Levelling The Score

‘Craig and I have lived together for quite a long time, Simon,’ she responded calmly. ‘Neither of us seems to need the constant stimulation of new partners … But then we’re all of us different, aren’t we?’ she added with an acid smile.

If her barb had found its mark, there was no sign of it. She followed Simon out into the hall, and let him out of the front door. She watched as he walked away, a tall man, who, despite being powerfully built, moved with a lithe grace that could on occasion be faintly menacing.

When he had gone she went back to her sitting-room, her interest in her book now completely gone. She had failed Susie; now what was she to do?

She looked at the phone and then remembered that the house in Cornwall did not possess one. It was a holiday home, Mrs Townsend had always said, and that being the case, a telephone could only be an unwanted intrusion.

She thought of Susie, still blissfully unaware of what tomorrow would bring. Her friend had quite probably deliberately deceived her. Simon might be correct in everything he had said about Peter Halbury, but that did not alter the fact that he still had no right to interfere in his sister’s life, Jenna told herself stubbornly.

Somehow Susie would have to be warned. But how?

There was only one way, and she knew even as she contemplated it that her mind was already made up, and had been from the moment Simon had announced that he wouldn’t be going to Cornwall until the morning.

It would be a long drive, and an uncomfortable one in her small Mini, but the very thought of depriving Simon of his prey was enough to make her ignore any potential discomfort.

She went upstairs to Craig’s flat. He opened the door immediately to her knock.

‘Gone, then, has he?’ He looked speculatively at her, but Jenna refused to be drawn.

‘Yes, he has. Craig, I have to go down to Cornwall—immediately … Will you keep an eye on my flat? I’ll only be gone for a couple of days.’

She sensed that Craig wanted to question her, but after a moment’s hesitation he shrugged and said laconically, ‘Of course, why not? You’re not thinking of taking that car of yours, I hope?’

‘What else?’

‘Take mine instead,’ he offered.

Craig owned a six-month-old Porsche that was his joy and pride, and Jenna blinked slightly at the munificence of this offer.

‘Craig, I couldn’t!’

‘Of course you could. You’ll be a damn sight safer driving mine than that tin can of yours.’

Reluctantly she allowed him to persuade her, knowing that the journey would be faster and much easier in Craig’s car.

He gave her the keys, and she went back down to her own flat to pack an overnight case.

Within an hour she was on the road, busy with mid-evening traffic, but once she had cleared the city she had the motorway almost to herself. The Porsche was a dream to drive, eating up the miles. The route was familiar to her from all the holidays she had shared with Susie and her family at their Cornish cottage, and although she had to stop three or four times to check signposts, once she was off the motorway she felt that she was making good time.

Susie would be shocked to see her, but better that shock than the one she would get should Simon turn up unannounced some time tomorrow afternoon.

At last she was crossing the Tamar—always an important psychological moment in those teenage journeys—and finally she was on Cornish land.

Although both Susie and Simon shared their Cornish ancestry, only Simon showed it, with his olive skin and night-dark hair. Mrs Townsend had once voiced the opinion that she suspected there might even be a trace of Spanish blood somewhere in their Cornish inheritance—Spanish galleons had been wrecked off the Cornish coast at the time of the illfated Armada, and more than one dark-haired, swarthy-skinned sailor had made it safely ashore.

The cottage was situated just outside a tiny fishing village several miles from St Ives, on a part of the coastline so rugged and swept by dangerous tides that it had never fallen foul of any developers.

Tregellan Cottage was perched on top of a jagged stretch of cliff exposed to the full force of the Atlantic gales in the winter.

It had its own private beach that could only be reached via a narrow cliff path that was not for vertigo sufferers or those who were queasy-stomached.

There were no signs of life in the village, but Jenna had not expected there to be; at gone two in the morning it was hardly likely that anyone would still be awake.

Craig’s Porsche purred triumphantly up the narrow cliff road—as her poor little Mini would never have done. The cottage was in darkness, and she parked at the front, climbing a little wearily out of the driving seat and walking towards the door.

It was a beautifully clear night and she stopped briefly to breathe in the salt-laden air.

Even from where she stood she could see the ocean—see and hear it, the soft, lulling sound of the outgoing tide distinctly soothing to the ear.

She moved, her bare arms caught by the sudden breeze that sprang up and she shivered slightly as she hurried down the flagged path to the cottage door.

She had changed into a comfortable cotton jumpsuit for the drive, and the sea wind flattened the fabric across the fullness of her breasts.

The cottage had no bell, just an old-fashioned lion-headed knocker. However, just as she lifted her hand to touch it, the cottage door opened.

It was a rather odd sensation, staring into complete blackness, and Jenna hesitated uncertainly on the threshold until common sense came to her rescue and she realised that Susie must have heard her drive up.

Stepping inside she said quickly, ‘Susie, I’m afraid I’ve let you down and you’re in for a shock …’

‘Unfortunately, Jenna, I suspect the shock is going to be yours.’ She gasped as Simon stepped out from the shadows. ‘Please excuse the rather theatrical darkness, but I can’t find the blasted paraffin lights, and the generator is on the blink.’

Electricity had never reached the remoteness of the clifftop, and for years the Townsends had kept on hand some old-fashioned storm lanterns for those occasions when the temperamental generator refused to work.

‘I think your mother keeps them on the cold slab in the small cellar,’ Jenna responded automatically, shock giving way to ire, as she demanded, ‘What are you doing here, Simon? You told me you weren’t going to come down until tomorrow.’

‘So I did, but I changed my mind … I must admit it never struck me that you would be so quixotically loyal to my idiotic sister as to drive down here yourself! It can’t have been a comfortable journey in that tin can of yours.’

‘I’m not driving the Mini,’ Jenna snapped. ‘Craig lent me his Porsche.’

Now that her eyes were accustomed to the gloom, she could see the derisive lift of Simon’s eyebrows quite clearly.

‘Really? He must be more besotted than I’d imagined, or you, my lovely Jenna, must be far more … talented.’

She flushed beneath the barb of the deliberate sexual innuendo, hating him for the mockery it held.

‘Unfortunately, both of us appear to have made a wasted journey, because Susie isn’t here.’

‘Not here! But she told me …’

‘She lied to you, I’m afraid,’ Simon interrupted her coolly. ‘She isn’t here, nor has she been here … I must admit I was a little surprised to learn that her luxury-loving friend was prepared to spend close on two weeks down here. The Côte d’Azur is more in his line.’

He said it with a hard disdain that made Jenna wince.

The burst of adrenalin which had fuelled her determined drive to Cornwall had gone. In its place was a weary exhaustion that locked her muscles and made her ache for sleep.

There was only one thing left for her to do now and that was to return to her flat. The thought of the long, tiring drive was not a tempting one.

As she turned round and started to walk away, Simon caught hold of her arm.