fact she’d barely let him near her and at times he was sure she’d hated him, probably because he was a reminder of all they’d lost. And so they’d struggled on month after miserable month, Melanie burying herself in the business she’d started and working all hours until he was lucky if he saw her for more than an hour each night, and he— Forde’s mouth set grimly. He’d been in hell. He was still in hell, come to it.
He wanted to say, ‘Accidents happen,’ but that was too trite in the circumstances. Instead he stood up, drawing her stiff, unyielding body into his arms. ‘You would have given your life for his if you could have,’ he said softly. ‘No one holds you responsible for what happened, Nell, don’t you see?’
Melanie drew in a shuddering breath. ‘Please go now.’
She felt brittle in his grasp; she was too thin, much too thin, and even as he held her she swayed slightly as though she was going to pass out. ‘What’s the matter?’ He stared into her white face. ‘Are you unwell?’
She looked at him, her eyes focusing, and he realised she was holding onto him for support. ‘I—I think I must be a little tipsy,’ she murmured dazedly. ‘I missed lunch and I haven’t eaten yet, and two glasses of wine …’
Hence the reason she’d spoken about the miscarriage, but, hell, if he needed to keep her in a permanent state of intoxication to break through that iron shield, he would. He gentled his voice when he said, ‘Come indoors, I’ll get you something.’
‘No, I can manage. I— I’ll ring you.’
There was no way on earth he was walking out of here right now, not when they were talking—properly talking—for the first time since Matthew’s death. For a second a bolt of pain shot through him as he remembered his son, so tiny and so perfect, and then he controlled himself. He said nothing as he led her into the house and when he pushed her down on one of the dining room chairs and walked into the kitchen, she made no protest. He rifled the fridge before turning to face her. ‘OK, I can make a fairly passable cheese omelette—’ He stopped abruptly. Tears were washing down her face.
With a muttered oath he reached her side, lifting her against him and holding her close as he murmured all the things he’d been wanting to say for months. That he loved her, that she was everything to him, that life was nothing without her and that the accident hadn’t been her fault …
Melanie clung to him, all defences down, drinking in the strength, the hard maleness, the familiar smell of him and needing him as she’d never needed him before. She had never loved anyone else and she knew she never would; Forde was all she had ever wanted and more. At the back of her mind she knew there was a reason she should draw away but it was melting in the wonder of being in his arms, of feeling and touching him after all the months apart.
‘Kiss me.’ Her voice was a whisper as she raised her head and looked into his hard, handsome face. ‘Show me you love me.’
He lowered his mouth to hers, brushing her lips in a tender, feather-light kiss, but as she blatantly asked for more by kissing him back passionately, her mouth opening to him, the tempo changed.
She heard him groan, felt all restraint go and then he was kissing her like a drowning man, ravaging her mouth in an agony of need. When he whisked her off her feet, holding her close to his chest, his mouth not leaving hers, she lay supine, no thought of escape in her head.
Their lovemaking had always been the stuff dreams were made of and she’d been without him for so long, she thought dizzily. She needed to taste him again, experience his hands and mouth on her body, feel him inside her …
She was barely aware of Forde carrying her up the stairs but then she was lying on the scented linen of her bed and he was beside her, the darkness broken only by the faint light from the window. He continued to kiss her as he tore off his clothes in frantic haste, caressing the side of her neck, the hollow under her ear with his burning lips before taking her mouth again in a searing kiss that made her moan with need of him.
Her robe had come undone and now he slipped it off her completely, his voice almost a growl as he murmured, ‘My beautiful one, my incomparable love …’
There was no coherent thought in her head, just a longing to be closer still, and the fierceness of his desire matched hers. They touched and tasted with a sweet violence that had them both writhing and twisting as though they would consume each other, and when he plunged inside her she called out his name as her body convulsed in tune with his. Their release was as fierce and tumultuous as their lovemaking, wave after wave of unbearable pleasure sending them over the edge into a world of pure sensation, where there was no past and no future, just the blinding light and heat of the present.
Forde continued to hold her as the frantic pounding of their hearts quietened, murmuring intimate words of love as their breathing steadied. Her eyes closed, she settled herself more comfortably in the circle of his arms as she’d done so many times in the past after a night of loving, her thick brown lashes feathering the delicate skin under her eyes as she sighed softly. Within moments she was fast asleep, a sleep of utter exhaustion.
Forde’s eyes had accustomed to the deep shadows and now he lifted himself on one elbow, his gaze drinking in each feature of her face. Her skin was pure milk and roses, her eyelids fragile ovals of ivory under fine, curving brows and her lips full and sensuous. He carefully stroked a strand of silky blonde hair from her brow, unable to believe that what had happened in the last hour was real.
He had had women before he’d met Melanie, and when he’d first seen her at a mutual friend’s wedding he’d thought all he wanted to do was possess her like the others, enjoy a no-strings affair for as long as it lasted. By the end of their first date he’d fallen deeply in love and found himself in a place he’d never been before. They had married three months later on her twenty-sixth birthday and taken a long honeymoon in the Caribbean, which had been a magical step out of time.
His body hardened as he remembered the nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms. For the first time he’d understood the difference between sex and making love, and he’d known he never wanted to be without this woman again for a moment of time.
They had returned to England where Melanie had spent the next little while giving his house in Kingston upon Thames a complete makeover to turn it into their home, rather than the very masculine bachelor residence he’d inhabited. She had given up her job working for a garden contractor when they’d got married; Melanie had wanted to try for a baby straight away and whatever she’d wanted was fine with him. He knew her history, the fact she’d never had a family home or people to call her own, and had understood how much she wanted her own children, little people who were a product of their love.
He frowned in the darkness, still studying her sleeping face. What he hadn’t understood, not then, was that her haste to start a family was motivated more by fear than anything else. She’d been like a deprived child in a sweet shop cramming its mouth with everything in sight because it was terrified it would soon find itself locked outside once again in the cold.
And then the miscarriage happened.
He groaned in his soul, shutting his eyes for a moment against the blackness of that time.
And everything had changed. Melanie had changed. He felt he’d lost his wife as well as his child that day. He hadn’t doubted at first that he would get through to her, loving her as he did, but as weeks and then months had gone by and the wall she’d erected between them had been impenetrable he’d begun to wonder. When he had returned home one night and found her gone—clothes, shoes, toiletries, every personal possession she had—and
