Page 8 of Passion's Prey

ng trouble with you—you're like a storm petrel.'

He put his head back and laughed, the muscles tightening in his strong, tanned neck. 'Well, I've been called many things, but never a bird of ill omen before. Oh, it's all right, my lover—'

she flinched at the old Cornish term of endearment '—I was only teasing. So there's no need to look so terror-stricken.'

'I am not terror-stricken,' she retorted, stone-faced.

'No? Well, in that case, with acting ability like that maybe we should sign you up for the lead part in this movie—if it ever gets written.'

'Why? Are you having problems with it?'

'You could say that.' He raked impatient fingers through his dark curls. 'In fact, I'm currently suffering from one hell of a writer's block that not even a month's solitary confinement by my pool in Jamaica could shift.'

'Jamaica?'

'Sure. I've got a little hide-away on the north coast there, which usually loosens the log-jam when I'm stuck for ideas. Not this time, though.' His rueful grin could not mask the deep frustration behind his words. 'So I've come back here, in search of a legend. Have you read the book— Passion, I mean?'

'Good grief, no.' She gave her first halfway natural laugh of the morning. 'I hadn't read anything but cookery hooks for months.'

'Oh?'

He raised his dark brows enquiringly, but she hurried on. 'What do you mocking, a legend?' If she told him about her cakes he'd only give her that mocking, ironic smile, or, worse still, be all amused-indulgent, like Simon.

'If you haven't read it maybe you don't know that it's a modern rewrite of the Tristan and Iseult legend.'

When she looked blankly back at him he went on, with a hint of irritation, 'Good grief, girl, surely you haven't forgotten all the stories Miss Trelawney told each generation of local fiveyear-olds in first grade—sorry, infants' class?'

'You mean, King Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot of the Lake?' she said slowly.

'Of course.' His narrow, hard-planed face lit up in a white-toothed smile. 'I'm glad you haven't quite forgotten your Cornish heritage. For a moment I was afraid that that prissy—'

'But I've forgotten the Tristan legend,' she broke in loudly.

He shook his head in reproof. 'The most potent eternal triangle of the lot—even if Emily Trelawney did water down the sex element considerably.'

'Coffee?'Very carefully, concentrating all her attention on the coffee-pot, she poured two mugs.

'You know,' Jared remarked conversationally as she pushed one mug across to him, 'your likeness to the Princess Iseult is really amazing.'

'Ah, little Iseult.' She heard his gently mocking voice, saw him on that golden summer's afternoon, lying naked, and her hand jerked, slopping coffee on to the pine table.

'Hair like pale flickering fire, eyes of emerald-green, skin as white as milk, a slender body, pliant as a reed, and supple with the promise o f — '

'Don't,' she whispered. 'Please don't.'

'But I'm only quoting the legend,' he said blandly. 'Of course, it's my private belief that, faced with a girl like that, poor, innocent Prince Tristan was a lost man the moment he laid eyes on her. And who can blame him for setting out to woo her away from dull, old, nice and kind and steady King Mark? What do you think, Petra?'

His voice was husky, silk-lined with sensuality. It was mesmerising her, so that all she could do was stare at him, her eyes darkening with fear. Finally she struggled to find her voice.

'I told you, I don't remember the legend.'

'Maybe I'd better remind you, then. You never know,' he gave her a wry smile, 'telling you might even clear this mega-block of mine.'

'All right.' Reluctantly she surrendered. 'I'm listening.'

'Once upon a time—Like all the sexiest stories, it starts that way.'

'Yes, I'm sure it does,' she said tautly. 'Just get on with it, will you?'

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