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'Oh, I see. Well—thank you. I'm very grateful.' The words were being dragged out of her with little pincers, but then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'But you wouldn't have told me—not till tomorrow, would you? A f t e r I'd spent another night in your bed.'
'Could be,' he replied laconically.
'You know what, Jared Tremayne? You're a—a twisting, devious swine.'
'Devious?' He appeared to give the insult serious thought. 'I don't r e c a l l ever being called that before. And, anyway, I don't reckon I am. In f a c t , more the exact opposite, I'd say.'
'You think so?'
'I know so. I'm an uncomplicated sort of guy . . . ' he ignored her hollow laugh ' . . . and when I see something I w a n t I go all out for it. No deals under the-table—no hidden agenda.' His arcti c grey-blue eyes speared her so that she could not move a muscle. 'And right now, Petra, there's just one thing I want—and that's you.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Petra placed the last pink sugar paste rosebud in place, then carefully tied the white and silver satin bow round the heart-shaped cake. After t e a s i n g the bow out with her fingers she turned the cake very slowly on her turntable icing stand, surveying it critically. W i t h her fingernail she rubbed out an all but invisible nick in the rim of piped icing then set the cake on the pine tab l e alongside the other nine.
Straightening up stiffly, she stood AT the kitchen window for a few m i n u t e gazing out at a cheerful patch of snowdrops by the gate as she flexed her back muscles, tight after several h o u r s of concentrated work. Then, with a l i t t l e pitter-patter of excitement, she f e t c h e d from the cold pantry The Cake and placed it on the table.
Every Petronella cake was s o m e t h i n g special, made with love, but this was a very special one indeed. Her Valentine cake for Simon—pink fondant-iced, glued with white shell piping and covered with sugar-paste rosebuds and crystiallised violets. 'Roses are pink, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, I love you. . .'
She had thrown herself body and soul into creating it with an intensity w h i c h had almost shocked her, and even now that it was complete, waiting, just like the others, to be popped into its pink box, she kept taking it out and fidgeting with it.
Feeling vaguely annoyed with herself, me pushed it aside and began weighing up the butter and sugar for her next order, tipped them into her big mixer and switched it on. Next instant, though, the door opened and she spun round, to see Jared, framed in the doorway. Her finger jerked the mixer motor up to high before she hastily turned it off.
'Hi.' He gave her a lazy smile, then sauntered across and dropped a buff coloured envelope on the table. 'Late delivery, I'm afraid. I've only just got round to looking at my mail, and this one's yours. It must be that relief postman confusing the two cottages.' Can't blame him, though—
t h a t ' s easily done, isn't it, Petra?'
'Thank you,' she muttered, r e f u s i n g to rise to his last remark, and giving all her attention instead to the letter 'Looks like a bill—from my wholesaler.'
She even managed a faint smile, but did not quite succeed in meeting his eyes. Since that dreadful night, when she'd snatched up Sam and gone stumbling back to her cottage, she'd done her level best to avoid Jared. She'd been aware of his presence, of course—a tingling awareness in every atom of her body and mind. Almost every day she saw him from her window, going off by car or walking, with that long, loping stride, and whenever sh
e'd sneaked out herself she'd been all too conscious of a pair of sardonic grey-blue eyes trained on her shoulder-blades. And indoors—every day she could hear him, even through the granite walls running lightly up and down the stairs, the printer of his computer chattering—when, presumably, his writing was going to schedule—doors banging loudly enough to rattle her kitchen china—when, she guessed, things weren't going so well.
Sometimes her ears caught the faint sound of music. Once she was almost certain it had been that love-theme which he'd put on for her—quite deliberately, she was sure now—and she'd begun noisily clattering the dishes she was washing, to try to blot it out. But even more disturbing were the nights when, unable to sleep, she heard through the wall the soft creaks as he moved around his bedroom. And the early mornings too when, in her little bathroom, she found herself straining to hear his electric razor or the sound of the shower, and before she could control it her mind would be forming pictures of that sleek olive-skinned body glistening under a cascade of water.
And now that sleek olive-skinned body was here in her kitchen—six f e e t of powerful, aggressively m a s c u l i n e Jared, the black tracksuit he was wearing somehow making him seem even more lethal—more feral. 'Man the hunter, woman his prey.' For five weeks now those words, and the threat behind them, had haunted her f i t f u l sleep. He'd made no move, not the slightest attempt to convert the threat into reality, but it was only in the last few days that she'd begun to relax her guard. And now—she felt her stomach begin to churn, every muscle grow tense and wary . . .
She picked up the bag of flour. 'If there's nothing else, Jared, I'm very busy this morning.'
He ignored the unsubtle hint. 'Oh, don't mind me. You just carry on.'
Arms folded, he leaned himself nonchalantly up against the unit, so Petra, after a fleeting hesitation, weighed out the flour and began cracking eggs into a bowl, 'You know, you look really fetching in that little white mob-cap.'
An egg spewed on to the table, and she smacked her fist down. 'Look, Jared just go away, will you?'
He clicked his tongue. 'My, my—we are jumpy today.'
'I am not jumpy. Not in the least,' she snipped. 'Just go away. I've told you 'I'm busy.'
'I can see that.' His glance moved down the table. 'Valentine cakes. How romantic.'
'Yes, isn't it?' she responded woodenly. That angry smack of her hand had been a warning to her—she must not react. 'A new delicatessen in Truro has taken orders for ten, and I'm delivering them this afternoon.'
'So you've done me that one you promised me. Great.'
When she looked up sharply he jabbed a lean finger at the e l e v e n t h cake.
'Oh—no—' she blurted out confusedly, then stopped. Of course, he knew perfectly well that i t w a s n ' t f o r him—she could see it by t h e m a l i c i o u s gleam in his eye. 'I'm afraid that one's a special order,' she went on coolly. 'But I haven't forgotten. I'll make you one of Gran's whiskey cakes before you l e a v e . So don't worry—I always keep my promises.'
