But it’s all your own faults. Yes, really! You won’t see each other, talk to each other, even though you’re still crazy about each other. Yes, you are! So marooning you together was the only answer. We were driven to it! So work things out, for pity’s sake. Happy Christmas! E.’
And then silence. A long, hateful silence while the sobs built up inside her, threatening to pull her to shreds. How could Evie have done this to her? Dumped her in this hatefully embarrassing, hurtful situation?
They’d always been so close, looked out for each other since they were children—and now this, this shattering betrayal. Oh, how could she?
She’d accepted that something like this must have happened, but she hadn’t taken it in—not properly. Not until now.
The sheer awfulness of the situation hit her—Jake plainly believing she’d masterminded the entire thing, the gut-wrenching pain of seeing him, feeling his contempt, the deep anxiety she’d gone through when her sister hadn’t returned, her imagination working overtime, dreaming up worst-case scenarios!
Reaction set in, releasing a crescendo of weeping, her whole body shaking with the force of it. Then the shock of feeling his hands on her shoulders, turning her gently to face him, made it worse. So much worse.
She would die if he offered her the comfort of his arms, and she’d die if he didn’t!
He didn’t.
He wanted to hold her, but he didn’t. Hell, if he took her in his arms he’d be a lost man! Common sense, the self-discipline of a rational human being, the primary human urge towards self-protection—all down the drain.
His hands dropped to his sides. ‘Calm down. You’ll make yourself ill.’
His shoulders rigid, he turned to make that forgotten pot of tea. Her sobs were a little less frenzied now, he noted. The Bella he had known had never cried. She’d had, in his experience, a pragmatic approach to problems. Yet she was clearly distressed now—deeply distressed—and all he could do was offer her tea?
She was distressed because he’d seen through the charade, because he’d realised she had to be the instigator, he reminded himself cynically. Had she really imagined he wouldn’t. The whole thing smacked of complicity.
Pouring tea, he recalled how she’d drawn his attention to the distant sound of an engine. He hadn’t caught it himself, but she’d obviously been waiting, ears straining, for the sound that would tell her the job had been done, and that Evie was triumphantly driving out of this winter wilderness with the rotor arm in her pocket.
She hadn’t been able to hide her pleasure so she’d dressed it up as relief at the return of her so-called missing sister. And then, and only then, had she thrown herself into the anxiety act, begging him to contact the police, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Not tonight, at least. Tomorrow he’d be out of here, even if he walked the soles clean off his shoes! Although she’d said she’d go with him, he recognised that as sheer bravado. She could stay here and play the reconciliation scene to an empty house!
He turned, put two cups of tea on the central table. She was standing where he’d left her. Not weeping now, not doing anything. Her ashen face and the anguished twist of her mouth wrenched at his guts.
His mouth went dry, his throat muscles clenching. Had she wanted a reconciliation that badly? Badly enough to make her dream up this last-ditch farce?
Not allowing himself to even think of that, he said tersely, ‘Drink this; you look as if you need it.’ He went to the work surface where the bottles were lined up like an invitation to a week-long bacchanalia. He selected a brandy, noting the expense she had been prepared to go to, and poured two generous measures into glasses that he unearthed from one of the cupboards.
Bella watched him from heavy eyes. The hard, lean body was full of grace, despite all that sharply honed power. She knew that body as well as she knew her own. Better. She had never tired of watching him, of drowning in the effect he had on her—an effect that was threatening to swamp her all over again with its full and shattering force.
Her stomach twisted with unwanted excitement, her pulses going into overdrive, blood throbbing thickly through her veins. She whimpered, angry with herself, with the wretched body that couldn’t accept that their marriage, their love—everything—was over.
She wanted to walk out of this room but couldn’t move. There was potent chemistry here, keeping her immobile, a subtle kind of magic holding her against her will. She watched him turn. He was holding what looked like two huge doses of brandy in his elegant, capable hands.
‘Sit,’ he commanded tersely. ‘Tea and then a shot of brandy could help.’
‘I don’t want it.’ She dragged her eyes from the heart-stopping wonder of him, fixing them on the floor, not caring if she looked and sounded like a sulky child.
She was no longer his wife, not in any real sense, so she didn’t have to let him pull her strings, tell her what to do and when to do it. Not any more.
Besottedly in love with him, she’d never made a fuss when things hadn’t worked out the way she wanted them to. She’d taken it for granted that, because he loved her, the decisions he made regarding the present and the future were the best for them. She’d believed he had some grand plan, the details of which had been a mystery to her.
Love had made her turn herself into a doormat She now knew he had never loved her—couldn’t have done—so was it any wonder he’d thought nothing at all of walking all over her?
Thrusting the disturbing revelation aside, she lifted her head and gave him a defiant look. ‘I’m going to bed. I’ve had as much of today as I can stomach.’ She was doing the dictating now, and in some perverse way was almost enjoying it. ‘You said you’d be making tracks in the morning. Don’t go without me.’ She stared at him from glass-clear, challenging eyes. ‘My sense of direction is nil, as you might remember. So take it as self-preservation on my part, not a warped desire for your company.’
Let him chew that over! Engineered this unlikely set-up, had she? Conceited brute!
She was at the foot of the wooden staircase when his terse voice stopped her in her tracks.
‘Have you eaten today? You won’t get far on what will probably turn out to be a ten-mile hike to get to anything remotely approaching civilisation on a diet of vinegary spleen.’ His tone wasn’t remotely humorous, nor even a touch compassionate. It was totally judgemental. ‘Was losing weight part of your job requirements? Stick insects still high fashion, are they?’
She ignored the lash of anger in his voice. What did he care, anyway? She could get thin enough to disappear with the bathwater and he wouldn’t blink an eye. It would save him the trouble of divorcing her.
But he was right about one thing—she should at least try to eat something. The walk out of here tomorrow would be exhausting, and the single slice of toast she’d had at breakfast was nothing more than a distant memory.
Much as she now hated to do anything he suggested—a backlash from the days when she’d practically turned herself inside out to please him—she turned back, and would have rooted around for the bread and some cheese and taken
