For the Babies' Sakes (Expecting) (Harlequin Presents, No. 2280) (5 page)

‘Why don't you admit you've been having an affair,' she said shakily, ‘and we can go on from there?'

‘Because I haven't! I
wouldn't
!' he seethed, beginning to stride up and down. ‘It's the last thing on earth I'd do. You don't really know me at all, do you?'

‘No. I don't,' she agreed unhappily, stunned by his air of deep injury.

His shoulders slumped. ‘Well, that's crystal-clear. You can't have any idea how much you disappoint me.'

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish coming up for air. ‘
I
disappoint
you
? How arrogant can you get? You're in the wrong, Dan, and yet you won't unbend your stupid pride and confess! Instead, you come up with a story so weak that it's laughable! I don't believe any part of it!'

‘You must!' he warned. ‘Or we're finished.'

How dared he issue an ultimatum? Stifling an urge to cry, she fixed him with a steely gaze.

‘I'd like to be alone. You'd better use the guest bedroom tonight. Unless, of course,' she added bitterly, her heart one huge ache, ‘you prefer to stay at Celine's.'

Dan's mouth tightened into a thin line of anger. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,' he muttered scathingly, collecting up fresh clothes with feverish haste. ‘Nice to know how highly you rate my moral values and my commitment to this marriage.'

Bristling with wounded pride, he spun on his heel and
headed for the door, the ferocity and speed of his stride leaving her in no doubt as to his mood.

After a short while she heard the front door bang, the sound of his car starting up and being wrenched violently into gear. The shriek of wheels spinning on mud. And then a hostile silence.

That was it, she thought bleakly, shocked by the cold reality of his departure. They were enemies now. The end.

T
O
H
ELEN'S
surprise she didn't burst into tears. Perhaps, she thought morosely, that was because her brain had turned to stone and it was incapable of thought any more.

Staying in bed was impossible. Her own restlessness was driving her mad. Desperate to do something, she got up and put on one of Dan's T-shirts and a pair of his walking socks.

They were her comfort clothes, she supposed. She'd often wear them on a Sunday when she allowed herself a precious few hours of leisure.

Perhaps she'd do some housework. Despite not feeling very well, she was too angry to sit still. Cleaning would pass the time and use up some of her suppressed anger as she imposed her will on the hated farmhouse. So she gathered up some cleaning equipment and set to work.

In an odd way, she almost enjoyed the activity, and felt grimly satisfied to see that Dan's study curtains quivered in subdued terror after she'd whacked the dust from them with a table-tennis bat.

‘Be afraid,' she muttered, glowering at the rest of his room. ‘Be very afraid!' And she cleaned it within an inch of its life.

All of the rooms had borne a sad and neglected air when she'd started. Housework had never been high on her list of priorities because the builders and plasterers kept ruining her efforts.

But by the time she'd polished and dusted and hoovered everything with manic attention to detail, the spiders had
fled in shock and each habitable room hummed with the energy she'd expended.

The house almost looked homely, she mused grudgingly and pretended not to notice the deep sob which lurched up from nowhere into her throat.

It was only when she'd cleared rubble and plaster from the builders' latest extension project—ironically the nursery-to-be—that she paused for breath, remembered where she was and suddenly found herself convulsed with weeping.

That was it. She spent a chilly hour in the nursery hunched up in the dust, mournfully twisting the knife into herself by gazing at the place where she'd planned to put the cot and its precious occupant.

The floodgates opened. Her burst of displacement activity was over. Almost too blurred to see through the curtain of tears, she dispiritedly made herself a fresh hot-water bottle and dragged herself up to bed.

Eventually her howling turned to intermittent sobbing and she found herself listening for Dan's car, every sound outside rocketing her hopes up to a peak of anticipation, only for disappointment to follow. Dan didn't come back at all. In her heart of hearts she knew he wouldn't, not with Celine panting eagerly on the sidelines.

Most of the night she spent awake, morbidly cuddling his pillow, reflecting that she'd never been really unhappy before. Unlike Dan, she'd had a childhood unblemished by tragedy or trauma. Her parents—now enjoying life in the Californian sun—adored her. She'd been popular at school and clever enough not to worry about exams.

This feeling of deep misery was totally alien. For the first time she understood what it was like to be unhappy and to lose a person you loved. It was frightening, she mused, to surrender your whole self to someone and to
have that commitment flung back in your face as if it were worthless.

She felt as if he'd crushed her. Trampled on her dreams, knocked the confidence out of her. He'd chosen someone else, effectively telling her that she wasn't good enough. So her self-esteem was at an all-time low.

Wearily she crawled out of bed the next morning and rang in sick. All through the day she continued her onslaught on the house, with frequent breaks for a crying fit whenever she came across something that reminded her of Dan. Which was often. Yet she slogged on with dogged determination.

She still felt sick but she was learning to ignore that. The house needed to be in good shape if it was going to be photographed and put on the market. Tomorrow she'd speak to her solicitor. At the moment she couldn't be sure she wouldn't bawl down the phone. She had her dignity, after all.

Dusk was now falling. She'd been working since dawn, clad as before in Dan's big T-shirt and the cosy socks.

A sudden dizziness made her clutch at the table in the hall that she was polishing. The duster floated to the floor and she stared vacantly into space, weak from her stomach bug, from exhaustion and lack of food.

An eerie silence descended on the house, almost suffocating her. The loneliness of her situation hit her like a ton of bricks and a sense of hopelessness weighted her down. She was a reject.

Her eyes widened in shock at how deeply Dan had wounded her confidence.

‘I'm fabulous!' she told herself with a sniff. ‘A catch for any man.'

She wasn't convinced. Desperate to feel better about herself, she found her way to the wine rack in the farmhouse kitchen and poured herself a modest measure. Red
wine was good for you, full of iron and things, she thought vaguely. She relaxed a little as the liquid wound its way down to her stomach and calmed it.

But she couldn't shut out the thoughts of Dan that were now crowding her mind, taunting her, slicing her heart with ruthless precision. So she finished her drink, intending to have another, thinking it might be a good anaesthetic.

Better, she mused, after a sip or two. She might even be able to sleep now. Her head felt muzzy and she dimly realised that she hadn't eaten at all that day. Stupid. No more for her! Time she got horizontal and in bed before she fell over.

With a sigh, she was about to turn around when she felt the hair prickling on the back of her neck as if she was being watched. Very slowly she checked over her shoulder—and her hand went to her pounding heart in relief.

‘Dan!' Hastily she turned off the automatically joyous light in her eyes and fashioned her face into a more appropriate scowl. ‘I didn't hear you come in.'

How achingly desirable he looked. An appealing mixture of sleek-suited executive, and open-collared, sexily askew-tie lover. Someone else's lover, she reminded herself painfully.

And here she was, looking sickly, plain and horribly scruffy in a T-shirt and socks. Crossly she wished she'd been draped in something diaphanous and utterly alluring. She yanked the T-shirt straight and wished she hadn't because it bounced a bit, drawing Dan's piercing gaze to her naked thighs.

‘How are you?' he asked, as stiff and uncompromising as if his jaw had been turned to granite.

Her head whirled with the effort of thinking.

‘Yukky.'

‘There's a smell of polish.'

‘Diversionary tactic.'

She frowned. Had those words come out right? She'd had to say them very slowly.

‘I see.' He licked his lips with the very tip of his tongue, his eyes oddly heavy as he contemplated her. ‘I think I could do with a drink,' he muttered.

Loose-limbed and worryingly woozy, she lurched over to reach up for a glass, pushing it and the bottle along the counter top. Dan was far too close, giving off an enticing scent of maleness that made her sway nearer in an attempt to mark that scent in her memory for ever.

‘You're back from work early,' she observed, trying not to sound slurred.

Dan nodded curtly. He had no intention of telling her that he hadn't been to work at all, that his entire day had been spent coming to terms with the fact that Helen was like all the others. Not to be entrusted with his feelings.

‘Came back to pack some of my stuff,' he replied.

Good. That was virtually emotionless.

His eyes hungered for her, though. She was rosy-cheeked, her gaze languid from the wine. He wondered how much she'd drunk. Her hair had been screwed back in a pony-tail. It looked cute. He liked seeing her face without make-up. Her mouth was naturally red, the upper lip so arched that it made him ache to kiss it.

The T-shirt showed too much of her incomparably long and slender legs. And when she had turned her back to reach for the glass, he'd had an eyeful of the tantalising first curves of two rounded buttocks.

‘You're off, then,' she commented with slow care.

‘Uh-huh.' He sipped thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed.

It gave him a sexual kick to see her wearing his top. It hung loosely, moulding to her beautiful breasts. Hazarding a guess, he'd say that she wore nothing underneath at all.
But she was taboo now. Still his wife, but only because a piece of paper said so.

A sourness filled his mouth and he drained his glass to mask the taste.

‘You look a bit better,' he said, baffled as to why he was indulging in this ludicrous conversation instead of escaping unharmed.

She gave a short ‘Huh!' and squinted ruefully down at herself. Her arm described a rather uncontrolled arc in the air before falling to her side. ‘Let's be honest. I look a mess.'

There was an awkward pause. Unable to think of anything original to say—or even anything banal—he reached for the bottle just as she did, their hands meeting…and lingering for an electrifying moment.

Oh, hell, he thought, his guts melting. He wanted her.

‘After you,' he said, dredging up a grunt.

Her hand was shaking. She slopped wine all over the counter. Blushing beautifully, she reached across to grab a cloth, her mouth so sweetly parted over her even white teeth that he couldn't bear it any longer.

His hand descended on her bare arm. Warm flesh seemed to fuse with his.

‘Let me,' he said in a ridiculous husk.

He cleared his throat, hoping she'd imagine he had a cold. Presumably he ought to let go of her. Reluctantly he did so. When he mopped up the wine with an air of concentration, she didn't move back but stayed to tantalise him with enticing drifts of warm woman, polish and soap.

‘So,' he said stupidly, bemused by the electrification of his entire nervous system.

This hadn't happened for weeks. Bit late now. He filled her glass and then his for want of something better to do.

‘Yes?'

Her voice had quavered. Her lower lip was trembling
and all he could think of was the way it would feel when he took it in his mouth. Fleshy. Yielding. With an inner groan, he took a swig of wine and struggled to add something to the ‘so'.

‘Uh…I'll go and pack.'

He'd had to drag the words out. What he wanted was to stay here and gaze at her. No. To hold her. Slide his hands beneath the cotton fabric and feel the yielding of her fabulous body. Slowly, thoroughly, make mad, passionate love to her…

‘Right.'

Her lashes lay darkly on her cheeks as she took small sips from the glass. There was a softness to her face that he hadn't noticed before—she'd always been thin, with fantastic cheekbones, but now she positively glowed. He liked the way she looked. Womanly. Inviting.

A spasm sucked at his loins. ‘Just finish my wine, then.'

He heard the bright, polite and meaningless rubbish he was uttering and tightened his mouth in exasperation. Why couldn't he tell her, show her, how he felt?

He knew the answer to that. In a word: self-preservation. All his life he'd protected himself from others. He'd made an exception in Helen's case, believing she'd never let him down, that they'd be together for ever. Big mistake.

‘There's stuff of yours in the tumble-drier,' she said.

Graceful as ever, she put her glass down with exaggerated care and physically pointed herself at the utility room.

It was then that he knew she was a bit squiffy. And it only took a slight and wicked adjustment of his balance for her to blunder into him.

‘Oh, whoops!' she gurgled in surprise.

His hands eagerly went out to steady her.
What was he doing?

‘Sorry. My fault,' he said, releasing her with a supreme act of will.

‘No. Mine.'

Definitely slurred. She didn't move. There was something painfully forlorn about her whole attitude. Without another thought in his head, he took her in his arms and drew her close, just holding her to his chest.

It was natural that she'd be upset and lost. They'd known each other since she was fourteen. Parting would be…

He stopped thinking about it. It hurt too much.

‘You'll be OK,' he assured her curtly.

She was tough. Sailed through life with her amusing quips that made him laugh like a drain and a swift application of her sharp brain that impressed him like hell. God, he'd envied her. Nothing had ever scarred her. Nobody had ever made her feel she was unwanted or a waste of space.

Total self-assurance ran through to her very core. She'd soon be snapped up by someone else…

No!

In a violent blur of anger and lurching emotion, he roughly tipped up her chin and kissed her fiercely on her open lips, pulling her against his painfully aroused body.

He felt her shock, the deep shudder that ran through her. Loath to hang around where he wasn't wanted, he was about to release her when he felt her hands slide up his chest and lodge awkwardly in the gaps between his shirt buttons. One of her favourite moves.

Soon she'd tease the buttons free and nuzzle him with her nose and mouth, teeth and tongue. A jerk of longing arced through his body. Knowing he was mad to play with fire, he groaned and let his kiss become slower, gentler, more exploratory.

His intention then was to step away and say farewell, but the road to Hell was paved with intentions, wasn't it?

Because she wasn't having any of this friendly goodbye. It seemed she wanted fire and passion because her mouth drove hard into his and her hands were pulling at his clothes frenetically.

Something snapped inside him. In a blind fog he gently lifted her onto the counter top, one hand hooked behind her head so that their mouths continued their bruising kisses and the other sliding up beneath her top to settle beneath one heavy breast.

His eyes closed in agonised bliss. As always, it felt incredibly voluptuous, swollen and hot. He had to get her T-shirt off. Impatiently he dragged it up and let her take over.