by Penny Jordan
CHAPTER FOUR
Stephanie was awake early, her sleep disturbed by a tension she couldn't put a name to, until consciousness flooded back and she remembered the events of the previous day.
Now, lying in her nun-like single bed, watching the grey dawn break over the London roofs, it seemed incredible that she had allowed Gray to persuade her to move back to the estuary—even if it was only temporarily. And worse still .. .she shivered involuntarily as she remembered the additional folly she had agreed to.
She couldn't blame Gray for wanting to uphold his pride, nor for his fears that the boat-yard could become bankrupt if Carla's husband chose to withdraw his support, but how on earth could she have been stupid enough to agree to play the part of his new lover?
It seemed incredible. She was the least likely candidate for such a role, and she was sure she would never be able to play it convincingly. But she had given Gray her word.
Soberly she showered and dressed, knowing that there was no going back. She had given Gray a commitment and her pride would not allow her to withdraw from it.
A dry throat drove her into the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee.
Gray was still asleep, and she hastily averted her eyes from his bare torso, tanned and darkened with a covering of fine hair. Would it feel as silky as it looked? Shocked, she stared unseeingly at the filter coffee machine, wondering where on earth such an alien and dangerous thought had come from.
She had several minutes to wait for the coffee and she moved restlessly back to the door, her eyes drawn immediately to where Gray lay fast asleep on her bed- settee.
Although a reasonably respectable size, there was no way it was big enough for Gray. He dwarfed it, looking oddly youthful and almost vulnerable, with his dark hair untidy, and his eyes closed in sleep.
Long, dark lashes lay against the sharp rise of his cheekbones. He made a small sound and moved in his sleep, twisting the already dishevelled bedclothes round his lean body as he rolled over.
Something stronger than logic impelled her forwards until she was standing looking down at him.
Her heart was beating extraordinarily fast and she felt as though she were on the edge of some dizzyingly frightening discovery—and then Gray moved again, his eyes opening abruptly.
When he reached out and cupped the back of her head, she was too stunned to move. The smile he was giving her was like no other she had ever seen It curled his mouth with a languid male appreciation of her as a woman that made her pulses pick up and race frantically. His eyes had closed again and he levered himself up slightly, pulling her down towards himself at the same time.
The sensation of his mouth moving against her own, the sleep-warm scent of his skin, the rough rasp of his night's growth of beard against her face were all things that should have jerked her out of his arms immediately, but somehow her senses refused to respond in that way. Instead she found herself melting against him, her mouth softening beneath the gentle pressure of his.
She might have gone on melting mindlessly if his hand hadn't suddenly strayed towards her breast. Instantly she tensed.
His eyes opened, widened as they saw her face, and then grew shuttered, leaving her in no doubt that he had had no idea whom he had been kissing. But she could quite easily imagine who he had hoped it had been! Pain, sharp and bitter, pulsed inside her.
'Stephanie.'
She knew from the tone of his voice what he was going to say, and suddenly she didn't want to hear the words; didn't want to hear him saying he thought she had been Carla.
'I've just made some coffee,' she told him, trying to control the tremor in her voice. 'Would you . .. would you like some ?'
She thought she saw an expression of pain darken his eyes but then it was gone, his mouth bleak, his voice devoid of all expression, drained like that of a man tired of fighting against impossible odds, as he accepted quietly.
'That would be fine. Thank you.'
'I didn't mean to wake you, but you did say you wanted an early start, and there's nothing to keep us here.'
Stephanie knew that she was babbling, just as she knew that for the first time that she could remember she felt uncomfortable with him. It had been a shock to feel his mouth moving against hers ... but it had been something more than shock that she had felt. And she tensed against remembering that dangerous softening, the yielding sensation that had spread through her body at the touch of his lips.
He had been kissing Carla, she reminded herself fiercely. Not her.
She took him his coffee, taking care not to look at his body as he sat up and straightened the bedclothes.
'You can look now,' he told her drily, destroying her hope that he was not aware of her discomfort. He was looking at her, his eyes cool and determined, and Stephanie swallowed nervously.
'Stephanie, I ...'
He was going to apologise for kissing her; she knew it! She stumbled into speech before he could do so, telling him huskily, 'I know you thought I was Carla. It. . . it must be very frustrating to see so much of her, but to know that she ... that she prefers to stay with her husband .. .'
Her cheeks were pink by the time she had finished. She had said far more than she intended, and she cursed herself for inadvertently bringing up a subject that could only cause Gray pain.
He was watching her with a peculiarly brilliant intensity that made her lose her thread and feel as though every muscle in her body was locked in some kind of unbreakable vice.
'Hellish frustrating,' he agreed flatly, refusing to let her look away. 'Shall I prove to you how much?'
Shock hit her first, followed quickly by pain, and then fear. She was backing away from him even before she had had time to form any conscious decision.
As though he had looked into her mind and saw what haunted her there, his hand suddenly dropped away, his face changing.
'For God's sake, Stephanie,' he demanded savagely, 'you didn't think I was going to hurt you, did you?'
What could she say ? She knew of course that Gray would never hurt her, but briefly, for that soul- tormenting moment in time, she had forgotten this was Gray, and remembered only that he was a man.
The fear that he would start questioning her drove her into saying petulantly. 'I'm not like you, Gray. I don't play those sort of games.'
Anger gave way to incomprehension as he continued to look at her.
'What do you mean? I don't play games, Steph. You should know me well enough for that.'
Her colour high, Stephanie said bleakly, 'I meant your remark about me . . . about . . .'
'About my physical frustration,' Gray supplied grimly, as realisation dawned. His mouth thinned as he said curtly, 'Don't worry about it, Steph. For a moment I forgot that you don't suffer the same feelings as the rest of us mortals.'
He sounded angry with her and Stephanie felt herself shiver.
'Tell me something,' he demanded bitterly. 'If the positions had been reversed, if you had been the one to die, do you honestly think that Paul would have lived the rest of his life as a monk?'
She made a small agonised sound at the back of her throat and instantly Gray leapt out of the bed, enfolding her in his arms, and rocking her against his hard frame, even though she struggled to break free of him.
The tears she hadn't been able to conceal poured from her eyes, soaking his shoulders.
He wasn't completely nude. He was wearing a brief pair of underpants, but he might as well have been, Stephanie reflected shakily, as she shivered in his arms.
Against her ear she could hear him crooning words of apology and comfort. There was nothing sexual in the way he was holding her; this was the Gray who had held and comforted her after Paul's death, the Gray she loved and respected as she did no other human being. But still lingering in the shadows was that other Gray ... the Gray who had looked at her with something approaching hate in his eyes when he opened them to see that she wasn't Carla. The Gray who had brutally made her aware of the fact that he was a man with
all man's natural desires.
Now, gently, he held her away from him, using his knuckles to brush the tears from her face.
She felt herself shudder, and longed to be back in his arms, comforted by his bulk, protected by his caring. She felt cold and intensely alone, and yet, as she made a move towards him, he released her and stepped back, chiding her gently.
'I'm not made of stone, Steph.'
And he wanted a woman who was out of reach. She had learned the hard way from Paul, that the male sex could want and take women for whom they felt nothing emotionally.
'What's happening to us, Gray?' she asked him tearfully.
'Do you really need me to answer that ?' He looked at her with brooding eyes. 'We're two people who know each other too well in some respects and not well enough in others. Come on, let's get some breakfast and then get out of here.'
Common sense urged her to tell him that she had changed her mind; that she wasn't going to go with him, but for some reason she said nothing. Why ? Did she want to go back to the estuary with him?
Thoroughly confused, Stephanie set about making them both breakfast, while Gray went to have his shower.
The first thing Gray did when they arrived back in the village was to drop Stephanie outside his cottage, with the explanation that he wanted to go down to the yard to make sure nothing needed his attention.
Stephanie watched him go, her mouth drooping slightly with sadness and bewilderment. Gray had changed. Hitherto she had perceived him as being slightly remote, above the trials and tribulations that beset the rest of the human race, but now ...
But now she was being forced to confront the reality of his sexuality, she told herself unkindly, and she was jealous; jealous of Gray because he was able to experience those pleasures that were denied to her, and jealous of Carla because she was the woman who aroused the need for them within him.
Almost sick with self-disgust, she let herself into the cottage and took the cases Gray had dropped off for her up to her room.
What was the matter with her? She was developing a selfish dog-in-the-manger attitude towards Gray that made her feel uncomfortably guilty about her own motives. Was she really so weak-minded that she resented Gray loving someone else?
Immediately her mind shied away from the question, her hands stilling for a moment as she tensed and stared unseeingly out of her bedroom window.
Gray had asked her for her help, and she had agreed to give it, but wasn't some part of her secretly pleased that Carla had given him up in favour of her husband?
Her mind fought in panic against the hardness of the accusation. She had been concerned for Gray, of course she had. Carla was a married woman. And if she hadn't been? A shudder of tension convulsed her body, a fine sheen of sweat dampening her skin. She was trembling violently, shivering so much that she had to wrap her arms round herself. Her thoughts were taking her along paths, raising spectres that she wasn't prepared to face.
The shrill sound of the telephone ringing was a welcome relief. She went downstairs to answer it. The caller identified himself as a 'Mac Weston', and asked for Gray.
She explained that he was down at the yard.
'Could you get him to give me a ring, as soon as possible? Tell him it's about the Fastnet. He knows my number.'
The Fastnet. Stephanie's hands were trembling when she replaced the receiver. Only the previous year bad weather had caused many of the entrants to withdraw from the race. Those who had persevered had battled against monstrous sea s— several had capsized—some had lost their lives.
Her guilt over the failure of her marriage was somehow inextricably caught up in her fear of the sea She shivered again, suddenly remembering the very last time she and Paul had gone out sailing together.
It had been after their relationship had started to deteriorate, not long before Paul's death. They had taken his boat out with the intention of sailing it to a small, uninhabited island off the coast. It had been Paul's idea; a way of making amends to her for their quarrel the evening before.
He had come in late—and drunk. He had hit her, she remembered, touching her cheek automatically, as though her flesh still bore the imprint of that blow.
They had set out early; she had packed a picnic. It was a perfect day for sailing, and Paul had been in high spirits. Almost like the old Paul; the Paul she had fallen in love with.
They had made good time to the island and had spent a couple of hours there, swimming and then having their lunch. It was mid-afternoon when they set off back. Paul's mood seemed to change immediately they got back on board.
The breeze had picked up and a stiff, fresh wind had been blowing, Stephanie remembered. Paul had sailed the small boat almost recklessly close to the wind, crowding on too much sail. When she cautioned him against it, he had lost his temper with her, delivering a furious tirade that had destroyed all her earlier pleasure in the day. Neither of them was wearing safety-jackets.
She had wanted to put hers on, but Paul had called impatiently that he was ready to leave, and now, as the small boat raced dangerously across the waves, she was beginning to regret the lack of this safety precaution.
She had called out to Paul to take in some of the sail, hut he had ignored her, tacking so abruptly that she was flung to one side of the yacht as it keeled over. Instinctively she had clung to the side, closing her mouth against the incoming swell of sea water, waiting for the small craft to right itself, furious with Paul for putting them both in so much danger, and then ...
It had been years since she had let herself remember this particular incident, and part of her didn't want to remember it now, Stephanie acknowledged, her body as cold as though it was still immersed in sea water. Even without closing her eyes, she could remember the scene in minute detail, feel the cold clamminess of her wet clothes, the numbness of her fingers, and the anger that had turned horrifyingly to fear as she realised that Paul was not going to help her; that he was deliberately trying to . . .
To what? she asked herself now. To drown her? Anxiously, she gnawed at her bottom lip. As she had learned after their marriage, Paul had an uncontrollable temper when aroused, but had he actually been trying to drown her that day, or had it simply been an accident ... a misjudgement ...?
While she was still clinging grimly to the side of the boat, a coastguard craft had come within hailing distance to them and, seeing her plight, had instantly come to her rescue.
Paul had explained away the mishap with his usual charm, and although the coastguard had frowningly pointed out that he was carrying far too much sail for such a brisk wind, he had made no other comment.
Once they got home, Paul had been surly and uncommunicative. He had left her there to go to Southampton, she remembered, and she might have thought no more about the incident, had it not been for the fact that during a particularly vicious row some days later, he had said, 'I want to be free of you, Stephanie, and I will be— whatever I have to do to do it.'
Even now there were still occasions when she dreamed about the incident, the cunning, almost triumphant look in Paul's eyes as he watched her struggles to maintain her grip on the boat. Had he actually tried to drown her, or had it only been an accident? She would never know.
Just as she would never know whether his death had been an accident or... or a deliberate decision to escape from her once and for all.
That haunted her, too; that she might have been responsible for his death. It was like a sickness that she carried round inside her; a poison that tainted her whole life.
Jerking herself back to reality she pushed the bitter memories away. She had to go down to the yard and give Gray his message.
She saw the car first; a long, sleek Jaguar that looked oddly out of place among the shabby boats and Gray's rather battered Range Rover. She recognised it immediately of course, a mixture of anger and pain obliterating her earlier tension as she realised that Carla was visiting the yard.
She saw them the moment she rounded the corner o
f the building, standing together, with barely an inch of space between them. Gray's dark head angled almost protectively over Carla's bent one. Her hand was on his arm, her finger-nails dark with polish. She was wearing a suede skirt with atoning silk blouse. Every blonde hair was in place.
As she watched, a small breeze sprang up and teased the smooth blonde bob. Gray reached out and tucked several silken strands behind her ear.
The ground beneath Stephanie's feet actually felt as though it moved as she watched the small, betraying tableau. Carla's hair looked like spun silver against the tanned masculinity of Gray's hand. She looked up at him, and although she couldn't hear what they were saying or see their expressions Stephanie had no doubt that she was watching an intimate moment between two lovers.
Off to her right a small movement caught her eye. She raised her head and then tensed as she saw Alex striding towards the other couple, still both oblivious to the fact that they were no longer alone.
Immediately Stephanie started to move, her one instinct to protect Gray.
She reached the engrossed couple several yards ahead of Alex, her hand reaching out to clutch Gray's arm, her eyes unknowingly dark with shock and fear.
'Stephanie. Is something wrong?'
Immediately Gray swung away from Carla, the hand that had so intimately touched her hair now covering the- place where Stephanie's lay against his tanned forearm.
