Jack Riordan's Baby
Anne Mather
Jack Riordan was gorgeous and a real man. However, Rachel had her fears about her husband: they'd grown so far apart since they'd failed to have a child.But a real man needed a real woman – and Rachel was determined to win him back.She would seduce him, and let him love her.And maybe she'd conceive – and carry to full term – Jack's much-wanted baby…
Jack Riordan’s Baby
Anne Mather
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COMING NEXT MONTH
CHAPTER ONE
‘THERE’S A YOUNG lady to see you, Mrs Riordan.’
The housekeeper had emerged through the long windows at the back of the house and now stood looking at Rachel as she finished clipping a long-stemmed white rose and laid it in a trug at her feet.
Rachel straightened. She was neither in the mood nor dressed for visitors. The woman couldn’t be someone she knew or Mrs Grady would have said so. She had to be either one of Jack’s clients or collecting for charity. In which case, why hadn’t Mrs Grady dealt with it herself?
‘Didn’t you tell her that Mr Riordan’s not here?’ she asked, deciding it must be one of Jack’s clients. How she’d got his address, heaven knew, but then, Jack rarely abided by any of the rules that she’d always been taught to obey.
‘She doesn’t want to see Mr Riordan,’ said Mrs Grady at once. ‘She asked to speak to you, Mrs Riordan. She says her name’s Karen Johnson. She seemed to think you’d know who she was.’
All the blood seemed to drain out of Rachel’s body at that moment. She felt both sick and dizzy. She might have lost her balance had it not been for the trellis close by that provided a convenient place to rest her trembling hand. But Mrs Grady knew her too well not to notice her sudden pallor, and, hurrying across the terrazzo tiles of the patio, she took Rachel’s arm in a reassuring grasp.
‘There now,’ she said reprovingly. ‘I knew you shouldn’t have been working out here in the hot sun without a hat. You’ve overdone it, haven’t you? Come along inside and I’ll get you a nice cool glass of iced tea.’
‘I’m all right, really.’ Rachel could feel faint colour coming back into her face as she spoke. ‘Um—where is Miss—Miss Johnson? Perhaps you’d better show her into the drawing room while I go and wash my hands.’
‘Now, is that wise?’ Mrs Grady had picked up the trug of roses, and with the familiarity of long service she gave her mistress a doubtful stare. Then, retaining her hold on Rachel’s arm, she urged her towards the house. ‘I can easily tell the young lady you’re not available. If it’s important, I’m sure she can come back another day.’
Rachel was tempted. Unbearably tempted. But putting it off wasn’t going to make it go away. All the same, she was stunned by the woman’s nerve in coming here. Had Jack put her up to this? Somehow, despite his faults, Rachel doubted even he would be that cruel.
‘Just show her into the drawing room, Mrs Grady,’ she said now, firmly putting all thought of changing her mind aside. ‘I won’t be long. You can serve us both some iced tea in the meantime.’ Though whether she would be able to swallow anything in Karen Johnson’s presence was uncertain.
Rachel took the back stairs to the upper floor, entering her bedroom with some relief. Despite what she’d told Mrs Grady, she still felt a little unsteady, so she went into the adjoining bathroom and sluiced her hot face with cold water from the gold-plated taps.
The beauty of her surroundings went some way to calming her. This suite of rooms—sitting room, bedroom and bathroom—was hers and hers alone, and although it was more extravagant than she could have wished, she couldn’t deny it soothed her frazzled nerves.
That that woman should have the audacity to come here, she thought incredulously. And then, hard on the heels of that thought, Why on earth had she come? What could they possibly have to say to one another? She was Jack’s mistress; Rachel was Jack’s wife. Surely anything she had to say should be said to him?
She stared at her reflection in the long mirror above the vanity. God, she looked as shocked as she felt. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, she mused raggedly. With just as much sense of how to prevent the inevitable from happening.
But this wouldn’t do. She couldn’t let this woman come here and intimidate her in her own home. She was the mistress here, not Karen Johnson. If she had any sense she’d send the woman packing without even hearing what she had to say.
But it was too late to be thinking that. Already Karen Johnson was in her drawing room, being served iced tea by her reluctant but unfailingly polite housekeeper. She couldn’t keep her waiting. She shouldn’t keep her waiting. She mustn’t give the woman any reason to believe that she was too timid to confront her husband’s whore.
Taking a deep breath, Rachel surveyed her appearance with a critical eye. It was a very warm day, and because she hadn’t been expecting any visitors, she’d chosen to wear pale green linen shorts and an aqua silk top. The top was loose and sleeveless, exposing the faint reddening of sunburn on her arms.
Should she change? Should she put on some make-up before meeting her guest? Perhaps some eyeshadow, she decided, shading her lids from beige to umber. And a brown-tinted lip gloss to complement the sun-streaked colours in her blond hair.
Surveying her appearance once more, Rachel professed herself satisfied with the result. In any case, she’d taken long enough. She didn’t want Karen thinking she’d dressed especially for her. Taking another deep breath, she glanced about the elegant room to give herself confidence. But she had the uneasy feeling that, whatever happened between her and this woman, nothing was ever going to be the same again.
Karen was seated on one of the trio of velvet sofas that flanked the fireplace in the drawing room. Another elegant apartment, the windows here were open to the garden at the back of the house. Although the place had an efficient air-conditioning system, Rachel much preferred fresh air. When she was alone in the house, as now, she invariably had all the windows open.
Rachel hesitated on the threshold, for once less than confident as a hostess. Karen looked so relaxed, so at home here, she thought tensely. A stranger might be forgiven for mistaking Rachel as the intruder and Karen as the mistress of the house.
Unlike Rachel, Karen was quite formally dressed, considering the heat of the day. A short-skirted pale pink suit exposed her legs and her cleavage and, although she didn’t appear to be wearing any stockings, she had high-heeled pumps on her feet.
She looked—sure of herself, thought Rachel uneasily. Smart and sophisticated, confident in her ability to catch a man’s eyes. She was also a redhead, Rachel noticed, although she doubted that was any more natural than the smile that spread over her full lips when she saw Rachel in the doorway.
She got to her feet at once and, despite Rachel’s initial impressions, there was tension in the way she clutched her handbag with both hands. She wasn’t as tall as Rachel, who was five feet ten even in her bare feet, but she was voluptuous, her heavy breasts almost spilling from a scarlet bustier.
She didn’t immediately say anything, however. She just stood there, looking at Rachel, waiting for her to make the first move. Rachel wanted to shout, What the hell are you doing in my house? But that would have sounded childish. So, instead, she moved into the room and said with what she thought was admirable coolness, ‘Miss Johnson, I presume?’ as if she hadn’t already seen pictures of her with Jack. ‘If you’re looking for my husband, I’m afraid he’s not here.’
‘I know that, Mrs Riordan.’ The confidence was back, and if she’d been surprised that Rachel should recognise her so easily she managed to hide it. ‘He’s in Bristol, signing the contract for the new shopping development.’
So she knew his schedule, thought Rachel, striving for indifference. No doubt Jack kept her informed of his movements. ‘You’re right,’ she said casually, although Jack rarely told her where he was going these days. ‘Which makes me wonder why you’d come here, Miss Johnson. I don’t think you and I have anything to say to one another.’
‘Oh, we do.’ Karen didn’t wait for an invitation before subsiding onto the sofa again. ‘Why don’t you join me, Mrs Riordan? What I have to tell you may cause you some distress.’
Rachel wondered idly how much it would cost to replace all three of the sofas. Several thousand pounds—but it might be worth it not to have to remember this scene. ‘I’ll stand,’ she said, hoping the other woman would take the hint and make this—whatever it was—brief. She had no desire to get cosy with her.
‘As you please.’
Karen shrugged her shoulders, but before she could say anything more Mrs Grady bustled into the room with a tray containing two tall glasses and a jug of iced tea. Rachel remembered asking the housekeeper to provide the tea in the first few moments after learning Karen was here. Now she wished she hadn’t, but it was too late to have second thoughts.
‘There, now. Is there anything else I can get you, Mrs Riordan?’ Mrs Grady asked, eyeing her with some concern.
‘No, that’s all.’ Rachel managed a terse smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Well, you sit down and take it easy,’ advised the housekeeper shrewdly. ‘You’re still looking peaky. Are you sure you’re feeling all—’
‘I’m fine, Mrs Grady.’ The last thing Rachel wanted was for Karen Johnson to think her arrival had caused her to feel ill. Or distressed, she added silently, giving the housekeeper a meaningful stare. ‘If I want anything else, I’ll let you know.’
Mrs Grady arched her brows, but she had the sense not to argue, and after she’d gone Rachel gestured towards the tray. ‘Help yourself,’ she said, refusing to put herself in the position of having to serve her. ‘You must be hot,’ she continued. ‘I hope you didn’t wear that suit for my benefit.’
She had the shabby pleasure of seeing how Karen bristled at this comment. But what the hell? Rachel thought defensively. She deserved worse than that for having the nerve to come here. What did she want, for God’s sake? Wasn’t the fact that she was sleeping with Jack enough for her? Did she have some notion of splitting them up as well?
‘I always dress for the occasion,’ Karen replied at last, having considered her argument. ‘Clothes are so important, don’t you think? Particularly if you want to please a man.’
‘I dress to please myself,’ retorted Rachel, not altogether truthfully. But she’d used to, she reminded herself staunchly. Before Jack Riordan had entered—and subsequently ruined—her life.
‘I can see that,’ Karen said now, leaning forward to pour herself a glass of the cool beverage Mrs Grady had provided. Ice chinked and Rachel wished she could pour one for herself. But she didn’t trust her hand not to shake as she did so, and that would be a dead giveaway. No, better to remain where she was until the woman had gone.
‘Mmm, delicious.’ Whether she’d detected Rachel’s ambivalence or not, Karen raised the glass to her lips and deliberately savoured her first mouthful. A pink tongue appeared to collect every drop from her glossy lower lip and she sighed with pleasure. ‘Are you sure you won’t change your mind, Mrs Riordan? I’m sure you must be feeling as hot as me.’
Rachel shifted to stand beside the sofa opposite. Then, resting one hand lightly on the soft cushion, she said calmly, ‘I’ll survive. Why don’t you get to the point, Miss Johnson? If your intention was to shock me with your existence, then, as you can see, you’re wasting your time.’
Karen set the glass back on the tray and folded her hands together in her lap. Then she looked up at the other woman with malicious eyes. ‘You think you’re so secure, don’t you, Rachel?’ she mocked, obviously using her name to show she wasn’t intimidated by her attitude. ‘I wonder how you’ll feel when I tell you I’m expecting Jack’s baby?’
A pain sharper than a rapier seared through Rachel’s stomach at her words. It took every ounce of will power she had not to cry out at the agony it caused. It couldn’t be true, she told herself. The woman had to be lying. After all the misery she’d suffered trying to give Jack the child he wanted, surely he had more compassion than to make his mistress pregnant?
She became aware that Karen was watching her with a shrewd, assessing gaze, and despite what she’d been thinking she instinctively sensed that the other woman knew about her three miscarriages. Had Jack told her? He might have done. Though Rachel preferred to believe that someone in his office was responsible.
It wasn’t a secret, for God’s sake. In the beginning Jack had been only too eager to broadcast the fact that he was going to be a father to the world. It was only after she’d lost two babies a few weeks into the first trimester that he’d chosen to keep her next pregnancy a secret. Which was just as well, because she’d lost that baby, too.
But this wasn’t the time to be having thoughts like these. With Karen’s eyes on her face, watching for any sign of weakness, Rachel knew she had to hide her real feelings until after the woman was gone.
All the same, she couldn’t help sinking down onto the arm of the sofa. Her legs were definitely not strong enough to support her at this moment, and she just hoped she didn’t look as horrified as she felt.
She knew she was pale, but she couldn’t help that. She was probably as white as a sheet, but somehow she had to force her frozen features into speech.
Before she could say anything, however, Karen shifted forward in her seat and poured some of the iced tea into a second glass. ‘Here,’ she said, holding it out, but although the gesture seemed considerate enough Rachel knew there was no real sympathy in the act.
‘No—thanks,’ she muttered, almost choking on the word, and Karen shrugged before setting the glass down again.
‘Suit yourself,’ she said carelessly. Then, arching her dark brows, ‘So—what are you going to do about it?’
Rachel stared at her in disbelief, realising she hadn’t the first idea what to say. Questions like: How many months are you? and Have you told Jack? were totally beyond her. The truth was, she didn’t want to know the answers. Obviously Karen’s pregnancy had been confirmed or she wouldn’t have come here. But surely if Jack had known about it he would have told her, warned her? Or perhaps not. Oh, God, she didn’t think she could handle this.
Moistening her lips, she took the only course open to her. ‘What am I going to do about it?’ she echoed, amazed that her voice sounded so normal. ‘I don’t think I understand that question. I have no intention of doing anything, Miss Johnson. If you’re pregnant—and I only have your word for that—then surely it’s up to you to deal with it in whatever way you choose?’
‘Oh, no.’ Karen surged to her feet, anger thickening her voice. ‘You’re not going to get away with that, Mrs Riordan. I didn’t come here to be dismissed like some charity case.’
The one-liner Where do you usually go? rose like hysteria in the back of Rachel’s throat, but she fought it down. This was no laughing matter, and not for the first time she wished her mother were still alive.
But she wasn’t. She’d been dead for over ten years. No one could help her now except herself, and as Karen geared herself up for another offensive, she said firmly, ‘I’m sorry you feel like that, Miss Johnson. But there’s really nothing I can do.’
‘Like hell!’ Karen glared at her across the wide expanse of Persian carpet. ‘You can start by giving Jack a divorce. Or are you so selfish you’d deprive him of the chance of ever having a son of his own?’
Rachel had thought there was nothing the woman could say now that would hurt her more than she’d been hurt already. But she’d been wrong.
‘You must know he only married you to get control of your father’s business,’ Karen continued contemptuously. ‘Women like you make me sick. All your life people have protected you, looked after you, made absolutely sure the little princess didn’t get her hands dirty with anything remotely approaching work!’
‘That’s not true!’
Despite her determination not to get involved in an argument with this woman, Rachel had to defend herself. All right, when she’d married Jack she’d just left art college and she hadn’t been looking for a job. But she had already been putting out feelers to publishers, offering her work for consideration, and by the time she’d found she was pregnant she’d been working on her first attempt at illustration.
In any case, it didn’t matter, because Karen ignored her. ‘I don’t know why you married Jack,’ she went on in the same disparaging tone. ‘Or rather, I do. But, aside from the fact that he’s drop-dead gorgeous, you must have known he didn’t love you. I mean, he’s a real man. Not one of the pretty public schoolboys you’re used to.’ She gave a smug little smile. ‘Jack’s not like that. He’s not soft. And he needs a real woman. Me.’
‘Really?’
Somehow Rachel managed to sound bored by her submission, and was pleased when it aroused an entirely different expression on Karen’s face.
‘Yes, really,’ she snapped, her anger never far from the surface. ‘That’s why I’ve come to see you. Jack didn’t want to hurt you. He feels sorry for you, I suppose. But the situation can’t be allowed to continue. Not now that I’m going to have his baby.’
Rachel got to her feet. She still felt unsteady and strangely distant, as if this was some surreal happening she was just a witness to. But she couldn’t allow her to go on. Not if she wanted to retain any semblance of self-respect. This was her house—and Jack’s, but that was immaterial—and she couldn’t let the woman make a victim of her in her own home.
‘I think you’d better go, Miss Johnson,’ she said now, and even Karen looked taken aback at the apparent authority in her tone. She crossed the room, albeit on rather stiff legs, and rang the bell for the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Grady will show you out. Please don’t come here again.’
Karen took an aggressive step towards her. ‘You can’t treat me like this.’
‘Oh, I think I can.’ Rachel’s voice gained more confidence from her enemy’s agitation. ‘You’re not welcome here, Miss Johnson. Be thankful I’m not calling the police to throw you out.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Karen stared at her hard, as if trying to ascertain whether she meant what she said. Then she gave a scornful laugh. ‘Imagine what the gutter press would make of you hounding your husband’s mistress. No, you’re bluffing, Mrs Riordan. You’re probably wetting your pants for fear I might go to the papers myself.’
‘Get out!’ Rachel’s voice trembled as she spoke, but her determination didn’t falter. As she was taller than Karen, she used her height to make her point. ‘Get out before I throw you out,’ she snarled, her hands balling into fists at her sides. And, although Karen retained her air of defiance, she moved reluctantly towards the door.
‘You haven’t heard the last of me,’ she said provokingly, and Rachel wondered where Mrs Grady was when she needed her. ‘Wait until I tell Jack how you’ve treated me. You won’t be half so cocky then.’
‘Oh, I’m the one who’ll be telling Jack about your visit,’ retorted Rachel recklessly. ‘Yes, he’s going to be delighted when he hears your opinion of his character.’
‘What do you mean?’
Karen was wary, and Rachel gave her a mocking smile. ‘I can’t wait to tell him that you think he only married me to get control of the company. I mean, you’re virtually saying he couldn’t have made it on his own.’
‘You cow!’
‘Me?’ Rachel was actually starting to enjoy herself in a disreputable way. ‘What’s the matter, Miss Johnson? Are you beginning to realise you might have said too much?’
‘No.’ But Karen was agitated. ‘I don’t care what you say, I’m going to have Jack’s baby. You might earn a few points for effort, Mrs Riordan, but I’m holding the winning card.’
Rachel’s nails dug into her palms, but before she could stop herself she said, ‘One of them.’ And, as Karen turned incredulous eyes in her direction, she added unforgivably, ‘Didn’t he tell you? I’m having a baby, too.’
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS LATE when Jack got back to Market Abbas.
The actual signing of the contract hadn’t taken long, but there’d been lunch with the Mayor, followed by a tour of the city, then drinks—something he always tried to avoid these days—before an early dinner with the architect, the surveyor, and other dignitaries. Jake knew they were only there for the ride, but he had to play along despite how he was feeling before he could reasonably take his leave.
It had all gone very well, and everyone had seemed satisfied with the deal. Jack felt he’d acquitted himself adequately considering he hadn’t been in the mood for any of it. Since he’d spoken to his doctor on Tuesday he’d been having a hard time making sense of his life, let alone anything else.
It was just as well he and Rachel spent so little time in each other’s company these days. In the early months of their marriage she’d have known instantly that something was wrong. These last few months had been hell. He was sleeping badly and his appetite was virtually non-existent. The pressure of work, of handling the continued expansion and the other responsibilities he had now that Rachel’s father was dead, was crippling. And now dealing with Karen Johnson as well had proved too much. Even Mrs Grady had noticed, but she knew better than to interfere.
Driving between the open gates of the house he’d built just after he and Rachel were married, Jack knew an overwhelming sense of relief. He was grateful for the darkness, too, to hide the weariness he knew must be evident in his face. After all, his home was over a hundred miles from Bristol, and, although he loved driving, he wished he’d let his driver take the wheel tonight.
But that would have meant Dan couldn’t have had a drink either, and that wouldn’t have been fair. And the last thing he wanted was for Dan to become suspicious of his health. He might feel it was his duty to inform Rachel. He had always been very fond of Jack’s wife.
There were lights on in the house, even though it was after eleven o’clock. Someone must still be up, and he guessed it was Mrs Grady. The days when Rachel had waited up for him were long gone. His expression shifted to one of regret. He missed those late-night conversations with his wife, the opportunities they’d given him to get the events of the day into perspective. They hardly discussed the company these days. And since her father had died two years ago, he’d had no one in the family to share his problems with.
So whose fault was that?
But Jack had no desire to get into such things tonight. He was too tired, too depressed, too sick of being the boss of Fox Construction first and Jack Riordan second.
He sighed, and after parking the Aston Martin to one side of the entrance he got out of the car. He couldn’t be bothered to put it in the garage. If it was stolen, so be it. He didn’t much care either way.
His lips twisted. Life was like that. It gave you everything you’d ever want with one hand and took it back with the other. What was that word? Schadenfreude? Malicious pleasure at another’s expense? Yeah, that was probably a good way to describe the way fate had treated him.
His cellphone chirped in his pocket and, stifling a curse, he pulled it out. Karen! As he’d expected. He pressed the disconnect button and severed the call. She’d been calling him off and on all day—hell, for the past three months—and he had no desire to speak with her tonight.
Turning the phone off, he used his key quietly, mindful that Rachel was probably asleep by now. She’d always been a light sleeper, waking as soon as he’d entered their bedroom. Not that they shared a bedroom these days. Since she’d lost the last baby Rachel had left him in no doubt that she preferred to sleep alone.
There were lamps glowing in the wide entrance hall, casting a mellow light across the parquet floor. Paintings that he and Rachel had chosen together were only shadows against the walls, and overhead the Waterford chandelier was dark.
Most of the downstairs rooms opened into the hall, but the doors were closed and no inviting ribbon of light showed beneath any of them. There appeared to be a light on the galleried landing, but he ignored it. If Mrs Grady was still up, she’d be in the kitchen, and Jack walked through the doorway behind the stairs that gave access to the housekeeper’s domain.
To his surprise, the kitchen was dark as well. When he flicked a switch concealed lighting flooded granite surfaces and pale oak units but the room was empty. Scowling, he crossed to the double fridge and freezer, opening the fridge door and taking out a carton of milk. He glanced round for a glass, but that was too much trouble as well, so instead he raised the carton to his lips.
He took a healthy gulp, savouring its richness, wiping the smear from his upper lip with the back of his hand. The milk was cold and refreshing and, closing the fridge again, he took the carton with him when he left the kitchen to make his way upstairs.
It would probably do him more good than the fillet steak he’d only picked at earlier, he reflected, loosening his tie with his free hand. And Mrs Grady could hardly complain when she was always telling him he ought to have a more nutritious diet.
But he forgot all about the housekeeper as he neared the first floor landing. He was gradually realising there was too much light up here than could be accounted for by the courtesy light Rachel usually left burning. There was heat, and a curious smell of—what? Perfume? Incense? And a strange flickering incandescence coming through the open doors of Rachel’s room.
The first thing that occurred to him was fire. He could think of no other reason for the flickering light. His heart-rate quickened and he tried not very successfully to calm himself. Oh, God, surely none of the calls he’d ignored had been from here?
Dropping the thankfully almost empty carton, he sprinted across the landing. Despite his protests, Rachel had moved out of the master suite and now occupied one of the four guest suites on the opposite side of the house. He couldn’t think of any other reason why her doors should be open, and, although there was an increasing tightness in his chest, he was more concerned about his wife than about his own health.
The sight that met his eyes almost took his breath away altogether. There was fire all right, and flames, but they came from dozens of scented candles set all around the bedroom. There were tall ones, thin ones, squat ones, and some that didn’t fit any particular pattern, and the heat and the scent were dizzying in their potency.
He halted in the doorway, one hand pressed to his madly beating heart, the other supporting himself against the jamb. He could see through a breathless haze that the bed was turned down, but the room was empty. As if some force had spirited Rachel away and left these burning symbols in her place.
He fought for breath, resting his full weight against the doorpost now, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. What did it mean? Was Rachel into some weird religious ritual or something? Why else would she have lit all these candles. Dear God, what was going on?
Fumbling in the inside pocket of his jacket, he found the strip of foil-wrapped pills the doctor had given him. Releasing one, he stuffed it in his mouth, feeling some relief as his heartbeat began to slow. Maybe Rachel knew about his condition and was trying to kill him, he thought, a faint smile appearing at the obvious irony. But what the hell? He’d be unwise to subject himself to too many shocks like this.
He was attempting to straighten up when the door to Rachel’s bathroom opened. As he stared in disbelief, she stepped, barefoot, into the room. In the light from the scented candles he saw her eyes dart in his direction. But then his gaze was riveted by the fact that she was practically nude.
But ‘nude’ was a relative word, he acknowledged, aware that sometimes the anticipation was more satisfying than the reality. Though not in this case. In a black lace half-bra that gave her small breasts a surprising cleavage, and the minutest black lace thong he’d ever seen, she was stunning. A slim, long-legged goddess, whose scant underwear revealed that her mane of sun-streaked blond hair was most definitely natural.
‘My God!’
The breathless oath was uncontrollable, and Rachel turned innocent eyes in his direction. ‘Oh, Jack,’ she said softly, as if she’d only just noticed him. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
Jack felt as though he must have died and gone to heaven. That mad sprint across the landing must have done it for him, and he was presently enjoying some fantasy life elsewhere. There was no way that what he was seeing was real. It was a dream. It had to be. A tantalising glimpse of how their lives could have been.
‘Hi,’ he said weakly.
It took an effort to get his tongue round the word. There were any number of things he wanted to say, he ought to say, but he was too bemused to be original.
‘You look tired,’ she said, seeming to float towards him across the thick white carpet that covered the floor. She halted in front of him, reaching up to push his unruly dark hair off his forehead. ‘Has it been a stressful day?’
Her fingers were cool against his hot forehead, and when she stretched the skimpy bra exposed a half-circle of the rosy flesh surrounding her nipple. She didn’t seem to notice, but he did. The heated scent of her body was more potent than the candles that surrounded her.
Jack felt his body hardening instantly. It might be more than two years since he and Rachel had made love, but he remembered how incredible the sex between them used to be. Unfortunately, he’d only had to touch her for her to get pregnant, and time—and painful experience—had taught him that she wouldn’t welcome his lovemaking again.
‘Rachel,’ he said, hearing the hoarseness of his voice, feeling his heart quickening its beat in spite of the drug he’d swallowed.
‘Come on, Jack,’ she responded, taking his hand and drawing him into the warmth and light of the bedroom. She gestured towards the huge Colonial-style bed that they had never shared. ‘Sit down. Would you like a drink?’
There was nothing Jack would have liked more, but he shook his head. If this were a dream he didn’t need alcohol to stoke his libido, and if it weren’t he shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, period.
He let her bring him into the room, allowed her to close the doors behind them and push him down onto the side of the wide bed. The truth was, his legs felt a little unsteady. But it was as much from the arousal she was generating as from the latent effects of his condition.
He caught his breath when she knelt down in front of him. What now? he thought, wondering if a man could die from illusions created by his own imagination. But all she did was remove his shoes and roll his socks down over his ankles. Then, when he was barefoot, she slipped those soft hands beneath the cuffs of his trousers and gently massaged his calves.
She offered him a demure smile when he rested back on his elbows, his damp palms pressed into the coverlet for support. Did she know it was the only way he could stop himself from reaching for her? She had to be aware of his erection. Dammit, it wasn’t something he could disguise, after all.
But all she said was, ‘There—doesn’t that feel better?’ as if her sensuous ministrations were something he was used to. She couldn’t be that ingenuous, he thought, so what in God’s name was she playing at? The pain in his groin had convinced him that, however unlikely it seemed, this was really happening.
Nevertheless, when she got to her feet again, putting his eyes on a level with the black strings that tied the thong at her hips, he couldn’t look away. His eyes were irresistibly drawn to the cluster of blond curls that were visible through the black lace, and he couldn’t deny she was sexy as hell.
‘Relax,’ she said now, coming closer and reaching for his tie, which he’d partly loosened as he came upstairs. Slender fingers dealt with the knot, and if Jack hadn’t been so conscious of her hip against his thigh he’d have admired her expertise.
As it was, he thought that relaxing was totally beyond his current capabilities. Which wasn’t helped when she lifted one leg to kneel on the bed beside him and started unbuttoning his shirt. Her fingertips brushed his skin, her nails scraping sensually over the fine dark hair that arrowed down to his navel and beyond. She was steadily driving him crazy and he had to stop her.
‘Rachel,’ he protested weakly, but when he lifted his hand he lost his balance and his back hit the mattress with a distinct thud. Then, to his amazement, she climbed totally onto the bed and threw one leg across him, straddling him as she continued to unfasten his shirt and pull it free of his pants.
The knowledge that her spread thighs were pressing down onto his groin almost overwhelmed him. He’d never been so close to losing control, and he closed his eyes to shut out the incredible sight of her leaning over him, her luscious breasts only inches from his mouth.
He felt her push his shirt and jacket over his shoulders, and then she turned her attention to the buckle on his belt. He knew he ought to stop her. He wanted to stop her, he told himself. But his hands wouldn’t obey what his brain was telling them. Instead, he let her loosen his pants and draw the zip down partway.
‘Mmm,’ she murmured, and he knew she must have discovered that his boxers were no barrier to the heavy thrust of his shaft. But, although he’d expected her to stop then, she only drew the blue silk aside and took him into her hands.
‘Rachel,’he muttered, his eyes opening to find her bending to caress him with her tongue. ‘What do you think I’m made of?’
Rachel lifted her head, her smile strangely triumphant. ‘Oh, I know what you’re made of,’ she said, her tongue appearing again, to circle her lower lip with seductive deliberation. ‘Flesh and sinew and—’ she stroked a finger along his length ‘—blood and bone. Exactly what a man should be made of, don’t you agree?’
Jake expelled a tortured breath. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Rachel arched brows that were several shades darker than her hair while eyes as deep a blue as indigo assessed him with disturbingly intensity. ‘I thought I was helping you to undress,’ she replied with artless innocence, and Jack swore.
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Mmm.’ She nodded eagerly. ‘I had some tea earlier. Iced tea. Would you like some?’
Jack stared at her disbelievingly. ‘Are you for real?’
‘I hope so.’ She straightened her spine, so that her weight was lifted off him, and ran exploring hands down her body from her breasts to her hips. ‘I think so.’ She paused. ‘Don’t you think I am?’
Jack didn’t know what to think. ‘Is this some sick game you’re playing?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Because I have to tell you, if it is, I—’
‘It’s no game, Jack.’ Rachel looked positively offended now, and as he watched with incredulous eyes she swung herself off him and started to crawl towards the edge of the bed. ‘I just thought we might—connect. You know? But—if you don’t want to…’
‘Want to?’ Jack echoed her words with a feeling of frustration that knew no bounds. ‘God, Rachel, of course I want to.’ He pushed himself up, tearing off the shirt and jacket that were restricting his arms and tossing them on the floor. He restored himself to some semblance of modesty and scrambled after her, only his hipbones and good fortune keeping his pants from slipping down his thighs. ‘For pity’s sake, come here!’
With his heart pounding so heavily against his ribcage that he was afraid it was going to burst out of his chest, he managed to snag her ankle, preventing her from climbing off the bed. And although he’d expected her to object she didn’t. She let him pull her towards him, twisting obediently onto her back and provocatively spreading her legs.
‘Is this better?’ she asked huskily, and Jack could only gaze at her with stunned disbelieving eyes.
He expelled a harsh breath, still not entirely convinced she meant what she said. His stomach was twisted as tight as a drum, and although his senses were telling him to take what she was offering without further explanation, a latent instinct for self-preservation warned him that nothing was ever that simple.
‘Rachel,’ he said, his voice uncertain even to his own ears. But she didn’t want to talk.
Lifting her hand, she laid a slender finger across his mouth, and he couldn’t stop his lips from turning against her soft skin. Capturing her hand, he brought her palm to his mouth, his tongue seeking the texture and the taste of her. But before he could do more than touch her she snatched her hand away.
‘I thought you wanted me,’ she whispered, reaching for his belt and using it to tantalise him. ‘But you’re vastly overdressed.’
Jack could hardly breathe. Whatever way he wanted to play it, this was like some crazy dream, and he was no longer capable of dividing the illusory from the reality. Somehow he managed to push his suit pants and his boxers down his legs, kicking them off the bed, too. Then he knelt beside her, content for a moment just to marvel at his own good luck.
She was beautiful, he thought unsteadily. He’d almost forgotten how incredibly beautiful she was. Small, high breasts, a narrow waist, and hips that flared sweetly above long, sexy legs. Her skin was smooth, unblemished, honey-toned from the hours she spent outdoors. The Devon coast could be as hot as the Mediterranean, and Rachel had always loved the sun.
He allowed his hand to skim the slopes of her breasts above the provocative line of the bra. Then, with a little less restraint, he dipped his hand into the lace and cupped one warm rounded globe.
Her nipple was hard. It thrust against his palm. He didn’t need to glance at himself to know that his erection was hard and prominent, too. It jutted from its soft nest of dark hair with a total lack of modesty.
‘You’re overdressed, too,’ he said thickly, unable to resist tugging on the strings that tied the thong and pulling it away. ‘That’s much better.’
She shifted a little restlessly when he replaced the thong with his hand, his thumb finding the throbbing nub of her womanhood, his fingers discovering that she was wet and ready for him.
And, God, he was ready for her, he thought, stretching beside her and seeking her moist mouth with his lips. She was all he wanted, had ever wanted before three miscarriages and her refusal to let him near her had got in the way.
He was sorry when she turned her head to one side, preventing him from prolonging the kiss. Apparently Rachel wasn’t interested in foreplay. Or else, like himself, she was eager to consummate their reunion. There was no denying he couldn’t wait to be a part of her again. Even his wildly beating heart couldn’t deter him.
Her bra had a front fastening; so convenient, he thought gratefully, releasing it easily. Her breasts spilled into his hands, but when he would have taken one swollen nipple into his mouth she shook her head.
‘Please, Jack,’ she said, taking his face between her palms. ‘Just—do it.’
Jack was more than willing. But after he’d moved to kneel between her spread thighs he remembered he had no protection. ‘I—I don’t have a—’
He gestured meaningfully, but Rachel didn’t seem concerned. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered huskily, arching her body towards him in a tantalising invitation he couldn’t resist. ‘For pity’s sake, Jack—’
He needed no second bidding. And, despite the fact that it had been more than two years since he and Rachel had last made love, they fitted together perfectly. He slid into her in one smooth, easy motion. Her tight muscles closed about him hotly, slickly, and Jack’s head swam with the undiluted pleasure of it all.
‘Oh, baby,’ he breathed, burying his face in the scented hollow between her breasts, and although until then she hadn’t put her arms around him, now they came almost convulsively about his shoulders, holding him against her.
For a short while he was content to lie there with her, to feel the intimacy of man against woman, skin against skin. He felt himself stretching her and filling her, and his racing pulse gradually slowed its mindless beat.
But Rachel was restless, shifting beneath him, urging him to take what she’d so generously offered. So he began to move, slowly at first, withdrawing almost to the point of separation before sliding into her again.
He felt the sweat beading on his forehead, felt the restraint he was putting on himself tighten almost to breaking point. She was so desirable, so willing, and the fear that somehow, some way, this was going to be denied him, drove him to quicken his pace.
Yet there was no way this wasn’t a benediction. He loved her sinuously, sensuously, arousing her almost in spite of herself, crazy as that seemed. But she wrapped one leg and then the other about his hips and he knew she couldn’t control what was happening any more than he could.
He felt her muscles tighten about him only a moment before her climax shook her slender frame. He thought she might have cried out, though she stifled the sound against his chest. And Jack found his own release only seconds later, the rippling waves of her orgasm a potent stimulus he couldn’t deny. For the first time in years, he spilled his seed inside her, feeling the shuddering warmth draining out of him, draining him, so that although he knew he must be crushing her, he didn’t have the strength to roll away…
CHAPTER THREE
RACHEL WAS IN the kitchen with Mrs Grady when Jack came downstairs the next morning.
He’d wakened to find himself alone in the big bed and, judging by the fact that the other side of the mattress had been stone-cold, he suspected his wife had slept somewhere else. Someone, probably Rachel, had thrown the coverlet over his lower limbs—in deference to Mrs Grady’s sensibilities, no doubt. But the candles had all guttered out, and, like any venue after a party, the room had felt stale and lifeless.
He’d thrown all the windows open before taking his shower, determined not to read too much into Rachel’s absence. Then, because he wasn’t planning on going into the office today, he’d dressed in a black tee shirt and his oldest pair of jeans. The jeans were tight, and worn in obvious places, so he left the button at his waist unfastened. He knew he felt better than he’d done for months—relaxed and rested. An unfamiliar condition for him these days.
Rachel was standing with her back against one of the limed oak units, a mug of what he guessed was coffee in her hand, talking to Mrs Grady. Unlike him, she didn’t look either relaxed or rested, though Jack thought she could never look less than stunning. In a rose-patterned see-through voile shirt that tied at her waist, worn over an ivory vest and loose taupe trousers, she looked cool and elegant. Her straight blond hair was loose and brushing her collar, and his first thought was how sensuous it had felt against his skin the night before.
His entrance silenced the two women, however, but Jack refused to be deterred. ‘Good morning,’ he said into the sudden vacuum. ‘Am I interrupting something?’
‘Of course not, Mr Riordan.’ It was Mrs Grady who answered, and Jack noticed Rachel avoided his eyes. ‘I expect you’ll be wanting breakfast. What can I get you?’
Jack wished Rachel would look at him, but after a brief glance in his direction she left him to speak to the housekeeper and went to stand in front of the huge porcelain sink, staring out at the garden at the side of the house. It wasn’t unusual for her to ignore him. God knew, he’d gotten used to it over the past couple of years. But after last night he didn’t understand her attitude, and as Mrs Grady busied herself taking eggs from the fridge, Jack crossed the room to stand beside his wife.
‘Hi,’ he said, his voice dangerously husky. ‘I missed you when I woke up.’
Rachel took a sip of her coffee before replying. Then, ‘Did you?’ she said, without looking at him. ‘I suppose you’re used to sex in the morning as well.’
Now, why had she said that? As Jack stared at her with narrowed eyes, Rachel cursed herself for allowing her own inadequacies to colour her speech. For God’s sake, the last thing she wanted was to think about sex with Jack. Or say anything to remind her of how perfect their lovemaking had been the night before.
It was hard enough just looking at him. Jack had always been a good-looking man—‘drop-dead gorgeous’ was what Karen had said—and even with a night’s growth of stubble on his chin Rachel had to agree with her. She assumed he had his Irish heritage to thank for his dark hair, which was usually too long and often unruly, and for his green eyes, as pure and clear as a mountain lake—what irony! And his strong, sensual features, which were too hard-boned to be really handsome.
The whole added up to a man with a tenacity of purpose even her father had admired. The fact that he was also tall and lean and moved with the sinuous grace of a big cat gave him the kind of sexuality few women could resist.
The miracle was that he’d married her. They’d fallen in love and theirs had been a fairy-tale romance. Rachel had believed that nothing and no one could come between them. But she’d been so wrong.
‘Did I miss something?’
Jack’s voice had an edge to it now that Rachel couldn’t mistake. She had to tell him, she thought. It wasn’t fair to let him go on thinking they were together again. But the temptation was there to put it off for the time being. She knew she’d need only to say the word for them to spend the rest of the day in bed.
But she couldn’t do that. Jack was like a drug, and it had been hard enough to wean herself off him the first time around. ‘I’m sure you know what I mean,’ she said, deliberately casual. ‘I know you’ve been sleeping with—with other women, Jack. You haven’t lived like a monk all these months.’
‘My God!’ Jack’s reaction was predictably violent and Rachel cast an anxious look over her shoulder to see if Mrs Grady was listening. But the housekeeper had left the room, evidently deciding to leave them to it. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’
Rachel’s mouth was dry. ‘Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it? You have been seeing someone else?’
‘I’ve seen a lot of people,’ retorted Jack harshly. ‘What’s this all about, Rachel? What was last night all about? Why didn’t you tell me how you felt before you—?’
He broke off abruptly, turning away to rake unsteady fingers through his hair. All of a sudden he felt sick and dizzy; the aftermath of too much excitement? he thought bitterly. Or anticipation of the nightmare to come?
‘Jack?’
Rachel sounded almost concerned now, and he wondered if she’d guessed that something was wrong. But the last thing he needed was for her to feel sorry for him. He had some pride, albeit somewhat shredded after last night.
‘Just go away, Rachel,’ he said, gripping the overhanging lip of granite with both hands. He made a sudden decision. ‘I’ve got to go into the office.’ He straightened. ‘I’ll see you when I see you, right?’
Rachel touched his arm and he flinched. God, he had it bad, he thought. She’d only to lay a hand on him and he wanted to turn round and drag her—kicking and screaming, if necessary—into his arms. Despite his shaky equilibrium, and the fact that she’d apparently only been using him the night before, he still wanted her. And how pathetic was that?
‘You’re not dressed for the office,’ she said now, and Jack knew he had to turn and face her.
‘I was hungry,’ he said, even though the thought of the omelette Mrs Grady had offered to make for him was making him feel sick.
Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘I suppose you can’t wait to see her, can you?’ she said, and Jack blinked at the sudden attack.
‘To see her?’ he echoed. ‘Who the hell are you talking about?’
‘This woman,’ she persisted. ‘She works in your office, doesn’t she?’ She paused, and when he made no reaction she went on, ‘Karen Johnson? Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten her.’
Jack swayed back on the heels of his loafers. ‘How the hell do you know about her?’
‘I know.’ Rachel refused to tell him the woman had been here.
‘I can’t believe you were interested enough to investigate my life.’
‘Can’t you?’ His words pained her, but she managed to hide it. ‘I guess we don’t know one another very well anymore.’
‘And whose fault is that?’ he countered, feeling his heart quickening in tune with his rising agitation. ‘For God’s sake, Rachel, I didn’t move out of your bed!’
‘You know why I did,’ she cried, stung into defending herself, but Jack wasn’t in the mood for compromise.
‘They were my babies, too,’ he said savagely. And then, feeling as if he’d pass out if he didn’t get some air, he walked unsteadily across the kitchen floor. ‘Just go to hell, Rachel,’ he muttered, going out of the door.
Jack was sitting in his office in Plymouth, slumped over his desk, when the intercom buzzed. Scowling, he pushed himself up and pressed the answering button. ‘Yeah?’
‘You’ve got a call, Mr Riordan.’ His secretary sounded apologetic. ‘I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, but it’s your wife.’
‘My wife?’ Jack was stunned. He had no idea why Rachel should be ringing him after their altercation that morning. But he was ever the optimist, he thought dourly. ‘Put her on.’
‘Yes, Mr Riordan.’
The line went dead for a moment, and then a voice said, ‘Hello, Jack.’
It wasn’t Rachel. That was his first thought, and his spirits foundered. And because of that his response was savagely blunt. ‘Karen,’ he said, recognising her voice instantly after what Rachel had said. The way he was feeling now, if the woman had been in the immediate vicinity he’d have wrung her neck.
‘Darling—you remember me!’ she exclaimed, and Jack wondered how she expected him to forget. She’d been ringing him off and on for the past three months—ever since she’d been fired, actually. So many times, in fact, that he’d had to ask his secretary to monitor all his calls.
‘Don’t call me darling,’ he snapped, wondering why he didn’t just slam down the receiver. He’d done it before. ‘Do you want to tell me what you’re doing? Impersonating someone else is a criminal offence. If you ring this number again I’ll have you arrested. There’s a word for what you’re doing, Karen, and it’s harassment.’
‘Oh, Jack, don’t be so stuffy. You didn’t used to be like this when we were together.’
‘We were never together, Karen.’ Jack was wearily aware he’d said all this before. ‘We went out together once. And believe me, that was a mistake.’
Karen only laughed. ‘You don’t mean that, Jack.’
‘Yes, I do. And I mean it when I say I’m going to report you to the authorities. I should have done it before. But I guess I felt sorry for you.’
‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Jack.’
Her tone had altered now, and he could tell he’d annoyed her. Well, good! Way to go. He hoped she’d got the message at last.
‘Feel sorry for yourself, Jack,’ she went on sharply. And then, her tone softening again, ‘We need to be together. You know that. You can fight it if you like, but it won’t do you any good.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Jack lost patience. ‘Get a life, Karen. One that doesn’t include stalking me!’
He would have slammed the phone down then, but she must have sensed it, and rushed into speech. ‘We’re going to have a baby, Jack,’ she burst out wildly. ‘That’s why I’ve been ringing you. We have to talk.’
Rachel spent the morning in the studio Jack had had built for her in the garden. It was on the far side of the property, with a magnificent view of Foliot Cove. The cove was at the foot of the cliffs that etched this part of the coastline, and could be reached by a flight of stone steps some previous owner of the land had had carved out of the rock.
Rachel was quite a gifted painter, using both oils and charcoal in various forms. But her favourite medium was watercolour, and she’d created quite a name for herself in recent years, illustrating children’s books for the London publisher who’d recognised her talent.
Today, however, it was hard to concentrate. She kept thinking about what she’d done the night before, and remembering Jack’s face when she’d told him she knew about his affair with Karen Johnson.
He hadn’t admitted he was having an affair with Karen, but then he hadn’t denied it either. Instead, he’d accused her of abandoning their marriage. Of moving out of their bed and effectively putting an end to their relationship.
Yet surely he should be able to understand how she’d been feeling at that time? Three times she’d become pregnant, three times she’d felt the miracle of life inside her, and three times she’d lost the baby in the third month. All right, perhaps she hadn’t given enough thought to how Jack was feeling. Perhaps she had been totally tied up with her own emotions, her own grief.
But Jack had always seemed so strong, so impervious to anything life threw at him. The eldest son of an Irish labourer and his wife, who had emigrated to England in the sixties, he’d worked hard to get his degree in civil engineering. He was the only member of his family who’d ever gone to university, and although one of his brothers and all three sisters were settled now, with families of their own, for years Jack had helped to support his siblings, doing two jobs even when he was at university so that he could send money home.
She couldn’t help wondering now if she’d been too quick to put his behaviour down to disappointment. Disappointment that he wasn’t going to be a father, and disappointment in her, too, as a woman. She’d believed he thought she’d let him down—not once, but three times. And when she had refused to let him near her again, he’d turned to someone else.
It had all seemed so simple—and so sordid. She hadn’t been able to believe that a man like Jack could exist without some woman in his bed. The fact that it had taken her almost eighteen months before she found out about his involvement with Karen Johnson didn’t reassure her. Karen wasn’t the first, she was sure. But she was the only one who’d got pregnant with his child.
At lunchtime, Rachel abandoned any attempt to continue with her painting of Benjie Beaver and went back to the house. She had still to explain to Mrs Grady why her bedroom had been littered with burnt-out candles that morning, and why Jack’s bed hadn’t been slept in.
However, Mrs Grady was out. She usually went shopping on Thursday mornings, Rachel remembered, finding even normal events as difficult to concentrate on as anything else. Karen Johnson’s visit the day before—and her own shameless behaviour—had left her in a state of confusion. She knew that she’d seduced her husband. She just didn’t know why.
Oh, there was the obvious reason: she wanted to get pregnant. But where was the sense in that? Why should she believe that this pregnancy—if indeed there was to be one—would be different from any of the others? Wasn’t she just building up a whole lot of heartache for herself?
She shook her head. She only knew she’d had to do something to stop that woman from stealing her husband. Despite everything, she still loved him—although she had no intention of telling him that. But if she was expecting his child it would prove to Karen that they were sleeping together. And it gave her an added advantage. After all, she was still his wife.
To her surprise, Mrs Grady had left a cold lunch for two in the morning room. Chilled asparagus soup, a Caesar salad—Rachel’s favourite—and strawberry shortcake for dessert. Rachel wondered if the housekeeper expected her to ask Lucy to join her. Her best friend, Lucy Robards, only lived half a mile away.
Rachel hadn’t mentioned having a guest, so that seemed unlikely. But Jack never came home for lunch these days. It was a stretch if she had his company for dinner. Which was just as well, because they rarely had anything to say to one another.
An uncorked bottle of wine was standing in a cooler, and Rachel picked it out and poured some into a long-stemmed crystal glass. It was Chablis, she noticed as she tasted it. A wine that Jack had chosen. Was that relevant? Had he told Mrs Grady he’d be back for lunch?
It seemed unlikely. After the way he’d left the house earlier she was fairly sure she wouldn’t see him again that day. But that wasn’t entirely Jack’s fault. She was going to bed earlier and earlier these days, escaping into oblivion to avoid the inevitable questions Jack’s absence always created.
The roar of a car’s engine in the drive caused a sudden quiver in her stomach. It could be Mrs Grady, of course, but she didn’t think it was. Mrs Grady drove a Ford, not an Aston Martin. And this definitely sounded like a powerful car.
Rachel’s nerves tightened instinctively, and she took a gulp of wine to calm her racing pulse. There was no reason to get all chewed up, she told herself. Jack had probably forgotten something. He’d probably come in and go out again without her even seeing him.
A car door slammed, and in spite of her assurances Rachel’s mouth felt dry. She took another sip of wine, just to irrigate her throat, and then almost choked when Jack appeared in the open doorway.
She should have shut the door, she chided herself, still convinced he wasn’t staying. But Jack had other ideas.
‘Hi,’ he said civilly, much to her surprise after the way he’d left the house. ‘Good. I’m just in time.’
Rachel swallowed. ‘This—’ She gestured towards the round table, with its green and yellow place mats, its Villeroy and Boch china, its silver cutlery. ‘This is for you?’
‘For both of us,’ amended Jack, taking off his charcoal suit jacket and dropping it over the back of one of the ladder-backed dining chairs. He loosened the top button of his shirt and pulled the knot of his silver-grey tie away from his collar. Then he approached the wine cooler where Rachel was standing, her wine glass forgotten in her hand. ‘Is that Chablis?’
‘Don’t you know?’ She couldn’t keep the resentment out of her voice. ‘I imagine you must have arranged this with Mrs Grady before you left.’
‘I phoned,’ he corrected her again, a flicker of his eyes registering the way she moved around the table to put some space between them. He helped himself to a little of the wine. But only a little, she noticed. Whatever else he’d come home for, it wasn’t to drown his sorrows. He took a mouthful. ‘Mmm, that’s pretty good.’
Rachel shook her head, putting her glass down on the table with a slightly unsteady hand. She mustn’t let him do this to her, she told herself. She wasn’t going to let him behave as if nothing had happened. They both knew it had. Karen Johnson was part of their lives, for better or for worse.
All the same, as Jack stood there regarding her from beneath lashes any woman would have died for, Rachel was unwillingly reminded of the concern she’d had about him earlier. There was something different about him today. She didn’t know what it was, but it troubled her.
‘Shall we sit down?’
Jack spoke, and in spite of her thoughts Rachel gave a careless shrug. ‘If you like.’
Jack waited until she’d taken the chair opposite before joining her. He wondered if she thought he hadn’t noticed her edging her place setting around the table so that there was no way their elbows would touch, but he didn’t comment on it. It was enough that she wasn’t sniping at him—yet, anyway. No doubt that would come when he told her about Karen’s call.
Rachel reached for the wine and refilled her glass. She felt as if she needed some false courage, and one glass just wasn’t doing it. Despite her determination not to do so, she couldn’t help wondering why there were those lines of strain beside his mouth. However strenuous last night had been—and she coloured at the memory—he had been as eager to satisfy his needs as she had been.
Realising he was waiting for her to have some soup before helping himself, Rachel lifted the lid of the tureen and ladled a spoonful into her bowl. Then she pushed the handle of the ladle in Jack’s direction.
Judging by the little he took for himself, his appetite was as non-existent as her own, and once again she fretted over the reasons why. Last night he’d seemed exactly the same as usual; but then, last night she’d been intent on achieving her own ends, not his, she assured herself grimly.
Of course, his haggard appearance might have something to do with his guilty conscience, she thought, dipping her spoon into the soup with more force than enthusiasm. He was thirty-seven, for God’s sake. What else could it be?
‘Did you sleep well?’
His words took her completely by surprise—as they’d been meant to do, she guessed, annoyed that she’d been caught out. ‘Not very,’ she said, not altogether truthfully. After she’d left him sleeping soundly in her bed, she’d crashed in one of the other guest rooms. She must have been exhausted, because she hadn’t been aware of anything until the morning sun had poured in through the uncurtained windows and she’d realised what she’d done. After that, sleep had definitely been out of the question.
Jack arched a disbelieving brow. ‘Shame,’ he said, putting his spoon aside. ‘I slept like the dead.’
It was an unfortunate choice of words, particularly in the circumstances, and Jack hoped they weren’t prophetic. But Rachel was immune to their relevance.
‘Now, why am I not surprised?’ she asked scornfully. ‘It comes of not having a conscience, I suppose.’
‘I have a conscience.’ Jack was stung into a retort. ‘Do you?’
‘Me?’ Rachel was taken aback. ‘Why should I have a conscience?’
‘Well, let me see…’ Jack lay back in his chair and toyed with his wine glass, but his eyes never left her flushed face. ‘You don’t think last night’s play was just the tiniest bit unethical?’
Rachel moistened her dry lips. ‘You’re my husband. What was unethical about it?’
Jack let out a short laugh. ‘Oh, baby, you don’t really expect me to answer that?’
‘Don’t call me baby.’
‘Why not?’ Jack gave her an innocent look. ‘Like you just said, I am your husband.’
Rachel pushed back her chair and got up from the table. ‘If you’ll excuse me—’
Jack got up, too, and blocked her exit. ‘I won’t,’ he said, aware that he was probably blowing any chance of appealing to her better nature by acting this way, but he couldn’t let her go like this. ‘We’re not finished yet.’
‘I don’t want anything more to eat.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the food.’
Rachel looked up at him with angry eyes. He guessed it was annoying her that in spite of her height he still had several inches on her. ‘You can’t keep me here.’
‘Oh, I think I can.’ Jack sidestepped—first one way, then the other, successfully preventing her from getting past him. ‘Now, why don’t you go and sit down again, and we’ll talk?’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I DON’T WANT to talk to you.’ Rachel was scowling now, and he could feel her frustration. The perfumed heat of her body was rising off her in waves, and after last night it was all he could do to keep a sense of perspective. ‘And I don’t want to sit down,’ she added tersely. ‘I want to go to my room.’
‘Works for me.’ Jack was willing. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You won’t!’
‘No?’ Jack adopted a puzzled look. ‘It was okay for me to go there last night.’
‘Last night was a mistake.’
‘Right.’ Jack pretended to consider it. ‘So the whole scene: the absence of any electric lights, the incense-scented candles, you virtually naked, I’m to believe it was all a mistake?’
Rachel’s chin dipped. ‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t I believe you?’
She sniffed. ‘Because you’re too arrogant to think anything else?’ she suggested, and he sighed.
‘What are you saying? That it was for someone else?’
That thought had just occurred to him, and he didn’t like it. But to his relief Rachel was too desperate to defend herself to lie.
‘No,’ she said fiercely. ‘I don’t sleep around.’
‘Meaning I do?’
‘If it fits.’
‘It doesn’t,’ he snapped, momentarily angered by the unjust accusation. Then, calming himself, he went on, ‘So it was all for my benefit?’
Rachel shifted uneasily. ‘If you want to think that,’ she muttered.
‘What else am I supposed to think?’ Jack lifted his hand, and in spite of her instinctive withdrawal he caught a strand of her silky hair and tucked it gently behind her ear. ‘I didn’t realise you were so needy.’
Rachel caught her breath. ‘I’m not needy!’
Jack’s fingers trailed from her ear down the smooth column of her throat to the low vee of her vest. ‘You can’t deny you wanted me last night.’
Rachel lifted her head. ‘I—wanted a man, yes.’
Jack shook his head. He badly wanted to untie the shirt that hugged her midriff and slip his hands into the low waist of her trousers. But in spite of what she’d said he didn’t think she’d let him do that, and he didn’t want to destroy this tenuous relationship by rushing things. Instead, he contented himself with watching the way her nipples hardened against the fabric of her vest, remembering how delicious they’d felt rolling against his tongue.
‘Look,’ he said, after a moment, ‘we have to talk about this. You can’t expect me to ignore what happened and go on as before.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’ He stared at her frustratedly, his eyes darkening to the deepest shade of jade. ‘Because it was good between us,’ he said thickly. ‘And I want to do it again.’
‘No.’
Jack lifted his hand then, but although Rachel took an involuntary step back all he did was rake back his hair with an angry hand. ‘So what now?’ he demanded. ‘Do I wait until the next time you feel like screwing me? Or do I get a say in the matter?’
Rachel’s face burned. ‘Don’t use that word.’
‘What word? Screwing? Well, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? I made love to you, but you screwed me!’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’ Jack closed his eyes for a moment, striving for control. ‘I should have known better than to think it was anything else.’
Rachel quivered. ‘Well, what did you expect?’
Jack scowled. ‘And that means what, exactly?’
Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Haven’t you forgotten Miss Johnson? What is she now, by the way? Your secretary? Your personal assistant? Oh, yes. Personal assistant just about covers it. She—’
‘Karen doesn’t work for the company any more,’ he interrupted her.
Rachel stared at him disbelievingly. ‘Since when?’
‘Since George Thomas fired her.’ Jack hadn’t wanted to get into this right now, but he knew it was inevitable in the circumstances. ‘What can I say? She was no good at her job. We had to let her go.’
‘So how did she—’
Rachel had started to ask how Karen had known where Jack was and what he was doing, but then stopped herself. How silly was that? Just because the woman didn’t work for Fox Construction any longer it didn’t mean that Jack had stopped seeing her. He must think she was stupid if he thought that by telling her Karen had been dismissed she’d believe he’d ended their affair.
‘How did she what?’
Jack had picked up on her unfinished question, and Rachel spent several unfruitful seconds trying to think of something else to ask.
‘Um—how did she manage without a reference?’ she asked at last. Then, seizing on his look of incredulity, ‘Oh, right. You wrote one for her. What did you say, Jack? Performs poorly in the office but makes up for it in bed?’
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