naked. She'd stood and stared, the pop song she'd been humming abruptly dead on her lips as strange sensations had stirred into life, vibrating deep inside her like a softly stroked violin. And then he'd woken instantly, just like a cat, and lain there for a moment before giving her that lazy, crooked little smile.
'Ah, little Iseult,' he'd said, his voice softly mocking her. And, not knowing at all what he meant, she'd turned and fled blindly back down the steep path that led to the village, her breath sobbing in her ears . . .
With a sudden violent gesture she thrust back the duvet. As she stood up he muttered irritably, then flung himself over on to his other side, leaving a long expanse of olive-satin back in clear view as far down as the upper curve of his haunch. On each side of his spine, just above the tailbone, there was a neat dimple. Petra stared down at those twin indentations in his flesh, then just as abruptly as she had jackknifed out of bed she leaned across and dragged the duvet up to his shoulders.
Snatching up the clothes she had abandoned the previous night—she didn't dare hunt around for clean ones—she tiptoed across the room and closed the door soundlessly behind her. In the bathroom, she tried the light switch, and it came on. Thank goodness the power cut was over, but there wouldn't be any hot water for a shower. So she splashed her face and hands with cold, gasping as it stung her soft skin, then, groping for a towel, rubbed fiercely at her face as if to scour her mind clear of unwelcome thoughts.
In the cold air her breath frosted the mirror, and through the mist her face stared back at her. She studied it impassively. She'd never been pretty, of course, even as a child. Once she'd heard a woman say to her mother, 'Those looks, Lilian, where does she get them from? Such a shame she hasn't got your colouring.'
Then her mother had sniffed, and said in a voice of bitter acid. 'Oh, yes, and look where my colouring's got me.' And the conversation had changed hastily.
Her hair was that strange, very light auburn, overlaid with gold, so that when it was newly washed it shone like pale fire. These days she always put it up, out of the way, as she was doing now, her fingers automatically winding the rope of hair over one hand then pinning it at her neck. But, even so, against it her skin was too pale, almost white, except where it broke out in a burst of milk-coffee freckles at the first ray of spring sunshine . . . Her eyes—beneath straight auburn brows—were that brilliant emerald which people seemed to find disturbing. Her mouth was too wide for her small face, and this morning, she realised as she ran the tip of her tongue round it, still swollen from Jared's kiss.
Her glance fell involuntarily to the neck of her nightdress, still unbuttoned, and her eyes followed the sensuous trail that his lips had taken between her full breasts. Unbelievably, after an entire night she could still feel their touch, almost like a bruise, against her soft flesh. Then, even more appalling, as she stared into the wide-eyed gaze of her reflection beneath the cotton she felt her nipples stir into life, just as they had done under Jared's caress. Furious with herself, she tore off the nightie, got into her clothes with hands that managed to be almost steady and, heart in her mouth, tiptoed out on to the landing. But as she passed the bedroom door her footsteps faltered, and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. What on earth was happening to her? Last night—she couldn't deny it—every fibre in her had strained to meet that kiss with an eagerness which now made her feel ill with shame. To have reacted like that to a stranger . . . But it hadn't been a stranger, had it? It had been Jared—and that made it a million times worse. It was only the sound of his voice which had brought her to her senses. What might have happened? No, what would have happened? What madness had possessed her?
She hadn't behaved remotely like that, not for ten years—and then it had been with this very same man. What was it about Jared Tremayne, she asked herself helplessly, that he could have this effect on her, an effect as devastating as that of a lighted match tossed casually into dry brushwood?
But then as she walked into the kitchen she saw on the table, where she had left them, the rum bottle and her dirty glass, and the relief flooded through her, leaving her weak at the knees so that she had to lean against the pine dresser. Of course! That was what had wrought the mischief, forcing her to behave so—well, so out of character with her real self. For that was the only way to explain her wantonness.
As for Jared—well, she might have had a teenage crush on him at sixteen, hut so had every other girl in the village, and now she was a mature woman of twenty-six with a steady, long-time boyfriend, and there was nothing that he could do to her any more. Even so, there must be no more adolescent-style fantasies woven around him, especially not now that the boy of those dreams was a man—and that man Jared Tremayne. Fantasies were far too dangerous. Impetuously she caught up the bottle and put it away where she could not see it, then, after adjusting the time clock on the central-heating boiler, she began laying her breakfast at one end of the table, setting down each item with a defiant little bang.
Last night's gale had not quite blown itself out, and a gust of wind from the southwest whistled round the eaves. As she glanced up she caught another sound—a half-pathetic, halfimperious yowl—and when she opened the back door Sam, his fur blown in all directions at once, came leaping in.
'Oh, poor baby.'
Petra bent down and the big cat allowed himself to be picked up and cradled in her arms as he butted his blunt black nose against her cheek, growling softly as he grumbled all his woes to her.
'I know, sweetheart. I know.'
She dropped a kiss between his ears, the feel of soft cool velvet under her lips.
'That's quite a beast you've got there.'
Her arm
s tightening instinctively on Sam, so that with a last muffled growl he leapt down and disappeared under the table, she whirled round to see Jared, arms folded, lounging in the doorway.
'Tell me, is it a large cat or a small panther?'
'I—a cat, of course.'
As she stared at him, her eyes blank, he straightened up and sauntered across to her. He too had obviously just pulled on his clothes again—a big white sweater and casual dark grey cords—
for his hair was ruffled and the strong jaw was fuzzed with dark stubble.
'Morning, Petra.'
He stood, his thumbs jammed in his belt, smiling down at her, his teeth white against his olive skin. It was the same smile as always—lazy, ironic, ever so slightly mocking—and as a tight fist seemed to close over her heart she looked down quickly.
'Morning.' She spoke to the cable pattern on his sweater. 'I—I thought you were still asleep.'
'I was—till I rolled on to your half of the bed . . . ' at his words the hateful burning colour scorched into her cheeks ' . . . and the cold sheet woke me.' He jerked his head in the direction of the table, from beneath which the cat was regarding him balefully. 'What's he called? From the size of that head, he must be a he.'
'Sam.' She did not look up.
'Sam? Why Sam?'
'Well, Samson really. Because he's so big and strong.'