Storm Force. Sara Craven

even when she was in the driver’s seat, with the door shut, she didn’t feel safe. The car was rocking uneasily with every gust.

      She took a deep breath as she started the engine, trying to calculate how far it was to the village. There was a pub there which handled overnight accommodation. They might not be too pleased to have to provide it at one o’clock in the morning, but surely they would understand this was an emergency.

      She looked back at the cottage, and the light flickering in the upstairs room. Her sanctuary—and she was being driven away from it.

      But only for one night, she thought. Tomorrow she would phone Seb’s London office and give her brother-in-law a piece of her mind, making it clear he could come and take Jay Delaney away. And he can think himself lucky I’m not charging him with indecent assault, she thought, fighting back an angry sob.

      But the thought of describing what he had done to her to a police officer made her cringe. And there was the question of her own response too. Why hadn’t she at least slapped his face?

      Damn him, she thought seething. Oh, damn him to hell.

      If she had been concentrating more, she would probably have seen the giant elm lying across the track in time. As it was, when it loomed up in the headlights, she hit her brakes a fraction too late, and the Metro ploughed into it with a sickening crunch of metal and broken glass. Maggie was thrown forward, but her seat-belt held her firmly enough. Her ribs were bruised against the steering-wheel, and there was a sharp pain above her right eye, but apart from that she seemed to have got off lightly.

      She sat, staring through the shattered windscreen, unable to believe what had happened.

      She thought stupidly, ‘There’s a tree down. I’ll have to move it if I want to get out.’

      She released her belt and tried to open her door, but it was jammed because of the impact, and she started to beat on the panels, shaking, and crying out in fear.

      ‘Turn your engine off.’ Suddenly Jay Delaney had materialised beside the car, and was shouting at her through the window. She forced her trembling fingers to comply. He gestured at her to wind the window down, and she obeyed.

      ‘It’s turning out to be quite a night,’ he said grimly, surveying the damage. ‘Your insurance company’s going to be working overtime. So what’s the problem? Door stuck?’

      She nodded, her throat working convulsively.

      ‘Then we’ll try the passenger door.’ He sounded almost soothing. ‘And if that doesn’t work, we’ll get you out through the window, or the hatchback.’

      The passenger door opened with a wrench.

      ‘OK,’ Jay said. ‘Just slide over, and get out.’

      ‘I—don’t think I can.’

      He said something very rude and derisive under his breath, then leaned into the car, taking her hands in his.

      ‘You can’t sit there all night. If one tree’s down, others may follow,’ he added grimly. ‘So move.’

      In the end, he had to half drag her from the car.

      ‘Can you walk?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Then try putting one foot in front of the other, and see what happens.’

      That was one of the funniest things she had ever heard, and she began to giggle weakly.

      ‘None of that.’ Jay’s fingers stung on her cheek, making her gasp. ‘Hysterics in the house, not out here.’

      There were candles burning on the table and the dresser when they finally stumbled back into the living-room. Jay pulled out a chair and pushed Maggie into it.

      He picked up the beaker from the table. ‘What’s this?’

      ‘I made myself some Bovril.’ A thousand years ago.

      He grimaced. ‘Well, it’s cold now.’ He tipped it down the sink. ‘I prescribe hot milk with a slug of whisky in it.’ He paused. ‘Not that we have a great deal of milk. Seb only provided me with rations for one.’

      ‘I’ve brought some groceries.’

      ‘Where are they?’

      ‘In the boot of the car.’

      There was a pungent silence, then he said, too politely, ‘How unfortunate you didn’t mention it a little earlier.’

      ‘They can wait there till tomorrow.’

      ‘They can indeed.’ He went upstairs and came back with the whisky. He had put on a sweater, she realised, before he had come to look for her, but in a strange way he still didn’t look any more dressed. Or did she just think that because she had been forced to see him so blatantly undressed?

      She watched him open the cardboard container and pour milk into a saucepan, then put it on to heat.

      ‘You didn’t spill any,’ she said.

      ‘I’m housetrained. I used to live with a woman who was fussy about things like that.’

      ‘One of your many conquests, no doubt.’ And of course he would have to brag about it.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘My mother.’

      She was taken aback. That sounded altogether too cosy and domestic for someone like Jay Delaney. He was a jungle creature, a predator.

      She watched him fill two beakers, add a measure of whisky to each, and bring them to the table.

      ‘Here.’ He passed her one.

      ‘I don’t like whisky.’

      ‘Tough. Drink it, or I’ll pour it down your throat.’

      She sipped, shuddering elaborately. Jay seated himself opposite, and watched her sardonically.

      ‘Nice performance,’ he commented. ‘Are you in our profession?’

      ‘No, I’m in publishing.’

      ‘Let me guess.’ He pretended to think, then snapped his fingers. ‘Virago Books.’

      She gave him a stony look. ‘Munroe and Craig, actually. We’re a fairly new imprint.’

      ‘Presumably, you’re neither Munroe nor Craig.’

      ‘No. I’m Maggie—Margaret Carlyle. I’m an editor.’

      ‘And an editor who should be in Mauritius.’

      She bit her lip, and drank some more milk. In spite of her dislike of the taste she had to admit that there was a new warmth stealing through her veins, dispelling the trembling and the cold.

      ‘So,’ he went on. ‘What are you doing here, Maggie Carlyle?’

      ‘This is my house,’ she said curtly. ‘I don’t owe you any explanations.’

      There was a silence. Then he said, ‘Let us agree that under normal circumstances, neither of us would wish to spend even five minutes in each other’s company. Yes?’

      Maggie nodded, staring down at her beaker.

      ‘But circumstances are not normal, and whether we like it or not, we are stuck here together under the same roof, maybe for an indefinite period, so we may as well be civil to each other. Right?’

      ‘Not necessarily,’ she objected. ‘This storm won’t last forever. You can leave tomorrow.’

      ‘On foot?’ He gave her a steady look. ‘Lady, you aren’t even trying to be reasonable.’

      She put down the beaker. ‘Is that how you’d describe some of your conduct tonight?’ Her voice sounded aggravatingly breathless suddenly. ‘Reasonable?’

      ‘I was just teaching you a much-needed