Don't be mean. Let me come with you.'
‘You can't.'
‘Why not?'
‘Because I'm going to the beach—'
‘I knew you were!’ she exclaimed triumphantly.
‘—across the fields!'
Catherine frowned. ‘I don't understand.'
‘Look, it's five miles round by road. It's less than half that distance across the paddock.'
‘I see.’ Catherine drew her lower lip between her teeth. The idea of riding across the bumpy turf on the motor-bike sounded like fun, but it was something she could not undertake without exploding the myth of her phoney pregnancy.
‘So—will you get off the bike?'
Jared looked grim, but she wouldn't give in that easily. ‘Couldn't we—couldn't you take the road for once?’ she suggested hopefully.
‘No, I—’ Jared broke off to regard her dourly for a moment. Then he gave a heavy sigh. ‘All right, Miss Fulton, you win. I'll take you to the beach—but in the convertible.'
‘Oh, no!’ Catherine had been looking forward to riding on a motor-bike again. She had had one once, when she was sixteen.
‘Oh, yes. Come on.’ He was impatient now, holding out a hand to assist her to dismount, which she took with ill grace. ‘Don't be surprised if you haven't woken up the whole household.'
But she hadn't, and when they drove away from the garages, only old Sylvester saw them leave. It was marvellous, feeling the cool air in their faces, and Catherine found she was actually looking forward to this hour alone with her reluctant escort.
Jared parked the car on a headland overlooking a wild and beautiful stretch of beach, the sand bleached white by the sun, where the surf came thundering in from the reef. But when she would have got out of the car, he stopped her, saying: ‘You can't swim here. This is Flintlock. I come surfing here.'
‘Is this where you were heading this morning?'
He nodded, and would have started the engine again, only she stopped him, her slim fingers curving round his wrist. ‘Don't,’ she said, withdrawing her hand when he turned to look at her. ‘I've done some surfing. Not a lot, but some—in Cornwall. That's the southernmost corner of England.'
‘I know where Cornwall is,’ he said dryly.
‘Oh! Oh, well, then. Why can't we try it now? I'm willing.'
Jared's eyes dropped pointedly to her stomach. ‘Are you?'
‘Yes, of course.’ She sighed, colouring in spite of herself. ‘I've told you, it's months and months away. I don't intend doing anything reckless. But I don't want to spoil your—your pleasure.'
‘Haven't you done that already?’ he countered, and she glared at him.
‘Well? Have I?'
His eyes probed hers for a long disturbing moment, and then he thrust open his door and climbed out. ‘I'll let you know,’ he replied enigmatically.
There were steps down to the beach, and Jared went ahead, glancing round from time to time to assure himself that she was all right. Catherine couldn't help feeling touched by this involuntary display of concern on her behalf, although she guessed he would have done the same for anybody.
Halfway down, they came in sight of a low beach house, set in the lee of the cliffs and not visible from above. It stood on supports, a couple of feet above the sand, and as they came down the last of the steps Jared said: ‘This is mine. I work here sometimes. And it's useful as a retreat!’ this last with a meaning glance in her direction.
Catherine tossed back her hair, and walked across the sand, kicking off her sandals and carrying them. She climbed the shallow steps to the shaded verandah and looked in through the sand-dusted windows.
Jared seemed to hesitate, and then he said: ‘The door isn't locked. You can go in, if you want to.'
Catherine looked round at him, could read no hidden menace in his expression, and turned the handle of the door. Inside, there was a faint smell of oil paints and canvas, and looking round the room she could see why. There was a stove in one corner, for heating on cooler days, she presumed, a couple of squashy leather chairs which were worn in places, a low table, cupboards for storing things, and a cooker, sink and refrigerator. But in every available space there were stacks of canvases, strewn haphazardly around the walls, and propped against an easel which leaned drunkenly against one of the chairs.
She stood just inside the door looking about her, and Jared came to support himself against the jamb, regarding her without evident hostility for once. ‘Well?’ he said, making it a question. ‘Are you appalled at the mess?'
Catherine half turned towards him. ‘Why should I be? I expect you work very well here.'
He frowned. ‘Why do you say that?'
‘I don't know.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘It's the disorder, I suppose. I read something once, I don't remember where—in one of those trendy journals, I think—and it said something about order being without inspiration. That creating anything—artistic, in disciplined surroundings, is like mining for diamonds in a velvet-lined box.'
Jared straightened, his lips twisting-mockingly. ‘How very apt! And how perceptive of you to remember it.'
Catherine sighed. ‘Sometimes those articles are just rubbish! I just thought that particular one had some merit.'
‘Oh, it did.’ Jared passed her and walked indolently across the room, kicking aside a tube of paint which oozed stickily on to the bare boards. He indicated a divan in one corner, half hidden from her view by other paraphernalia. ‘I sleep here sometimes. It's quiet, and I don't mind the sound of the ocean. And, as you say, I enjoy the chaos.'
He looked at her as he spoke, and she felt a curious warning sensation in the pit of her stomach. When he was not using the sharp edge of his sarcasm against her, he was disturbingly attractive, and the girlish feelings he had aroused all those years ago did not seem quite so distant after all.
As though realising that for a few moments he had forgotten his antipathy towards her, he withdrew his gaze from hers and hauled a couple of surfboards out from behind the door. One was bigger than the other, but they were both made of fibre-glass and very light.
‘Are you sure you want to try this?’ he asked, his voice hard and slightly impatient, and she nodded eagerly.
‘Of course. Is this one mine?’ She indicated the smaller board. ‘Hmm, smell that scent of the sea!'
They came down the steps on to the beach and looked towards the ocean. The sun glittered and danced on the water, dazzling the eyes, jewelling the foam to sparkling brilliance. The sun was rising higher, and its heat was making the sand warm beneath their feet.
Catherine bent her head to unzip her jeans and Jared gave her an angry look. ‘What are you doing?'
She looked up in surprise. ‘I don't normally go swimming in my jeans,’
