not going to insult Simon. He's nice and kind—which is something you'll never be in a million years. And—and steady—' 'And totally boring.' His lip curled derisively. 'No, he's not!' Her emerald eyes sparked. 'But he is someone I know I can trust completely. He'll never let me down.' 'Unlike your father, you mean,' he put in very softly. Jamming her clenched hands into the pockets of her ski-pants, she said expressionlessly, 'If you say so.' 'And will his mother let him marry you, do you think?' The grey-blue eyes were cold, remorseless. 'An ordinary village girl? Surely no one less than the lord lieutenant's daughter will do for her baby boy?'

She wouldn't lower herself to respond. 'I'm sorry, Jared, but you simply don't know what you're talking about,' she said haughtily. 'Simon's a grown man now and he makes his own decisions.' 'Really?' There was a wealth of unpleasantness in the word. 'But surely you know the saying: a leopard never changes his spots?' 'Well, you don't change, that's for sure,' she snapped. 'But I don't suppose you can help it— Oh, I'm sorry.' She caught herself up stiffly, ashamed of the cheap gibe. He gave her a sidelong glance. 'You mean, it's in my blood—in my genes?' 'Something like that, I suppose.' She gave him a faint smile, which he did not respond to. 'Look, Jared, I don't want to quarrel with you—' 'Well, that's a relief,' he said laconically. Her lips tightened, but she made herself go on in the same ultra- reasonable tone, 'After all, if we're going to be neighbours for a couple of weeks—' 'A couple of weeks?' He quirked a dark eyebrow. 'Mrs Pearce can't have told you the good news.' 'What news?' There was something in his voice that made her suddenly very apprehensive. 'Oh, just that I've taken a lease on the cottage for the next three months.' 'Three months!' She gaped at him, stark terror welling in her, but then said flatly, 'I don't believe you.' He shrugged carelessly. 'Sorry to disappoint you. Just ask her next time you see her.' 'But three months. What have you come for?' He looked down at her, a lazy little smile flicking at the corner of his mouth. 'Passion, my dear Petra,' he drawled. 'Sheer, unadulterated—naked passion.'

CHAPTER THREE And as Petra stared at him, quite mute, Jared dropped back down into his chair, hooked a slice of bread from the coaster, buttered it with calm deliberation and began eating, with every appearance of healthy appetite. 'W—what do you mean—' she ran the tip of her tongue around her lips '—passion?' He smiled up at her in a way she did not at all care for. 'There you are, you see. You did manage to say that nasty word.' Her mouth tightened, but otherwise she ignored the taunt. 'I'm sorry. I don't understand.' 'Really? Didn't I tell you?' He drained his orange juice. 'Surely, even down here, you've heard of Philippa Poynton Grainger's latest thousand-page blockbuster?' 'Yes, of course,' she said bemusedly. 'Passion.' 'Exactly.' 'But what's that got to do with you?' 'Just that I've been hired to write the screenplay for the movie version they're making next year.' 'You've—?' As Petra's legs sagged under her, she sank into the chair opposite him. 'I don't believe you.' He clicked his tongue reprovingly. 'Now, that's the second time you've said that. Oh, don't worry, darling—' 'And don't call me darling—' '—I shan't expect you to roll out the red carpet when I come calling. Underneath, I'm the same Jared as ever.' 'I've already noticed that, thanks,' she snapped. 'But—how?' 'You mean, how come I'm not still a thinker like Dad—or a casual farmworker, or a deck hand on a cargo boat? Those are just some of the jobs I tried out when I left here.' Petra, quite unable to meet his direct gaze, studied the blue and white willow pattern of her plate intently. 'But, like so many kids, I ended up in London, and got a job as a hit-actor in a fringe theatre group in the Mast End. I pretty soon found, though, that I couldn't hold in my head a part of more than twenty lines—but I did have a bit of a flair for writing.' 'And?' In spite of herself, she was deeply curious.

'One night a Hollywood producer saw a short play I'd done and—made me an offer I couldn't refuse.' 'But—we didn't know,' she said slowly. 'This place, you mean?' Jared's eyes, always, like the sea, a mirror of his moods, had turned a bleak grey. 'When I chose to cut my ties here, Petra, I cut my ties.' 'But I've never seen your name—in any film, I mean.' He gave a wry smile. 'Oh, most times the screenplay writer's on the very tail-end of the credits, if he's there at all. People are usually halfway to the car park before my name comes up.' 'So why do you do it?' He shrugged. 'Job satisfaction—until now, at least. And it pays well enough.' Reluctantly she looked at him, and for the first time her brain began to register what her eyes had been seeing since he had come sauntering into the kitchen. That white sweater—it had to be cashmere . . . while the watch he'd just glanced at—slim, gold—surely a Rolex . . . and in the corner over there, where presumably he'd casually slung it in the dark last night, was a superb cream sheepskin jacket, edged with shaggy matching fur. Finally her gaze went back to his face, to find him watching her, glinting amusement now in those sea-change eyes. 'Passion—it's set in Cornwall, isn't it?' When he nodded she went on rather breathlessly, 'So is that why you've come back?' Reaching across, he lifted a silky strand of her pale hair, which had escaped from the pins, and let it slide through his fingers. Just for an instant something flickered in his glance which made her draw back, her pulses beating in alarm, but all he said was, 'Why? What did you think I'd come back for, Petra?' 'Oh, I don't know.' She did her best to produce a couldn't-careless shrug. Just to have a look round your childhood haunts, I suppose.' 'And the scene of my early conquests, you mean?' he added sardonically. 'That as well, no doubt,' she replied stiffly. 'But suppose I say . . . ' Something in his voice alerted her, sending little needles of ice pricking up her spine, but a second too late, as he reached out and took one of her hands between his. 'Suppose I say,' he repeated softly, 'that I've come back for you, Petra?'

She snatched herself free, crushing both hands in her lap to steady their trembling. 'Go away, Jared—just go away, will you? You bring trouble with you—you're like a storm petrel.' He put his head back and laughed, the muscles tightening in his strong, tanned neck. 'Well, I've been called many things, but never a bird of ill omen before. Oh, it's all right, my lover—' she flinched at the old Cornish term of endearment '—I was only teasing. So there's no need to look so terror-stricken.' 'I am not terror-stricken,' she retorted, stone-faced. 'No? Well, in that case, with acting ability like that maybe we should sign you up for the lead part in this movie—if it ever gets written.' 'Why? Are you having problems with it?' 'You could say that.' He raked impatient fingers through his dark curls. 'In fact, I'm currently suffering from one hell of a writer's block that not even a month's solitary confinement by my pool in Jamaica could shift.' 'Jamaica?' 'Sure. I've got a little hide-away on the north coast there, which usually loosens the log-jam when I'm stuck for ideas. Not this time, though.' His rueful grin could not mask the deep frustration behind his words. 'So I've come back here, in search of a legend. Have you read the book—Passion, I mean?' 'Good grief, no.' She gave her first halfway natural laugh of the morning. 'I hadn't read anything but cookery hooks for months.' 'Oh?' He raised his dark brows enquiringly, but she hurried on. 'What do you mocking, a legend?' If she told him about her cakes he'd only give her that mocking, ironic smile, or, worse still, be all amused-indulgent, like Simon. 'If you haven't read it maybe you don't know that it's a modern rewrite of the Tristan and Iseult legend.' When she looked blankly back at him he went on, with a hint of irritation, 'Good grief, girl, surely you haven't forgotten all the stories Miss Trelawney told each generation of local fiveyear- olds in first grade—sorry, infants' class?' 'You mean, King Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot of the Lake?' she said slowly.

'Of course.' His narrow, hard-planed face lit up in a white-toothed smile. 'I'm glad you haven't quite forgotten your Cornish heritage. For a moment I was afraid that that prissy—' 'But I've forgotten the Tristan legend,' she broke in loudly. He shook his head in reproof. 'The most potent eternal triangle of the lot—even if Emily Trelawney did water down the sex element considerably.' 'Coffee?'Very carefully, concentrating all her attention on the coffee-pot, she poured two mugs. 'You know,' Jared remarked conversationally as she pushed one mug across to him, 'your likeness to the Princess Iseult is really amazing.' 'Ah, little Iseult.' She heard his gently mocking voice, saw him on that golden summer's afternoon, lying naked, and her hand jerked, slopping coffee on to the pine table. 'Hair like pale flickering fire, eyes of emerald-green, skin as white as milk, a slender body, pliant as a reed, and supple with the promise o f — ' 'Don't,' she whispered. 'Please don't.' 'But I'm only quoting the legend,' he said blandly. 'Of course, it's my private belief that, faced with a girl like that, poor, innocent Prince Tristan was a lost man the moment he laid eyes on her. And who can blame him for setting out to woo her away from dull, old, nice and kind and steady King Mark? What do you think, Petra?' His voice was husky, silk-lined with sensuality. It was mesmerising her, so that all she could do was stare at him, her eyes darkening with fear. Finally she struggled to find her voice. 'I told you, I don't remember the legend.' 'Maybe I'd better remind you, then. You never know,' he gave her a wry smile, 'telling you might even clear this mega-block of mine.' 'All right.' Reluctantly she surrendered. 'I'm listening.' 'Once upon a time—Like all the sexiest stories, it starts that way.' 'Yes, I'm sure it does,' she said tautly. 'Just get on with it, will you?' 'Mark was King of Cornwall. He was betrothed to an Irish princess called Iseult—a girl whose beauty no man could resist.' 'But of course. And Tristan—how does he come into the story?' 'He was the king's nephew, sent to bring Iseult across the sea to Cornwall. He was Mark's most loyal subject, and I'm sure there'd have been no problem, if it hadn't been for one thing.'

'What was that?' 'The young princess's mother, fretting that her daughter was entering into it loveless marriage with a man she'd never met, gave Iseult's maid, Brangwyn, a magic love potion. She was to put it secretly into the drinks of the bride and groom on their wedding-night, and they would at once fall desperately in love.' 'And did they?' Against her will, Petra was succumbing to the spell of Jared's voice. 'All in good time.' He tapped her nose reprovingly, and she drew back sharply. 'That warm, star-lit summer night Iseult and Tristan were alone together at the prow of the boat. She was thirsty, so he fetched from the cabin two goblets and a jar of what he thought was wine.' 'You mean they drank the potion?' 'Exactly. Straight away they fell helplessly, passionately in love, and right there, among the sheepskins strewn on the deck, they consummated that love.' 'So they ran away together and lived happily ever after.' But her attempt to inject a flippant note into her voice failed miserably. 'Not exactly, no. Mark was waiting for them when the boat landed—just along the coast from here—and Tristan had no option but to present him with his virgin bride.' 'But didn't he guess?' 'That she wasn't, you mean? No, because on the wedding-night, when the court had withdrawn and all the lamps were extinguished, the young girl Brangwyn was substituted for her mistress in the royal bed.' 'So after that the spell was broken.' 'Of course not—it had three years to run, and they were as much in love as ever. But rumours of their meetings reached the king, and, even though they denied the truth, Tristan was sentenced to death. He escaped at the last minute, but Iseult was ordered to undergo trial by ordeal.' 'In what way?' 'To prove her innocence she had to cross the dangerous tidal estuary at Malpas without soiling her silk dress. With all the court watching—and NOME say King Arthur was present, too she rode down to the muddy edge, then, as she was commanded, sent her horse across alone. But an old beggar who happened to be sitting on the liverbank offered to carry her on his hack, and somehow they lurched across unscathed. Then she remounted her horse and rode proudly up to

the king, put her hand on a casket of sacred relics and swore that her thighs had enclosed no man but her husband and the old beggar.' 'So she lied?' 'A little economical with the truth, perhaps, but no. The old beggar was Tristan in disguise, you see.' 'And Mark was deceived.' He shrugged. 'Not for much longer. When the three years passed guilt took over, the lovers parted and Tristan left Cornwall forever.' 'And that's the end of the story,' she said slowly. 'Not quite. You see—' The knock at the kitchen door made Petra start, but then, grateful to break free from the insidious coils Jared had been weaving round her, she leapt to answer it. 'Oh, hello, Mrs Pearce.' 'Good morning, Petra.' The woman's round, rosy face was puckered. 'I seem to have lost my new tenant. Have you seen him? There's a big new car round the back, but he's not in the house.' 'I . . . ' Petra began, but as she was still fumbling for words Mrs Pearce looked past her shoulder into the room. 'Why—that's him, is it?' 'Yes, that's right. He's here,' she said woodenly. 'Come on in, Mrs Pearce.' 'Thank you, dear.' She walked in, then stopped dead. 'It can't be. Jared—Jared Tremayne. Good heavens, who'd have—?' 'How good of you to remember me, Mrs Pearce,' he interposed smoothly and, graceful as a panther, came to his feet, hand outstretched. 'Oh, I remember you all right, Jared.' She gave him a smile that managed to be faintly coy. 'And how are you? You're looking very fetching.' He stood, smiling down at her, and Petra watched, rather sourly, as the middle-aged woman blushed and simpered like a young girl. 'But it must be—what? Ten years. What brings you back to these parts, Jared?' 'Oh, it's a long story,' he replied easily. 'Remind me to tell you some time—' 'But whatever are you doing in here?' Her gaze took in the breakfast table, set for two. 'I left food and milk in for you. I always do, to start my tenants off, and—' she sucked in her breath

suddenly, her gaze going sharply from one to the other of them, and Petra knew what was coming '—and you didn't sleep in the bed I made up for you.' Past Mrs Pearce she shot him an imploring look. All he had to do was laugh and say something about a delayed flight . . . arrived just at breakfast-time . . . 'I'm afraid when I got here last night, I—well, I mistook the house, didn't I Petra?' He flashed her a bright, boyish smile, which she met with daggers of ice. 'But I was made very welcome.' 'Really?' Mrs Pearce, her blue eyes bright, put a great deal of eager expectation into the word, but he had picked up his coffee and was gulping it down, so she turned instead to Petra, who heard herself mumbling lamely, 'The power cut . . . ' as if that explained all. The older woman scrutinised her closely. 'You look very flushed, dear. I hope you're not getting this nasty flu that's going about. I told you yesterday, you've been working much too hard.' 'Oh, no, I'm fine.' Petra managed a sickly smile, half wishing she was succumbing to flu—the three-month variety—as Jared picked up the cream sheepskin and slung it casually over his shoulders. 'At your service, Mrs Pearce.' Turning to Petra, he took her hand and, horribly aware of a pair of bird-bright eyes that missed nothing, she was forced to submit. 'Thank you for a lovely breakfast, P e t r a . . . ' h i s eyes gleamed, wholly grey as usual when he was engaged in mischief' . . . and for a wonderful Cornish welcome.' 'Bye, dear.' As Mrs Pearce went on ahead Petra snatched hold of Jared's arm, one sheepskin sleeve softly caressing her wrist. 'Thanks a million,' she hissed, anger finally taking over from discretion. 'For what, sweetie?' he enquired blandly. 'Just how long do you think it'll be teatime? No—Avril Pearce is the fastest worker in north Cornwall. Lunchtime.' 'For what?' 'Don't come the innocent with me. For the entire village to know that you and I—' she swallowed, hardly able to get the hateful words off her tongue '—spent the night together.' 'But darling,' lifting his hand, he brushed his fingers lightly over her lips, 'why should that worry you? After all, that's precisely what we did do.'

★★★ Petra sat for a long time, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the kitchen wall, from behind which she could hear faint noises: doors opening and closing, footsteps going up the winding stairs as Mrs Pearce showed Jared his bedroom—the one he should have slept in last night. Then there was the soft sound of running water—she must be showing him how to work that fabulous whirlpool bath, which she'd had installed when she'd turned Pear Tree Cottage into a luxury holiday let. He'd be able to soak in it; maybe those soothing jets would free his writing block . . . Her mind was etching in images of his dark head lolling back against the rim, that superb, oliveskinned body — Abruptly she swallowed a mouthful of coffee, grimaced as it went down, lukewarm, then got to her feet, cleared away the breakfast things—hers untasted—and set to work on a dozen Dundee cakes. It was no use, of course. The gentle ri t u a l of weighing, stirring, beating, which had never yet failed to soothe her, failed this morning. She looked down into the mixing bowl and saw Jared's lazily amused face, reached for smooth almonds and her fingers touched his satin skin, as they had last night. Did he remember? Did he still think about it? What had he said just now? 'Suppose I say that I've come back for you, Petra?' But that, surely, was no more than merely another ploy in his private little game of unnerving her? For, after all, a tremulous, wholly inexperienced adolescent girl, throwing herself at him, must barely have registered on the Richter scale of his sexual encounters. But for her . . . Finally the images of that ten-year-old summer surfaced like slow bubbles from that furthest part of her mind where she had so long imprisoned them . . . She'd haunted Jared all that hot summer, so that he'd alternately teased her, been irritable with her, and very occasionally been kind to her, putting his arm round her and dropping a light kiss on her hair. That Saturday afternoon her mother had been off on the local Women's Institute annual outing. From behind the curtains she'd watched until, just when she'd given up hope, Jared, in his old jeans and black T-shirt, had sauntered past and turned into the cobbled alley which led steeply

up past the backs of the cottages and on to the cliffs. He had been alone—as usual. He'd had plenty of friends, but there was an inner Jared that no one w a s allowed near. In the small hall she'd surveyed herself in the mirror, smoothing down her blouse and skirt, the sixteenth- birthday present from her parents the previous week that she'd begged for. Bought from a boutique in Newquay that specialised in Indian clothes and jewellery, it was in coarse cotton, the colour of clotted cream, the skirt fringed, the matching short-sleeved Mouse faced with cotton lace on the yoke. She'd stared at herself, her lips parted, for the first time in her life levelling in the swell of her breasts against the lace of her blouse, and the way the bias-cut skirt clung revealingly to her slender hips. Then finally, her heart beating erratically, she'd let herself out, praying that Mrs James next door wasn't on the prowl, and followed Jared. She found him beside a clump of wind-stunted rowan trees. He was propped against one, his chin on his knees, gazing out to sea, though lost less in the blue heat-haze that shrouded it than in his own thoughts. She stopped, all of a sudden wishing desperately that she was anywhere else but here. But as she tensed to take a step backward some instinct must have warned him, for he turned his head sharply. For a moment she saw something flicker in his face that she took to be impatience, and, writhing with embarrassment at her own gaucheness, she said quickly, 'Hello, Jared. Sorry to have disturbed you. I didn't know you—' 'Come and sit here.' He patted the warm turf beside him, and as she sat down, folding her skirt carefully around her, he smiled at her. 'You look nice.' His eyes were blue-grey—he must, for once, be in a good mood. 'Just one thing, though.' Reaching across, his hand brushing her nape, he hooked a finger in the ribbon that confined her hair into a neat pony-tail, gave it a tug and brought the pale auburn cloud tumbling to her shoulders. 'That's better—you should always wear it like that.' He gave her an odd little smile which set her pulses catapulting against her skin, and she turned her head away. Under her hand was one of the clumps of creeping thyme that scented the cliffs in high summer. She pulled a stem and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply, then, more to cover her uncertainty that anything, held it to Jared's nose. 'It's lovely,' she said. 'Smell it.'

The branches of the tree overhead cast a shifting pattern of light and shade on their faces, so close together that, as he turned his head to look directly at her, she felt his breath, warm on her lips. 'Petra?' he said huskily, and when she could no longer meet his gaze, but looked down, her eyes screened by her lashes, he put his thumb under her chin and tilted her face to him. Then her eyes closed completely as his mouth came down over hers. He'd kissed her before, but they'd always been fleeting, casual caresses, This kiss was different, though—as the ocean was different from a quiet country pool—and as her lips parted, giving his tongue free entry to her mouth, the touch and taste and feel of him ravished all her senses, sweeping her away instantly into uncharted realms of turbulence. When he put his hand to the top button of her blouse she lay quiescent in his arms. Slowly he undid each tiny pearl in turn, pulled it away from her, then deftly removed her white cotton bra. His tanned fingers rested for a moment, lightly bunched over one tender, swelling breast, then he freed the hook and eye catch of her skirt and slid it down over her hips and legs, followed by her white cotton, rather schoolgirlish panties, until finally she lay quite naked, no feeling in her beyond that she would love Jared forever and ever, as he would love her. Very gently he kissed the angle of her neck and shoulder, his lips brushing low fire over her skin. Oh, Petra,' he murmured shakily, yo u r body—your hair smells marvelo u s — like a field of new-mown meadow grass.' He looked into her eyes, his own smoky-grey with desire, then down at her pale body, all diamond points of sunlight and dark shadow. When slowly, infinitely slowly, with a hand that trembled slightly, he caressed her from her shoulder down over the curve of her breast, little fiery pinpricks scorched her skin wherever he touched it. She reached up and, sliding her arms round him, pulled him down to her, then kissed him with quivering eagerness, her whole body alive and greedy for him. 'Oh, Jared,' it came out as a shuddering sigh, 'I do love you so much.' Next instant he thrust her violently from him so that she sprawled on to the grass. 'Get dressed,' he said harshly. His face was turned to stone. 'But—what have I done?' Her voice almost broke, and when she lay there, too shocked to move, he caught her by the shoulders and wrenched her upright.

'I said—get dressed.' And, snatching up her clothes, he threw them at her then, leaping to his feet, stood staring out to sea. She huddled on the grass, clutching her crumpled clothes to her, to cover herself. All she wanted to do was crawl away painfully into a dark hole somewhere and die, but she forced herself to whisper, 'Please Jared, tell me w—what I've done.' He kept his back to her, still gazing out to sea, but then at last, 'If you must know, I don't much care for women who throw themselves at me—who beg me to make love to them.' He spoke in a light, cruel voice she'd never heard him use before, and it cut through her like a sword thrust to the heart. Biting hard on her mouth, so that she tasted blood, she said softly, 'I'm sorry.' Her hands were shaking almost too much for her to dress, but somehow she pulled herself on to her knees and tumbled herself into her clothes. She gathered up her dishevelled hair into its ribbon then, without a backward glance at that figure, as hard and unyielding as a granite statue, fled from the place of her shame. A few days later she overheard some women gossiping in the village stores, Jared Tremayne? Oh, yes, he's gone cleared out.' A knowing look. 'Well, folks do say he's been getting overfriendly with that Mrs Kendrick, and now her husband's found out . . .' Ten years on, Petra, staring at her kitchen wall but seeing images which h a d for so long laid buried deep inside her, acknowledged silently just how deep her wounds had been. And now the man who had inflicted those wounds had come back. Her mouth chalk-dry with fear, she abandoned all pretence at work, and, going through into the sitting-room, paced up and down, hugging herself. In her small patch of garden, Sam w a s stalking a tiny sparrow; it had seen him but, as though hypnotised, seemed incapable of escape. She rapped the window and, the spell broken, the bird fluttered off and Sam turned to glare at her. Beyond the low wall was the smooth green grass of the cliff, and then, beyond that, the sea, pale, translucent, blue-grey. The gale still hadn't quite dropped, and she could hear the whitecapped breakers crashing unseen against the jagged rocks at the cliff-foot. Passion was like the sea, she thought involuntarily—a terrible power that swept you away and ultimately destroyed you. At sixteen, she'd seen in her father, in the bitter shattering of her parents' marriage, exactly what an ugly, frightening thing sexual passion was. She would never surrender her life to it.

And yet . . . just a couple of kisses from Jared, and he had ignited her body once again in a way no other man had ever done. She was scared of him—for her own safety's sake, she had to admit that simple fact. She was terrified of what he could arouse in her. But if you were frightened of someone you armed yourself against him, didn't you? Yes, but what can I do? she moaned to herself. Then, as the answer came, she ran across the room and, almost sobbing with relief, snatched up the phone. When Simon answered a surge of joy swept through her—deep inside she'd had some superstitious dread that he would not be there. 'Oh, Simon. Hello.' 'Pet?' He sounded faintly wary. 'Look, darling . . . ' in her nervous anxiety, she was b a b b l i n g ' . . . I'm sorry—I was wrong—I see it now. You were quite right. Of course I'll marry you.'

CHAPTER FOUR Then when Simon did not reply at once, Petra went on hesitantly, 'That is, if you still want to marry me—after yesterday, I mean.' 'But of course I do, darling. You took my breath away for a minute, that's all. It's absolutely marvellous—and you'll make a wonderful Easter bride.' 'Easter!' That superstitious dread seized hold of her again. 'B—but need we wait till then? If we get a special licence we can be married by Christmas.' 'Oh, well, hang on, Pet.' Simon's indulgent laugh came down the line. 'Don't let's go to the other extreme. We don't want some hole in the corner register-office affair, do we? Mother would never forgive us.' 'No, but if I want to get married at—' There was a very faint sound behind her, and, swinging round, she all but dropped the receiver as she saw Jared propped in the doorway, unashamedly drinking in every word. 'What do you want?' 'Pet?' From down the phone she heard the disembodied voice. 'What did you say?' 'Oh, I—I was just shouting at Sam.' She gave Jared a glare, which should h a v e felled him where he stood, then deliberately turned her back. 'You still sound rather odd.' Simon's voice made her jump guiltily. 'Are you a l l right?' 'Yes, yes, I'm fine,' as her fingers tapped a restless tattoo on the coffee-table. 'Good. Look, we'll go up to Plymouth, have a celebration lunch, choose your ring.' 'That'll be lovely, darling,' she muttered, horribly aware of a pair of sardonic eyes trained on her nape. 'Great. Give me half an hour and I'll be with you.' Behind her she heard Jared straighten up and come walking towards her on cat's feet. He wasn't going to snatch the phone, was he? Her fingers tightened on the receiver, she said hastily, 'I'll be ready, darling,' and jammed it down. 'Now,' she swung round and almost collided with Jared, just inches away, 'what do you want?' 'My car keys. I must have dropped them in the kitchen last night.' But he spoke almost absently. 'I'll look for them. Excuse me.'

He had been blocking the way. Now he moved just enough for her to pass—not enough, though, to avoid brushing past him, their hips and thighs touching through their clothes, and the soft friction sent peculiar little hot and cold sensations down her legs. 'There they are, in the corner.' She stooped down, glad to hide the bright colour which had flooded her face, then snatched them up and held them out, without looking at him. 'They must have dropped out of your sheepskin pocket.' 'Thanks.' He took them but, instead of going, stood swinging them between h i s thumb and forefinger. 'I want to get at my gear. I need a shave, for one thing.' He rubbed his fingers across his chin, so that they rasped against the dark growth of beard. 'Unless, of course, you prefer me with designer stubble, Petra?' 'Jared.' She forced herself to meet his gaze squarely, and said in a clipped voice, 'I don't prefer you any way, and I just wish you'd accept that.' 'If you say so.' He paused fractionally. 'I f that's what you want to believe.' 'Yes, I do. Really. Definitely. Absolutely.' She rapped the words out like staccato gunfire. All the same, though, when he took a couple of steps towards her--her bravado evaporated instantly, and she edged round the table. But then he stopped. 'What the—?' He gestured towards the double row of cake tins, lined up ready for the oven. 'What on earth are these?' 'Rich Dundee calces,' she said tightly. 'I can see that. But twelve?' He looked at her in mild astonishment. 'Is it the church Christmas bazaar, or something?' 'No, that was last month. I made some for that.' 'So?' 'Well,' she said reluctantly, 'actually, cakes are my business.' From a box at the back of the unit she took a sticky gold label, silently handed it to him, and he read out, "Petronella's Cakes." When he glanced up at her enquiringly she said, 'That's right. I don't really like my full name—' 'But you should do. It's a lovely, old-fashioned Cornish one. Petronella,' he repeated, infusing a sensuousness into his voice that unnerved her even more. 'This is great—tell me about it.'

Was he mocking her? From beneath her lashes she sneaked him a suspicious glance, but his face was perfectly serious. She shrugged. 'There really isn't much to tell.' 'Of course there is. How did you get started, for instance?' 'I left school at seventeen—Mum couldn't keep me any longer, you see and I went to work at a bakery, the old-fashioned sort, where I got very interested in cake-making. I suppose I inherited that from Gran.' 'Yes, of course.' He smiled reminiscently. 'Those Irish whiskey cakes of hers—' 'That's right. I still make them—using her recipe, of course.' 'You know, I always liked your gran,' he remarked suddenly. 'And she always had a soft spot for you. I remember she used to say . . .' 'Yes?' he prompted as she broke off. 'She used to say,' Petra went on, cursing her runaway tongue, 'that your eyelashes were too long for your own good.' 'Good grief.' He gave a shout of laughter, then pulled a rather wry face 'Maybe she was right at that. What do you think, Petra?' But she had had time to pull herself up now. 'I don't think anything, Jared.' Her voice had a hollow ring, though. Those thick black lashes, sweeping his high cheekbones, framing those strange, changeable eyes . . . She tore her own gaze away. 'Anyway, I was telling you—that's if you really want to know?' She glanced up questioningly, and he nodded. 'They sent me on day-release to college once a week. But they were taken over by one of the big multiples, so I moved to another bakery, and then, two years ago, I decided I didn't want to spend half my time making pasties and pork pies.' She gave him a faint, almost apologetic smile. 'I just wanted to make beautiful cakes for people to enjoy.' 'And do they?' 'They seem to. I tested the water first—an ad in the local free paper for b i r t h d a y cakes, and I got twenty orders within a week.' She laughed ruefully. That was quite a baptism of fire fifteen children's cakes, all different, four for adults, including one shaped like a football, in green and white, for a Plymouth Argyle fanatic, and a golden-wedding cake, iced in pale yellow with dozens of tiny crystallised violets all over it.' She shook her head at the memory. 'Those violets— I sat up all one night making them until I was squiffy-eyed.'

'She smiled at him again, but he frowned. 'Couldn't you have bought them, for heaven's sake?' 'Yes, of course. But they'd almost certainly have had artificial preservatives, and I won't have them in my cakes.' 'Hmm.' He was still regarding her narrowly. 'And what's happened since—' 'Well, I've built up a chain of local delicatessens that I supply regularly, but most of my business lately has been through mail-order. I was featured last month—just a snippet—in one of tin-Sunday supplements,' she couldn't entirely keep the pride out of her voice, 'and the phone's hardly stopped ringing since. But I'm nearly through now—I got the last of the Christmas cakes and Stollen off last night, and,' she gestured to the table, 'these are the last Dundees.' 'And you do all this here?' She didn't quite like his tone. 'Of course. The Aga copes perfectly.' 'Yes, but do you?' Without warning he caught hold of her by the elbows, turning her round to the window and studying her intently until her own gaze fell. 'Mrs Pearce was right—you do look tired. Bloody exhausted, in fact.' He really did sound angry now. 'Do you have any help?' 'No—I think it's the personal touch in my cooking that people like.' 'Maybe. But what about the rest—finance, advertising and so on?' He was still standing too close to her, the faint tang of him—sweat and warm m a l e body—teasing her senses, and, running the tip of her tongue round her l i p s , she edged even further down the tab l e . 'Oh, no. I haven't had time to think about that sort of thing.' 'Well, you should do.' He gave a derisory snort. 'My dear girl, you may be a wonderful cook, but you're obviously one hell of a lousy businesswoman. Here you are, on the verge of a major breakthrough, and—' 'No!' she broke in loudly. 'I don't want to get any bigger. I'm perfectly happy as I am.' 'Running a small-time one-woman business from this kitchen table, you mean?' He smacked his hand down on it. 'Yes. And I don't need any advice from you.' There was more hostility in her voice than she'd intended—after all, he was only taking a genuine interest in her cakes. Which Simon doesn't, a sneaky little voice whispered in her ear. And that's what's making you a bad-tempered little bitch, isn't it? She took a deep breath, then said slightly more calmly, 'Please, Jared, let me run my affairs my way.'

He lifted one shoulder. 'Suit yourself. But I've got this friend who's head of a marketing firm in London. I'm sure—' 'I told you—no. In any case, I'll probably be giving it all up soon when I—I get married.' Unsure of exactly what he had heard earlier, she could not quite meet his eye. 'Ah, it's like that, is it?' His lips thinned, and Petra flared instantly. 'I don't know what you mean—and no, it isn't.' 'Simon Polruan's wife is to be just that—model wife of a model teacher.' The biting edge in his voice made her wince inwardly, but she sprang to Simon's defence. 'You don't know what you're talking about. Being a headmaster's wife is a full-time job.' Even so, she'd already secretly made up her mind that, once she'd settled in to her new role, Petronella's Cakes would be poised for a re-launch. But Simon was in happy ignorance of this, so she certainly wasn't about to tell Jared. 'OK, OK.' He held up his hand, as though he was bored with the whole subject. 'But look, are you quite sure you don't want me to get Sarah to give you the once-over?' He smiled—to himself this time. 'She'd do it for free, as a favour for me, I'm sure—' 'Oh, yes, I'm sure she would.' That secret little smile rasped on her nerves, though why she should care in the slightest what memories lay behind that narrow, sensual smile she preferred not to imagine. He gave her a long, considering look. 'Can I help it if I'm irresistible to women?' She drew in a sharp breath—Jared Tremayne really was everything she loathed in a man. 'You arrogant, complacent swine!' Another casual half-shrug. 'I'm sure you're right, Petra.' 'Oh, I am!' Caught up by the tide of her anger, she was swept helplessly on 'But just because women have always thrown themselves at you—' She broke off with a little gasp and looked up, to see him regarding her, that tiny smile still playing round In thin lips. There'd always been a hint of cruelty in him, of course—she'd known that since childhood . . . And then, even though the kitchen was warm, she shivered as she remembered Sam stalking that helpless sparrow, with exactly the same intent, predatory expression which she now glimpsed in Jared's eyes. Suddenly the air all around her was tinder-dry. Lips parted, she stared at him, but then, before either of them could speak, the door burst open, rupturing the intense, dangerous silence.

'Hi, darling. I'm here.' Simon came in, but was then brought up abruptly at the sight of the two of them, standing together. She couldn't look at him—Jared, his eyes a pale opal-grey, was holding her gaze, willing her not to break the thread between them. But somehow she wrenched herself free. 'H—hello, Simon.' 'Sorry. I didn't know you had a Visitor.' He was frowning slightly, and to her overstretched nerves it seemed as if the temperature in the kitchen had dropped several degrees. 'Yes. Isn't it amazing?' She gave a strained laugh. 'Do you recognise—?' 'I can see who it is, thanks,' he replied abruptly. 'How are you, Jared? It's been a long time.' 'Hello, Simon.' Jared stretched out a hand, but as Simon took it he said, 'What are you doing back here?' No 'Great to see you after all this lime', thought Petra involuntarily. But then, why should there be? Simon and Jared had never got on, even as boys growing up together in the village. 'Oh, you know . . . ' there was that deliberately lazy drawl in Jared's voice that she hated ' . . . looking up old friends.' 'Are you staying long?' Jared shrugged. 'No idea. My plans are rather—flexible.' Petra, realising that her fingers were nervously picking at the hem of her sweater, smoothed it down. For reasons she'd rather not guess at, he seemed intent on behaving at his infuriating worst. Over Simon's shoulder she shot him a look, half anger, half entreaty; he returned it blandly, then turned back to Simon. 'I've rented the cottage next door, you see.' And, as Simon stared at him, he added casually, 'On a three-month let.' 'Oh, have you?' He made not the slightest effort to sound pleased. But at least, with Simon living several miles away at his school, there wasn't much chance of his finding out just where Jared had slept last night. Who's been sleeping in my bed? asked Baby Bear. She bit her lip on the inane giggle, then looked up as she realised that Jared was repeating, 'Haven't I, Petra?' 'What? Oh, yes, that's right. Three months.'

Both men were watching her. They were much of a height, both tall and well built—both good-looking in their very different ways. But any resemblance ended there. Jared was wild, unpredictable—dangerous; Simon was strong, solid—dependable. Her heart swelling, she went over to him, put her arms round him, and, almost—but not quite—ignoring a sardonic pair of grey-blue eyes on her, kissed his cheek. Then, taking hold of his hand, she said, 'Simon's just landed a really plum job, you know.' Ignoring his half- hearted protests, she went on, looking the other man straight in the eye, 'Head of a boys' boarding-school in Shropshire—he'll be one of the youngest heads in the country.' 'When do you start?' 'Next term—January.' 'Shropshire—January,' Jared said, almost to himself, then, 'That's really great. Congratulations.' He gave Simon a warm smile, and mercifully only Petra seemed to pick up the subtle undercurrent beneath his words. 'And what about you, Jared? What are you doing with yourself these days?' 'Oh, this and that. I'm trying my hand at writing at the moment.' 'A book, you mean?' 'Well, not exactly.' Petra glowered at him. Why the hell did he have to be so—so devious about it? 'Hmm. I've often thought I'd like to give writing a try. Trouble is, I never seem to have the time.' 'Yes, that's often a problem,' Jared agreed smoothly. Petra couldn't stand this a moment longer: Simon, happily unaware of those currents that she—and Jared as well, she was sure—could feel swirling around them, that treacherous undertow pulling at all three of them and threatening to drag them down. She looked pointedly up at the pine clock on the wall. 'Darling, we really ought to be going. Simon's taking me out to lunch,' she added more coldly to Jared's left shoulder. She paused for him to get the message and leave, but he only said, 'How nice for you,' and went on propping up the unit, so finally she went on, through her teeth, 'Well, I'll go and get ready, then. I shan't be long.' And, with a smile which was entirely and only for Simon, she quitted the room.

She closed her bedroom door, then realised that she was trembling in every limb. She stood in the middle of the carpet, struggling for composure, her lingers twining and untwining endlessly. How could she stand it—three months' living next door to him, when he'd obviously set himself up to be her tormentor, pure and simple? No, not pure—not where Jared was concerned. And certainly not simple. She took a lot of care choosing what she was going to wear. There were not that many good clothes in her wardrobe—

—

she had been working too hard the last couple of years for a wild social life

—

but, even so, she discarded most of them before pulling out the outfit on the rail at the end. It was a black and white tweed Chanel-style suit—chain-store variety, though that certainly

didn't show

—

edged with black velvet braiding and with gilt buttons. She'd bought it last autumn for a

reception at Simon's school, when she'd desperately wanted to look good to impress his rather starchy colleagues—and at the stunned looks in some of their eyes she'd thought she'd probably succeeded. Throwing the suit, and the blouse that went with it—in palest sea-green silk-look polyester—down on to the bed, she flew through to the bathroom, shedding garments as she went, and leapt into the shower . . . There was a full-length mirror in her wardrobe door. She turned, slowly surveying herself, and a little smile curved her lips. The blouse, together with a touch of tawny colour on her cheekbones, some mascara and a slick of peach lip-gloss on her full mouth, enhanced the brilliance of her eyes and the pale fire of her hair, while the short-cropped jacket set off her slender waist, and the knee-length skirt her long, slender legs. She gave a little nod of satisfaction. Tights were all very well for comfort — she wore them day in, day out—but for sheer glamour it just had to be worth the wrestling match with a suspender belt to wear slinky black twelve-denier stockings like these. Thrusting her feet into high-heeled black pumps and smoothing down her skirt, she took a last slow look at herself. Good. Sophisticated and cool that was the impression she wanted to create today. That would show him, once and for all — With a guilty little start she caught herself up. All of this ... it was for Simon, of course it was—and no one else. After all, it wasn't every day a girl celebrated her engagement, was it?

Snatching up her bag, and the fine gold chain with a teardrop pearl on it, she ran lightly downstairs. Outside the kitchen door, though, she paused, her fingers on the handle. There was silence the other side. Good—that must mean Jared had finally taken himself off. She went in, then stood, frozen in the doorway, as she saw Simon, still in his car coat, leaning against the sink, staring out towards the village, which lay in a cleft of the valley below. Jared was sitting on one of the chairs, rocking it back and forth on two legs, apparently completely at his ease, and studying a knot in the pine table. As both men swung round towards her she met Jared's gaze first, saw that barely perceptible something in his eyes, and then they locked with hers until she felt as though she was falling endlessly through water, unable to breathe. 'You look very nice, Pet.' Simon's voice, a shade constrained, broke the spell. 'Thank you, kind sir.' She gave him a grateful smile, and went across to him, holding out the gold chain. 'Would you do this up for me, please? The clip's so tiny that I can never manage it.' 'Wait a sec. I'll just take my driving gloves—' 'No need. I'll do it.' Another voice, velvet-smooth, cut in, and another pair of hands reached for the chain to scoop it up out of her palm, so that she was forced to submit, standing, head bent, while Jared's fingers brushed against her nape, making the tiny pale hairs prickle. 'Thanks.' But she didn't look at him, only gave Simon a dazzling smile. 'Right. I'm ready.' 'Well,' Jared said languidly, 'I'll get started on making myself at home—settling in.' She turned and shot him a quiet scowl. Did everything he said have to be barbed—have a second meaning for her ears alone? 'Or maybe I'll take it easy,' he continued as she followed Simon through the door. I'm still a bit jet lagged—though, how bad as I was last night, am I, Petra?' She felt his eyes on the back of her head, but would not look back. 'I really wouldn't know, Jared,' she said icily, then locked the door and took Simon's hand, 'Let's go, love, shall we?' 'Well, enjoy your lunch.' Jared lifted a long leg over the wall between the two gardens. 'See you later, Petra. Bye, Simon. It's been a real—pleasure meeting you again.' As she buckled her seatbelt Simon switched on the Rover's ignition with a sharp little click. 'I see he's lost none of the famous Tremayne charm,' he snapped irritably. He always was an absolute bastard, that one.'

'Yes, he was, wasn't he?' she agreed absently, then, rousing herself from a far from pleasant reverie, put her hand on his arm. 'Please, darling, don't let's talk about Jared any more.' She managed a light laugh. 'I want to enjoy today.'

★★★ 'It's been a marvellous day, Simon. Thank you—and thank you for this.' She gave him a rather blurred smile, then looked down at her left hand, the diamond solitaire winking on her fourth finger. 'It's beautiful.' He moved closer to her on the sofa, taking her hand and holding it tenderly between his. 'As I told you, my sweet, nothing but the best for a beautiful Easter bride.' 'An Easter bride,' she repeated softly, then, as a tiny icy finger touched her spine, she shivered. 'I just wish it wasn't so long, that's all.' 'But it isn't, Pet.' He shook his head in admonishment. 'I've got to settle in to my new job, get to know the staff—and the boys, of course. And there's a lot of work to be done on the house we'll occupy.' He smiled at her reassuringly. 'The time'll soon pass, I promise you.' 'Yes, you're right.' But she did not quite manage to return his smile. 'Look, are you sure you won't have tea before you go? I can easily—' 'No, I must go, love. My office is still upside down, and I've got to sort out all the students' files ready for my successor.' He stood up and moved towards the door, but then paused. 'And you really don't mind—about Christmas, I mean? Mother's nerves have been so bad lately that I think it's best if we stick to our original arrangement.' 'Well, I could take over all the cooking . . . ' Petra began, but when he frowned slightly she went on quickly, No, I don't mind at all, darling. Mum and Gran are expecting me, anyway.' 'Good. That's settled, then.' She stood, quite passive, as he took her in his arms and kissed her lightly on the lips, but then—she wasn't sure why; something inside was impelling her—she put her arms round him, drawing him close to her, her lips opening under his to intensify the kiss. She moved her body against his, and Simon slid one arm down her back, pulling her nearer still.

Next moment, though, as a shudder ran through her she jerked back out of his embrace. But he smiled down at her again, apparently quite unaware of her sudden reaction. 'Simon,' she said hesitantly, 'you—you do find me attractive, don't you?' 'Of course I do, darling.' He looked astonished. 'You must know that. But we—well, we've agreed that we prefer to wait, haven't we?' 'Yes, I know,' she murmured softly. After all, Simon was always in total command of his emotions—she'd known that since childhood. In thin case . . . But that's what you want, isn't it, her inner voice whispered to her, everything calmly ordered, totally under control? Yes, it is, she thought fiercely, and, picking up his gloves, held them out to him. 'I'll see you off.' She stood outside her gate, waving as, with a last toot of the horn, the Rover's tail-lights disappeared round a bend in the lane that led down to the village. Finally her hand dropped to her side, but she still stood motionless, almost oblivious of the cold evening air, until at last she roused herself, turned—and saw Jared, propping up his own doorway, silhouetted in the light from his kitchen, and watching her. She gave a violent start but then, ignoring him, went down her path. Her hand was on the doorknob when he called softly, 'Petra.' She hesitated, then stopped. 'What?' But she did not glance in his direction. 'Come here.' 'No.' 'Come here.' He did not raise his voice, but still she found herself walking back up her path and down his. She halted a few paces away from him, even in high heels having to look up at him. The light fell full on her face; his was in deep shadow. 'What do you want, Jared? I'm busy. Those Dundee cakes—' She stopped abruptly as he reached for her left hand and brought it up to the light. 'That's a pretty bauble. He has better taste than I'd have credited him with.' 'I suppose—on Simon's behalf—I should take that as a compliment,' she replied tightly. 'Not altogether.' He paused. 'Why have you done it, Petra?'

'What? I don't know what you mean.' She wrenched her hand away, as though his fingers were burning her flesh. 'Oh, yes, you do.' His tone was inexorable now. 'You weren't engaged last night—whatever you might have told me to the contrary. We both know that. No—' as she opened her mouth to protest'—don't bother to lie to me. And now here you are, with a brand-new fiancé, and a brandnew diamond solitaire. So, I ask myself—why?' 'That's none of your damned business,' she flung at him. 'I've told you, you may be living next door—and heaven knows that's bad enough—but just keep out of my life, will you?' She sensed more than saw the faintest smile tug at his mouth. 'It won't work, my sweetheart.' 'And don't call—W—what do you mean?' 'You're not going to marry him, you know.' 'Of course I am,' she said loudly. 'Simon and I are getting married on Easter Saturday—in the village church.' 'You aren't going to marry him,' he repeated, as though she had not even spoken, 'because I'm not going to let you.' 'You aren't—!' She stared up at him, her eyes darkening with shock. And exactly how do you propose stopping me?' 'Oh, Petra, do I really have to spell it out to you?' At the lazy sensuality in his voice she took a step away, flinging her hands up as if to protect herself from him, though lie had not moved a muscle. But then, as she went to escape, he caught her by the wrist, turning her back to face him. She stood quite motionless as he lifted his hand and very slowly unpinned her heavy coil of hair. It fell through his fingers and on to her shoulders in a gleaming red-gold curtain, and she heard his breath hiss softly in his throat. 'I told you ten years ago, you should always wear it like this.' 'Ten years ago!' she blurted out. 'You mean you remember?' As she gazed at him in shocked dismay he moved closer, so that he blotted out the light entirely and his face was a dark blur, swooping down on her. Before she could draw even one jagged breath his mouth had closed with hers and his tongue had slid between her lips, stifling her heated protest.

He tasted sweet yet salty and warm, probing the moist recesses of her mouth in a blatantly erotic assault that set her senses spinning. Her eyelids fluttered, then fell beneath the weight of her lashes, and she clutched helplessly on to his shoulders. She tensed fractionally as his hand slid inside her jacket, then she felt his fingers begin to glide up and down her spine, setting up a friction, agonisingly sensuous against the silky fabric of her blouse, so fine that it was no more than a second skin. Moments before, Simon too had kissed her and held her to him like this, but Jared's lips, his tongue, his hands were obliterating all memory of that other embrace. In Simon's arms she'd felt becalmed on a tranquil sea; now she was being driven before a raging tempest—swept helplessly on to rocks of self-destruction! Violently she jerked her mouth free. His arm still held her, but so lightly now that all she had to do was take one single step back and she was free. But she could not move, could do nothing t0 break out of the charmed circle his kiss had woven round her, and she lifted dazed eyes to his—glittering, crystalline, triumphant. 'Now do you see, Petra?' 'No! No, I don't,' she cried with all the vehemence she could conjure up. You . . . and your kisses—they mean nothing to me.' 'All right, my sweet—if that's really what you want to believe.' A fleeting chimera of a smile curved his lips. 'And who knows? You just keep telling yourself that and you might even persuade yourself that it's true.' He raised his hands slightly in a contemptuous gesture of dismissal, and after a second's indecision she turned to flee. But as she fumbled blindly with her door-handle his mocking laugh floated through the darkness to her. Sobbing for breath, she flung herself into her cottage then locked the door, bolted it top and bottom and leaned against it as violent tremors shook her slender frame.

CHAPTER FIVE Petra set her case on the ground then wearily hauled Sam's travelling basket out of the car boot. Reaching in her jacket pocket for her key, she hurried down the path to her cottage. At this rate, Simon would be here before she'd got their New Year's Eve meal organised; the roads weren't icy today, so he'd have a clear run down from his mother's. Abruptly an upstairs window of the next-door cottage was flung open, and before she could stop the reflex action her eyes flew upwards, to widen with shock. Framed in the window was a young woman, barely older than herself. A highly attractive young woman in a frothy pale cream neglige, dark hair tumbling in abandoned disarray around her slim shoulders. She was in the main bedroom. Jared's bedroom. As Petra stood paralysed, still staring blankly up at her, she yawned, stretched voluptuously then knelt down, leaning her arms on the low sill. Petra finally came to, and, desperate now not to be seen, turned away—but too late. 'Hi.' The friendly greeting wafted down, forcing her out of sheer common politeness to halt. 'Good morning.' She raised her head again reluctantly, to be met by a warm smile. 'You must be Petra, Jared's neighbour.' So his ... house-guest was American. 'That's right.' She managed a stiff little smile and set Sam's basket down on the path. 'What a wonderful day.' 'Er—yes.' 'And what a marvellous view. I do envy you, waking up to this every morning.' The woman gestured towards the cliffs and the wide expanse of shimmering pale green sea. 'Yes.' What's the matter, Petra, Gran would have said, cat got your tongue? But it was no use—she was having to squeeze out every word past a huge obstruction in her throat. The young woman went on smiling down at her but then, as they both heard Jared's voice from further back in the bedroom, she turned her head, said something in reply, which Petra did not catch, and with a last little wave disappeared. Petra was frozen, transfixed to the spot. She heard Jared's voice again, quieter this time, a soft laugh, then there was silence. Realising that she was staring blank-eyed at one glossy leaf of the

ivy that covered her cottage wall, and terrified suddenly that they might think she was eavesdropping, she snatched up the cat basket and went on down her path. Inside, she dumped her case, then opened the lid of Sam's wicker prison. The big cat leapt out with an indignant yowl. 'All right, baby, we're home now. I've to get you some food.' But she spoke mechanically and when she went to open the tin of cat food her hand was shaking. It was only then that she registered that not just her fingers but her whole body was trembling uncontrollable. Very carefully she tipped the meat into Sam's dish and set it down on the floor but as she slowly straightened up a spasm of nausea shot through her so that she had to press the back of her hand hard against her mouth to quell it. What on earth was the matter with her? She asked herself angrily. After all, she knew – had known for years – that Jared was a highly sexed male animal, so in that case she shouldn’t be in the least bit surprised, should she? And anyways, what was it to her if he chose to entertain a different young woman in his bed every night of the year? If she hadn’t stoop up to him the other evening on his doorstep, hadn’t torn herself away from his drugging kisses, she would surely have been the next in a very long line. In fact, maybe it was only because he’d drawn a blank with her that he’d summoned this one. And she, of course, had come running. — all the way across the Atlantic… The phone, crashing into her thoughts, was a welcome relief, but even so for a moment she barely recognised the voice. 'Simon?' her grip tightened on the receiver. 'Why are you ringing? You haven’t had an accident, have you?' 'No – no, I'm fine. But look, Pet …' he cleared his throat, and some instinct told her what was coming '… I'm afraid I'll be seeing the New Years in up here.' 'Your mother's ill again,' she said dully. 'Yes, I'm afraid so. She's been much better since Christmas, but this morning she woke up with one of her heads.' Oh, yes, which one was that? Petra asked silently, then trust the unworthy thought from her.

'So now I've had to send for the doctor. Darling—are you still there?' 'Yes—yes, Simon, I'm here' Somehow she pulled herself together 'But that means I shan't see you before you go up to Shropshire for the new term.' 'That's right. I'm hoping to leave here on the third.' He hesitated. 'I am sorry, my sweet. But you're coming up to the school in February for a week, and I promise I'll make it up to yon then.' 'Yes, of course. Bye, Simon. I hope your mother's better soon. Oh—and happy New Year.' She replaced the receiver but then stood for a few seconds, her hand still resting limply on it, staring at nothing, until finally she dragged herself out of her reverie. The room was still decorated for Christmas—although she'd been going away, she had brought in holly and evergreens and set up her Swedish angel chimes, but somehow it all looked dead and unwelcoming now, and even the little tree in the corner seemed almost a sick joke this morning. She'd tear all the decorations down right this minute. But no—even as she went to scoop all the cards off the mantelshelf, she stopped. Simon wasn't coming, but she and Sam would still have a cosy evening and help the New War in together. Of course, she'd have in blot out all thoughts of how Jared would be seeing it in, but surely that wouldn't be any problem. All she had to do was bring down the steel shutters over that segment of her mind . . . Her lips tightened momentarily, but then, after switching on the tree lights, the lit the red candles on the chimes and stood smiling faintly down at them until the tiny gilt angels began revolving with a soft tinkling sound. All at once, though, she shivered. In her outdoor clothes she hadn't registered it—now she realised just how cold the house was. And yet, surely she'd set the central heating to come on? But in the kitchen the boiler was silent, and, when she clicked the time switch forward, nothing happened. Of all the days! It hadn't been right since that power cut, and the engineer she'd called in just before she went up to Liskeard had muttered something about its 'seizing up' and the folly on buying second-hand gas boilers. Ah, well, happy New Year to you too, Petra, my girl, she thought wryly. This really was going to be one for the record books. But at least she could light the log fire in the sitting-room and spend the evening roasting herself in front of that—or maybe she'd just get through the day somehow, fill a hot-water bottle and take herself off to bed for an early night. Perhaps that was the best thing, anyway. She felt utterly drained, the grey miasma of fatigue which had been

seeping into every part of her brain as she'd driven the last few miles from Gran's dragging now at each bone-weary limb. She heard the sound of a car door closing, then footsteps on Jared's path, Desperately she willed herself not to go near the window, then found her feet taking her, of their own volition, across the tiled floor. Jared's grey Aston Martin was parked beside his gate. Why was it, she asked herself inconsequentially, that, while other people were HAPPY to drive perfectly respectable cars, Jared Tremayne had to hire a sleek grey shark masquerading as a car? The two of them came into her line of vision, he in his cream sheepskin, white cords and a navy Breton fisherman's cap, she in a casual fuchsia-red suit and white sweater. The dark hair, Which had tumbled on her shoulders as if someone had been running loving fingers through it, was swept up now in a smooth chignon. She'd been right, Petra thought: she was much of an age with this woman—but trailed a galaxy behind her in chic sophistication. A perfect mate for Jared ... As he opened the passenger door he smiled down at his companion, and for a moment the two dark heads were very close together. Quite unable to drag herself away, Petra clutched on to the cold rim of the sink until her knuckles were white, and a violent feeling almost of hatred took possession of her, then ebbed, leaving her weak and ashamed. She stayed motionless until the car was out of sight, then turned back into the room. Her glance fell on the pine dresser and she saw that her collection of old copper jelly moulds had all taken on a greenish patina of verdigris. Impetuously she swept them up, dumped them on the pine table, and began polishing them feverishly. When at last they were gleaming as they had never gleamed before she put them back. As she did so Gran's two antique warming pans hanging on the wall caught her eye. She unhooked the nearer one and began rubbing its patterned surface as though it were a darkly saturnine face that she was trying to scrub into oblivion. She was just finishing the second one when she heard the Aston Martin screech to a halt outside. Her hands stilled for a moment before she returned the pan to its place. Deliberately keeping her back to the window, she was carefully checking that it was hanging level, when there was a perfunctory knock at the door. Her heart gave a sudden lurch and she swung round, just as Jared stepped inside. 'Oh—do come in, please,' she said waspishly.

'Hi, Petra.' He made no effort to come further in, just stood looking at her, but very deep inside her she felt the fear uncoil. He didn't have to do anything, she thought despairingly—he just had to stand there and she felt the raw masculine power emanating from him, the vibrant potency that he exuded from every pore of that beautiful olive-skinned body. She had to get rid of him—and fast. 'Don't let me keep you.' She screwed the top on the tin of polish and put it away. 'Keep me? From what?' 'Your guest, of course.' 'Oh, Kate, you mean?' Who did he think she meant? Or did he have a dozen adoring slaves waiting for him next door? 'Yes, she said she'd seen you. I want going to bring her round to introduce you.' His gaze was boring into her now 'But we ran out of time. You know how it is, I'm sure.' His careless tone caught at her raw nerves, but all she said, tight-lipped, was, 'Of course.' 'I've just taken her to catch the London train. She has a flight out to LA this evening.' He advanced further into the room, then stood, his thumbs hooked into the belt of his white cords, smiling lazily at her from beneath the navy cap, perched at a rakish angle on his unruly black curls. There was something about that smile that got to her. It was the sleek, smug, unbearably complacent smile of a cat—a male cat—who, while just cleaning his whiskers after his last saucer of double cream, saw the next dishful coming into view . . . Well, in this case, those sleek male instincts were way off beam. 'Did you have a good Christmas, Jared?' She was pleased with the cool hauteur she'd managed to infuse into her voice. 'Yes, thanks. Did you?' 'Not really. First Mum, then Gran went down with this flu that's doing the rounds. So I had to take over and—' 'No wonder you still look like a wrung-out dish-cloth, then,' he cut in brusquely. 'Well, thank you.' 'Of course, you went off before I had a chance to wish you the compliments of the season.' He gave her a slanting glance. 'Yes—well, I was afraid the weather would close in before I got to Gran's.

They were forecasting snow for the moors.' In fact, she hadn't had the faintest idea what was forecast. Following that scene on his doorstep, she'd got up very early after a sleepless night, parcelled up the last few cake orders, packed Sam into his basket, and driven hell for leather to the safety of her grand" mother's. Snowdrifts could have been piled six feet deep and she'd have been none the wiser. 'Mmm.' Ignoring his obvious disbelief, she went on brightly, 'I suppose you're going out for New Year?' 'No, I've got a load of food and drink in the car boot.' 'Well,' she even assembled a casual smile, 'do have a good time, won't yon?' 'Mmm,' he repeated, then stood, his thumbs still jammed in the belt of his cords, rocking gently on the balls of his feet. 'What about you? Is your fiance,' he managed subtly to make it a four-letter word, 'spending the evening with his beloved?' All she had to do was say, 'Yes, of course he is,' get rid of Jared, then sit light. But her fractional hesitation had been too long. 'He isn't coming, is he?' He looked down at her, that faint cat and-mouse smile at his lips. 'No.' Another fatal pause. 'His mother's ill, but I'm—' 'Well, well.' He was so smooth, so damnnably at his ease. 'So we're both on our own tonight.' 'Yes,' she replied tightly. 'Although I've got Sam, of course, so I shan't be lonely. Not in the least.' But you'll be cold.' In spite of his chunky navy sweater and that gorgeous sheepskin, he shivered suddenly. What's up with your heating, for heaven's sake?' It's broken down.' The words were out before she could recall them. 'I suppose—' she hesitated, then '—you can't mend gas boilers, can you?' 'Sorry.' He shook his head firmly, then glanced round, and through the open doorway caught sight of the illuminated Christmas tree in the sittingroom. 'Trying to cheer yourself up?' He looked down at her, rather an odd expression on his face. 'No, of course not. Hey, what do you think you're doing?' She followed him through to the other room, then, as he hitched up his cords and went down on his haunches beside the tree, said, 'No—leave it alone, will you? What did you do that for?' she added belligerently as the lights died.

'Now, Petra.' He came to his feet again, very close to her, so that she caught the warm, spicy tang of aftershave. 'I simply could not rest easy in my snug little nest—' 'Snug little love-nest, you mean, don't you?' The words leapt out of her. 'Do I?' 'Well, she was in your bedroom, wasn't she?' 'So she was.' He eyed her thoughtfully. 'What's bugging you, Petra?' 'Bugging me? Nothing. Should there be?' 'I'd hate to think you were—er —jealous.' 'Jealous!' The angry colour sizzled in her cheeks. 'Why on earth should I be?' He shrugged. 'That's your problem, not mine. But, anyway, I can't possibly think of you in this freezing mausoleum while I—' 'Oh, don't waste your thoughts on me, please, Jared.' Her voice was mid-steeped. 'I'll light the fire—' 'What with? I burned the last of your logs over Christmas.' 'Well, of all the—' 'So the least I can do is have you round to my place—that's the only fair change.' And he blew out the Swedish chimes, so that the little tinkling noises faded. 'No—no, I'm not coming.' She threw him a defiant look and, turning on her heel, went back to the kitchen. She yanked the curtains further back with an angry little snap of the wrist, but then had to stand motionless for a moment, her eyes closed, as a wave of dizziness went through her. 'Petra.' She started violently as two strand arms went round her from behind, drawing her back until she was held tightly against a hard—very masculine

—

body. She struggled frantically, but she might as well have tried to break steel bands. The

more she fought him, the more Jared, using, she knew, just n fraction of his strength, pulled her closer to him, until she was conscious of every line and contour of that powerful, sinewy frame. 'Petra,' he repeated softly, his breath stirring the fine hairs on her neck, 'you are coming, either on your own two legs

—

or in my arms. You choose.' 'J—just go away, Jared, please.'

But her body's unthinking respond to the feel and touch and smell of him was bewildering her, so that her words came out as a shaken little sob. 'You choose,' he repeated, a sliver of steel in his voice. 'I won't come.' She twisted in his grasp, so that she was looking straight up into those blackfringed eyes, which in the overhead light looked pale grey. 'I know exactly what plans you've got lined up for me.' 'Oh? And just what might they be?' Behind the bland question lurked that malicious demon. 'You intend to try to s—seduce me —make love to me.' He shook his head decisively. 'No, my sweet. I don't, I promise you.' 'Oh?' Taken aback by his firm denial, the stammered, 'I—I'm sorry.' 'I don't intend to try to make love to you. I fully intend for us to make love together.' 'Oh!' The shock of his words drained every drop of colour from her face. She stared up at him for a moment, then very slowly, as her knees buckled, she began to sag against him. Dimly she heard him curse softly, and felt protecting arms go round her, but they could not hold her back from the black pit that had opened at her feet . . . ★★★ Someone had changed her bedroom wallpaper to a pretty willow-green and white trellis pattern. She lay on her side, staring blankly at it for a moment, then, hearing a sound behind her rolled over and saw Jared, lounging in a green velvet tub chair, his bare feet propped up on the bed. Beneath the cloud-soft duvet, every limb went rigid. This was the bedroom of Pear Tree Cottage—she knew that for Mrs Pearce had insisted on a tour of inspection when the expensive renovation work was complete. So it was Jared's bedroom—and Jared's bed. Her brain was still fuzzy with sleep but all at once images burst through her haze—of Kate, black hair tumbling to naked shoulders, dark eyes, the laughter in them changing to sudden passion, arms held out in a welcoming embrace as Jared came down to her . . . Her own breathing was quickening to little gasps, and when her gaze swivelled to Jared she saw that he was watching her from beneath hooded lids. 'H—how did I get here?' It came out as a husky croak.

'Not on your own two legs, that's for sure.' Uncoiling himself from the chair, he perched on the bed beside her, so close that she was imprisoned against the duvet. 'No—you chose my other alternative, my sweet.' 'Your arms, you mean?' She stared straight ahead at the ridge of green and white duvet just below her shoulders, but then beyond that few eyes fell on the dressing-table pool and she caught sight of a neat pile of clothes: black ski-pants, white f l i n t , aquamarine mohair sweater. Her clothes. In that case . . . She looked down, and her eyes dilated with horror as she saw two pencil-thin shoulder- straps of amber lace and, all too clearly emphasising rather than hiding the swelling curves of her upper breasts, a froth of amber lace and silk. She gulped hard on her panic. 'Was it you?' 'Who undressed you? Of course,' he replied laconically. 'There wasn't anyone else around.' 'You shouldn't have,' she said unsteadily. Between undressing her and getting her into this nightdress, had he—she swallowed—had he carried out his promise—that promise which was more like a threat? Had she surfaced from unconsciousness for just long enough, and yet not to full awareness, so that this time she had not resisted him, surrendering her body to him? Surreptitiously she ran a trembling hand over her breasts, her belly and thighs—for some instinct told her that if, lost in the drifting half-shadows of reality, she had allowed herself to be taken then the touch, the feel of Jared would linger still on her flesh . . . But no—her body, she was certain, was still untouched. But even so . . . 'You shouldn't have,' she repeated. 'Undressed me, I mean.' He shrugged. 'I just wanted to get you into bed—maybe I'll rephrase that slightly—I just wanted to put you to bed as fast as possible. Oh, Petra,' as she glowered at him, 'surely we know each other too well for any false shyness?' Lifting his hand, he softly brushed her cheek. 'One of the earliest things I remember is a little girl living three doors away, with long hair the colour of pale flame, tied up with a blue how, bringing me her broken doll to mend.' 'But that was a long time ago,' she murmured protestingly. 'True. But I haven't forgotten—and I haven't forgotten either that last night wasn't the first time I've seen you naked.' As her whole body jerked convulsively he added, 'Now, though, you're

even more lovely, all long slender limbs and blossom curves. At sixteen, you were like a young, immature filly—now you have the athletic grace and bearing of a thoroughbred.' Her eyes flew to his, the bright colour scorching her cheeks. 'Until you said . . . what you did, the other night, I—I didn't think you remembered,' she whispered. He gave her a slanting smile. 'But of course. And your body still smells just as wonderful— like all the flowers of summer held captive in my arms.' 'No—don't! I won't listen.' She gazed up at him, her eyes brilliant green with anger—and shame. 'Now—get out.' 'Why?' As she moved to push back the duvet he put his arm across her, placing his hand on the bed so that she was trapped against his thigh, his head just above hers. 'Because I'm getting dressed, right now. If you think I'm going to wear a nightdress your mistress happened to leave behind—' 'My—oh, Kate, you mean. Now look, Petra,' his mouth thinned, 'I don't give a cuss what you think of me—or my morals—but if you know what's good for you you'll keep your views on Kate to yourself.' 'I'm sorry,' she muttered. 'It's none of my business.' 'Too damn right it isn't.' He expelled a long, tight breath. 'But anyway, don't worry. I can afford a nightdress each for any number of mistresses. This happens to be yours—I bought it for you for Christmas.' As she stared at him, her protests dying in her throat, he gave her an ironic half-smile, which she barely saw. 'But you disappeared before I could give it to you.' 'I really wish you hadn't,' she murmured. 'You feel badly because you didn't get me a present? Don't worry.' Picking up a strand of hair that lay on the pillow, he gave it a soft tug, then let it slip through his fingers. 'You can always make it up to me some other way. I mean—make me a cake,' he added smoothly as her eyes darkened. But it wasn't that at all, as he very well knew. Licking her dry lips, she said, 'Look, Jared, it's very kind of you, but I'd really rather not accept it. I—I've got plenty of nighties already.' 'Oh, I'm quite sure you have. I've seen one of them, remember—and if it's typical, well . . . ' His voice sank to a soft purr. 'Surely you must see, my sweet Petra, that that delectable body of yours was made for some man to cosset in silk?'

'Stop it, Jared.' The flush on her cheeks was of sheer anger now. 'I know just what you're doing—and it's not going to work. You shouldn't have bought it for me.' 'I should have left it to Simon to do that, you mean?' 'Yes—I mean, no.' Under the duvet, her hands clenched at her sides, and she lay gazing up at him, baffled. Little by little, under his tireless, insidious pressure, she could feel her power to defy him being sapped. Like the apple tree in her back garden, constantly laid bare to the Atlantic gales, she was being bent to his will. But she must resist him, she had to there could be no surrender. "Anyway,' she said firmly, 'thank you for looking after me. I'm feeling much better, so—' Without warning he rested a warm hand on her forehead. 'Hmm, pretty cool. I don't think you're getting flu. You just flaked out through sheer physical exhaustion.' "That's right,' she agreed quickly. Her collapsing in a heap certainly hadn't my thing at all to do with any tensions inside herself whenever he was around. So I can go back now—' "And get double pneumonia in that igloo next door? That I simply cannot allow. No—end of conversation,' as she went to break in—pointlessly, as usual, she thought in frustration. 'Do you feel like some lunch?' 'Lunch?' How long had she been asleep, for heaven's sake? 'Yes, i t ' s . . . ' he eased back the sleeve of his navy sweater and glanced at his watch. ' . . . nearly one. So, fancy some cold turkey breast, salad, bread rolls?' 'Well . . . ' Oh, what was the use?' Petra subsided on to her pillow with a fairly good grace. 'Yes, please.' 'That's a good girl. I knew you'd see sense.' He straightened up and stood looking down at her. 'I should think Sam's finished his lunch by now. Shall I call him up?' 'Oh, you brought him in last night as well.' She smiled at him, a wholly natural smile. 'That was kind of you.' 'Actually, I had no option—he brought himself in,' he said drily. 'And, from the way he positioned himself at the foot of your bed last night, he seems to regard himself as the selfappointed guardian of your virtue.' He opened the bedroom door and called, 'OK, Sam, she's awake.' Seconds later the big cat appeared and, leaping up on to the bed, butted his soft black head into her face, purring loudly.

'Hello, my baby.' She sat up, taking care to hitch the duvet up with her, and taking him in her arms, cuddled him to her. 'He didn't scratch you or anything, did he?' She looked anxiously at Jared, who was regarding them both with a rather strange expression in his eyes, but he shook his head. 'No, we've called a New Year truce. I feed him liver pate, chicken fillet and cold turkey, and he refrains from tearing me limb from limb. And, as you see, Sam,' he addressed the cat, who was eyeing him through narrow green slits, 'I've kept my part of the bargain. She's quite unscathed— so far.' His grey-blue eyes locked with hers, then h i s lips curved in a humourless smile, 'Funny—last night I was aiming for you to end up in my bed. But not on your own.' And he was gone before she could even think of any response. She bent to kiss Sam's head then, when he settled himself to begin grooming, almost apprehensively she lifted the duvet to see exactly what it was she was wearing, and her eyes grew round. The nightdress was full-length, a cool drift of pale amber silk around her body, while the bodice—what there was of it—was composed entirely of narrow flounces of matching silk lace. Putting out a trembling hand, she touched a fold of fragile silk. It was quite simply the most beautiful nightdress she'd ever seen, much less worn. She found herself revelling in the feel of the silk, which clung to her like a caress, imprinting itself on her skin like the touch of a lover's body . . . She bit hard on her lip as that tide of shame—and fear—surged through her again. If only it had been Simon and not Jared who had given it to her she'd have shed tears of pure delight. Simon, though, had given her a pretty, early Victorian pillbox in silver and pink enamel. It must have cost at least as much as the nightdress, but even so . . .

CHAPTER SIX Petra flung back the duvet, quite unable to bear the churning unease a moment longer, and leapt out of bed, sending Sam flying. She tore off the nightdress and dragged on her clothes in fevered haste, just pausing to scrape all her hair back from her face to make an uncompromising ponytail. Jared was in the kitchen. When she appeared in the doorway he glanced up, and she saw his lips tighten fractionally, but all he said was, 'I wondered how long you'd dare stay in it.' He pulled a chair out for her, and she slid into it, avoiding his eyes and that coolly challenging look in them, which made her feel disturbed, angry—and yet in some strange way elated, all at the same time . . . 'More coffee?' 'No, thank you. And thank you for the meal—it was delicious,' she added, all brittle politeness. She pushed back her chair, but as she stood up he demanded curtly, 'Where the hell do you think you're going?' 'Home, of course.' As his brows came down she went on hurriedly, 'If I ring the heating engineer now he should still get out to me this afternoon.' 'On New Year's Day? I don't think SO, somehow. And, besides, I've already told you—you are staying here tonight—' 'Tonight!' Alarm bells screeched in her brain. 'I most certainly—' 'Tomorrow you may go back, but tonight—willingly or unwillingly—you are staying. Do I make myself clear?' Across the table their eyes met, angry green and wintry grey. She would out-stare him—she wouldn't back down. But she felt her own gaze flicker and drop. 'Suppose I say I won't?' she muttered. 'But you wouldn't be so unwise.' He came to his feet with a lightning grace, and was round the table. Before she could back away, or snatch up a plate and smash it over his head, he pulled her to him and held her tight against him until her furious struggle- subsided. 'Don't resist me, my sweet.' He spoke very softly, but there was that hint of steel in his voice which sent icy water trickling down her spine. 'Why not?'

'Because it makes me all the more determined to have my own way.' She tried to push herself clear of him, and this time he allowed her to break his grip, push herself to arm's length. 'You are a devil, Jared Tremayne Her voice was shaking, but she forced herself to meet his unyielding gaze. 'If you say so. But, devil or not, you are going to spend tonight in my—warm, snug little nest.'

He was doing it deliberately, picking up his earlier words. 'Warm and snug maybe,' she hurled back at him. 'But in our own separate beds.' 'Well, now, Petra, that is entirely up to you.' He was so sure of himself, the arrogance oozing through every lazy syllable. She gave a bitter little laugh. 'Is it?' 'Oh, yes. One thing I promise you I will not force you. Nothing will happen—ever—between us that you do not want.' 'Well, that's all right, then. There's absolutely no need for me to worry.' 'But of course,' he agreed urbanely. 'The very last thing I want you to do is worry.' Their eyes held for a split-second longer, then she turned away and began to stack up the plates. 'Leave that. I'll sling them in the dishwasher later. Now where are you off to?' as she moved towards the door. 'Oh, it's all right. I'm not running away,' she said acidly. 'I'm going up to get my jacket— somehow I feel like a breath of air.' 'Good idea. I'll join you.' ' B u t . . . ' her eyes went to the lap-top computer sitting at the far end of the big table ' . . . surely you'd rather work?' He gave a humourless laugh. 'You mean, add to that lot?' He gestured towards the waste-bin, over flowing with fiercely crumpled sheets of paper. 'It's still not going well, then?'

'You could say that,' he grunted, then, 'Anyway, in half an hour's time I've got an—er— assignation w i t h Amanda. A gorgeous redhead, lovely legs—and much more amenable to my persuasive powers than some females I could mention.' He put a firm hand under her elbow and steered her to the door. 'Come and meet her.'

★★★ J a r e d was laughing with exhilaration, she heard him above the drumming hoofs of his chestnut mare and the waves breaking on the beach beside them. Touching her heels to the flanks of her jet-black horse, Petra urged him forward, the hair beneath her riding hat strearning behind her in the wind and the spray. At the far end of the huge curve of pale creamy sand, Jared slowed and she caught up with him. 'Enjoy it?' He grinned down at her. 'Marvellous.' She could hardly speak, the breath torn out of her body by that wild gallop. 'You still ride well.' His gaze was on her face, and she wiped back some pale auburn strands of damp hair. 'Thanks. I haven't ridden for years, but Mr Golding was a good teacher.' 'Well, you earned every lesson—all those Saturdays, mucking out the stables.' His horse whinnied suddenly, tossing her head. 'Whoa, Amanda.' He ran a soothing hand down her arched neck and the mare quietened instantly, Catching Petra's eye, he gave her a sidelong smile. 'Told you she was easy to handle. Race you back to those rock'.—I'll give you a start.' As he caught her up and passed her she glanced across at him. How superbly he rode, sitting the horse effortlessly. He was leaning forward, low over the flying mane, his hard-planed profile visible beneath the jutting peak of his riding hat. He reined up by the line of jagged rocks and sat, watching her canter up to him. 'Two to me.' His face was still flushed with the sheer exuberance of the ride 'Fancy another race?' 'No, thanks,' she gasped. 'I've never won a race against you yet.'

She laughed up at him, her cheeks; glowing wild-rose-pink, her eyes brilliant emerald, but at the sudden expression in his own eyes she glanced quickly away. All he said, though, was, 'You know, I'd forgotten, all the years I've been away . . . ' he spoke softly, as if to h i m s e l f ' . . . just how beautiful Cornwall is. It's magic.' 'Yes, it is, isn't it?' she murmured, with a sharp tug of her heart-strings. 'I love it all year round, but there's something special about winter, isn't there?' 'Mmm. Yes, there is—it's my favourite time, as well. The colours are not much clearer—I mean, just look at that sea.' She pointed to the water's edge, where the waves were surging in, a strange, silvery grey that reflected the winter's sky. Then, further out, they shaded subtly to a pale ice-green, and finally, at the horizon, they deepened to the intense blue-black of ocean. 'Did you ever see anything so wonderful?' She swung round on him, her face alight, and saw that his eyes were not on the sea, but still on her, a strange unreadable expression in them which sent every pulse in her body into a w i l d cacophony. 'No, I haven't.' After a fractional pause he went on, 'I suppose you know it's only a few miles down the coast to where Tristan is supposed to have landed when he brought Iseult back to marry King Mark.' 'I didn't know that.' Her voice was still not quite steady. 'But what about the updated version of the story—the one you're working on? Mark isn't King of Cornwall in that, surely?' 'No, of course not. In Passion he's the head of a multinational publishing company. Although he could just as easily be any up-to-the-minute highflier. He could be—oh, I don't know . . . ' then, as though plucking the thought out of the air ' . . . headmaster of a boys' boarding-school at the age of thirty.' Petra's lips tightened into an angry line, and she stared out to sea at a toy-sized cargo boat on the horizon. 'And Tristan—in your version, I oppose, he's an arrogant, overbearing Hollywood screenplay writer?' But Jared only laughed softly. 'Now whatever gave you that idea? No, he's t h e Mark figure's second-in-command, hi s most trusted lieutenant in his business empire—until he sets eyes on his boss's new young wife. And then passion takes over.'

'But it can't last, though!' The vehemence in her voice shook her, and her horse pranced a few nervous steps sideways. She reined him in, then went on more calmly, 'I mean—if the book follows the legend it can only go on for three years and then the magic wears off.' 'That's right—but what a wonderful three years they have.' He smiled, as though in reminiscence. 'I haven't dared ask Ms Grainger where she did her research for the love-scenes. She's either lived—and I mean lived—or she's got one heck of a vivid imagination. You should read them some time, Petra.' 'But it does end—their affair,' she said stubbornly, determined not to rise to his bait. 'And that just goes to prove it.' 'Prove what?' 'That passion, sensuality—all those things you think are so important—aren't enough. They don't endure the way real love does.' 'Real love?' His lips twisted. 'What a romantic little fool you are, Petra.' 'Better than being a cynic like you!,' she retorted, but then hurried on, 'Anyway, Mrs Pearce arrived before you could finish the story. You were going t o tell me what happened to Iseult.' 'Oh, when Tristan was sent into ex i l e she stayed with her husband, of course, Poor Iseult.' 'Why? Why poor Iseult?' demanded. 'Well, I'm quite sure that the w o r t h y Mark couldn't give her what she wanted. Tristan had no doubt taught her too well the needs of her body—' 'Why must you always be so—crude?' she asked coldly. Sensuality is not crude.' Jared turned his head to look straight at her, and she hastily averted her eyes to stare out at the distant horizon again. 'Iseult was forced to spend the rest of her life crushing that part of her—that passionate, sensual nature which had flowered so joyfully at Tristan's delicate touch.' 'Well, why couldn't Mark have done the same for her?' 'Maybe because he didn't want to.' Before she could even guess what he would do he stretched across, seized her horse's bridle and pulled him in alongside his own mount, trapping her leg between his thigh and her horse's flunk. Then he reached out his other arm to cup her chin with his fingers. He was angry—she didn't know why, but she sensed the burning anger in the way his hand slid round to clench in her hair until tears sprang to her eyes. She felt it too in his lips as he forced them against hers.

And yet, even as she tensed to resist him, above the pounding of the waves she heard her blood begin to sing in her veins. The heavy languor which Jared's potent magic created in her was stealing inexorably through her once more, and she felt her muscles relax, her whole body grow soft and yielding. Still holding her to him with one arm, he slid his other hand inside her mohair sweater, tugged her shirt free from the waistband of her ski-pants then gently cradled one breast. Through her bra she felt his warm palm rubbing softly to and fro, creating a delicious friction against her nipple, until she swayed in her saddle towards him. As she murmured something incoherent he drew back slightly, a half smile on his face. 'No more pretending now, my sweet.' Instantly she pulled away, tugging her sweater down with one hand as she wrenched her reins free from Jared's grasp and backed her horse away. She'd been almost on the point of giving way to him again, and the humiliation fuelled her fury. 'You swine, you lied to me! You said nothing I didn't want. Well, I don't want this—any of it— from you.' She knit out the last words. 'No, it's you who is lying.' His face was dark with anger, and the mare pricked her ears, snorting softly in protest again. 'You do want me—as much as I want you.' 'No! I swear I don't.' Her voice was jugged. 'Yes, you do—so don't add perjury to your other crimes. I feel it in every leaping pulse in your body.' He smashed one fist into the other palm. 'When you were sixteen you melted in my arms like wax in the fire. That can't all have gone—I won't believe it.' 'No, Jared—please.' She bit on the soft inner skin of her mouth to stifle the cry of protest. 'Yes, Petra—please,' he snarled. I could shake you, you know that?' She saw his fingers bunch on the reins and he came up alongside her again. As she flinched away he reached across, and one lean hand gripped her jaw, his fingers sinking deep into her flesh and forcing her to look straight into those cold eyes. 'Petra, my sweet . . . ' at the silky menace behind the soft voice she shivered ' . . . I swear that before I've finished with you I'll have you begging me to make love to you. I'll have you sobbing in my arms for me to take you,' She gazed blankly back at him stunned by the terrifying image his words had conjured up, but when, almost contemptuously, he opened his hand to release her she wrenched herself free of their spell. With this man, she knew, it was fight or be destroyed, She

forced her lips to curl into a sneer. 'What's the matter, Jared? Suffering from a bad case of sexual frustration? After all, it's well over a day now since Kate was in your bed.' 'Shut up, damn you!' The raw fury in his voice silenced her for a moment, but then she jutted her chin defiantly. 'No, I won't. And don't worry there are still plenty of women down in the village, I've no doubt, who—' 'Be quiet.' At the ferocity in his tone her horse whinnied then tossed his head and took ii couple of prancing steps sideways. As she fought to steady him Jared grabbed the bridle again and brought the horse buck alongside his own. Then he went mi more calmly, 'You're wrong, Petra. It not ft— frustration, I mean. At least, not for myself.' There was something very like weary compassion in his voice now, but she would not drop her guard. 'There's no need for you to feel sorry for me, Jared. I'm perfectly happy. At least, I was—until you decided to make a trip home.' 'I've told you—be quiet,' he said again, but less harshly this time. 'How can I convince you?' Taking off his riding hat, he raked his fingers through his dark, wind-blown curls. 'You love this place, don't you?' His sweeping gesture encompassed the whole scene before them. 'You told me so.' 'Well, yes, you know I do,' she replied warily. 'Well, then—if you can see all this beauty around you and love it so, why can't you let all those inhibitions of yours go?' 'For the last time, I have no—' 'Look, Petra,' he broke in roughly, in- spite of all the dark things, this is a glorious world— and part of its glory for us, lies in having a fulfilling, deeply passionate relationship with another human being.' 'And in my case that other human being should be you, of course.' She laughed bitterly. 'You've obviously found your true vocation, Jared. You'll such a wonderful word-spinner that you make it sound as if making me fulfilled is your only mission in life. Well, sorry but, as far as I'm concerned, it's mission impossible.' He gave her a smile, which did not quite reach his eyes. 'Another challenge, Petra? But I've told you already, I never back away from a challenge.'

'And I've told you,' she gazed up at him, stormy-eyed, 'that I will never give way to passion. At least—' too late she realised what she had said ' —- not until I'm married to Simon. And then—' 'And then you'll spend the rest of your life imprisoned in the centre of an iceberg! But don't let it worry you. That way, at least, you'll have something over poor Iseult.' 'Oh, and what's that?' 'You'll never know what you're missing.' Jamming his riding hat back down on his head, he swung his horse away, flicked her flanks with his heels and took off at a headlong gallop, not even glancing back to see whether she was following him or not.

CHAPTER SEVEN Neither of them spoke one word on the drive back from the stables. As Jared braked viciously, sending up a spun of gravel outside the cottages, Petra opened her door and climbed out before he could come round to her side. 'I'll go in and wash and get changed she said stiffly, and turned towards her gate. 'I'm sure you'd rather wash in hot water.' His voice was clipped. 'And there's no need to change—we shan't be dressing for dinner.' At the chill greyness of his eyes which barely glanced in her direction she felt tiny goosebumps break out all over her body. He was still very angry with her, and she'd always feared Jared's anger, those bleak, unpredictable moods when he seemed to delight shutting himself away from the entire human race. So when he gestured her through a gate she gave a little shrug and obeyed. When she came back down from her shower he was in the kitchen. 'We'll eat early. Will steak suit you?' 'Yes, thank you. I seem to have eaten nothing but turkey for the past week.' But he did not seem to see her tentative smile, so, after a pause, she went on, 'Can I help?' 'No, thanks.' His tone was brusque. 'I prefer to work alone.' Turning away, he began hunting through the fridge-freezer, and, faced with that uncompromising back, she went through to the sitting-room, where an was stretched out on the big sheepskin rug in front of a log fire, When she scratched his head he opened his eyes, flexed his paws in lazy feting, then went back to sleep. How do you like your steak?' Jared's voice came from the doorway, and she slowly straightened. 'Well grilled, please.' 'Fancy a drink? Sherry—Martini?' 'No, thank you. Nothing for me.' 'Well, make yourself at home.' She could not fail to catch the ironic undertone. 'And put a couple of logs on the fire, will you? Your logs.' He flashed her a grin—entirely the old Jared for an instant—and something inside her contracted painfully. 'Sorry about that, but you weren't around. I'll get you a load tomorrow.' 'There's no need—there were hardly any left in the . . . ' But her voice tapered off, for he had already disappeared again, closing the door an though to exclude her, so she sat down in one of

the soft velvet-covered armchairs, letting the gentle warmth and muted crackling of the fire gradually relax her taut body . . . 'I said, dinner's ready.' Her eyes opened, to see Jared bending over her. Before she could move he put his hands under her elbows and lifted her to her to her feet, so suddenly that she felt dizzy again and had to cling to him to save herself from falling. As his arms tightened around her, though, she quickly stepped back. 'Th—thank you. I'm all right.' 'Good,' he responded coolly, then led the way out to the kitchen and pulled up a chair for her. It all looked very—well, cosy. He had placed candles down the centre of the pine table—red, to match the linen napkins—and the golden candle-light seemed to enclose them both in a warm little embrace of intimacy, leaving the rest of the room in semi-darkness. Jared sawed a French loaf into hunks and piled them into a wicker basket, then set in front of her a plate loaded with a large, juicy, sizzling steak and a heap of stir-fry vegetables. He sat facing her, poured two glasses of red wine and slid one across. 'St. Emilion—Premier Cru.' Then, as she looked down at her glass uncertainly, he added, his eyes gleaming in the candle glow, 'Don't worry, Petra, there's only sunshine and grapes in it. No magic potion, I promise you,' but he held her glance for a moment, before picking up his knife and fork in begin his meal . . . 'This is delicious.' Petra broke a silence which had lasted several long minutes. 'Thanks. I suppose, living on my own all the time—well, most of the time, she made herself meet the glinting challenge in his eyes, 'I've got accustomed to looking after myself. And, anyway, I was only a kid, remember, when my mother walked out on us, so I had plenty of practice long before thin ' The sudden bitterness in his voice broke through her own stiff reserve, and she said softly, 'It must have been a bad time for you, Jared.' 'Well,' he shrugged with studied casualness, 'you've been through t h e same mill too.' 'Tell me about your home in Los Angeles,' she said quickly, and took another sip of her wine. 'What's it like?' 'Oh, no five-acre swimming-pool, or anything like that. It's a condo.' When she looked blankly at him, 'A flat, in quite a pleasant apartment block. You'd no doubt find it very

impersonal, but I ' m not there that much. I get restless when I'm tied down for too long in one place.' He spoke reflectively, as though he had discovered something new, and, in spite of her tension, she felt herself give a faint smile. 'Something amusing you?' He was eyeing her narrowly. 'No—at least, I was just thinking, you haven't changed in the slightest.' He pulled a wry face. 'Hmm. I guess I've always been averse to putting down roots.' 'Well, perhaps that's what makes you such a good writer,' she murmured. You know—no ties, nobody to interrupt you.' 'When I'm in full flow—like now, you mean?' he said ruefully. 'No I reckon it could be more that I'm still searching for what I want out of l i f e He was idly turning his glass round and round, his voice empty now of expression. 'What do you think, Petra?' Without warning he looked up directly at her, but with a tremendous effort she managed to gaze straight back at him. 'Well, you know what they say, Jared—a rolling stone gather no moss.' 'Could be—moss is certainly in short supply in LA. Anyway,' he lifted his glass, 'happy New Year, Petra.' 'And to you, too, Jared.' Formally raised her glass in return. 'And this year may you g a i n y o u r heart's desire.' The briefest of pastime.' 'That's what well-wishers say, isn't it?' 'Yes—but you aren't a well wishes are you?' The words erupted from her and they stared at one a n o t h e r , e y e s locked, until she lifted h e r g l a s s unsteadily to her lips and took a gulp of wine. I'll get the dessert, shall I? Jared moved smoothly into the electric silence which was crackling between them like static before a storm. Tak i n g from the freezer a coffee and vanil l a ice bombe, he cut off two thick slices, and Petra, picking up her spoon, paid all her attention on its delicious marbled coldness. When they had finished he carried a tray of coffee and liqueurs into the living-room. He drew the velvet curtains, switched on the pink-shaded wall lights and, hooking the low table with his foot, hitched it across in front of the sofa. As he set down the tray she went to sit in one of the chairs, but he gestured peremptorily. 'No— here.' 'I— I'd rather—' 'This way we've both got the table for our drinks.'

He indicated the plump green velvet cushions, and reluctantly she sat down in the very edge of one. He kicked the fire into life, sending a shower of tiny sparks up the wide chimney, tossed on the last of the logs from the willow basket, then threw himself down beside her, stretching out his long legs. 'Black or white coffee?' He leaned forward, and the weight of his body tilted her cushion slightly so that she slid towards him. 'White—no sugar, please.' Surreptitiously she eased herself away. 'Tia Maria or Drambuie? Or I think there's some Curasao in the cupboard.' Petra hesitated. Two glasses of wine at dinner, and now liqueur . . . 'Oh, come on.' He sounded torn between irritation and amusement. 'I've told you, there's no magic love potion in this house.' Another infinitesimal pause. 'Only my fatal charm, which just now doesn't seem to be exactly firing on all cylinders.' He gave her a disarming grin, and Petra felt herself relax a fraction more. After all, he had said, hadn't he—no, promised—nothing she didn't want? 'Well—did you bring the Tia Maria with you from Jamaica?' And when he nodded, 'Just a small one, then, please.' He poured it, and another for himself, then, going across to the superb state-of-the-art CDplayer by the far wall—his own, surely, for it hadn't been in evidence when Mrs Pearce had shown her round—he riffled through the discs, selected one, then sat down beside her again and look up his glass, staring into the fire. The music—unfamiliar to her started very slowly and quietly. Petra sipped the liqueur, feeling its potent warmth trickle down her throat like mellow fire, then she sat back, leaning her head against the sofa and cradling the glass between her hands as a pleasant languor stole through her, making her limbs heavy, her mind drowsy. Gradually, though, the music was building to a lush climax, and as she lay back, only half listening, she felt deep inside herself something stirring into life. She knew she ought to break free from the spell but, powerless to resist she could only lie there and feel its profound impact on every fibre of her as the sensuous sounds wove themselves into her mind and her body. When the last chords died away, their echo hanging in the air around them, she sensed Jared turn his head s l i g h t l y to look at her. 'I—I don't know that music—w h a t is it?' She spoke jerkily, like an automaton.

'It's Wagner. From his opera about our two lovers—Tristan and Iseult, Did you like it, Petra?' His tone w a s casual, but she felt his penetrating gaze on her. 'No—no, I didn't.' 'Well . . . ' she could not see the l i t t l e crooked smile on his dark face, b u t knew it was t h e r e ' . . . it's p r e t t y blatant, isn't it?' 'Blatant?' Her eyes, still dark a n d haunted from the effects of the m u s i c , could not quite meet his. 'What do y o u mean?' ' I t ' s the love theme—and sex-wise it' s highly explicit.' He dropped his voice to a husky murmur. 'Couldn't you see the pictures it conjures up—a m a n and woman way out of their depth in sensuality, drowning in sexual passion?' His tone hardened a fraction. 'Sorry to use that word, when I know yo u dislike it so much.' 'I—' Reaching forward, she went to replace her glass on the tray but jolted it as she put it down, sending little droplets trickling down her fingers. As she stared stupidly down at them Jared set down his own glass and seized her hand between his. Bringing it up to his lips, he lowered his hand over it and began licking off the liqueur, his tongue slowly travelling do w n each finger in turn and then across the moist palm. The action was having exactly the same effect on her as the music had done, and as deep within her that same terrifying somet h i n g , roused once more, uncoiled and expanded, she half closed her eyes under the sensuous caress. From beneath her heavy lids she looked up at Jared, his dark head bent, his tongue moving in an erotic spiral across her skin, where tiny bead of sweat had broken out. And suddenly she wanted to reach out to him and she must have moved very slightly, as some sixth sense warned him that she was watching him, for across her h a n d he glanced up. For the first time that evening their eyes really met, and a spark seemed to leap between t h e m hanging in the air like a rocket at t h e peak of its arc, then fizzled, almost audibly, and died. For a moment there was utter stillness in the room, apart from t h e faint hiss of the flames, and then Petra's heart began hammering against her ribs. The sound was so loud that s h e was terrified that Jared would surely hear it, and her chest tightened u n t i l she could hardly draw a quick, panting breath. He had heard it, for he released her a n d p u t his outspread hand very gently on her left breast so that her heart shud d e r now against his palm, just her shirt between them. His touch was delicate

in the extreme, and, even thoug h there was no flesh-to-flesh conta c t , she felt her breast swell and tauten , straining to meet his fingertips, whic h had begun a slow, circling dance, m o v i n g closer and closer to that quivering centre, until barely consciously her whole body arched up to me e t his hand. When it slipped under her shirt, his hot skin sliding against hers, her senses spun with the dizzy whirling of her brain, and as his fingers, damp with perspiration, unhooked her lacy bra, easing it aside, she made a low sound, part sob, part whimper, deep in her throat. His head dipped towards her, the slow weight of his body taking her under him until she was half lying against the sofa arm as his lips took hers. She felt the pressure of his tongue thrusting hard between her teeth then retreating with agonising slowness, onlyto thrust again, taking all the sweetness that her mouth could offer, w h i l e his hand roamed over her soft flesh, l e a v i n g a prickling fire wherever he touched. She must make him feel this way too! Her hands were dragging at the folds of his cashmere sweater, t h e n impatiently tugging his shirt from his waistband. And then she was free to run her fingers over that warm, satin skin, feeling the ridge of muscles JUST above his belt tighten like steel as she touched them, and, as she went h i g h e r , the fuzz of coarse little hairs across his chest. Exultantly she felt the two ti n y nipples harden into life, then f i n a l l y , a s her caress moved round his shoulders, she saw in her mind's eye the smooth olive skin of his back. Jared—no more than a dark o u t l i n e above her in the subdued light - lowered his head further still and, p o l l i n g her shirt aside, buried his face in the hollow between her breasts, lifting her with one hand under her waist so that her body met his mouth. His free hand slid inside her ski-pants, reaching down to bring that prickling trail of fire nearer and nearer to her very core. She writhed in the grip of strange emotions, wild and infinitely primitive, which were racking her slender body with shudders so intense as to be way past pleasure, almost agony. S h e murmured something incoherent as s h e felt his hand still then move agai n , and her fingers tightened on his shoulders, the nails digging in, pulling him down to her — W i t h a loud crash a log fell in the grate , sending out a shower of ash and sparks of golden rain, and Petra, all but lost in the storm of pulsating sensations whic h swirled inside her, leapt back p a t h a cry of fear. Barely stifling a curse, Jared got to h i s feet and, as Sam shot into wakefulness, leaping up into an arm- cha i r out of harm's way, he stamped out a patch of glowing embers which were

smouldering in the s h e e p s k i n Seizing the copper tongs, he picked up the log and threw it to the back of the fire. Just for one instant longer Petra l a y motionless, totally dazed by her b o d y ' s reactions. Then, as she went to sit u p , she caught sight of the diamond on her left hand, and as the full, shaming horror of what she had so nearly done hit her like a douche of ice-cold water she had to bite her lip on a low moan of misery. 'Sorry about that.' Jared straightened up from the fire and came to drop down beside her on the sofa again. 'Now, where were we?' 'I—I must go.' Her voice was all but inaudible, totally unrecognisable as hers, but as she struggled to force her shaking legs upright he caught hold of her by the arm, his fingers—so delicate, so heartachingly tender moments before—cruelly digging into her tender flesh. He swung her round to him. 'Go? Go where?' 'H—home.' Her teeth were chattering, al though the room had become unbeara b l y hot. His grip tightened even more, until a l i t t l e cry was wrenched from her. What's the matter, Petra? Turning chicken all of a sudden?' The naked savagery in his voice made her flinch. 'Please, Jared,' she murmured hesitantly, 'try to understand. I'm sorry—truly I am. It was all my—' 'Sorry?' When a muffled whimper of pain came from her he looked down at his fingers biting into her arm, then, his face totally devoid of expression, he released her, flinging her hand into her lap. 'Please—Jared,' she began again, 'don't. You—you frighten me.' She could feel the terror in her at the barely leashed sexual threat emanating from the lean, taut body beside her. 'You—you look at me sometimes,' she went on in a low tone, her eyes fixed on her fingers, interlacing in her lap, 'as though you're about to pounce on me and tear me apart, limb from limb.' 'What if I do, darling?' But there was no tenderness in the word. 'Surely you know how it is— man the hunter, woman his prey.' He lifted his hand and, before she could spring away, lightly circled her ear as she sat, staring rigidly ahead now into the heart of the fire.

'You know, Petra, we could make life very—pleasant for each other these next three months, you and I. Very pleasant.' His voice dropped again to that sensuous, insidious purr, but with an effort that almost broke her she made herself turn and look straight at him, at eyes that were slivers of grey steel. 'You're totally amoral, aren't you, Jared? You always were, and you always will be. What about Simon? I suppose you'd think it a huge joke if you managed to s—seduce me—or had you conveniently forgotten about him?' 'If I had I'd say that makes two of us,' he replied brutally. 'But in any case, my sweet, you aren't scared of me—although I could make you so if I chose.' For an instant she glimpsed a stranger, even more frightening than the Jared she knew, in those cold eyes. 'What you're terrified of is what you know I can set free in you.' 'No! I tell you, no. That's not true,' she burst out wildly, clapping her hands to her ears. 'I won't listen to you.' 'Oh, but you will.' He wrenched her arms down, then grabbed her by the shoulders, swinging her round. 'It's very deep inside you, locked safely away most of the time, but it's there, ready to respond to a man who'll excite you, challenge you to face him as an equal in a marvellous, fulfilling relationship.' 'But I already have a fulfilling relationship,' she hurled back at him. 'With Simon.' 'For God's sake! Who are you trying to fool? Out there on the beach, here a moment ago— your body's r e a c t i n g t o me all the time. The chemical formula between us is in non-stop overdrive 'No—no, it isn't. You're quite wrong.' 'You were meant to be a passionate sensual woman.' 'I'm not, I tell you. I'm happy as I am.' 'And I tell you you're not, Petra, You've hidden behind that snow maiden exterior of yours for so long that it's gotten to seem like second nature, but we both know that b e h i n d the ice is a raging inferno, just l i k e Iseult—' 'Oh, damn Iseult!' she yelled in him face. 'Shut up about her. I know perfectly well why you told me that story, but it won't work. All I have in common with her is auburn hair and green eyes. She was a—a randy l i t t l e alley cat, if you want my honest opinion, and—'

'No. You shut up.' In one fierce m o v e m e n t he dragged her to her feet and pushed her in front of the gilt m i n o r which hung over the fireplace. 'Look at yourself, Petra.' H o l d i n g her in front of him with one hand , he tilted her averted face until she was forced to confront her reflection—her hair tumbling in wild aband o n on her shoulders, her normal l y pale face flushed, her eyes still dark , half-drugged by his lovemaking, her lips pouting and moist from that fierce kiss. ' T a k e a good look. 'When she tried to twist her head away he held it there remorselessly. 'Now—wake up, my sweet. No more delusions, please. You're a little hypocrite, do you know that? You're crushing your sensuality —something that's a marvellous, vital part of you—and, what's more, you're denying it even exists.' 'No.' He was stripping away her skin layer by layer. She had to defend herself, or he would leave nothing intact in her to be defended. Tearing her head away and wincing as his fingers tangled through her hair, she swung round to him. 'Are you quite sure it's me who's the hypocrite, Jared? Oh, you can d r e s s i t up in fancy talk about setting me free, saving me from myself, but all you really want is a three-month a f f a i r t o pass the time while you're here w r i t i n g your screenplay. No strings, and as soon as you've finished you walk away without a backward glance. That's so, isn't it?' One shoulder lifted carelessly. 'Of course—what else?' 'And, I suppose, when you go y o u ' l l graciously hand me over to S i m o n — just the way your precious Tristan passed on that two-timing—' 'Yes—if you still want to marry h i m by then.' His arrogance almost took the breath from her body. 'You mean, after you no man could ever possibly appeal to a woman?' 'If that woman's you—yes.' 'Oh, I'm sure you're a superb lover,' she s a i d tightly. 'But then, you've had as m u c h more practice than Simon and me, haven't you?' H e r voice was unsteady, though, as her false bravado faltered and died, leavi n g her overflowing with cold, sick mis e r y and guilt. What had possessed her, against every instinct in her, to cl u t c h at him like that, to sigh and moan like—like that cheap little Iseult?

But of course. Her eyes went past Jared ' s shoulder to the coffee-table, whe r e the empty cups and glasses still stood, and all at once a surge of pure thankfulness filled her to the brim. Both ti m e s she'd reacted like this—when she'd found him in her bed, and now —she'd been drinking. All right, it wasn't any kind of magic potion, but each time the alcohol had been enough t0 turn her, just like that unhappy princess, into a different person, so alien from her real self. 'Oh, no, Petra.' Jared shook h i s grimly, his quicksilver mind as fa s t a s her thought. 'Don't accuse me of plying you with drink—it won't work. You had exactly as much as you w a n t e d . Besides, when I take y o u . . . ' a t the casual words she uttered a soundless gasp of protest ' . . . I intend you to be stone-cold sober, so that you know precisely what it is you're doing—a n d what you're begging me to do.' 'And that will be precisely nothing.' Dragging down her shirt from where it was still riding up round her w a i s t , she turned on her heel. 'Going so soon?' 'Yes, I am. Thank you so much for a pleasant evening. Don't bother to show me out—and, believe me, if I can get through the next three months without setting eyes on you then I'll be the happiest woman in Cornwall.' 'Haven't you forgotten something?' As she reached the door his lazy drawl arrested her. 'My coat? It's in the kitchen. And if you mean that nightdress, well, you can—' 'No. Your feline chastity belt, of course.' He jerked a thumb at Sam, blissfully asleep on the velvet chair. N o t that he seemed to be over-exerting h i m s e l f this evening.' S h e stalked across and scooped the cat up into her arms, ignoring his sleepy miaow. His warm, soft body was somehow consoling and strengthening at the same time, and it allowed her to face Jared more calmly across the sofa. 'Goodnight. And don't bother reminding me about my central heating being off. A cold house doesn't bother me.' 'Oh, I'm sure it doesn't,' he agreed unpleasantly, then glanced at his watch. 'But in any case, it should be warm enough by now.' When her jaw dropped he added casually, 'I set the time clock to come on at six this evening.' 'You—you mean you've mended it?' He nodded. 'When you were getting in all that beauty sleep this morning.'

'But you said you couldn't MEND boilers.' She tossed back her dishevel l e d hair. 'A liar as well as a hypocrite.' 'Not exactly.' His lips had t h i n n e d but he kept his voice level. 'I c a n ' t f i x boilers, but all that was wrong was a loose wire in the time switch.' 'Oh, I see. Well—thank you. I ' m very grateful.' The words were being dragged out of her with little pincers, but then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'But you wouldn't have told me—not till tomorrow, would you? A f t e r I'd spent another night in your bed.' 'Could be,' he replied laconically. 'You know what, Jared Tremayne? You're a—a twisting, devious swine.' 'Devious?' He appeared to give t h e insult serious thought. 'I don't r e c a l l ever being called that before. A n d , anyway, I don't reckon I am. In f a c t , more the exact opposite, I'd say.' 'You think so?' 'I know so. I'm an uncomplicated sort of guy . . . ' he ignored her hollow laugh ' . . . and when I see something I w a n t I go all out for it. No deals under the-table—no hidden agenda.' His arcti c grey-blue eyes speared her so that she could not move a muscle. 'And right now, Petra, there's just one thing I want—and that's you.'

CHAPTER EIGHT Petra placed the last pink sugar paste rosebud in place, then carefully tied the white and silver satin bow round the heart-shaped cake. After t e a s i n g t h e bow out with her fingers she turned the cake very slowly on her turntable icing stand, surveying it critically. W i t h h e r fingernail she rubbed out an a l l b u t invisible nick in the rim of piped icing then set the cake on the pine ta b l e alongside the other nine. Straightening up stiffly, she stood AT the kitchen window for a few m i n u t e gazing out at a cheerful patch of snowdrops by the gate as she flexed her back muscles, tight after several h o u r s of concentrated work. Then, with a l i t t l e pitter-patter of excitement, she f e t c h e d from the cold pantry The Cake and placed it on the table. Every Petronella cake was s o m e t h i n g special, made with love, but this was a very special one indeed. Her Valentine cake for Simon—pink fondant-iced, glued with white shell piping and covered with sugar-paste rosebuds and crystiallised violets. 'Roses are pink, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, I love you. . . ' She had thrown herself body and soul into creating it with an intensity w h i c h had almost shocked her, and even now that it was complete, waiting, just like the others, to be popped into its pink box, she kept taking it out and fidgeting with it. Feeling vaguely annoyed with herself, me pushed it aside and began weighing up the butter and sugar for her next orde r , tipped them into her big mixer and switched it on. Next instant, though, the door opened and she spun round, to see Jared, framed in the doorway. Her finger jerked the mixer motor up to high before she hastily tu r n e d it off. 'Hi.' He gave her a lazy smile, then sauntered across and dropped a buff coloured envelope on the table. 'Late delivery, I'm afraid. I've only just got round to looking at my mail, and this one's yours. It must be that relief postman confusing the two cottages.' Can't blame him, though— t h a t ' s easily done, isn't it, Petra?' 'Thank you,' she muttered, r e f u s i n g to rise to his last remark, and giving a l l her attention instead to the letter 'Looks like a bill—from m y wholesaler.' She even managed a faint smile, b u t did not quite succeed in meeting his eyes. Since that dreadful night, when she'd snatched up Sam and gone stumbling back to her cottage, she'd done her level best to avoid Jared. She'd been aware of his presence, of course—a tingling awareness

in every atom of her body and mind. Almost every day she saw him from her window, going o f f by car or walking, with that long, loping stride, and whenever she'd sneaked out herself she'd been all too conscious of a pair of sardonic grey-blue eyes trained on her shoulder-blades. A n d indoors—every day she could hear him, even through the granite walls running lightly up and down the stairs, the printer of his computer chattering—when, presumably, his writing was going to schedule—doors banging loudly enough to rattle her kitchen china—when, she guessed, thi n g s weren't going so well. Sometimes her ears caught the faint sound of music. Once she was almost certain it had been that love-theme which he'd put on for her—quite deliberately, she was sure now—and she'd begun noisily clattering the dishes she was washing, to try to blot it out. But even more disturbing were the nights when, unable to sleep, she heard through the wall the soft creaks as he moved around his bedroom. And the early mornings too when, in her little bathroom, she found herself straining to hear his electric razor or the sound of the shower, and before she could control it her mind would be forming pictures of that sleek olive-skinned body glistening under a cascade of water. And now that sleek olive-skinned body was here in her kitchen—six f e e t of powerful, aggressively m a s c u l i n e Jared, the black tracksuit he was wearing somehow making him s e e m even more lethal—more feral. 'Man the hunter, woman his prey.' For five weeks now those words, and the threat behind them, had haunted her f i t f u l sleep. He'd made no move, not the slightest attempt to convert the threat into reality, but it was only in the last few days that she'd begun to relax her guard. And now—she felt her stomach begin to churn, every muscle grow tense and wary . . . She picked up the bag of flour. 'If there's nothing else, Jared, I'm very busy this morning.' He ignored the unsubtle hint. 'Oh, don't mind me. You just carry on.' Arms folded, he leaned himself nonchalantly up against the unit, so Petra, after a fleeting hesitation, weighed out the flour and began cracking eggs into a bowl, 'You know, you look really fetching in that little white mob-cap.' An egg spewed on to the table, and she smacked her fist down. 'Look, Jared just go away, will you?' He clicked his tongue. 'My, my—we are jumpy today.' 'I am not jumpy. Not in the least,' she snipped. 'Just go away. I've told you 'I'm busy.'

'I can see that.' His glance moved down the table. 'Valentine cakes. How romantic.' 'Yes, isn't it?' she responded wooden l y . That angry smack of her hand had been a warning to her—she must not react. 'A new delicatessen in Truro has taken orders for ten, and I'm delivering them this afternoon.' 'So you've done me that one you promised me. Great.' When she looked up sharply he jabbed a lean finger at the e l e v e n t h cake. 'Oh—no—' she blurted out confusedly, then stopped. Of course, he knew perfectly well that it w a s n ' t f o r him—she could see it by the m a l i c i o u s gleam in his eye. 'I'm afraid that one's a special order,' she went on coolly. 'But I haven't forgotten. I'll make you one of Gran's whiskey cakes before you l e a v e . So don't worry—I always keep my promises.' 'Promises. Ah, p r o m i s e s . . . B u t Petra, you don't. At least, you don't keep the promises which that slender infinitely desirable body of yours makes to me.' She tried to reply, but her m o u t h w a s suddenly dry, and he went on. 'SO I suppose that one,' this time a jerk of his thumb, 'is a little offering for lover boy?' 'How clever of you to guess.' But behind the pert response her torn as brittle as glass. 'So what's that you're mixing? More Valentine cakes?' 'No, these are the last. This is a wedding-cake. Do you remember Joanne Endacott?' 'I think so. Smallish, brown hair— her mother kept the post office?' 'That's right. Well, she's getting married in a couple of weeks. She met Jason—her fiancé—on a scuba-diving hol i d a y in Cyprus, and they wanted to have a pair of scuba divers on the top of in cake. Yes, I know,' as Jared rolled his eyes. 'I managed to talk them out of that, but instead I'm having to create a sort of collage of shells, seaweed and the old Greek galley they were diving aroun d — all out of sugarwork. I usu a l l y enjoy modelling—but a Greek gal l e y , well . . .' She pulled a fraught face, but when she looked up his expression was stony. 'You're a cheat, Petra—you know that ? ' 'W—whatever do you mean?' The cold, repressed violence in his words knocked her back. 'What I say—you're a cheat Whether you know it or not, y o u 'r e putting all your creativity, your s e n s u a l ity—your passion into those bloody cakes of yours. To see you making them—it's like an act of love. The s e x u a l t h e m inside you—all right, you say it's not there,' as she went

to interrupt h i m , 'but it is, and it has to escape somehow, or destroy you. So—you sublimate it in these things.' His arm swept out contemptuously towards the Valentine cakes, and s h e took a step towards them as if to protect them from his scathing anger. 'And then there's Sam, of course His voice fell into the room like chip', hacked from a glacier. 'You lavish on him all the rest of the love that's in you.' 'No, that's—' 'Yes,' he cut in savagely. 'And do you know why? Because it's safe for you to do that. A human male might demand more from you than you're prepared to give, might threaten to break through t h a t total exclusion zone you've built round yourself, so you settle for a cat w h o just wants his tummy tickled . . . ' his lips curled in derision ' . . . and a saucer of milk a day.' 'But you're wrong. Simon—' 'Simon?' Cruelly he mimicked her. My sweet, you no more love him than this table.' He crashed his hand down on it, so that the mixer shook. But he's like Sam—just as safe, just as undemanding.' 'And, talking of Sam,' she said, very loudly, 'I've been meaning to ask you, h u t I don't seem to have seen you to speak to lately.' 'I had noticed,' he agreed ironically. 'Well, I'm going up to Simon's school fo r a week the day after tomorrow,' she continued, speaking very carefully. 'It's hi s half-term, and I'll be able to see the house that's being provided for us. So I was wondering—well, would it be too much for you to feed S a m once a day? He—' 'You're going up to stay with Polruan?' Jared repeated slowly. 'Yes, on Friday. I'm sorry to ask y o u , but Sam hates the cattery, and I ' m nervous of taking him in case he disappears. Of course, he'll have to g e t used to it at Easter . . . ' Her voice trailed away as she caught rather an odd expression on Jared's face. 'So if y o u wouldn't mind?' 'What?' He frowned slightly, as if he had not heard a word she had been saying, and for a moment she had the disconcerting impression that there were two trains of thought running, through his agile mind on parallel tracks. 'No, of course I don't.' 'Oh, thank you. And you needn't worry—he won't scratch you. Not the hand that's feeding him.'

She gave him a rather forced smile. After all, when the time came for Jared to go she didn't really want there to be this cold hostility between them. He'd lost—his lashing out at her like that just now only proved that—but there was no reason for them to be enemies. But he did not seem to notice, so she went on even more brightly, 'Well perhaps I could show you where his food is. He likes top of the milk every morning in that dish there.' She pointed to the blue pottery bowl by the boiler, then gave a little gasp and looked up at Jared, wide-eyed. 'He hasn't touched it. But he's always come for it by this time, even if he's stayed out all night.' Going through to the bottom of the stairs, she called, 'Sam, where are you? Get off that bed at once.' But the big cat did not appear sidling guiltily out from the spare room, and she hurried back to the kitchen. 'I'll see if he's in the garden. Perhaps he's been in a fight—he may be hurt.' Her voice shook slightly, but Jared gave a brief laugh. 'Honey, if he's been in a fight I'd worry about the other guy if I were you. He'll be the stretcher case. OK—sorry,' as she scowled at him over her shoulder. 'Sam.' She stood on the p a t h , listening intently, and Jared p u s h e d open the gate. 'I'll take a walk along the cliffs—see if I can spot him anywhere.' 'Please.' She bit her lip. 'I know y o u think I'm a fool, but if anything's happened to him . . .' She looked up at him, her vision blurred, and saw a strange, w h o l l y unexpected softness in his eyes. He lifted a hand and very gently, with one fingertip, flicked away a large tear from her cheek. But then he stopped, h i s finger still on her face. 'Did you hear that?' 'N-no.' Just for a second she had only been conscious of the feel of his skin against hers, and that expression in his eyes. 'I can't—' 'Sssh. Listen.' And this time she too heard the faint miaow. 'Come on.' Catching hold of her arm, he ran her round to the rear of the cottage. There was another, louder miaow, and Jared glanced up sharply, shading his eyes against the pale February sunshine. 'Look—he's on the roof. He pointed, and Petra saw the cat, perched precariously on the tiles just below the ridge. 'Sam!' As she gasped in horror the cat, his green eyes huge with fear, saw the m and went to move, then jerked back.

'Damn—he's got his paw trapped,' Jared muttered. 'But how did he get up there?' She was all but wringing her hands. 'How do you think? Up that.' He indicated the huge old apple tree, which, planted too near the cottage, nudged some of its branches against the roof. 'It should have been cut back years ago.' 'Yes, I know, but the blossom's so pretty in spring from my bedroom window.' 'Have you got a ladder?' 'N-no.' As she swung round he caught her by the wrist. 'Where are you going?' 'To ring the fire brigade. They'll g e t him down.' 'They won't thank you for fetching them all this way just for a wretched cat.' 'But he isn't a wretched cat—he's Sam.' 'I know, I know.' He heaved an exaggerated sigh. 'Nothing for it, I suppose. The Tremayne Animal A i d Service to the rescue.' And, catching hold of a lower branch, he swung himself up. She snatched hold of his foot. 'But he's terrified—he might scratch you again.' 'Not if he knows what's good for him,' he said grimly, and hauled himself up a branch. Petra, her hand to her mouth to silence any cry of fear that might make S a m — or Jared—lose his balance, watched as he heaved himself level with the cottage roof, then began inching himself up the sloping branch. It creaked, then sagged gently under his weight, and as she bit into her palm she saw Sam, his eyes green saucers of terror, trying to retreat. His paw wrenched free, he scrabbled frantically the n began sliding helplessly down the roof, his claws rasping against the tiles, Jared would never get to him—he'd be killed! And then, out of thin air, Jared flung himself forward, his arm snaked out and he grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck, just as he reached the guttering. Clutching the struggling animal to his chest, he ducked back and began an awkward one-armed descent. He was two-thirds down and a few of the knots in her stomach were starting to untie themselves when, without warning, a branch snapped and, unable to save himself, he came slithering down the rest of the way. Sam squirmed out of his arms, and Petra snatched him up, his fur standing on end, his heartbeat vibrating his whole body. 'Oh, baby.' She clutched him c o n v u l sively to her. 'I've got you—you're s a f e now.'

'Delighted to hear it,' Jared's c a u t i o u s voice broke in, and she turned to see him leaning up against the tree trunk. 'When you can spare a few seconds from crooning over that damned animal . . .' 'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said guiltily. 'Are you all right?' Pushing open the back door, she carefully dropped Sam on to the m a t , then went over to Jared. 'Are you all right?' she repeated, a sudden tremor in her voice as she realised that his face was quite pale. 'It's this shoulder.' He flexed it experimentally, then winced. 'I'll take you down to the surgery.' She glanced at her watch. 'Dr Hicks should still be there.' 'Hell, no,' he grumbled. 'I'm not letting that old quack near me. I've just strained it a bit.' 'Well, I don't know. I think—' 'And I think you ought to stop fussing,' he snarled. 'It's my shoulder oh, and this wrist.' 'Let me see.' She took hold of his right wrist and bent over it, turning it gently this way and that. 'I can't see any swelling.' With the tip of one finger she touched the skin. 'It feels quite cool.' In fact, Jared's skin was much cooler th a n hers as the realisation of their nearness hit her, warming her chilled flesh. 'H—have you . . . ' she cleared her throat ' . . . have you got some ointment to rub in?' 'No. When I travel, I travel light.' 'Well, I've got some arnica ointment upstairs. Mum always swears by that. I'll fetch it for you—and then why don't you have a hot bath? That'll help to get rid of the ache, I'm sure, and the arnica will work faster.' 'Good idea. Bring it round, will you?' As he turned away she caught hold of his arm. 'Thank you, Jared—you saved his life.' Her voice shook slightly, t h e n , overflowing with gratitude, she impulsively flung her arms around him a n d , standing on tiptoe, kissed him on the cheek. Almost before the kiss landed, though, she had realised her folly a n d drew back instantly. But Jared made no move, only stared down at her, his eyes devoid of expression. 'My pleasure,' he grunted, then swung round on his heel, leaving her somehow feeling a little deflated . . . A few minutes later, when s h e knocked on his door, there was n o reply.

'Jared,' she called in the empty kitchen. 'I've got the—' 'I'm upstairs. Bring it up to me.' Upstairs! For a moment she w a s tempted to leave the ointment on the kitchen table and flee, but, after all, it was her—or, rather, Sam's—fault so she went on up to the landing. 'Bring it in, then.' His irritable voice came from behind the bathroom door, and when she pushed it open a couple of inches she heard the s o f t bubbling of the whirlpool hath, and through the crack saw Jared, sprawling at his ease in the tumbling water, a glass of whisky on the cream marble rim beside him. 'For God's sake, come in and shut the door—the draught's going through me like a knife,' he muttered, though without deigning to turn his head in her direction. Petra, every instinct urging her to turn and run, took a deep breath, swallowed then went in, closing the door behind her. She advanced a little way into the room, then froze. The bath was low, half sunk into the floor and its tiled surround, and through the churning blue-green water she had an all too clear view of Jared. His six-foot frame was blurred by the seething wavelets, yet she could see more than enough, and her entire body suddenly went very clammy. 'Well?' he demanded. 'What are you staring at? You told me to have a hot bath, didn't you?' 'Yes but . . . ' she gulped down the tightness in her chest which w a s preventing her from breathing ' . . . that was after you put on the arnica.' 'Well, you rub it in for me now." Hitching himself up higher against the rim, he patted his left shoulder imperiously- 'Here—and here,' he commanded, then took a long swig of whisky and closed his eyes. Clearly the next move was down to her stared at him, lips pursed, then careful set down the little basin she was carrying, took a folded towel off the heated rail, knelt down behind him and unscrewed the ointment. She tentatively touched him he flinched. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?' 'Your hands are like ice,' he said ungraciously. 'Warm them in here.' She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and dabbled her hands in the hot bath. That superb, satiny naked body was spread-eagled, totally at ease, inches from her fingertips. If she stretched out just a fraction . . . Without warning her own body began to tingle all over, exactly as though she had been rolling in a bed of stinging nettles. She looked up sharply, and saw Jared's eyes fixed on her.

Abruptly drawing her hands back out of the water, she said, 'I—I think they're warm enough now.' 'Could be.' His expression did not change, but as she dabbed her hands dry she sensed his mind relax suddenly, almost—almost, she thought, with a twinge of unease—as if he'd come to a decision on something. But no, she told herself scornfully, catching sight of the almost empty glass, it was simply the effect of the whisky. She moved behind him again and, squeezing out some ointment, began smoothing it on in long strokes which were at first gentle, hesitant even, but then, as she felt the tautness in his muscles, deeper and stronger. She drew her hand backwards a n d forwards across his skin, lost in her o w n rhythm. How smooth his skin was to her touch, just like olive satin. T h e n , when she ran her fingers over the tops of his shoulders towards his chest, s h e felt that little sprinkling of coarse hairs. Finally she moved to his neck, rubbing, in cream up each side of his vertebrae, stopping just short of the lowest black curls. There was one in particular, slightly longer than the rest, nestling endearingly in his nape — 'You know, it's quite uncanny.' The lazy murmur made her jump. 'What is?' 'The way you keep insisting on action replays of the Tristan story.' 'How do you mean?' she asked warily. 'Well, Iseult gives him a herbal bath to heal his wounds—he'd just seen off a jumbo-sized serpent at the time, I seem to remember. Just one difference, though.' 'Oh, and what's that?' She was not fooled for a moment by his languid tone. 'After the massage she joins him in the tub. Have you ever been in a whirlpool bath, Petra?' 'No—no, I haven't.' 'It's amazingly soothing, I promise you.' His voice curled insidiously around her. 'Yes, I'm sure it is—I'll have to try one some time.' She was pleased at how expressionless her voice was. Even so, she moved well clear of his reach before screwing the cap back on the arnica. 'I've brought a comfrey poultice as well, and a crepe bandage,' she went on briskly. 'What for? I don't need a bandage on my shoulder.' 'No, of course not. It's for your wrist.'

'Ah, yes, of course—my wrist,' he agreed smoothly. 'But I don't want to get the bandage wet,' she began doubtfully. 'I'll get out, then.' And before she could move he flicked off the taps, casually hoisted himself to his feet and—quite deliberately, she w a s certain—stepped out of the b a t h right beside her, so that a long tanned leg brushed against her thigh, leaving n streak of foaming bubbles across her jeans. All at once the spacious bathroom was very small, and as he reached for a towel she scrambled to her feet. She snatched up the bowl. 'I—I'll take this downstairs.' But, even though she banged the door behind her, she s t i l l caught the sound of his soft, mocking laugh . . . She heard him coming, and began very carefully piling the mashed-up comfrey leaves on to the lint. Out of the corner of her eye she could see bare legs and feet, and when she reluctantly turned to face him saw that he was wearing a short—very short—navy towelling robe, so loosely belted that it had fallen open, revealing a great deal of torso. 'Hold out your arm, please.' She slapped the wet poultice on to his wrist, then tightly bandaged it and secured it with a safety-pin. 'Is that all right?' He flexed his hand. 'Fine.' 'Good.' She began rolling up the res t of the bandage. 'Of course, you'll have to drive me this afternoon.' 'Drive you? You mean, down into the village? But if you need any shopping I can—' 'Not the village, no. I'm going to Penzance.' 'Penzance?' She almost shrieked the word. 'But I can't take you there —' it's impossible.' 'Why?' he demanded flatly. ' W e l l . . . ' the thought of being confined in a car with Jared for several hours, especially in the mood he was clearly in, w a s simply too much ' . . . I've told you, I've got to deliver those Valentine cakes today.' 'Truro isn't much out of the way. —I shan't mind you making a detour.' 'Well, that's really considerate of you.' 'Not at all.' He lifted his good shoulder in graceful acknowledgement. 'You see, I've got an appointment with an old lady who apparently has a load of stuff about the Tristan legend—old manuscripts and so on — which I just may be able to use.'

'I'm sorry, Jared, I really am. Look, I'll give Mike Preston a ring—he's started a taxi service out of the village and he's very reasonable.' 'No.' He scowled down at her. 'Do I have to remind you it was your darn cat that's got me into this mess?' 'That's emotional blackmail,' she retorted heatedly. 'And, anyway, I think you're just being bloody-minded. But,' as he regarded her in stony silence, 'as it's my fault you can't drive, I'll pay Mike's bill.' 'I've got a couple of phone calls to make—and I suppose I'd better change out of this. So,' he glanced across at the wall clock, 'we'll leave in an hour. She simply wasn't going to be amrollered like this. 'I'm sorry, Jared,' she jutted her soft chin determinedly, 'but it's absolutely out of the question.'

CHAPTER NINE When Petra came down the path Jared was leaning up against the Aston Martin, sleek in a charcoal-grey sun and white shirt. One black leather toecap was tapping the ground. 'I thought I said an hour.' Petra gave him a smouldering look. 'Just be grateful I'm coming at all.' 'Oh, but I am—I really am. Besides, the extra ten minutes were well worth it.' And his gaze travelled lingeringly over her from head to foot. She'd despised herself when, instead of remaining in her jeans and sweater, she'd hurtled upstairs, torn them off and changed into a slim-cut pale turquoise wool dress and matching jacket. And now she despised herself a hundred times more for being glad that she had. There was something in those eyes when they rested on her . . . Oh, come on, she told herself scathingly. It's just one of the tricks of the trade for a seasoned sexual campaigner like Jared Tremayne to make a woman feel intensely aware, as never before, of her body under her clothes, her skin stroking gently against her slip. And, as she was fully aware of the tricks, she wasn't going to fall for them, was she? 'I'll run the Mini round and load up the cakes,' she said crisply. 'Don't bother. Well take this one.' As he gestured to the Aston Martin her jaw dropped. 'But I can't drive that thing. I've never driven anything half the size.' 'Well, now's your chance, then.' He held the car keys out to her, that cool challenge in his voice again, and she snatched the keys out of his hand. 'If I crash it, well—don't say I didn't warn you.' 'I won't. But, in any case, I'm sure that you drive at least as well as you make . . . ' their eyes met ' . . . cakes. Now, let me give you a hand with those boxes.' 'You'd better not. You'll strain your wrist.' 'Oh, of course—mustn't forget my wrist, must we?'

He opened the boot lid and she slung in her jacket, his grey overcoat, the black high-heeled shoes she hail brought to change into, and finally pin in the pink heart-shaped cake boxes. Then, feeling just a little queasy, she said with a fair attempt at nonchalance, 'Right, let's go, shall we?' Opening the door, she got into the driver's seat as Jared slid in beside her. They both reached for their seatbelts, turned in the same instant to slot them into place, and their fingers brushed. She felt the electricity run up her arm and instinctively flicked her fingers as though she were shaking water off them. But then, focusing all her attention on the bewildering array of controls before her, she leaned forward, switched on the engine, and the sleek grey beast growled into life ... ★★★ 'Take this next right turn.' Jared jabbed a finger. 'Right? But surely Penzance is left?' 'Just take this turning and don't argue,' he said curtly, and with no more than one mutinous crash of the gears she obeyed, driving on until — 'In here.' 'Here?' 'Are you changing into a parrot or something?' he snapped. 'Here.' 'But—it's the heliport.' 'Good grief, the girl can read. Pull in over there. Yes, this'll do.' He eased himself out and strode off in the direction of the small terminal building, leaving Petra to watch suspiciously as he disappeared through a swing door. What on earth was he up to now? She didn't trust him an inch. Well, if you were wise you didn't trust Jared Tremayne, did you? Not as far as you could throw him, which wouldn't be very far. He reappeared with a young man in jeans and a dark green sweater. They were deep in what looked like quite a heated discussion, the man gesticulating as he tried to make a point. You're wasting your time, honey, she though ironically, and, sure enough, finally he gave a resigned shrug, nodded, then turned and went back into the office. She sat where she was, watching as Jared came towards her, that easy confidence—no, call it what it was—downright arrogance showing in every loping stride. Some men—even young ones—walked with constraint, as if they were already bowed under shackles. Not Jared, though.

He'd saunter through life, free and untrammelled, and a woman could no more tie him down than a soaring wild eagle . . . And all at once she felt a vicious little stab of pain as he bent towards her open window, his black curls ruffling in the wind, his white teeth showing in a triumphant grin. 'Settled everything to your satisfaction?' she enquired with a saccharine smile. 'Perfectly, my sweet.' He opened her door. 'Out you get.' 'But I don't understand. Where's your appointment? Here?' She looked around her at the neat, anonymous buildings. 'Not exactly.' He was removing their jackets and attaché case from the boot. 'Wait,' as he went to close it, 'let me change my shoes.' She kicked off her driving casuals and wriggled into the high-heeled pumps. 'Ready when you are, Mr Tremayne.' The young man, who had made an instant change into a smart navy blue uniform and white peaked cap, was beside them, and Petra, her elbow held in Jared's iron grip, found herself trotting across the Tarmac towards a blue and white helicopter. As the man climbed aboard SHE jerked her arm free. 'What's going on?' 'We're having a little ride, that's all,' Jared replied suavely. 'My appointment's in St Mary's.' 'St Mary's? You mean—across in the Scilly Isles?' 'Is there another?' 'But you said it was in Penzance!' she exclaimed furiously. 'You lied to me, Again.' 'Not really. I said we were going to Penzance. Well—we've come to Penzance, haven't we?' 'I suppose so,' she said sullenly, but then, acutely conscious of a pair of frankly curious eyes on them both, lowered her voice a fraction. 'But, if you really are going over there, there's no need for me to come. I'll wait for you here.' She looked past the helicopter—really a very small one—to the windsock at the far end of the field, tugging at its moorings in the freshening wind, and she ran the tip of her tongue round her lips. 'I've—er—I've never been in a helicopter before.' 'My, my. First the Aston Martin now a helicopter. Two new experiences for you in one day.' He paused. 'What a pity you didn't join me in that whirlpool bath. That would have made a third.' Another pause. 'And, who knows, it might even have led to a fourth . . . ?' Petra, the colour scorching her chilled cheeks, glowered up at him. 'All right, damn you. I'll come.'

'I'm so glad. It would have been so undignified for you, having to be dragged aboard.' And, stone-faced, she climbed in and sat as far into the corner as she could . . . Jared stopped for a last word with the pilot, then vaulted down on to the ground beside her. 'That was wonderful.' Petra, her face glowing with the memory of them twenty-minute hop over turbulent green, lace-cap waves, smiled up at him, all her ill humour gone. 'Glad you enjoyed it.' His eyes well on her radiant face, but then, as the engine revved and the rotor arm begun to pick up speed, he put his arm round her and ran her out into the open. 'But where's he going?' The helicopter was already lifting off, and beneath her surprise she felt an inexplicable twinge of fear. She swung round on him. 'Why isn't he waiting for us?' 'He has another job to do before coming back for us.' Jared, sounding supremely uninterested, steered her through the small airport building and out to a waiting taxi. In minutes they had driven across the tiny island to Hugh Town, past the harbour, and then the taxi stopped outside a pleasant grey-stone villa overlooking the sea. The driver turned. 'This is Mrs Jenkins's house.' 'Thanks.' Jared took out his wallet. 'There's a nasty blow coming up.' The man pointed to where, low on the horizon, sombre clouds were massing. 'You'll never—' 'How much do I owe you?' Jared extracted a note and handed it to him. As they got out Petra inhaled deeply. What a wonderful scent. I suppose it's the daffodils they grow here—I've heard that you can smell them everywhere on the islands.' 'Maybe—or maybe it's just coming from them,' Jared replied prosaically, pointing to a large clump of yellow jonquil at the side of the path. The door opened as they reached it, revealing a small white-haired old lady. 'Mrs Jenkins?' He smiled warmly down at her and held out his hand. 'I'm Jared Tremayne.' 'How nice to meet you, Mr Tremayne. And this is your young lady that you told me about.' 'Oh, but—' she began hastily, then Jared's hand was on her arm, squeezing her into silence. Mrs Jenkins led the way into a pretty sitting-room with a small conservatory beyond. The table was littered with papers, some yellowed with age, news cuttings, and a large scrapbook. Its cover was faded, and a faint smell of lavender came up from the pages.

'I hope I've found everything for you.' She was fidgeting with the papers. 'Only you took me rather by surprise with your phone call this morning.' This morning? Petra looked sharply at Jared, who met her stare with a bland look, then, still holding her gaze, said, 'Oh, I'm sure you have, Mrs Jenkins ... ' another, even warmer smile ' ... and I'm only sorry I couldn't give you more warning. As I explained, my plans are so, well— fluid, at the moment.' Jared and the old lady sat down side by side on the chintz sofa. Petra settled herself in an armchair on the other side of the open fire while he took a preliminary glance through the papers. 'But this is wonderful, Mrs Jenkins. You must have spent years getting all this together.' 'Oh, no, my dear.' She laughed softly. It was Jack—my husband. The King -Arthur legends— especially the Tristan and Iseult ones—they were a lifelong passion for him.' Passion . . . Strange how that word was always cropping up. 'From when he was a boy he was proper amazed about them. He was always telling the stories—to our children, then the grandchildren . . . anyone who'd listen.' 'And can you remember them?' 'Well, I do . . . ' To Petra's surprise, she looked round at her, her cheeks peony-red ' . . . but some of them aren't very nice.' 'Oh, you needn't worry about embarrassing Petra,' Jared replied with a casualness that set her teeth on edge. 'She doesn't shock very easily, I assure you. And I'd be really grateful if you could tell me some—' a gently teasing smile '—any you want to, that is.' 'Well,' she began hesitantly with an anxious look at the portable tape- recorder which he had unobtrusively switched on, 'folks do say that the Scillies are all that's left of Prince Tristan's kingdom of Lyonesse, with all the rest long since drowned beneath the waves . . . ' And gradually the words began to flow as she relaxed under the spell of Jared's charm. Really, he could charm all the birds out of the trees if he wanted to . . . Sitting back into the depths of her armchair, Petra felt safe enough to let her eyes stay on him. In the warm room, he had discarded his jacket and tie—they lay in a heap on the floor. Now the top buttons of his white shirt were open, revealing the strong olive-toned shaft of his neck, and a little sprinkle of dark hairs. His black curls were dishevelled, where the blustery wind had ruffled through them. As she gazed at those rumpled curls he bent forward to pick up some of the

papers. She watched as he flicked through them, frowning slightly; then he turned to smile encouragingly at Mrs Jenkins. And in that moment, with his attention a million miles away from her, Petra's heart gave a sudden, sickening lurch. The fire of love that this man had kindled in her at sixteen—she'd thought it was long-dead ashes. But nothing had changed, and now, without a second's warning, it had blazed up in her face. A drowning man saw his whole life, and in one searing instant Petra saw everything. She didn't love Simon—she loved Jared, with the love she had denied for so long ... They were persuaded to stay for tea, and homemade scones and cream, and Petra went numbly through the meal, forcing down a scone and smiling stiff-lipped every time one of the others spoke to her. She barely looked at Jared, but every ounce of her being was alive with him, and when at last he got to his feet, casually buttoned up his shirt, put on his tie then his jacket, she could barely breathe for the pain. Mrs Jenkins forced some of the papers on to him. 'Take them, my lover.' Petra, raw with emotion, felt her eyes brim with tears at the gentle endearment. 'Since my Jack died they've never been out of that old trunk upstairs. He'd be glad to think someone was interested.' 'Goodbye, Mrs Jenkins.' Impulsively Petra hugged her. 'Maybe you'll come back and see me one day when you're married.' And she patted her left hand with its diamond solitaire. 'I—' Petra's voice faltered as she felt a pair of coolly mocking eyes on her, but then at the wistfulness in the old lady's voice she forced a brilliant smile. 'Yes, of course. 'Then she followed Jared down the path. Indoors, they had been insulated. Now the gusting wind tore at her hair and skirt, lashing that brave clump of jonquils to the earth. As the first icy mindrops spattered against their faces she gasped with the shock. 'We'd better get back to the airport before it's any worse.' But his only response was to catch hold of her arm and begin hurrying her down the narrow lane that led to the harbour. 'There's no point.' He had pulled up in the lee of a building, but still had to shout to make himself heard over the wind and the screeching gulls. 'The pilot won't be coming back for us till tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow?' White-faced, she stared back at him, the sudden panic writhing in her. 'What do you mean? I've got to get back.' He shrugged. 'Tomorrow. This should have eased by then, but just now I'd say it was a forcenine sou'wester at the very least.' 'Well, we'll get a boat, then—a plane—anything,' she said desperately. 'Sorry, no can do. Everything will be grounded.' 'But we—we can't stay. I won't' 'If you're that desperate to get away from me you'll have to try swimming.' He grinned down at her, his eyes alight. He'd always loved storms—the wilder the better—and now her obvious disquiet was no doubt merely adding to his pleasure. But she couldn't hide it. Petra was shaken to the core by that blazing revelation and the violence of the gale was blowing her mind, so that she was barely aware of Jared, his arm round her, towing her along. 'We'll find a hotel,' he shouted in her ear. A hotel? Spend the night in a hotel? The nightmare was increasing by the second. 'But won't they be closed at this time of year?' 'Not all of them.' As he turned up her jacket collar his fingers brushed against her neck, and she stiffened, terrified that he would sense the tremor which ran through her body. But he merely seized her hand again in a firm grasp. 'OK—let's go.' They turned up a narrow street, crossed a courtyard and ran, Petra gasping for breath, into a spacious foyer. 'Sit down there.' Jared motioned her towards an armchair by the fire, and, going across to the reception desk, rang the bell. When a young woman appeared they had a very brief conversation—which Petra, still wrapped in her own tumultuous thoughts, did not catch

— then he was advancing on her. 'It's all right—they'll take us. Up you get.' Her legs seemed to have lost their strength, but he lifted her easily to her feet. 'Wait a minute.' She clutched at his wrist, then demanded, 'Where am I sleeping?' The corner of his mouth twitched. 'You can take that suspicious look off your face. You have your own suite

—

entirely to yourself.'

'I'm so pleased.' She jutted her chin haughtily, and followed him to the lift As he put the key into the lock of ONE of the bedroom doors she glanced up and down the carpeted corridor. 'It's very quiet.' 'Maybe we're the only guests.' 'But—were they open?' 'We're here, aren't we?' He pushed open the door and, flicking the light switch, gestured her past him into the room, attractively furnished in shade, of apricot and cream. 'My suite's next door. Just tap the wall if you need anything.' Closing the door behind her, she leaned up against it, her hands splayed against the wood. For the first time since those blinding seconds of revelation she was alone, and she tried desperately to calm her swirling thoughts. In that stunning instant her whole carefully ordered life had been set on its head—and now guilt, fear, anger raged inside her as fiercely as the storm outside. How could she have let it happen? And—a low moan was wrenched from her—how could she have betrayed Simon? But you haven't. She clung desperately to a last slender thread of cold sanity. You haven't— and you're not going to. You are not going to surrender to this love, because if you do it will destroy you. Jared doesn't love you he only wants you—and if you give way to him you'll be consumed in the loveless passion that he feels for you. She pushed herself upright, then, moving like a clockwork toy, she locked the door and kicked off her wet shoes. Her jacket and dress were soaking as well, so she hung them on a chair in front of the radiator. In the luxurious bathroom her face stared back at her from the mirror, deathly pale beneath the bedraggled hair, and with a new, shadowed expression hovering round the eyes. She looked back at herself a moment longer, then tore off her underclothes and, stepping into the shower cubicle, scrubbed herself all over and shampooed her hair. There was an apricot towelling wrap on the door. Back in the bedroom, she slipped it on, dried her hair, then curled up on the window-seat, her chin on her hands, gazing out. In the hotel garden the trees were swaying to and fro, outlined against dark clouds driven along by the wind that was shrieking in the eaves above her. Desperately she fought to subdue her thoughts and feelings, but, mirroring the wildness outside, they tumbled chaotically round and round in her mind . . .

A brisk knock roused her. She went slowly across and, unlocking the door, saw Jared, dressed in a black robe, bare-legged, his hair still damp from his shower. Instinctively she went to close the door in his face, but he put up a hand, forcing it back, and walked in past her. 'What do you want?' Her voice was brittle. 'I thought you might be scared.' 'Scared?' The word crackled with barely suppressed hysteria. 'Jared, I've had twenty-six years of winter storms.' 'Yes, but this is as wild as any I can remember.' They were standing side by side, reflected in the pale lamplight on the window-pane, and he turned to her, his eyes glinting. 'I wonder if it was a night like this when Tristan's kingdom disappeared beneath the waves just out there.' In spite of herself, she shivered. 'Stop it, Jared. You're only trying to frighten me.' 'Now, would I do that?' That lazy note was in his voice, and she felt the anger stir in her. He was so damned relaxed tonight—in fact, all day, while her nerves had been jumping a dozen which ways at once, he'd been completely laid-back. And suddenly she wanted to leap at him to release the twanging tension, claw at him—and punch him—and take him in her arms and — Abruptly she swung away, fighting to control the erotic images which went- bubbling up like slow poison from ha subconscious. I don't want to, she told herself fiercely, then looked up at him, her eyes blank. 'Sorry—what did you say?' 'Do you want dinner?' 'Oh, yes, please.' The sooner they'd eaten, the sooner she could lock her door on him again, anaesthetise her brain with a couple of hours of TV, then sleep until it was time for that helicopter to take off. 'I'll tell them we're ready, then.' Dropping down beside the bedside phone, he dialled. 'Thank you, yes, we'll have it now. What? Oh, in my suite, I think.' As he replaced the receiver she said mutinously, 'I want to eat in the dining-room.' 'Sorry, my sweet,' he sounded intensely regretful, 'but they're redecorating it. Didn't you notice the smell of paint downstairs?' 'No.' She hadn't been in any state to notice anything at all beyond her own whirling emotions.

'Well, come on, then.' She clutched the neck of her robe to her. 'They mustn't see me like this in your room. I'll get dressed.' Jared ran his fingers over her dress, still steaming by the radiator. 'It's soaked. If you must, hide yourself in here till they've brought the meal. I'll rap on the wall.' And, with a last, easy little smile, he strolled out.

CHAPTER TEN 'You're sure I can't tempt you?' Jared held the bottle of sparkling wine out to Petra invitingly. 'I've already told you—no, thank you,' she replied stiffly. Gathering the plates together, she put them on the trolley, then carefully re-belted her robe, drawing it even more tightly around her. Even though she had replaced her bra, panties and slip by the time Jared's imperious summons came, she felt very ill at ease under the apricot robe. And it didn't help that it was so obvious that, beneath his own black robe, Jared was wearing absolutely nothing. 'You do disappoint me, Petra.' He topped up his crystal flute, then returned the bottle to the silver ice bucket. 'Yes, I'm quite sure I do,' she responded through tight lips. 'I thought you were stronger-willed than that.' He gave her a glinting look. 'But I suppose if it's the only way for you to keep your hands off me, well 'No—you're wrong. It's not—' But, in her present state, she couldn't even be angry at his taunt, and broke off abruptly, gnawing her lip against another of those waves of anguish that, every few minutes, had engulfed her since that terrible moment of truth. She loved Jared—and, ruthless as he was, he must never suspect it, or the last pitiful rags of her defence against him would be torn from her. And he mustn't suspect, either, how she was aching for him to take her in his arms. If he really did believe that the only thing saving her was her stubborn refusal to drink at least a little of the wine . . . Snatching up her glass, she held it out to him. 'I will have some, please.' He made no response, beyond a quirked eyebrow, filling the glass in silence. 'Thanks.' She took a cautious sip of the pale golden liquid, gasping as the icy bubbles hit her throat. 'It's very good. Is it champagne?' 'No.' He lapsed into silence again, studying his glass, and the only sounds were tin shrieks and howls of the storm outside, roaring around the building like some primeval beast roused from its lair. Inch by inch, it was dragging itself up from the sea bed to destroy them all, and she was completely helpless —

'What's the matter?' As she gave an involuntary shudder Jared glanced up at her. 'I thought you said you weren't frightened.' Not of the storm, no. But of you—and, most of all, of myself. 'Of course I'm not.' She gave a tinny laugh and took another sip of wine. He set down his glass and, uncoiling himself from his chair, lowered himself on to the sofa beside her. Not giving her a chance to move, he took her hand and, turning it over between his, pressed one finger to her wrist. 'Hmm. Very rapid pulse-rate,' he remarked, pursing his lips. 'You know, I think you are scared.' She snatched her hand away. 'I'm not, I tell you.' He was sprawling back into the padded cushions beside her, his long bare legs almost touching hers, that V of naked chest inviting her to touch, to explore, while the sensuous scent that was Jared Tremayne and no other man was penetrating her nostrils and weaving patterns in her disordered brain—With a little jerk she came upright. 'Do you . . . ' something was sticking in her throat ' ... do you think it was worth coming? Have you got what you came for? I mean—' Suddenly aware of the opening her innocent question had given him, she faltered, then went on carefully, 'Have you found out anything about the legend that will help you?' 'I think so, yes. I'm trying to blend the past with the present in the script, so I'll probably work in one or two of the stories Mrs Jenkins told us.' His lips tugged into a smile. 'I imagine it'll end up as an eighteen-certificate film, anyway, so I should be able to use them

—

even if they aren't very nice.' He turned his gaze on her. 'Did you enjoy that one about—?' 'She was lovely—' she broke in abruptly '—Mrs Jenkins, wasn't she?' 'Yes.' The tension of having him near her

—

so close that she could hear the rise and fall of his breathing—was winding itself around her

until she felt as though she would suffocate. 'I thought I'd send her some flowers before we leave.' 'That's a wonderful idea.' She gave him an almost natural smile. 'I'll order them in the morning. Do you think, fifty pounds' worth?' In her imagination Petra saw the old lady, overwhelmed with such a superb bouquet of spring blooms. 'Oh, yes, she'll be delighted, I'm sure,' she said warmly.

Their eyes met, and for a split-second the storm outside seemed to ebb away as the whole world fell silent. And then she was coming to her feet as blind panic clawed at her. 'I—I must go. I'm very tired, and—' A tremendous gust of wind shook the windows, roaring down the blocked-up chimney, and her overstrung nerves finally snapped. With a strangled sob she took a step backwards and stumbled into the trolley. Next instant she felt Jared's arms go round her, dragging her to him to steady her, and for a moment, all sensation gone except mindless terror, she clung to him, her head resting against his chest. Slowly and gently he stroked her hair, until at last the soft, hypnotic rhythm soothed her, relaxing her jagged mind, even while other tensions uncoiled themselves and began wreathing through her like fine mist. She stood quiescent in the circle of his arms, until he tilted her face up. As he lowered his mouth to hers she wanted to cry out in protest, bin instead heard herself whisper, 'Oh, Jared.' Then he was covering her mouth with his, taking her moist sweetness, and, as his kiss became more demanding, deep inside her the old magic woke and grew into life. It was primitive, ancient as time itself, and she felt it all round her, as if that slumbering sea monster had somehow penetrated this room and was enmeshing her in its coils. When finally his lips left hers, to slide instead to the soft angle of her jaw just beneath the earlobe3 she felt the pulse there flutter crazily against his hot mouth. Taking the tender lobe between his teeth, he nipped it, running the very tip of his taut tongue around it, before spiralling gently round the intricate lines of her ear. The storm had faded, somewhere beyond the tumult of her own blood and the thunder of Jared's breath in her ear. A wholly new, erotic sensation was surging through her; her entire body was slowly turning to water so that, utterly bereft of strength, she sagged against him. Jared lifted his head and looked down into her face, his eyes a pale smoky grey with desire, and with an expression so intent that a wild exhilaration sang in her veins. Just for a second, though, through the haze of sensation, she felt fear rising again. 'No—no,' she murmured and raised her hands to push him away, but Jared took them and held them tightly against his chest. 'Yes. Yes, my darling. Trust me—don't be afraid. Just go with your body.' He released her hands, then untied the knot of her robe and slipped it from her shoulders, leaving her standing in her cream slip. She heard his breath catch in his throat.

'You're so beautiful, s o . . . ' h e seemed to search for the word, then said huskily ' . . . perfect.' Lifting one hand, he traced along the scalloped lace edge of the slip, his fingers brushing butterfly-softly the curves of her breasts, until her entire frame was shaken with an intense shudder. Then, as the erotic sensations beat through her, her body stiffened, passion taking it over completely. When he picked her up she lay in his arms, staring up at him from under her lashes. He halted at the bedside, but, instead of laying her down, stood holding her and gazing into her face His head blotted out the soft light from the small shell lamp, so that she could not see his expression clearly, but she felt the power blazing in him. Then, very slowly, he laid her on the bed and came down beside her. His fingers eased away the straps of her slip and bra to lay bare her breasts, down to the aureoles, and at his touch the rosy brown centres puckered and tautened. Lowering his head to the silky fabric, he suckled each breast in turn, until she gasped and clenched her hands on his shoulders, as her head went violently to and fro on the pillow. When his lips finally left her aching breasts, leaving little circles of wetness on the slip, it was to ravish her mouth, extracting kisses from her until she felt her own lips swell. Inexorably, with his sensual touch, he was sucking her identity from her, so that at last she melted in his arms, ceasing to be Petra and becoming only the essence of woman through the ages, to be desired and taken by an overwhelmingly sexual male. When his fingers brushed against her thigh, easing her out of her panties, she gasped again, deep in her throat, curled her arms around him tightly and arched against him. Muttering something inarticulate, he slid his hands under her buttocks, raised her slightly, then, with a slowness that made her almost cry outwith wanting, he nudged her legs apart with his knee and moved over her. He paused then, and she heard him breathing deeply, the sweat slicking on his body, which trembled slightly beneath her spread fingers. But, as she- opened herself to him, he eased forward. There was one sharp shaft of pain, transforming her from unfulfilled girl to woman, then it was gone, and with the intensity of sensation she cried aloud. At the sound he seemed to explode into passion and, eyes closed, she could only cling to him, following where he took her. All feeling was focused on that tight, burning core at her centre, and

yet it was spilling out into the rest of her, the tempest within her matching the potency of the storm outside. And then Jared gasped, a long, ragged sound which shook his whole frame. Deep inside her, like a desert flower which had lain withered through years of drought, she felt something flex its parched petals, expand and bloom. She tensed once more, then, with a last broken sigh, lay motionless in his arms . . . ★★★ The wind rattling at the pane roused them. Jared turned his head slightly on the pillow and looked at her, his eyes languorous. She smiled shyly at him, unable to find words to tell him what had happened to her—that something had changed within her, shifting very slightly so that she would never be quite the same again. But she couldn't tell him any of that, of course, so instead she lifted her hand and very softly brushed it across his lips. He took it and lazily kissed the soft palm, over and over, long slow kisses, which drugged her already slumbrous mind. 'Sit up,' he murmured. 'I want to see you naked.' Raising himself against the pillow, he lifted her up and took off her slip, sliding it voluptuously over her slender body. Her bra followed, eased away gently, then as they fell free his hands cupped her breasts, the warm thumbs rubbing softly against her nipples until the delicate friction made her gasp and catch her under-lip in her teeth. When he laid her down again she pulled at the belt of his robe, loosing it then sliding it away from him. As he propped himself on one arm she looked at his body from beneath heavy lashes, luxuriating in the hard muscles, the flat planes of his stomach, the sheer male strength of him, under that satin- smooth sheath of skin. 'You are so beautiful,' she whispered. 'Strange,' he said huskily, 'I was just going to say the same thing.' He gave her that crooked little smile, then reached for her again. His hands, roaming over every soft, rounded contour, were reducing her once more to trembling compliance, while the aroma of his body, so potent beneath the scent of aftershave and soap, was more powerful than any artificial aphrodisiac.

Elemental feelings surged through her. She wanted to bury her face against those taut muscles, kissing and nipping the olive flesh until he writhed beneath her mouth as she was doing under his. She murmured something incoherent, and he said softly, 'What is it you want, my sweetheart?' 'I—don't—know,' she muttered. 'Yes, you do.' He turned her face to his. 'You want to touch me, taste me, take me into yourself.' His voice was hypnotic. 'Touch me, Petra. That's what you long to do, isn't it?' Of course it was. For years and years and years, that was what she'd wanted. That want had always been there, but hidden away so deep inside her that she hadn't even known it existed. Until Jared had come back. Until tonight. 'Isn't it?' 'Yes,' she whispered. 'Yes—yes— yes.' And she ran her hands over his chest and shoulders, hesitantly at first, her eyes lowered, but then, as she felt the muscles tense under her, the nipples stiffen beneath her palm, she looked straight up into Jared's face, and saw the flush which darkened his cheekbones. Her fingers moved lower, over his belly, then they were sliding through the brush of dark hair and down the moist skin of his thigh. With a groan he rolled over on to his back and pulled her gently on top of him. This time there was no pain, just a marvellous slow yielding as she took him into herself. And then came sensations beyond her most impassioned imaginings, then, past them again, an ecstasy which shook her with the mindless paroxysm of its rapture. She felt as though she were mounted on a fairground carousel—a prancing gilded horse beneath her—being whirled faster and faster. And then the flimsy rope which tethered her snapped and she was hurtling out beyond the universe, through endless time and space. She glimpsed a place so wonderful that tears flooded into her eyes, and then she was tumbling back, and the earth took her into its orbit again.

They had fallen asleep, wrapped in each other's arms. Some time in the night the wind had abated, and now, with daylight, she could look out on a still, newly washed world. She had been sitting, huddled in the armchair beside the window, for over two hours now, and still Jared had not stirred. She listened again to his steady, rhythmic breathing, but then, as all at once he muttered something and flung himself over on to his side, she leapt up, her heart thumping, and tiptoed towards the door. 'And where are you off to?' Like a cat, he had sprung into instant wakefulness. She stood, her hand on the door. 'T—to get dressed.' 'What's the hurry? Come here.' He held out a lazy hand. 'No. The storm's dropped—we can get to the airport now.' 'There's no hurry. The chopper isn't picking us up till ten.' Her fingers tightened on the handle, then she swung round. 'You mean you've already arranged that?' 'Of course.' He was lounging back against the pillow, his hands behind his head, but his eyes were watchful. 'So you knew about the storm?' 'Yes—and so would you if you'd bothered to get yourself up and listen to the shipping forecast yesterday morning.' At his careless tone two angry spots of colour flared in her cheeks. 'I was already busy making cakes by then,' she said tightly. 'And as at that time I wasn't proposing a joy-ride to the Scillies, there was no need, was there?' She came across to the bed and stood, staring down at him, as the anger-anguish warred inside her. 'You've set this whole thing up, haven't you? Those phone calls before we left

—

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 seen 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 scared 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 — 'My darling.' Holding her away from him, he tilted her face up. When she murmured protestingly, putting up a hand to hide her swollen eyes and tearblotched cheeks, he gently pulled it away. So she had to look up into his face, and at his expression her heart turned right over, then began pounding against her ribs. 'My darling,' he gave her an odd little smile, 'it doesn't matter about the cake—no.' His finger, laid across her lips, silenced the snuffled protest. 'You can make my wedding-cake instead.' As Petra stared up at him, speechless and still quivering from the emotion which had racked her, he went on, 'Or, rather—our wedding-cake. Well, say something—please.' 'You mean—are you—is this a proposal?' Her green eyes were almost swallowing the rest of her features. He pulled a rueful face. 'Not a very good one, I'm afraid. I haven't had much practice at it. But—will you marry me?' His voice was tense; this was a new, uncertain Jared, and it made her heart-strings twist. 'But you don't love me,' she whispered.

His fingers tightened momentarily on her arms, then he released her. 'Look, for God's sake, can I have some of that whiskey?' He jerked his head at the bottle, which still stood on the table. 'I'm sorry. Of course.' Her brain reeling, she busied herself getting a glass. 'Help yourself.' 'Thanks.' He hooked out a chair with his foot, dropped into it and poured himself a large drink. 'I—er—think I've got some soda,' she said tentatively. 'No, thanks.' He took a long gulp, then pulled out another chair. 'Sit there.' When she obeyed he reached for her hand, raised it to his lips, then gently set it down again. 'Petra,' he was gazing down into the amber depths of his glass, 'you must believe me. I do love you. Though, after the way I've treated you, I've forfeited forever the right to tell you so. I can only—' he hesitated '—I can only ask you to forgive me.' 'Jared . . . ' she bit painfully on her lip, her heart swelling with love for this proud man, humbling himself in front of her ' . . . there's nothing to forgive.' 'But there is—even if it took a force-ten gale finally to get it into my thick head that—' When he stopped abruptly she prompted, 'That?' '—that I can't live without you.' A ghost of a wry smile. 'I recommend a few minutes staring eternity in the face—it's a great way to sort out your priorities.' He broke off again, then, 'You do still love me, don't you?' 'You know that,' she said quietly. 'I've never stopped loving you—and I never will.' 'And you will marry me?' She nodded, too overflowing with emotion to trust her voice. 'Oh, my l o v e . . . ' Jared's lips compressed ' . . . I don't deserve you.' Pushing back his chair, he pulled her to her feet and took her in his arms again, nuzzling her bright hair with his cheek. As she clasped her arms round him she closed her eyes, the happiness glowing within her. It was as though she had walked through a door, out of a bitter, icy winter's night, into the warmth and light of a summer's day. 'Have you told Simon?' Jared broke a long silence. 'That I was breaking off our engagement?' She pulled away from him slightly, and gave a wry smile. 'Actually, he rang me yesterday to tell me he's in love.' Jared gave a mirthless laugh. 'He's only just found that out?'

'But not with me. He's fallen headlong for the daughter of the school bursar.' 'What?' 'Yes. They're an old army family, apparently. He's taking her down to Sidmouth tomorrow to meet his mother.' 'Old army family, eh? Well, I'm sure she'll approve.' 'Yes, I rather think she will.' But as she smiled faintly at him he exclaimed savagely, 'That Polruan—I always knew he was a bloody fool! To throw away a prize like you, for a —' 'No, don't say that—she sounds a lovely girl. And he only thought he loved me, just as I—' She broke off, then went on quickly, 'Anyway, I sent back his ring this morning. That's when I found out you were leaving.' She looked up at him directly and he grimaced. 'Running away, you mean? Yes, I was, my sweet. All my life I've been so sure I couldn't settle down with one woman—my gypsy blood, I think you called it. I told myself that no woman would ever snare me, and even yesterday I managed to convince myself you weren't going to be the exception. I had to run from you when you were sixteen, and I suppose I've kept running ever since.' 'But you went away because of Mrs Kendrick. Her husband found out and—' 'Iris Kendrick?' He looked astonished. 'You don't mean to tell me you believed that story?' 'The whole village did.' 'Well, well.' He laughed softly but, when he saw her expression, sobered instantly. 'I know there were rumours, but there was nothing in them—nothing at all, I swear it. Oh, I felt sorry for Iris with that bastard of a husband—even lent her a shoulder to cry on—but that was as far as it went, I promise you. Married women have never been my style.' He broke off and gave her a rather strained smile. 'The truth was rather different—but it wouldn't have done much for my macho image, would it, to have people know I was scared to death of an adolescent girl?' 'You mean . . . ?' she began slowly. He looked down at his thumb, softly stroking across the back of her slim hand. 'I went away, Petra, because when you were sixteen you lay in my arms and told me you loved me. You offered me yourself—the whole world—and I couldn't handle it. You frightened me out of my wits, so I ran away,' he wound up bleakly.

'Oh, Jared.' Blinking back the tears, she gave him a tremulous smile. There was a slight sound behind them, and they both swung round to see Sam, yawning and stretching in the doorway. 'Hi, Sam,' Jared said conversationally, and the big cat deigned to glance briefly in his direction, before stalking across to his blue bowl of milk. Jared and Petra exchanged looks. 'I think you'd better be the one to break the happy news to him,' he remarked. 'I don't somehow fancy that job.' 'Oh, I'm sure he'll be all right —' 'Just so long as I keep up the liver pate and chicken fillet, you mean? But he'll have to learn one thing.' 'What's that?' 'That there's room for only one male in your bed from now on, and it isn't him.' As she blushed he flashed her a wicked smile, then went on casually, 'But maybe he can console himself with a new hunting ground.' 'New hunting ground?' 'The orchard at the Old Manor House.' 'The Old Manor? But I don't see—' 'I bumped into Peter Eames a couple of days ago—seems he's thinking of putting it on the market and moving into something smaller. So—could Sam be happy there, do you think? He would be, I'm sure, if you were.' 'Yes, but—' The speed of events was taking her breath away. 'I know you love this place, but for myself I prefer a house where I don't risk concussing myself every time I w a l l under that door beam there.' 'But your home's in California.' 'No, my darling. My home is when you are from now on. I know how you love Cornwall, and it's the same with me. I didn't realise how much, till I came back and felt its magic. I suppose it's in my genes.' He pulled a face. 'Just think of it—half-Celtic, half-gypsy. Quite a potent combination, wouldn't you say?' 'Very potent.' She gave him a slanting smile, and his grip tightened.

'Don't look at me like that, or I'll forget I'm feeling shattered. No,' as she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips along his hard jaw. 'That's settled, then. I'll run down and see Peter later— make him an offer he can't say no to. If you agree, that is?' She gave a shaken laugh. 'Do you always work this fast?' 'Not always, no.' For a moment his eyes were sombre. 'Sometimes it takes years to see what I want out of life. And what I want and need is you, my darling. Living at the manor, our children playing in that lovely garden, paddling in the little stream.' 'Oh, my lover,' she whispered. 'Of course, I'll hang on to my flat in LA—for a while, at least. In fact, I'll have to go back there soon for an editorial meeting. Look up old friends.' 'Oh.' She had to say it. 'Will Kate be there?' 'Naturally,' he replied matter of factly, but then, 'My darling, you got that wrong too, you know.' 'Did I?' 'Yes, she was over here on business—strictly business. She's the second unit director of the film company and she came across to scout out possible locations.' 'I see,' she said slowly. 'And in case you're wondering, being the perfect host, I gave up my bed to her, while I slept in the spare room.' 'But you let me believe—' 'I know—but I was angry with you, the way you were so quick to think the worst. I just hoped that you'd be consumed by jealousy, the way I was with that fiance of yours.' 'I think you might have succeeded there,' she said ruefully. 'Good.' He gave a smug smile, then, lifting her hands, softly kissed the backs of both. 'But, I promise, you'll never have reason to be jealous again. And, anyway, you can always come with me to LA—and to my place in Jamaica, of course.' A teasing grin. 'I reckon it would be ideal for a February honeymoon, don't you?' 'But it's almost the middle of February now,' she protested, then, 'Yes, please.' 'We'll keep the manor as our main base, though. You, running Petronella's Cakes—burnt whiskey cakes a speciality. Ouch!' as she aimed a kick at his shin. 'Me, writing my latest blockbuster in that little room that overlooks the orchard.' 'You're going to write—books, I mean?'

He nodded. 'I'm tired of temperamental authors griping over every improvement I make to their deathless prose. So when I've dealt with Passion—and, talking of p a s s i o n . . . ' h e looked at her from beneath those devastating black lashes ' . . . I need—' You need a hot bath,' she said firmly. Or, better still, a hot Jacuzzi.' He drained his whiskey, then caught hold of her hand. 'You can turn the taps on for me.' 'We'll see,' she replied demurely. 'You go on while I get the ointment for your shoulder.' When she followed him next door she found that he was by the kitchen table, bending over his computer. 'For heaven's sake, go and have your bath,' she scolded. 'That sweater's really damp.' She glanced at the words on the screen, then gave a little gasp. Jared laughed. 'Yeah, a bit steamy, isn't it? But my blockbuster will be even better. The only problem is, I think maybe I need to put in a little research if I'm going to get those torrid lovescenes just right.' She blushed even deeper. 'Just go upstairs, will you?' 'For lesson number one?' 'No' But she giggled. 'Make sure you're in that bath before I come u p . . . '

★★★ 'Is that all right?' As Jared lay back in the foaming water she ran her fingers one last time across his shoulder. 'Mmm. Much better, thanks. I must have done it when —' 'No,' she broke in quickly. 'Don't think about the storm any more.' 'I suppose I shouldn't, but it's not that easy.' Petra carefully screwed the top on the ointment, then stood up. 'Looks as if I'll just have to take your mind off it, then.' Very deliberately she pulled off her sweater, then put her hand to her jeans zip. 'Hey—what do you think you're doing?' he growled.

'But you said I ought to try a whirlpool bath some time,' she said innocently, and he gave a rumbling laugh. Aware of Jared's eyes on her, warm with love and desire, and glorying in the femininity of her body, she quickly discarded her other garments, then slid into the warm, bubbling water, facing him. 'Come here,' he said unsteadily, and as he held out her arms to her she went into his embrace. 'You know . . . ' his lips were resting against the pulse of her temple ' . . . we've both had something to learn these last few weeks, you and I. You've learned—' 'That passion and sensuality are a part of me to be enjoyed—and not to be afraid of,' she completed. 'And I've had to learn far more than that—that those things aren't enough. They need to go hand in hand with love.' 'Mmm.' with a contented little sigh she snuggled herself into his body. 'Of course, I should have learnt that long ago from poor Tristan and Iseult.' 'But I thought that, for them, once the magic passion faded it was all over.' 'No. I never did finish their story—maybe because it didn't suit me to.' Half absently he scooped some of the scented foam from her creamy breast and blew it away. 'You remember how, after they'd confessed, Tristan was sent into exile—to Brittany—while Iseult stayed with King Mark?' 'Yes.' 'Well, Tristan married someone else at last, but he never forgot Iseult, and when he was mortally wounded in battle he sent for her. She came at once, because she too had never forgotten her first love, and took him in her arms. Then, as he died, her heart broke and she died too.' 'Oh.' Tears pricked Petra's eyes. 'What a waste of their lives—loving each other but being kept apart.' 'But it won't be like that for us, my sweetheart—I swear it won't.' His voice was muffled in her hair. 'It suddenly hit me today, out there: living without you all these years has been like existing without an essential part of myself.' Something of the pain she had felt when he'd gone away echoed in her mind. But then she whispered softly against his mouth, 'Tell me, is this the new, improved proposal you promised me?'

'My lover,' he held her away from him to gaze deep into her eyes, 'I want to spend the rest of my life with you, finding out everything about you. Oh, I already know all the little things—how you gnaw that oh, so tempting lower lip of yours when you're worried . . . ' as he touched it with his fingertips she swayed towards him ' . . . and the way you toss back that marvellous flamegold hair when you're angry . . . and the way your eyes turn languid, like a sleepy cat's, when I do t h i s . . . ' h e cupped his fingers round her breasts, and she gave a tiny moan as they swelled tenderly beneath his touch ' . . . and . . . ' sliding Ms hands under her wet body, he lifted it slightly to bury his mouth in the soft cleft between her breasts ' . . . the way your body still smells wonderful—of all the ripe flowers and fruits of summer—waiting for me to gather it.' 'Oh, Jared,' it was a broken murmur, 'I do love you so much.' 'My darling,' he gave her a ragged smile, 'if you knew how much I want to hear you say that—forever and ever.' As he held her closer she whispered into the satin olive skin of his chest, 'I love you, love you, love you . . .' But then her sighs were lost as, twined in each other's arms, they surrendered themselves at last to their passion and their love.

★★★