The Impetuous Bride
Caroline Anderson
It should have been the happiest day of her life, but as Lydia slipped into her wedding gown, she knew she had to stop the wedding. Jake's whirlwind proposal had been thrilling, but all she wanted was to hear him say he loved her!A year later, Lydia finds herself at the altar with Jake again–this time as a bridesmaid instead of a bride! Jake is the best man–and he's still the only man for Lydia. But can he finally convince his impetuous bride to say "I do"?
“Did I miss something?” she said.
Jake let out his breath in a ragged sigh.
“I’m sorry. It’s just—watching you like that—you don’t make it easy. You’re a beautiful woman, Lydia. I can’t just switch off my feelings simply because it’s all over between us.”
“Is it?” she said softly.
He stopped dead. “Is what?” he asked, hardly able to believe his ears.
“Is it all over? The way you kissed me last night—I rather thought it might not be.”
Almost at the altar—will these nearlyweds become newlyweds?
Welcome to Nearlyweds, our miniseries featuring the ultimate romantic occasion—weddings! Yet these are no ordinary weddings: our beautiful brides and gorgeous grooms only nearly make it to the altar—before fate intervenes and the wedding’s…off!
But the story doesn’t end there…. Find out what happens in these tantalizingly emotional novels by some of your best-loved Harlequin Romance® authors.
The Impetuous Bride
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With thanks to Mike and Jessamy, Tamsin and Will for an inspirational setting and for “lending” me your wedding.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE (#u8d9987cc-40ff-5699-a120-add5f93f5352)
CHAPTER ONE (#uc5242623-2685-5064-9115-1a5bee63babc)
CHAPTER TWO (#u7e69990d-5144-589d-9bb4-d4ffdb764c6f)
CHAPTER THREE (#u333664f6-553d-55a2-b907-15b76e0f710d)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE
‘I CAN’T do this.’
‘What? Lydia, don’t be so silly. All you have to do is stand there, looking beautiful, and kiss everyone and say it’s lovely to see them. Of course you can do it,’ her mother said flatly. ‘Now, Melanie, you’ll be standing here, and Tom, you’ll be here—’
‘Mum!’
Her mother sighed and turned back. ‘What is it, darling? What on earth is the problem?’
Lydia took a deep, steadying breath, and said loudly, ‘I can’t do this. Not the reception line thing, the marriage thing. I can’t do it.’
There was a second of shocked silence, and everyone turned to look at her—her mother, clutching her clipboard like a ruffled hen hanging on to a perch; her father, jerked out of his boredom into confusion; her sister, Melanie, aghast and fascinated; Tom, the best man, his jaw dropping slightly in astonishment—and Jake. Her dear, darling Jake, who was marrying her on a whim.
She met his eyes—his beautiful, stunningly blue eyes, so full of fun and teasing laughter usually, now shuttered and expressionless, his mouth a grim line in his stony face.
‘Jake, I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘Can we talk about this?’
‘I think that would be a good idea,’ her mother rushed in, and hustled them out of the marquee. ‘You go and talk it over, and come back when you’re ready.’
Lydia didn’t think she’d ever be ready. The heat was closing in on her, and yet she felt chilled to the bone. Hot and cold, like a baked Alaska. Oh, God.
Jake’s hand was firm on the small of her back, and he wheeled her out into the sunshine and turned to face her.
‘OK, let’s have it,’ he said tightly.
He was angry. She should have expected it, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t had time to work out her own feelings, never mind anyone else’s. She’d just felt this huge pressure on her, and her mouth had just opened and spoken.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I just feel—I don’t know, railroaded. I think we’ve rushed into this and don’t know how we feel, and it’s all sort of happening to us. I feel acted on, and I shouldn’t. I should feel as if it’s our wedding, but I feel like we’re actors, and I don’t know if we’re really doing it or just playing a part—going through the motions, you know? I just don’t feel sure any more.’
He scanned her face, his eyes still expressionless, and then looked down, his toe idly scuffing the edge of the matting laid down for the endless guests that were expected in just forty-eight hours.
Guests for a wedding that might not now take place.
Oh, Lord, talk to me, she thought. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it’s rubbish. Tell me you love me, that you want to marry me. Tell me not to worry. ‘Jake?’ she whispered, agonised.
He looked back at her, and for a moment she thought she saw a flicker of emotion, but then it was gone. ‘If that’s what you feel, then you’re probably right,’ he said, and his voice sounded strangely distant. ‘Goodbye, Lydia. Take care of yourself.’
And he turned on his heel and strode away, up the sloping lawn towards the house. Away from her.
She stared at him, shocked. She wanted to run after him, beg and plead and reason, but it was pointless. He didn’t want her. If he’d wanted her, he would have said so.
‘Darling?’
She turned and fell into her father’s arms, huge racking sobs tearing her chest apart, and then after a moment she turned and ran away, up to the house. She wasn’t following Jake. There was no point. She just had to get away, to distance herself from the sympathy and curiosity and absolute pandemonium that would ensue.
Her bag was almost packed ready for her honeymoon in Bermuda. She tipped it out, threw back the swimming things and one or two nice outfits, grabbed her shorts and T-shirts from the drawer and hastily packed a few lightweight things. Her passport was ready—in her maiden name, still, because they hadn’t thought about it until it was too late.
Good job, too, she thought, and scrubbed her eyes again so she could see. Shoes—walking shoes, comfy shoes, sandals. She didn’t know where she was going, but somewhere. Somewhere far away.
‘Lydia? Darling, what on earth is the matter?’
‘Not now, Mum. I’ll ring you.’
‘Ring me? Darling, what are you doing? Where are you going?’
Her voice was rising, verging on hysteria, and Lydia just had to get out.
‘I don’t know. I’ll ring you and let you know. I’ll get a standby flight—’
‘Flight?’
The word was laced with panic, and it was too much for Lydia. She scooped up her car keys, her case and her bag, checked for her passport again and kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m sorry. I just—
‘Couldn’t do it.’ Melanie spoke from the doorway, her face sad. ‘I’m sorry, love. Want to talk?’
She shook her head, blinking back the tears. ‘No. Just let me go. I’m fine.’
She pushed past them, ran downstairs and bumped into Tom in the hall. ‘Where’s Jake?’ he asked softly, and she shrugged.
‘Pass. Gone home, I suppose.’ She pulled off her engagement ring and held it out, her hand shaking like a leaf. ‘Could you give him this, please? And, Tom—tell him I’m sorry.’
She ran past him, her eyes flooding again, smack into her father’s broad and comforting chest. ‘Don’t do anything rash. Have you got enough money?’ he asked her, and she nodded.
‘I’ll get by. I’m going to Heathrow Airport to start with. I don’t know where after that.’
He took the keys gently out of her hand and put them on the hook on the wall. ‘I’ll drive you,’ he said, in that quiet voice that brooked no argument.
It took two hours. He turned off the mobile phone, turned on the radio and didn’t once try to talk her out of it. It was just as well; he would have been wasting his breath.
He dropped her at one of the terminals, tucked a handful of notes into her handbag and kissed her goodbye, his brown eyes gentle with understanding. ‘Keep in touch, darling. Love you.’
She swallowed hard and kissed him back. ‘Love you, too. I’m sorry.’
She walked into the terminal without looking back, checked out the standby situation at the first desk that caught her eye, and within an hour she was on a flight for Thailand.
She’d never felt more alone in her life.
CHAPTER ONE
‘THANKS.’
Lydia shut the door of the taxi, hitched her backpack up on to one shoulder and turned towards the house, a mixture of dread and eager anticipation tangling in her chest.
It hadn’t changed at all. The roses tumbled in cheerful profusion over the Georgian façade, and the windowframes gleamed brilliant white against the soft old-rose of the bricks. A light wind from the river drifted across the sweeping lawns and caressed her skin with the scent of wild honeysuckle, and she looked down towards the soft blue-green haze of the willows on the riverbank and sighed.
Home, sweet home.
It was June—just a year since she’d left without a backward glance, and now she was back for Melanie’s wedding. The irony brought a twisted little smile to her lips as she headed down towards the house, her backpack bumping against her thighs.
Only one thing was different. There was no Labrador bouncing round her, butting her hand for attention and smiling up at her, tongue lolling, because two months ago their beloved Molly had fallen asleep one night and failed to wake. It seemed strange without her—strange and empty.
The kitchen door was hanging open—just as well, really, as she didn’t have her keys, but the house was usually open and if not there was always a key on the shelf in the old milking parlour.
She went in through the open door, dropped her backpack by the fridge and pulled open the door. She needed a drink. Everything else could wait.
He’d known it was going to happen, of course. Known she’d come back for Melanie’s wedding, if nothing else. He’d been prepared for that, been prepared for seeing her again and steeled himself against it.
Or at least he thought he had. Now, though, his body ground to a halt for an endless moment, then went into overdrive. His heart pounded, his mouth dried, his gut clenched, and need, deep and hot and urgent, ripped through him.
She was wearing shorts—little skimpy cut-off jeans above skinny brown legs and bare feet in leather sandals. Well, maybe not skinny, but impossibly slender. Thinner than they had been, anyway. Fragile. Her T-shirt was loose and baggy, but even so he could tell she’d lost weight. Had she been ill?
Concern for her overtook the raging need, and the complex mix of emotions threatened to choke him.
She’d taken a carton of orange juice from the fridge and was draining the glass when she noticed him. Her hand trembled, and she set it down abruptly. ‘Jake,’ she said simply, and a tentative and rather forlorn smile tugged at her lips. ‘How are you?’
Not ready for this. Not ready for that voice, soft and low and sexy, that had haunted his dreams.
‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘How are you? Good journey? We were wondering when you’d arrive.’
She shrugged, picking up the empty glass, toying with it. ‘OK journey, I suppose. Long flight, delays, and so on. It’s nice to be home.’
‘Your parents are in the drawing room with Melanie and Tom. They’ll have my guts if I keep you talking out here. You’d better go and see them.’
She nodded, put down the glass and headed towards him. He was standing in the doorway, and she hesitated for a moment because he didn’t move.
He didn’t know why he didn’t move, just that he didn’t—couldn’t, really, until he’d done this one, foolish thing.
He reached out and cupped her chin, bent his head and brushed a feather-soft kiss across her moist, dewy lips.
‘Welcome home, Lydia,’ he said softly, and then dropping her as if she might burn him he pushed past her and went out of the back door and into the sunlight. He dragged in a lungful of the fresh clean air, and closed his eyes. He could taste the sweet citrus tang of the orange juice on her lips, and the white heat of his response shocked him.
He’d really, really thought he was over her, but he wasn’t. He still wanted her every bit as much as he ever had—maybe more. There was nothing like a bit of abstinence to make the heart grow fonder, he mocked himself. Still, she was back, and he was going to have to deal with it.
Well, fine. He could. Just so long as he remembered she’d walked away before, and she’d do it again. She was trouble—big trouble, with a capital T, and he wasn’t going to fall for her charms again.
Ever.
Lydia stood rooted to the spot for an age, her fingers pressed to her lips, her eyes wide with surprise. She should have expected him to be here, should have expected that he would still have this effect on her.
She’d known he’d be at the wedding, of course, but it had never occurred to her that he’d be here in her parents’ house—just sitting around chatting, for heaven’s sake!
Even if he did live just next door.
Oh, damn.
Of course he’d be here. He was Tom’s oldest friend. They’d known each other from birth, practically. Of course he was about.
‘Jake, can’t you find it—? Darling!’
She found herself engulfed in her mother’s hug, and the next second the others were there, laughing and crying and hugging, and then there was Tom, looking over Melanie’s shoulder towards the door.
‘Has Jake gone?’ he asked, sounding surprised.
She nodded. ‘Yes. He bumped into me on the way out.’ She looked towards the door, puzzled. Well, she’d assumed he’d been on the way out—or had he left because of her?
There was a moment of awkward silence, then her father hugged her again. ‘Oh, it’s lovely to have you back, poppet. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she lied, her eyes still lingering on the door. She dragged her attention back to her family, and linked arms with her father and sister. ‘Absolutely fine. It’s lovely to be home. Now, come on, I want to hear about the wedding plans. Tell me all.’
Melanie laughed self-consciously. ‘It’ll all be horribly familiar,’ she said with a wry grimace, and Lydia’s heart sank.
Of course. Mel had thrown herself into planning Lydia’s wedding last year, and throughout Lydia had been acutely aware that it was not really the wedding she’d wanted. The marquee by the river, the elaborate flowers, the little gilt chairs, the round tables with their snowy cloths and sparkling tableware—it had always been Mel’s wedding.
Lydia had wanted to get married under the willow with just a very few immediate family, and have a picnic by the river with champagne and soft, ripe cheeses and sweet, juicy grapes.
Instead Melanie had gone into a huddle with her mother and come up with a three-course meal and elaborate seating plans and a guest list that left no one out.
Jake had smiled tolerantly, and Lydia had felt powerless to resist.
Until the very end.
And now, like some kind of awful joke, it was all going to be re-enacted, but this time the cast would change places and the curtain wouldn’t come down until after the final act.
And she and Jake would have to endure the parody of their wedding, and pretend enthusiasm and delight for the benefit of their loved ones.
Suddenly she found herself wishing she’d stayed away for another month and come home when it was all over.
‘So, tell us all about your travels,’ her mother said, settling back with an expectant smile. ‘We’ve had such brief contact, you naughty girl.’
Lydia grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. I just needed to get right away.’
‘We understand. So—tell all. Where have you come from now? We could hardly keep up with you.’
‘Australia—well, via Singapore. I stopped off to see a few friends.’
‘So tell us all about it,’ her father instructed. ‘You went to Thailand first when I dropped you off at the airport, is that right?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, and I just bummed around for a month and tried to sort myself out, then I had to leave because I didn’t have a visa, so I went to India and worked in a hotel as a courier, then I went to Singapore, and Bali, then over to Australia, on to New Zealand and back to Australia, just doing anything I could find for cash and a roof over my head.’
Her mother closed her eyes. ‘It sounds so dangerous.’
It had been, of course, but there was no way she was telling her mother about the foreign tourist who’d tried to rape her in India, or the girl in New Zealand who’d stolen everything except her photos, her passport and the clothes she’d had on.
‘It was fun,’ she said, ignoring the hard work and the hunger pangs and the dysentery. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, she decided, and anyway, she’d survived and learned a few vital lessons.
‘You’re skinny,’ her father said bluntly, scanning her legs.
She curled them tighter under her and laughed lightly. ‘Nonsense. It’s just because I’m brown. So, tell, me, how’s business?’ she asked her mother, deftly switching the subject.
‘Brilliant. We’ve done several new projects—Dunham Hall, the Priory at Whitfield—loads. You would have loved Dunham. We did a stunning authentic kitchen and a fabulous butler’s pantry. It’s like a time warp. I’ve got all the photos; I’ll show you later. I just need to ring the florist before I forget, and give her some answers. Raymond, could you go through it with me again, please, darling? It’s only a week; we really must sort it out.’
Which brought Lydia back to the reason for her return. As her parents went out, she looked at Melanie and Tom, sprawled comfortably on the sofa together, Tom’s arm draped possessively around Mel’s shoulders, and she gave an inward sigh. She couldn’t envy them their happiness. It had been within reach, and she’d walked away.
‘So, lovebirds, when did you decide to tie the knot?’ she asked, striving for a light tone.
‘About a year ago,’ Tom confessed with a smile. ‘When I first met her in the run-up to your wedding. I took one look at her, and I thought, That’s my woman.’
‘Caveman stuff, eh?’ Lydia teased, wishing she’d been anything like as sure of Jake as Mel clearly was of Tom—because, of course, if she had been, she would have stayed and married him.
‘Oh, I like caveman tactics,’ Mel said with a chuckle, laughing up at him. ‘I love it when he gets all masterful. Makes him think he’s boss, and he enjoys that.’
Lydia laughed at Tom’s resigned smile. She guessed her quicksilver high-spirited sister ran rings round the straightforward and honest man she’d chosen, but he was generous enough to indulge her.
If only she’d had so open a relationship with Jake, but for some reason they’d never really broken through the surface and shared anything on a really deep level. Perhaps that was the problem.
Perhaps, she thought, that was the only problem. Maybe if they’d really talked to each other, got to know each other better, she would have known if he’d loved her.
Tom was getting to his feet. ‘I have to go—things to sort out with Jake. I’ll be back later. Lydia, come out with us for dinner. We’re going to a new trattoria in town.’
‘We?’
‘Us and Jake.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know. He might not want me there.’
Tom blinked. ‘Don’t be silly. That’s all water under the bridge now. He won’t mind.’
Lydia wasn’t so sure, but then she’d never been sure of Jake. ‘I’ll see,’ she compromised.
He bent and gave Mel a lingering and tender kiss, and then went out, leaving the two sisters alone for the first time.
Mel, direct as ever, looked across at her and said bluntly, ‘You look like hell. You’re too thin, your eyes are tired and you look sad. Has it really been that bloody a year?’
And, for no very good reason that she could think of, Lydia burst into tears. In an instant Mel was perched on the arm of the chair and her arms were round Lydia, and she was being hugged and comforted by someone who really loved her. Lord, how she’d missed that! She slid her arms round Mel’s waist and hugged her back.
‘It’s good to be home,’ she said a little damply, and Mel shoved a tissue in her hand and smoothed her hair back off her brow.
‘Are you going to be OK about Jake?’ she asked gently, and Lydia shrugged.
‘I don’t know. I thought so, but seeing him just now—I don’t know any more. Has he said anything about me coming back?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really—not to me, and not to Tom, if what he just said is anything to go by. I don’t suppose you have to see that much of him, really, if you don’t want to.’
‘Mmm.’ If she didn’t. The trouble was, she wasn’t at all sure that not seeing him was what she did want. She’d missed him endlessly this last year, and seeing him now had brought it all back. She blinked back another wave of tears and straightened up.
‘Has he—um—you know—?’
‘Got another woman?’ Mel smiled understandingly. ‘No. Not that I’ve heard about, and Tom would have told me if he’d known. He’s been in London a lot, of course. He’s hardly here at all—well, nor’s Tom, of course, but I spend a lot of time in London with him when Mum can spare me, which isn’t that often. The business has really taken off in the last year—she’s delighted you’re back, by the way.’ Mel shot her a keen look. ‘I take it you are back?’
Lydia shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably, but I don’t know if I’ll stay here. Not with Jake next door.’
‘Well, that’s not a problem; the house is up for sale. He’s moving away.’
‘What?’ Lydia felt as if the bottom had fallen out of her world. ‘He’s what?’ she repeated, shocked, and then realised just how much her feelings about coming home had been to do with Jake. He couldn’t be moving away. She’d never see him again—
‘He’s going to stay in London—like I said, he’s hardly ever here now.’
Never here? Oh, Lord. She stood up, patting Mel on the shoulder in passing. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ she said, and went blindly into the kitchen, past the place where he’d kissed her just now in the doorway of the room where he’d proposed to her just over a year ago, the room where so many of her hopes and dreams had been formed, only to come crashing down around her ears.
She ran down through the garden, over the lawn, under the rose arch and down to the wildflower meadow by the river where the marquee would be put up in just a few days.
Her willow was there, the tips of the branches trailing in the water, and she leant against the trunk and dragged in a shaky breath, and then another.
He couldn’t go.
The river swam out of focus, and she slid down the trunk and plopped on to the damp grass, dropping her head back against the rough bark and closing her eyes. The tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks, and she wished she could turn back time and change the course of the last year.
Maybe if she’d married him, given him a chance, all her doubts and fears could have been ironed out. Maybe they would have learned to talk to each other, learned to open up their hearts and dared to share their feelings.
And maybe then, instead of a dull and endless ache inside, she would have been filled with joy and contentment, like Mel.
She turned her head and looked towards Jake’s house, and then she saw him, standing by the river on his side of the fence, watching her. He was too far away to see her tears, but he lifted his hand and waved, and turned away.
She wanted to run after him, to ask him if he’d loved her, really loved her, or if he’d just allowed himself to be manoeuvred into the whole wedding thing.
She didn’t, though. She didn’t move. Instead she sat there and watched him until the tears blinded her again and he was gone.
What was she doing there? He stood for an age, watching her leaning against the tree, her face tipped up to the dappled sun, and he ached to hold her.
You’re a fool, he told himself. She’s no good for you. She’s just a beautiful butterfly, and if you trap her she’ll die as surely as if you put a pin through her heart.
He glanced at his watch. There was someone coming to see the house at four—just an hour away. He had to go and tidy the kitchen—the kitchen Lydia had designed and installed, the kitchen she’d planned as if it were her own.
She was everywhere in it. Every finishing touch, every clever little idea screamed her name. That was one reason why he was selling up. That and her return. Watching her day after day flitting about the place, hearing that beautiful tinkling laugh, watching her run to her car with those never-ending, gorgeous legs flashing in the sun—
He’d had dreams about those legs tangling with his, entwined around his waist as he buried himself deep inside her.
He growled impatiently, and she looked up, straight at him. She was too far away to read her expression, but he couldn’t stay there in case she came over and read the yearning in his eyes.
He lifted his hand in a casual salute and turned away, walking back to the house with a heavy heart. He couldn’t let her do this to him. He couldn’t wallow in self-pity like this or he just wouldn’t survive.
He had this week to get through, and the wedding next Saturday, a week today, and then he wouldn’t have to see her again. He could leave the house. Packers could clear it and bring the things he wanted to London, and the rest could be sold.
And maybe then he could move on.
‘Lydia? Tonight?’ Jake gave what he hoped was a casual shrug, and tried to ignore the sudden lurching of his heart. ‘Sure. Why should I mind?’
‘Well, that’s what I said,’ Tom replied. ‘Anyway, whatever, you’re going to have to see each other this week so you might as well get used to it.’
‘Absolutely. It’s not a problem,’ he assured Tom, hoping it was true. ‘How are the plans going?’
‘Oh, pretty smooth. There’s a lot to do, but, having just had a dry run, as it were, I don’t suppose it’s as bad as it could have been.’
Jake winced inwardly. A dry run? Was that how they viewed the disastrous mess last year had been?
‘It could have been a simpler affair,’ he pointed out, and Tom gave a rueful laugh.
‘With Mel orchestrating it? Not a chance. My darling girl wants all the bells and whistles, and that’s what she’s having. It seems to be a family failing.’
Except, of course, that Lydia had looked increasingly unhappy with it—or with him? He didn’t know. He hadn’t stopped to find out.
‘What time are we going out?’ he asked now, and Tom shrugged.
‘Seven-thirty? Table’s booked for eight-thirty, but we could go for a drink first.’
‘Fine. I’ll be ready. Right, stick that mug in the dishwasher and get out of here. I’ve got viewers coming to see the house in ten minutes and I need to check it. How’s your room?’
‘It’s fine. Lord, man, you’re such a nag.’
‘Check it.’
Tom saluted, vaulted off the edge of the worktop, dropped his mug in the dishwasher with a clatter and sauntered out into the hall. Jake shook his head, wiped down the worktop again, took a last look round and headed for the hall.
Fresh flowers stood in a huge vase on the side table, the sun was streaming into the drawing room windows and it looked good. He heard Tom coming downstairs two at a time, humming.
‘Well?’
‘Spotless. It’ll knock ’em dead.’ Tom punched him affectionately on the shoulder and headed out through the back door, just as the front doorbell rang.
They loved it. Everyone who’d looked at it loved it. There was going to be a mammoth fight over it, apparently, and the agent predicted that it would go to sealed bids, with people making their best and final offers at some time in the next week or two.
Well, at least it wouldn’t hang on, he thought heavily, closing the door behind the viewers at shortly after five. They’d wanted to look at everything several times, and he’d sent them off on their own and then had to listen to them raving about the kitchen for a good ten minutes.
Every little feature that Lydia had factored in, the woman had picked up on. The convenient way the trays slotted into units and became part of the fabric, the ingenious way the cupboards hinged out to give access to the back, the huge and practical work island with a granite area for pastry-making inset into the solid mahogany top, the butcher’s block set into another area—she’d loved them all.
She’d loved the deep butler’s sink under the window, the decorative tiling behind the Aga, the butler’s pantry with its stone shelves and floor-to-ceiling storage—all of it, each scrap of worktop and every single knob had been commented on and caressed lovingly.
She’d been particularly interested in the space under the worktop in the side of the island nearest the Aga.
‘It’s a dog bed,’ Jake had explained.
She’d blinked and looked at it, then at him. ‘It is?’
‘Potentially. I’ve had to spend more and more time in London, though, and the dog wouldn’t have fitted in,’ he’d explained economically.
‘Oh, how sad. Our dog would love it, so near the Aga. What a clever idea. Still, maybe one day you’ll be able to have your dog.’
Jake had done the only thing he could—he had smiled and nodded and tried not to grind his teeth too loudly.
And now, finally, they were gone, after one last look round the upstairs, and he was on his own. He went into the drawing room, dropped into his favourite chair and sighed.
Why the hell had she had to come back?
Lydia wasn’t at all sure about going out that evening. She’d fallen into bed at three-thirty, and to her surprise she’d slept soundly till seven. Now Mel was sitting on her bed shoving a cup of tea in her hand and telling her to get up and come out, it would do her good and they had so little time left before she was married.
That wasn’t how it felt to Lydia. The week ahead stretched away into the hereafter, as far as she was concerned, and she couldn’t see any way round it. That being the case, she might as well get used to it. She threw the bedclothes off, slid out of bed and put the tea down to cool.
‘I’ll come,’ she agreed. ‘How dressy is it?’
‘Anything—I’m wearing a casual silk trouser suit.’
Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘I have shorts—that’s about it.’
‘You have loads of clothes!’
‘And none of them will fit. I’m thinner, Mel.’
‘Not that much thinner. Let’s see—here, look, this is nice and it fits where it touches. Wear that.’
Jake’s favourite dress. Oh, hell. She sighed, dropped the dress on to the bed and headed for the bathroom. ‘OK. Give me five.’
It took longer, of course, because her hair needed washing, but luckily the tan covered the shadows round her eyes, so she slapped on a bit of smoky eyeshadow, a flick of mascara and a dash of soft pink lipstick, and then shimmied into the dress.
It still looked good. It was long and soft and floaty, and she just hoped that Jake wouldn’t remember it was what she’d been wearing when he’d proposed to her.
It was that dress. Damn. Of all the things she could have worn, it had to be that one. He’d had fantasies about her in it, standing with the wind blowing it against her body and lovingly outlining every curve.
Not that she’d have many curves to outline now, he thought, studying her critically. Without the baggy T-shirt he could see the slender arms and narrow waist, the small, high breasts and, when she moved, the angle of her hipbone.
She wasn’t wearing a bra. She usually didn’t—with the breasts that she scornfully described as two grapes on a chopping board she hardly needed to, but the cool night air had pebbled her nipples and he wished she’d put a jumper on before he disgraced himself.
‘Right, are we ready?’ Tom asked, hugging Mel to his side, and Lydia nodded.
‘I’m starving. I hate aeroplane food.’ She yawned hugely, and then laughed. ‘Sorry. I was in bed. Mel dug me out half an hour ago.’
In bed. Wonderful. Just what he needed. Between that and her pert little nipples, he was going to make an idiot of himself for sure. He tugged his heavy cotton sweater down and just prayed that it wouldn’t get too hot in the restaurant.
The atmosphere was dreadful. Mel and Tom did their best to keep the mood light, but Lydia was too tired to join in really and Jake, working his way steadily through the wine, was grimly silent.
Until the coffee was served, that was, and then he sprawled back in his chair, one arm coiled round the back, and regarded her levelly as he stirred his sugarless black coffee with unwarranted determination.
‘So, Lydia, do tell—did you “find yourself” on the hippy trail?’
‘Hippy trail?’ she said, trying not to wince at the coldness of his tone. ‘I met a lot of very interesting people—very nice people. I made some wonderful friends, and learned a great deal about trust and team work and sharing. And you? What have you done in the last year?’
‘Oh, turned over a few more companies, stripped a few assets, trashed a few lives—you know the sort of thing.’
‘Nothing worthwhile, then,’ she quipped, hating herself even while she knew it was just self-defence.
He laughed coldly. ‘Absolutely not—not compared to dumping my fiancé just before the wedding and disappearing off round the world like an irresponsible child. I’m amazed you haven’t come back reeking of patchouli and covered in multiple body piercings.’
She closed her eyes briefly, reeling from the shock of his unwarranted attack. Well, maybe not unwarranted, but totally out of character—wasn’t it? Tom seemed to think so. He jerked upright and glowered at his old friend. ‘Hell, Jake, that’s a bit harsh,’ he said.
‘Is it? The woman jilts me two days before our wedding and you say I’m harsh? I don’t think so.’
Lydia felt hot colour scorch her cheeks. Her heart was pounding and she thought she was going to be sick. She just had to get out of there, away from him and his bitterness and hatred before it destroyed the crumbling veneer around her and exposed her pain. She looked round desperately at Mel.
‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll get a taxi home. I don’t really want this coffee, and I’m tired.’ She stood up, conscious that Jake, who last year would have stood up without fail, was still sprawled in the chair scowling into his cup. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Tom, take her home,’ Mel said hurriedly.
‘No, we’ll all go,’ Jake said, standing up abruptly and pulling his wallet out. ‘There’s no point pretending we’re having fun.’ He dropped a handful of notes on the table, nodded to the waiter and headed for the door, his coffee untouched.
‘Is everything all right?’ the waiter asked anxiously, fluttering round them, and Tom soothed him.
‘It’s fine. We’re just rather tired. Thank you.’
He put a proprietorial arm around Lydia’s shoulders, and led her out of the door. Mel was ahead of them, steaming after Jake and giving him hell, if Lydia’s guess was right. Oh, damn. She should have stayed at home in bed and not come out with them. It was foolish to expect that they could be civil.
It might be water under the bridge by now, as Tom had said, but it had been a tidal wave, and the bridge was damaged beyond repair.
He seemed so angry still. That puzzled her, because for all she’d felt she didn’t really know him, she’d known that much about him, and he wasn’t a vindictive or unkind person.
So why, then, was he so angry? Unless it was because he still cared about her. And if he still cared that much, if he was still so angry, then maybe he really had loved her. It might just have been wounded pride, of course, but if not, was it really too late, or was there still a chance for them to mend the bridge?
Lydia didn’t know. All she knew was that she had a week in which to find out—a week that only hours ago had seemed to stretch on for ever, and now seemed nothing like long enough…
CHAPTER TWO
JAKE was standing by the front passenger door of Tom’s car, but Mel elbowed him out of the way.
‘You can sit in the back with my sister and apologise for bitching at each other, or get a taxi. Right now I don’t much care which, but I’d be grateful if you’d manage to behave towards each other in a civilised fashion. I’m not asking you to be buddies, clearly that’s too much, but you could at least be polite.’
And she slid into the front seat, slammed the door and left them standing by the car in silence.
After an endless moment, Jake reached for the handle, opened the door and held it for her without a word. Still in silence, Lydia climbed into the back and slid across the seat, and he folded himself in beside her, fastened his seat belt and stared straight ahead.
‘Sorry, Lydia. Sorry, Jake.’
They both glared at Mel. ‘Butt out, little sister,’ Lydia said tightly. ‘I can fight my own battles.’
‘Nevertheless, I think—’
‘Drop it, Mel,’ Tom said, and started the car, turning the radio on. Lydia realised she was shaking all over, hanging on by a thread, and she could feel the waves of tension coming off Jake.
They’d driven about two tense and emotionally charged miles before he sighed and turned to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said tightly. ‘I didn’t mean to snipe at you. I just find this very difficult.’
He wasn’t alone! She’d been wondering for ages just why she’d let herself be talked into this calculated disaster of an evening. ‘It’s OK,’ she conceded, desperate to end this war that had sprung up between them. ‘I never expected you to kill the fatted calf.’ She tried a tentative smile, and his mouth flickered just briefly.
It wasn’t a smile, but it was a concession, and the tension eased noticeably, to her huge relief. She relaxed back against the seat, still shaking with reaction, but at least they were nearly home.
They pulled up on the drive a few minutes later, and Tom cut the engine. ‘Coffee?’ Mel suggested, and gave them both a considering look over the back of the seat. ‘Think you two can cope with that?’
‘I should think we’ll manage,’ Jake said drily, and, opening the door, he got out and helped Mel from the car, leaving Tom to open Lydia’s door.
He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and smiled at her worriedly. ‘You OK?’ he asked softly, and she nodded.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Come on in, it’s chilly.’
She rubbed her bare arms briskly to warm them, and led the way into the kitchen. The Aga was warm, as ever, and she put the kettle on automatically and leant against the front rail, her back to the stove and her hands wrapped round the rail for warmth.
Her mother came into the kitchen and commandeered Mel and Tom immediately, leaving her alone with Jake, and she was suddenly conscious of the way she was standing and the way Jake was looking at her. Dear God, did he think she was being deliberately provocative?
She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers gripping her upper arms defensively, and gave him a cautious smile. ‘I’m sorry about Mel,’ she began, but he cut her off with a short, humourless laugh.
‘No. She was right. I apologise. It was unforgivable. I shouldn’t have poked fun at you; you have every right to do what you like with your life.’
‘Not if it hurts other people,’ she murmured softly.
He was silent, his eyes expressionless, and then he turned away, reaching for the mugs with a familiarity that tore at her heart. How many times had she watched him do that? Struggling to fill the silence, she groped for a topic. ‘How did you get on with the house this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘Were the people OK?’
He gave her a strange look. ‘We discussed this over dinner,’ he reminded her, and she coloured.
‘I meant, did you like them? Would you like them to have your house? It’s a very personal thing selling something you’ve worked hard on and care about—you want to make sure it goes into the right hands.’
‘It’s a house, Lydia,’ he said in a tight voice. ‘Just a house.’
She shrugged and pulled the kettle off the hob, lowering the cover down over the hotplate with exaggerated care. ‘Coffee or tea?’
‘Coffee—thank you.’ He set the mugs down beside her, and his arm brushed hers, bringing lingering warmth to the cold skin. He was so close she could smell the faint citrus scent of his aftershave, so familiar it made her ache to hold him, to slip into his arms and rest her weary head on his chest and cry her eyes out for all the stupid things she’d done in the last year.
Instead she moved away, out of range of the scent of his body, and made the coffee with brisk and economical movements. ‘I’ll take theirs into the study—I can tell this is going to be one of those long confabs that will drag on for ages.’
She put four mugs on a tray and carried them through, earning distracted smiles of thanks, and went back to the kitchen.
Jake was sitting at the table, his long fingers curled around his mug, staring down into its murky contents as if it held the secret of eternal life. There was a box of mint crisp chocolates on the side and she offered him one. He shook his head, but she had two, dipping them in her coffee and sucking them. It was a disgusting habit, but they tasted better like that and she was hardly trying to impress him.
Just as well, judging by the strange way he was looking at her.
‘They liked it,’ he said abruptly, and she paused in her sucking and looked at him in utter confusion.
‘They? They liked what?’
‘The viewers,’ he explained. ‘They liked your kitchen. She waxed lyrical on every single feature. I thought she was going to rip out the dog bed and take it with her.’
Lydia smiled wryly. ‘Oh, dear. Still, I suppose it’s a good sign.’
‘Oh, absolutely. The agent seems to think they’ll all come to blows over it. It certainly won’t hang about on the market, apparently.’
Lydia felt a great pang of regret. It would have been her house, hers and Jake’s, and they would have brought their children up in it.
If their marriage had stood the test of time. Instead it had fallen even before the first hurdle.
‘You ought to come and see the house before it goes,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve done a lot more since you left. It was in a pretty basic state when I bought it—I don’t know if you can remember.’
Remember? How could she forget walking round the echoing emptiness with him, excitement gripping her at the thought of transforming the basic and antiquated scullery into a wonderful family kitchen that would be the heart of his beautiful home. Not for her, of course, not at that stage, but for him and some nameless woman who would become his wife.
‘I want children,’ he’d said, ‘so nothing too precious.’
And she’d imagined the children, little blue-eyed, dark-haired clones of their father, with mischievous smiles and infectious laughter.
It was in that kitchen that he’d first kissed her…
She jerked herself back to the present and his invitation. ‘I’d love to see it—and of course I remember it. It will be interesting to see what you’ve done.’
Heartbreaking, too, but she couldn’t seem to walk away from him no matter how sensible it might be. And it could be her last chance to see it.
‘When?’ she asked, and he shrugged.
‘Tomorrow? Come for breakfast. Your body clock will be all up the creek, so tired as you are I don’t suppose you’ll be able to lie in. Ring me. I’ll cook for you.’
She met his eyes, and for a moment there was a glimmer of the old Jake, then it was gone again.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘That would be lovely. Don’t wait in, though. I might sleep—who knows?’
‘I’ll be in,’ he assured her, and it sounded almost like a promise.
He must be crazy. He couldn’t sit in the same room with her without being reminded of her defection, and yet he was inviting her over—and for breakfast, for heaven’s sake! Not coffee, not a cup of tea, but breakfast, the most intimate meal of all—a meal they’d never shared.
He was mad. He had to be. Bringing her back into the house and filling every nook and cranny of it with her image was absolutely the last thing he needed, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if those images would haunt him for years, because the house would be sold and she’d never even been to his new flat in London.
No, it was just a short-lived torture, a bit of flagellation that if he wasn’t such a masochist he would have avoided like the plague, but he was too weak and too stupid to steer clear of her.
He drained his coffee and stood up. She was drooping over the table, struggling to keep her eyes open after her long flight, and he was keeping her up.
Not that he ought to care, but for some absurd reason he did.
‘I’m off,’ he said briskly. ‘Go to bed. Call me in the morning.’
She stood up and went to the door with him, and without thinking he lowered his head and brushed her lips.
‘Sleep tight, Princess,’ he murmured roughly, and then could have kicked himself for the familiar endearment.
He walked home in the dark, striding along the lane in the faint moonlight, his body stalked by the image of her leaning against the Aga, her nipples clear against the soft fabric of her dress, the tip of her tongue chasing the last melted smear of chocolate on her lips, the gentle sway of her body as she moved.
He could still smell the light, teasing fragrance of her skin, taste the chocolate on her lips. His palms ached to cup those small, soft breasts, to cradle her bottom and lift her against him as he lost himself in her.
Damn. He stripped off his sweater and unfastened his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers and letting the cool night air to his skin. Damn her for her hold over him.
It was just because he’d never had her, of course, because she’d always held back from that last intimacy. If he’d made love to her he could have forgotten her, could have got her out of his system.
Maybe now was a chance—not out of revenge, but just as a way of purging his emotion.
And maybe he was a bigger fool than he’d thought.
He went in, slammed the door behind him and took the stairs three at a time. Maybe a cold shower would bring him to his senses.
She rang him at a quarter to nine, knowing he would be up. He was always up by six, so he’d told her in the past, and he answered the phone on the second ring.
‘Hi,’ he said, and his voice sounded gruff and sexy and early-morning, and did nothing for her composure.
‘I’m awake,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘Is it too early? I’m dying for coffee.’
‘Of course not. Come on round. I’ll leave the back door open.’
She pulled her wet hair into a ponytail, contemplated putting on make-up and told herself not to be ridiculous. She was going for breakfast, nothing else.
Her jeans hung on her, but they would have to do. She slid her feet into sandals, tied a jumper round her shoulders in case it was chilly out and walked briskly round to his house.
Although it was next door, technically, it took a couple of minutes to walk there along the lane, and the fresh morning air felt wonderful on her skin. It had rained in the night, just lightly, and the air was cool and damp and scented with honeysuckle and roses.
It was gorgeous, so much more subtle than the exotic scents of the tropics, and Lydia felt the tension in her ease a little. Nevertheless, she approached the back door with a certain amount of trepidation. She’d put so much of herself into the design of this particular kitchen, and then later so much love into the planning of the other things they’d hoped to do, and now she would see what he had achieved—and what he was casually going to hand over to another person without a pang, because it was, in his words, ‘just a house’.
Not to Lydia. Never to Lydia.
She tapped on the open door and went in, greeted by the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon, and there he was, standing at the work island in a pair of ancient jeans faded almost to white over the knees and seat, a soft T-shirt tucked in, emphasising the breadth of his shoulders and the neatness of his waist.
‘Hi,’ he murmured, and threw her a smile that made her heart kick. ‘Come on in.’
She went in, looking round her at the finished room, settled in now to its role and every bit as lovely as it had been. A wave of sadness washed over her, and instinctively she crossed to the Aga for the comfort of its warmth. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘No. I’m just about done. There’s a plate of goodies in the bottom oven—you could get it out.’
She reached down and pulled out a dish heaped with bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, tiny fried potatoes—
‘Good grief,’ she said faintly. ‘Do you always do breakfast like this?’
He grinned, turning her heart over, and put the last few rashers of bacon on to the dish. ‘Only on Sundays. There’s scrambled egg in the microwave; it just needs another turn.’ He pressed a couple of buttons and while it finished off he put coffee and milk and mugs on a tray. Toast popped up, the scrambled eggs were done and he was hustling her through into the breakfast room.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, slamming to a halt in the doorway. ‘You did the conservatory!’
‘Like it?’ he asked from right behind her, and she felt her eyes fill. It had been another of their plans, and she felt the huge well of sadness grow a little larger.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered, and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Really lovely.’
‘Go on out there. I’ve set the table.’
She put the hot dish down on the mat in the middle of the cast-iron table, and looked around at the pretty structure. White-painted, it reached up towards the clear blue sky, the centre of the roof a square raised lantern, a typical Georgian feature and absolutely at home in the context of his house. Plants rioted around the broad sills, foamed out of huge pots and swarmed up the glass. It was like a tropical paradise, and she shook her head in astonishment.
‘You must have green fingers,’ she murmured, stroking a leaf thoughtfully.
‘You sound surprised.’
She shrugged. Just another thing she hadn’t known about him. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, and turned to look at him.
For a moment there was something in his eyes, something that could have been yearning, and then it was gone, replaced by a genial nothingness like a shield over his feelings.
Unless that was just fanciful imagination, which was quite likely, given her lack of sleep.
‘I can’t claim all the credit. I have a domestic genius who waters them for me. I suspect it’s more her touch than mine.’ He held a chair for her, and she sat down, looking out over the garden and noticing the little changes—the new rose bed, the repaired formal terrace, the little summer house—
‘You’ve got a summer house!’ she exclaimed.
‘I know. It just seemed to need one. Come on, help yourself before it’s cold.’
She looked at the mass of food and her stomach rumbled. Her last proper meal had been in Singapore, and since she’d hardly eaten a thing last night because of the atmosphere, she was utterly ravenous. ‘I could eat all of this,’ she confessed with a wry grin.
‘Do. I can cook more. Pile in.’
She did, not stopping until her plate was clear for the second time and she was halfway down her mug of coffee. Then she leant back and smiled sheepishly. ‘That was wonderful.’
His answering smile was gentle and a little sad.
‘You’re welcome.’ He looked down into his coffee, his face thoughtful, and then looked up, spearing her with those incredible blue eyes. ‘About last night—I’m sorry I was so rude.’
She shook her head. ‘Forget it. We’ve dealt with it. It wasn’t easy for me seeing you again, so I can’t imagine you found it any easier. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re under pressure.’
He didn’t reply, just nodded slightly in acknowledgement and returned his attention to his coffee.
The sun rose higher, filtering through the tree overhead and bathing them in gentle, dappled light. It was calm and restful, and she couldn’t imagine why on earth he would want to sell it and return to London full-time—
‘Why are you selling it?’ she asked, the words just coming out without her permission. Oh, Lord, did that sound as desperate as she thought it did?
He shrugged, his lovely blue eyes unreadable. ‘What is there here for me?’
Me! she wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. He didn’t want her; he’d made that perfectly obvious. ‘Mel said you’d been spending more time in London.’
‘Business has been quite busy recently,’ he agreed, and pushed his chair back, his breakfast hardly touched. ‘Come and see the rest of the house.’
And then she could go, she thought, and get out of his way. He was clearly in a hurry to get rid of her—probably regretted the invitation, but his natural good manners would have prevented him from withdrawing it.
She followed him back to the hall and through the rest of the house, and as she looked around she thought it seemed soulless. Only the kitchen seemed to have any real heart—the kitchen and the conservatory, which they’d planned together and researched in the run-up to the wedding.
They went upstairs and looked in the bedrooms, and they were all beautifully presented and co-ordinated. She wondered who had done it, and if he’d slept with her, and felt a surge of jealous rage.
‘This is my room,’ he said finally, pushing open a door, and a huge lump wedged in her throat, because this was what she’d said she wanted—the walls, carpet, curtains, all soft creamy white, with a huge four-poster in the middle, its massive barley-twist posts and heavily carved head and foot boards gleaming with the patina of age.
There was a richly embroidered cream bedspread smoothed over the quilt, piled high with cushions and pillows, and behind the headboard more of the same fabric hung in deep folds.
‘Did you do the bathroom?’ she asked in a choked voice, and he nodded.
‘Take a look.’
It was lovely—antique fittings with brass taps, the bath a monster with huge ball and claw feet, and in the corner a real Victorian shower with heads all down the sides as well as a massive rose overhead. It must use gallons of water, but it looked wonderful.
‘I got all the stuff from that reclamation yard you told me about.’
‘Well done,’ she said, flashing him a smile without really looking at him, because it all hurt too much and she was too close to the bed where she would have lain with him at night for the last year, and loved him.
She looked at her watch without seeing it. ‘I must fly,’ she said. ‘I haven’t really asked anything about the wedding or made myself useful at all yet, and they’ll be wondering where I am.’
She headed for the door, all but running down the stairs, and at the kitchen door she turned and looked back at him, and wondered if she’d gone crazy or if that really was regret in his eyes.
‘Thanks for the breakfast,’ she said, and then she fled, just before her tears spilled over and gave her away…
He was mad. Certifiably, stark raving mad. Why on earth had he taken her into his bedroom? Now she’d know he’d hung on her every word and built her dream for her, in the vain hope that she’d come back and share it with him.
He snorted. Not a chance. She hadn’t been able to get out of there fast enough. Maybe she didn’t even remember all their plans.
Not a hope. She’d realise what a fool he was, and even now she was probably laughing at him.
Well, damn her. He threw the remains of the breakfast in the bin, tossed the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher with scant regard for their safety and went out, slamming the door behind him. The coach house door slid open at the touch of a button, and he got into the car, gunned the engine and shot out of the garage, up the drive and off down the lane.
He tried to outrun his demons, but all he got for his pains was a speeding ticket and a lecture from the policeman that pulled him over. He drove to London, rang up a friend and thrashed him comprehensively at squash, then drowned his sorrows in the bar and went back to the flat to sleep it off.
Ridiculous. He never drank to excess, and yet Lydia only had to set foot in the country and two nights running he had too much to drink.
He woke up early on Monday morning, all his muscles screaming protest after the hammering he’d given them the day before, and drove back to Suffolk, arriving at his house as the sun came up over the trees and flooded the valley with gold.
He should have stayed in London. He had plenty to do in the office, but they could manage without him so long as he was accessible by phone, and the masochist in him wanted to be near Lydia for the few short days that were left.
He parked the car, went inside and made coffee, then banged on Tom’s door at eight with a mug of coffee to find Mel there, too, snuggled up against his friend’s side, a blissful smile on her face.
‘Morning,’ she said chirpily, and he dredged up a smile.
‘Hi. What’s on the menu today?’ he asked, wondering if he could make himself indispensable and coincidentally be in Lydia’s way.
‘Goodness knows. I’m keeping out of it,’ Mel said, winking mischievously at Tom. ‘We’ve got better things to do.’
They were clearly going to be no help at all. He went downstairs, drained the coffee pot and checked his watch.
Eight-thirty. He loaded the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen and strolled next door. The craftsmen were already coming and going in the kitchen workshops over the road, and as he looked down the drive his heart kicked. Lydia was sitting with her mother outside the back door on a bench, their faces tipped up to the sun, and as his feet scrunched on the gravel they looked up and Mrs Benton waved.
‘Jake! Come and have some coffee,’ she called, and his heart sank. He’d had enough coffee already this morning to launch a fleet of submarines, and the last thing he wanted was any more.
‘I’ve just had one—’
‘Some orange juice, then, or a croissant? We’ve just put some in the Aga. Have you eaten?’
He looked at Lydia, busy looking non-committal, and wished for the thousandth time that he could read her mind and know what she was thinking.
‘No, I haven’t. That would be lovely, thank you, Maggie.’
Lydia got to her feet and went into the kitchen, and he followed her. ‘Am I in the way?’ he asked quietly, and she stiffened and then laughed softly.
‘Of course not. Go on out and find a table and chairs from round the corner and drag them into the sun, could you? We’ll eat outside, it’s so nice.’
He went, as commanded, and then sat with Maggie Benton and offered his assistance.
‘Oh, Jake, you are a darling,’ she said. ‘I think Raymond’s supervising the scaffolding team this morning, building the bridge ready for them to bring the marquee across on Wednesday, and we’ve got to deliver a huge butcher’s block to a woman in Mendlesham Green—you couldn’t go with Lydia and give her a hand, could you? It’s much too heavy for her to lift on her own, and the woman’s pregnant.’
Oh, Lord. She was playing into his hands with a vengeance—maybe too much of a vengeance. It was one thing being around, quite another being trapped in the car with her all the way to Mendlesham Green and back. ‘Sure,’ he agreed, just as Lydia appeared with a tray groaning with coffee and orange juice and a basket of steaming croissants.
‘Breakfast,’ she said, and plonked it down on the table. ‘Now, look, Mum, I really don’t think I’m going to be able to do the butcher’s block. Can’t we get a carrier—?’
‘It’s all solved,’ Maggie said, patting her hand reassuringly. ‘Jake’s going to help you.’
Her eyes flew up to his, slightly startled, and then an apprehensive smile touched her lips. ‘Are you sure?’ she said softly, and he felt his last trace of doubt vanish.
‘Absolutely. We can’t take my car, though; it won’t be big enough.’
‘Take the Mercedes,’ Maggie said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s all right; Lydia will drive. She only wants your body when you get there.’
He nearly choked on his orange juice, but fortunately she didn’t seem to notice and it gave him a moment to recover his composure.
Then he looked up and caught Lydia’s unguarded expression. Shock, fascination and—hunger? Then she looked hastily away, soft colour staining her cheeks under the golden tan, and he became aware of the steady pounding of his heart beneath his ribs.
Today was going to be a very interesting day…
CHAPTER THREE
THE butcher’s block was, as Maggie had said, huge. After the punishment he’d given his body the day before on the squash court, heaving it in and out of the car brought on a volley of protest from the screaming muscles, but he ignored it, as he ignored the throbbing pain in his head induced by his overindulgence.
He contented himself with sitting beside Lydia and enjoying the view of her slim, jeans-clad thighs right next to him. He angled himself slightly, so that he could see her without turning his head too much, and watched her as she drove.
She was tense and nervous, either because she hadn’t driven in the country for some time, or because he was there. He didn’t know which, but she was certainly taut as a bowstring, and after a while she pulled over.
‘Could you drive?’ she asked.
‘Am I insured?’
‘Oh, yes, it’s insured for anyone over twenty one. I just feel—I don’t know, it’s been quite a long time since I did it, and I’m not that used to the car. I still feel a bit spaced-out after the travelling, to be honest.’
‘Admit it, you’re wimping out,’ he teased, and she shot him a black look and reached for the keys.
‘Forget it,’ she said tightly. ‘I’ll manage.’
He put his hand over hers on the gear lever and stopped her moving it.
‘Don’t be silly, I was teasing. Of course I’ll drive.’ He got out of the car, and for a moment he wondered if she was going to drive off and leave him there. He probably deserved it. Oh, damn.
Then her door opened and she emerged, walking round the front as he went round the back, so they didn’t even have to pass. Deliberately?
How could he tell—short of asking her? And he wasn’t masochist enough to do that. He slid behind the wheel, moved the seat back to accommodate his long legs and checked the mirrors. The seat was warm from her body, and he felt his own react immediately.
Dear God, he was in a bad way! He must be a fool to keep exposing himself to her company like this. Anyone with any sense would have left the country, but not him. Oh, no. He was there, cheerfully volunteering to crawl naked over a bed of hot ashes if it got him nearer to her—
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