Passion's Prey Read online

  Who was sleeping in Petra's bed?

  It certainly wasn't Goldilocks! It tookPetra 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 A uthor, 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, hut 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 someone who didn't usually drink and never neat spirits—she'd definitely overdone the alcohol. Well, at least 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 her way down the side of the bed. Her loot came up against something soft, and 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 man sought and found her mouth, still quivering with terror and shock, and his own mouth came down on it, w a r m and hard and vibrantly alive.

  But 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 ... 'his 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 it was as relaxed as a baby's. She expelled her own breath in a long soundless sigh, then switched off the t o r c h and sat huddled under the duvet, 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 very edge of the mattress, pulled up the duvet and lay staring into the darkness. But sleep did not come for a very long time; 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 ofpictures from the past which hadfinally formed themselves into 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 faint, 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 kind of fascination for her and would not let her go.