Page 7 of Passion's Prey

Her mouth tightened, but otherwise she ignored the taunt. 'I'm sorry. I don't understand.'

'Really? Didn't I tell you?' He drained his orange juice. 'Surely, even down here, you've heard of Philippa Poynton Grainger's latest thousand-page blockbuster?'

'Yes, of course,' she said bemusedly. 'Passion.'

'Exactly.'

'But what's that got to do with you?'

'Just that I've been hired to write the screenplay for the movie version they're making next year.'

'You've—?' As Petra's legs sagged under her, she sank into the chair opposite him. 'I don't believe you.'

He clicked his tongue reprovingly. 'Now, that's the second time you've said that. Oh, don't worry, darling—'

'And don't call me darling—'

'—I shan't expect you to roll out the red carpet when I come calling. Underneath, I'm the same Jared as ever.'

'I've already noticed that, thanks,' she snapped. 'But—how?'

'You mean, how come I'm not still a thinker like Dad—or a casual farmworker, or a deck hand on a cargo boat? Those are just some of the jobs I tried out when I left here.' Petra, quite unable to meet his direct gaze, studied the blue and white willow pattern of her plate intently.

'But, like so many kids, I ended up in London, and got a job as a hit-actor in a fringe theatre group in the Mast End. I pretty soon found, though, that I couldn't hold in my head a part of more than twenty lines—but I did have a bit of a flair for writing.'

'And?' In spite of herself, she was deeply curious.

'One night a Hollywood producer saw a short play I'd done and—made me an offer I couldn't refuse.'

'But—we didn't know,' she said slowly.

'This place, you mean?' Jared's eyes, always, like the sea, a mirror of his moods, had turned a bleak grey. 'When I chose to cut my ties here, Petra, I cut my ties.'

'But I've never seen your name—in any film, I mean.'

He gave a wry smile. 'Oh, most times the screenplay writer's on the very tail-end of the credits, if he's there at all. People are usually halfway to the car park before my name comes up.'

'So why do you do it?'

He shrugged. 'Job satisfaction—until now, at least. And it pays well enough.'

Reluctantly she looked at him, and for the first time her brain began to register what her eyes had been seeing since he had come sauntering into the kitchen. That white sweater—it had to be cashmere . . . while the watch he'd just glanced at—slim, gold—surely a Rolex . . . and in the corner over there, where presumably he'd casually slung it in the dark last night, was a superb cream sheepskin jacket, edged with shaggy matching fur.

Finally her gaze went back to his face, to find him watching her, glinting amusement now in those sea-change eyes.

'Passion—it's set in Cornwall, isn't it?' When he nodded she went on rather breathlessly, 'So is that why you've come back?'

Reaching across, he lifted a silky strand of her pale hair, which had escaped from the pins, and let it slide through his fingers. Just for an instant something flickered in his glance which made her draw back, her pulses beating in alarm, but all he said was, 'Why? What did you think I'd come back for, Petra?'

'Oh, I don't know.' She did her best to produce a couldn't-careless shrug. Just to have a look round your childhood haunts, I suppose.'

'And the scene of my early conquests, you mean?' he added sardonically.

'That as well, no doubt,' she replied stiffly.

'But suppose I say . . . ' Something in his voice alerted her, sending little needles of ice pricking up her spine, but a second too late, as he reached out and took one of her hands between his. 'Suppose I say,' he repeated softly, 'that I've come back for you, Petra?'

She snatched herself free, crushing both hands in her lap to steady their trembling. 'Go away, Jared—just go away, will you? You bri

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