Substitute Lover. PENNY JORDANЧитать онлайн книгу.
a little better before making such an important commitment, but Paul had laughed at him, she remembered, sneering that since Gray was not married himself he was not qualified to speak.
In the end their parents had given way, perhaps in the fear that if they did not, they might do something even more reckless … and who knew … perhaps they would have done. Paul had whispered on more than one occasion that if it was the only way, they could start a baby. ‘Then they’ll have to let us get married,’ he had coaxed.
Whether or not she would have gone that far she didn’t know. Certainly she had been bemused enough by her feelings for him to do almost anything he suggested. Her parents had tried to tell her that she was suffering from a classic case of infatuation but she hadn’t wanted to know … she hadn’t wanted to believe them.
In the end, Paul had got his way. They had had a small family wedding, she had worn a white dress; and they had moved into a pretty cottage down near the harbour that Paul’s parents had bought for them. Mr and Mrs Chalmers had a large house just outside the village, and Gray lived in what had been his grandfather’s cottage quite close to the boat-yard.
Their honeymoon had been a bitter disappointment—for both of them. Paul did not have the patience or the experience to arouse her to the point where she could enjoy his lovemaking, and he had swiftly grown impatient and then angry with her for her lack of response.
The first time he had hit her had been after a quarrel, and she had been too shocked to do anything other than stare at him. Her father had never raised a hand to her in all her life, and the cruelty of Paul’s blow hurt her emotions more than her flesh.
Of course, he had immediately been contrite; they had made up their quarrel and he had sworn never to touch her in anger again.
Within days he had broken that promise and, by the time their honeymoon was over, Stephanie had learned to fear her new husband’s sudden surges of temper.
She returned to her new home and her new life sick at heart and cowed in spirit.
People noticed of course, especially her parents, but she had too much pride to tell them the truth. Inwardly she felt, as Paul claimed, that she was to blame for his violence, that she invited it in some way, and deserved it for her inability to respond to him as a woman.
His violence towards her quickly escalated to the point where she cringed every time he came near her.
They stopped making love within days of returning to their new home, and quite soon after that Paul started staying out later and later at night, and then not coming home at all.
He had made no secret of the fact that there were other girls, but whenever she suggested that they end the marriage he had flown into one of his almost maniacal tempers, and she soon learned not to bring the subject up.
His death might have freed her from the physical violence of their marriage, but emotionally she was still trapped, both in her own guilt for failing him as a woman, and her fear that she was somehow not like other members of her sex—not capable of responding sexually to anyone’s embrace.
Her memories of the unhappiness of the few short months of her marriage, and the guilt feelings that had come afterwards, were so strong, that she hated returning to the village.
Paul’s parents no longer lived there—they had moved away shortly after his death, when Paul’s father had sold out his share of the boat-yard to Gray. Now they were both dead, increasing her sense of guilt. They had both adored Paul, worshipped him almost, seeing no fault in him.
Stephanie’s own pride had made it impossible for her to discuss with anyone the cruelty of Paul’s treatment of her, and so it remained locked inside her, a dark, unhappy secret that still had the power to destroy her sleep.
There had been no man in her life since Paul. What would have been the point? She would only have incited them to violence once they discovered her lack of sexuality. Gray was the only man in her life, and their relationship was a sexless, friendly one that could quite easily have existed between two members of the same sex.
The road crested a hill. To her left she could see the bright glitter of the river, slow and majestic in its steady progress towards the sea.
Soon she would be there. A quiver of apprehension ran through her, all her doubts and dreads about the wisdom of obeying Gray’s request that she come down here betrayed in the cloudy darkness of her eyes.
Her body—too slim and fragile, perhaps, for a woman of twenty-eight—tensed, ready to absorb the shock of pain and guilt that waited for her with her first glimpse of the estuary and the sea.
It was a small place, the village, where everyone knew everyone else. They all knew about her loss; about Paul’s death, but none of them knew about her deeper anguish. Perhaps fearing his parents’ discovering the truth, Paul had gone into Southampton on those nights when he didn’t return home, and had found there, or so he had told her, the sexual satisfaction he could not get from her, his wife.
Cold … frigid. The accusations, so well remembered, hammered against her skull, turning her skin pale with anguish.
If only Gray had come up to London to discuss the business of the boat-yard with her, as he had done in the past, but this time he had been insistent that she return here. He had even threatened to come and get her if she refused and, knowing he meant it, she had eventually, reluctantly, given way.
Perhaps in her shoes another woman might have tried to prove Paul’s accusations wrong by taking one lover after another, but Stephanie couldn’t do that. She was too afraid that Paul had been right. She had failed with him, and she would fail with anyone else.
Instead, she had locked herself away behind the barrier of her guilt, using Paul as an excuse for not forming any new relationships. No other man was going to get an opportunity to abuse her physically, or hurt and betray her because she couldn’t satisfy him; no other man was going to turn from her to someone else, as Paul had done.
Not even Gray had known, as she wept in his arms, that she cried not just for Paul himself but for the betrayal of their love and her own failure to prove herself a woman. And he would never know it.
The village was in sight now, and she automatically tensed her muscles, glancing at her watch. Gone six o’clock, but Gray would probably still be at the boat-yard. She would go there first, rather than the cottage.
Gray lived there alone now and had done for several years. The shock of losing her son had led to Paul’s mother’s death, and Paul’s father, Gray’s uncle, had died two years later from a heart attack. Now only Gray was left.
The boat-yard was on the far side of the village, right down on the bank of the estuary. It had been in Gray’s family for about a hundred years.
As she parked her VW and climbed out of it, Gray emerged from his office and came towards her. Tall, with forbiddingly broad shoulders and a shock of night-black hair, he was a commandingly masculine man. Densely blue eyes studied her and, shockingly, Stephanie momentarily recognised in them the age-old appraisal of a man looking at a woman.
Gray moved and the appraisal was gone, leaving her to suspect that she must have imagined it.
The late afternoon breeze coming off the estuary flattened the silky curve of her skirt against her hip and the long line of her legs. She lifted a hand to push her hair back off her face and heard Gray growl, ‘You’re getting too thin. What have you been doing to yourself?’
‘I’m not thin, just fashionably slim!’ she protested.
He was wearing an old pair of jeans that clung to his body like a second skin. Hastily averting her eyes from the powerful muscles of his thighs, she was tensely aware of his eyes narrowing.
‘What’s wrong? You’re as skittish as a dinghy without a tiller.’
His fingers closed over her arm, drawing her towards him. She could smell the familiar male scent of his body, and felt an almost uncontrollable urge to cling to him and let him stand between her and her pain.