The Faithful Wife (6 page)

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Authors: Diana Hamilton

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Faithful Wife
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‘I'm so sorry, so sorry. Criminally...stupid...' The words were strung out, as if she hadn't the strength to say them but would, even if it was the last thing she ever did. ‘Stupid thing...to do.'
‘I said, don't talk,' he reiterated thickly, his throat tight. He rubbed the balls of his thumbs gently over the parchment-thin skin stretched over her cheekbones, then cradled her head between his hands and bent to touch his lips to hers, moving them slowly, softly, transmitting what he could of his warmth to her.
He felt the sweet movement of her cold lips beneath his—opening, receptive, stroking, growing warmer, much warmer now. His heart rate quickened, sending the blood pounding thickly through his veins, until the smothered whimper of pleasure that seemed to come from the depths of her being—sapping what little energy she had left—had him reluctantly moving his mouth from hers.
This wasn't the time, and it most decidedly wasn't the place.
‘Let's get you home,' he muttered, sweeping her into his arms. ‘Trust me, you'll soon be warm and dry.'
‘Jake—I can walk!'
‘Shut up,' he ordered smoothly, briefly touching his lips to her eyelids, closing the fatigue-bruised skin over those perfect, precious eyes. Then he lengthened his stride. The elements would have to do a damn sight better than this if they wanted to stop him taking her to safety!
He barely noticed the weather as he fought through the blizzard, and her slight weight was nothing. Immeasurable relief overrode everything else; aching muscles didn't get a look in.
At one point she seemed to fall asleep, nestled in his arms, her head tucked in beneath his chin. But she woke when he shouldered open the cottage door, momentarily cuddling closer into his body before murmuring, ‘Put me down, Jake. You must be exhausted.' She was deeply reluctant to leave the haven of his arms, to relinquish the closeness of the last hour when he'd found her, held her and kissed her and carried her back every step of the way. But his effort had been monumental and, strong though he was, every muscle had to be aching.
If only they could stay this close, scrub out the past and build on the future...
‘I've managed this far; a few more steps won't hurt me.'
There was no condemnation in his voice, just a gruff thread of something she couldn't put a name to, and she wound her arms around his neck as he carried her up to the bathroom with no apparent effort at all.
He slid her down his body to put her on her feet, and she did her best not to sway or wobble. Out there, when the storm had worsened, she'd been truly frightened. But her hero had come and brought her home.
He had always been her hero. Even when she couldn't understand him, had believed he'd never really loved her and had married her because he lusted after her, she'd never been able to topple him off the pedestal she'd created for him in her mind. Which was strange, considering everything.
Her throat tightened. There were things that had to be said. Now, in this softer, more receptive mood, surely he would listen?
He released his hold on her slowly, as if reassuring himself that she wouldn't fall in a wet and soggy heap, and bent to turn the bath taps on.
She reached out and touched his arm, and he straightened immediately at the slight contact, his breath bunching painfully in his lungs. Turning to her, his eyes narrowed with concern as he saw the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes.
‘I'm sorry, Jake—'
‘You're back now, no damage done,' he said quickly, his eyes sweeping her tense features. ‘Don't waste your breath apologising.'
‘I want to! Not just for taking off like that, but for everything else!' she cried, needing him to know how much she regretted what she'd done, needing him to understand why she'd done it. There had been too many thoughts left unspoken in the past, culminating in a total lack of communication. She should have tried harder to make him listen, make him understand. She could see that now.
‘Shh.' He placed two fingers against her lips, silencing her, clamping his jaw tightly as he felt her mouth tremble beneath the gentle pressure, and stamping on the near-desperate urge to kiss her senseless as her lids fluttered closed, colour stealing into her flawless skin.
He couldn't listen to her raking over the past, hear her apologising for the act of adultery, promising it would never happen again. ‘No post mortems,' he said thickly, taking his fingers from her mouth because touching her hadn't been one of his better ideas.
He tested the temperature of the water and turned off the taps. ‘What you need is a warm bath and a hot drink.' He unbuttoned her soggy coat and removed it, his hands brisk, impersonal, his movements economical. Then he bent to tackle the laces of her walking shoes.
Looking down at his dark head, his wet hair plastered to his skull, Bella bit back a groan as the breath snagged in her lungs, making her heart race. Willing her fingers not to reach out and touch—not yet—she curved them sharply into her palms.
Maybe in a moment she could make her move...ask him to share the bath with her...? If the signs were right... If she had the courage...
Out of those three years of their marriage they'd spent a total of one hundred and thirty-one days together. She knew the tally exactly. She'd kept a record.
But she'd done her best, for the first couple of years at least, to make the most of their time together. And they'd shared a bath on many memorable occasions. Highly memorable occasions...
Her heart felt as if it were about to explode in her chest, her body too narrow to contain such tumultuous emotions. They'd been so good together—sexually at least—their need, their physical generosity, dovetailing perfectly, their passion carrying each other ever higher, reaching unbelievable realms of rapture.
Surely that spectacular closeness couldn't all be lost? There had to be something left they could build on. There had to be!
She stood like a rag doll as he undressed her. She could manage for herself perfectly well, but wasn't about to tell him so. Her damp sweater disposed of, he hooked impersonal fingers beneath the waistband of her leggings and dragged them down over her slender hips.
Bella shuddered as molten fire pooled deep down inside her. She wanted him so; her entire body was on fire for him, transformed into a silent, desperate cry of need, a plea for his lovemaking—a cry he surely must hear deep inside him, an inner cry of such longing she could almost hear it throbbing on the air.
His eyes slid over her body, lingering, dark colour slashing his hard, prominent cheekbones. And she knew, even before she heard the harsh rasp of his breath, that her body's silent cry of need had reached him, touched him....
Instinctively her hands went out, small palms sliding against the darkly stubbled, hewn contours of his face, long and elegant fingers resting on his temples, feeling the violence of the pulse there.
Jake moved sharply back, as if stung by a horde of angry hornets, his eyes bleak and mouth compressed as he delivered tersely, ‘Shout if you need anything. I'll leave the door open.'
And he walked out on her, chilling indifference clearly stamped on the rigid lines of his broad back.
CHAPTER SIX
B
ACK in his room, Jake leaned against the closed door, teeth gritted, his head thrown back.
It had been a close call. Damn it, his body was still shaking. For several minutes his concern for her had been his salvation, helping him to strip her down as if he were a professional carer.
Only when she'd stood before him wearing nothing but those wicked wisps of lace that so lovingly cupped inviting, rosy-tipped breasts, and yet another scrap of lace-trimmed silk that covered...
He groaned, levering himself forward and shrugging out of his soaked jacket. He'd been doing fine until then. Just fine. But looking at her, remembering the passion and glory of their lovemaking, the meeting of their souls that had made them seem indivisible, had brought him to the point of reaching out for her, holding her, making her his again, and only his, for the rest of time.
But the smouldering, drowning invitation in her eyes when she'd slowly reached out and touched his face had brought him right back to his senses. Back with a hard, resounding crack.
Sex had been something she'd always been good at. Very good. As insatiable as he'd been himself where she was concerned.
So insatiable, indeed, she'd been hopping into bed with that wife-stealing, wife-cheating bastard Maclaine whenever he'd been away. While he'd been working his guts out for them both, determined to secure their future, she'd been playing around with the man who'd been her lover all those years ago.
He'd keep that firmly to the forefront of his mind. It was a cast-iron, rock-solid defence against whatever acts of sorcery she dreamed up next!
It would be masochistic madness to weave the fabric of his life with hers again, naively hoping she would stay faithful. He couldn't take the heartbreak and disillusionment a second time around.
He'd been short on trust ever since his father—the man he'd loved, respected and, above all, trusted—had committed that ultimate betrayal, taking his own life and leaving his family to make what they could of the financial mess he'd left behind.
 
When Bella walked down the stairs, reluctantly dressed in flowing black silk trousers topped by a sleekly narrow white linen jacket worn over a black body, she was perfectly in control.
Watching as he'd walked out of that bathroom, she'd been devastated, hardly able to believe he'd been turning his back on the possibility of a mutual admission that they still cared for each other.
Because for a little while they'd been close, she knew they had, both physically and mentally. Closer than they'd been for a long time before their marriage had finally broken up. She'd felt it in her bones, felt the blossoming of hope in the quiet certainty of her heart.
The briefly wonderful hope had been cruelly shattered when he'd walked out of the door. He'd fought the growing closeness because he didn't want it. So be it. She could handle it, couldn't she? What was that old saying? You could take a horse to water but you couldn't make it drink...
Getting through to him when his mind was made up was impossible. She remembered now exactly when that fact of life had finally hit home...
 
Bella let herself into the Docklands apartment and thanked heaven for the central heating. The late-January evening was bitterly cold.
She removed her suit jacket and kicked off her shoes. And smiled. She'd been doing a lot of that just lately—smiling. Ever since Guy had made that proposition, given her existence a meaning that had been strangely absent during the two years and one month of her largely solitary marriage, she'd been feeling euphoric.
Dear, darling Guy!
They'd been heavily involved all day, and she felt pleasantly tired and thankful that she wasn't hungry because she had nothing in. Life had been too hectic since Guy had put forward his tempting offer to spare time for boring things like food shopping!
Deciding to listen to music, open a bottle of wine and come down from the high she now seemed permanently on, before getting an early night, she frowned as the phone in the living room shrilled out.
But it could be Guy. She lifted the receiver expectantly and Jake said, ‘I'm at Heathrow. Can you fetch me, or shall I hire a car?'
He sounded desperately tired. ‘I'm on my way,' she said quickly, her brows drawing together. He never flew in unexpectedly; he always let her know when he'd be home. She hoped there was nothing wrong.
‘You work too hard,' she chided when she eventually drove them from the airport car park. He looked exhausted. ‘Is there anything wrong?'
‘Nothing that a few days of your home cooking and tender ministrations won't cure!' For a moment the teasing, sultry note was back in his voice, the slow smile he turned on her wiping the exhaustion from his face for a fleeting fraction of time.
Bella bit down on her lower lip, and concentrated fiercely on her driving. Now wasn't the right time to tell him she wouldn't be around. She could hardly let Guy down at this early stage of their renewed relationship.
Questions about his latest business trip elicited perfunctory answers, but the gist was that it had been highly satisfactory so she stopped asking and told herself he had obviously worked himself to a near standstill. She enquired instead, ‘Are you hungry?'
‘Ravenous.'
‘Then we'll find a restaurant; I'm low on provisions. OK?'
‘Fine. Somewhere low-key. Food, then bed. With you. Those are my priorities.'
Something in his voice told her that food came a very definite second on his list of two. Her whole body quivered. Their lovemaking was always spectacular, but his first night home after an absence that often stretched to weeks was sublime.
Without thinking—although later she was to wonder if it had been an unconscious wish to push the truth under his nose—she chose the small Italian restaurant in Canning Town where Guy had given her lunch and put his proposition to her. He often ate there, mostly in the evenings. His wife was again on a protracted visit to her parents, and as head of a thriving advertising agency he worked his socks off and couldn't face having to make himself a meal.
Not smart, the tiny restaurant was warm and friendly, the aroma of cooking appetising. They chose simply—pasta with spicy vegetables and a carafe of gutsy red wine.
Jake ate as if he were starving, as if he needed the wholesome, hot food, and the light was back in his eyes as he took her hand across the table and told her, ‘I've missed you, Bel. Know something? You get more beautiful every time I see you. And know something else? I think I've made a decision—'
‘Ah—the lovely Bella!' Whatever Jake had been about to tell her was cut short by the theatrical emergence of the proprietor from the kitchen. Carlo, Guy had introduced him over lunch that day. He had shiny black hair and a very big smile, and a tea-towel tied around his ample waist, tucked into his trousers at the back.
‘You come again! My good friend Guy brings often new customers—people who want no frills, just good Italian food, home cooked. I tell him he has good taste—especially in his choice of so beautiful a companion!'
Bella felt something happen to her spine. Something like an army of ants scurrying up and down wearing needles of ice on their feet! Big on friendliness Carlo might be, but he was lamentably short on tact. He was seemingly oblivious to the black hostility in Jake's eyes as he beamingly asked, ‘Is everything OK?
Dolce,
maybe?'
‘Nothing.' Jake's reply was terse, his eyes hard as when they were alone again, he turned them on Bella's suddenly white face, raking them over her features as if he was trying to read what was going on in her mind. ‘You come here often? You and Maclaine?'
‘No, of course not.' The Italian had made it sound that way, but she'd only been here that one time. She twisted her napkin in her fingers. She was going to have to tell him now, and he wouldn't be pleased! In the past, whenever she'd mentioned Guy's name, Jake had changed the subject. He must have guessed, or heard, something about their former relationship. He was very possessive. ‘I had lunch here with him. Once.'
It was then, precisely then, that he withdrew from her—quite possibly from their marriage. It was the beginning of the end, although she didn't know that then. She saw suspicion in his eyes, and did her best to counter it.
‘I need to do something with my life, Jake. Can't you see that? Guy's offered me work; I've taken it.'
‘Is that what you call it?'
Was he referring to her former modelling career? She knew he'd been happy when she'd given it up. As he'd said at the time, only half-jokingly, she suspected, he didn't like every Tom, Dick and Harry lusting after his much photographed wife.
Or did he mean something much darker?
‘Jake, listen—' Her voice shook with the intensity of her need to make him hear her out, understand. ‘This job, it's—'
‘Leave it.' He was slapping banknotes down to cover the bill. ‘If you want to work, go ahead. I wouldn't dream of asking you not to. If being my wife isn't “doing something with your life” then who am I to argue?'
He sounded indifferent.
He slept in the spare room that night, exhaustion his thin excuse. And over the following months he spent even more time away, and, when home with her, carefully avoided any mention of her job. And she, in turn, closed in on herself. Lack of communication became almost an art form...
 
Now the aroma of fresh coffee teased her nostrils as she walked through the kitchen. She ignored it, just as she made herself ignore the weakening effects of the past traumatic hours.
She'd used every last bit of her former expertise when she'd made herself up to match the clothes Evie's skulduggery had forced her to wear, carefully hiding her pallor and the lines of strain around her eyes. She needed confidence, control; she couldn't emerge from this nightmare with her self-respect intact without both held firmly in her hands.
She could hear him moving around in the living room. She took a deep breath, forced a serene expression and walked through.
Her eyes immediately went to him, lingering, drinking him in, as if her brain had no say in the matter. Changed into loose black denims topped by a rib-hugging black cashmere sweater, he should have looked menacing, intimidating. But he didn't. He looked heart-twistingly sexy.
She only had to look at him to experience the scorching, ravaging flames of desire, feel them wreaking their fiery onslaught through every tingling cell in her body. She dragged in a shuddery breath and prayed her inner turmoil didn't show.
He returned her riveted gaze with a slow, brooding appraisal, black eyes indolently skimming every line of her tautly held body as if he were stripping away the unlikely, elegant garments to the warm, suddenly trembling flesh beneath. And the air in the cosy little room became wildly over-heated, sizzling with churning sexual awareness.
Until he spoke, his cool, sardonic tone cutting through the atmosphere, one dark brow lifting upwards. ‘I see you brought your designer labels along. Perfect choice for a winter break in the wilds of Wales.'
His sarcasm chilled her. ‘Evie made a furtive last-minute substitution.' He wouldn't believe her. He wouldn't believe her if she said roses had thorns. And the twist of his long mouth told her she was correct in that assumption.
‘You're slipping, Bella.' Glittering black eyes taunted her cruelly. ‘You used to be such a good liar. Through three years of marriage you had me believing you were a faithful wife.'
Now, surely, was the time to put that right, to tell him that the fault was his, that she would never have left him if he had given her what she most needed, to explain exactly what that was.
‘We need to discuss this,' she told him, her black-lashed, water-clear eyes huge with entreaty.
But he shook his head, frowning sharply. ‘There's nothing to discuss—except how we're going to get through the next few days. It is Christmas, remember?'
He bent to tend the fledgling fire, and Bella swallowed the lump in her throat. Nothing to discuss. Their past, present and future relationship was too unimportant to waste breath on.
And of course she knew it was Christmas; she didn't need reminding.
It had become such a very special time of year for her, more than ordinarily so. Their whirlwind romance, followed by a Christmas Eve wedding. The first few days of their rapturous honeymoon spent in a quiet, rambling sixteenth-century inn tucked away in the Cotswolds. All the festive trimmings—roaring log fires, red-berried holly, even a light flurry of snow. Carol-singers, young voices crystal-clear in the frosty air, sparkly days and long nights filled with love and laughter. And talking.
Oh, how she'd talked, spilling out hopes she had never shared with anyone before. Hopes that had never been fulfilled.

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