Читать книгу Storm Force - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 6

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.