by Rebecca King
He ignored the unsubtle hint. 'Oh, don't mind me. You just carry on.'
Arms folded, he leaned himself nonchalantly up against the unit, so Petra, after a fleeting hesitation, weighed out the flour and began cracking eggs into a bowl, 'You know, you look really fetching in that little white mob-cap.'
An egg spewed on to the table, and she smacked her fist down. 'Look, Jared just go away, will you?'
He clicked his tongue. 'My, my—we are jumpy today.'
'I am not jumpy. Not in the least,' she snipped. 'Just go away. I've told you 'I'm busy.'
'I can see that.' His glance moved down the table. 'Valentine cakes. How romantic.'
'Yes, isn't it?' she responded woodenly. That angry smack of her hand had been a warning to her—she must not react. 'A new delicatessen in Truro has taken orders for ten, and I'm delivering them this afternoon.'
'So you've done me that one you promised me. Great.'
When she looked up sharply he jabbed a lean finger at the e l e v e n t h cake.
'Oh—no—' she blurted out confusedly, then stopped. Of course, he knew perfectly well that i t w a s n ' t f o r him—she could see it by t h e m a l i c i o u s gleam in his eye. 'I'm afraid that one's a special order,' she went on coolly. 'But I haven't forgotten. I'll make you one of Gran's whiskey cakes before you l e a v e . So don't worry—I always keep my promises.'
'Promises. Ah, p r o m i s e s ... But Petra, you don't. At least, you don't keep the promises which that slender infinitely desirable body of yours makes to me.'
She tried to reply, but her m o u t h w a s suddenly dry, and he went on. 'SO I suppose that one,' this time a jerk of his thumb, 'is a little offering for lover boy?'
'How clever of you to guess.' But behind the pert response her torn as brittle as glass.
'So what's that you're mixing? More Valentine cakes?'
'No, these are the last. This is a wedding-cake. Do you remember Joanne Endacott?'
'I think so. Smallish, brown hair— her mother kept the post office?' 'That's right. Well, she's getting married in a couple of weeks. She met Jason—her fiance—on a scuba-diving holi day in Cyprus, and they wanted to have a pair of scuba divers on the top of in cake. Yes, I know,' as Jared rolled his eyes. 'I managed to talk them out of that, but instead I'm having to create a sort of collage of shells, seaweed and the old Greek galley they were diving around—all out of sugarwork. I usually enjoy modelling—but a Greek galley, well . . .'
She pulled a fraught face, but when she looked up his expression was stony.
'You're a cheat, Petra—you know that?'
'W—whatever do you mean?' The cold, repressed violence in his words knocked her back.
'What I say—you're a cheat Whether you know it or not, you 're putting all your creativity, your sensuality—your passion into those bloody cakes of yours. To see you making them—it's like an act of love. The sexual t h e m inside you—all right, you say it's not there,' as she went to interrupt him, 'but it is, and it has to escape somehow, or destroy you. So—you sublimate it in these things.'
His arm swept out contemptuously towards the Valentine cakes, and she took a step towards them as if to protect them from his scathing anger.
'And then there's Sam, of course His voice fell into the room like chip', hacked from a glacier.
'You lavish on him all the rest of the love that's in you.'
'No, that's—'
'Yes,' he cut in savagely. 'And do you know why? Because it's safe for you to do that. A human male might demand more from you than you're prepared to give, might threaten to break through t h a t total exclusion zone you've built round yourself, so you settle for a cat who just wants his tummy tickled . . . ' his lips curled in derision ' . . . and a saucer of milk a day.'
'But you're wrong. Simon—'
'Simon?' Cruelly he mimicked her.
My sweet, you no more love him than this table.' He crashed his hand down on it, so that the mixer shook.
But he's like Sam—just as safe, just as undemanding.'
'And, talking of Sam,' she said, very loudly, 'I've been meaning to ask you, hut I don't seem to have seen you to speak to lately.'
'I had noticed,' he agreed ironically.
'Well, I'm going up to Simon's school for a week the day after tomorrow,' she continued, speaking very carefully. 'It's hi s half-term, and I'll be able to see the house that's being provided for us. So I was wondering—well, would it be too much for you to feed S am once a day? He—'
'You're going up to stay with Polruan?' Jared repeated slowly.
'Yes, on Friday. I'm sorry to ask you, but Sam hates the cattery, and I'm nervous of taking him in case he disappears. Of course, he'll have to get used to it at Easter . . . ' Her voice trailed away as she caught rather an odd expression on Jared's face. 'So if you wouldn't mind?'
'What?' He frowned slightly, as if he had not heard a word she had been saying, and for a moment she had the disconcerting impression that there were two trains of thought running, through his agile mind on parallel tracks. 'No, of course I don't.'
'Oh, thank you. And you needn't worry—he won't scratch you. Not the hand that's feeding him.'
She gave him a rather forced smile. After all, when the time came for Jared to go she didn't really want there to be this cold hostility between them. He'd lost—his lashing out at her like that just now only proved that—but there was no reason for them to be enemies. But he did not seem to notice, so she went on even more brightly, 'Well perhaps I could show you where his food is. He likes top of the milk every morning in that dish there.'
She pointed to the blue pottery bowl by the boiler, then gave a little gasp and looked up at Jared, wide-eyed. 'He hasn't touched it. But he's always come for it by this time, even if he's stayed out all night.'
Going through to the bottom of the stairs, she called, 'Sam, where are you? Get off that bed at once.'
But the big cat did not appear sidling guiltily out from the spare room, and she hurried back to the kitchen.
'I'll see if he's in the garden. Perhaps he's been in a fight—he may be hurt.'
Her voice shook slightly, but Jared gave a brief laugh. 'Honey, if he's been in a fight I'd worry about the other guy if I were you. He'll be the stretcher case. OK—sorry,' as she scowled at him over her shoulder.
'Sam.' She stood on the p a t h , listening intently, and Jared p u s h e d open the gate.
'I'll take a walk along the cliffs—see if I can spot him anywhere.'
'Please.' She bit her lip. 'I know you think I'm a fool, but if anything's happened to him . . .'
She looked up at him, her vision blurred, and saw a strange, w h o l l y unexpected softness in his eyes. He lifted a hand and very gently, with one fingertip, flicked away a large tear from her cheek. But then he stopped, hi s finger still on her face. 'Did you hear that?'
'N-no.' Just for a second she had only been conscious of the feel of his skin against hers, and that expression in his eyes. 'I can't—'
'Sssh. Listen.' And this time she too heard the faint miaow. 'Come on.'
Catching hold of her arm, he ran her round to the rear of the cottage. There was another, louder miaow, and Jared glanced up sharply, shading his eyes against the pale February sunshine.
'Look—he's on the roof.
He pointed, and Petra saw the cat, perched precariously on the tiles just below the ridge.
'Sam!' As she gasped in horror the cat, his green eyes huge with fear, saw them and went to move, then jerked back.
'Damn—he's got his paw trapped,' Jared muttered.
'But how did he get up there?' She was all but wringing her hands.
'How do you think? Up that.' He indicated the huge old apple tree, which, planted too near the cottage, nudged some of its branches against the roof. 'It should have been cut back years ago.'
'Yes, I know, but the blossom's so pretty in spring from my bedroom window.'
'Have you got a ladder?'
'N-no.'
As she swung round he caught her by the wrist. 'Where are you going?'
'To ring the fire brigade. They'll get him down.'
'They won't thank you for fetching them all this way just for a wretched cat.'
'But he isn't a wretched cat—he's Sam.'
'I know, I know.' He heaved an exaggerated sigh. 'Nothing for it, I suppose. The Tremayne Animal Ai d Service to the rescue.' And, catching hold of a lower branch, he swung himself up. She snatched hold of his foot. 'But he's terrified—he might scratch you again.'
'Not if he knows what's good for him,' he said grimly, and hauled himself up a branch. Petra, her hand to her mouth to silence any cry of fear that might make Sam — or Jared—lose his balance, watched as he heaved himself level with the cottage roof, then began inching himself up the sloping branch. It creaked, then sagged gently under his weight, and as she bit into her palm she saw Sam, his eyes green saucers of terror, trying to retreat. His paw wrenched free, he scrabbled frantically then began sliding helplessly down the roof, his claws rasping against the tiles, Jared would never get to him—he'd be killed!
And then, out of thin air, Jared flung himself forward, his arm snaked out and he grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck, just as he reached the guttering. Clutching the struggling animal to his chest, he ducked back and began an awkward one-armed descent. He was two-thirds down and a few of the knots in her stomach were starting to untie themselves when, without warning, a branch snapped and, unable to save himself, he came slithering down the rest of the way. Sam squirmed out of his arms, and Petra snatched him up, his fur standing on end, his heartbeat vibrating his whole body.
'Oh, baby.' She clutched him c o n v u l sively to her. 'I've got you—you're s a f e now.'
'Delighted to hear it,' Jared's c a u t i o u s voice broke in, and she turned to see him leaning up against the tree trunk. 'When you can spare a few seconds from crooning over that damned animal . . .'
'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said guiltily. 'Are you all right?'
Pushing open the back door, she carefully dropped Sam on to the mat, then went over to Jared.
'Are you all right?' she repeated, a sudden tremor in her voice as she realised that his face was quite pale.
'It's this shoulder.' He flexed it experimentally, then winced.
'I'll take you down to the surgery.' She glanced at her watch. 'Dr Hicks should still be there.'
'Hell, no,' he grumbled. 'I'm not letting that old quack near me. I've just strained it a bit.'
'Well, I don't know. I think—'
'And I think you ought to stop fussing,' he snarled. 'It's my shoulder oh, and this wrist.'
'Let me see.' She took hold of his right wrist and bent over it, turning it gently this way and that. 'I can't see any swelling.' With the tip of one finger she touched the skin. 'It feels quite cool.'
In fact, Jared's skin was much cooler than hers as the realisation of their nearness hit her, warming her chilled flesh.
'H—have you . . . ' she cleared her throat ' . . . have you got some ointment to rub in?'
'No. When I travel, I travel light.'
'Well, I've got some arnica ointment upstairs. Mum always swears by that. I'll fetch it for you—and then why don't you have a hot bath? That'll help to get rid of the ache, I'm sure, and the arnica will work faster.'
'Good idea. Bring it round, will you?'
As he turned away she caught hold of his arm. 'Thank you, Jared—you saved his life.'
Her voice shook slightly, t h e n , overflowing with gratitude, she impulsively flung her arms around him and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him on the cheek. Almost before the kiss landed, though, she had realised her folly and drew back instantly. But Jared made no move, only stared down at her, his eyes devoid of expression.
'My pleasure,' he grunted, then swung round on his heel, leaving her somehow feeling a little deflated . . .
A few minutes later, when she knocked on his door, there was no reply.
'Jared,' she called in the empty kitchen. 'I've got the—'
'I'm upstairs. Bring it up to me.'
Upstairs! For a moment she w a s tempted to leave the ointment on the kitchen table and flee, but, after all, it was her—or, rather, Sam's—fault so she went on up to the landing.
'Bring it in, then.'
His irritable voice came from behind the bathroom door, and when she pushed it open a couple of inches she heard the s o f t bubbling of the whirlpool hath, and through the crack saw Jared, sprawling at his ease in the tumbling water, a glass of whisky on the cream marble rim beside him.
'For God's sake, come in and shut the door—the draught's going through me like a knife,' he muttered, though without deigning to turn his head in her direction. Petra, every instinct urging her to turn and run, took a deep breath, swallowed then went in, closing the door behind her. She advanced a little way into the room, then froze. The bath was low, half sunk into the floor and its tiled surround, and through the churning blue-green water she had an all too clear view of Jared. His six-foot frame was blurred by the seething wavelets, yet she could see more than enough, and her entire body suddenly went very clammy.
'Well?' he demanded. 'What are you staring at? You told me to have a hot bath, didn't you?'
'Yes but . . . ' she gulped down the tightness in her chest which was preventing her from breathing ' . . . that was after you put on the arnica.' 'Well, you rub it in for me now." Hitching himself up higher against the rim, he patted his left shoulder imperiously-'Here—and here,' he commanded, then took a long swig of whisky and closed his eyes. Clearly the next move was down to her stared at him, lips pursed, then careful set down the little basin she was carrying, took a folded towel off the heated rail, knelt down behind him and unscrewed the ointment.
She tentatively touched him he flinched. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?'
'Your hands are like ice,' he said ungraciously. 'Warm them in here.'
She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and dabbled her hands in the hot bath. That superb, satiny naked body was spread-eagled, totally at ease, inches from her fingertips. If she stretched out just a fraction . . . Without warning her own body began to tingle all over, exactly as though she had been rolling in a bed of stinging nettles. She looked up sharply, and saw Jared's eyes fixed on her.
Abruptly drawing her hands back out of the water, she said, 'I—I think they're warm enough now.'
'Could be.'
His expression did not change, but as she dabbed her hands dry she sensed his mind relax suddenly, almost—almost, she thought, with a twinge of unease—as if he'd come to a decision on something. But no, she told herself scornfully, catching sight of the almost empty glass, it was simply the effect of the whisky.
She moved behind him again and, squeezing out some ointment, began smoothing it on in long strokes which were at first gentle, hesitant even, but then, as she felt the tautness in his muscles, deeper and stronger.
She drew her hand backwards and forwards across his skin, lost in her own rhythm. How smooth his skin was to her touch, just like olive satin. Then, when she ran her fingers over the tops of his shoulders towards his chest, she felt that little sprinkling of coarse hairs. Finally she moved to his neck, rubbing, in cream up each side of his vertebrae, stopping just short of the lowest black curls. There was one in particular, slightly longer than the rest, nestling endearingly in his nape —
'You know, it's quite uncanny.' The lazy murmur made her jump.
'What is?'
'The way you keep insisting on action replays of the Tristan story.'
'How do you mean?' she asked warily.
'Well, Iseult gives him a herbal bath to heal his wounds—he'd just seen off a jumbo-sized serpent at the time, I seem to remember. Just one difference, though.'
'Oh, and what's that?' She was not fooled for a moment by his languid tone.
'After the massage she joins him in the tub. Have you ever been in a whirlpool bath, Petra?'
'No—no, I h
aven't.'
'It's amazingly soothing, I promise you.' His voice curled insidiously around her.
'Yes, I'm sure it is—I'll have to try one some time.' She was pleased at how expressionless her voice was. Even so, she moved well clear of his reach before screwing the cap back on the arnica.
'I've brought a comfrey poultice as well, and a crepe bandage,' she went on briskly.
'What for? I don't need a bandage on my shoulder.'
'No, of course not. It's for your wrist.'
'Ah, yes, of course—my wrist,' he agreed smoothly.
'But I don't want to get the bandage wet,' she began doubtfully.
'I'll get out, then.' And before she could move he flicked off the taps, casually hoisted himself to his feet and—quite deliberately, she w a s certain—stepped out of the b a t h right beside her, so that a long tanned leg brushed against her thigh, leaving n streak of foaming bubbles across her jeans. All at once the spacious bathroom was very small, and as he reached for a towel she scrambled to her feet.
She snatched up the bowl. 'I—I'll take this downstairs.' But, even though she banged the door behind her, she still caught the sound of his soft, mocking laugh . . . She heard him coming, and began very carefully piling the mashed-up comfrey leaves on to the lint. Out of the corner of her eye she could see bare legs and feet, and when she reluctantly turned to face him saw that he was wearing a short—very short—navy towelling robe, so loosely belted that it had fallen open, revealing a great deal of torso.
'Hold out your arm, please.' She slapped the wet poultice on to his wrist, then tightly bandaged it and secured it with a safety-pin. 'Is that all right?'
He flexed his hand. 'Fine.'
'Good.' She began rolling up the rest of the bandage.
'Of course, you'll have to drive me this afternoon.'
'Drive you? You mean, down into the village? But if you need any shopping I can—'
'Not the village, no. I'm going to Penzance.'
'Penzance?' She almost shrieked the word. 'But I can't take you there —' it's impossible.'
'Why?' he demanded flatly.
'Well ... 'the thought of being confined in a car with Jared for several hours, especially in the mood he was clearly in, was simply too much ' . . . I've told you, I've got to deliver those Valentine cakes today.'
