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'No, of course not. In Passion he's the head of a multinational publishing company. Although he could just as easily be any up-to-the-minute highflier. He could be—oh, I don't know . . . '
then, as though plucking the thought out of the air ' . . . headmaster of a boys' boarding-school at the age of thirty.'
Petra's lips tightened into an angry line, and she stared out to sea at a toy-sized cargo boat on the horizon.
'And Tristan—in your version, I oppose, he's an arrogant, overbearing Hollywood screenplay writer?'
But Jared only laughed softly. 'Now whatever gave you that idea? No, he's the Mark figure's second-in-command, hi s most trusted lieutenant in his business empire—until he sets eyes on his boss's new young wife. And then passion takes over.'
'But it can't last, though!' The vehemence in her voice shook her, and her horse pranced a few nervous steps sideways. She reined him in, then went on more calmly, 'I mean—if the book follows the legend it can only go on for three years and then the magic wears off.'
'That's right—but what a wonderful three years they have.' He smiled, as though in reminiscence. 'I haven't dared ask Ms Grainger where she did her research for the love-scenes. She's either lived—and I mean lived—or she's got one heck of a vivid imagination. You should read them some time, Petra.'
'But it does end—their affair,' she said stubbornly, determined not to rise to his bait. 'And that just goes to prove it.'
'Prove what?'
'That passion, sensuality—all those things you think are so important—aren't enough. They don't endure the way real love does.'
'Real love?' His lips twisted. 'What a romantic little fool you are, Petra.'
'Better than being a cynic like you!,' she retorted, but then hurried on, 'Anyway, Mrs Pearce arrived before you could finish the story. You were going to tell me what happened to Iseult.'
'Oh, when Tristan was sent into exil e she stayed with her husband, of course, Poor Iseult.'
'Why? Why poor Iseult?' demanded.
'Well, I'm quite sure that the w o r t h y Mark couldn't give her what she wanted. Tristan had no doubt taught her too well the needs of her body—'
'Why must you always be so—crude?' she asked coldly.
Sensuality is not crude.' Jared turned his head to look straight at her, and she hastily averted her eyes to stare out at the distant horizon again. 'Iseult was forced to spend the rest of her life crushing that part of her—that passionate, sensual nature which had flowered so joyfully at Tristan's delicate touch.'
'Well, why couldn't Mark have done the same for her?'
'Maybe because he didn't want to.'
Before she could even guess what he would do he stretched across, seized her horse's bridle and pulled him in alongside his own mount, trapping her leg between his thigh and her horse's flunk. Then he reached out his other arm to cup her chin with his fingers. He was angry—she didn't know why, but she sensed the burning anger in the way his hand slid round to clench in her hair until tears sprang to her eyes. She felt it too in his lips as he forced them against hers. And yet, even as she tensed to resist him, above the pounding of the waves she heard her blood begin to sing in her veins. The heavy languor which Jared's potent magic created in her was stealing inexorably through her once more, and she felt her muscles relax, her whole body grow soft and yielding.
Still holding her to him with one arm, he slid his other hand inside her mohair sweater, tugged her shirt free from the waistband of her ski-pants then gently cradled one breast. Through her bra she felt his warm palm rubbing softly to and fro, creating a delicious friction against her nipple, until she swayed in her saddle towards him.
As she murmured something incoherent he drew back slightly, a half smile on his face. 'No more pretending now, my sweet.'
Instantly she pulled away, tugging her sweater down with one hand as she wrenched her reins free from Jared's grasp and backed her horse away. She'd been almost on the point of giving way to him again, and the humiliation fuelled her fury.
'You swine, you lied to me! You said nothing I didn't want. Well, I don't want this—any of it—
from you.' She knit out the last words.
'No, it's you who is lying.' His face was dark with anger, and the mare pricked her ears, snorting softly in protest again. 'You do want me—as much as I want you.'
'No! I swear I don't.' Her voice was jugged.
'Yes, you do—so don't add perjury to your other crimes. I feel it in every leaping pulse in your body.' He smashed one fist into the other palm. 'When you were sixteen you melted in my arms like wax in the fire. That can't all have gone—I won't believe it.'
'No, Jared—please.' She bit on the soft inner skin of her mouth to stifle the cry of protest.
'Yes, Petra—please,' he snarled. I could shake you, you know that?'
