The Judas Trap. Anne Mather
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But I don’t think I am. I think you’re a very—astute woman, a very clever woman. But you won’t fool me. Not like you fooled Adam.’
‘So …’ Sara’s voice quivered a little, ‘we return to the point. What do you intend to do with me?’
‘Well …’ He put down his glass and leaned forward, resting his arms along the table at either side of his plate. ‘I’ll be honest. My initial intentions bordered on the homicidal. And when I got hold of you, I—well, let’s say, your timing was brilliant.’
‘My—timing?’
‘The faint. When you lost consciousness.’ His tongue brushed his lower lip. ‘Oh, yes, that was worthy of the true professional!’
Sara knew there was no point in denying that she had enforced her state of oblivion. To do so would entail explanations she was curiously loath to give. It was crazy, but there was something forbidden and exciting about what she was doing, and while she knew her mother—God rest her soul—would have been horrified by her recklessness, for the first time in her sheltered existence, she felt really alive! Not even Tony had been able to achieve that.
‘You—you’re saying you wanted to kill me?’ she breathed, the words scarcely audible, and thick lashes veiled his eyes.
‘Is that so surprising?’ he demanded. ‘Because of you, my brother lived a life of hell!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry!’ He threw the words back at her. ‘Do you think that does any good? Saying you’re sorry? My God, you sit there looking the picture of innocence, with one man’s death on your conscience, and the prospect of another’s pending.’
Her arched brows drew together. ‘I—don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you?’ he sneered. ‘Why do you think I brought you down here? Not for a cosy get-together, believe me! I intended you should pay—one way or the other—for what you did to my brother.’
‘One way—or the other?’ she echoed.
‘Yes.’ He thrust himself back so that his chair tipped on to two legs. ‘Death—or convicted as the murderess you are. I can’t decide which affords the most satisfaction.’
Sara gasped. ‘You’re mad!’ The sense of excitement was souring. ‘I tell you, I’m not Diane.’
Michael Tregower shrugged, dropping back on to the four legs of the chair with an unnerving thud. ‘No—well, there’s no hurry. We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘Plenty of time?’ Sara stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean exactly what I say. We’re not going anywhere. Not either of us.’
THE TELEPHONE was the only link with the outside world. Seated in the library, in front of a now-roaring fire, with a glass of brandy cradled between her fingers, Sara reviewed her situation. It was not particularly reassuring. Short of betraying her physical condition, Michael Tregower was unlikely to listen to her pleas, and no doubt he had already taken the phone into consideration. The front door was locked. He had not even allowed her to get her night things from the Mini. It was raining. But strangely, Sara was not afraid.
She couldn’t decide about that. She couldn’t decide whether her lack of fear was due to the knowledge that whatever Michael Tregower intended, it would not happen tonight—and time to delay was time to reconsider—or whether the curious sense of fatality which had gripped her since she encountered the man had made her philosophical. There was also her own reactions to him, of course. A kind of fascination—half curiosity, half revulsion, that had successfully rid her mind of all thoughts of Tony for the past few hours …
The door behind her opened, and she started out of her reverie. He had installed her here while he attended to other things, and although she seldom drank, she was glad of the warming fire in the brandy. As once before, a strange look crossed his face as he stared at her, then he closed the door behind him and said:
‘You look quite at home. How many evenings have you curled up in that chair with Adam for company, I wonder?’
Immediately Sara pushed her feet to the floor. It was a favourite position of hers, kicking off her shoes, and curling her legs up under her. But now she sought around for her ankle boots again, feeling too vulnerable without them.
Michael Tregower crossed the carpet swiftly and kicked them aside, causing her to look up at him indignantly.
‘You won’t need them tonight,’ he said, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a humour-less smile.
Sara sighed, determining not to let him disturb her again. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I intended to stay here anyway. Diane’s loaned me the house for a fortni—’
‘The hell she has!’ he snapped. ‘This house is not hers to lend.’
‘Hers?’
Sara couldn’t resist the taunt, but it was quickly over-ridden. ‘Yours, then,’ he agreed coldly. ‘You forfeited the right to Ravens Mill when you walked out on my brother.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Sara couldn’t let that go. ‘You’ve been out of the country too long, Mr Tregower. The law is changed. Half of everything goes to the wife at the time of a divorce or separation. And Diane and Adam were never divorced. That means—’
‘You scheming little bitch!’ he bit out furiously, grasping her arms and hauling her up out of the chair, so that the brandy glass spun out of her hand and splintered noisily in the grate. ‘Are you daring to suggest that you own this house? That what was Adam’s is now yours?’
Sara was trembling so much she could hardly stand, but his hands supported her, cruel hands that bit into the flesh of her upper arms, through the thin material of her blouse now that she had shed the jersey jacket.
‘I—I was only telling you—’ she stammered, as he glared down at her, and his expression changed as her colour receded.
‘So pale,’ he muttered. ‘So fragile! No wonder you drove poor old Adam out of his mind!’ and dragging her closer, he forced his mouth down on hers.
With one hand imprisoned at the nape of her neck, he held her close against him, her rounded breasts crushed against the hardness of his chest. His possession was total and suffocating, but although Sara’s heart fluttered, she could feel other emotions stirring inside her. No man had ever kissed her so brutally, so adultly, so angrily—and yet, as he continued to hold her, she sensed the reluctant change that came over him.
The hand that still gripped her arm relaxed its hold, sliding across her shoulder to her neck, pushing aside the neckline of her shirt and invading the tender warmth within. She offered only a tentative resistance as his fingers caressed her bare shoulders, but when the buttons parted, she tore her mouth from his.
‘No—’
‘No?’ he mocked, bending his head to touch her skin with his tongue. ‘Hmm, you taste delicious.’ His voice hardened. ‘You’re not wearing a bra. Did you think I didn’t know?’ His eyes were half closed. ‘I knew. And you’re beautiful … beautiful …’
His hand cupped one rose-tipped breast as he spoke, massaging its swollen fullness with caressing appreciation, exploring the hardening nipple with disturbing effect.
‘You—you shouldn’t,’ she protested, but the hands she raised to stop him only clung to him, and as if he sensed her weakness, his gentleness fled.
With a rough gesture he dragged the shirt across her breasts and turned away from her, saying violently: ‘I swore on my brother’s grave that I would make you pay for what you’d done to him! God, how was I to know you’d enjoy it?’