Storm Force. Sara Craven

restaurant, already filling up with customers, and demolished an enormous plateful of lasagne, washed down with a glass of the house wine, following this with a helping of chocolate fudge cake laden with cream.

      Robin, who believed in healthy eating, would have disapproved of every mouthful, and the knowledge gave her a kind of guilty pleasure as she lingered over her cappuccino. Comfort-eating, she thought. When her three weeks in hiding ended, she’d probably be like a barrel.

      The wind had risen considerably by the time she started off again. Strong gusts buffeted the car, slowing her journey considerably, and she was half tempted to stop and spend the night at a hotel and hope for better conditions next day.

      Oh, to hell with it, she thought. I’ve come half-way. I may as well go on.

      The further she drove, the more she regretted her decision. The rain was battering against the roof and windscreen as if trying to gain access and the wind sounded like some constant moan of torment.

      It was nearly midnight before she turned with a sigh of relief on to the track which led to the cottage. Clouds were scudding across the sky like thieves in the night, and the trees which lined the track were swaying violently and groaning as if in pain.

      I’ve never seen it as bad as this, Maggie thought, avoiding a fallen branch. Thank goodness I had the roof mended in the spring.

      She parked in her usual spot, grabbed her case, and ran for the front door. The wind tore at her, lifting her almost off her feet, and for a moment she felt helpless in its power and badly frightened. The gust slackened, and she threw herself forward, grasping the heavy metal door-handle to brace herself while she searched in the dark for the keyhole.

      At last the door yielded, and she almost fell into the living-room. It was a struggle then to re-close the door. The wind fought her every inch as if it were a living enemy, and her arms were aching by the time she had finished.

      Gales, indeed, she muttered to herself. This feels more like a hurricane.

      She tried the light switch beside the door without much hope, but to her surprise the central light came on, although it was flickering badly.

      Just give me time to find the candles, Maggie appealed silently, going to the small walk-in pantry. As she lifted its latch, it occurred to her how unusually warm the room felt.

      It was as if—as if … She stood motionless for a moment, then crossed the room to check. There was no ‘if’ about it. Someone had lit the Aga.

      Mrs Grice sometimes lit it for her, if she knew she was coming down, but this time Maggie hadn’t signalled her intentions. So unless Mrs Grice had suddenly been gifted with second sight …

      Oh, don’t be stupid, Maggie apostrophised herself. She probably thought the place smelled damp and needed airing through. I’ll thank her tomorrow.

      She found the candles, their pottery holders, and a box of matches, as well as the old-fashioned stone hot water bottle she had picked up in a junk shop. She needed its comfort tonight, she thought, as she filled the kettle and put it to boil on top of the hotplate. She would have some Bovril as well, she decided, taking the jar out of the cupboard.

      There was a solitary beaker upside down on the draining-board. Maggie stared at it for a moment, frowning. Where had that come from? she wondered with a frisson of uneasiness.

      Now stop it, she caught at herself impatiently, Mrs Grice came and lit your stove for you. Surely you don’t grudge her a cup of coffee for her efforts? All the same, it was unusual. Mrs Grice was a meticulous housekeeper, not given to abandoning stray cups on draining-boards.

      When the kettle boiled, she filled her bottle, picked up one of the candles and the matches, and mounted the flight of open-tread stairs which led from the living-room to the upper floor. Her bed, she thought, could be warming while she had her Bovril.

      She opened her bedroom door, and went in, putting the candlestick down on the dressing-table before turning on the light.

      And froze.

      Her bed was already occupied. A naked man was lying across it, her brain registered in panic, face downwards, and fast asleep, one arm dangling limply towards the floor.

      Maggie could feel the scream starting in the pit of her stomach. By the time it reached her throat, it was a hoarse, wild yell of terror that made itself heard even above the keening of the wind.

      The man stirred and half sat up, propping himself on an elbow as he looked dazedly round at her.

      She recognised him at once, of course. It had hardly been possible to pick up a newspaper or a magazine for the past eighteen months without seeing his picture. And just lately he’d made the headlines again—for rape.

      It was Jay Delaney.

      The stone bottle slipped from her nerveless grasp and fell to the floor with a crash that shook the cottage.

      And, as if on cue, all the lights finally went out.

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE DARKNESS CLOSED round her, suffocating her, and Maggie screamed again, hysterically.

      She had to find the door, she had to get away, but she felt totally disorientated. She swung round, colliding with the corner of the dressing-table, crying out in pain as well as fear.

      ‘Do us both a favour, lady. Keep still and keep quiet.’ Even when angry it was an attractive voice, low, resonant and with a trace of huskiness. Part of his stock in trade, Maggie thought with furious contempt as she rubbed her hip.

      She heard the bed creak. Heard him stumble and swear with a vigour and variety she had never experienced before. Then came the rasp of a match and the candle blossomed into flame.

      The cottage shook in the grip of another gust, and in the distance Maggie heard a noise like a faint roar. The curtains billowed in the draught, and the shadows danced wildly in the candle’s flicker, diminishing the room, making it close in on her. And him.

      They looked at each other in inimical silence.

      At last, he said, ‘Who the hell are you, and how the hell did you find me?’

      ‘Find you?’ Maggie flung back her head, returning his glare with interest. ‘What makes you think I was even looking?’

      ‘Oh, come off it, sweetheart. What are you—a journalist, or a fan? If you’re a reporter—no comment. If you’re a groupie, you’re out of luck. I’m in no mood for female company, as your own common sense should have told you. Either way, get out, before I throw you out.’

      ‘Save the rough stuff for your tacky series, Mr Delaney,’ Maggie said, with gritted teeth. ‘You lay one hand on me, and you’ll be in jail so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. And you won’t get bail. That’s if I don’t have you arrested anyway for breaking and entering.’

      His voice was dangerously calm. ‘And what precisely am I supposed to have—broken and entered?’

      The candle-flame steadied and brightened, the extra illumination providing her with an all too potent and quite unnecessary reminder that he didn’t have a stitch on. A fact of which he himself seemed magnificently unconscious as he confronted her, hands on hips.

      ‘My home,’ she snarled. ‘This house.’

      There was a long and tingling silence. Jay Delaney said slowly, ‘You must be the sister-in-law.’

      ‘Sister-in-law?’ Maggie’s voice cracked. ‘You mean—Sebastian—told you that you could come here?’ Suddenly she remembered the keys so mysteriously missing. Seb knew where they were kept. He must have helped himself on his way out—while she was in the bedroom. ‘But he had no right—no right at all …’

      ‘He said there was no problem—that I could hide up here—get a few days’ peace. He said this was the