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
