with the falling leaves and other debris. And she really couldn’t see Isabelle agreeing to that, unless …
Thinking out loud, she said slowly, ‘I’d obviously need to make a proper assessment of the site, but looking to the future, James, the young man who works for me, is very personable. All the old ladies love him.’ The young ones as well. ‘If Isabelle got to know him, perhaps she’d agree to him coming in for a day or two once a month to maintain the new garden, which I’d design with a view to minimum upkeep.’
Forde shifted in his seat. ‘You’ll do it, then?’ he said softly. ‘You’ll take on the job?’
Melanie brought her eyes to his face. There was something in his gaze that reminded her—as if she didn’t know—that she was playing with fire. Quickly, a veil slid over her own expression. ‘On certain conditions.’
One black eyebrow quirked. ‘I might have guessed. Nothing is straightforward with you. OK, so what are these conditions? Nothing too onerous, I trust?’
It was too intimate—the hushed surroundings enclosing them in their own tiny world, the perfumed air washing over her senses, Forde’s big male body just inches away, and—not least—her nakedness under the robe. This sort of situation was exactly what she’d strived to avoid by not seeing him over the last torturous months. She really shouldn’t have let him in.
She gulped down the last of her wine and poured another for Dutch courage. Forde’s glass was half-full but he put his hand over the rim when she went to top it up. ‘Driving,’ he said shortly, settling back in his seat and crossing one leg over the other knee. ‘Spell out your demands,’ he added, when she still didn’t speak. ‘Don’t be shy.’
The sarcasm helped, stiffening her backbone and her resolve, but she still felt as though she was standing on the edge of a precipice. One false move and she’d be lost.
‘But before you do …’ He moved swiftly, taking her hand before she had time to pull away and holding it fast in his own strong fingers as he leaned across the table. ‘Do you still love me, Nell?’
IT WAS so typical Forde Masterson! She should have been expecting it, should have been aware he’d take her off guard sooner or later. His ruthless streak had taken the fledgling property-developing business he’d started in his bedroom at the family home when he was eighteen years old, using an inheritance left to him by his grandmother, into a multimillion-pound enterprise in just sixteen years. His friends called him inexorable, single-minded, immovable; his enemies had a whole host of other names, but even they had to admit they’d rather deal with Forde than some of the sharks in the property-developing game. He could be merciless when the occasion warranted it but his word was his bond, and that was increasingly rare in the cut and thrust of business.
Melanie stared into the dark, handsome face just inches from hers. His eyes shone mother-of-pearl in the dim light, their expression inscrutable. Somehow she managed to say, ‘I told you I’m not discussing us, Forde.’
‘I didn’t ask for a discussion. A simple yes or no would suffice.’ Black eyebrows rose mockingly.
She moved her head, allowing the pale curtain of her hair to swing forward, hiding her face as she jerked her hand free. ‘This is pointless. It’s over—we’re over. Accept it and move on. I have.’ Liar.
‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘I don’t have to.’ In an effort to control the trembling deep inside she reached out her hand and picked up her glass of wine, taking several long sips and praying her hand wouldn’t shake. ‘This is my house, remember? I make the rules.’
‘The trouble is, you never did believe in happy endings, did you, Nell?’ Forde said softly.
Her head jerked up as his words hit home and then he watched a shutter click down over her expression. She had always been able to do that, mask what she was thinking and adopt a distant air, but nine times out of ten he’d broken through the defence mechanism she used to keep people at bay. He knew her childhood had been tough; orphaned at the age of three, she couldn’t remember her parents. Her maternal grandmother had taken her in initially but when she, too, had tragically died a year later, none of Melanie’s other relations had stepped up to the mark. One foster home after another had ensued and Melanie admitted herself she’d been a troubled little girl and quite a handful. When he had fallen in love with her he had wanted to make that all better. He still wanted to. The only obstacle was Melanie herself, and it was one hell of an obstacle.
‘From the first day we met you were waiting for us to fall apart,’ he continued in the same quiet tone. ‘Waiting for it to all go wrong. I didn’t realise that until recently. I don’t know why. There were enough indicators early on.’
She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
He studied her thoughtfully as she finished her second glass of wine. Her voice and body language belied her blank face. Underneath that formidable barrier she presented, that of a capable, strong businesswoman and woman of the world, Melanie was scared. Of him. He had acknowledged it at the same time he’d come to the conclusion she had never believed they’d make old bones together. She had loved and trusted him, he knew that, but he also knew now that those feelings had made her feel vulnerable and frightened. She had been on her own emotionally all her life before they’d met—twenty-five years—and that tough shell had been hard to break, but he’d done it. She had let him in. But not far enough, or they wouldn’t be in this mess right now.
Following through on his thoughts, he said, ‘I blamed myself at first after the accident, you know—for the distance between us, for the way every conversation fragmented or turned into a row. Stupid, but I didn’t understand you’d made the decision to shut me out and nothing short of a nuclear explosion could have changed things.’
She didn’t say a word. In fact she could have been carved in stone. A beautiful stone statue without feelings or emotion.
‘The accident—’
‘Stop talking about the accident,’ she said woodenly. Although she had been the one to insist they called it that. ‘It was a miscarriage. I was stupid enough to fall downstairs and I killed our son.’
‘Nell—’
‘No.’ She held up her hand, palm facing him. ‘Let’s face facts here. That is what happened, Forde. He was born too early and they couldn’t save him. Another few weeks and it might have been all right, but at twenty-two weeks he didn’t stand a chance. I was supposed to nurture him and keep him safe and I failed him.’
In one way he was glad she was talking about it; she’d refused to in the past, locking her emotions away from him and everyone else. In another sense he was appalled at the way even now, over sixteen months later, she was totally blaming herself. She had been a little light-headed that morning and had stayed in bed late after he’d left for work, Janet having brought her up a breakfast tray some time around ten o’clock. At half-past ten Janet had heard a terrible scream and a crash and rushed from the kitchen into the hall, to find Melanie lying twisted and partially conscious at the foot of the stairs, the contents of the tray scattered about her.
It had been an accident. Tragic, devastating, but an accident
