found a battered-looking saucepan in one of the cupboards, and broke a fingernail into the bargain, and she was fractious and flustered by the time she returned, carrying two steaming mugs of black tea. But at least he had managed to get the fire going properly, and tentative flames were licking at one of the logs, bathing the room in soft, comforting shades of scarlet and orange.
She took her coat off and crept towards the fire’s warmth. She handed him a mug, then crouched down on the floor, wishing she were wearing something warmer and more practical than a leather skirt and wondering why on earth she had, on such a cold day. Because it’s fashionable, she reminded herself, and because the designer begged you to take it as a gift.
Jay Linur had removed his rather battered flying jacket too, but, unlike her, he had obviously made no concessions to sartorial elegance. His outfit was tough and practical. Faded jeans hugged his long, lean legs and he wore a warm dark sweater which softly clung to his torso. Firelight danced flames across the ruffled black hair, which was thick and slightly too long—giving him a buccaneer air which seemed to blend in well with the ancient fireplace.
He looked, she realised, completely at home as he lounged rather indolently along the rug, watching the progress of the fire—all rugged and arrogant confidence as he gazed into the flames, his thick lashes hooding his eyes. He turned his head to study her with lazy interest.
Keri put her mug down and winced as the ragged nail scratched against the palm of her hand.
‘Hurt yourself?’ he questioned softly.
‘Not really, but I’ve broken my nail—and I can’t even file it down—I left my make-up bag in the car!’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Outside it’s sub-zero, the snow is still coming down with no sign of a let-up, we’re stranded God knows where, and all you can worry about is your damned fingernail!’
Keri was stung into defence. ‘It isn’t just vanity, if that’s what you’re implying—my job happens to depend on the state of my hands, among other things, and I was supposed to be doing a magazine-shoot for nail varnish next week!’ It was, she realised, the first time in her life that she had ever felt the need to justify her job to anyone. So why—especially now, and to him of all people?
Jay took a mug of tea, sipped it and grimaced, wondering what type of world it was where a broken fingernail could mean anything at all other than just that. Not a world he could ever inhabit, that was for sure. Different strokes for different folks, he supposed.
He put the drink down in disgust. ‘What the hell did you put in this? Arsenic?’
‘Oh, please don’t tempt me! I just used what was available,’ she said crossly. ‘Which were teabags which looked like they belonged in the Dark Ages!’
‘Don’t believe they had teabags in the Dark Ages,’ he responded drily.
Keri almost laughed. Almost. Boundaries, she reminded herself. ‘Do you have an answer for everything, Mr Linur?’
He looked at her. Oh, yes. The answer was staring him right in the face right now. Her lips were parted, so soft and so gleaming that they were practically begging to be kissed. He didn’t have to approve of an icy beauty whose whole livelihood depended on the random paintbox of looks which nature had thrown together, but it didn’t stop him wanting her.
‘Try me,’ he murmured. ‘Ask me any question you like.’
There it was again—that tingy feeling, that sense of being out of control, as if she had drunk too much champagne too quickly. Keri swallowed. ‘Okay. How’s this for starters—just how are you proposing to get us out of here?’
JAY shrugged. ‘I’m not,’ he said flatly.
Keri raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean that we’re going to have to stay here for ever?’
He smiled at her sarcasm. Don’t worry, sweetheart, he thought acidly—the idea appalls me just as much as it clearly does you. ‘It’s an intriguing prospect, but no. There’s not a lot we can do, at least until the snow stops. Until then we’ll just have to sit it out.’
The thought of that was making her more than uneasy. ‘For how long?’
‘Who knows? Until the thaw starts, or until someone finds us.’
And who knew how long that would be? ‘You haven’t even tried telephoning for help!’ she accused.
‘That’s because there isn’t a phone. I checked.’
‘How can a place not have a telephone in this day and age?’
He shrugged his broad shoulders. It sounded like bliss to him. ‘For the same reason that there’s no television.’ He shifted his legs slightly. ‘I suspect that this is a holiday home and that the people who own it have deliberately decided to do away with all modern comforts.’
‘Why would they do something like that?’
‘The usual reasons. Televisions and telephones create stress, and some people don’t like that stress. It’s why they sail. Or climb mountains. Why they buy places like this—to escape.’
His voice had taken on a hard note, the tone of someone who was familiar with the word ‘escape’, and suddenly Keri longed for the safe and predictable. The sanctuary of her London flat—a clean and modernistic haven, as far removed from this big barn of a place as it was possible to imagine. Where heating was instantly produced by the touch of a button and cars and taxis moved comfortingly outside.
A world where men wore linen and silk and paid you clever compliments—not criticising you and then eyeing you with a kind of lazy watchfulness which had the ability to make you feel as flustered as a gauche young girl, and moving their legs as if to draw attention to their hard, muscular definition.
Quickly, she looked into the fire instead. ‘Ironic, really,’ she said, and thought how loud her voice sounded in the big, echoing room. ‘A house designed for people to escape to, and we can’t get out of it!’
‘It could be a lot worse,’ he said grimly. ‘At least we’re inside.’
Yes, they were. Alone. And Keri had been right—there were no rules in situation like this; they had to make them up as they went along. ‘So what are we going to do?’
He sat up. ‘Well, first we need to eat.’
‘Eat?’ she echoed blankly.
‘You do eat, I suppose?’ He watched her in the firelight. She was all bones, he thought—angles and shadows and long, slender legs, like a highly strung racehorse. The leather skirt clung to hips which were as narrow as a boy’s, and although she did have breasts, they were tiny, like a young girl’s. Jay liked his women curvy, with firm flesh that you could mould beneath the palms of your hands and soft hips that you could hold onto as you drove into them and catapulted them to pleasure. ‘Though not a lot, by the look of you.’
‘Oddly enough, the well-fed look isn’t in vogue at the moment,’ she said drily.
‘I’ve
