Substitute Lover

Instantly she stiffened in his arms, suddenly conscious of the hard thud of his heart and the heat coming off his body.

‘What the hell are you doing? Dreaming about Paul? He’s dead, Stephanie. Dead. And for all the living you do, you might as well be, too. Hasn’t there been anyone in these last ten years?’

‘I don’t want that sort of relationship in my life. You know that.’ She had to turn her head so that he couldn’t look at her.

As his arms dropped away from her, he said flatly, ‘We … you can’t go on living like this, Steph. It’s not …’

‘Not what? Not “natural”? Is that what you’re going to say, Gray? That I’m not “natural”?’

Her overwrought nerves shrieked in protest as she flung the words at him.

He seemed to be looking at her with an odd mixture of pain and defeat in his eyes. Her breath locked in her throat, tears not far away. What on earth was happening to them? She and Gray had been so close, such good friends, and now … and now they seemed to be teetering on the brink of destroying all that they had shared.

He made a slight movement, a reaching out towards her from which she immediately recoiled, her expression proud and tortured as she cried out painfully, ‘You want the truth, Gray? All right, I’ll give it to you. I don’t have the least interest in sex.’ She took a deep, rather shaky breath. ‘I’m frigid, Gray.’ There, she’d said it; she’d admitted at last the agonising lack of sexuality that had caused her so much pain.

‘Steph!’

She heard the shock in Gray’s voice, but she couldn’t respond to it; couldn’t listen to any more questions now, however well meant. Gray cared for her as a friend, and would want to help her, but this was one problem that no one else could help with.

Suddenly she had an overwhelming need to be alone.

‘I … I think I’d better find somewhere else to stay tonight, Gray, I …’

She saw from the look on his face that she had hurt and angered him. So many gulfs were springing up between them, so many barriers that couldn’t be crossed.

She made a dash for her room and privacy, coming to an abrupt halt as Gray’s fingers tightened round her wrist, holding her prisoner. Shock had darkened his eyes to dense sapphire, his mouth a hard line of disbelief as he shook her.

‘What the hell is this, Steph? Is that really what you think? That you’re frigid?’

‘Isn’t it what you think?’ As she stood there, trembling, Stephanie wondered frantically what on earth had happened between them to promote this conversation. Talking about her relationship with Paul and the flaws in her femininity wasn’t something she had ever wanted to do, least of all with Gray, who, friend though he was, was also so undeniably male that he made her acutely aware of the pathetic shortcomings in her own personality. Instinctively, without knowing how she possessed that knowledge, she knew that as a lover Gray would be both skilled and tender.

Dragging her mind away from such provocative thoughts she saw that he was frowning.

‘I don’t make those kind of assumptions without some hard facts to back them up. As I haven’t been to bed with you, I don’t know, do I?’

It was what he hadn’t said rather than what he had that shocked her speechless.

‘I’ll wash and then we’ll have something to eat. I’ve got a lot to talk over with you.’

His calm words broke the spell that had held her silent.

‘Won’t Carla object to your spending the evening with me?’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘Why should she? She knows that we’re old friends.’

To her chagrin, Stephanie realised that he was looking amused.

‘Why don’t you go down and make us some coffee? And then over dinner I’ll show you the plans of the new boat I’m working on.’

This was the Gray she knew … her friend. The tension that had engulfed her earlier eased. Feeling relieved, she hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

Mrs Ames, Gray’s daily, had left a casserole ready-prepared in the fridge, and one of her famous apple pies.

Although the cottage had a pretty dining-room, normally when she came to stay they ate off trays in the sitting-room. It was more cosy.

It didn’t take long to make the coffee and, wanting to make amends for her earlier childishness, Stephanie poured some into a mug for Gray and took it upstairs.

His bedroom door was open. She could smell the clean, pine-fresh scent of his soap, and from behind the closed door of his bathroom she could hear him singing.

Her mouth curved into a brief grin as she recognised the familiar sound of an old sea shanty. It was one Gray only sang when he was feeling particularly happy. Perhaps she had been wrong about there being some serious problem with the boat-yard.

Knocking briefly on his open door, she walked into his bedroom. She had been silly to get so upset simply because he had asked about her as a friend. Not knowing the truth, he had simply thought that she had grieved for Paul for long enough.

But now that he did know the truth … he had not exhibited the shock she might have expected. Lost in thought, she gnawed worriedly at her lower lip.

The door to Gray’s bathroom opened and he walked into the bedroom, plainly unaware that she was there. His hair was damp and he was towelling it roughly. The rest of his body … Scarlet faced, Stephanie stood rooted to the spot, totally unable to move, as she slowly absorbed the details of his nude body.

Gray only realised that she was there when he threw down the towel. Transfixed with shock and embarrassment, Stephanie gulped as he walked past her and gently closed the bedroom door.

‘I … I brought you a cup of coffee.’

Her voice was a thick, unfamiliar croak, but at least speaking freed her from her momentary paralysis. She turned to flee and discovered that somehow Gray was standing in front of the door.

‘Thank you.’ He said it gently, casually reaching out to take the mug from her. Hideously embarrassed, Stephanie looked everywhere but at him. Why, oh why had she walked into his bedroom in the first place? She had known that he was having a shower.

‘What’s the matter, Steph?’ His voice was as soft as silk, but still she couldn’t look at him. ‘You’ve seen me working on the boats wearing not that much more.’

‘That … that was different.’ She was having difficulty in swallowing.

‘Not that much surely. I’m the one who should be embarrassed, you know.’

Maybe he should be, but he certainly wasn’t. Why on earth didn’t he put some clothes on?

As though he read her mind, he moved to one side, opening a drawer and casually pulling out socks and underpants.

‘Pass me that shirt on the bed, will you?’

He sounded so casually at ease that Stephanie found she was doing what he asked almost without thinking. By the time she had handed it to him, he was already wearing the brief dark-coloured underpants.

‘The sight of a nude male surely can’t be so shocking, can it? After all, there was Paul … the two of you were married, even if you are claiming that his death made you frigid. You must have known what boys look like.’

The hint of teasing in his voice made her skin burn. She was too stunned to correct his mistaken assumption that her frigidity was the result of Paul’s death. ‘Boys, yes, but … but you aren’t a boy, Gray.’

He didn’t say anything, but Stephanie had the distinct impression that he smiled faintly before he pulled his shirt on.

Watching his fingers move deftly over the buttons, securing them so that the tanned expanse of his torso with its shadowing of dark silk hair was hidden from her, aroused the most curious sensation in the pit of her stomach. He walked over to his dresser and pulled out a set of cuff-links.

‘Damn, I can’t seem to manage these. Come and give me a hand will you, Steph?’

Numbly she walked over to him, trying to focus her eyes on the sinewed strength of his wrist as he bared it for her inspection. The contrast between his dark, tanned skin and the crisp whiteness of his shirt cuff was curiously disturbing. She wanted to put her fingertips over the strong pulse she could see beating under his skin, and feel its heat. She wanted the comfort and security of his arms, in the same way she had wanted them when Paul was killed.

It seemed to take a lifetime to secure both cuff-links, but at last it was done. When she stepped back from him she was surprised to see how shaky she felt.

‘I’d better go down and check on dinner.’

As she stepped away from him, Stephanie thought she heard him laugh softly.

What was happening to her? she wondered numbly as she went downstairs. She already knew she was sexless, incapable of arousing a man, so why was she so suddenly and inexplicably experiencing this odd desire to reach out and touch Gray? She had been shocked and embarrassed by his nudity but she had felt something else as well: a purely feminine recognition of the powerful masculinity of him, an intensely female responsiveness to his maleness. But surely that was impossible? She couldn’t experience those sort of feelings. Could she?

Thoroughly confused, she tried to concentrate on preparing their meal, and to direct her thoughts to whatever it was that Gray wanted to discuss with her, but irrationally they kept straying to Gray’s earlier assertion that he wasn’t qualified to judge whether she was frigid or not.

Could Paul have been wrong? She frowned. But surely if he had been she would have known about it before now? In the ten years since his death she had never once experienced the slightest desire for any man. The phone rang, and she went to answer it.

It was Carla, asking for Gray. As she called him to the phone Stephanie was gripped by the most painfully acute sensation of jealousy. Jealousy? But she had no right to be jealous of Carla’s place in Gray’s life. No right at all.

Thoroughly confused, she went back to the kitchen, trying to dismiss her painfully intrusive thoughts.

When he came into the kitchen Gray was frowning heavily. Whatever Carla had had to say to him it couldn’t have been to his liking. Had the blonde perhaps objected to her presence at the cottage, after all? If Gray was her lover … Gray her lover? Shock ripped through her unprepared body—the body she was so convinced could never respond sexually to any man. What on earth was happening to her?

‘Stephanie … what is it? Are you ill?’

She looked up, her eyes still dark with shock. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged. She was looking at Gray and yet it was almost as though she was looking at a stranger.

He reached out for her, warm hands gripping her rigid arms, his face creased in lines of concern.

‘You’re trembling. What is it? What’s wrong?’

Another minute and she would be cradled against the hard warmth of his body … the body that, like the man, belonged to someone else. Immediately she tensed, and Gray let her go.

She felt sick with shock as she realised what she was feeling. She was jealous. Jealous of Carla. No, not of Carla, she amended hastily … she was jealous of their relationship, because it threatened her own friendship with Gray. Yes, that was it …

Shakily she let her mind absorb her thoughts, like a swimmer frightened by the depths, now reaching out for the safety of the shallows where they could touch the ocean floor.

‘I’m all right now, Gray …’

It was obvious that he wasn’t totally convinced. ‘What happened?’

She shrugged carelessly. ‘Oh, nothing. I just felt cold, that’s all.’

It was plain that he didn’t believe her, but fortunately he didn’t press the subject.

‘I’ll fix the trays. Will you check on the casserole?’

Everything was as it had always been, she thought thankfully, obeying his instructions. Or was it? She risked a covert glance at him. She was terrified of losing his friendship … especially to another woman.

CHAPTER TWO

THEY had eaten both the casserole and the apple pie before Gray broached the subject of Stephanie’s visit.

‘I’ll wash up if you make the coffee,’ he suggested, bending to take the tray from her lap. ‘No one else makes it quite the way you do.’

‘Oh, no? I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.’

Instead of making him smile, her flip answer drew a sharp frown. Now what had she done to offend him? she wondered unhappily as she followed him to the kitchen. Something was different; something had changed between them. She felt different than she had ever felt before, buoyed up and excited one moment, and miserable and on edge the next.

Amazingly, Gray managed to unfasten his cuff-links much more easily than she had put them in. Watching him as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves and started washing up their dishes, Stephanie felt a burning tide of awareness sweep over her body. His forearms were tanned and strongly muscled. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to stroke her fingertips through those thick, dark hairs.

‘I asked you to come down here because I need a favour.’ The abrupt words cut through the hazy sensuality of her private thoughts, jerking her back to reality. What on earth had come over her?

‘I’m having some problems with the boat-yard. Business has fallen off quite sharply lately. I’m working on the design for a new boat which I’m hoping will be successful. If all goes well I plan to show it at next year’s Boat Show, but launching a new boat is a pretty risky business, especially for a yard like ours.’

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.

‘There’s still money coming in from the moorings you let out to summer visitors.’

‘Yes, they’re just about keeping us afloat, but it’s not enough. I want this yard to be again what it once was. There’s no cash available for development and investment … to do the things I want to do. You know that the design and production of small craft has always been more important to me than the day-to-day running of the yard.’