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'I— I'd rather—'
'This way we've both got the table for our drinks.'
He indicated the plump green velvet cushions, and reluctantly she sat down in the very edge of one. He kicked the fire into life, sending a shower of tiny sparks up the wide chimney, tossed on the last of the logs from the willow basket, then threw himself down beside her, stretching out his long legs.
'Black or white coffee?'
He leaned forward, and the weight of his body tilted her cushion slightly so that she slid towards him.
'White—no sugar, please.' Surreptitiously she eased herself away.
'Tia Maria or Drambuie? Or I think there's some Curasao in the cupboard.'
Petra hesitated. Two glasses of wine at dinner, and now liqueur . . .
'Oh, come on.' He sounded torn between irritation and amusement. 'I've told you, there's no magic love potion in this house.' Another infinitesimal pause. 'Only my fatal charm, which just now doesn't seem to be exactly firing on all cylinders.'
He gave her a disarming grin, and Petra felt herself relax a fraction more. After all, he had said, hadn't he—no, promised—nothing she didn't want? 'Well—did you bring the Tia Maria with you from Jamaica?' And when he nodded, 'Just a small one, then, please.'
He poured it, and another for himself, then, going across to the superb state-of-the-art CDplayer by the fa
r wall—his own, surely, for it hadn't been in evidence when Mrs Pearce had shown her round—he riffled through the discs, selected one, then sat down beside her again and look up his glass, staring into the fire.
The music—unfamiliar to her started very slowly and quietly. Petra sipped the liqueur, feeling its potent warmth trickle down her throat like mellow fire, then she sat back, leaning her head against the sofa and cradling the glass between her hands as a pleasant languor stole through her, making her limbs heavy, her mind drowsy.
Gradually, though, the music was building to a lush climax, and as she lay back, only half listening, she felt deep inside herself something stirring into life. She knew she ought to break free from the spell but, powerless to resist she could only lie there and feel its profound impact on every fibre of her as the sensuous sounds wove themselves into her mind and her body. When the last chords died away, their echo hanging in the air around them, she sensed Jared turn his head s l i g h t l y to look at her.
'I—I don't know that music—what is it?' She spoke jerkily, like an automaton.
'It's Wagner. From his opera about our two lovers— Tristan and Iseult, Did you like it, Petra?'
His tone was casual, but she felt his penetrating gaze on her.
'No—no, I didn't.'
'Well . . . ' she could not see the l i t t l e crooked smile on his dark face, but knew it was t h e r e ' ... it's p r e t t y blatant, isn't it?'
'Blatant?' Her eyes, still dark and haunted from the effects of the m u s i c , could not quite meet his. 'What do you mean?'
'It's the love theme—and sex-wise it's highly explicit.' He dropped his voice to a husky murmur. 'Couldn't you see the pictures it conjures up—a man and woman way out of their depth in sensuality, drowning in sexual passion?' His tone hardened a fraction.
'Sorry to use that word, when I know you dislike it so much.'
'I—' Reaching forward, she went to replace her glass on the tray but jolted it as she put it down, sending little droplets trickling down her fingers.
As she stared stupidly down at them Jared set down his own glass and seized her hand between his. Bringing it up to his lips, he lowered his hand over it and began licking off the liqueur, his tongue slowly travelling down each finger in turn and then across the moist palm. The action was having exactly the same effect on her as the music had done, and as deep within her that same terrifying something, roused once more, uncoiled and expanded, she half closed her eyes under the sensuous caress.
From beneath her heavy lids she looked up at Jared, his dark head bent, his tongue moving in an erotic spiral across her skin, where tiny bead of sweat had broken out. And suddenly she wanted to reach out to him and she must have moved very slightly, as some sixth sense warned him that she was watching him, for across her hand he glanced up. For the first time that evening their eyes really met, and a spark seemed to leap between t h e m hanging in the air like a rocket at the peak of its arc, then fizzled, almost audibly, and died. For a moment there was utter stillness in the room, apart from the faint hiss of the flames, and then Petra's heart began hammering against her ribs. The sound was so loud that she was terrified that Jared would surely hear it, and her chest tightened u n t i l she could hardly draw a quick, panting breath.
He had heard it, for he released her and put his outspread hand very gently on her left breast so that her heart shudder now against his palm, just her shirt between them. His touch was delicate in the extreme, and, even though there was no flesh-to-flesh contact, she felt her breast swell and tauten, straining to meet his fingertips, which had begun a slow, circling dance, m o v i n g closer and closer to that quivering centre, until barely consciously her whole body arched up to me e t his hand.
When it slipped under her shirt, his hot skin sliding against hers, her senses spun with the dizzy whirling of her brain, and as his fingers, damp with perspiration, unhooked her lacy bra, easing it aside, she made a low sound, part sob, part whimper, deep in her throat. His head dipped towards her, the slow weight of his body taking her under him until she was half lying against the sofa arm as his lips took hers. She felt the pressure of his tongue thrusting hard between her teeth then retreating with agonising slowness, onlyto thrust again, taking all the sweetness that her mouth could offer, w h i l e his hand roamed over her soft flesh, l e a v i n g a prickling fire wherever he touched.
She must make him feel this way too! Her hands were dragging at the folds of his cashmere sweater, t h e n impatiently tugging his shirt from his waistband. And then she was free to run her fingers over that warm, satin skin, feeling the ridge of muscles JUST above his belt tighten like steel as she touched them, and, as she went h i g h e r , the fuzz of coarse little hairs across his chest. Exultantly she felt the two tiny nipples harden into life, then f i n a l l y , as her caress moved round his shoulders, she saw in her mind's eye the smooth olive skin of his back. Jared—no more than a dark o u t l i n e above her in the subdued light - lowered his head further still and, p o l l i n g her shirt aside, buried his face in the hollow between her breasts, lifting her with one hand under her waist so that her body met his mouth. His free hand slid inside her ski-pants, reaching down to bring that prickling trail of fire nearer and nearer to her very core. She writhed in the grip of strange emotions, wild and infinitely primitive, which were racking her slender body with shudders so intense as to be way past pleasure, almost agony. She murmured something incoherent as she felt his hand still then move again, and her fingers tightened on his shoulders, the nails digging in, pulling him down to her —
W i t h a loud crash a log fell in the grate, sending out a shower of ash and sparks of golden rain, and Petra, all but lost in the storm of pulsating sensations which swirled inside her, leapt back path a cry of fear.
Barely stifling a curse, Jared got to his feet and, as Sam shot into wakefulness, leaping up into an arm-chair out of harm's way, he stamped out a patch of glowing embers which were smouldering in the s h e e p s k i n Seizing the copper tongs, he picked up the log and threw it to the back of the fire.
