by Nora Roberts
“Good. The less time I spend awake on a plane, the less time I have to think about being on one. I slept like a rock.” With another sigh, Raven stretched her back, letting her shoulders lift and fall with the movement. “I made poor company.” Her system was starting to hum again, though on slow speed.
“You were tired.” Over the rim of his cup he watched the subtle movements of her body beneath the oversize sweater.
“I turned off like a tap,” she admitted. “It happens that way sometimes after a concert.” She lifted one shoulder in a quick shrug. “But I suppose we’ll both be better today for the rest. Where did you sleep?”
“With you.”
Raven closed her mouth on a yawn, swallowed and stared at him. “What?”
“I said I slept with you, here on the couch.” Brand made a general gesture with his hand. “You like to snuggle.”
She could see he was enjoying her dismayed shock. His eyes were deep blue with amusement as he lifted his cup again. “You had no right . . .” Raven began.
“I always fancied being the first man you slept with,” he told her before draining his cup. “Want some more coffee?”
Raven’s face flooded with color; her eyes turned dark and opaque. She sprang up, but Brand managed to pluck the cup from her hand before she could hurl it across the room. For a moment she stood, breathing hard, watching him while he gave her his calm, measuring stare.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she tossed out. “You don’t know how many men I’ve slept with.”
Very precisely, he set down both coffee cups, then looked back up at her. “You’re as innocent as the day you were born, Raven. You’ve barely been touched by a man, much less been made love to.”
Her temper flared like a rocket. “You don’t know anything about who I’ve been with in the last five years, Brandon.” She struggled to keep from shouting, to keep her voice as calm and controlled as his. “It’s none of your business how many men I’ve slept with.”
He lifted a brow, watching her thoughtfully. “Innocence isn’t something to be ashamed of, Raven.”
“I’m not . . .” She stopped, balling her fists. “You had no right to—” She swallowed and shook her head as fury and embarrassment raced through her. “—While I was asleep,” she finished.
“Do what while you were asleep?” Brandon demanded, lazing back on the sofa. “Ravish you?” His humor shimmered over the old-fashioned word and made her feel ridiculous. “I don’t think you’d have slept through it, Raven.”
Her voice shook with emotion. “Don’t laugh at me, Brandon.”
“Then don’t be such a fool.” He reached over to the table beside him for a cigarette, then tapped the end of it against the surface without lighting it. His eyes were fixed on hers and no longer amused. “I could have had you if I’d wanted to, make no mistake about it.”
“You have colossal nerve, Brandon. Please remember that you’re not privy to my sex life and that you wouldn’t have had me because I don’t want you. I choose my own lovers.”
She hadn’t realized he could move so fast. The indolent slouch on the sofa was gone in a flash. He reached up, seizing her wrist, and in one swift move had yanked her down on her back, trapping her body with his. Her gasp of surprise was swallowed as his weight pressed down on her.
Never, in all the time they had spent together past and present, had Raven seen him so angry. An iron taste of fear rose in her throat. She could only shake her head, too terrified to struggle, too stunned to move. She had never suspected he possessed the capacity for violence she now read clearly on his face. This was far different from the cold rage she had seen before and which she knew how to deal with. His fingers bit into her wrist while his other hand came to circle her throat.
“How far do you think I’ll push?” he demanded. His voice was harsh and deep with the hint of Ireland more pronounced. Her breathing was short and shallow with fear. Lying completely still, she made no answer. “Don’t throw your imaginary string of lovers in my face, or, by God, you’ll have a real one quickly enough whether you want me or not.” His fingers tightened slightly around her throat. “When the time comes, I won’t need to get you drunk on champagne or on exhaustion to have you lie with me. I could have you now, this minute, and after five minutes of struggle you’d be more than willing.” His voice lowered, trembling along her skin. “I know how to play you, Raven, and don’t you forget it.”
His face was very close to hers. Their breathing mixed, both swift and strained, the only sound coming from the hum of the plane’s engines. The fear in her eyes leaped out, finally penetrating his fury. Swearing, Brand pushed himself from her and rose. Her eyes stayed on his as she waited for what he would do next. He stared at her, then turned sharply away, moving over to a porthole.
Raven lay where she was, not realizing she was massaging the wrist that throbbed from his fingers. She watched him drag a hand through his hair.
“I slept with you last night because I wanted to be close to you.” He took another long, cleansing breath. “It was nothing more than that. I never touched you. It was an innocent and rather sweet way to spend the night.” He curled his fingers into a fist, remembering the frantic flutter of her pulse under his hand when he had circled it around her throat. It gave him no pleasure to know he had frightened her. “It never occurred to me that it would offend you like this. I apologize.”
Raven covered her eyes with her hand as the tears began. She swallowed sobs, not wanting to give way to them. Guilt and shame washed over her as fear drained. Her reaction to Brand’s simple, affectionate gesture had been to slap his face. It had been embarrassment, she knew, but more, her own suppressed longing for him that had pushed her to react with anger and spiteful words. She’d tried to provoke him and had succeeded. But more, she knew now she had hurt him. Rising from the sofa, she attempted to make amends.
Though she walked over to stand behind him, Raven didn’t touch him. She couldn’t bear the thought that he might stiffen away from her.
“Brandon, I’m so sorry.” She dug her teeth into her bottom lip to keep her voice steady. “That was stupid of me, and worse, unkind. I’m terribly ashamed of the way I acted. I wanted to make you angry; I was embarrassed, I suppose, and . . .” The words trailed off as she searched for some way to describe the way she had felt. Even now something inside her warmed and stirred at the knowledge that she had lain beside him, sharing the intimacy of sleep.
Raven heard him swear softly, then he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I baited you.”
“You’re awfully good at it,” she said, trying to make light of what had passed between them. “Much better than I am. I can’t think about what I’m saying when I’m angry.”
“Obviously, neither can I. Look, Raven,” Brand began and turned. Her eyes were huge, swimming with restrained tears. He broke off what he had been about to say and moved to the table for his cigarettes. After lighting one, he turned back to her. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. It’s something I don’t do often because it’s a nasty one. And you’ve got a good aim with a punch, Raven, and it reminded me of the last time we were together five years ago.”
She felt her stomach tighten in defense. “I don’t think either of us should dwell on that.”
“No.” He nodded slowly. His eyes were calm again and considering. Raven knew he was poking into her brain. “Not at the moment, in any case. We should get on with today.” He smiled, and she felt each individual muscle in her body relax. “It seems we couldn’t wait until we settled in before having a fight.”
“No.” She answered his smile. “But then I’ve always been impatient.” Moving to him, Raven rose on her toes and pressed her lips tightly to his. “I’m really sorry, Brandon.”
“You’ve already apologized.”
“Yes, well, just remember the next time, it’ll be your turn to grovel.”
Brand tugged on her hair. “I’ll make some more coffee. We should have time for one mor
e cup before we have to strap in.”
When he had gone into the galley, Raven stood where she was a moment. The last time, she thought, five years ago.
She remembered it perfectly: each word, each hurt. And she remembered that the balance of the fault then had also been hers. They’d been alone; he’d wanted her. She had wanted him. Then everything had gone wrong. Raven remembered how she had shouted at him, near hysteria. He’d been patient, then his patience had snapped, though not in the way it had today. Then, she remembered, he’d been cold, horribly, horribly cold. Comparing the two reactions, Raven realized she preferred the heat and violence to the icy disdain.
Raven could bring the scene back with ease. They’d been close, and the desire had risen to warm her. Then it was furnace hot and she was smothering, then shouting at him not to touch her. She’d told him she couldn’t bear for him to touch her. Brand had taken her at her word and left her. Raven could easily remember the despair, the regret and confusion—and the love for him outweighing all else.
But when she had gone to find him the next morning, he had already checked out of his hotel. He had left California, left her, without a word. And there’d been no word from him in five years. No word, she mused, but for the stories in every magazine, in every newspaper. No word but for the whispered comments at parties and in restaurants whenever she would walk in. No word but for the constant questions, the endless speculation in print as to why they were no longer an item—why Brand Carstairs had begun to collect women like trophies.
So she had forced him out of her mind. Her work, her talent and her music had been used to fill the holes he had left in her life. She’d steadied herself and built a life with herself in control again. That was for the best, she had decided. Sharing the reins was dangerous. And, she mused, glancing toward the galley, it would still be dangerous. He would still be dangerous.
Quickly Raven shook her head. Brandon was right, she told herself. It was time to concentrate on today. They had work to do, a score to write. Taking a deep breath, she walked to the galley to help him with the coffee.
Chapter 9
Raven fell instantly in love with the primitive countryside of Cornwall. She could accept this as the setting for Arthur’s Camelot. It was easy to imagine the clash of swords and the glint of armor, the thundering gallop of swift horses.
Spring was beginning to touch the moors, the green blooms just now emerging. Here and there was the faintest touch of pink from wild blossoms. A fine, constant drizzling mist added to the romance. There were houses, cottages really, with gardens beginning to thrive. Lawns were a tender, thin green, and she spotted the sassy yellow of daffodils and the sleepy blue of wood hyacinths. Brand drove south toward the coast and cliffs and Land’s End.
They had eaten a country breakfast of brown eggs, thick bacon and oat cakes and had set off again in the little car Brand had arranged to have waiting for them at the airport.
“What’s your house like, Brandon?” Raven asked as she rummaged through her purse in search of something to use to secure her hair. “You’ve never told me anything about it.”
He glanced at her bent head. “I’ll let you decide for yourself when you see it. It won’t be long now.”
Raven found two rubber bands of differing sizes and colors. “Are you being mysterious, or is this your way of avoiding telling me the roof leaks?”
“It might,” Brand considered. “Though I don’t recall being dripped on. The Pengalleys would see to it; they’re quite efficient about that sort of thing.”
“Pengalleys?” Raven began to braid her hair.
“Caretakers,” he told her. “They’ve a cottage a mile or so off from the house. They kept an eye on the place, and she does a bit of housekeeping when I’m in residence. He does the repairs.”
“Pengalley,” she murmured, rolling the name over on her tongue.
“Cornishmen, tried and true,” Brand remarked absently.
“I know!” Raven turned to him with a sudden smile. “She’s short and a bit stout, not fat, just solidly built, with dark hair pulled back and a staunch, rather disapproving face. He’s thinner and going gray, and he tipples a bit from a flask when he thinks she’s not looking.”
Brand quirked a brow and shot her another brief glance. “Very clever. Just how did you manage it?”
“It had to be,” Raven shrugged as she secured one braid and started on the next, “if any gothic novel I’ve ever read had a dab of truth in it. Are there any neighbors?”
“No one close by. That’s one of the reasons I bought it.”
“Antisocial?” she asked, smiling at him.
“Survival instinct,” Brand corrected. “Sometimes I have to get away from it or go mad. Then I can go back and slip into harness again and enjoy it. It’s like recharging.” He felt her considering look and grinned. “I told you I’d mellowed.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, “you did.” Still watching him, Raven twisted the rubber band around the tip of the second braid. “Yet you’ve still managed to put out quite a bit. All the albums, the double one last year; all but five of the songs were yours exclusively. And the songs you wrote for Cal Ripley—they were the best cuts on his album.”
“Did you think so?” he asked.
“You know they were,” she said, letting the rubber band snap into place.
“Praise is good for the ego, love.”
“You’ve had your share now.” She tossed both braids behind her back. “What I was getting at was that for someone who’s so mellow, you’re astonishingly productive.”
“I do a lot of my writing here,” Brand explained. “Or at my place in Ireland. More here, actually, because I’ve family across the channel, so there’s visiting to be done if I’m there.”
Raven gave him a curious look. “I thought you still lived in London.”
“Primarily, but if I’ve serious work or simply need to be alone, I come here. I’ve family in London as well.”
“Yes.” Raven looked away again out into the misty landscape. “I suppose large families have disadvantages.”
Something in her tone made him glance over again, but her face was averted. He said nothing, knowing from experience that any discussion of Raven’s family was taboo. Occasionally in the past, he had probed, but she had always evaded him. He knew that she had been an only child and had left home at seventeen. Out of curiosity, Brand had questioned Julie. Julie knew all there was to know about Raven, he was certain, but she had told him nothing. It was yet another mystery about Raven which alternately frustrated and attracted Brand. Now he put the questions in the back of his mind and continued smoothly.
“Well, we won’t be troubled by family or neighbors. Mrs. Pengalley righteously disapproves of show people, and will keep a healthy distance.”
“Show people?” Raven repeated and turning back to him, grinned. “Have you been having orgies again, Brand?”
“Not for at least three months,” he assured her and swung onto a back road. “I told you I’d mellowed. But she knows about actors and actresses, you see, because as Mr. Pengalley tells me, she makes it her business to read everything she can get her hands on about them. And as for musicians, rock musicians, well . . .” He let the sentence trail off meaningfully, and Raven giggled.
“She’ll think the worst, I imagine,” she said cheerfully.
“The worst?” Brand cocked a brow at her.
“That you and I are carrying on a hot, illicit love affair.”
“Is that the worst? It sounds rather appealing to me.”
Raven colored and looked down at her hands. “You know what I meant.”
Brand took her hand, kissing it lightly. “I know what you meant.” The laugh in his voice eased her embarrassment. “Will it trouble you to be labeled a fallen woman?”
“I’ve been labeled a fallen woman for years,” she returned with a smile, “every time I pick up a magazine. Do you know how many affairs I’ve had with people I’ve never even spok
en to?”
“Celebrities are required to have overactive libidos,” he murmured. “It’s part of the job.”
“Your press does yours credit,” she observed dryly.
Brand nodded gravely. “I’ve always thought so. I heard about a pool going around London last year. They were betting on how many women I’d have in a three-month period. The British,” he explained, “will bet on anything.”
Raven allowed the silence to hang for a moment. “What number did you take?”
“Twenty-seven,” he told her, then grinned. “I thought it best to be conservative.”
She laughed, enjoying him. He would have done it, too, she reflected. There was enough of the cocky street kid left in him. “I don’t think I’d better ask you if you won.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said as the car began to climb up a macadam drive.
Raven saw the house. It was three stories high, formed of sober, Cornish stone with shutters of deep, weathered green and a series of stout chimneys on the roof. She could just make out thin puffs of smoke before they merged with the lead-colored sky.
“Oh, Brandon, how like you,” she cried, enchanted. “How like you to find something like this.”
She was out of the car before he could answer. It was then that she discovered the house had its back to the sea. There were no rear doors, she learned as she dashed quickly to the retaining wall on the left side. The cliff sheared off too close to the back of the house to make one practical. Instead, there were doors on the sides, set deep in Cornish stone.
