Storm Force

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

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.