Storm Force
Storm Force
Sara Craven
Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades and made her an international bestseller.STORM FORCETrapped together!Jay Delaney, on camera, had a dynamic appeal. In person, his blend of magnetism was even more potent. Not that Maggie was interested.She'd had enough problems recently, and the last thing she wanted was an uninvited guest to disturb the peace and quiet of her solitary hideaway. But she didn't have much choice, and despite her caution, Maggie found herself drawn to Jay. Would she trust him?"It's wise not to start something you can't finish," Jay warned her. But there was no way Maggie could predict how their encounter would end…
Storm Force
Sara Craven
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u6ef86904-ce88-5ee0-a59b-b4137421334a)
Title Page (#u94d079df-f9db-5da5-8735-cdca6d934703)
About the Author (#u143d7482-eee6-5aa8-ac6f-fdabfadbdbef)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#uf7c9074e-1a26-5478-aefd-46d09b98d2fc)
‘BUT, MAGGIE,’ Philip Munroe’s tone was plaintive, ‘do you actually mean you’re leaving me in the lurch?’
Maggie counted to ten under her breath. ‘No, Philip,’ she said courteously. ‘I mean I’m taking some leave. A holiday that I’ve had booked for months, and which you’ve known all about for the same length of time.’
‘But this is an emergency. Kylie St John is flying in tomorrow, and she’ll want to know what we think about the new book.’
‘The readers’ reports and my detailed memorandum are on your desk, attached to the script.’
‘I know that,’ Philip said fretfully. ‘I’ve seen them. They say that the whole middle section needs to be completely re-written.’
‘They do indeed,’ Maggie agreed cordially.
‘But I can’t tell her that. It’s not the kind of news she wants to hear from me.’
Maggie smiled gently, pushing her red hair back from her forehead. ‘Of course not. You have Maggie, the mad axe-woman, to do your dirty work with the authors, then you take them to lunch at the Connaught and kiss their egos better. It’s a great system. Only I’m spending the next three weeks in Mauritius, and you’ll have to wield the axe yourself for once.’
‘But surely you could delay your flight for forty-eight hours. I’ll get my secretary to ring the travel agent and …’
‘I could do nothing of the sort,’ Maggie said tersely. ‘You seem to be overlooking the fact that I am not going to Mauritius alone.’
Philip stared at her. ‘Oh, of course, you’re going with Whatsit. I’d forgotten.’
‘His name,’ said Maggie, holding on to her temper with a superhuman effort, ‘is Robin.’
‘But I’m sure if matters were explained to him, he’d understand.’
‘Why should he? I don’t even understand myself.’
There was a loaded silence. Then Philip tried again. ‘Kylie St John,’ he began, ‘is probably our most successful author.’
‘She’s also extremely temperamental, very tough, and a professional to her fingertips. Don’t let her browbeat you,’ Maggie advised, picking up her briefcase. ‘Now, I’m going home to finish packing.’
‘And is that your final word?’
Maggie groaned. ‘Please don’t sound so wounded,’ she said. ‘This is my first vacation in two and a half years.’
‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate it,’ Philip said warmly. ‘No one’s worked harder than you, darling, to put the firm on its feet. I’ve always been able to rely on you totally.’
‘Good old Maggie—everybody’s friend,’ Maggie muttered.
‘Well—if you want to put it that way.’
‘No,’ she said roundly. ‘This is the way I want to put it, Philip. I am going on holiday with the man I love. You are going to deal with Kylie the Terrible. Call it your baptism of fire,’ she added, as she swirled through the door, and down to her waiting cab.
Traffic was heavy, and she sat back in the corner of the taxi, looking out of the window with unseeing eyes.
It would do Philip no harm to stiffen his sinews and summon up the blood when dealing with some of the formidable ladies on their fiction list, she thought, defensively.
In any case, there was no way she was going to do anything to put her holiday in Mauritius in jeopardy. It had taken weeks of patient and subtle manoeuvring to get Robin to the stage of accepting the idea of a joint vacation anywhere.
She adored him, of course, but sometimes the old-fashioned principles rigorously instilled by his elderly mother were a little hard to take. And Robin loved her, she knew. There was a tacit agreement that—one day—they would be married. Perhaps the romantic surroundings of Mauritius would provide the spur he needed to make their engagement official, she thought wistfully. Especially if Mama wasn’t around to ask why he needed to get married, when he was so comfortable at home with her …
Oh, don’t be such a bitch, she adjured herself impatiently. Mrs Hervey can’t be expected to look forward eagerly to losing her only son to another woman. She’s come to depend on him, perhaps too much.
But I wish I could believe that, underneath, she likes me really, she added, with a little sigh.
She paid off the driver outside the block of flats where she lived, and dived up to the first floor.
Mrs Hervey would have every reason for disapproval if she could see the state of the flat, Maggie had to acknowledge as she dashed into the bedroom. It looked as if a bomb had hit it. She must have packed and unpacked her case at least half a dozen times. She had planned and looked forward to this holiday for such a long time, and bought loads of new clothes. So many, in fact, that they were almost like a trousseau, she thought, crossing her fingers surreptitiously. The problem was choosing the exact outfits to stir Robin to his very soul.
Well, it’s decision time now, she told herself. You’ll have to be at the airport in a few hours.
She was just rolling one of her new bikinis into a neat tube and stowing it into a corner of her case when the front door buzzer sounded.
She straightened, frowning. She wasn’t expecting any callers. Surely Philip hadn’t followed her home to make a last-ditch attempt to persuade her to change her mind?
‘I’ll kill him if so,’ she muttered between clenched teeth.
‘Yes?’ she said curtly into the intercom.
‘Vice Squad. Open up,’ said her brother-in-law’s familiar drawl.
‘Sebastian?’ she squealed, and opened the door. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Hello, Ginger.’ Sebastian Kirby bent and pecked her on the cheek. ‘I phoned your office from the hotel, but they said you’d left for the day. Not ill, are you?’
‘On the contrary, I’m going on holiday.’
‘Really?’ Sebastian’s brows rose, and he looked frankly taken aback. ‘Won’t the hovel be a little bleak in October?’
‘The cottage,’ Maggie said with emphasis, ‘is perfectly fine at any time of year. But, as it happens, I’m not going there for once. I’m heading for the sun. Mauritius, to be exact.’
‘Going alone?’ Sebastian followed her into the bedroom, and picked up another bikini, surveying it with a grin. ‘Very—er, basic.’
‘No.’ Maggie’s tone held a hint of challenge, as she snatched the tiny garment from him. ‘I’m going with Robin.’
‘Good lord!’ Sebastian said blankly. ‘You mean Mummy’s actually let him off the leash at last?’ He encountered Maggie’s baleful look, and flung up his hands. ‘OK. I’m sorry and it’s none of my business. But neither Louie nor I can understand what you see in that stuffed shirt. However, if he makes you happy …’
‘He does,’ Maggie said levelly.
‘Then have a wonderful holiday.’ Sebastian sent her a placatory smile. ‘Why don’t I make us both some coffee?’
‘Where is Louie? Why isn’t she with you?’ Maggie asked as he returned with a tray a few minutes later. ‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’ she added with sudden alarm. ‘And the baby?’
‘They’re both blooming,’ Sebastian reassured her. ‘But we both felt it was better for her to stay in New York this time.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘I’m here on business, Mags, trouble-shooting for a major client. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the headlines.’
‘Headlines?’ Maggie gave him a puzzled look as she took her beaker of coffee, then her brows snapped together in a thunderous frown. ‘Oh, don’t tell me you’re here to rescue that bastard Jay Delaney.’
Sebastian perched on a corner of the dressing-table. ‘That’s a fairly harsh judgement.’
‘Harsh?’ Maggie echoed in disbelief. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Seb. He got drunk and raped a girl. You can’t possibly be on his side.’
‘I can and I am,’ Sebastian told her levelly. ‘He may have been accused of rape, admittedly, but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty. No charges have been brought yet.’
‘Of course he’s guilty,’ Maggie said impatiently. ‘It’s perfectly obvious what happened. He’s the big macho television star who’s totally irresistible to women, and for once a girl tried to say no to him. And naturally his over-sized masculine ego couldn’t take rejection. I hope he gets all that’s coming to him.’
Sebastian stared at her. ‘What’s happened to the idea of someone being innocent until proved otherwise? Where’s your womanly compassion?’
‘I’m keeping that for his unfortunate victim.’ Maggie wrestled to close the lid of her case. ‘And if you’re here to try to do a public relations whitewash job …’
‘There’ll be no whitewash,’ Sebastian said quietly. ‘Jay has agreed to “help the police with their enquiries”, to use the classic phrase. I’m here to see that he’s protected from the more virulent attacks of the gutter Press, that’s all.’
‘What a job,’ Maggie said bitterly. ‘Minder to an over-sexed yob, with a three-day growth and sprayed-on jeans.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Mags.’ Sebastian looked shaken. ‘I’ve never known you so bigoted—so vitriolic. You’ve never even met the guy. Have you ever watched his series?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ she said curtly. ‘I don’t belong to the school of thought which says that the world’s problems can all be solved by an undercover agent with a gun in one hand and a woman in the other.’ She gave a small angry laugh. ‘He’s probably started to believe his own publicity, and is convinced he’s above the law in some godlike way. Or does he think because the fantasy girls in the series surrender to him that real women must as well?’
‘We haven’t exactly discussed that aspect of the situation,’ said Sebastian. His expression was edgy, worried. ‘Mags, I’m sure you’re doing him an injustice. The girl who’s accused him is a nightclub hostess—not exactly a defenceless schoolgirl.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Maggie jerkily fastened the straps of her case. ‘And does her occupation give her no rights over her own body, or is anyone rich and famous allowed to use her as the whim takes them?’
‘No, of course not.’ Sebastian gave her a baffled glance. ‘But doesn’t it strike you as just a bit odd that she went to a newspaper to make her complaint, and not the police?’
‘It’s a man’s world,’ said Maggie bitterly. ‘She probably knew when it was her word against Jay Delaney’s that she wouldn’t be believed.’
Sebastian sighed heavily. ‘Ginger, I can’t reason with you when you’re like this. If you were to meet Jay—hear his side of things, you might …’
‘He’s the last person in the world I’d ever want to meet. I find men like Jay Delaney quite repulsive. And I’m glad that he’s come across at least one girl who doesn’t think he’s God’s gift, and is prepared to say so in public. I hope she says it in court.’
‘No,’ said Sebastian with sudden harshness. ‘You prefer a mother’s boy, don’t you, Margaret? A wimp who has to travel half-way across the world to find the guts to go to bed with you.’
‘Seb!’ Maggie’s cry held real distress.
He flushed deeply, and came across to her, patting her clumsily on the shoulder.
‘Oh, lord, I didn’t mean it Maggie. Forgive me. We shouldn’t be quarrelling about this. I shouldn’t have come here …’
‘Of course you should,’ she said quickly. ‘I’d never have forgiven you if I’d found out you were in London and hadn’t been to see me. We’ll just have to agree to differ on the subject of Jay Delaney.’ She paused. ‘I’m only sorry I’m going away. We could have had a meal or something.’
‘How long are you going to be in Mauritius?’ Sebastian gave her a meditative glance.
‘Three whole glorious weeks,’ she sighed. ‘Oh, I can’t wait.’
‘Well, you won’t have to for much longer.’ Sebastian forced a smile. ‘I really hope it all works out for you, Ginger.’ He dropped a light kiss on her hair. ‘Now, I’ll get out of the way, and leave you in peace. Look after yourself.’
‘I always do,’ she called after him.
Presently she heard her front door close and, collecting clean undies and the cool navy dress and jacket she was going to wear on the journey, she went into the bathroom.
She was disturbed by what had happened, she realised, as she lay in the warm water. She had adored Seb from the first moment Louie had introduced them, and they had never had anything approaching a cross word before.
Oh, damn Jay Delaney, she thought bitterly. Why couldn’t he use some other PR company to represent him? And why does he have to be Seb’s personal client? Someone like that doesn’t deserve Seb’s loyalty.
The story had broken first in one of the Sunday tabloids. Jay Delaney had given a party to mark the end of filming for his top-rated series, McGuire. It had started in a nightclub, and had moved back to the hotel where he had a suite. His victim, Debra Burrows, had worked at the nightclub and been invited to the party with some of the other hostesses.
On her own admission, Debbie had had too much to drink, and had gone into one of the other rooms to sleep it off. When she woke it was the early hours of the morning, and everyone else had left. She was alone with Jay Delaney, who had made it clear he expected to have sex with her, and when she refused he had raped her.
‘I begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He was like an animal,’ she had told the newspaper. ‘He said he could have any girl he wanted. That I should be flattered.
‘I was such a fan of his. I worshipped him, and I was thrilled when he asked me to the party. But he’s a sham, and a hypocrite. He’s made me feel dirty—used.’
Her pretty bruised face staring from the front page had haunted Maggie ever since.
She thought, ‘There but for the grace of God …’
Now, she drew a deep breath. She wouldn’t spare Jay Delaney another thought, she vowed silently. He wasn’t worth it, nor was any other man who preyed on women.
It was men like Robin who mattered. Men who were kind and tender—and decent.
Maggie stared at the dregs in her cup, asked herself if she wanted more coffee, and decided against it. She took another restive glance at her watch, and sighed.
Where was Robin? What on earth could have happened to him? He was supposed to have picked her up over half an hour ago, and he was usually punctual to a fault. She got up and began to prowl round the sitting-room, her uneasiness mounting. If traffic on the way to the airport was as heavy as it normally was, then they could end up by being extremely late. It was no good thinking they might be able to make up time on the journey either. Robin was a careful driver who didn’t like to take chances.
All in all, the longed-for holiday wasn’t getting off to a very good start. She had tried to telephone his home, but there had been no reply, signifying that he had set out at least.
Could the car have broken down, she wondered apprehensively, or, worse still, could there have been some kind of accident?
She shook herself. I won’t think like that, she told herself determinedly. He’s just been held up, that’s all, but he’ll be here in a minute, and until he arrives I’ll do a last check—make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.
She had just re-packed her handbag for the second time when she heard the buzzer.
‘Oh, thank heavens.’ She ran to answer the door. ‘I was really beginning to worry,’ she told him, smiling, and halted, her brows knotting. The first thing that occurred to her was that he was wearing a formal dark suit, the kind of thing he would put on for the office, instead of the casual slacks and shirt she would have expected. The second was that he looked pale and worried.
Her heart sank. Maybe her fears about an accident were only too justified.
‘Come in.’ She took his hand, drew him into the room. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
He sat down on the sofa. He didn’t look at her. ‘Maggie, I can’t go to Mauritius. I’ve had to cancel my flight.’
‘Can’t go?’ she echoed incredulously. ‘What do you mean? What are you talking about? We’ve been looking forward to it for months and …’
‘I know, I know,’ he cut in. ‘And I feel terrible letting you down like this, but you see—it’s Mother.’
For a moment, she looked at him blankly. She thought, I’m not hearing this. It cannot actually be happening, in nineteen-eighties Britain. This is some terrible joke.
Only, somehow, she didn’t feel like laughing.
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She said quietly, ‘I don’t think I understand. Are you telling me your mother has imposed some kind of ban on your going—because if so, she’s left it rather late in the day and …’
‘Oh, no.’ He looked horrified. ‘It’s nothing like that. She likes you, Maggie, she really does. No, she’s been taken ill. The doctor thinks it may be her heart. She’s had to go into hospital for tests. I went with her to see her settled in, and I’ve got to go back tonight.’
Maggie swallowed. ‘Her heart?’ she queried. ‘But she’s never had any problem before, has she? Isn’t this rather sudden?’
Robin looked even more solemn. ‘Apparently that’s when it can be most dangerous. And, of course, she’s never been strong,’ he added defensively.
It was Maggie’s private opinion that Mrs Hervey could go ten rounds with an ox and win on a knock-out, but she bit back the angry words.
‘All she could think of was you,’ Robin went on. ‘She kept saying to me while we were waiting for the ambulance, “Poor Margaret will be so disappointed.” She was nearly in tears.’
‘I can imagine,’ Maggie said grimly. ‘When did all this start?’
‘In the early hours of this morning, although she did confess to the doctor that she hadn’t been feeling very well for several days. But she said nothing, tried to pretend nothing was wrong, because she didn’t want to be a nuisance.’
Maggie’s lips parted, then closed again. She knew an overwhelming impulse to seize Robin by his neatly knotted conservative tie and say, ‘Your mother has turned being a nuisance into an art-form. She is greedy and selfish, and terrified of losing you. She’s taken a stock situation from fiction—a cliché that I’d pencil out, screaming, if I came across it in a script—because she knows that I’ll recognise it as such and you won’t. It’s her way of telling me that I can’t win. That she’s prepared to use the ultimate weapon against me—delicate health.’
‘You’ve gone really pale.’ Robin reached out and patted her hand, rather clumsily. ‘I knew how concerned you’d be. I tried to think of some way of breaking it to you …’
‘Passing on this kind of news is never easy.’ Maggie kept her voice neutral with an effort. ‘How long does your mother expect to stay in hospital?’
‘It’s difficult to say, and of course, I have to be on hand in case she needs anything.’
Maggie steeled herself. ‘And the doctor’s quite sure it is her heart? After all, your mother doesn’t have a great deal to occupy herself with when you’re not there, and it’s easy to—build up symptoms in one’s own mind—imagine things …’
Robin’s pleasant face hardened perceptibly. ‘Just what are you implying? Do I infer that you think my mother has invented this attack, because she’s bored in some way? How could you? If you’d seen her—seen the pain she was in—the brave way she was trying to cope. Maggie, I know you’re disappointed about the holiday, and I am too, but this really isn’t worthy of you.’
There was a silence, then Maggie said quietly, ‘No, perhaps not. I apologise.’ She forced a smile. ‘So much for Mauritius, then,’ Or anywhere else out of your mother’s clutches.
‘Oh, but you can still go,’ he said quickly. ‘The hotel reservation is waiting, after all. It would be a pity to waste it. Mother said so. She said, “Margaret deserves to get away for a rest, somewhere in the sun where she can relax and meet new people.”‘
‘How kind of her.’ Anger was beginning to build inside Maggie, and she fought to control it. ‘But I wouldn’t dream of going without you.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps, if your mother’s condition turns out to be less serious than you fear, we could get a later flight. As you say, they’ll keep our room.’
Perhaps the shared room was the crunch as far as Mrs Hervey was concerned. Maybe if we’d booked separate rooms, or even different hotels, she wouldn’t have taken quite such drastic action.
‘I wish I could be as optimistic.’ He gave her an anxious, rather pleading smile. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry about all this. But there’ll be another time.’
Oh, no, there won’t, thought Maggie. Your mother will see to that. This was in the nature of a trial run—to see how you’d react. Now she knows she can pull the strings whenever she wants and you’ll dance.
‘Of course there will,’ she smiled at him, calmly. ‘Now I’m sure you want to get back to the hospital—check there haven’t been any developments. It was good of you to come over and explain in person.’
He looked aghast. ‘But that was the least I could do. Mother insisted.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve checked with my insurance, and we won’t be out of pocket over any cancellation. Family illness, you know.’ There was another awkward silence, then he looked at his watch. ‘Maybe I should be getting back, at that.’ He gave her an unhappy look. ‘You do understand, don’t you? You know how much I was looking forward to being with you.’
‘Yes.’ As he got to his feet, Maggie rose too, and kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘I understand everything.’ She paused. ‘Give your mother my regards, and tell her I’m sure she’ll be feeling much better soon.’
‘Thank you.’ He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment. ‘You’re a wonderful girl, Maggie. A wonderful friend.’
She watched the door close behind him, then slowly and carefully she counted to twenty before picking up her empty cup and throwing it with all her strength at the fireplace. It smashed instantly, sending shards of pottery and dribbles of cold coffee everywhere.
She said, ‘And that’s that,’ and began to cry, hot heavy tears of rage and disappointment. She sank down on her knees on the rug, arms wrapped across her body, and sobbed out loud.
She wasn’t crying for the loss of her sunlit, tropical holiday. She was grieving for Robin, and the life with him she had hoped for—planned for. Because she knew with paralysing certainty that even if he were to walk back through that door and propose marriage here and now, she would not accept.
She supposed she should be glad that Mrs Hervey had shown her hand so early in the game. Perhaps one day, she would even be grateful that she had been given the chance to walk away from a potentially monstrous and destructive situation, but not now. Now, she felt stricken, as if her life lay in as many pieces as her ill-used cup.
She wept until she had no tears left, and the harsh, hiccupping sobs gradually died away into silence. She went on kneeling, staring into space, wondering numbly what to do next.
Going to Mauritius by herself was out of the question. The hotel, a luxurious bungalow complex, would be full of couples, which would only serve to emphasise her own sense of loneliness and isolation. Nor could she find anyone else to accompany her at this short notice.
And if I could, I wouldn’t want to, she thought. It’ll be bad enough when everyone finds out. They’ll all be so sympathetic, and falling over themselves not to say, ‘I told you so,’ especially Louie and Sebastian. I don’t think I can bear it.
She supposed she could try to book herself another kind of holiday, somewhere her presence as a single woman wouldn’t be quite so remarkable, but her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t think of one place she was remotely interested in going to.
On the other hand, she couldn’t stay in London either. Unless she stayed in her flat like a total hermit, news would soon spread that she hadn’t gone away, and if she wasn’t careful she would be back at the office, wet-nursing Kylie St John through the re-write of her next bestseller.
Oh, no, Maggie thought with sudden violence. Over my dead body.
She got to her feet, drawing a deep breath. There was somewhere else she could go. There was her cottage.
Sebastian might joke about it, but small as it was, and hidden in the wilds of East Anglia, it was precious to her. She enjoyed its seclusion and its comparative inaccessibility down little more than a farm track. She had bought it more or less for a song, using a legacy from her grandmother for the purpose, and over the past few years had poured in most of her spare cash on improvements to the building. She had had a secondhand Aga installed, and had toured the used furniture shops, choosing exactly the right items, then cleaning and stripping them down with loving care. Her next major project was going to be a bathroom. The present toilet arrangements consisted of an outside loo ringed by nettles, a rickety washbasin in the larger of the two bedrooms, and a tin bath in front of the Aga.
Her sister Louie, who had fallen foul of the nettles on a midnight trip to the loo, had said with feeling that the whole place was like the end of the world, and the name had stuck. In fact their last Christmas present to her had been a handsome carved wooden nameplate with the legend ‘World’s End’, which Seb declared had doubled the value of the cottage in one fell swoop.
But as a bolthole—a place to lick her wounds in peace—it was second to none. She could go there—be alone—and get her head together. Start planning for life after Robin.
She winced as she made her way into the bedroom. The first thing she had to do was unpack her case. She wouldn’t be needing any glamorous coordinated beachwear at World’s End. Jeans, sweaters and thermal undies were the order of the day there.
The worst moment was when she came across the nightgown she had bought for her first night with Robin. It was white, pretty and sheer, and if she was honest, she hadn’t counted on wearing it for very long. She had always enjoyed being in Robin’s arms, and wanted his kisses. She had grown accustomed to him, felt safe with him, and had no qualms about giving herself to him completely. Now, she looked down at the nightgown, feeling fresh tears scalding in her throat. She never wanted to see it again, or any of the other charming, provocative trifles she had bought either.
Stony-faced, she emptied them all out on to the floor and kicked them to one side. Serves me right for trying to be sexy, she thought, biting her lip. I should have remembered that I’m good old Maggie, and bought some sensible knickers.
She took a long, clinical look at herself in the mirror. She would never set the world on fire, but when her face wasn’t streaked with tears, her nose red and swollen, and her grey-green eyes like twin bruises, she was passable, she thought judiciously, even though her hair was common-or-garden red rather than more sophisticated auburn, and she was definitely on the skinny side of slender.
And now unexpectedly back on the market, as estate agents said in their advertisements.
‘A wonderful friend,’ Robin had said.
Was that really all she had been to him? And would she have been any more in that romantic bungalow, tucked away in a flower-filled tropical garden?
Now we shall never know, she thought with bitter self-derision, rooting through her wardrobe for gear more appropriate to mid-October in England.
She repacked her case, then stripped off her dress and jacket, changing into black wool trousers and a matching polo-necked sweater.
She was half-way out of the door when she remembered the cottage keys. She pulled open the top drawer of the bureau and reached into the corner, but the familiar bunch wasn’t there.
Frowning, Maggie pulled the drawer out further, riffling through the contents. But there was no sign of the keys. Had she forgotten to put them away after her last visit, a couple of months ago? It seemed so. No doubt they would be tucked away in some handbag.
But she wouldn’t look for them now. She kept a spare set in the bottom tray of the box which stored her costume jewellery. She would take those instead.
She carried her case round to the lock-up garage where she kept her Metro, then dashed round the local mini-market, filling a box with bread, eggs and milk as well as canned goods. She could get meat and vegetables at the farm shop on her way to World’s End.
The weather was deteriorating, she noticed, as she began her journey. She switched on the car radio and listened to the forecast. The outlook was stormy, with rain and high winds approaching gale force at times.
Maggie pulled a face. Electricity supplies to the cottage were inclined to be erratic in bad weather, although the gales might never materialise. But if they did, she had plenty of candles, and a fresh supply of fuel for the Aga had been delivered at the beginning of the month, according to Mrs Grice, the farmer’s wife, who kept a friendly eye on the cottage for her.
I’ll make out, she thought with a mental shrug. And stormy weather suits my mood at the moment. The wind and I can howl together.
Getting out of London was the usual nightmare, and Maggie was a mass of tension by the time she won clear of the suburbs. She had intended to drive straight to the cottage, but now she decided she would take her time—stop for a meal even. It was ages since she had been out to dinner, she realised with amazement. Robin didn’t care for restaurant food, so she had usually ended up cooking for him at the flat—except when they had eaten at his mother’s house.
She found an Italian restaurant, already filling up with customers, and demolished an enormous plateful of lasagne, washed down with a glass of the house wine, following this with a helping of chocolate fudge cake laden with cream.
Robin, who believed in healthy eating, would have disapproved of every mouthful, and the knowledge gave her a kind of guilty pleasure as she lingered over her cappuccino. Comfort-eating, she thought. When her three weeks in hiding ended, she’d probably be like a barrel.
The wind had risen considerably by the time she started off again. Strong gusts buffeted the car, slowing her journey considerably, and she was half tempted to stop and spend the night at a hotel and hope for better conditions next day.
Oh, to hell with it, she thought. I’ve come half-way. I may as well go on.
The further she drove, the more she regretted her decision. The rain was battering against the roof and windscreen as if trying to gain access and the wind sounded like some constant moan of torment.
It was nearly midnight before she turned with a sigh of relief on to the track which led to the cottage. Clouds were scudding across the sky like thieves in the night, and the trees which lined the track were swaying violently and groaning as if in pain.
I’ve never seen it as bad as this, Maggie thought, avoiding a fallen branch. Thank goodness I had the roof mended in the spring.
She parked in her usual spot, grabbed her case, and ran for the front door. The wind tore at her, lifting her almost off her feet, and for a moment she felt helpless in its power and badly frightened. The gust slackened, and she threw herself forward, grasping the heavy metal door-handle to brace herself while she searched in the dark for the keyhole.
At last the door yielded, and she almost fell into the living-room. It was a struggle then to re-close the door. The wind fought her every inch as if it were a living enemy, and her arms were aching by the time she had finished.
Gales, indeed, she muttered to herself. This feels more like a hurricane.
She tried the light switch beside the door without much hope, but to her surprise the central light came on, although it was flickering badly.
Just give me time to find the candles, Maggie appealed silently, going to the small walk-in pantry. As she lifted its latch, it occurred to her how unusually warm the room felt.
It was as if—as if … She stood motionless for a moment, then crossed the room to check. There was no ‘if’ about it. Someone had lit the Aga.
Mrs Grice sometimes lit it for her, if she knew she was coming down, but this time Maggie hadn’t signalled her intentions. So unless Mrs Grice had suddenly been gifted with second sight …
Oh, don’t be stupid, Maggie apostrophised herself. She probably thought the place smelled damp and needed airing through. I’ll thank her tomorrow.
She found the candles, their pottery holders, and a box of matches, as well as the old-fashioned stone hot water bottle she had picked up in a junk shop. She needed its comfort tonight, she thought, as she filled the kettle and put it to boil on top of the hotplate. She would have some Bovril as well, she decided, taking the jar out of the cupboard.
There was a solitary beaker upside down on the draining-board. Maggie stared at it for a moment, frowning. Where had that come from? she wondered with a frisson of uneasiness.
Now stop it, she caught at herself impatiently, Mrs Grice came and lit your stove for you. Surely you don’t grudge her a cup of coffee for her efforts? All the same, it was unusual. Mrs Grice was a meticulous housekeeper, not given to abandoning stray cups on draining-boards.
When the kettle boiled, she filled her bottle, picked up one of the candles and the matches, and mounted the flight of open-tread stairs which led from the living-room to the upper floor. Her bed, she thought, could be warming while she had her Bovril.
She opened her bedroom door, and went in, putting the candlestick down on the dressing-table before turning on the light.
And froze.
Her bed was already occupied. A naked man was lying across it, her brain registered in panic, face downwards, and fast asleep, one arm dangling limply towards the floor.
Maggie could feel the scream starting in the pit of her stomach. By the time it reached her throat, it was a hoarse, wild yell of terror that made itself heard even above the keening of the wind.
The man stirred and half sat up, propping himself on an elbow as he looked dazedly round at her.
She recognised him at once, of course. It had hardly been possible to pick up a newspaper or a magazine for the past eighteen months without seeing his picture. And just lately he’d made the headlines again—for rape.
It was Jay Delaney.
The stone bottle slipped from her nerveless grasp and fell to the floor with a crash that shook the cottage.
And, as if on cue, all the lights finally went out.
CHAPTER TWO (#uf7c9074e-1a26-5478-aefd-46d09b98d2fc)
THE DARKNESS CLOSED round her, suffocating her, and Maggie screamed again, hysterically.
She had to find the door, she had to get away, but she felt totally disorientated. She swung round, colliding with the corner of the dressing-table, crying out in pain as well as fear.
‘Do us both a favour, lady. Keep still and keep quiet.’ Even when angry it was an attractive voice, low, resonant and with a trace of huskiness. Part of his stock in trade, Maggie thought with furious contempt as she rubbed her hip.
She heard the bed creak. Heard him stumble and swear with a vigour and variety she had never experienced before. Then came the rasp of a match and the candle blossomed into flame.
The cottage shook in the grip of another gust, and in the distance Maggie heard a noise like a faint roar. The curtains billowed in the draught, and the shadows danced wildly in the candle’s flicker, diminishing the room, making it close in on her. And him.
They looked at each other in inimical silence.
At last, he said, ‘Who the hell are you, and how the hell did you find me?’
‘Find you?’ Maggie flung back her head, returning his glare with interest. ‘What makes you think I was even looking?’
‘Oh, come off it, sweetheart. What are you—a journalist, or a fan? If you’re a reporter—no comment. If you’re a groupie, you’re out of luck. I’m in no mood for female company, as your own common sense should have told you. Either way, get out, before I throw you out.’
‘Save the rough stuff for your tacky series, Mr Delaney,’ Maggie said, with gritted teeth. ‘You lay one hand on me, and you’ll be in jail so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. And you won’t get bail. That’s if I don’t have you arrested anyway for breaking and entering.’
His voice was dangerously calm. ‘And what precisely am I supposed to have—broken and entered?’
The candle-flame steadied and brightened, the extra illumination providing her with an all too potent and quite unnecessary reminder that he didn’t have a stitch on. A fact of which he himself seemed magnificently unconscious as he confronted her, hands on hips.
‘My home,’ she snarled. ‘This house.’
There was a long and tingling silence. Jay Delaney said slowly, ‘You must be the sister-in-law.’
‘Sister-in-law?’ Maggie’s voice cracked. ‘You mean—Sebastian—told you that you could come here?’ Suddenly she remembered the keys so mysteriously missing. Seb knew where they were kept. He must have helped himself on his way out—while she was in the bedroom. ‘But he had no right—no right at all …’
‘He said there was no problem—that I could hide up here—get a few days’ peace. He said this was the end of the world, and that no one would ever find me here.’ He sounded weary. ‘You were supposed to be going abroad—Martinique, or some damned place,’ he added almost accusingly.
‘Mauritius,’ she said tersely. ‘But, as you can see, I’m standing right here.’
Jay Delaney lifted a bare, muscular shoulder in a laconic shrug. ‘Snap.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘It seems to cover the situation.’ His mouth slanted in a sudden, wry grin.
Maggie drew a sharp, angry breath. ‘Then perhaps you’d care to do the same,’ she said with icy significance, turning her back on him with elaborate ostentation.
To her fury, she heard him give a low amused chuckle. ‘Isn’t it a little late for outraged modesty? How old are you, anyway, sister-in-law—twenty-seven—twenty-eight? I can’t be showing anything you haven’t seen before.’
‘I’m twenty-four,’ she said, stung by his reference to her age, but at the same time relieved that he hadn’t gauged her total inexperience. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours,’ she added belatedly, listening to the rustle of material and the sound of a zip closing.
‘It’s safe to look,’ he said softly. ‘That’s if you didn’t see enough the first time around.’
Sudden colour burned her face as she turned unwillingly back to face him. ‘Actually, Mr Delaney, I would prefer not to see you at all. I want you out of my house, now.’
‘That could be difficult,’ he said thoughtfully. The jeans he had put on were like a second skin, Maggie thought in outrage. How could he seem marginally less decent clothed than naked?
‘Why?’ she asked glacially.
‘For one thing I have no transport. Sebastian smuggled me out of my hotel and brought me here in a hired car, to fool the Press gang. He’s coming back to collect me in time for the next police interview.’
‘Then you’ll just have to hire a car of your own, and find another refuge.’
‘You have no phone here.’
‘There’s a phone at the farm.’
‘But I can hardly turn up on the doorstep demanding to use it at this time of night.’ His reasonable tone grated on her. ‘Quite apart from the inconvenience I’d be causing, I don’t want to draw attention to myself right now.’
‘Why change the habits of a lifetime?’ Maggie said bitingly.
The firm mouth tightened. ‘I thought I’d made it clear that I’m hiding out here. I can’t set foot out of doors in London without some tabloid baying for my blood. As long as I can keep my presence here a secret, I’m safe for the time being.’
‘And you expect me to sympathise?’ Maggie shook her head. ‘I said Seb had no right to bring you here, and I meant it. I loathe you, Jay Delaney, and every arrogant, sexist, chauvinist element you stand for. You’re totally contemptible. Men like you have got to learn you can’t force yourself on unwilling women and get away with it. I hope they lock you, and all rapists, away forever.’
There was another taut silence. ‘Brave words,’ he said slowly. ‘Considering that, at this moment in time, I’m locked away with you. And who appointed you judge and jury, anyway, my little red-haired spitfire?’
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she said defiantly.
‘No?’ Jay Delaney took a step towards her. Then another. His eyes held hers, and his mouth curved in a smile without amusement.
Instinctively, Maggie backed away, and found herself trapped almost immediately against the wall behind her.
‘Don’t come near me.’ Her voice sounded shrill and ragged.
‘Why not? According to you, I’ve already raped one woman, so I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.’ He put a hand on the wall at either side of her body, effectively cutting off any hope of escape.
His eyes—they were incredibly blue, she noticed almost inconsequentially—began a leisurely and insolent inspection of her body, lingering in frank assessment on the small high breasts outlined beneath the cling of the black sweater, then sweeping down to the gentle swell of her hips and the length of her slender thighs.
His scrutiny seemed to sear through her clothes. She suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Her voice cracked. ‘Please—let me go.’
‘In my own good time,’ said Jay Delaney. Using the tip of one forefinger, he lightly, almost casually began to circle the peak of her left breast through her sweater. He did it with aching slowness, letting her nipple harden to taut, greedy life as he touched her. His eyes were dispassionate as they looked into hers.
Maggie leaned back against the wall, palms flattened, fingers splayed against the plaster, as if she was trying to impress herself on it or sink into it completely and be absorbed. Her body felt strangely heavy and her legs were shaking under her.
No one had ever touched her in this way before, and her body clenched in shamed and painful excitement.
What was happening to her, she asked herself dazedly? What was she allowing to happen? This couldn’t be real. It had to be some fantasy—some nightmare. She ought to protest—to struggle—to hit out. She couldn’t just—stand here, and let him subject her to this intimate torment.
Jay Delaney bent towards her, his lips only inches from hers, the sharp smell of alcohol on his breath. The warmth from his body seemed to envelop her, mingled with the faint scent of some cologne he used.
His hand slid under the ribbed welt of the sweater and caressed the warm, smooth skin above the waistband of her trousers, then stroked upwards to the cleft between her breasts and the tiny plastic clip which fastened her bra at the front. He twisted the clasp, snapping it open, letting the imprisoning lacy cups fall away from her breasts.
Her mouth was dry. Every nerve, every pulse in her body seemed to be suspended in anticipation, waiting to feel the stroke of his fingers on her bare and eager breasts.
But it did not happen.
Instead, Jay Delaney stepped back, pulling her sweater back into place almost with indifference. The blue eyes bored into hers.
He said softly, ‘You mentioned something about unwilling women. Do you include yourself in that category?’
She stared at him, trying to speak, trying to think of something to say, but no words would come. Instead, she knew an urge to burst into humiliated tears. She had never behaved like that before—never. Standing there, letting a complete stranger—insult her body.
‘Two more things,’ he said. ‘I hope you, as the owner of this property, are insured, because I may have broken a toe just now, falling over your damned hot water bottle. If I don’t walk, I don’t work, and my television company may well sue you.’
He picked up a half-empty bottle of Scotch from the night table and poured a measure into the glass beside it.
‘And, lastly, observe this. I’ve been drinking steadily since I got here, so even if half a dozen hired cars turned up at this moment I wouldn’t be driving any of them, lady, because I have far too much alcohol in my bloodstream.’ He raised the glass to her in a parody of a toast. ‘You can do as you please, sweetheart, but I’m going nowhere tonight.’
Her throat muscles worked at last. She said thickly, ‘Then I shall leave.’
Jay Delaney shrugged, then stretched out on the bed again, glass in hand. ‘That’s your privilege.’ He sounded almost bored.
Watching him like a hawk, she edged along the wall to the door, found the handle, turned it, and backed on to the landing. He seemed to have lost interest in her, but she didn’t trust him—not after the disgusting—the unforgivable way he had treated her.
Down in the living-room, she snatched up her bag from the kitchen table and ran to the door. As she opened it, the wind shrieked into the room, and for a moment she quailed.
Then, biting her lip, she forced herself out into the wildness of the night. Better to face a demon wind, she thought, than stay with that human fiend, currently drinking himself into extinction on her bed.
Battered and buffeted, Maggie had to fight every step of the way to the car. And even when she was in the driver’s seat, with the door shut, she didn’t feel safe. The car was rocking uneasily with every gust.
She took a deep breath as she started the engine, trying to calculate how far it was to the village. There was a pub there which handled overnight accommodation. They might not be too pleased to have to provide it at one o’clock in the morning, but surely they would understand this was an emergency.
She looked back at the cottage, and the light flickering in the upstairs room. Her sanctuary—and she was being driven away from it.
But only for one night, she thought. Tomorrow she would phone Seb’s London office and give her brother-in-law a piece of her mind, making it clear he could come and take Jay Delaney away. And he can think himself lucky I’m not charging him with indecent assault, she thought, fighting back an angry sob.
But the thought of describing what he had done to her to a police officer made her cringe. And there was the question of her own response too. Why hadn’t she at least slapped his face?
Damn him, she thought seething. Oh, damn him to hell.
If she had been concentrating more, she would probably have seen the giant elm lying across the track in time. As it was, when it loomed up in the headlights, she hit her brakes a fraction too late, and the Metro ploughed into it with a sickening crunch of metal and broken glass. Maggie was thrown forward, but her seat-belt held her firmly enough. Her ribs were bruised against the steering-wheel, and there was a sharp pain above her right eye, but apart from that she seemed to have got off lightly.
She sat, staring through the shattered windscreen, unable to believe what had happened.
She thought stupidly, ‘There’s a tree down. I’ll have to move it if I want to get out.’
She released her belt and tried to open her door, but it was jammed because of the impact, and she started to beat on the panels, shaking, and crying out in fear.
‘Turn your engine off.’ Suddenly Jay Delaney had materialised beside the car, and was shouting at her through the window. She forced her trembling fingers to comply. He gestured at her to wind the window down, and she obeyed.
‘It’s turning out to be quite a night,’ he said grimly, surveying the damage. ‘Your insurance company’s going to be working overtime. So what’s the problem? Door stuck?’
She nodded, her throat working convulsively.
‘Then we’ll try the passenger door.’ He sounded almost soothing. ‘And if that doesn’t work, we’ll get you out through the window, or the hatchback.’
The passenger door opened with a wrench.
‘OK,’ Jay said. ‘Just slide over, and get out.’
‘I—don’t think I can.’
He said something very rude and derisive under his breath, then leaned into the car, taking her hands in his.
‘You can’t sit there all night. If one tree’s down, others may follow,’ he added grimly. ‘So move.’
In the end, he had to half drag her from the car.
‘Can you walk?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then try putting one foot in front of the other, and see what happens.’
That was one of the funniest things she had ever heard, and she began to giggle weakly.
‘None of that.’ Jay’s fingers stung on her cheek, making her gasp. ‘Hysterics in the house, not out here.’
There were candles burning on the table and the dresser when they finally stumbled back into the living-room. Jay pulled out a chair and pushed Maggie into it.
He picked up the beaker from the table. ‘What’s this?’
‘I made myself some Bovril.’ A thousand years ago.
He grimaced. ‘Well, it’s cold now.’ He tipped it down the sink. ‘I prescribe hot milk with a slug of whisky in it.’ He paused. ‘Not that we have a great deal of milk. Seb only provided me with rations for one.’
‘I’ve brought some groceries.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In the boot of the car.’
There was a pungent silence, then he said, too politely, ‘How unfortunate you didn’t mention it a little earlier.’
‘They can wait there till tomorrow.’
‘They can indeed.’ He went upstairs and came back with the whisky. He had put on a sweater, she realised, before he had come to look for her, but in a strange way he still didn’t look any more dressed. Or did she just think that because she had been forced to see him so blatantly undressed?
She watched him open the cardboard container and pour milk into a saucepan, then put it on to heat.
‘You didn’t spill any,’ she said.
‘I’m housetrained. I used to live with a woman who was fussy about things like that.’
‘One of your many conquests, no doubt.’ And of course he would have to brag about it.
‘No,’ he said. ‘My mother.’
She was taken aback. That sounded altogether too cosy and domestic for someone like Jay Delaney. He was a jungle creature, a predator.
She watched him fill two beakers, add a measure of whisky to each, and bring them to the table.
‘Here.’ He passed her one.
‘I don’t like whisky.’
‘Tough. Drink it, or I’ll pour it down your throat.’
She sipped, shuddering elaborately. Jay seated himself opposite, and watched her sardonically.
‘Nice performance,’ he commented. ‘Are you in our profession?’
‘No, I’m in publishing.’
‘Let me guess.’ He pretended to think, then snapped his fingers. ‘Virago Books.’
She gave him a stony look. ‘Munroe and Craig, actually. We’re a fairly new imprint.’
‘Presumably, you’re neither Munroe nor Craig.’
‘No. I’m Maggie—Margaret Carlyle. I’m an editor.’
‘And an editor who should be in Mauritius.’
She bit her lip, and drank some more milk. In spite of her dislike of the taste she had to admit that there was a new warmth stealing through her veins, dispelling the trembling and the cold.
‘So,’ he went on. ‘What are you doing here, Maggie Carlyle?’
‘This is my house,’ she said curtly. ‘I don’t owe you any explanations.’
There was a silence. Then he said, ‘Let us agree that under normal circumstances, neither of us would wish to spend even five minutes in each other’s company. Yes?’
Maggie nodded, staring down at her beaker.
‘But circumstances are not normal, and whether we like it or not, we are stuck here together under the same roof, maybe for an indefinite period, so we may as well be civil to each other. Right?’
‘Not necessarily,’ she objected. ‘This storm won’t last forever. You can leave tomorrow.’
‘On foot?’ He gave her a steady look. ‘Lady, you aren’t even trying to be reasonable.’
She put down the beaker. ‘Is that how you’d describe some of your conduct tonight?’ Her voice sounded aggravatingly breathless suddenly. ‘Reasonable?’
‘I was just teaching you a much-needed lesson, sweetheart,’ he said levelly. ‘Don’t give it out, if you’re not prepared to take it. Maybe you’ll think twice next time before slagging me off about my supposed sins.’
‘There isn’t a great deal of supposition involved,’ she said coldly. ‘They’ve been fairly well documented.’
Jay leaned back, tilting his chair, surveying her through narrowed eyes. ‘You really like to live dangerously, don’t you, darling? Be warned, the next lesson will be administered to your backside, with the flat of my hand.’
‘Very macho,’ Maggie said with contempt. ‘Are you really pretending, Mr Delaney, that you don’t like your hard-won reputation as a hell-raiser?’
‘You deal with works of fiction every day of your life,’ Jay said with a shrug. ‘So how is it you believe everything you read in the newspapers?’
‘There’s no smoke without fire.’ She really couldn’t believe she had said that, and by the look of unholy amusement on his face neither could he.
‘That’s a novel thought,’ he said. ‘Did one of your authors write it?’
‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘It probably came from one of your television series.’ She pushed her chair back, and stood up. ‘And now I’m going up to bed, in my own spare room.’ She paused. ‘The door locks, and I don’t wish to be disturbed on any pretext.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Jay drawled. ‘If you’d really been following the reports of my private life, you’d know my taste doesn’t run to under-developed redheads.’ He got to his feet. ‘Before you go, do you have a first-aid kit around?’
‘Of course,’ Maggie said curtly, still smarting from ‘under-developed’. ‘Why, do you want to splint your broken toe?’
‘No, I’m thinking of taping over your mouth,’ he said with a certain grimness. ‘As it happens, you’ve cut your forehead. It needs cleaning up.’
‘Cut?’ Maggie remembered the sharp pain after the collision and put up a hand, encountering a faint stickiness. ‘Is it bad?’
‘Plastic surgeons can do miracles these days,’ he said gravely. ‘But for now, let’s see how we go with some antiseptic and a sticking-plaster.’
‘Oh, stop it.’ She glared at him. ‘It’s all a big joke to you—but this has been one of the worst days and the worst nights of my life.’
‘Whereas my own existence is just perfect at the moment, of course.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But if you want to spend the next few days wallowing in gloom and self-pity, it’s all right with me. Shall I attend to that cut first, or would you prefer blood poisoning in your present mood?’
She stood for a long mutinous minute, eyeing him, then trailed into the pantry and came back with the first-aid box. He was filling a basin with hot water from the kettle.
‘Thank you,’ she said stiltedly.
‘Don’t go overboard with the gratitude,’ he advised. ‘I promise this is going to hurt you far more than it hurts me.’
She endured his ministrations with gritted teeth.
‘Does it need a stitch?’
‘Well, it certainly isn’t going to get one.’ He applied a small piece of plaster. ‘The bandages can come off in a fortnight.’ He emptied the basin. ‘And, by the way, I’m not going to add to your list of grievances against me by turning you out of your bed. I’ll sleep in the spare room.’
She said quickly, ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind. Anyway, it’s rather too late to start changing sheets.’
‘Yours having been hopelessly contaminated by my fleeting presence, I suppose,’ he said, too evenly.
‘Not at all,’ Maggie protested unconvincingly, a betraying blush spreading up to her hairline.
Jay gave her a bleak look. ‘You, lady, are something else,’ he said.
He turned away and went up the stairs, and presently she heard the bedroom door bang.
She went round the living-room, tidying things, extinguishing all the candles except the one she would take upstairs with her.
And in spite of Jay’s avowal, she would still lock her door, she thought defiantly.
She supposed grudgingly that he had been kind enough, after the accident, but it didn’t change a thing. She still despised him and everything he stood for. And although she might be obliged to give him sanctuary tonight, there was no way she was going to share a roof with him again tomorrow.
Another fierce gust shook the house, and she shivered. Always supposing, she thought wryly, that there was any roof left to share.
She paused as a further thought occurred to her, then crossed to the sink unit. Opening the drawer, she extracted the sharpest long-bladed kitchen knife she possessed. He had already shown he couldn’t be trusted, she told herself. And she was entitled to protect herself.
She went slowly and gingerly up the stairs, protecting the candle-flame. Her room—his room—was in darkness, and she paused for a moment at the door, listening, wondering if he was safely asleep, anaesthetised by whisky.
His voice reached her, quietly and mockingly, ‘Goodnight, Maggie Carlyle. Pleasant dreams.’
She started so violently she nearly dropped the knife, and the candle-flame wavered and went out.
Cursing under her breath, she felt her way along the landing to the spare room. She found a match and relit the candle, putting it on the small chest of drawers, before turning the key in the lock.
The narrow single bed looked singularly uninviting. And there was a small solid hump in the middle of it.
Maggie pulled back the duvet and found herself staring down at the stone hot water bottle. For a moment she stood, motionless, then she sat down on the edge of the bed, buried her face in her hands, and began to cry.
It was an uncomfortable night. The noise of the storm was unabating, and several times Maggie was terrified that the window was going to blow in.
In spite of the reassurance of the knife under her pillow, she was still uneasily on tenterhooks, wondering what she would do if he forced an entry to her room and she was actually obliged to use it.
She was still debating the issue when she fell into an exhausted sleep just before dawn.
It was daylight when she finally opened bleary eyes on the world. The sky outside the window looked grey and angry, she realised shuddering, and the wind was still blowing fiercely.
She crawled out of bed and dragged on the trousers and sweater she had been wearing the previous night. Along with her bed, she had also sacrificed the washbasin, she realised crossly. She would have to perform her morning ablutions downstairs in the sink.
She had a lot to do today, she thought sombrely. She would have to notify Mr Grice about the fallen tree, and get him to phone the local garage to take her car away. She would also need to contact her insurance company.
And taking absolute priority over all these was the necessity to get Jay Delaney out of the cottage, and out of her life.
He wasn’t in the living-room when she went downstairs, and she seized the opportunity of the unexpected privacy to wash her face and hands and clean her teeth. When he had gone, she decided, she would lock the door, draw the curtains and get out the tin bath.
She was ashamed of the crying jag she had embarked on last night, she thought, as she filled the kettle and set it to boil, but in a way it was understandable. She had built such hopes and such dreams on that trip to Mauritius—and on her first night alone with Robin—that the situation at World’s End seemed a brutal anti-climax.
And if she was honest, finding the hot water bottle like that had been the final straw. An unlooked-for kindness from an unexpected source. An unwanted kindness, too, she reminded herself. If Jay Delaney thought he could creep into her good graces by such means, then he could think again.
He said from the doorway, ‘Have you got any weedkiller?’ making her jump all over again.
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Sara Craven
Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades and made her an international bestseller.STORM FORCETrapped together!Jay Delaney, on camera, had a dynamic appeal. In person, his blend of magnetism was even more potent. Not that Maggie was interested.She'd had enough problems recently, and the last thing she wanted was an uninvited guest to disturb the peace and quiet of her solitary hideaway. But she didn't have much choice, and despite her caution, Maggie found herself drawn to Jay. Would she trust him?"It's wise not to start something you can't finish," Jay warned her. But there was no way Maggie could predict how their encounter would end…
Storm Force
Sara Craven
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u6ef86904-ce88-5ee0-a59b-b4137421334a)
Title Page (#u94d079df-f9db-5da5-8735-cdca6d934703)
About the Author (#u143d7482-eee6-5aa8-ac6f-fdabfadbdbef)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#uf7c9074e-1a26-5478-aefd-46d09b98d2fc)
‘BUT, MAGGIE,’ Philip Munroe’s tone was plaintive, ‘do you actually mean you’re leaving me in the lurch?’
Maggie counted to ten under her breath. ‘No, Philip,’ she said courteously. ‘I mean I’m taking some leave. A holiday that I’ve had booked for months, and which you’ve known all about for the same length of time.’
‘But this is an emergency. Kylie St John is flying in tomorrow, and she’ll want to know what we think about the new book.’
‘The readers’ reports and my detailed memorandum are on your desk, attached to the script.’
‘I know that,’ Philip said fretfully. ‘I’ve seen them. They say that the whole middle section needs to be completely re-written.’
‘They do indeed,’ Maggie agreed cordially.
‘But I can’t tell her that. It’s not the kind of news she wants to hear from me.’
Maggie smiled gently, pushing her red hair back from her forehead. ‘Of course not. You have Maggie, the mad axe-woman, to do your dirty work with the authors, then you take them to lunch at the Connaught and kiss their egos better. It’s a great system. Only I’m spending the next three weeks in Mauritius, and you’ll have to wield the axe yourself for once.’
‘But surely you could delay your flight for forty-eight hours. I’ll get my secretary to ring the travel agent and …’
‘I could do nothing of the sort,’ Maggie said tersely. ‘You seem to be overlooking the fact that I am not going to Mauritius alone.’
Philip stared at her. ‘Oh, of course, you’re going with Whatsit. I’d forgotten.’
‘His name,’ said Maggie, holding on to her temper with a superhuman effort, ‘is Robin.’
‘But I’m sure if matters were explained to him, he’d understand.’
‘Why should he? I don’t even understand myself.’
There was a loaded silence. Then Philip tried again. ‘Kylie St John,’ he began, ‘is probably our most successful author.’
‘She’s also extremely temperamental, very tough, and a professional to her fingertips. Don’t let her browbeat you,’ Maggie advised, picking up her briefcase. ‘Now, I’m going home to finish packing.’
‘And is that your final word?’
Maggie groaned. ‘Please don’t sound so wounded,’ she said. ‘This is my first vacation in two and a half years.’
‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate it,’ Philip said warmly. ‘No one’s worked harder than you, darling, to put the firm on its feet. I’ve always been able to rely on you totally.’
‘Good old Maggie—everybody’s friend,’ Maggie muttered.
‘Well—if you want to put it that way.’
‘No,’ she said roundly. ‘This is the way I want to put it, Philip. I am going on holiday with the man I love. You are going to deal with Kylie the Terrible. Call it your baptism of fire,’ she added, as she swirled through the door, and down to her waiting cab.
Traffic was heavy, and she sat back in the corner of the taxi, looking out of the window with unseeing eyes.
It would do Philip no harm to stiffen his sinews and summon up the blood when dealing with some of the formidable ladies on their fiction list, she thought, defensively.
In any case, there was no way she was going to do anything to put her holiday in Mauritius in jeopardy. It had taken weeks of patient and subtle manoeuvring to get Robin to the stage of accepting the idea of a joint vacation anywhere.
She adored him, of course, but sometimes the old-fashioned principles rigorously instilled by his elderly mother were a little hard to take. And Robin loved her, she knew. There was a tacit agreement that—one day—they would be married. Perhaps the romantic surroundings of Mauritius would provide the spur he needed to make their engagement official, she thought wistfully. Especially if Mama wasn’t around to ask why he needed to get married, when he was so comfortable at home with her …
Oh, don’t be such a bitch, she adjured herself impatiently. Mrs Hervey can’t be expected to look forward eagerly to losing her only son to another woman. She’s come to depend on him, perhaps too much.
But I wish I could believe that, underneath, she likes me really, she added, with a little sigh.
She paid off the driver outside the block of flats where she lived, and dived up to the first floor.
Mrs Hervey would have every reason for disapproval if she could see the state of the flat, Maggie had to acknowledge as she dashed into the bedroom. It looked as if a bomb had hit it. She must have packed and unpacked her case at least half a dozen times. She had planned and looked forward to this holiday for such a long time, and bought loads of new clothes. So many, in fact, that they were almost like a trousseau, she thought, crossing her fingers surreptitiously. The problem was choosing the exact outfits to stir Robin to his very soul.
Well, it’s decision time now, she told herself. You’ll have to be at the airport in a few hours.
She was just rolling one of her new bikinis into a neat tube and stowing it into a corner of her case when the front door buzzer sounded.
She straightened, frowning. She wasn’t expecting any callers. Surely Philip hadn’t followed her home to make a last-ditch attempt to persuade her to change her mind?
‘I’ll kill him if so,’ she muttered between clenched teeth.
‘Yes?’ she said curtly into the intercom.
‘Vice Squad. Open up,’ said her brother-in-law’s familiar drawl.
‘Sebastian?’ she squealed, and opened the door. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Hello, Ginger.’ Sebastian Kirby bent and pecked her on the cheek. ‘I phoned your office from the hotel, but they said you’d left for the day. Not ill, are you?’
‘On the contrary, I’m going on holiday.’
‘Really?’ Sebastian’s brows rose, and he looked frankly taken aback. ‘Won’t the hovel be a little bleak in October?’
‘The cottage,’ Maggie said with emphasis, ‘is perfectly fine at any time of year. But, as it happens, I’m not going there for once. I’m heading for the sun. Mauritius, to be exact.’
‘Going alone?’ Sebastian followed her into the bedroom, and picked up another bikini, surveying it with a grin. ‘Very—er, basic.’
‘No.’ Maggie’s tone held a hint of challenge, as she snatched the tiny garment from him. ‘I’m going with Robin.’
‘Good lord!’ Sebastian said blankly. ‘You mean Mummy’s actually let him off the leash at last?’ He encountered Maggie’s baleful look, and flung up his hands. ‘OK. I’m sorry and it’s none of my business. But neither Louie nor I can understand what you see in that stuffed shirt. However, if he makes you happy …’
‘He does,’ Maggie said levelly.
‘Then have a wonderful holiday.’ Sebastian sent her a placatory smile. ‘Why don’t I make us both some coffee?’
‘Where is Louie? Why isn’t she with you?’ Maggie asked as he returned with a tray a few minutes later. ‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’ she added with sudden alarm. ‘And the baby?’
‘They’re both blooming,’ Sebastian reassured her. ‘But we both felt it was better for her to stay in New York this time.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘I’m here on business, Mags, trouble-shooting for a major client. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the headlines.’
‘Headlines?’ Maggie gave him a puzzled look as she took her beaker of coffee, then her brows snapped together in a thunderous frown. ‘Oh, don’t tell me you’re here to rescue that bastard Jay Delaney.’
Sebastian perched on a corner of the dressing-table. ‘That’s a fairly harsh judgement.’
‘Harsh?’ Maggie echoed in disbelief. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Seb. He got drunk and raped a girl. You can’t possibly be on his side.’
‘I can and I am,’ Sebastian told her levelly. ‘He may have been accused of rape, admittedly, but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty. No charges have been brought yet.’
‘Of course he’s guilty,’ Maggie said impatiently. ‘It’s perfectly obvious what happened. He’s the big macho television star who’s totally irresistible to women, and for once a girl tried to say no to him. And naturally his over-sized masculine ego couldn’t take rejection. I hope he gets all that’s coming to him.’
Sebastian stared at her. ‘What’s happened to the idea of someone being innocent until proved otherwise? Where’s your womanly compassion?’
‘I’m keeping that for his unfortunate victim.’ Maggie wrestled to close the lid of her case. ‘And if you’re here to try to do a public relations whitewash job …’
‘There’ll be no whitewash,’ Sebastian said quietly. ‘Jay has agreed to “help the police with their enquiries”, to use the classic phrase. I’m here to see that he’s protected from the more virulent attacks of the gutter Press, that’s all.’
‘What a job,’ Maggie said bitterly. ‘Minder to an over-sexed yob, with a three-day growth and sprayed-on jeans.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Mags.’ Sebastian looked shaken. ‘I’ve never known you so bigoted—so vitriolic. You’ve never even met the guy. Have you ever watched his series?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ she said curtly. ‘I don’t belong to the school of thought which says that the world’s problems can all be solved by an undercover agent with a gun in one hand and a woman in the other.’ She gave a small angry laugh. ‘He’s probably started to believe his own publicity, and is convinced he’s above the law in some godlike way. Or does he think because the fantasy girls in the series surrender to him that real women must as well?’
‘We haven’t exactly discussed that aspect of the situation,’ said Sebastian. His expression was edgy, worried. ‘Mags, I’m sure you’re doing him an injustice. The girl who’s accused him is a nightclub hostess—not exactly a defenceless schoolgirl.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Maggie jerkily fastened the straps of her case. ‘And does her occupation give her no rights over her own body, or is anyone rich and famous allowed to use her as the whim takes them?’
‘No, of course not.’ Sebastian gave her a baffled glance. ‘But doesn’t it strike you as just a bit odd that she went to a newspaper to make her complaint, and not the police?’
‘It’s a man’s world,’ said Maggie bitterly. ‘She probably knew when it was her word against Jay Delaney’s that she wouldn’t be believed.’
Sebastian sighed heavily. ‘Ginger, I can’t reason with you when you’re like this. If you were to meet Jay—hear his side of things, you might …’
‘He’s the last person in the world I’d ever want to meet. I find men like Jay Delaney quite repulsive. And I’m glad that he’s come across at least one girl who doesn’t think he’s God’s gift, and is prepared to say so in public. I hope she says it in court.’
‘No,’ said Sebastian with sudden harshness. ‘You prefer a mother’s boy, don’t you, Margaret? A wimp who has to travel half-way across the world to find the guts to go to bed with you.’
‘Seb!’ Maggie’s cry held real distress.
He flushed deeply, and came across to her, patting her clumsily on the shoulder.
‘Oh, lord, I didn’t mean it Maggie. Forgive me. We shouldn’t be quarrelling about this. I shouldn’t have come here …’
‘Of course you should,’ she said quickly. ‘I’d never have forgiven you if I’d found out you were in London and hadn’t been to see me. We’ll just have to agree to differ on the subject of Jay Delaney.’ She paused. ‘I’m only sorry I’m going away. We could have had a meal or something.’
‘How long are you going to be in Mauritius?’ Sebastian gave her a meditative glance.
‘Three whole glorious weeks,’ she sighed. ‘Oh, I can’t wait.’
‘Well, you won’t have to for much longer.’ Sebastian forced a smile. ‘I really hope it all works out for you, Ginger.’ He dropped a light kiss on her hair. ‘Now, I’ll get out of the way, and leave you in peace. Look after yourself.’
‘I always do,’ she called after him.
Presently she heard her front door close and, collecting clean undies and the cool navy dress and jacket she was going to wear on the journey, she went into the bathroom.
She was disturbed by what had happened, she realised, as she lay in the warm water. She had adored Seb from the first moment Louie had introduced them, and they had never had anything approaching a cross word before.
Oh, damn Jay Delaney, she thought bitterly. Why couldn’t he use some other PR company to represent him? And why does he have to be Seb’s personal client? Someone like that doesn’t deserve Seb’s loyalty.
The story had broken first in one of the Sunday tabloids. Jay Delaney had given a party to mark the end of filming for his top-rated series, McGuire. It had started in a nightclub, and had moved back to the hotel where he had a suite. His victim, Debra Burrows, had worked at the nightclub and been invited to the party with some of the other hostesses.
On her own admission, Debbie had had too much to drink, and had gone into one of the other rooms to sleep it off. When she woke it was the early hours of the morning, and everyone else had left. She was alone with Jay Delaney, who had made it clear he expected to have sex with her, and when she refused he had raped her.
‘I begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He was like an animal,’ she had told the newspaper. ‘He said he could have any girl he wanted. That I should be flattered.
‘I was such a fan of his. I worshipped him, and I was thrilled when he asked me to the party. But he’s a sham, and a hypocrite. He’s made me feel dirty—used.’
Her pretty bruised face staring from the front page had haunted Maggie ever since.
She thought, ‘There but for the grace of God …’
Now, she drew a deep breath. She wouldn’t spare Jay Delaney another thought, she vowed silently. He wasn’t worth it, nor was any other man who preyed on women.
It was men like Robin who mattered. Men who were kind and tender—and decent.
Maggie stared at the dregs in her cup, asked herself if she wanted more coffee, and decided against it. She took another restive glance at her watch, and sighed.
Where was Robin? What on earth could have happened to him? He was supposed to have picked her up over half an hour ago, and he was usually punctual to a fault. She got up and began to prowl round the sitting-room, her uneasiness mounting. If traffic on the way to the airport was as heavy as it normally was, then they could end up by being extremely late. It was no good thinking they might be able to make up time on the journey either. Robin was a careful driver who didn’t like to take chances.
All in all, the longed-for holiday wasn’t getting off to a very good start. She had tried to telephone his home, but there had been no reply, signifying that he had set out at least.
Could the car have broken down, she wondered apprehensively, or, worse still, could there have been some kind of accident?
She shook herself. I won’t think like that, she told herself determinedly. He’s just been held up, that’s all, but he’ll be here in a minute, and until he arrives I’ll do a last check—make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.
She had just re-packed her handbag for the second time when she heard the buzzer.
‘Oh, thank heavens.’ She ran to answer the door. ‘I was really beginning to worry,’ she told him, smiling, and halted, her brows knotting. The first thing that occurred to her was that he was wearing a formal dark suit, the kind of thing he would put on for the office, instead of the casual slacks and shirt she would have expected. The second was that he looked pale and worried.
Her heart sank. Maybe her fears about an accident were only too justified.
‘Come in.’ She took his hand, drew him into the room. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
He sat down on the sofa. He didn’t look at her. ‘Maggie, I can’t go to Mauritius. I’ve had to cancel my flight.’
‘Can’t go?’ she echoed incredulously. ‘What do you mean? What are you talking about? We’ve been looking forward to it for months and …’
‘I know, I know,’ he cut in. ‘And I feel terrible letting you down like this, but you see—it’s Mother.’
For a moment, she looked at him blankly. She thought, I’m not hearing this. It cannot actually be happening, in nineteen-eighties Britain. This is some terrible joke.
Only, somehow, she didn’t feel like laughing.
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She said quietly, ‘I don’t think I understand. Are you telling me your mother has imposed some kind of ban on your going—because if so, she’s left it rather late in the day and …’
‘Oh, no.’ He looked horrified. ‘It’s nothing like that. She likes you, Maggie, she really does. No, she’s been taken ill. The doctor thinks it may be her heart. She’s had to go into hospital for tests. I went with her to see her settled in, and I’ve got to go back tonight.’
Maggie swallowed. ‘Her heart?’ she queried. ‘But she’s never had any problem before, has she? Isn’t this rather sudden?’
Robin looked even more solemn. ‘Apparently that’s when it can be most dangerous. And, of course, she’s never been strong,’ he added defensively.
It was Maggie’s private opinion that Mrs Hervey could go ten rounds with an ox and win on a knock-out, but she bit back the angry words.
‘All she could think of was you,’ Robin went on. ‘She kept saying to me while we were waiting for the ambulance, “Poor Margaret will be so disappointed.” She was nearly in tears.’
‘I can imagine,’ Maggie said grimly. ‘When did all this start?’
‘In the early hours of this morning, although she did confess to the doctor that she hadn’t been feeling very well for several days. But she said nothing, tried to pretend nothing was wrong, because she didn’t want to be a nuisance.’
Maggie’s lips parted, then closed again. She knew an overwhelming impulse to seize Robin by his neatly knotted conservative tie and say, ‘Your mother has turned being a nuisance into an art-form. She is greedy and selfish, and terrified of losing you. She’s taken a stock situation from fiction—a cliché that I’d pencil out, screaming, if I came across it in a script—because she knows that I’ll recognise it as such and you won’t. It’s her way of telling me that I can’t win. That she’s prepared to use the ultimate weapon against me—delicate health.’
‘You’ve gone really pale.’ Robin reached out and patted her hand, rather clumsily. ‘I knew how concerned you’d be. I tried to think of some way of breaking it to you …’
‘Passing on this kind of news is never easy.’ Maggie kept her voice neutral with an effort. ‘How long does your mother expect to stay in hospital?’
‘It’s difficult to say, and of course, I have to be on hand in case she needs anything.’
Maggie steeled herself. ‘And the doctor’s quite sure it is her heart? After all, your mother doesn’t have a great deal to occupy herself with when you’re not there, and it’s easy to—build up symptoms in one’s own mind—imagine things …’
Robin’s pleasant face hardened perceptibly. ‘Just what are you implying? Do I infer that you think my mother has invented this attack, because she’s bored in some way? How could you? If you’d seen her—seen the pain she was in—the brave way she was trying to cope. Maggie, I know you’re disappointed about the holiday, and I am too, but this really isn’t worthy of you.’
There was a silence, then Maggie said quietly, ‘No, perhaps not. I apologise.’ She forced a smile. ‘So much for Mauritius, then,’ Or anywhere else out of your mother’s clutches.
‘Oh, but you can still go,’ he said quickly. ‘The hotel reservation is waiting, after all. It would be a pity to waste it. Mother said so. She said, “Margaret deserves to get away for a rest, somewhere in the sun where she can relax and meet new people.”‘
‘How kind of her.’ Anger was beginning to build inside Maggie, and she fought to control it. ‘But I wouldn’t dream of going without you.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps, if your mother’s condition turns out to be less serious than you fear, we could get a later flight. As you say, they’ll keep our room.’
Perhaps the shared room was the crunch as far as Mrs Hervey was concerned. Maybe if we’d booked separate rooms, or even different hotels, she wouldn’t have taken quite such drastic action.
‘I wish I could be as optimistic.’ He gave her an anxious, rather pleading smile. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry about all this. But there’ll be another time.’
Oh, no, there won’t, thought Maggie. Your mother will see to that. This was in the nature of a trial run—to see how you’d react. Now she knows she can pull the strings whenever she wants and you’ll dance.
‘Of course there will,’ she smiled at him, calmly. ‘Now I’m sure you want to get back to the hospital—check there haven’t been any developments. It was good of you to come over and explain in person.’
He looked aghast. ‘But that was the least I could do. Mother insisted.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve checked with my insurance, and we won’t be out of pocket over any cancellation. Family illness, you know.’ There was another awkward silence, then he looked at his watch. ‘Maybe I should be getting back, at that.’ He gave her an unhappy look. ‘You do understand, don’t you? You know how much I was looking forward to being with you.’
‘Yes.’ As he got to his feet, Maggie rose too, and kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘I understand everything.’ She paused. ‘Give your mother my regards, and tell her I’m sure she’ll be feeling much better soon.’
‘Thank you.’ He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment. ‘You’re a wonderful girl, Maggie. A wonderful friend.’
She watched the door close behind him, then slowly and carefully she counted to twenty before picking up her empty cup and throwing it with all her strength at the fireplace. It smashed instantly, sending shards of pottery and dribbles of cold coffee everywhere.
She said, ‘And that’s that,’ and began to cry, hot heavy tears of rage and disappointment. She sank down on her knees on the rug, arms wrapped across her body, and sobbed out loud.
She wasn’t crying for the loss of her sunlit, tropical holiday. She was grieving for Robin, and the life with him she had hoped for—planned for. Because she knew with paralysing certainty that even if he were to walk back through that door and propose marriage here and now, she would not accept.
She supposed she should be glad that Mrs Hervey had shown her hand so early in the game. Perhaps one day, she would even be grateful that she had been given the chance to walk away from a potentially monstrous and destructive situation, but not now. Now, she felt stricken, as if her life lay in as many pieces as her ill-used cup.
She wept until she had no tears left, and the harsh, hiccupping sobs gradually died away into silence. She went on kneeling, staring into space, wondering numbly what to do next.
Going to Mauritius by herself was out of the question. The hotel, a luxurious bungalow complex, would be full of couples, which would only serve to emphasise her own sense of loneliness and isolation. Nor could she find anyone else to accompany her at this short notice.
And if I could, I wouldn’t want to, she thought. It’ll be bad enough when everyone finds out. They’ll all be so sympathetic, and falling over themselves not to say, ‘I told you so,’ especially Louie and Sebastian. I don’t think I can bear it.
She supposed she could try to book herself another kind of holiday, somewhere her presence as a single woman wouldn’t be quite so remarkable, but her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t think of one place she was remotely interested in going to.
On the other hand, she couldn’t stay in London either. Unless she stayed in her flat like a total hermit, news would soon spread that she hadn’t gone away, and if she wasn’t careful she would be back at the office, wet-nursing Kylie St John through the re-write of her next bestseller.
Oh, no, Maggie thought with sudden violence. Over my dead body.
She got to her feet, drawing a deep breath. There was somewhere else she could go. There was her cottage.
Sebastian might joke about it, but small as it was, and hidden in the wilds of East Anglia, it was precious to her. She enjoyed its seclusion and its comparative inaccessibility down little more than a farm track. She had bought it more or less for a song, using a legacy from her grandmother for the purpose, and over the past few years had poured in most of her spare cash on improvements to the building. She had had a secondhand Aga installed, and had toured the used furniture shops, choosing exactly the right items, then cleaning and stripping them down with loving care. Her next major project was going to be a bathroom. The present toilet arrangements consisted of an outside loo ringed by nettles, a rickety washbasin in the larger of the two bedrooms, and a tin bath in front of the Aga.
Her sister Louie, who had fallen foul of the nettles on a midnight trip to the loo, had said with feeling that the whole place was like the end of the world, and the name had stuck. In fact their last Christmas present to her had been a handsome carved wooden nameplate with the legend ‘World’s End’, which Seb declared had doubled the value of the cottage in one fell swoop.
But as a bolthole—a place to lick her wounds in peace—it was second to none. She could go there—be alone—and get her head together. Start planning for life after Robin.
She winced as she made her way into the bedroom. The first thing she had to do was unpack her case. She wouldn’t be needing any glamorous coordinated beachwear at World’s End. Jeans, sweaters and thermal undies were the order of the day there.
The worst moment was when she came across the nightgown she had bought for her first night with Robin. It was white, pretty and sheer, and if she was honest, she hadn’t counted on wearing it for very long. She had always enjoyed being in Robin’s arms, and wanted his kisses. She had grown accustomed to him, felt safe with him, and had no qualms about giving herself to him completely. Now, she looked down at the nightgown, feeling fresh tears scalding in her throat. She never wanted to see it again, or any of the other charming, provocative trifles she had bought either.
Stony-faced, she emptied them all out on to the floor and kicked them to one side. Serves me right for trying to be sexy, she thought, biting her lip. I should have remembered that I’m good old Maggie, and bought some sensible knickers.
She took a long, clinical look at herself in the mirror. She would never set the world on fire, but when her face wasn’t streaked with tears, her nose red and swollen, and her grey-green eyes like twin bruises, she was passable, she thought judiciously, even though her hair was common-or-garden red rather than more sophisticated auburn, and she was definitely on the skinny side of slender.
And now unexpectedly back on the market, as estate agents said in their advertisements.
‘A wonderful friend,’ Robin had said.
Was that really all she had been to him? And would she have been any more in that romantic bungalow, tucked away in a flower-filled tropical garden?
Now we shall never know, she thought with bitter self-derision, rooting through her wardrobe for gear more appropriate to mid-October in England.
She repacked her case, then stripped off her dress and jacket, changing into black wool trousers and a matching polo-necked sweater.
She was half-way out of the door when she remembered the cottage keys. She pulled open the top drawer of the bureau and reached into the corner, but the familiar bunch wasn’t there.
Frowning, Maggie pulled the drawer out further, riffling through the contents. But there was no sign of the keys. Had she forgotten to put them away after her last visit, a couple of months ago? It seemed so. No doubt they would be tucked away in some handbag.
But she wouldn’t look for them now. She kept a spare set in the bottom tray of the box which stored her costume jewellery. She would take those instead.
She carried her case round to the lock-up garage where she kept her Metro, then dashed round the local mini-market, filling a box with bread, eggs and milk as well as canned goods. She could get meat and vegetables at the farm shop on her way to World’s End.
The weather was deteriorating, she noticed, as she began her journey. She switched on the car radio and listened to the forecast. The outlook was stormy, with rain and high winds approaching gale force at times.
Maggie pulled a face. Electricity supplies to the cottage were inclined to be erratic in bad weather, although the gales might never materialise. But if they did, she had plenty of candles, and a fresh supply of fuel for the Aga had been delivered at the beginning of the month, according to Mrs Grice, the farmer’s wife, who kept a friendly eye on the cottage for her.
I’ll make out, she thought with a mental shrug. And stormy weather suits my mood at the moment. The wind and I can howl together.
Getting out of London was the usual nightmare, and Maggie was a mass of tension by the time she won clear of the suburbs. She had intended to drive straight to the cottage, but now she decided she would take her time—stop for a meal even. It was ages since she had been out to dinner, she realised with amazement. Robin didn’t care for restaurant food, so she had usually ended up cooking for him at the flat—except when they had eaten at his mother’s house.
She found an Italian restaurant, already filling up with customers, and demolished an enormous plateful of lasagne, washed down with a glass of the house wine, following this with a helping of chocolate fudge cake laden with cream.
Robin, who believed in healthy eating, would have disapproved of every mouthful, and the knowledge gave her a kind of guilty pleasure as she lingered over her cappuccino. Comfort-eating, she thought. When her three weeks in hiding ended, she’d probably be like a barrel.
The wind had risen considerably by the time she started off again. Strong gusts buffeted the car, slowing her journey considerably, and she was half tempted to stop and spend the night at a hotel and hope for better conditions next day.
Oh, to hell with it, she thought. I’ve come half-way. I may as well go on.
The further she drove, the more she regretted her decision. The rain was battering against the roof and windscreen as if trying to gain access and the wind sounded like some constant moan of torment.
It was nearly midnight before she turned with a sigh of relief on to the track which led to the cottage. Clouds were scudding across the sky like thieves in the night, and the trees which lined the track were swaying violently and groaning as if in pain.
I’ve never seen it as bad as this, Maggie thought, avoiding a fallen branch. Thank goodness I had the roof mended in the spring.
She parked in her usual spot, grabbed her case, and ran for the front door. The wind tore at her, lifting her almost off her feet, and for a moment she felt helpless in its power and badly frightened. The gust slackened, and she threw herself forward, grasping the heavy metal door-handle to brace herself while she searched in the dark for the keyhole.
At last the door yielded, and she almost fell into the living-room. It was a struggle then to re-close the door. The wind fought her every inch as if it were a living enemy, and her arms were aching by the time she had finished.
Gales, indeed, she muttered to herself. This feels more like a hurricane.
She tried the light switch beside the door without much hope, but to her surprise the central light came on, although it was flickering badly.
Just give me time to find the candles, Maggie appealed silently, going to the small walk-in pantry. As she lifted its latch, it occurred to her how unusually warm the room felt.
It was as if—as if … She stood motionless for a moment, then crossed the room to check. There was no ‘if’ about it. Someone had lit the Aga.
Mrs Grice sometimes lit it for her, if she knew she was coming down, but this time Maggie hadn’t signalled her intentions. So unless Mrs Grice had suddenly been gifted with second sight …
Oh, don’t be stupid, Maggie apostrophised herself. She probably thought the place smelled damp and needed airing through. I’ll thank her tomorrow.
She found the candles, their pottery holders, and a box of matches, as well as the old-fashioned stone hot water bottle she had picked up in a junk shop. She needed its comfort tonight, she thought, as she filled the kettle and put it to boil on top of the hotplate. She would have some Bovril as well, she decided, taking the jar out of the cupboard.
There was a solitary beaker upside down on the draining-board. Maggie stared at it for a moment, frowning. Where had that come from? she wondered with a frisson of uneasiness.
Now stop it, she caught at herself impatiently, Mrs Grice came and lit your stove for you. Surely you don’t grudge her a cup of coffee for her efforts? All the same, it was unusual. Mrs Grice was a meticulous housekeeper, not given to abandoning stray cups on draining-boards.
When the kettle boiled, she filled her bottle, picked up one of the candles and the matches, and mounted the flight of open-tread stairs which led from the living-room to the upper floor. Her bed, she thought, could be warming while she had her Bovril.
She opened her bedroom door, and went in, putting the candlestick down on the dressing-table before turning on the light.
And froze.
Her bed was already occupied. A naked man was lying across it, her brain registered in panic, face downwards, and fast asleep, one arm dangling limply towards the floor.
Maggie could feel the scream starting in the pit of her stomach. By the time it reached her throat, it was a hoarse, wild yell of terror that made itself heard even above the keening of the wind.
The man stirred and half sat up, propping himself on an elbow as he looked dazedly round at her.
She recognised him at once, of course. It had hardly been possible to pick up a newspaper or a magazine for the past eighteen months without seeing his picture. And just lately he’d made the headlines again—for rape.
It was Jay Delaney.
The stone bottle slipped from her nerveless grasp and fell to the floor with a crash that shook the cottage.
And, as if on cue, all the lights finally went out.
CHAPTER TWO (#uf7c9074e-1a26-5478-aefd-46d09b98d2fc)
THE DARKNESS CLOSED round her, suffocating her, and Maggie screamed again, hysterically.
She had to find the door, she had to get away, but she felt totally disorientated. She swung round, colliding with the corner of the dressing-table, crying out in pain as well as fear.
‘Do us both a favour, lady. Keep still and keep quiet.’ Even when angry it was an attractive voice, low, resonant and with a trace of huskiness. Part of his stock in trade, Maggie thought with furious contempt as she rubbed her hip.
She heard the bed creak. Heard him stumble and swear with a vigour and variety she had never experienced before. Then came the rasp of a match and the candle blossomed into flame.
The cottage shook in the grip of another gust, and in the distance Maggie heard a noise like a faint roar. The curtains billowed in the draught, and the shadows danced wildly in the candle’s flicker, diminishing the room, making it close in on her. And him.
They looked at each other in inimical silence.
At last, he said, ‘Who the hell are you, and how the hell did you find me?’
‘Find you?’ Maggie flung back her head, returning his glare with interest. ‘What makes you think I was even looking?’
‘Oh, come off it, sweetheart. What are you—a journalist, or a fan? If you’re a reporter—no comment. If you’re a groupie, you’re out of luck. I’m in no mood for female company, as your own common sense should have told you. Either way, get out, before I throw you out.’
‘Save the rough stuff for your tacky series, Mr Delaney,’ Maggie said, with gritted teeth. ‘You lay one hand on me, and you’ll be in jail so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. And you won’t get bail. That’s if I don’t have you arrested anyway for breaking and entering.’
His voice was dangerously calm. ‘And what precisely am I supposed to have—broken and entered?’
The candle-flame steadied and brightened, the extra illumination providing her with an all too potent and quite unnecessary reminder that he didn’t have a stitch on. A fact of which he himself seemed magnificently unconscious as he confronted her, hands on hips.
‘My home,’ she snarled. ‘This house.’
There was a long and tingling silence. Jay Delaney said slowly, ‘You must be the sister-in-law.’
‘Sister-in-law?’ Maggie’s voice cracked. ‘You mean—Sebastian—told you that you could come here?’ Suddenly she remembered the keys so mysteriously missing. Seb knew where they were kept. He must have helped himself on his way out—while she was in the bedroom. ‘But he had no right—no right at all …’
‘He said there was no problem—that I could hide up here—get a few days’ peace. He said this was the end of the world, and that no one would ever find me here.’ He sounded weary. ‘You were supposed to be going abroad—Martinique, or some damned place,’ he added almost accusingly.
‘Mauritius,’ she said tersely. ‘But, as you can see, I’m standing right here.’
Jay Delaney lifted a bare, muscular shoulder in a laconic shrug. ‘Snap.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘It seems to cover the situation.’ His mouth slanted in a sudden, wry grin.
Maggie drew a sharp, angry breath. ‘Then perhaps you’d care to do the same,’ she said with icy significance, turning her back on him with elaborate ostentation.
To her fury, she heard him give a low amused chuckle. ‘Isn’t it a little late for outraged modesty? How old are you, anyway, sister-in-law—twenty-seven—twenty-eight? I can’t be showing anything you haven’t seen before.’
‘I’m twenty-four,’ she said, stung by his reference to her age, but at the same time relieved that he hadn’t gauged her total inexperience. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours,’ she added belatedly, listening to the rustle of material and the sound of a zip closing.
‘It’s safe to look,’ he said softly. ‘That’s if you didn’t see enough the first time around.’
Sudden colour burned her face as she turned unwillingly back to face him. ‘Actually, Mr Delaney, I would prefer not to see you at all. I want you out of my house, now.’
‘That could be difficult,’ he said thoughtfully. The jeans he had put on were like a second skin, Maggie thought in outrage. How could he seem marginally less decent clothed than naked?
‘Why?’ she asked glacially.
‘For one thing I have no transport. Sebastian smuggled me out of my hotel and brought me here in a hired car, to fool the Press gang. He’s coming back to collect me in time for the next police interview.’
‘Then you’ll just have to hire a car of your own, and find another refuge.’
‘You have no phone here.’
‘There’s a phone at the farm.’
‘But I can hardly turn up on the doorstep demanding to use it at this time of night.’ His reasonable tone grated on her. ‘Quite apart from the inconvenience I’d be causing, I don’t want to draw attention to myself right now.’
‘Why change the habits of a lifetime?’ Maggie said bitingly.
The firm mouth tightened. ‘I thought I’d made it clear that I’m hiding out here. I can’t set foot out of doors in London without some tabloid baying for my blood. As long as I can keep my presence here a secret, I’m safe for the time being.’
‘And you expect me to sympathise?’ Maggie shook her head. ‘I said Seb had no right to bring you here, and I meant it. I loathe you, Jay Delaney, and every arrogant, sexist, chauvinist element you stand for. You’re totally contemptible. Men like you have got to learn you can’t force yourself on unwilling women and get away with it. I hope they lock you, and all rapists, away forever.’
There was another taut silence. ‘Brave words,’ he said slowly. ‘Considering that, at this moment in time, I’m locked away with you. And who appointed you judge and jury, anyway, my little red-haired spitfire?’
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she said defiantly.
‘No?’ Jay Delaney took a step towards her. Then another. His eyes held hers, and his mouth curved in a smile without amusement.
Instinctively, Maggie backed away, and found herself trapped almost immediately against the wall behind her.
‘Don’t come near me.’ Her voice sounded shrill and ragged.
‘Why not? According to you, I’ve already raped one woman, so I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.’ He put a hand on the wall at either side of her body, effectively cutting off any hope of escape.
His eyes—they were incredibly blue, she noticed almost inconsequentially—began a leisurely and insolent inspection of her body, lingering in frank assessment on the small high breasts outlined beneath the cling of the black sweater, then sweeping down to the gentle swell of her hips and the length of her slender thighs.
His scrutiny seemed to sear through her clothes. She suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Her voice cracked. ‘Please—let me go.’
‘In my own good time,’ said Jay Delaney. Using the tip of one forefinger, he lightly, almost casually began to circle the peak of her left breast through her sweater. He did it with aching slowness, letting her nipple harden to taut, greedy life as he touched her. His eyes were dispassionate as they looked into hers.
Maggie leaned back against the wall, palms flattened, fingers splayed against the plaster, as if she was trying to impress herself on it or sink into it completely and be absorbed. Her body felt strangely heavy and her legs were shaking under her.
No one had ever touched her in this way before, and her body clenched in shamed and painful excitement.
What was happening to her, she asked herself dazedly? What was she allowing to happen? This couldn’t be real. It had to be some fantasy—some nightmare. She ought to protest—to struggle—to hit out. She couldn’t just—stand here, and let him subject her to this intimate torment.
Jay Delaney bent towards her, his lips only inches from hers, the sharp smell of alcohol on his breath. The warmth from his body seemed to envelop her, mingled with the faint scent of some cologne he used.
His hand slid under the ribbed welt of the sweater and caressed the warm, smooth skin above the waistband of her trousers, then stroked upwards to the cleft between her breasts and the tiny plastic clip which fastened her bra at the front. He twisted the clasp, snapping it open, letting the imprisoning lacy cups fall away from her breasts.
Her mouth was dry. Every nerve, every pulse in her body seemed to be suspended in anticipation, waiting to feel the stroke of his fingers on her bare and eager breasts.
But it did not happen.
Instead, Jay Delaney stepped back, pulling her sweater back into place almost with indifference. The blue eyes bored into hers.
He said softly, ‘You mentioned something about unwilling women. Do you include yourself in that category?’
She stared at him, trying to speak, trying to think of something to say, but no words would come. Instead, she knew an urge to burst into humiliated tears. She had never behaved like that before—never. Standing there, letting a complete stranger—insult her body.
‘Two more things,’ he said. ‘I hope you, as the owner of this property, are insured, because I may have broken a toe just now, falling over your damned hot water bottle. If I don’t walk, I don’t work, and my television company may well sue you.’
He picked up a half-empty bottle of Scotch from the night table and poured a measure into the glass beside it.
‘And, lastly, observe this. I’ve been drinking steadily since I got here, so even if half a dozen hired cars turned up at this moment I wouldn’t be driving any of them, lady, because I have far too much alcohol in my bloodstream.’ He raised the glass to her in a parody of a toast. ‘You can do as you please, sweetheart, but I’m going nowhere tonight.’
Her throat muscles worked at last. She said thickly, ‘Then I shall leave.’
Jay Delaney shrugged, then stretched out on the bed again, glass in hand. ‘That’s your privilege.’ He sounded almost bored.
Watching him like a hawk, she edged along the wall to the door, found the handle, turned it, and backed on to the landing. He seemed to have lost interest in her, but she didn’t trust him—not after the disgusting—the unforgivable way he had treated her.
Down in the living-room, she snatched up her bag from the kitchen table and ran to the door. As she opened it, the wind shrieked into the room, and for a moment she quailed.
Then, biting her lip, she forced herself out into the wildness of the night. Better to face a demon wind, she thought, than stay with that human fiend, currently drinking himself into extinction on her bed.
Battered and buffeted, Maggie had to fight every step of the way to the car. And even when she was in the driver’s seat, with the door shut, she didn’t feel safe. The car was rocking uneasily with every gust.
She took a deep breath as she started the engine, trying to calculate how far it was to the village. There was a pub there which handled overnight accommodation. They might not be too pleased to have to provide it at one o’clock in the morning, but surely they would understand this was an emergency.
She looked back at the cottage, and the light flickering in the upstairs room. Her sanctuary—and she was being driven away from it.
But only for one night, she thought. Tomorrow she would phone Seb’s London office and give her brother-in-law a piece of her mind, making it clear he could come and take Jay Delaney away. And he can think himself lucky I’m not charging him with indecent assault, she thought, fighting back an angry sob.
But the thought of describing what he had done to her to a police officer made her cringe. And there was the question of her own response too. Why hadn’t she at least slapped his face?
Damn him, she thought seething. Oh, damn him to hell.
If she had been concentrating more, she would probably have seen the giant elm lying across the track in time. As it was, when it loomed up in the headlights, she hit her brakes a fraction too late, and the Metro ploughed into it with a sickening crunch of metal and broken glass. Maggie was thrown forward, but her seat-belt held her firmly enough. Her ribs were bruised against the steering-wheel, and there was a sharp pain above her right eye, but apart from that she seemed to have got off lightly.
She sat, staring through the shattered windscreen, unable to believe what had happened.
She thought stupidly, ‘There’s a tree down. I’ll have to move it if I want to get out.’
She released her belt and tried to open her door, but it was jammed because of the impact, and she started to beat on the panels, shaking, and crying out in fear.
‘Turn your engine off.’ Suddenly Jay Delaney had materialised beside the car, and was shouting at her through the window. She forced her trembling fingers to comply. He gestured at her to wind the window down, and she obeyed.
‘It’s turning out to be quite a night,’ he said grimly, surveying the damage. ‘Your insurance company’s going to be working overtime. So what’s the problem? Door stuck?’
She nodded, her throat working convulsively.
‘Then we’ll try the passenger door.’ He sounded almost soothing. ‘And if that doesn’t work, we’ll get you out through the window, or the hatchback.’
The passenger door opened with a wrench.
‘OK,’ Jay said. ‘Just slide over, and get out.’
‘I—don’t think I can.’
He said something very rude and derisive under his breath, then leaned into the car, taking her hands in his.
‘You can’t sit there all night. If one tree’s down, others may follow,’ he added grimly. ‘So move.’
In the end, he had to half drag her from the car.
‘Can you walk?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then try putting one foot in front of the other, and see what happens.’
That was one of the funniest things she had ever heard, and she began to giggle weakly.
‘None of that.’ Jay’s fingers stung on her cheek, making her gasp. ‘Hysterics in the house, not out here.’
There were candles burning on the table and the dresser when they finally stumbled back into the living-room. Jay pulled out a chair and pushed Maggie into it.
He picked up the beaker from the table. ‘What’s this?’
‘I made myself some Bovril.’ A thousand years ago.
He grimaced. ‘Well, it’s cold now.’ He tipped it down the sink. ‘I prescribe hot milk with a slug of whisky in it.’ He paused. ‘Not that we have a great deal of milk. Seb only provided me with rations for one.’
‘I’ve brought some groceries.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In the boot of the car.’
There was a pungent silence, then he said, too politely, ‘How unfortunate you didn’t mention it a little earlier.’
‘They can wait there till tomorrow.’
‘They can indeed.’ He went upstairs and came back with the whisky. He had put on a sweater, she realised, before he had come to look for her, but in a strange way he still didn’t look any more dressed. Or did she just think that because she had been forced to see him so blatantly undressed?
She watched him open the cardboard container and pour milk into a saucepan, then put it on to heat.
‘You didn’t spill any,’ she said.
‘I’m housetrained. I used to live with a woman who was fussy about things like that.’
‘One of your many conquests, no doubt.’ And of course he would have to brag about it.
‘No,’ he said. ‘My mother.’
She was taken aback. That sounded altogether too cosy and domestic for someone like Jay Delaney. He was a jungle creature, a predator.
She watched him fill two beakers, add a measure of whisky to each, and bring them to the table.
‘Here.’ He passed her one.
‘I don’t like whisky.’
‘Tough. Drink it, or I’ll pour it down your throat.’
She sipped, shuddering elaborately. Jay seated himself opposite, and watched her sardonically.
‘Nice performance,’ he commented. ‘Are you in our profession?’
‘No, I’m in publishing.’
‘Let me guess.’ He pretended to think, then snapped his fingers. ‘Virago Books.’
She gave him a stony look. ‘Munroe and Craig, actually. We’re a fairly new imprint.’
‘Presumably, you’re neither Munroe nor Craig.’
‘No. I’m Maggie—Margaret Carlyle. I’m an editor.’
‘And an editor who should be in Mauritius.’
She bit her lip, and drank some more milk. In spite of her dislike of the taste she had to admit that there was a new warmth stealing through her veins, dispelling the trembling and the cold.
‘So,’ he went on. ‘What are you doing here, Maggie Carlyle?’
‘This is my house,’ she said curtly. ‘I don’t owe you any explanations.’
There was a silence. Then he said, ‘Let us agree that under normal circumstances, neither of us would wish to spend even five minutes in each other’s company. Yes?’
Maggie nodded, staring down at her beaker.
‘But circumstances are not normal, and whether we like it or not, we are stuck here together under the same roof, maybe for an indefinite period, so we may as well be civil to each other. Right?’
‘Not necessarily,’ she objected. ‘This storm won’t last forever. You can leave tomorrow.’
‘On foot?’ He gave her a steady look. ‘Lady, you aren’t even trying to be reasonable.’
She put down the beaker. ‘Is that how you’d describe some of your conduct tonight?’ Her voice sounded aggravatingly breathless suddenly. ‘Reasonable?’
‘I was just teaching you a much-needed lesson, sweetheart,’ he said levelly. ‘Don’t give it out, if you’re not prepared to take it. Maybe you’ll think twice next time before slagging me off about my supposed sins.’
‘There isn’t a great deal of supposition involved,’ she said coldly. ‘They’ve been fairly well documented.’
Jay leaned back, tilting his chair, surveying her through narrowed eyes. ‘You really like to live dangerously, don’t you, darling? Be warned, the next lesson will be administered to your backside, with the flat of my hand.’
‘Very macho,’ Maggie said with contempt. ‘Are you really pretending, Mr Delaney, that you don’t like your hard-won reputation as a hell-raiser?’
‘You deal with works of fiction every day of your life,’ Jay said with a shrug. ‘So how is it you believe everything you read in the newspapers?’
‘There’s no smoke without fire.’ She really couldn’t believe she had said that, and by the look of unholy amusement on his face neither could he.
‘That’s a novel thought,’ he said. ‘Did one of your authors write it?’
‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘It probably came from one of your television series.’ She pushed her chair back, and stood up. ‘And now I’m going up to bed, in my own spare room.’ She paused. ‘The door locks, and I don’t wish to be disturbed on any pretext.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Jay drawled. ‘If you’d really been following the reports of my private life, you’d know my taste doesn’t run to under-developed redheads.’ He got to his feet. ‘Before you go, do you have a first-aid kit around?’
‘Of course,’ Maggie said curtly, still smarting from ‘under-developed’. ‘Why, do you want to splint your broken toe?’
‘No, I’m thinking of taping over your mouth,’ he said with a certain grimness. ‘As it happens, you’ve cut your forehead. It needs cleaning up.’
‘Cut?’ Maggie remembered the sharp pain after the collision and put up a hand, encountering a faint stickiness. ‘Is it bad?’
‘Plastic surgeons can do miracles these days,’ he said gravely. ‘But for now, let’s see how we go with some antiseptic and a sticking-plaster.’
‘Oh, stop it.’ She glared at him. ‘It’s all a big joke to you—but this has been one of the worst days and the worst nights of my life.’
‘Whereas my own existence is just perfect at the moment, of course.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But if you want to spend the next few days wallowing in gloom and self-pity, it’s all right with me. Shall I attend to that cut first, or would you prefer blood poisoning in your present mood?’
She stood for a long mutinous minute, eyeing him, then trailed into the pantry and came back with the first-aid box. He was filling a basin with hot water from the kettle.
‘Thank you,’ she said stiltedly.
‘Don’t go overboard with the gratitude,’ he advised. ‘I promise this is going to hurt you far more than it hurts me.’
She endured his ministrations with gritted teeth.
‘Does it need a stitch?’
‘Well, it certainly isn’t going to get one.’ He applied a small piece of plaster. ‘The bandages can come off in a fortnight.’ He emptied the basin. ‘And, by the way, I’m not going to add to your list of grievances against me by turning you out of your bed. I’ll sleep in the spare room.’
She said quickly, ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind. Anyway, it’s rather too late to start changing sheets.’
‘Yours having been hopelessly contaminated by my fleeting presence, I suppose,’ he said, too evenly.
‘Not at all,’ Maggie protested unconvincingly, a betraying blush spreading up to her hairline.
Jay gave her a bleak look. ‘You, lady, are something else,’ he said.
He turned away and went up the stairs, and presently she heard the bedroom door bang.
She went round the living-room, tidying things, extinguishing all the candles except the one she would take upstairs with her.
And in spite of Jay’s avowal, she would still lock her door, she thought defiantly.
She supposed grudgingly that he had been kind enough, after the accident, but it didn’t change a thing. She still despised him and everything he stood for. And although she might be obliged to give him sanctuary tonight, there was no way she was going to share a roof with him again tomorrow.
Another fierce gust shook the house, and she shivered. Always supposing, she thought wryly, that there was any roof left to share.
She paused as a further thought occurred to her, then crossed to the sink unit. Opening the drawer, she extracted the sharpest long-bladed kitchen knife she possessed. He had already shown he couldn’t be trusted, she told herself. And she was entitled to protect herself.
She went slowly and gingerly up the stairs, protecting the candle-flame. Her room—his room—was in darkness, and she paused for a moment at the door, listening, wondering if he was safely asleep, anaesthetised by whisky.
His voice reached her, quietly and mockingly, ‘Goodnight, Maggie Carlyle. Pleasant dreams.’
She started so violently she nearly dropped the knife, and the candle-flame wavered and went out.
Cursing under her breath, she felt her way along the landing to the spare room. She found a match and relit the candle, putting it on the small chest of drawers, before turning the key in the lock.
The narrow single bed looked singularly uninviting. And there was a small solid hump in the middle of it.
Maggie pulled back the duvet and found herself staring down at the stone hot water bottle. For a moment she stood, motionless, then she sat down on the edge of the bed, buried her face in her hands, and began to cry.
It was an uncomfortable night. The noise of the storm was unabating, and several times Maggie was terrified that the window was going to blow in.
In spite of the reassurance of the knife under her pillow, she was still uneasily on tenterhooks, wondering what she would do if he forced an entry to her room and she was actually obliged to use it.
She was still debating the issue when she fell into an exhausted sleep just before dawn.
It was daylight when she finally opened bleary eyes on the world. The sky outside the window looked grey and angry, she realised shuddering, and the wind was still blowing fiercely.
She crawled out of bed and dragged on the trousers and sweater she had been wearing the previous night. Along with her bed, she had also sacrificed the washbasin, she realised crossly. She would have to perform her morning ablutions downstairs in the sink.
She had a lot to do today, she thought sombrely. She would have to notify Mr Grice about the fallen tree, and get him to phone the local garage to take her car away. She would also need to contact her insurance company.
And taking absolute priority over all these was the necessity to get Jay Delaney out of the cottage, and out of her life.
He wasn’t in the living-room when she went downstairs, and she seized the opportunity of the unexpected privacy to wash her face and hands and clean her teeth. When he had gone, she decided, she would lock the door, draw the curtains and get out the tin bath.
She was ashamed of the crying jag she had embarked on last night, she thought, as she filled the kettle and set it to boil, but in a way it was understandable. She had built such hopes and such dreams on that trip to Mauritius—and on her first night alone with Robin—that the situation at World’s End seemed a brutal anti-climax.
And if she was honest, finding the hot water bottle like that had been the final straw. An unlooked-for kindness from an unexpected source. An unwanted kindness, too, she reminded herself. If Jay Delaney thought he could creep into her good graces by such means, then he could think again.
He said from the doorway, ‘Have you got any weedkiller?’ making her jump all over again.
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Сара Крейвен
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades and made her an international bestseller.STORM FORCETrapped together!Jay Delaney, on camera, had a dynamic appeal. In person, his blend of magnetism was even more potent. Not that Maggie was interested.She′d had enough problems recently, and the last thing she wanted was an uninvited guest to disturb the peace and quiet of her solitary hideaway. But she didn′t have much choice, and despite her caution, Maggie found herself drawn to Jay. Would she trust him?"It′s wise not to start something you can′t finish," Jay warned her. But there was no way Maggie could predict how their encounter would end…