He shrugged, a little stung by her pointed attack on his taste. ‘I like my surroundings to feel clean and calming.’ Despite his attempt not to sound defensive he could see from her expression that he hadn’t managed it.
‘Sterile, you mean.’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘Okay, Miss I-Have-Better-Taste-Than-You, what would you do to improve this place?’
‘All sorts of things.’ She got up again and walked around the room, peering around at the décor. ‘Get rid of the awful dark wood furniture for a start. Put some warm heritage colours in here and some furniture to reflect the era in which the house was built, but with a modern twist.’
‘A modern twist?’
She folded her arms and raised a brow. ‘Yes. What’s wrong with that?’
He grinned, amused by her pseudo outrage. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just not sure what a modern twist is. Do you mean you want to fill it with chrome and plastic?’
‘No!’ She slanted him a wry glance. ‘Well, maybe a little of both, but only as accents.’
‘Right,’ he said, ‘accents. Uh-huh.’
He realised with a shock that his earlier joke in the kitchen had brokered an unspoken truce between them and he was actually enjoying teasing her like this. It had been such a long time since they’d had a conversation that didn’t end in one or both of them getting overly emotional, and it was comfortingly familiar to have a sparky back and forth with her again. He’d forgotten how fun it was to banter with her.
How? How had he forgotten so much? The gulf between them had been more than just a physical ocean, he realised; it had been a metaphorical minefield too, filled with piranhas. And quicksand. At least a galaxy wide.
They were both quiet for a minute, each seemingly lost in their thoughts.
Emma walked over to the mantelpiece and straightened the ugly carriage clock in the centre. ‘Sorry,’ she said when he glanced at her with an eyebrow raised. ‘This is what stress does to me. It makes me want to tidy and clean things.’
‘I know. I remember Clare telling me that you’d blitzed your whole house from top to bottom, including the attic, during your exams when you were seventeen.’
That had been about the time he was most struggling with his feelings for her. He’d been half relieved, half frantic when she’d failed to come over to their house to see Clare for two weeks during that time. It had made him realise just how strong his feelings for her were, which had only made him step up his condescension of her when she’d finally turned up again, looking fresh faced and so exquisitely beautiful it had taken his breath away. He also remembered the look of abject hurt on her face when he’d snapped at her for something totally inconsequential. And then what had happened as a direct result of it.
He was suddenly aware that he’d been staring at her while she stood there with a puzzled smile playing around her lips. ‘You look awfully serious all of a sudden. What are you thinking about?’ she asked, her voice soft and a little husky as if she’d read his thoughts.
He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt a little strained. ‘Actually I was thinking about what happened after you came back to our house after going AWOL for those two weeks after your exams.’
She visibly swallowed as she seemed to grasp what he was talking about.
‘You mean when you laid into me about how I’d supposedly flirted with the guy that was painting your parents’ house and I decided to finally confront you about why you hated me so much?’
‘Yes,’ he said, remembering how she’d stormed up to his room after him and hammered on the door until he’d been forced to let her in. How she’d shoved him hard in the chest in her anger, the force of it pushing him against the wall, and how something inside him had snapped and he’d grabbed her and kissed her hard, sliding his hands into her silky hair and plundering her mouth, wanting to show her what she did to him and how much he hated it.
That was what he’d actually hated: his inability to control his feelings for her.
But instead of pushing him away, she’d let out a deep breathy moan that he’d felt all the way down to his toes and kissed him back, just as fiercely.
It had been as if a dam had broken. They couldn’t get enough of each other’s touch. He’d thought in those seconds that he’d go crazy from the feel of her cool hands on him. He’d wanted her so much, he’d ached for her. Desperate to get closer, he’d tugged at the thin T-shirt she’d been wearing, yanking it over her head until they were skin to skin. It had electrified him. He’d never felt anything like it before. Or since.
Getting up from the armchair, he went over to the fireplace to prod at a piece of charred wood that had fallen out of the grate, feeling adrenaline buzz through his veins from the intense mix of emotions the memories had conjured up.
‘Jack? Are you okay?’ She looked worried now and he mentally shook himself, angry for letting himself think about the past, something he’d been fighting not to do. For so, so long now.
‘I’m fine,’ he said tersely.
She recoiled a little at his sharp tone, looking at him with an expression of such hurt and confusion he had a crazy urge to drag her into his arms and soothe her worries away.
Fighting past the inappropriate instinct, he went over to the window to peer through a crack in the drawn curtains at the world outside to try and distract himself. The press were still milling around the front of the house, chatting and smoking and laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
Vultures.
‘You know it won’t be long until they find out who I am,’ Emma said behind him. She’d walked over to where he was standing and as he turned to face her the sweet, familiar scent of her overwhelmed him, making his senses reel.
He struggled past it, taking a couple of paces away from her and folding his arms.
Obviously a little stung by his withdrawal, she frowned and mirrored his stance, crossing her own arms in front of her.
‘You’re right. We should go to see our parents right away. I don’t want to do it all over the phone—it’s too delicate a situation. I’ll call the car and we’ll go to Cambridgeshire to see my parents this afternoon, then we can both go and see your mother together when we get back to London. We owe them that consideration at least.’
As if the mere mention of them had conjured them up, Jack’s mobile rang and he glanced at the screen to see his parents’ home phone number flash up.
A heavy feeling sank through his gut. This didn’t bode well. His parents rarely contacted him unless they needed something from him.
He pressed to receive the call. ‘Father.’
‘Jack? What the hell’s going on? Apparently the press have got it into their heads that you’re married to some down-and-out waitress! I’ve had a number of them already call the house this morning asking us to comment on it. Please tell me this ludicrous bit of gossip is unfounded!’
Judging by the strain in his voice,
