Substitute Lover

by Penny Jordan

With that came the realisation that he was not going to allow her to go ashore until he decided that she could. There was no point in her hammering on the door any longer. She had already bruised her knuckles and broken the skin.

  Full of self-pity and misery, she sank down on to the hard bunk, automatically pulling on the life-jacket. Old habits died hard, and her father had taught her to b e cautious and safety-conscious.

  The jacket wasn't a new one. It smelled elusively of perfume, a perfume she had smelled before, Carla's perfume, she recognised, with a renewed spurt of rage.

  Had Gray and Carla made love here on the yacht? She looked round at the cramped quarters and grimaced to herself. Hardly. It was amazing what fantasies the jealous mind could conjure up, and yet she knew that if Gray came to her now and said he loved her, she wouldn't care what their surroundings were.

  But that was the difference between herself and Carla. She loved Gray, and she was convinced that the other woman did not.

  They were well out into the Channel before Gray put the yacht on automatic and came down and unlocked the door. They stared at one another in silence.

  'I thought you were my friend,' Stephanie said almost childishly at last.

  His face grim, Gray replied, 'I am. Why else would I be doing this? There's something you're not telling me, Stephanie. Something that's festering inside you like poison.'

  'And you think kidnapping me and bringing me on your yacht will release it, is that it?' she demanded angrily.

  'You used to love sailing,' Gray responded obliquely.

  'I remember that as a teenager you used to have such an intense love of life. Paul destroyed that.'

  'And you think by bringing me out here you can restore it?'

  'I don't know,' he said quietly. 'You tell me, can I?'

  She didn't answer him. How could she? How could she tell him that her morbid fear of the sea was a two- pronged thing. She didn't just have Paul's death to contend with, she had her own far-too-vivid memories of icy sea water closing over her head, of numb fingers slowly loosing their grip on a slippery surface; of a man's face contorted into a mask of bitter determination as he watched her slowly lose her grip on life.

  'Why don't you come up on deck and help me sail this lady?'

  She didn't want to, but to stay down here alone with her memories and fears would be even worse. Numbly she followed him, hating him almost as much as she loved him.

  She had never been on such a sophisticatedly equipped craft and she froze to an abrupt halt when Gray called out sharply to her, wondering what on earth she had done wrong.

  'Safety lines,' he told her when she looked at him. 'Come over here and I'll fix it on for you.'

  A safety line. She stared at the nylon rope and then back at Gray, feeling as though an enormous weight had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders.

  With a safety line she couldn't slide overboard and be drowned. She would be safe! Trembling with relief, she let Gray clip on the sturdy harness, immediately awash with a feeling of gratitude.

  'Feeling better now?' Gray asked her when he was sure the harness was secure.

  'Yes... Yes.' She smiled shakily at him. 'I feel much better.' Her fear of the water receded and she lifted her face into the breeze, breathing in lungfuls of the clean, salty air.

  Suddenly she felt exhilaratingly alive. More alive than she had felt in years. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She felt free, she realised. Free of Paul, free of the past, and most of all, free of fear.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  the hours that followed had an almost magical quality about them. It was as though by some special power Gray had transported her back to the past, to a time before she had experienced reality and pain.

  He was an expert sailor, taking no unnecessary risks even in such placid seas as they had today. Her fear gone, Stephanie was free to enjoy again something that had always given her special pleasure.

  At lunchtime Gray dropped anchor and hauled out a watertight picnic box.

  'You planned all this deliberately, didn't you?' Stephanie accused, watching him unpack foil-wrapped chicken, and garlic-flavoured bread to put in the small oven. There was fruit, cheese and fresh salad, too, and her mouth watered, her appetite sharpened by the sea air.

  'Yes,' Gray admitted without hesitation. 'After what you told me about Paul it struck me that your fear of the sea might not have sprung quite so much from his death as from a desire to punish yourself for it.' He held up a hand to stop her when she would have interrupted him.

  'I know it's the easiest thing in the world to play amateur psychiatrist, but hear me out, Steph. You loved sailing. When Paul was drowned, ending the fiasco that your marriage had become, it was like a prison door opening for you, but like anyone else in the same circumstances you felt guilty—more so perhaps because Paul had already taught you to feel guilty—to shoulder the blame for the problems in your relationship. And because you felt guilty you had to punish yourself, just as Paul used to punish you, so you took away from yourself one of the things you enjoyed the most.

  He watched as she plucked tensely at the wool of the blanket he had put down on the hard bunk. She wasn't looking at him, and he wished desperately that she would so that he could see her reaction. Was she strong enough to take what he had just thrown at her? Or ... or was the damage Paul had done to her so severe that ...?

  He got up abruptly, unable to endure thinking about his cousin. It was just as well he was dead. When he thought of what Paul had done to Stephanie, of how he had destroyed her as a woman and left her with a legacy of pain and fear . . .

  'Stephanie, look at me. I don't want to hurt you—in any way.' The raw urgency in his voice made her lift her head. His eyes were brilliant with compassion and concern, and she felt the shock of what he had said to her recede, leaving in its place a warmth that seemed to spread throughout her body.

  Gray cared. Perhaps he didn't love her in the way she loved him, but he still cared enough to want to break down the barriers imprisoning her. Enough to believe what she had told him without question. Perhaps enough to ...

  To what? Free her from her repressions by making love to her?

  The thought whispered seductively through her mind, almost paralysing her with shock. She couldn't speak or move. Gray make love to her? She shivered, unaware that his eyes darkened with strain and fear for her.

  How long had the desire for Gray to make love to her lain dormant in her subconscious? She shivered again, suddenly and quite illogically remembering the spring before Paul had started to pursue her in earnest.

  She and her father had been sailing. Gray had been there when they came back. He had helped her off her father's small craft, lifting her bodily out of the boat. The memory of how he had held her—the sun on her back, the smell of salt and fresh air, the flurry of excitement beating through her veins—came back to her in startling detail.

  That had been the moment she first became aware of Gray as a man and herself as a woman. She had haunted the yard for days after that, but Paul had been there and not Gray. And then Paul had started pursuing her and . . . and she had forgotten until now that all those years ago she had looked at Gray and wanted him.

  'Stephanie, what's wrong?'

  She blinked and was back in the present, suddenly aware of the rough urgency in Gray's voice. Her eyes focused on his face, surprised to see how strained he looked.

  The smile she gave him was brief, her eyes still clouded with memories.

  Paul, he thought savagely, hating his dead cousin. She had been thinking about Paul.

  After that the day seemed to change; the sparkle dying out of it. It seemed to Stephanie that Gray was suddenly preoccupied and distant, and she wondered if he was wishing that Carla was with him.

  Had she been, they wouldn't have been sitting primly opposite one another in the rugged intimacy of the cabin. She glanced at the narrow bunks, her face suddenly burning with colour as she realised that she was mentally visualisi
ng Gray making love on them. But it wasn't Carla's body she visualised entwined with his. It was her own . ..

  Where had it come from, this sudden surge of hunger after so many long years of cold uninterest in everything sexual? How had she gained this instinctive knowledge that as a lover Gray would be both demanding and tender? How was it that her very skin seemed to know already what it would be like to experience his touch? It seemed impossible that she, who had known nothing but pain and degradation through the physical side of her marriage, suddenly knew exactly how she could feel in Gray's embrace.

  But that knowledge wasn't enough. She wanted the reality of Gray's lovemaking, she wanted . . . She wanted the impossible, she told herself angrily as she cleared up after their alfresco lunch.

  Gray was on deck, and she deliberately delayed before going up to join him.

  The wind picked up as they headed back, and by mutual consent they concentrated on sailing the sleek yacht.

  It was dusk when Gray finally brought her alongside the jetty. The yard was empty, and suddenly, as she unclipped her safety harness, Stephanie realised how utterly exhausted she was.

  Perhaps it was that exhaustion that made her clumsy, or perhaps it was another and higher authority that directed her movements.

  As she went to follow Gray on to the jetty, a wave caught the yacht and she lost her balance and fell into the water.

  The moment she felt its cold embrace she panicked, forgetting that she could swim, and remembering only that this natural harbour was deep. She heard a splash and then felt an arm tighten round her, and immediately her panic intensified.

  She screamed out in fear, gulping in salt water as she fought against that constraining arm. She had to hold on to the boat. She mustn't let go ... if she did .. .if she did, Paul would let her drown ...

  She screamed again, fighting against the swift, shocking curtain of darkness swooping down on her even as she knew she could not avoid its deathly embrace.

  She was lying on the ground. She could feel its hardness underneath her. She was desperately cold and her chest hurt. She shivered and tried to sit up, and was immediately overwhelmed by nausea.

  As her stomach rebelled against its intake of salt water she closed her eyes and retched desperately.

  Someone was holding her head, speaking to her, but she felt too desperately unwell to respond. As the nausea faded she opened her eyes and saw Gray crouching at her side, watching her.

  'All right now ...' she managed to whisper. 'What happened ...?'

  'You missed the jetty and fell in.'

  He was frowning, and soaking wet, she realised, and then memory flooded back, and she remembered for herself what had happened.

  'Do you feel well enough to make it to the cottage?'

  She nodded her head and struggled to get up, but Gray wouldn't let her, bending to lift her in his arms.

  Through the wetness of their clothes she could feel the warmth of his skin, and instinctively she tried to get closer to it. She could feel the hurried thud of his heart as lie carried her down the road. Weakly she suppressed a hysterical giggle. If anyone were to see them now . . .

  But the road was deserted, and they reached the cottage without incident. Once inside, Gray paused briefly in the hall, without putting her down.

  'I'm going to take you upstairs and put you in a hot bath, then I'm going to come down and ring for Doctor Fellows ...'

  Immediately Stephanie felt panic shudder through her. She remembered that Doctor Fellows had seen her after Paul's death. He had prescribed tranquillisers for her, but she had never taken them. She didn't want to see him now.

  'No ... No doctor,' she managed to croak, her throat sore from the salt and sickness. 'I'm all right, Gray. Promise me, no doctor.'

  Her panic showed in her eyes and he frowned. She seemed to be all right. It had given him a shock when she slipped and fell overboard, but that had been nothing to the shock he had received when she had fought against him, calling out Paul's name with terror. Had she thought he was Paul come from a watery grave to claim her? She seemed calm and lucid enough now.

  'We'll see how you feel after a hot bath,' he temporised, and she was too shaky and exhausted to argue any further.

  Too exhausted, in fact, to raise anything more than a token protest when Gray started to fill the bath and then sat down with her on his lap, undressing her as though she was a helpless child.

  There was nothing remotely sexual in his touch, an why should there be? she reflected ruefully, catching a momentary glimpse of herself through the steam obliterating the bathroom mirror.

  She hardly represented the epitome of female desirability. Her skin was turning blue and covered in goose-bumps. Her hair was hanging in soaking rats' tails, and her dunking in the sea had made her mascara run in dark streaks over her pale face in a way that made her look like an apology for a circus clown. All in all, hardly a tempting sight!

  She sat, completely passive, as Gray stripped off her outer clothes, flinching only briefly when his hand accidentally brushed against the side of her breast. She saw his mouth tighten and wondered what he was thinking. Probably that she was a poor apology for a woman ... and nothing like Carla.

  He twisted sideways to turn off the taps and test the water, frowning slightly as he asked curtly, 'Can you manage the rest yourself?'

  Since all she had on was her briefs and bra, she nodded her head. He was still wearing his own wet clothes, and must be anxious to get under the healing warmth of the shower himself. She scrambled awkwardly off his lap and reached behind her for the catch of her bra, but her arms ached from the unaccustomed exercise, and her fingers were still numb.

  After she had fumbled the fastening twice, Gray made an explosive sound of impatience deep in his throat and turned her round, swiftly dispensing with the recalcitrant fastening. Feeling as chastened as an awkward child, Stephanie stepped out of her briefs and turned to get into the bath.

  Gray was standing by the door watching her, a tense, unreadable expression on his face.

  All at once she was acutely conscious of her deficiencies and limitations.

  Tears of exhaustion and unhappiness burned her eyes, and she wondered if she actually had the strength to get into the warm water.

  Any other woman worthy of the name could have managed events better than this. Here she was, alone in a potentially provocative situation with the man she loved, and all she could do was to shiver and move clumsily about as though she had suddenly developed two left feet.

  Almost as though concurring with her own opinion of herself, Gray moved impatiently towards her, picking her up bodily, his hands on her waist.

  'I don't know if it was a good idea letting you persuade me not to call the doctor. I'm going for a shower, and don't you dare to try and get out of that hath until I come back.'

  As he lowered her into the water she had an insane urge to cling to him and beg him not to leave her. She had been through too much in too short a time, and now she was paying for it.

  The water lapped blissfully at her chilled skin, and she made a small murmur of pleasure, her movements unconsciously sensual as she wriggled under the warmth.

  Gray stood watching her for a moment, his mouth grimly compressed, and she wondered again what he was thinking—probably regretting ever asking her to come down to the estuary in the first place. She had been more of a hindrance than a help, she felt sure.

  He opened the door and said brusquely, 'Now remember, don't you dare move until I come back.'

  The thick, rough quality of his voice made her look curiously at him. His face was slightly flushed, his eyes very dark. He seemed to be unable to tear his attention away from her breasts. Her throat suddenly went dry. Could he ... did he ...? But then abruptly he looked away, and she knew that the intense desire she thought she had read in the tense line of his body had been nothing more than a product of her own fevered imagination.

  And then the door opened and he was gone. Voluptuously she ga
ve herself up to the soothing heat of the water as it turned her skin from blue to warm pink. A great wave of tiredness washed over her but she fought it back, reaching for the shampoo, and vigorously soaping her hair.

  An impulse she wasn't sure she wanted to investigate made her add scented bath oil to the water when she topped it up, the heat releasing a delicious smell of roses.

  She was out of the bath and wrapped in a huge, warm towel when Gray came back.

  He frowned when he saw that she had disobeyed his instructions. 'I thought I told you to stay put?'

  Stephanie smiled tremulously at him. He was barefoot, wearing a towelling robe that exposed the crisp, damp hair curling on his chest.

  'I'm all right now, Gray, I promise you. I'm hungry as well,' she told him, watching the frown disappear and relief take its place.

  In actual fact she was feeling exhausted, but the memory of those moments when she had actually thought she was back with Paul and he was trying to drown her were still too strong and she didn't want to be alone with them.

  'All right. You get dressed. I'll go down and light the fire and make us both something to eat.'

  She was too exhausted to make much of an effort, simply pulling on clean briefs, and an all-in-one peach jumpsuit with buttons down the front and an elasticated waistband.

  Sliding sandals on to her feet, she combed through her wet hair and left it, knowing that it would dry quickly in the heat of the fire.

  As she went downstairs she could hear Gray in the kitchen. He had closed the sitting-room curtains, and flames from the burning logs illuminated the attractively furnished room.

  Stephanie extinguished the main lights and switched on two lamps. Immediately the room took on an air of intimacy. She heard Gray behind her and swung round, watching his eyebrows draw together as he studied the subdued lighting queryingly.