'Not at all.' He lifted his good shoulder in graceful acknowledgement. 'You see, I've got an appointment with an old lady who apparently has a load of stuff about the Tristan legend—old manuscripts and so on — which I just may be able to use.'
'I'm sorry, Jared, I really am. Look, I'll give Mike Preston a ring—he's started a taxi service out of the village and he's very reasonable.'
'No.' He scowled down at her. 'Do I have to remind you it was your darn cat that's got me into this mess?'
'That's emotional blackmail,' she retorted heatedly. 'And, anyway, I think you're just being bloody-minded. But,' as he regarded her in stony silence, 'as it's my fault you can't drive, I'll pay Mike's bill.'
'I've got a couple of phone calls to make—and I suppose I'd better change out of this. So,' he glanced across at the wall clock, 'we'll leave in an hour.
She simply wasn't going to be amrollered like this.
'I'm sorry, Jared,' she jutted her soft chin determinedly, 'but it's absolutely out of the question.'
CHAPTER NINE
When Petra came down the path Jared was leaning up against the Aston Martin, sleek in a charcoal-grey sun and white shirt. One black leather toecap was tapping the ground.
'I thought I said an hour.'
Petra gave him a smouldering look. 'Just be grateful I'm coming at all.'
'Oh, but I am—I really am. Besides, the extra ten minutes were well worth it.' And his gaze travelled lingeringly over her from head to foot.
She'd despised herself when, instead of remaining in her jeans and sweater, she'd hurtled upstairs, torn them off and changed into a slim-cut pale turquoise wool dress and matching jacket. And now she despised herself a hundred times more for being glad that she had. There was something in those eyes when they rested on her . . .
Oh, come on, she told herself scathingly. It's just one of the tricks of the trade for a seasoned sexual campaigner like Jared Tremayne to make a woman feel intensely aware, as never before, of her body under her clothes, her skin stroking gently against her slip. And, as she was fully aware of the tricks, she wasn't going to fall for them, was she?
'I'll run the Mini round and load up the cakes,' she said crisply.
'Don't bother. Well take this one.'
As he gestured to the Aston Martin her jaw dropped. 'But I can't drive that thing. I've never driven anything half the size.'
'Well, now's your chance, then.' He held the car keys out to her, that cool challenge in his voice again, and she snatched the keys out of his hand.
'If I crash it, well—don't say I didn't warn you.'
'I won't. But, in any case, I'm sure that you drive at least as well as you make . . . ' their eyes met ' . . . cakes.
Now, let me give you a hand with those boxes.'
'You'd better not. You'll strain your wrist.'
'Oh, of course—mustn't forget my wrist, must we?'
He opened the boot lid and she slung in her jacket, his grey overcoat, the black high-heeled shoes she hail brought to change into, and finally pin in the pink heart-shaped cake boxes. Then, feeling just a little queasy, she said with a fair attempt at nonchalance, 'Right, let's go, shall we?'
Opening the door, she got into the driver's seat as Jared slid in beside her. They both reached for their seatbelts, turned in the same instant to slot them into place, and their fingers brushed. She felt the electricity run up her arm and instinctively flicked her fingers as though she were shaking water off them. But then, focusing all her attention on the bewildering array of controls before her, she leaned forward, switched on the engine, and the sleek grey beast growled into life
* * *
'Take this next right turn.' Jared jabbed a finger.
'Right? But surely Penzance is left?'
'Just take this turning and don't argue,' he said curtly, and with no more than one mutinous crash of the gears she obeyed, driving on until —
'In here.'