by Rebecca King
Petra's lips tightened into an angry line, and she stared out to sea at a toy-sized cargo boat on the horizon.
'And Tristan—in your version, I oppose, he's an arrogant, overbearing Hollywood screenplay writer?'
But Jared only laughed softly. 'Now whatever gave you that idea? No, he's the Mark figure's second-in-command, hi s most trusted lieutenant in his business empire—until he sets eyes on his boss's new young wife. And then passion takes over.'
'But it can't last, though!' The vehemence in her voice shook her, and her horse pranced a few nervous steps sideways. She reined him in, then went on more calmly, 'I mean—if the book follows the legend it can only go on for three years and then the magic wears off.'
'That's right—but what a wonderful three years they have.' He smiled, as though in reminiscence. 'I haven't dared ask Ms Grainger where she did her research for the love-scenes. She's either lived—and I mean lived—or she's got one heck of a vivid imagination. You should read them some time, Petra.'
'But it does end—their affair,' she said stubbornly, determined not to rise to his bait. 'And that just goes to prove it.'
'Prove what?'
'That passion, sensuality—all those things you think are so important—aren't enough. They don't endure the way real love does.'
'Real love?' His lips twisted. 'What a romantic little fool you are, Petra.'
'Better than being a cynic like you!,' she retorted, but then hurried on, 'Anyway, Mrs Pearce arrived before you could finish the story. You were going to tell me what happened to Iseult.'
'Oh, when Tristan was sent into exil e she stayed with her husband, of course, Poor Iseult.'
'Why? Why poor Iseult?' demanded.
'Well, I'm quite sure that the w o r t h y Mark couldn't give her what she wanted. Tristan had no doubt taught her too well the needs of her body—'
'Why must you always be so—crude?' she asked coldly.
Sensuality is not crude.' Jared turned his head to look straight at her, and she hastily averted her eyes to stare out at the distant horizon again. 'Iseult was forced to spend the rest of her life crushing that part of her—that passionate, sensual nature which had flowered so joyfully at Tristan's delicate touch.'
'Well, why couldn't Mark have done the same for her?'
'Maybe because he didn't want to.'
Before she could even guess what he would do he stretched across, seized her horse's bridle and pulled him in alongside his own mount, trapping her leg between his thigh and her horse's flunk. Then he reached out his other arm to cup her chin with his fingers. He was angry—she didn't know why, but she sensed the burning anger in the way his hand slid round to clench in her hair until tears sprang to her eyes. She felt it too in his lips as he forced them against hers. And yet, even as she tensed to resist him, above the pounding of the waves she heard her blood begin to sing in her veins. The heavy languor which Jared's potent magic created in her was stealing inexorably through her once more, and she felt her muscles relax, her whole body grow soft and yielding.
Still holding her to him with one arm, he slid his other hand inside her mohair sweater, tugged her shirt free from the waistband of her ski-pants then gently cradled one breast. Through her bra she felt his warm palm rubbing softly to and fro, creating a delicious friction against her nipple, until she swayed in her saddle towards him.
As she murmured something incoherent he drew back slightly, a half smile on his face. 'No more pretending now, my sweet.'
Instantly she pulled away, tugging her sweater down with one hand as she wrenched her reins free from Jared's grasp and backed her horse away. She'd been almost on the point of giving way to him again, and the humiliation fuelled her fury.
'You swine, you lied to me! You said nothing I didn't want. Well, I don't want this—any of it—
from you.' She knit out the last words.
'No, it's you who is lying.' His face was dark with anger, and the mare pricked her ears, snorting softly in protest again. 'You do want me—as much as I want you.'
'No! I swear I don't.' Her voice was jugged.
'Yes, you do—so don't add perjury to your other crimes. I feel it in every leaping pulse in your body.' He smashed one fist into the other palm. 'When you were sixteen you melted in my arms like wax in the fire. That can't all have gone—I won't believe it.'
'No, Jared—please.' She bit on the soft inner skin of her mouth to stifle the cry of protest.
'Yes, Petra—please,' he snarled. I could shake you, you know that?'
She saw his fingers bunch on the reins and he came up alongside her again. As she flinched away he reached across, and one lean hand gripped her jaw, his fingers sinking deep into her flesh and forcing her to look straight into those cold eyes.
'Petra, my sweet . . . ' at the silky menace behind the soft voice she shivered ' . . . I swear that before I've finished with you I'll have you begging me to make love to you. I'll have you sobbing in my arms for me to take you,' She gazed blankly back at him stunned by the terrifying image his words had conjured up, but when, almost contemptuously, he opened his hand to release her she wrenched herself free of their spell. With this man, she knew, it was fight or be destroyed, She forced her lips to curl into a sneer. 'What's the matter, Jared? Suffering from a bad case of sexual frustration? After all, it's well over a day now since Kate was in your bed.'
'Shut up, damn you!' The raw fury in his voice silenced her for a moment, but then she jutted her chin defiantly. 'No, I won't. And don't worry there are still plenty of women down in the village, I've no doubt, who—'
'Be quiet.'
At the ferocity in his tone her horse whinnied then tossed his head and took ii couple of prancing steps sideways. As she fought to steady him Jared grabbed the bridle again and brought the horse buck alongside his own. Then he went mi more calmly, 'You're wrong, Petra. It not ft—
frustration, I mean. At least, not for myself.'
There was something very like weary compassion in his voice now, but she would not drop her guard.
'There's no need for you to feel sorry for me, Jared. I'm perfectly happy. At least, I was—until you decided to make a trip home.'
'I've told you—be quiet,' he said again, but less harshly this time. 'How can I convince you?'
Taking off his riding hat, he raked his fingers through his dark, wind-blown curls. 'You love this place, don't you?' His sweeping gesture encompassed the whole scene before them. 'You told me so.'
'Well, yes, you know I do,' she replied warily.
'Well, then—if you can see all this beauty around you and love it so, why can't you let all those inhibitions of yours go?'
'For the last time, I have no—'
'Look, Petra,' he broke in roughly, in-spite of all the dark things, this is a glorious world—
and part of its glory for us, lies in having a fulfilling, deeply passionate relationship with another human being.'
'And in my case that other human being should be you, of course.' She laughed bitterly.
'You've obviously found your true vocation, Jared. You'll such a wonderful word-spinner that you make it sound as if making me fulfilled is your only mission in life. Well, sorry but, as far as I'm concerned, it's mission impossible.'
He gave her a smile, which did not quite reach his eyes. 'Another challenge, Petra? But I've told you already, I never back away from a challenge.'
'And I've told you,' she gazed up at him, stormy-eyed, 'that I will never give way to passion. At least—' too late she realised what she had said ' — not until I'm married to Simon. And then—'
'And then you'll spend the rest of your life imprisoned in the centre of an iceberg! But don't let it worry you. That way, at least, you'll have something over poor Iseult.'
'Oh, and what's that?'
'You'll never know what you're missing.'
Jamming his riding hat back down on his head, he swung his horse away, flicked her flanks with his heels and took off at a headlong
gallop, not even glancing back to see whether she was following him or not.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Neither of them spoke one word on the drive back from the stables. As Jared braked viciously, sending up a spun of gravel outside the cottages, Petra opened her door and climbed out before he could come round to her side.
'I'll go in and wash and get changed she said stiffly, and turned towards her gate.
'I'm sure you'd rather wash in hot water.' His voice was clipped. 'And there's no need to change—we shan't be dressing for dinner.'
At the chill greyness of his eyes which barely glanced in her direction she felt tiny goosebumps break out all over her body. He was still very angry with her, and she'd always feared Jared's anger, those bleak, unpredictable moods when he seemed to delight shutting himself away from the entire human race.
So when he gestured her through a gate she gave a little shrug and obeyed. When she came back down from her shower he was in the kitchen. 'We'll eat early. Will steak suit you?'
'Yes, thank you. I seem to have eaten nothing but turkey for the past week.' But he did not seem to see her tentative smile, so, after a pause, she went on, 'Can I help?'
'No, thanks.' His tone was brusque. 'I prefer to work alone.'
Turning away, he began hunting through the fridge-freezer, and, faced with that uncompromising back, she went through to the sitting-room, where an was stretched out on the big sheepskin rug in front of a log fire, When she scratched his head he opened his eyes, flexed his paws in lazy feting, then went back to sleep. How do you like your steak?' Jared's voice came from the doorway, and she slowly straightened. 'Well grilled, please.'
'Fancy a drink? Sherry—Martini?'
'No, thank you. Nothing for me.'
'Well, make yourself at home.' She could not fail to catch the ironic undertone. 'And put a couple of logs on the fire, will you? Your logs.' He flashed her a grin—entirely the old Jared for an instant—and something inside her contracted painfully. 'Sorry about that, but you weren't around. I'll get you a load tomorrow.'
'There's no need—there were hardly any left in the . . . ' But her voice tapered off, for he had already disappeared again, closing the door an though to exclude her, so she sat down in one of the soft velvet-covered armchairs, letting the gentle warmth and muted crackling of the fire gradually relax her taut body . . .
'I said, dinner's ready.'
Her eyes opened, to see Jared bending over her. Before she could move he put his hands under her elbows and lifted her to her to her feet, so suddenly that she felt dizzy again and had to cling to him to save herself from falling. As his arms tightened around her, though, she quickly stepped back.
'Th—thank you. I'm all right.'
'Good,' he responded coolly, then led the way out to the kitchen and pulled up a chair for her. It all looked very—well, cosy. He had placed candles down the centre of the pine table—red, to match the linen napkins—and the golden candle-light seemed to enclose them both in a warm little embrace of intimacy, leaving the rest of the room in semi-darkness. Jared sawed a French loaf into hunks and piled them into a wicker basket, then set in front of her a plate loaded with a large, juicy, sizzling steak and a heap of stir-fry vegetables. He sat facing her, poured two glasses of red wine and slid one across.
'St. Emilion— Premier Cru.' Then, as she looked down at her glass uncertainly, he added, his eyes gleaming in the candle glow, 'Don't worry, Petra, there's only sunshine and grapes in it. No magic potion, I promise you,' but he held her glance for a moment, before picking up his knife and fork in begin his meal . . .
'This is delicious.' Petra broke a silence which had lasted several long minutes.
'Thanks. I suppose, living on my own all the time—well, most of the time, she made herself meet the glinting challenge in his eyes, 'I've got accustomed to looking after myself. And, anyway, I was only a kid, remember, when my mother walked out on us, so I had plenty of practice long before thin ' The sudden bitterness in his voice broke through her own stiff reserve, and she said softly, 'It must have been a bad time for you, Jared.'
'Well,' he shrugged with studied casualness, 'you've been through the same mill too.'
'Tell me about your home in Los Angeles,' she said quickly, and took another sip of her wine.
'What's it like?'
'Oh, no five-acre swimming-pool, or anything like that. It's a condo.' When she looked blankly at him, 'A flat, in quite a pleasant apartment block. You'd no doubt find it very impersonal, but I'm not there that much. I get restless when I'm tied down for too long in one place.'
He spoke reflectively, as though he had discovered something new, and, in spite of her tension, she felt herself give a faint smile.
'Something amusing you?' He was eyeing her narrowly.
'No—at least, I was just thinking, you haven't changed in the slightest.'
He pulled a wry face. 'Hmm. I guess I've always been averse to putting down roots.'
'Well, perhaps that's what makes you such a good writer,' she murmured. You know—no ties, nobody to interrupt you.'
'When I'm in full flow—like now, you mean?' he said ruefully. 'No I reckon it could be more that I'm still searching for what I want out of li fe He was idly turning his glass round and round, his voice empty now of expression. 'What do you think, Petra?'
Without warning he looked up directly at her, but with a tremendous effort she managed to gaze straight back at him. 'Well, you know what they say, Jared—a rolling stone gather no moss.'
'Could be—moss is certainly in short supply in LA. Anyway,' he lifted his glass, 'happy New Year, Petra.'
'And to you, too, Jared.' Formally raised her glass in return.
'And this year may you gain y o u r heart's desire.' The briefest of pastime.' 'That's what well-wishers say, isn't it?'
'Yes—but you aren't a well wishes are you?' The words erupted from her and they stared at one a n o t h e r , eyes locked, until she liftedher g l a s s unsteadily to her lips and took a gulp of wine.
I'll get the dessert, shall I? Jared moved smoothly into the electric silence which was crackling between them like static before a storm. Taki ng from the freezer a coffee and vanill a ice bombe, he cut off two thick slices, and Petra, picking up her spoon, paid all her attention on its delicious marbled coldness. When they had finished he carried a tray of coffee and liqueurs into the living-room. He drew the velvet curtains, switched on the pink-shaded wall lights and, hooking the low table with his foot, hitched it across in front of the sofa. As he set down the tray she went to sit in one of the chairs, but he gestured peremptorily. 'No— here.'
'I— I'd rather—'
'This way we've both got the table for our drinks.'
He indicated the plump green velvet cushions, and reluctantly she sat down in the very edge of one. He kicked the fire into life, sending a shower of tiny sparks up the wide chimney, tossed on the last of the logs from the willow basket, then threw himself down beside her, stretching out his long legs.
'Black or white coffee?'
He leaned forward, and the weight of his body tilted her cushion slightly so that she slid towards him.
'White—no sugar, please.' Surreptitiously she eased herself away.
'Tia Maria or Drambuie? Or I think there's some Curasao in the cupboard.'
Petra hesitated. Two glasses of wine at dinner, and now liqueur . . .
'Oh, come on.' He sounded torn between irritation and amusement. 'I've told you, there's no magic love potion in this house.' Another infinitesimal pause. 'Only my fatal charm, which just now doesn't seem to be exactly firing on all cylinders.'
He gave her a disarming grin, and Petra felt herself relax a fraction more. After all, he had said, hadn't he—no, promised—nothing she didn't want? 'Well—did you bring the Tia Maria with you from Jamaica?' And when he nodded, 'Just a small one, then, please.'
He poured it, and another for himself, then, going across to the superb state-of-the-art CDplayer by the fa
r wall—his own, surely, for it hadn't been in evidence when Mrs Pearce had shown her round—he riffled through the discs, selected one, then sat down beside her again and look up his glass, staring into the fire.
The music—unfamiliar to her started very slowly and quietly. Petra sipped the liqueur, feeling its potent warmth trickle down her throat like mellow fire, then she sat back, leaning her head against the sofa and cradling the glass between her hands as a pleasant languor stole through her, making her limbs heavy, her mind drowsy.
Gradually, though, the music was building to a lush climax, and as she lay back, only half listening, she felt deep inside herself something stirring into life. She knew she ought to break free from the spell but, powerless to resist she could only lie there and feel its profound impact on every fibre of her as the sensuous sounds wove themselves into her mind and her body. When the last chords died away, their echo hanging in the air around them, she sensed Jared turn his head s l i g h t l y to look at her.
'I—I don't know that music—what is it?' She spoke jerkily, like an automaton.
'It's Wagner. From his opera about our two lovers— Tristan and Iseult, Did you like it, Petra?'
His tone was casual, but she felt his penetrating gaze on her.
'No—no, I didn't.'
'Well . . . ' she could not see the l i t t l e crooked smile on his dark face, but knew it was t h e r e ' ... it's p r e t t y blatant, isn't it?'
'Blatant?' Her eyes, still dark and haunted from the effects of the m u s i c , could not quite meet his. 'What do you mean?'
'It's the love theme—and sex-wise it's highly explicit.' He dropped his voice to a husky murmur. 'Couldn't you see the pictures it conjures up—a man and woman way out of their depth in sensuality, drowning in sexual passion?' His tone hardened a fraction.
'Sorry to use that word, when I know you dislike it so much.'
'I—' Reaching forward, she went to replace her glass on the tray but jolted it as she put it down, sending little droplets trickling down her fingers.
As she stared stupidly down at them Jared set down his own glass and seized her hand between his. Bringing it up to his lips, he lowered his hand over it and began licking off the liqueur, his tongue slowly travelling down each finger in turn and then across the moist palm. The action was having exactly the same effect on her as the music had done, and as deep within her that same terrifying something, roused once more, uncoiled and expanded, she half closed her eyes under the sensuous caress.
