Campaign For Loving. PENNY JORDAN

obviously wasn’t in. On the point of returning to her car, she caught the sound of tearing paper, followed by a muffled curse. The study door was flung open and Blake emerged, pushing irate fingers through tousled dark brown hair.

      ‘Jaime!’

      ‘If I’ve come at a bad time, I can always come back.’ Why did she have to sound so nervous? Her eyes shifted apprehensively from the frown on his face, her gaze skittering wildly over the exposed column of his throat and the tanned flesh of his chest where his shirt was unbuttoned. He was wearing a pair of faded, tight jeans, and it required a conscious effort for her to drag her eyes away from the twin columns of his thighs, as she tried to blot out the memory of how it had felt to have the powerful reality of his naked body against hers. A dull surge of colour consumed her body, and she turned away quickly, hoping he wouldn’t guess how desperately hungry she was for the sight and feel of him. With Blake making love had been a feast of all the senses and each one of hers now responded to his proximity.

      ‘If I’m interrupting…’ she hesitated half way to the door, and Blake grimaced saying, ‘You’re not interrupting anything apart from a monumental writer’s block—something I haven’t suffered from before with my other two. Come on in. It will be more comfortable to talk in here than standing out in the hall.’

      Numbly she followed him into the small study. The settee and chairs had been pushed to one side to make room for a large desk and chair. An electric typewriter sat on the desk, sheaves of paper surrounding it.

      ‘I didn’t know you’d written anything other than newspaper articles.’

      ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ Blake agreed sardonically. ‘I wrote my first book when I came back from El Salvador.’

      Almost automatically, Jaime moved across to the typewriter. A half-finished sheet was rolled into the carriage.

      ‘Wait there, I’ll go and make us both a cup of coffee, I won’t be long.…’

      ‘There’s no need to bother.’ She said it stiffly, anxious to get their interview over and done with.

      ‘Maybe not to you, but I haven’t had a break yet today. Wait here.’

      When he was gone, she studied the bookshelves behind her, recognising many of Blake’s books from the flat they had shared. How long was he planning to stay in Frampton? How long did it take to write a book? She really had no idea. She picked up a novel she had read the previous summer in the paperback version, letting it drop from nerveless fingers when she saw Blake’s face staring back at her from the dust cover. Blake had written this. She remembered how much the book had moved her; how she had felt for the sardonic hero; the power of the intensely passionate love scenes. As she bent to pick the book up she dislodged some of the papers from the desk. Down on her hands and knees she started to gather up the type written pages, her movements stilling as she started automatically to read.

      The words seemed to leap off the pages to meet her, so tormentingly erotic that she could feel her body’s response to them. What she was reading was a love scene that reminded her so vividly of how it had been when she and Blake made love that she felt that Blake had almost walked into her mind.