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‘Can David make you feel like that?’ Jago asked comprehensively. ‘And don’t tell me you didn’t feel a thing, Storm, or I might be tempted to show you how easy it would be to blot David Winters from your mind for ever.’
‘No!’ Storm mumbled, shivering with despair. Even now she couldn’t believe what had happened. Pride made her say angrily, ‘And I do love David, I don’t care what you say. I know you can arouse me,’ she admitted bitterly. ‘You’ve proved that. I hope to God it gives you some satisfaction, because it doesn’t give me any. I loathe you, Jago,’ she said quietly, ‘and now I loathe myself as well.’
‘You loathe me?’ Jago said derisively. ‘You’ve got a damned funny way of showing it. You wanted me, Storm, whatever you say to the contrary, and you know it. But still you cling to this “love” you claim to have for David. Why?’ he asked softly.
Storm didn’t reply. With shaking fingers she fastened her blouse, dismayed by the feeling that flooded through her as she remembered the feel of his mouth against her skin, a deep yearning ache throbbing through her.
What would he say if she told him she clung to David because she was frightened of what he was doing to her? Run a mile, probably, she thought derisively. Jago had no compunction about arousing her body, but he wouldn’t want any emotional involvement. Perhaps she ought to tell him, she thought wryly. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t reveal her deep fear of such a commitment to him, not after the way he had just breached her defences.
‘No answer?’ he prompted. ‘Very wise. I meant what I said about obliterating David from your mind, Storm, and every time you mention him and love in the same breath I shall remind you of how very easy it is for me to do what he finds impossible.’
Her face flamed. She couldn’t help it. She longed to deny that he had aroused her, or to tell him that she and David were lovers, but she sensed that to do either would provoke another ruthlessly enforced example of what he could do to her. And if she had doubted him before she did so no longer. He had the power to make her feel desire. But desire was not love, she reminded herself, and mere sexual appeasement no part of what she wanted from life.
‘I should imagine it’s possible for any experienced male to get some sort of reaction from a woman, especially when she’s…’
‘Got less knowledge about the opposite sex than it would take to cover a postage stamp?’ Jago jeered. ‘Sure—it’s possible.’
After that, mercifully, he turned away from her, starting the engine, leaving her to cope with her disturbed senses alone.
Why did he have the power to make her feel like this? she asked herself bitterly, trying to concentrate on the scenery, but all that she could think of was her own betraying response to his calculated assault upon her senses, her face flaming anew as she remembered her abandoned reaction.
‘Aren’t we stopping for lunch?’ she asked him awkwardly, trying to dispel the memory.
Jago glanced at the clock on the dashboard and shook his head. ‘Our slight altercation seems to have affected my appetite—for food at least. Why, are you hungry?’
‘Not particularly.’
She refused to look at him. In point of fact she had never felt less like food. Her stomach was churning with all the efficiency of a high speed electric mixer, and to much the same effect. The thought of food was totally nauseating. It came to her on a wave of dismay that she wanted nothing quite so much as the peace and quiet of her own room so that she could indulge in a good cry, which was most unlike her—in fact she could not remember when she had last cried, and it certainly hadn’t been over a man!
Jago on the other hand had never looked more self-possessed. Storm watched him out of the corner of her eye, noticing small hitherto unimportant things about him, such as the way his lean fingers held the steering wheel, the powerful thrust of his thigh muscles whenever he changed gear. Hastily she averted her eyes, forcing herself to relax.
After all that had happened, she thought shakily, he obviously still expected her to go on to this meeting and behave as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. What was he, a man or a machine?
Her shaking legs told her the answer, although she did not want to acknowledge the message they were relaying to her—Jago Marsh was very much a man, as her aching body knew to its cost.
Their destination, Harmer Brothers’ Mill, was on the outskirts of a small village, tucked away in a corner of the Cotswolds, an enviable location, and one which Storm usually enjoyed visiting. Today she was too strung up to pay much attention to the familiar landscape. At her side she caught Jago’s eye as he glanced out of the car window. His dark hair lay smooth and sleek against his skull and she fought to drag her eyes away, remembering how less than an hour before she had… Dear God, she must forget that it had ever happened, she told herself. Everyone was entitled to one mistake, and she had now made hers, and yet her body continued to quiver restlessly.
The Harmers had adapted an old watermill for their needs; the cream Cotswold stone of the original building blending perfectly with its surroundings. The mill wheel had been lovingly restored, and Storm reflected that the tranquillity of the double-storey building set next to the sheet of placid water would be difficult to rival anywhere.
Inside it was a very different story, and John Harmer was every inch the businessman as he strode out of his office to greet them.
Storm had expected the two men to conduct the interview over her head, but she was pleasantly surprised, when they entered John Harmer’s office, to be introduced to a friendly-looking young man of her own age.
‘My son Geoff,’ John Harmer explained with fatherly pride. ‘He’s working for his Ph.D. at the moment, but occasionally he spares us a few hours here and there.’ He shook his head, looking at his son. ‘I had hoped he would be taking over from me long before now.’
Geoff Harmer laughed, his pleasant brown eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘Come off it, Dad, you’re a long way off retirement yet—if ever. You know this mill’s your pride and joy.’
‘With good reason,’ Jago agreed. ‘I notice you stick as closely to traditional tweeds as possible.’
Storm gave Jago full marks for doing his homework, as John Harmer acknowledged his comment.
’Mm. We do use modern dyes, though. Nowadays people want a wider, more subtle range of colours, but we do try to be as authentic as possible. We sell a lot of stuff abroad, of course, especially France and America. In fact our overseas sales greatly exceed whatever we market here. Our product isn’t cheap and quite frankly, there isn’t the demand for it.’ He looked at Storm. ‘That’s one of the reasons why I wasn’t very enthusiastic when you came to see me.’
Storm winced as she remembered his acerbic remarks about not being a philanthropist, acutely aware of Jago’s powerful muscled body towering over her.
‘We’re very grateful to be given a second chance of convincing you that advertising on Radio Wyechester will be worthwhile, Mr Harmer,’ she replied politely.
‘Don’t thank me. Geoff’s the one who suggested I should think again. I was telling him about some of your suggestions…’
