Penny Jordan - Force Of Feeling

The car’s headlights picked out the low, rambling shape of the cottage, and thankfully she eased her aching leg off the accelerator.

Now she really was tired. It would be bliss to get into a really hot bath and then just drop into bed, but she suspected the luxury of a bath would have to wait for another day. If she remembered correctly, the house was equipped with an immersion heater, but it would take too long to heat water tonight.

Thank goodness she had had the sense to pack a few basic necessities into one bag. She could take that in with her now, and the rest of the unpacking could wait until the morning.

Carefully easing her aching body out from behind the wheel, Campion found the bag, and a carton of typing paper. Locking the car, she made her way to the cottage.

The lock on the door must have been oiled recently, because the key turned easily in it, and the door yawned open of its own accord, making a creaking sound that made the hair on her scalp prickle, until she remembered that Helena had often laughed about this and other small idiosyncrasies that the cottage possessed.

It was very old, and had once been part of a large local estate, probably a small farmhouse. Helena’s great-grandparents had lived here all their married lives, and then Helena had inherited it from a great-aunt when she had died.

The kitchen was stone-flagged and consequently very cold. She shivered as she walked into it, reaching for the light switch and then remembering that it was on the far side of the room. The cottage’s wiring was rather haphazard, with light switches and sockets sometimes placed where one would not have expected to find them.

She started to cross the kitchen, and then froze as the lights suddenly snapped on.

For a moment, the brilliance of the unexpected light blinded her; and then shock followed hard on the heels of her initial astonishment.

‘What took you so long?’ a cool male voice drawled nonchalantly. ‘I thought you’d be here hours ago.’

Campion blinked and stared at the man leaning against the wall; and then she blinked again, trying to clear her vision.

Guy French, here? Impossible! She must be imagining things. But no—for one thing, this morning he had been wearing a suit—a very dark wool suit with a crisp, white shirt and a neatly striped tie—and now he was wearing a disreputable pair of jeans and a very thick jumper over a checked wool shirt. He was even wearing wellingtons. She goggled slightly as she noticed this. No, she was most definitely not imagining things! Had her mind been playing tricks with her, and superimposed Guy’s image against the homely background of Helena’s cottage kitchen, she was sure it would not have also seen fit to dress him in anything other than the immaculate suits and shirts she always saw him wearing.

‘Guy.’

Furiously, she realised that he actually had the audacity to laugh at her. How dared he? And anyway, what was he doing here?

The grin that curled his mobile mouth brought her back to reality. Staring stonily at him, she said as cuttingly as she could, ‘I suppose this must be your idea of a joke, Guy, but quite frankly I don’t think it’s funny. I don’t understand what you’re doing here, but, since you are here, you’ll understand, I’m sure, when I tell you that I’m leaving.’

‘Not so fast!’

She had never dreamt he could move so quickly, nor that he could be strong. She gulped as he barred her way to the door by placing his body in front of it, and gripping her arms with both his hands.

‘Let go of me!’ She jerked back from him instinctively, her whole body tensing against his touch, her lips drawn back from her teeth in a feral snarl, her eyes spitting furious green sparks.

He looked at her, and seemed about to say something, and Campion tensed against a further sarcastic retort. But, to her surprise, he complied with her demand, gently pushing her back from him.

‘This is no joke,’ he told her calmly. ‘Far from it. I meant what I said about your manuscript, Campion. It’s got to be finished, and you need help to get it finished on time, you know that. Running away down here won’t solve anything.’

‘I’m not running away.’

How dared he suggest that? She longed to tell him that if it wasn’t for his relentless bullying she wouldn’t be here at all.

‘Then what are you doing here?’

‘If you must know, I’ve come here to work …’

‘Really? A sudden decision, I take it, since you didn’t see fit to inform me of it this morning …’

‘Perhaps with good reason,’ Campion told him nastily, adding bitterly, ‘What business of yours is it where I do my work, Guy?’

‘Since I’m your agent, for the moment, I should say it was very much my business,’ he responded mildly. ‘You won’t solve anything by running away, you know.’

This was the second time he had made that accusation. Through gritted teeth, Campion told him curtly, ‘I am not running away. I’ve come here to work. Alone …’ She waved the typing paper at him. ‘See … I’ve even done some dictating on the way down here, and if you don’t mind, I’d now like to get it typed up …’

‘Dictating … Something along the lines we discussed, I hope …’

Campion refused to answer him.

‘Ah, I see … Just as well I’m here, then, isn’t it?’

A tiny sensation of something alien and rather alarming skittered down her spine, and Campion turned to look at him.

‘Why are you here, Guy?’ she asked him slowly. ‘And how did you know that I’d decided to come here?’

‘Simple—Mabel told me.’

‘Mabel?’ Campion stared at him.

‘Yes. I went round this afternoon to collect Helena’s post and go through it for her, and Mabel told me that you’d been round for the cottage keys. Luckily, she had a second set.’

He was dangling them from the tip of one strong, long finger, and a feeling of weakness and disbelief filled Campion as she stared at him.

‘And so you decided to come down here yourself … but why?’

‘Do you remember any of what I said to you this morning?’ he asked her softly.

Did she remember? How could she forget?

‘Yes.’ Her terse answer made him smile slightly, and for one mad moment she had to stop herself from responding to that strange little smile.

‘Then you’ll remember that I told you I’d given the publishers my word that your manuscript would be on their desk on time …’

‘Yes,’ she agreed woodenly, remembering, too, that she had told him it was impossible. That was when they had had their argument about her having a secretary.

‘I even offered you the services of a secretary to help you,’ he added gently.

Campion’s chest swelled with indignation and fury.

‘I don’t want a secretary!’ she told him through bared teeth. ‘I don’t work that way. I don’t need any help with this book, Guy.’

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ he told her unequivocably. ‘But you’re right, you don’t need a secretary; at least, not the kind I had in mind.’

He was looking at her in a way that made danger signals race from one nerve-ending to another, and a tiny prickle of awareness of him touched her skin. He was standing too close to her, and she instinctively took a step back from him. He smiled when he saw her betraying movement, but there was no humour in his smile.

‘Tell me something,’ he encouraged softly. ‘Your heroines, Campion, do they have much of you in them? Or to put it another way—do you imagine yourself to be them when you’re writing?’

A hot wave of colour scalded her skin before she could hold it back.

‘No,’ she told him forcefully. ‘No, I don’t. Why do you ask?’