The Judas Trap. Anne Mather

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      THE TELEPHONE was the only link with the outside world. Seated in the library, in front of a now-roaring fire, with a glass of brandy cradled between her fingers, Sara reviewed her situation. It was not particularly reassuring. Short of betraying her physical condition, Michael Tregower was unlikely to listen to her pleas, and no doubt he had already taken the phone into consideration. The front door was locked. He had not even allowed her to get her night things from the Mini. It was raining. But strangely, Sara was not afraid.

      She couldn’t decide about that. She couldn’t decide whether her lack of fear was due to the knowledge that whatever Michael Tregower intended, it would not happen tonight—and time to delay was time to reconsider—or whether the curious sense of fatality which had gripped her since she encountered the man had made her philosophical. There was also her own reactions to him, of course. A kind of fascination—half curiosity, half revulsion, that had successfully rid her mind of all thoughts of Tony for the past few hours …

      The door behind her opened, and she started out of her reverie. He had installed her here while he attended to other things, and although she seldom drank, she was glad of the warming fire in the brandy. As once before, a strange look crossed his face as he stared at her, then he closed the door behind him and said:

      ‘You look quite at home. How many evenings have you curled up in that chair with Adam for company, I wonder?’

      Immediately Sara pushed her feet to the floor. It was a favourite position of hers, kicking off her shoes, and curling her legs up under her. But now she sought around for her ankle boots again, feeling too vulnerable without them.

      Michael Tregower crossed the carpet swiftly and kicked them aside, causing her to look up at him indignantly.

      ‘You won’t need them tonight,’ he said, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a humour-less smile.

      Sara sighed, determining not to let him disturb her again. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I intended to stay here anyway. Diane’s loaned me the house for a fortni—’

      ‘The hell she has!’ he snapped. ‘This house is not hers to lend.’

      ‘Hers?’

      Sara couldn’t resist the taunt, but it was quickly over-ridden. ‘Yours, then,’ he agreed coldly. ‘You forfeited the right to Ravens Mill when you walked out on my brother.’

      ‘Oh, yes?’ Sara couldn’t let that go. ‘You’ve been out of the country too long, Mr Tregower. The law is changed. Half of everything goes to the wife at the time of a divorce or separation. And Diane and Adam were never divorced. That means—’

      ‘You scheming little bitch!’ he bit out furiously, grasping her arms and hauling her up out of the chair, so that the brandy glass spun out of her hand and splintered noisily in the grate. ‘Are you daring to suggest that you own this house? That what was Adam’s is now yours?’

      Sara was trembling so much she could hardly stand, but his hands supported her, cruel hands that bit into the flesh of her upper arms, through the thin material of her blouse now that she had shed the jersey jacket.

      ‘I—I was only telling you—’ she stammered, as he glared down at her, and his expression changed as her colour receded.

      ‘So pale,’ he muttered. ‘So fragile! No wonder you drove poor old Adam out of his mind!’ and dragging her closer, he forced his mouth down on hers.

      With one hand imprisoned at the nape of her neck, he held her close against him, her rounded breasts crushed against the hardness of his chest. His possession was total and suffocating, but although Sara’s heart fluttered, she could feel other emotions stirring inside her. No man had ever kissed her so brutally, so adultly, so angrily—and yet, as he continued to hold her, she sensed the reluctant change that came over him.

      The hand that still gripped her arm relaxed its hold, sliding across her shoulder to her neck, pushing aside the neckline of her shirt and invading the tender warmth within. She offered only a tentative resistance as his fingers caressed her bare shoulders, but when the buttons parted, she tore her mouth from his.

      ‘No—’

      ‘No?’ he mocked, bending his head to touch her skin with his tongue. ‘Hmm, you taste delicious.’ His voice hardened. ‘You’re not wearing a bra. Did you think I didn’t know?’ His eyes were half closed. ‘I knew. And you’re beautiful … beautiful …’

      His hand cupped one rose-tipped breast as he spoke, massaging its swollen fullness with caressing appreciation, exploring the hardening nipple with disturbing effect.

      ‘You—you shouldn’t,’ she protested, but the hands she raised to stop him only clung to him, and as if he sensed her weakness, his gentleness fled.

      With a rough gesture he dragged the shirt across her breasts and turned away from her, saying violently: ‘I swore on my brother’s grave that I would make you pay for what you’d done to him! God, how was I to know you’d enjoy it?’

      His words were hurting and humiliating, as he had intended them to be, and Sara’s fingers shook as she fastened the buttons of her shirt. She felt ashamed. What was the matter with her? she asked herself disgustedly. This man had already threatened to take her life, and she was permitting him intimacies she had never permitted any man before. Tony had tried to pet with her, but she had always maintained a certain detachment before, something she had put down to the uncertainty of her condition. Now, she realised, she was no different from any other woman. She had wanted Michael Tregower to touch her, she had wanted to touch him! He was right: she had enjoyed it.

      He turned back to her then, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his pants as if afraid he might be tempted to touch her once more. ‘Go to bed!’ he ordered curtly. ‘Get out of my sight! I need to think.’

      Sara’s mouth was dry. ‘Bed?’ she echoed. ‘You really expect me to go to bed?’

      ‘Why not?’ He was contemptuous. ‘You have nothing to fear from me!’

      Sara glanced towards the door. ‘But where do I sleep?’

      ‘How about the room you shared with Adam? That should prove unpleasant enough. Just think of the memories it will invoke.’

      Sara held up her head. ‘At—at the risk of being a bore, I must repeat that as I am not Diane, I have no idea which room she shared with your brother.’

      His mouth tightened. ‘You really are a bitch, aren’t you?’

      ‘No!’ Sara was indignant. ‘Mr Tregower—’

      ‘Oh, shut up, will you?’ He glared furiously at her. ‘Just get out of here, can’t you? Before I do something I, for one, will regret.’

      Sara pressed her lips together. ‘Mr Tregower—’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ With an oath, he crossed the room, swung open the door and strode towards the stairs. ‘Follow me,’ he directed angrily, and albeit hesitantly she did so.

      The portrait at the first landing mocked her. It had to be Michael’s father, or his grandfather, but the likeness was unmistakable. Indeed, judging by that elder Tregower’s dour expression, Michael was more like his ancestors СКАЧАТЬ