'Oh?' Taken aback by his firm denial, the stammered, 'I—I'm sorry.'
'I don't intend to try to make love to you. I fully intend for us to make love together.'
'Oh!'
The shock of his words drained every drop of colour from her face. She stared up at him for a moment, then very slowly, as her knees buckled, she began to sag against him. Dimly she heard him curse softly, and felt protecting arms go round her, but they could not hold her back from the black pit that had opened at her feet . . .
* * *
Someone had changed her bedroom wallpaper to a pretty willow-green and white trellis pattern. She lay on her side, staring blankly at it for a moment, then, hearing a sound behind her rolled over and saw Jared, lounging in a green velvet tub chair, his bare feet propped up on the bed. Beneath the cloud-soft duvet, every limb went rigid. This was the bedroom of Pear Tree Cottage—she knew that for Mrs Pearce had insisted on a tour of inspection when the expensive renovation work was complete. So it was Jared's bedroom—and Jared's bed. Her brain was still fuzzy with sleep but all at once images burst through her haze—of Kate, black hair tumbling to naked shoulders, dark eyes, the laughter in them changing to sudden passion, arms held out in a welcoming embrace as Jared came down to her . . . Her own breathing was quickening to little gasps, and when her gaze swivelled to Jared she saw that he was watching her from beneath hooded lids.
'H—how did I get here?' It came out as a husky croak.
'Not on your own two legs, that's for sure.' Uncoiling himself from the chair, he perched on the bed beside her, so close that she was imprisoned against the duvet. 'No—you chose my other alternative, my sweet.'
'Your arms, you mean?'
She stared straight ahead at the ridge of green and white duvet just below her shoulders, but then beyond that few eyes fell on the dressing-table pool and she caught sight of a neat pile of clothes: black ski-pants, white f l i n t , aquamarine mohair sweater. Her clothes. In that case . . . She looked down, and her eyes dilated with horror as she saw two pencil-thin shoulder-straps of amber lace and, all too clearly emphasising rather than hiding the swelling curves of her upper breasts, a froth of amber lace and silk.
She gulped hard on her panic. 'Was it you?'
'Who undressed you? Of course,' he replied laconically. 'There wasn't anyone else around.'
'You shouldn't have,' she said unsteadily.
Between undressing her and getting her into this nightdress, had he—she swallowed—had he carried out his promise—that promise which was more like a threat? Had she surfaced from unconsciousness for just long enough, and yet not to full awareness, so that this time she had not resisted him, surrendering her body to him?
Surreptitiously she ran a trembling hand over her breasts, her belly and thighs—for some instinct told her that if, lost in the drifting half-shadows of reality, she had allowed herself to be taken then the touch, the feel of Jared would linger still on her flesh . . . But no—her body, she was certain, was still untouched. But even so . . .
'You shouldn't have,' she repeated. 'Undressed me, I mean.'
He shrugged. 'I just wanted to get you into bed—maybe I'll rephrase that slightly—I just wanted to put you to bed as fast as possible. Oh, Petra,' as she glowered at him, 'surely we know each other too well for any false shyness?' Lifting his hand, he softly brushed her cheek. 'One of the earliest things I remember is a little girl living three doors away, with long hair the colour of pale flame, tied up with a blue how, bringing me her broken doll to mend.'
'But that was a long time ago,' she murmured protestingly.
'True. But I haven't forgotten—and I haven't forgotten either that last night wasn't the first time I've seen you naked.' As her whole body jerked convulsively he added, 'Now, though, you're even more lovely, all long slender limbs and blossom curves. At sixteen, you were like a young, immature filly—now you have the athletic grace and bearing of a thoroughbred.'
Her eyes flew to his, the bright colour scorching her cheeks. 'Until you said . . . what you did, the other night, I—I didn't think you remembered,' she whispered. He gave her a slanting smile. 'But of course. And your body still smells just as wonderful—
like all the flowers of summer held captive in my arms.'
'No—don't! I won't listen.' She gazed up at him, her eyes brilliant green with anger—and shame. 'Now—get out.'
'Why?'
As she moved to push back the duvet he put his arm across her, placing his hand on the bed so that she was trapped against his thigh, his head just above hers.
'Because I'm getting dressed, right now. If you think I'm going to wear a nightdress your mistress happened to leave behind—'
'My—oh, Kate, you mean. Now look, Petra,' his mouth thinned, 'I don't give a cuss what you think of me—or my morals—but if you know what's good for you you'll keep your views on Kate to yourself.'
'I'm sorry,' she muttered. 'It's none of my business.'
'Too damn right it isn't.' He expelled a long, tight breath. 'But anyway, don't worry. I can afford a nightdress each for any number of mistresses. This happens to be yours—I bought it for you for Christmas.' As she stared at him, her protests dying in her throat, he gave her an ironic half-smile, which she barely saw. 'But you disappeared before I could give it to you.'
'I really wish you hadn't,' she murmured.
'You feel badly because you didn't get me a present? Don't worry.' Picking up a strand of hair that lay on the pillow, he gave it a soft tug, then let it slip through his fingers. 'You can always make it up to me some other way. I mean—make me a cake,' he added smoothly as her eyes darkened.