Passion's Prey Page 3

  '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 bri
ng 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.
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  '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 ... 'his 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.