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'But,' she repeated resolutely, 'there is a bed, nicely aired, waiting for you next door. So—'
'You go and sleep there if it's so nice. I'm not budging an inch from this one.' And, as if to underline his words, he let the torch drop on to the sheet between them and turned over on his side away from her. For a moment the old familiar impotent rage when faced with the implacable object that was Jared Tremayne surged through her. She longed to seize him bodily, drag him down the stairs and deposit him on his own doorstep, but instead, far more wisely, all she did was put out a hand and roughly shake his shoulder.
'Now, look here. You just go, will you?'
'Not on your sweet life.' He rolled on to his back once more, and that thread of irritation was back in his voice. 'I've flown in from Los Angeles today, I've driven down from Heathrow, and I'm thoroughly jet lagged.'
'You didn't seem very jet lagged just now.' The words were out before she could stop them, and she felt the warm colour flood into her cheeks as, in the faint light, she saw a slow cat's smile twitch his lips.
'Oh, just the normal reaction of any red-blooded male, I assure you, Petra.' He paused.
'Although I must admit that for a few seconds I did wonder whether all those folk-tales of phantom maidens haunting the Cornish cliffs to lure unsuspecting sailors to their doom might be true, after all.'
'Don't worry,' she snapped. 'I'm just ordinary flesh and blood, I promise you.'
'Flesh and blood, m a y b e ... 'his voice was beginning to slur with fatigue ' . . . but Petronella Tallis, ordinary? Never. Especially if you always wear your nightdresses like that.'
She had had to bend forward to catch his final words. Now, glancing down, she saw that, in her hurry to be under the duvet, she hadn't bothered to do up the buttons of her nightie, and the cleavage, almost to her waist, was revealing a horrifying amount of creamy flesh. Clutching the folds of cotton to her, she came upright with a jerk.
'Jared, p l e a s e ... ' she began uncertainly, but the only reply was a s o f t l y drawn breath, and when, very tentatively, she touched his smooth back it was as relaxed as a baby's. She expelled her own breath in a long soundless sigh, then switched off the t o r c h and sat huddled under the duvet, her chin on her knees. There n e v e r had been anyone quite like Jared Tremayne, and no doubt there never would be. The last time she'd seen him—she silently winced at the memory as if she'd bitten on a p a i n f u l tooth—he'd been hardly more than a boy, and yet all the character traits had been sketched in already: the arrogance, the poise, that utterly ruthless streak, the 'I know w h a t I want from life and don't anyone dare stand in my way' attitude which had so fascinated—and terrified—her. And now, nearly ten years on, here they were, fully fledged in the grown man.
The final summer before he went away—how old had she been? Just sixteen, so he must have been going on twenty. Which made him thirty now . . . Was he as wild, as unpredictable as ever?
Judging by tonight, yes. And, anyway, a streak of wildness that wide could never be buried permanently. He'd never be a respectable pillar of any community, never be a hardworking teacher—and newly appointed headmaster—at a private school.
At the thought of Simon, a guilty blush suffused her cold cheeks. So honourable, so upright—
what on earth would he say if he could see her now? But what else could she do? She could sleep next door, but what would Mrs Pearce think—and anyway, why should she? But the little bed in her spare room was stripped off to the mattress, and no one had slept in it since Simon, that night when his car battery had packed up. And that was weeks ago . .
.
The air in her bedroom was icy. She shivered, her teeth chattering slightly, then very slowly she slid down on to the very edge of the mattress, pulled up the duvet and lay staring into the darkness. But sleep did not come for a very long time; the thought of that naked male body inches away, even if it was thoroughly jet lagged, was just too deeply disturbing . . .
• • •
She woke from a toss-and-turn half-sleep, haunted by a shifting kaleidoscope ofpictures from the past which hadfinally formed themselves into one single image—a dark young face, the devil in his eyes, a tanned hand sweeping back unruly black curls as he turned to smile beguilingly at her, to beckon her towards him, while some instinct deep inside herself brought her dragging, unwilling footsteps nearer and nearer to him.
And nearer and nearer to danger - the danger that passion would ignite within her again and hurl her to her destruction, as surely as though she were to be flung from the cliffs on which her tiny cottage was poised. For that was what passion—sexual passion—did. It destroyed people's happiness, it destroyed their marriages, their families—their lives.
— As she moved restlessly in the bed her foot came into contact with a leg, and instantly the final, faint wisps of the rum-induced haze cleared from her brain. Every muscle in her body tautened, but somehow she resisted the impulse to leap out of bed, clutching her nightie to her. After all, it was her bed.
— Very cautiously she turned on her side, and in the pale, clear light saw Jared. Her caution had not been necessary—he was still out for the count, breathing regularly and deeply so she propped herself on one elbow and stared at him, a strange mix of emotions churning inside her. He was lying on his side, facing her, one lean hand pillowing his cheek, the wiry black curls flopping forward, the grey-blue eyes hidden by the thick black lashes which cast a shadow across the hard-planed cheekbones. His mouth . . . even as her gaze lingered on it, a faint, sensual smile curved the lips. Dreaming of his latest conquest, no doubt, she told herself scornfully and tried to drag her eyes away, but that face, after all these years, still held a kind of fascination for her and would not let her go.
It wasn't a conventionally handsome face—it was too strong—and, besides, too much of the devil lurked in it. Simon, with his combination of brown eyes and wheaten hair, had always been much better looking. And yet, no matter who else was there, from when he'd reached the age of twelve or so, every eye would go to Jared when he entered a room. He'd saunter in, his head carried on his shoulders with all the assurance of a young princeling, and the unconscious grace of a sleek jungle cat. Whatever he was doing, Petra mused, he'd always looked completely right—perfectly in harmony with himself inside his skin.
His skin . . . Her gaze moved, as though with a will of its own, to his bare shoulders, the smooth olive skin which, as a young girl, she'd longed to touch, to stroke, and which even now—
Horrified, she realised that her fingers were reaching out to him, and clenched them until the nails bit painfully into her palms.
That skin—it was a legacy from his mother, of course, the gypsy girl whom Mike Tremayne, one of the local tinners, had become obsessed with, captured and imprisoned in the neat terraced house with the blue-painted door down by the quay. When she was a child Petra saw a production of Carmen on television, and ever after in her imagination Rosa Tremayne was Carmen, in a scarlet skirt, performing a passionate flamenco round the gypsy camp fire, tragically caught between her two lovers.
In the end, of course, the wildness in her had told and she'd gone off, as all the village—
except Mike—had known she would, leaving him with the legacy of a son no less wild and impetuous than herself. And then, w h e n Jared in turn had taken himself o f f , Mike too had left, to carve out a new life for himself, mining in Australia.
And now Jared was back. In her bed but she thrust that thought down. Endearingly asleep, showing a vulnerability that no one who hadn't seen him totally defenceless like this would guess at. And, suddenly, into her mind flashed t h a t other time . . . She'd been fourteen . . . One of those shimmering summer days when Cornwall really seemed the magical land that legends had created of it . . . She'd been walking along the cliffs and there, in a private little hollow, surrounded by yellow gorse bushes that were droning with the drunken hum of bees, she'd come upon Jared.
He had been sunbathing, lying stretched out, just as he was now, and—just as he was now—
