Read Online When the Devil Drives by Sara Craven - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sara Craven
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sleep slowly, like a swimmer surfacing from the
depths of some vast and limitless sea. For a few moments she
remained exactly where she was, supine and relaxedt enjoying the
warmth of the morning sunlight against her still-leaden eyelids.
She could remember vague untroubled dreams that seemed to have
left her totally at peace, yet at the same time she was aware of sounds,
ordinary in themselves—the splash of running water into a basin, a
muted but cheerful whistling—that nevertheless introduced an alien
note into the normal, familiar pattern of her awakening.
She made herself open her eyes. She took one dazed look at her
surroundings, and sat up with a smothered cry as memory came
flooding back, reminding her in grisly detail exactly where she was,
and why.
The next thing she realised was that, apart from her dress, hanging
neatly on the back of a convenient chair, she was still fully clad. And
under the circumstances that seemed odd, unless Cal Blackstone had
relented...
She turned slowly and reluctantly, and stared down at the pillow
beside her. It bore the unmistakable impress of a head, so it was
apparent she hadn't slept alone last night.
But what on earth happened? she asked herself frantically. She could
remember feeling sleepy, and being carried, but after that—nothing.
A great, dreaming void, she realised in panic.
She threw back the quilt and swung her legs to the floor, pausing as a
slight wave of dizziness overtook her. She put a hand to her head, and
waited for it to pass. Maybe that was it, she thought. Maybe she'd
been taken ill with some virus.
She stood up gingerly. A man's robe in dark brown silk had been
draped across the foot of the bed, presumably for her use. She put it
on, fastening the sash with fingers that totally lacked their usual
deftness. As she bent her head impatiently to enforce their obedience,
she caught the whisper of a familiar and evocative scent from the
folds of the robe. So he still used the same cologne, she thought, her
mind wincing from the memories it evoked.
The door on the other side of the room stood half open. Presumably
that was the bathroom, and the source of the sounds which had
disturbed her. Moving with unwonted care, because she still felt
faintly groggy, Joanna made her way across the room and peeped
round the door.
Cal was standing at the basin, his only covering a towel draped round
his hips. He was busy removing lather from his chin with long brisk
strokes of the razor.
He turned immediately, as if sensing her presence, and grinned at her
sardonically. 'Good morning,' he said. 'I hope you spent a pleasant
night.'
He'd made his greeting deliberately ambiguous, she thought crossly,
as her face reddened involuntarily. But there was no point in beating
about the bush. She had to know. She said, 'I don't understand.
Exactly what took place?'
'We slept.' Cal rinsed away the lingering traces of lather, and
subjected the smoothness of his shave to a minute inspection iff the
mirror. 'You with chemical assistance, I with the benefit of a clear
conscience.'
She gave him a look of total disbelief. 'What the hell do you
mean—chemical assistance?'
'You were clearly in a highly nervous state.' He applied aftershave. 'I
decided you needed a good night's sleep, and arranged for you to have
one.'
She went on staring at him. 'Do you actually mean that you drugged
me? My God, that's the most despicable --'
'Hardly drugged.' He replaced the cap on the bottle of aftershave. 'My
secretary suffers from insomnia sometimes. Her husband works on an
oil rig in the North Sea, and obviously she worries about him. I asked
her for a couple of the sleeping-pills she uses, and put them in your
coffee.'
'You've got a nerve,' she said bitterly, remembering the cloud of
weariness which had descended on her. 'They were more like
knock-out drops!'
'They seemed to be what you needed.' Cal ran a comb through his
thick dark hair.
depths of some vast and limitless sea. For a few moments she
remained exactly where she was, supine and relaxedt enjoying the
warmth of the morning sunlight against her still-leaden eyelids.
She could remember vague untroubled dreams that seemed to have
left her totally at peace, yet at the same time she was aware of sounds,
ordinary in themselves—the splash of running water into a basin, a
muted but cheerful whistling—that nevertheless introduced an alien
note into the normal, familiar pattern of her awakening.
She made herself open her eyes. She took one dazed look at her
surroundings, and sat up with a smothered cry as memory came
flooding back, reminding her in grisly detail exactly where she was,
and why.
The next thing she realised was that, apart from her dress, hanging
neatly on the back of a convenient chair, she was still fully clad. And
under the circumstances that seemed odd, unless Cal Blackstone had
relented...
She turned slowly and reluctantly, and stared down at the pillow
beside her. It bore the unmistakable impress of a head, so it was
apparent she hadn't slept alone last night.
But what on earth happened? she asked herself frantically. She could
remember feeling sleepy, and being carried, but after that—nothing.
A great, dreaming void, she realised in panic.
She threw back the quilt and swung her legs to the floor, pausing as a
slight wave of dizziness overtook her. She put a hand to her head, and
waited for it to pass. Maybe that was it, she thought. Maybe she'd
been taken ill with some virus.
She stood up gingerly. A man's robe in dark brown silk had been
draped across the foot of the bed, presumably for her use. She put it
on, fastening the sash with fingers that totally lacked their usual
deftness. As she bent her head impatiently to enforce their obedience,
she caught the whisper of a familiar and evocative scent from the
folds of the robe. So he still used the same cologne, she thought, her
mind wincing from the memories it evoked.
The door on the other side of the room stood half open. Presumably
that was the bathroom, and the source of the sounds which had
disturbed her. Moving with unwonted care, because she still felt
faintly groggy, Joanna made her way across the room and peeped
round the door.
Cal was standing at the basin, his only covering a towel draped round
his hips. He was busy removing lather from his chin with long brisk
strokes of the razor.
He turned immediately, as if sensing her presence, and grinned at her
sardonically. 'Good morning,' he said. 'I hope you spent a pleasant
night.'
He'd made his greeting deliberately ambiguous, she thought crossly,
as her face reddened involuntarily. But there was no point in beating
about the bush. She had to know. She said, 'I don't understand.
Exactly what took place?'
'We slept.' Cal rinsed away the lingering traces of lather, and
subjected the smoothness of his shave to a minute inspection iff the
mirror. 'You with chemical assistance, I with the benefit of a clear
conscience.'
She gave him a look of total disbelief. 'What the hell do you
mean—chemical assistance?'
'You were clearly in a highly nervous state.' He applied aftershave. 'I
decided you needed a good night's sleep, and arranged for you to have
one.'
She went on staring at him. 'Do you actually mean that you drugged
me? My God, that's the most despicable --'
'Hardly drugged.' He replaced the cap on the bottle of aftershave. 'My
secretary suffers from insomnia sometimes. Her husband works on an
oil rig in the North Sea, and obviously she worries about him. I asked
her for a couple of the sleeping-pills she uses, and put them in your
coffee.'
'You've got a nerve,' she said bitterly, remembering the cloud of
weariness which had descended on her. 'They were more like
knock-out drops!'
'They seemed to be what you needed.' Cal ran a comb through his
thick dark hair.
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