AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER ONE
'Oh, no!' Petra wailed. 'I just don't believe it.'
She flicked the light switch up and down half a dozen times, but her kitchen obstinately stayed as dark as the stormy night outside. A gust of wind hurled a handful of hailstones across the back of her neck, and she hastily closed the door then leaned up against it, eyes closed, her whole body sagging with weariness.
What a day. If only she'd known what was coming she'd have stayed safely in bed with the duvet over her head . . . The row with Simon, first here in this very room, glaring at each other over a tableful of half-finished cakes, then continued at long distance via the phone as soon as he'd got back to his school . . . That had upset her dreadfully, forcing her to confront herself—
asking deep inside whether she was right . . .
And then, probably as a result of her tearful state, she'd ruined the icing on every cake, so that she'd had to scrape it all off into the bin and grimly start again . . . And that had meant she'd missed the last post out of the village . . . And that had meant a breakneck trip across the moors to Bodmin Station to catch the London train, with her elderly car's heater on the blink, so that she was half frozen . . . And now, to get back home and find the power off. No lights, no cooker—no electric blanket, which she'd actually remembered to switch on, promising herself an early night, sitting up in bed eating a heated-up Chinese meal and watching her portable TV, Sam stretched out alongside her, purring loudly.
Petra's lower lip quivered with self-pity. Oh, come on, please, no more snivels, she told herself sternly. There've been more than enough of those already today. Straightening up, she unbuttoned her grey wool jacket and, feeling for the peg on the back of the door, hung it up. As she did so she sneezed loudly In the car, the raw December cold had seeped right into her bones—she'd probably catch pneumonia, and then somebody would he sorry. Drawing back the curtains, to allow the pale, rather eerie light outside to filter in, she edged her way carefully across to the larder. She couldn't make a cup of tea, or even a hot milky drink, hut a slug of the dark Jamaican rum which she used for cooking should put a bit of warmth into her frozen body.
She fumbled for a tumbler, poured a little of the spirit into it, hesitated, then added another slurp. When she held the glass up against the window it was a third full. She hesitated, then thought, Oh, well—desperate remedies.
Sitting down at the pine table, she took a cautious sip, then gasped as liquid fire scorched her throat. Heavens, it was potent. No wonder she'd had so many repeat orders for her Boozey Fruit Cake this Christmas! She took another sip, but then all at once, above the sound of the wind howling around the cliff-top cottage, Simon's voice echoed once more round the room, and in her head.
'You've got to marry me, Pet—you must see that. As a headmaster, I'll be expected to have a wife. In fact, at the interview I as good as told them we'd already named the day.'
Then her own angry response. 'You had no right to do that—when we're not even engaged.'
'And whose fault's that?' Simon, running his hands exasperatedly through his fair hair. 'God knows, I've asked you times enough. Well, I'm just warning you—I'm not prepared to wait much longer . . .'
Abruptly, she gulped down the rest of the rum, to anaesthetise her brain, and stood up. By the time she reached the landing, treading very carefully, her head was spinning and she felt as if she w a s floating inches off the carpet. For someone who didn't usually drink and never neat spirits—she'd definitely overdone the alcohol. Well, at least she'd sleep without rocking tonight, as Gran would say.
The bedroom curtains were tightly drawn, but her eyes were getting used to the darkness and, moving like a cat, she skirted her dressing-table and felt her way down the side of the bed. Her loot came up against something soft, and when she picked it up she realised it was her nightdress. She must have forgotten to roll it up under her pillow. Gritting her chattering teeth, she kicked off her shoes, then began pulling off her clothes, throwing them in the direction of the invisible bedroom chair. Then, after dragging her brushed cotton nightie down over her head, she put a hand on the duvet, braced every muscle to meet the shock of an icy sheet, and slid in.
She rolled over, curling herself into a ball, then the next instant came up hard against something warm. A body. A naked body. A very masculine body.
Each consecutive thought went through her mind at twice the speed of light, but then, as she opened her mouth to scream, one f i n a l thought came with a little spurt of joy: It's Simon, come back to make up that horrible quarrel.
But did she really want to make up in this way? He'd always been perfectly happy not to consummate their relationship until they were married. She too, so wouldn't they both regret it, in the cold light of dawn . . . ? And yet, perhaps if they did make love . . . ? Swallowing down her fears, she turned on her side again.
'Oh, darling, I'm so glad—' she began huskily, and then three things happened almost simultaneously.
She put a tentative hand to Simon's head, discovered that instead of his smooth, silky hair her palm was caressing thick, springy curls, and an unfamiliar male voice mumbled s l e e p i l y
and very irritably—'What In hell—?'
N e x t moment, before she could move, cry out or do anything, a heavy arm came across her, pinning her body to the mattress. Gathering her to him, the man sought and found her mouth, still quivering with terror and shock, and his own mouth came down on it, w a r m and hard and vibrantly alive.
But she must be dreaming—she had to be—was the only half-coherent thought that came spinning through her dazed mind. And then her lips were parting to allow the stranger to greedily plunder her mouth, ravaging its sweetness until she gave a low moan as golden shooting stars flared behind her eyelids.
The man groaned deep in his throat and as she arched helplessly towards him he slid his mouth down to rest first against the angle of her neck, where the pulse bounded just beneath the soft skin, then lower still, following the opening of her nightie until his lips found the valley between her soft breasts.
'Mmm. You smell so good.'
Petra's eyes jerked open. That voice—she'd thought it unfamiliar, and yet, as the haze in her brain cleared for an instant, she knew with sick certainty that, from long ago, through the mist of time, it was as familiar to her as her own.
Dragging herself away from him, she fumbled frantically on the floor for the small torch she kept beside her bed. Her fingers closed on it, then, kneeling up, her breath rasping in her throat, she switched it on, and a faint sound, half sob, half wild, hysterical laugh, was wrenched from her.
Next instant, as the torch hung limply from her fingers, the man snatched it from her. As he swung its small beam directly on to her face she shook her hair forward to screen it, then turned away. But she was too late. He put the flat of his hand against her cheek and forced her head inexorably b a c k , tilting her face so that the torchlight fell full on it.
'Well, well.'
When she glanced up at him from u n d e r her lashes she saw in the pale glow behind the torch that the man was l y i n g back again on the pillow— her pillow—one arm behind his dark head, a lazy smile in those black-fringed pale grey-blue eyes.
'Hi, Petra. Long time no see.'
CHAPTER TWO
Petra leapt backwards, expelling a long quivering breath made up of anger, shock—and something else very like fear.
'Jared Tremayne! What on earth do you think you're doing in my bed?'
'I should have thought that was perfectly obvious—although I was about to ask the same of you.' He yawned hugely, but even so held out an inviting hand. 'What's the matter, Petra? Still can't keep away from me, is that it?'
'No, it most certainly isn't.' She flared up instantly, fighting down that strange little feeling inside her which for an instant had made her breathing unsteady, her heart twist painfully. 'And anyway—' his words had finally registered '—what are you talking about? This is my bed—in my cottage.
Oh, no!' For the first time she looked directly at him, her emerald-green eyes dilating with shock.
'You aren't—? You can't be Mrs Pearce's new tenant.'
She gazed imploringly at him, and he smiled wryly. 'How very quick you are tonight, sweetheart. Yes, I've taken a lease on Pear Tree Cottage. But nobody told me that you live here too—that really is a bonus.'
The faint irony set her teeth on edge. 'So sorry to disappoint you,' she replied frostily, 'but this is Apple Tree Cottage. It's my house and I live here— alone. Pear Tree Cottage is next door.'
But to have Jared Tremayne as a next-door neighbour—even a very temporary one—in the adjoining cottage was appalling enough, she thought with a little spurt of horror. When Mrs Pearce had casually mentioned the other day that the agency she leased her holiday cottage through had phoned her about a winter let she'd been quite glad. After all, the two adjoining houses were far enough out of the village up here on the cliffs for it to be very lonely at times. She'd even thought of inviting her new neighbour to dinner. A hysterical giggle welled up inside her. Dinner? He was in bed with her, wasn't he—and without any invitation? And as for a neighbour—she'd sooner have a fully grown rattlesnake living alongside her than Jared Tremayne.
'I'm sorry, Jared,' she went on, her voice as coolly formal as she could manage, 'I don't know how you got in here, but—'
'Through the back door. It was unlocked.'
So she'd been right when, halfway to Bodmin, she'd thought uneasily that she couldn't remember, in her hurry, actually locking the door.
