LITMIR.BIZ

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behind her.

      Grace Penloe was not a violent woman, but she felt strongly that if she could have got her hands round Thirza Grantham’s throat she would probably have strangled her.

      Meanwhile, Jenna was striding through the garden, her face pale and set, her tearless eyes staring rigidly ahead.

      Spring had come softly to Cornwall that year, and then, suddenly and maliciously, reverted to winter with driving showers of hail and sleet, and gales that sent the seas battering at the coastline.

      The Penloes, who’d built Trevarne House on the headland that tapered into the Atlantic, had protected their grounds from the prevailing winds with high stone walls, but Jenna chose not to remain within their shelter.

      Instead, after a brief battle with the heavy latch, she pushed open the tall iron gate at the end of the garden, and stepped out on to the short, stubby grass of Trevarne Head itself.

      As she turned to pull the gate shut behind her the wind tore at her loose knot of chestnut hair and whipped it free, so that it streamed behind her like a bright, silken pennant.

      For a moment she paused, trying to subdue it into a braid, then realised her fingers were shaking too much so gave up the unequal struggle and walked on, digging her hands into the pockets of her jacket, her head bent and shoulders hunched as she met the full force of the wind.

      She had the headland to herself. The hurrying clouds and harsh wind had kept other people away, but for Jenna the weather suited the bleakness of her mood.

      Long before she reached the small concrete observation platform which had been built into the turf she could feel the icy spray from the sea chilling her face, tingling against her skin, and paused, gasping for breath.

      She would not, she decided, go any closer to the edge. She was not prepared to risk the odd, erratic gust which might carry her over to the sharp rocks and boiling surf far below.

      She might be upset. She was certainly angry. But she was sure as hell not suicidal.

      She gripped the back of the bench seat, which was bolted to the platform, and looked at the dramatic panorama in front of her.

      The sea was alive and furious, streaked in grass-green and indigo as it flung itself against the granite promontory. She could hear its boom and hiss as it raced up the inlet that divided Trevarne from the cliffs of Polcarrow itself, then fell back in frustration.

      Lifting her head, she watched the sea birds that swooped and dived, and rode on the waves.

      Tossed by fate, she thought ironically, as she was herself.

      And she had not seen it coming, although she couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned.

      ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Natasha, her business partner, had asked, her slanting brows drawn together in a concerned frown. ‘Isn’t it asking for trouble?’

      Jenna shrugged. ‘Christy and I promised each other years ago that she’d be my bridesmaid and I’d be hers. She kept her side of the pledge. Now it’s my turn, and I can’t let her down.’ She paused. ‘Nor would I want to.’

      Natasha gave her a wry look. ‘Not even when it’s the very same church that you were married in?’ she queried. ‘With all the memories that’s bound to entail?’

      Jenna bit her lip. ‘It’s a very old church,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’m sure a lot of happy marriages have been celebrated there, so it will have good vibes, too.’

      ‘Well, it’s your decision,’ Natasha said. ‘But I helped pick up the pieces the first time, remember, and I don’t want to find you back at square one for the sake of a family wedding.’

      Jenna lifted her hands. ‘That’s all in the past, I promise. Now all I care about is the present—and the future.’

      Brave words, she told herself now, staring sightlessly at the grey horizon. And I might—just —have got away with them. If only Ross hadn’t come back …

      She couldn’t believe the pain that had seized her—torn at her when she’d heard the news of his return. Or how easily her carefully constructed edifice of control and self-belief had crumpled.

      She wasn’t suffering from some reality bypass. She’d always known it was inevitable that she and her ex-husband would meet again one day. But she’d hoped desperately that the meeting would be far, far in the future, when she might finally have come to terms with his betrayal of her.

      Yet it seemed it was to be here and now—in this remote Cornish peninsula which she had always regarded as her personal haven.

      It was to Trevarne House that she’d come as a scared ten-year-old after her mother’s death, to the care of her aunt and uncle, leaving her father free to assuage his own grief by abandoning the desk job he hated and roaming the world as a troubleshooter for the giant oil company he worked for.

      And here, on her mother’s soil, she’d put down faltering roots in the Penloes’ kind, easygoing household, while she and Christy, both only children, had found in each other the sister they’d always wanted.

      And when, a couple of years later, her father had been killed in a freak accident when his car tyre had burst on a tricky mountain road, she had been absorbed seamlessly into the family as another daughter of the house.

      All the same, she’d thought long and hard before accepting Christy’s invitation to the wedding, in spite of their childhood vow. Eventually she’d allowed herself to be swayed by the knowledge that Thirza Grantham, the only potential fly in the ointment, was on the other side of the world.

      Where Ross himself was to be found had been anyone’s guess. She went out of her way to ignore the scraps of information that filtered through concerning his whereabouts.

      Impossible, of course, she’d discovered, to cut him out of her awareness completely. To forget, as she longed to do, that he’d ever existed. For that she’d need some kind of emotional lobotomy, she thought broodingly.

      Besides, there was evidence of him everywhere. The photographs which he sent back to his agency from every trouble spot in the world were still winning him prizes and awards with monotonous regularity.

      ‘It can’t be a real war,’ someone had once joked. ‘Ross Grantham isn’t there yet.’

      No, his profile was far too public for her to be able to exercise any kind of selective amnesia where he was concerned, and somehow she had to live with that.

      It was strange, she thought, that she hadn’t run into him in London before now. On dozens of occasions she’d thought she’d glimpsed him on the street, or across busy restaurants, even among the interval crowds at the theatre, and had felt the swift wrench of panic deep in her guts, only to realise, belatedly, that she was running scared of some complete stranger.

      But then wasn’t that what Ross himself had always been? she asked herself with bitter irony. A charming stranger who had murmured words of love to her, slept with her, given her for a few ecstatic weeks the prospect of motherhood, then abandoned her to pursue a casual affair while she was still recovering from the pain and trauma of her loss.

      She sank her teeth into her bottom lip until she tasted blood. That was forbidden territory to her now, and she would not go there.

      She’d persuaded herself that, with Thirza away, Polcarrow would be safe enough. That Ross would not come visiting unless his stepmother was there—had, indeed, not been back since the divorce.

      Only, unpredictable as ever, Thirza had returned …

      And as a result her life had been sent spinning once more into confusion—and fear.

      Although there was no reason for her to be scared of any confrontation, she told herself defiantly. She, after all, had been the innocent party in the collapse of their brief ill-starred marriage. It was Ross who’d been the guilty party—the deceiver—the betrayer.

      He,

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