Penny Jordan Tribute Collection. PENNY JORDAN
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that somehow it had developed a new plot—a new and extremely upsetting ending.
In the past it had always followed a familiar and recognisable pattern. The man… the darkened room, his hands reaching for her… his anger when she rejected him, her escape and his pursuit down narrow, dark, wet streets in which she was completely alone and unprotected, the only sounds those of her own terrified breathing and the pounding, ever closer footsteps of her pursuer.
In the past she had always managed to escape… to wake up before he caught up with her, but this time… this time…
Her teeth chattered together as her body gave a deep shudder.
This time she had not escaped; this time he had caught up with her, his hand… both his hands… reaching for her, holding her prisoner.
She had fought frantically against the horror of his remembered and loathed touch, finally managing to turn round to face him, to plead with him for mercy.
Only when she had turned round the face she had seen had not been the one she had expected. Instead it had been Brad who had looked back at her, and inexplicably, as she’d recognised him, somehow the touch that had felt so terrifying and so loathsome had become comforting and even more disturbing, actually welcome to her body.
Relief had filled her sleep-sedated body as her fear had turned to joy, and she’d actually stepped towards him, welcoming the firm warmth of his arms around her, the scent of his skin as he’d held her close, his jaw against her hair as his arms had tightened around her and his voice had soothed her.
‘It’s you,’ she had said softly, breathlessly as she’d pressed her trembling body against his, drawing support from his proximity and strength, luxuriating almost in the closeness of him, in the knowledge that with him she was safe and protected, trembling between laughter at her foolishness in ever having been afraid and tears because of the memories that had caused that fear.
As he’d cupped her face in his hands and bent his head to kiss her she had responded eagerly to that kiss, tightening her own arms around him, opening her mouth beneath his, anticipating in her mind the sensual pleasure of feeling his naked body against her own—a pleasure which, in her dream, both her body and her mind had recognised as one with which it was already familiar. They had not been new lovers unaccustomed to one another or unaware of one another’s needs; there had been a harmony between them—an acceptance, a knowledge…
He had been so tender with her, so gentle, wiping away her tears, sharing with her her emotional relief that he was there holding her and that she had nothing, after all, to fear, that with him she was safe… protected… loved… a woman at last in every sense of the word…
A woman at last. Claire bit her lip now, balling her hands into two tight fists of angry rejection. She was already a woman; she did not need a man—any man—to reinforce that fact, and most especially she did not need Brad to reinforce it.
She had no idea why on earth she had dreamed about him like that and her face burned in the darkness as she could feel the heat of desire, her dream of him affecting her still… echoing through her body…
When Sally had talked about her marrying again it had been easy for her to shake her head and say sedately that she was happy as she was.
No needs or desires had ever troubled her celibate sleep, and a comment made by another woman friend, when they had been having lunch together one day—that the young waiter serving them had a fantastic body—had left her feeling slightly shocked that her friend should have noticed and inwardly relieved that she herself had not.
Of course, there had been occasions over the years when she had felt uncomfortable with the knowledge that her own sexuality—or rather the lack of it—was so out of step with the times, but during the years of her marriage her life had been a very busy one. John had, in his own way, been a very quietly strong-willed man, and his confidence in the way their marriage worked had made it easy for her to ignore her own doubts about her lack of sexual desire.
Before now, at thirty-four and a widow, she had felt herself safe on the small plateau of security that she had thought she had found. There had, of course, been men who had shown signs of sexual interest in her, but she had gently and tactfully made it clear that she felt no corresponding interest, and the last thing she had ever expected to happen was that she should so unwontedly and inappropriately develop a personal sexual awareness of a man.
As she continued to stare into the darkness she felt as though a part of herself had suddenly betrayed her, become alien to her… and, because of that, somehow out of her control. Dangerously out of her control, she acknowledged, blushing as she fought to ignore certain memories of just how enthusiastically and passionately she had not just responded to Brad in her dream but actually initiated the sensuality between them.
Another shudder tormented her body, her skin now chilled by the cool night air, but her heartbeat was starting to return to its normal rhythm. Tiredly Claire lay down again, closing her eyes and willing herself to go back to sleep, but this time without dreaming about Brad.
Claire smiled ruefully as she reread Sally’s postcard. It had arrived in the morning’s post and showed an idyllic view of a soft white half-moon beach and an impossibly azure sea—’the view from the veranda of our beach-side bungalow’, Sally had written.
They were honeymooning in the Seychelles and their hotel, according to Sally’s ecstatic card, was every bit as wonderful as the brochure had promised.
Typically, though, as well as reassuring Claire that she was wonderfully, blissfully happy, Sally had added a cryptic postscript to her message, teasing Claire about the fact that she had helped to catch her wedding bouquet.
‘Remember,’ she urged her stepmother, ‘you want a man you can have all to yourself, not one you’ve only got a share in.’ A reference, Claire knew, to the fact that she had not been the only one to catch the wedding bouquet.
The arrival of Sally’s card had helped distract her thoughts away from Brad and the disruption he was causing in her life. Nonetheless, when she heard a car pulling up outside her whole body tensed, and it was a relief to discover when she went to the door that her visitor was Irene.
‘I’m just on my way to the supermarket and I thought I’d call to see if you needed anything,’ her sister-in-law informed her as she came in. She gave a small sigh. ‘Poor Tim; he hardly slept at all last night. Claire… if Brad should happen to mention anything about the company to you—’
‘Oh, I’m sure he won’t,’ Claire interrupted her.
‘Well, maybe not, but he is, after all, over here on his own and you do have a way of… Well, people do tend to confide in you… and the two of you will be spending quite a lot of time together…’
Claire stared at her.
‘No, we won’t,’ she protested. ‘We’ll hardly see one another.’
‘He’ll be here at mealtimes… in the evening… you’ll be having dinner together,’ Irene pointed out. ‘I mean, that was one of the reasons he wanted to live somewhere en famille, so to speak—because he didn’t want the anonymity of dining alone in a hotel restaurant.’
Eating together… Claire swallowed nervously.
Later, as she walked across the kitchen, the American cookery book that Irene had given her caught her eye. Glaring irritably at it, she suffered an unfamiliar surge of rebellion.
If she had to feed Brad, then at least she could exercise some form of control over the situation by feeding him food of her own choice.
Determinedly she walked towards her freezer and removed the ingredients she wanted.
John had always praised her cooking. He had liked old-fashioned, simple home-made food, and over the years Claire had found ways of adapting recipes so that she was able to satisfy his taste for the food he remembered his mother making and also ensure that the meals she served were nutritious and healthy.
She