she knew better than to interfere.
Driving between the open gates of the house he’d built just after he and Rachel were married, Jack knew an overwhelming sense of relief. He was grateful for the darkness, too, to hide the weariness he knew must be evident in his face. After all, his home was over a hundred miles from Bristol, and, although he loved driving, he wished he’d let his driver take the wheel tonight.
But that would have meant Dan couldn’t have had a drink either, and that wouldn’t have been fair. And the last thing he wanted was for Dan to become suspicious of his health. He might feel it was his duty to inform Rachel. He had always been very fond of Jack’s wife.
There were lights on in the house, even though it was after eleven o’clock. Someone must still be up, and he guessed it was Mrs Grady. The days when Rachel had waited up for him were long gone. His expression shifted to one of regret. He missed those late-night conversations with his wife, the opportunities they’d given him to get the events of the day into perspective. They hardly discussed the company these days. And since her father had died two years ago, he’d had no one in the family to share his problems with.
So whose fault was that?
But Jack had no desire to get into such things tonight. He was too tired, too depressed, too sick of being the boss of Fox Construction first and Jack Riordan second.
He sighed, and after parking the Aston Martin to one side of the entrance he got out of the car. He couldn’t be bothered to put it in the garage. If it was stolen, so be it. He didn’t much care either way.
His lips twisted. Life was like that. It gave you everything you’d ever want with one hand and took it back with the other. What was that word? Schadenfreude? Malicious pleasure at another’s expense? Yeah, that was probably a good way to describe the way fate had treated him.
His cellphone chirped in his pocket and, stifling a curse, he pulled it out. Karen! As he’d expected. He pressed the disconnect button and severed the call. She’d been calling him off and on all day—hell, for the past three months—and he had no desire to speak with her tonight.
Turning the phone off, he used his key quietly, mindful that Rachel was probably asleep by now. She’d always been a light sleeper, waking as soon as he’d entered their bedroom. Not that they shared a bedroom these days. Since she’d lost the last baby Rachel had left him in no doubt that she preferred to sleep alone.
There were lamps glowing in the wide entrance hall, casting a mellow light across the parquet floor. Paintings that he and Rachel had chosen together were only shadows against the walls, and overhead the Waterford chandelier was dark.
Most of the downstairs rooms opened into the hall, but the doors were closed and no inviting ribbon of light showed beneath any of them. There appeared to be a light on the galleried landing, but he ignored it. If Mrs Grady was still up, she’d be in the kitchen, and Jack walked through the doorway behind the stairs that gave access to the housekeeper’s domain.
To his surprise, the kitchen was dark as well. When he flicked a switch concealed lighting flooded granite surfaces and pale oak units but the room was empty. Scowling, he crossed to the double fridge and freezer, opening the fridge door and taking out a carton of milk. He glanced round for a glass, but that was too much trouble as well, so instead he raised the carton to his lips.
He took a healthy gulp, savouring its richness, wiping the smear from his upper lip with the back of his hand. The milk was cold and refreshing and, closing the fridge again, he took the carton with him when he left the kitchen to make his way upstairs.
It would probably do him more good than the fillet steak he’d only picked at earlier, he reflected, loosening his tie with his free hand. And Mrs Grady could hardly complain when she was always telling him he ought to have a more nutritious diet.
But he forgot all about the housekeeper as he neared the first floor landing. He was gradually realising there was too much light up here than could be accounted for by the courtesy light Rachel usually left burning. There was heat, and a curious smell of—what? Perfume? Incense? And a strange flickering incandescence coming through the open doors of Rachel’s room.
The first thing that occurred to him was fire. He could think of no other reason for the flickering light. His heart-rate quickened and he tried not very successfully to calm himself. Oh, God, surely none of the calls he’d ignored had been from here?
Dropping the thankfully almost empty carton, he sprinted across the landing. Despite his protests, Rachel had moved out of the master suite and now occupied one of the four guest suites on the opposite side of the house. He couldn’t think of any other reason why her doors should be open, and, although there was an increasing tightness in his chest, he was more concerned about his wife than about his own health.
The sight that met his eyes almost took his breath away altogether. There was fire all right, and flames, but they came from dozens of scented candles set all around the bedroom. There were tall ones, thin ones, squat ones, and some that didn’t fit any particular pattern, and the heat and the scent were dizzying in their potency.
He halted in the doorway, one hand pressed to his madly beating heart, the other supporting himself against the jamb. He could see through a breathless haze that the bed was turned down, but the room was empty. As if some force had spirited Rachel away and left these burning symbols in her place.
He fought for breath, resting his full weight against the doorpost now, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. What did it mean? Was Rachel into some weird religious ritual or something? Why else would she have lit all these candles. Dear God, what was going on?
Fumbling in the inside pocket of his jacket, he found the strip of foil-wrapped pills the doctor had given him. Releasing one, he stuffed it in his mouth, feeling some relief as his heartbeat began to slow. Maybe Rachel knew about his condition and was trying to kill him, he thought, a faint smile appearing at the obvious irony. But what the hell? He’d be unwise to subject himself to too many shocks like this.
He was attempting to straighten up when the door to Rachel’s bathroom opened. As he stared in disbelief, she stepped, barefoot, into the room. In the light from the scented candles he saw her eyes dart in his direction. But then his gaze was riveted by the fact that she was practically nude.
But ‘nude’ was a relative word, he acknowledged, aware that sometimes the anticipation was more satisfying than the reality. Though not in this case. In a black lace half-bra that gave her small breasts a surprising cleavage, and the minutest black lace thong he’d ever seen, she was stunning. A slim, long-legged goddess, whose scant underwear revealed that her mane of sun-streaked blond hair was most definitely natural.
‘My God!’
The breathless oath was uncontrollable, and Rachel turned innocent eyes in his direction. ‘Oh, Jack,’ she said softly, as if she’d only just noticed him. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
Jack felt as though he must have died and gone to heaven. That mad sprint across the landing must have done it for him, and he was presently enjoying some fantasy life elsewhere. There was no way that what he was seeing was real. It was a dream. It had to be. A tantalising glimpse of how their lives could have been.
‘Hi,’ he said weakly.
It took an effort to get his tongue round the word. There were any number of things he wanted to say, he ought to say, but he was too bemused to be original.
‘You look tired,’ she said, seeming to float towards
