Substitute Lover

For no reason at all, a cold spiral of fear had invaded the pit of her stomach. Gray had stopped washing the dishes and had turned round to face her. The atmosphere in the kitchen was tense, almost stiflingly so.

‘I’m entering this year’s Fastnet, Steph,’ Gray told her quietly. ‘If I can win, and I think I can, the publicity would give the new boat a boost that nothing else could match. Winning the Fastnet will give us more publicity, more credibility than we could get from any amount of advertising.’

Stephanie knew that every word he said was true. A boat designed and made by an acknowledged winner of a race as prestigious as the Fastnet would sell better than a tennis racquet endorsed by a Davis Cup champion, but nothing could silence the words of protest from tumbling from her lips. Since Paul’s death she had been left with a morbid fear of the sea. She knew that he was himself to blame for the accident by his rash disregard of the safety rules, that did not quell her fear, there was more to it than that.

She could hardly bear to look at the sea, even on a calm day and, as Gray well knew, coming down here to the estuary was purgatory for her.

She had once loved sailing. It was her father’s hobby and, like him, she had been thrilled about his transfer to this part of the coast which had a reputation of being an idyllic spot for small boat enthusiasts.

She had been more grateful than she could say when her father had been transferred to an inland posting shortly after Paul’s death, and never once since that time had she set foot in a boat herself, even though she had once crewed enthusiastically and knowledgeably both for her father, and for Paul.

Now Gray was telling her that he intended to enter one of the most dangerous races of all, and she shook with fear for him.

‘Gray … please don’t,’ she pleaded huskily.

‘Stephanie, I have to. Don’t you understand?’ he demanded harshly. ‘If I don’t, I stand to lose the boat-yard … I have no other choice.’

She could see that, but she still longed to beg him to change his mind. Instead, she said shakily, ‘Gray, please … I don’t want to lose you as well.’

‘You won’t, I promise you you won’t.’ She felt him move as he gathered her against his body, bracing himself against the unit as he rocked her gently in his arms.

Tense with fear, Stephanie buried her face against his chest, soothed by the heavy thud of his heart.

‘If I’m to go ahead I’m going to need your help, Steph.’ His voice was muffled slightly by her hair, and slightly unsteady, as though he was under a tremendous strain. ‘I want you to move into the cottage, and take over the day-to-day running of the boat-yard for me until after the race. You could work from here on your illustrations, just as easily as you do in London …’

‘Run the yard!’ She jerked away from him, horrified. ‘I couldn’t do that.’

‘Yes, you could. You did it when you and Paul were married.’

It was true that she had helped out at the yard all those years ago, organising the office along more practical lines.

‘Stephanie, when have I ever asked you for anything?’ His voice was rough, grating against her tense nerves. It was true, in their relationship he had always been the giver, she the taker. Although he didn’t say it, she felt that he was reminding her that she owed him a debt—a debt he was now calling in. How could she explain to him how much she feared and loathed everything that reminded her of Paul? He thought she was still grieving for a husband she had loved and adored. How could she tell him that what she felt was guilt—that there was no love … that the reality of marriage had woken her from what had only been an adolescent’s dream?

‘I … I need time to think …’ Implicit in her husky words was an acknowledgement of all that she owed him.

He had stood by her when she felt everyone else was against her, accusing her of pushing Paul to his death, because of their quarrel. How could she deny his request for help? She knew how much the boat-yard meant to him.

Almost on a sigh she heard herself saying, ‘I … I’ve made up my mind. I’ll do it … I …’

She didn’t get the opportunity to say any more. She was in Gray’s arms, held tight in a crushing grip that drove the breath from her lungs and brought a surge of blind panic as her body remembered how often it had been imprisoned with similar force by Paul.

She fought frantically against his constraining hold, until she felt him releasing her. Breathing deeply, she staggered back against the wall, her eyes dark with fear.

‘For God’s sake! What the hell did you think I was going to do … Rape you?’

As she raised her shocked eyes to his, Stephanie saw him rake angry fingers through his hair.

‘I know how you feel about Paul, Stephanie, but you can’t cling to those memories for ever. Christ, if that’s how you react when someone else touches you, I’m not surprised there hasn’t been anyone else.’

The look in his eyes chilled her, she felt like a child abandoned by its parents, and longed to cry out to him to understand.

Instead she moved away from the wall, and turned away, shivering with the inner bleakness possessing her.

‘Stephanie …’ She felt his fingers touch her arm and this time she didn’t move away.

‘Look, I’m sorry. We’re both wound up. I should have remembered how much you hate being touched.’

Her expression gave her away and he grimaced wryly.

‘Did you think I didn’t know? You freeze every time I come near you.’

Did she?

‘Has it ever occurred to you that there’s something dangerously obsessive about your determination to remain faithful to Paul’s memory? Do you think he would have done the same if the positions had been reversed?’ he demanded harshly. ‘It’s time to put the past behind you, Steph. Nothing’s going to bring Paul back. You’ve got to start learning to live again. You told me not long ago that you were frigid.’ His hand slid to her face cupping it, lifting it so that he could look down into her eyes.

‘I don’t think you are, but I think you’ve convinced yourself of it because it makes it easier for you to escape from the pain of loving anyone else. It’s easier to tell yourself you’re frigid than to risk loving someone whom you might ultimately lose.’

She wanted to tell him that he was wong, that she was frigid, that Paul himself had told her so; but somehow she was mesmerised by the magnetic glitter of his eyes as his head bent slowly towards her own.

Slowly, shockingly she realised what he meant to do, and by the time that knowledge had infiltrated her brain it was too late to move away. His lips were moving gently and softly over her own, their commanding impact making hers cling bemusedly to his warmth. Shock held her unmoving within his embrace, her breath obstructed by what was happening to her. She could feel her heart racing.

‘Stay with me, Stephanie. Stay with me and help me …’ Gray whispered the words against her mouth, and they brought her back to reality, releasing her from the trance imposed by his totally unexpected kiss. She drew away shakily and he let her, watching her through half-closed eyes.

‘Yes … Yes, I will.’ Her lips framed the words slowly, still quivering from the silken pressure of Gray’s kiss. Thoroughly bemused, she was barely aware of what she was saying. She heard him laugh softly, deep in his throat, as he stepped back from her.

‘You kiss like a little girl, do you know that?’

Pain pierced her. What on earth was she thinking of? To let Gray kiss her? And as for Gray himself … Her claim that she was frigid must have piqued his male curiosity, but now he knew the truth for himself he was hardly likely to kiss her again, she reflected flatly, still trying to recover from the blow of his soft-voiced taunt.

Her pride demanded some recompense and so, turning her back on him and busying herself with the coffee, she said coolly, ‘We’re friends, Gray, not lovers, and that’s how I kissed you—as a friend.’

She was a little surprised by the anger in his eyes when he reached past her to relieve her of the heavy coffee jug. She and Gray had often had arguments in the past and he had never seemed to harbour any resentment on those occasions when she won. In fact, Gray had always encouraged her to think for herself and to form her own views. He had never been the sort of man who preferred women to be obedient, quiet echoes of their men’s views.

‘If I’m going to stay on to look after the yard I’ll need to go back to London to collect my paints and some extra clothes.’

‘I’ll run you back on Monday morning. I’ve got some business to deal with, so I’ll stay at your place Monday night and then we’ll come back together on Tuesday. I’m not going to give you any opportunity to back out of this, Steph,’ he warned her, before she could speak. ‘I need your help too much for that.’

He wasn’t saying so but Stephanie also knew that he had every right to ask for and expect her help. He had, after all, given her his in those dark months after the accident. Without his support … She shuddered slightly, remembering the accusations she had flung at him then; the demand that he leave her to simply die. There had been plenty of times when she hadn’t wanted to go on living, when she had thought that there was no longer any point to life, but Gray had refused to let her go, to let her abandon herself to that sort of self-destruction.

Yes, she owed him a lot, but how on earth was she going to cope with living so close to the sea; with knowing that every day Gray himself was out there, sailing on it; that Gray was going to enter one of the most dangerous sailing races in the world? The cup she was holding slid from her fingers to crash down on to the stone floor, her hands going up to cover her face.

In a tortured voice she pleaded, ‘Gray, please don’t do it! There must be another way.’

Tough, work-scarred fingers pulled her hands away from her eyes so that he could look at her.

‘I have to do it,’ he told her grimly. ‘Can’t you understand that? The yard’s been losing money steadily over the last few years—you know that …’

She had, of course, but she had not realised how intensely Gray was worrying about it.