Passion's Prey Page 2

  It wasn't a conventionally handsome face—it was too strong—and, besides, too much of the devil lurked in it. 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 her had 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 had 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 at. 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 he'd woken instantly, just like a cat, and lain 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 had 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 arm
s 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 no
thing 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 as . . . ' 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.'