Passion's Prey Page 4

  '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 ritual 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, your body—your hair smells marvelous—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 s
orry.'

  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 had 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 all 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 his 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. 'If 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, sweep
ing 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?'