needn’t have bothered!’
‘No. But my parents don’t know that, do they?’
‘I’m surprised you care.’ Rachel was behaving badly, she knew, but she was overwhelmingly aware of his thigh only inches away from hers on the cushioned seat, and the muscled length of his legs, splayed carelessly beside her. ‘In any case, I—I’m going out soon. Your father and I are—are walking down to the village. So you could have saved yourself the trouble.’
‘Could I?’
He turned his head to look at her, and the blood rushed helplessly into her face. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek, and sensed the intent scrutiny from between his long dark lashes. They were the only incongruous feature of an otherwise profoundly masculine visage, and she remembered teasing him about them, and stroking her finger over their curling softness …
‘Jaime, please—’
The intenseness of her tone was a source of irritation to her, but she couldn’t help it. He knew exactly what he was doing, taunting her like this, and while her brain insisted that it shouldn’t matter to her how he behaved, her senses responded in a totally different way. He had always had this effect on her, right from the very beginning, and it was this, as much as anything, that terrified her now.
‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked, and she hated him for his arrogance. ‘Why are you trembling? Do I threaten that sterile little world you’ve built around yourself?’ His lips twisted. ‘Or do I remind you of the fun we used to have, before you became so bloody sanctimonious?’
‘Before I discovered you were married, you mean?’ Rachel choked, getting abruptly to her feet, needing the self-assurance that came from being able, physically at least, to look down at him.
‘Okay.’ Jaime shrugged his shoulders indifferently, leaning back against the window with an indolence that both disturbed and infuriated her. ‘So you’ve said it. It’s what you’ve been wanting to say ever since you got here. Well, now I’ve given you the opportunity.’
‘You don’t care, do you?’ Rachel was incensed.
‘Was I supposed to?’ Jaime’s eyes were hard.
‘Don’t you care about—about anything but your own—your own—sexual gratification?’
Jaime’s mouth assumed a mocking tilt. ‘That’s a good old-fashioned way of describing it, I guess.’ One dark brow quirked upward. ‘But I have to say you seemed to enjoy it, too.’
‘You—you—’
‘Cad?’ Jaime pressed his weight down on the stick and got to his feet beside her, immediately reducing her advantage. ‘That’s another good old-fashioned expression. As you seem to be hooked on out-of-date attitudes.’
Rachel clenched her fists. ‘You—swine!’
‘Better.’ Jaime’s smile was malicious. ‘There may be hope for you yet. If you allowed a little more of the real Rachel Williams to emerge, we might find ourselves with a three-dimensional person again, instead of a cardboard cut-out.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this—’
‘Why? Am I getting too close to the truth?’
The sound of footsteps approaching across the hall stilled any response Rachel might have cared to make, and by the time Liz entered the room she had put the width of the hearth between her and Jaime, and was apparently engrossed in reading the cards on the mantelshelf.
‘Oh, you two have met, have you?’
Liz’s reaction was one of relief, although she glanced from her son to Rachel and back to her son again, with a doubtful expression marring her attractively ageing features.
‘We’ve been having a most interesting conversation,’ Jaime remarked, shifting his weight with evident discomfort, and his mother shook her head impatiently, indicating the seat behind him.
‘Do sit down,’ she exclaimed, anxiety colouring her tone. ‘You really should take more rest, Jaime. Dr Manning says it takes time for flesh to knit together.’
Jaime pulled a wry face, but he did sink down on to the window seat again with some relief, and glancing in his direction, Rachel knew a pang of guilt at her own obduracy. She had not even asked him how he was feeling, and although she despised herself for feeling that way, she knew she was still concerned about him.
‘So,’ Liz forced a lightness she was evidently far from feeling, ‘has Rachel told you about her promotion, Jaime? She’s an assistant editor now, isn’t that exciting? Who knows, she may produce her own programmes one day.’
‘I hardly think so,’ murmured Rachel deprecatingly, and Jaime’s cynical eyes probed her embarrassment.
‘She doesn’t have the right disposition,’ he remarked, addressing his mother, but evidently speaking for Rachel’s benefit. ‘Her ideals are too rigid. She doesn’t move with the times. Producers have to be modern in outlook, malleable in intent, they have to feel for their subject, and make allowances for human error. And also they need to be capable of distinguishing between truth and fabrication.’
‘And be sexually aware!’ exclaimed Rachel, unable to prevent the bitter retort, and Jaime inclined his head mockingly.
‘That, too, of course,’ he drawled, with heavy sarcasm, and Rachel longed to wipe the smug expression from his face.
‘OH, WELL—’ Liz licked her lips a trifle nervously, as if afraid she had accidentally stirred up the very hornets’ nest she had wanted to avoid. ‘I suppose we all have our opinions, don’t we?’ She cast an appealing glance in Rachel’s direction. ‘I should have known better than to speak of it in my son’s presence. Producers are not his favourite kind of animal.’
‘It’s all right.’ Rachel had herself in control again, and regretted her momentary lapse and any embarrassment it might have caused the older woman. ‘Fortunately—fortunately, we work for different television stations. Our methods are—different.’
‘Well, I’m sure we all wish you success in your career,’ declared Liz warmly, giving her son a reproving look. ‘It’s good to know a woman can succeed in a man’s world. Generally they seem to regard us as intellectual morons.’
‘Am I missing something?’
To Rachel’s, and to Liz’s, obvious relief, Robert Shard’s appearance was well timed. He came into the room behind his wife, arching his bushy grey brows at his son, and instantly alleviating the tense atmosphere.
‘Oh, we were just discussing Rachel’s work,’ Liz explained quickly, changing the subject before he could intervene. ‘What time are you leaving? Rachel says she’ll get me one or two things from the store, while you’re at the garage.’
‘I see.’ Robert looked thoughtfully at his son, apparently still assessing the situation, and Liz gazed imploringly at Jaime, entreating him not to rekindle the
