a relative, you see. Just—just a concerned friend.’
‘Really?’ Oliver Morelli frowned. ‘Don’t you own one of the businesses in South Road?’
‘Well, yes—’
‘Oh, dear.’ Oliver grimaced. ‘I seem to remember that Luke told me the tenants had organised a petition against that development. I’m sure he could do without any more stress now.’
‘I had nothing to do with the petition,’ said Abby defensively. ‘And I’m certainly not here because Luke plans to develop the site where my café stands.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Oh, well, I suppose that’s something,’ he said. And then, rather sadly, ‘I doubt if Luke even remembers the development at present. I must go and speak to his doctor. Marsden said he might have some news for me today.’
Abby caught her breath. ‘Could I come with you?’
Oliver Morelli looked doubtful, and she was sure he was about to refuse.
But then his expression changed. ‘Well, he did ask for you again, on the one occasion he regained consciousness,’ he admitted, shocking her completely. ‘You didn’t know that?’ This because she swayed on her feet and he reached out to save her. ‘Oh, yes, yours was the first name on his lips when he opened his eyes.’
He helped her regain her balance, and then added ruefully, ‘Unfortunately, he lost consciousness again soon after.’
THE SUITE OF rooms Luke was occupying was as tastefully furnished as the rest of the house.
The sitting area was large, with lots of flowers decorating every surface. Abby guessed they were from well-wishers, and wished she’d thought to bring some flowers herself.
She’d stopped to admire them when Mrs Webb indicated she should go through to the room beyond.
‘I’ll fetch some tea in a little while,’ she said. ‘You go ahead now. Luke’s waiting for you.’
The room that opened off the sitting area was Luke’s bedroom. And it was much more austerely furnished. Although it was just as spacious in size, the quilted spread and curtains were a subtle bronze in colour, and there were few paintings on the silk-hung pale green walls.
There were no flowers here, just a huge Turkish rug that covered most of the floor, its many vivid colours adding opulence to what was otherwise a fairly spartan room.
Abby thought at first that Mrs Webb had made a mistake; that Luke wasn’t in the room. Although the huge bed had evidently been slept in, there was no sign of its occupant.
And then she saw him, sitting on the window seat. She saw bare feet below loose-fitting drawstring sweat pants, a tight-fitting black tee, and one bare foot propped casually on the sill beside him.
He looked pale, and much thinner than he’d been before the accident. But he still possessed that almost indefinable magnetism that not even the puckered scar, angling down his cheek from just below his eye, could dispel.
She could see the bulge of padding from the bandages that encased his leg and upper thigh beneath the soft fabric of his sweat pants. One forearm, too, was covered with a dressing, which it hadn’t been so easy to disguise.
She knew there’d been internal injuries—for one thing, his father had told her, they’d had to remove his spleen. There’d been a couple of broken ribs, one of which had punctured a lung. But, according to his surgeon, he was definitely on the mend.
There was no sign of his father now, however, but Felix, who had apparently been keeping Luke company, grinned when she came into the room.
‘Yo, Abby,’ he said good-humouredly, and Luke turned to give him a warning look.
‘You can leave us,’ Luke said as Abby hovered in the doorway. ‘I’ll give you a call if I need anything.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Felix offered a mocking salute and, after waiting until Abby had moved further into the room, he made his exit.
The door swung closed behind him, and the sudden intimacy that created caused Abby’s stomach to tighten in anticipation.
But when Luke didn’t immediately say anything, she felt obliged to speak. ‘Hi,’ she murmured inadequately, smoothing her palms over the slight swell of her stomach. She was wearing a pleated tunic over black leggings today, but they couldn’t hide her growing bulge. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘Yeah.’ Luke didn’t sound as if he believed her. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up?’
‘Of course.’ Abby caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘You must be glad to be home. How are you feeling?’
Luke’s mouth tightened. ‘How do I look?’
‘Um—good. You look good. Better than the last time I saw you, anyway.’
‘Which wouldn’t be difficult,’ said Luke drily. ‘Tell me, how did I look when I was in a coma? Judging by the way I look now, I wouldn’t be surprised if that nausea you said you’d been suffering from returned.’
So he did remember the baby. Abby had wondered.
Her lips tightened now. ‘That’s not funny, Luke.’
‘Did I say it was funny?’ He arched a brow. ‘Believe me, it’s not funny at all.’ He paused. ‘But you didn’t answer my question. Or are you too polite to say?’
‘I couldn’t see much of you in the hospital,’ said Abby defensively. ‘You were covered in bandages. How you looked was the least of my worries.’
Luke grimaced. ‘Why don’t I believe you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Abby straightened her spine. ‘In any case, it’s the truth.’
His father had warned her to expect this. That since Luke had been allowed to come home from hospital, he’d become morose and argumentative.
Although he was supposed to be resting, he was apparently spending every morning on the computer, or haranguing his staff at Jacob’s Tower. He avoided visitors. All he seemed interested in was work.
The fact that he’d had some success both on the futures market and in other, riskier, investments hadn’t improved his mood. It was as if he was trying to prove to himself—and to other people—that his injuries hadn’t impaired his business brain.
Or that was Oliver Morelli’s interpretation, anyway.
Obviously, Luke despised his weakness. And he apparently didn’t believe that his facial scars would fade. He’d told his father that he resembled a gargoyle, which Abby could see for herself was far from the truth.
She sighed, aware that he was watching her, gauging her reaction to his appearance. And, okay,
