Substitute Lover

Gray was her friend. He knew how much she loathed anything that had the slightest sexual connotation, and yet here he was deliberately making her aware of his sexuality, of the very masculine side of him that he had previously held in check.

Before she could protest he said bleakly, ‘Don’t provoke me, Steph, I’m not in the mood for it.’

As he turned away from her she recognised that she was not the only one who had lost weight; he too was slightly thinner, his profile carved in slightly harder lines. Was something wrong? Was that why he wanted to see her? Was that why he was acting so oddly? From the time of Paul’s death he had been her friend, he had supported and protected her, and she had come to lean on him, to trust him, as she knew she could never trust anyone else, but now …

He paused at the door and turned towards her.

‘Not everyone’s like you, Steph,’ he told her harshly. ‘We haven’t all abdicated from the human race, and the needs and emotions that go with being human.’

Stephanie recoiled as though he had hit her. In all the years they had been friends, Gray had never once spoken to her like that. Never once looked at her the way he was looking at her right now, with his mouth twisted and his eyes hard and accusing.

‘Gray …’ Panic filled her voice and her eyes. What was happening to them? She was losing him … losing his friendship … she could sense it, feel it almost …

‘I’ll see you later.’

He was gone before she could object. Numbly she stared at the closed door. What was happening? A tiny frisson of fear trembled through her. She wandered uneasily round the small sitting-room. The cottage was very old, the rooms low-ceilinged and beamed. She sat down in one of the chintz-covered chairs and stared unseeingly into the empty fireplace. The horse brasses, collected by Gray’s mother, shone against the buttermilk-coloured walls, the soft salt-laden breeze flowing in through one of the open lattice windows. The room was as familiar to Stephanie as her London flat, although she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had been here since Paul’s death. The house had been let while Gray lived with Paul’s parents, but as soon as he was eighteen he had announced that he was moving into his parents’ old home. There had never been the rapport between Gray and Paul’s parents that had existed between them and their own child. Many, many times he must have felt shut out, but to his credit he had never let it show … never resented Paul in the way that the younger man had resented him. They had never discussed Paul’s animosity towards him; the past was a closed book and one which she had assumed neither of them wished to open.

She had never thought of Gray in any male or sexual sense, but today, shockingly, she had looked at him and seen not her friend, but a man with sexual desires and drives like any other.

A curious, aching pain built up inside her and spread tormentingly through her body. What was wrong with her? Was she really so insecure that she feared the thought of sharing Gray with someone else? She had always known that he didn’t live the life of a monk … but until today she had never come face to face with the reality of his sexuality, and she was shocked by her own reaction to it. Instead of feeling nothing, she had felt a surprising degree of jealousy. But why?

And why had Gray been so offhand, almost angry with her? Normally he greeted her with a warm hug and a welcoming smile, but not this time—not today. Had it been because Carla had been there? It shocked her how much she had missed that brief, warm contact with his body. Confused by the chaos of her thoughts and feelings, she tried to dismiss them as a natural result of her return to the place where she had known such pain and misery, but something deep inside her refused to be convinced.

Angry with herself, Stephanie went outside to her car and brought in her suitcase. She didn’t intend staying for more than a couple of days, and it didn’t take her long to unpack her things and put them away. The room she was sleeping in had sloping eaves and a tiny window that overlooked the wild tangle of the cottage garden, and the hills beyond. The cottage had four bedrooms, and this one had once been Gray’s.

Now he slept in the large double bedroom which had once been his parents’, and as she stepped out on to the landing something made her hesitate and then slowly push open the door to Gray’s room.

He had an experienced sailor’s neatness. Nothing was out of place. An old-fashioned four-poster bed dominated the room, and against her will Stephanie’s eyes were drawn to it. How many women had shared it with Gray over the years? None of them would have been like her, frigid and undesirable. A lump gathered painfully in her chest, a familiar sense of anguish enveloping her. She didn’t want to be the way she was. She …

‘Looking for something?’

The unexpectedly harsh sound of Gray’s voice behind her made her jump. She turned round sharply, stumbling in shock. She hadn’t heard him come in.

Instantly his arms came out to steady her. Although it had been months since he last held her, she was immediately aware of a sense of homecoming and security. Without being aware of what she was doing, she snuggled up against him, sighing faintly.

‘For God’s sake, Stephanie!’

Instantly she stiffened in his arms, suddenly conscious of the hard thud of his heart and the heat coming off his body.

‘What the hell are you doing? Dreaming about Paul? He’s dead, Stephanie. Dead. And for all the living you do, you might as well be, too. Hasn’t there been anyone in these last ten years?’

‘I don’t want that sort of relationship in my life. You know that.’ She had to turn her head so that he couldn’t look at her.

As his arms dropped away from her, he said flatly, ‘We … you can’t go on living like this, Steph. It’s not …’

‘Not what? Not “natural”? Is that what you’re going to say, Gray? That I’m not “natural”?’

Her overwrought nerves shrieked in protest as she flung the words at him.

He seemed to be looking at her with an odd mixture of pain and defeat in his eyes. Her breath locked in her throat, tears not far away. What on earth was happening to them? She and Gray had been so close, such good friends, and now … and now they seemed to be teetering on the brink of destroying all that they had shared.

He made a slight movement, a reaching out towards her from which she immediately recoiled, her expression proud and tortured as she cried out painfully, ‘You want the truth, Gray? All right, I’ll give it to you. I don’t have the least interest in sex.’ She took a deep, rather shaky breath. ‘I’m frigid, Gray.’ There, she’d said it; she’d admitted at last the agonising lack of sexuality that had caused her so much pain.

‘Steph!’

She heard the shock in Gray’s voice, but she couldn’t respond to it; couldn’t listen to any more questions now, however well meant. Gray cared for her as a friend, and would want to help her, but this was one problem that no one else could help with.

Suddenly she had an overwhelming need to be alone.

‘I … I think I’d better find somewhere else to stay tonight, Gray, I …’

She saw from the look on his face that she had hurt and angered him. So many gulfs were springing up between them, so many barriers that couldn’t be crossed.

She made a dash for her room and privacy, coming to an abrupt halt as Gray’s fingers tightened round her wrist, holding her prisoner. Shock had darkened his eyes to dense sapphire, his mouth a hard line of disbelief as he shook her.

‘What the hell is this, Steph? Is that really what you think? That you’re frigid?’

‘Isn’t it what you think?’ As she stood there, trembling, Stephanie wondered frantically what on earth had happened between them to promote this conversation. Talking about her relationship with Paul and the flaws in her femininity wasn’t something she had ever wanted to do, least of all with Gray, who, friend though he was, was also so undeniably male that he made her acutely aware of the pathetic shortcomings in her own personality. Instinctively, without knowing how she possessed that knowledge, she knew that as a lover Gray would be both skilled and tender.

Dragging her mind away from such provocative thoughts she saw that he was frowning.

‘I don’t make those kind of assumptions without some hard facts to back them up. As I haven’t been to bed with you, I don’t know, do I?’

It was what he hadn’t said rather than what he had that shocked her speechless.

‘I’ll wash and then we’ll have something to eat. I’ve got a lot to talk over with you.’

His calm words broke the spell that had held her silent.

‘Won’t Carla object to your spending the evening with me?’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘Why should she? She knows that we’re old friends.’

To her chagrin, Stephanie realised that he was looking amused.

‘Why don’t you go down and make us some coffee? And then over dinner I’ll show you the plans of the new boat I’m working on.’

This was the Gray she knew … her friend. The tension that had engulfed her earlier eased. Feeling relieved, she hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

Mrs Ames, Gray’s daily, had left a casserole ready-prepared in the fridge, and one of her famous apple pies.

Although the cottage had a pretty dining-room, normally when she came to stay they ate off trays in the sitting-room. It was more cosy.

It didn’t take long to make the coffee and, wanting to make amends for her earlier childishness, Stephanie poured some into a mug for Gray and took it upstairs.

His bedroom door was open. She could smell the clean, pine-fresh scent of his soap, and from behind the closed door of his bathroom she could hear him singing.

Her mouth curved into a brief grin as she recognised the familiar sound of an old sea shanty. It was one Gray only sang when he was feeling particularly happy. Perhaps she had been wrong about there being some serious problem with the boat-yard.