'Yes, thank you. I seem to have eaten nothing but turkey for the past week.' But he did not seem to see her tentative smile, so, after a pause, she went on, 'Can I help?'
'No, thanks.' His tone was brusque. 'I prefer to work alone.'
Turning away, he began hunting through the fridge-freezer, and, faced with that uncompromising back, she went through to the sitting-room, where an was stretched out on the big sheepskin rug in front of a log fire, When she scratched his head he opened his eyes, flexed his paws in lazy feting, then went back to sleep. How do you like your steak?' Jared's voice came from the doorway, and she slowly straightened. 'Well grilled, please.'
'Fancy a drink? Sherry—Martini?'
'No, thank you. Nothing for me.'
'Well, make yourself at home.' She could not fail to catch the ironic undertone. 'And put a couple of logs on the fire, will you? Your logs.' He flashed her a grin—entirely the old Jared for an instant—and something inside her contracted painfully. 'Sorry about that, but you weren't around. I'll get you a load tomorrow.'
'There's no need—there were hardly any left in the . . . ' But her voice tapered off, for he had already disappeared again, closing the door an though to exclude her, so she sat down in one of the soft velvet-covered armchairs, letting the gentle warmth and muted crackling of the fire gradually relax her taut body . . .
'I said, dinner's ready.'
Her eyes opened, to see Jared bending over her. Before she could move he put his hands under her elbows and lifted her to her to her feet, so suddenly that she felt dizzy again and had to cling to him to save herself from falling. As his arms tightened around her, though, she quickly stepped back.
'Th—thank you. I'm all right.'
'Good,' he responded coolly, then led the way out to the kitchen and pulled up a chair for her. It all looked very—well, cosy. He had placed candles down the centre of the pine table—red, to match the linen napkins—and the golden candle-light seemed to enclose them both in a warm little embrace of intimacy, leaving the rest of the room in semi-darkness. Jared sawed a French loaf into hunks and piled them into a wicker basket, then set in front of her a plate loaded with a large, juicy, sizzling steak and a heap of stir-fry vegetables. He sat facing her, poured two glasses of red wine and slid one across.
'St. Emilion— Premier Cru.' Then, as she looked down at her glass uncertainly, he added, his eyes gleaming in the candle glow, 'Don't worry, Petra, there's only sunshine and grapes in it. No magic potion, I promise you,' but he held her glance for a moment, before picking up his knife and fork in begin his meal . . .
'This is delicious.' Petra broke a silence which had lasted several long minutes.
'Thanks. I suppose, living on my own all the time—well, most of the time, she made herself meet the glinting challenge in his eyes, 'I've got accustomed to looking after myself. And, anyway, I was only a kid, remember, when my mother walked out on us, so I had plenty of practice long before thin ' The sudden bitterness in his voice broke through her own stiff reserve, and she said softly, 'It must have been a bad time for you, Jared.'
'Well,' he shrugged with studied casualness, 'you've been through the same mill too.'
'Tell me about your home in Los Angeles,' she said quickly, and took another sip of her wine.
'What's it like?'
'Oh, no five-acre swimming-pool, or anything like that. It's a condo.' When she looked blankly at him, 'A flat, in quite a pleasant apartment block. You'd no doubt find it very impersonal, but I'm not there that much. I get restless when I'm tied down for too long in one place.'
He spoke reflectively, as though he had discovered something new, and, in spite of her tension, she felt herself give a faint smile.
'Something amusing you?' He was eyeing her narrowly.
'No—at least, I was just thinking, you haven't changed in the slightest.'
He pulled a wry face. 'Hmm. I guess I've always been averse to putting down roots.'
'Well, perhaps that's what makes you such a good writer,' she murmured. You know—no ties, nobody to interrupt you.'
'When I'm in full flow—like now, you mean?' he said ruefully. 'No I reckon it could be more that I'm still searching for what I want out of li fe He was idly turning his glass round and round, his voice empty now of expression. 'What do you think, Petra?'
Without warning he looked up directly at her, but with a tremendous effort she managed to gaze straight back at him. 'Well, you know what they say, Jared—a rolling stone gather no moss.'
'Could be—moss is certainly in short supply in LA. Anyway,' he lifted his glass, 'happy New Year, Petra.'
'And to you, too, Jared.' Formally raised her glass in return.
'And this year may you gain y o u r heart's desire.' The briefest of pastime.' 'That's what well-wishers say, isn't it?'
'Yes—but you aren't a well wishes are you?' The words erupted from her and they stared at one a n o t h e r , eyes locked, until she liftedher g l a s s unsteadily to her lips and took a gulp of wine.
I'll get the dessert, shall I? Jared moved smoothly into the electric silence which was crackling between them like static before a storm. Taki ng from the freezer a coffee and vanill a ice bombe, he cut off two thick slices, and Petra, picking up her spoon, paid all her attention on its delicious marbled coldness. When they had finished he carried a tray of coffee and liqueurs into the living-room. He drew the velvet curtains, switched on the pink-shaded wall lights and, hooking the low table with his foot, hitched it across in front of the sofa. As he set down the tray she went to sit in one of the chairs, but he gestured peremptorily. 'No— here.'