Running From the Storm by Lee Wilkinson

silence, a glint in his eye.
    Finally, knowing that he held the whip hand, she agreed, ‘Then, of course I’ll stay.’
    His little smile acknowledging that he knew it too, he said, ‘I thought you might.’
    ‘For a while at least,’ she qualified, unwilling to be browbeaten.
    He gave her a quick glance but said no more.
    It had been a terrible shock to find she was dealing with Zander, but now circumstances were turning the whole thing into an absolute nightmare.
    Seeing the involuntary shiver that ran through her, he enquired solicitously, ‘Cold? Don’t worry; I’ll soon get the stove going.’
    Not wanting him to get too settled, she objected, ‘But surely you won’t be able to. I mean … won’t everything be damp?’
    ‘We’ll see.’
    While she hovered unhappily, he unearthed some kindling from a nearby log-basket, remarking with a prosaic tone, ‘This seems dry enough.’
    She could see no sign of any matches, and she was just breathing a sigh of relief when he found a box.
    He soon coaxed the kindling into life and it took only a second or two for a few small, carefully placed pieces of wood to catch fire. They were followed by a selection of split logs, and in a very short space of time the leaping flames were providing some much-needed light and warmth.
    Pulling the armchairs closer to the blaze, he suggested, ‘Why don’t you come and sit down where it’s warm?’ His tone was neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
    Seeing nothing else for it, she reluctantly joined him by the fire.
    As soon as she was seated, Zander sat down in the chair opposite and, leaning back, stretched his long legs towards the blaze and crossed his ankles.
    He appeared to be quite comfortable, relaxed, but she could sense an underlying tension that told a different story, and the green eyes fixed on her were clouded with sombre thoughts.
    Though she tried her hardest not to look in his direction, her furtive gaze was drawn irresistibly to his face.
    He was as handsome as ever, those long, heavy-lidded eyes just as fascinating, while above a fine black polo-necked sweater his hair looked even fairer than she remembered.
    Yes, he was the same, yet not the same. The carefree young man she had known was gone. Now he appeared older and there were lines of strain beside his mouth that hadn’t been there three years ago.
    She found herself wondering what had caused them.
    There was so much between them that had been left unsaid. With mingled feelings of trepidation and inevitability, Caris waited for him to speak, to bring up the past. To ask the question she was dreading having to answer.
    But the seconds ticked away and still he said nothing, merely watched her.
    Totally unnerved by that brooding scrutiny, she sought for a safe topic of conversation. But the silence stretched between them, dangerous as a minefield, and try as she might she could think of nothing to say or any way to defuse the situation.
    All at once the storm raging outside and the tension inside took her back to Owl Lodge and that first night when, reluctant to go to bed, she and Zander had been sitting by the fire in silence …
    The tension, a sexual one, had been almost tangible until the storm that had been threatening all evening finally broke, snapping like an overstretched rubber band.
    Rain began to drum on the roof and beat against the windows, while drops falling down the chimney hissed as they hit the burning logs.
    Jumping to his feet, Zander exclaimed, ‘Hell! I forgot to close the car roof.’
    Pulling on his damp shoes and an oilskin that hung behind the door, he hurried out into the darkness.
    He returned quite quickly, the oilskin gleaming in the lamplight, his hair darkened by the wet drops of rain running down his face.
    ‘Everything all right?’ she asked,
    ‘Not too bad, considering. Though it’s a bit wild out there.’
    Hanging up the oilskin, he fetched a towel to rub his hair and dry his face before resuming his seat by the