Just One Last Night. HELEN BROOKSЧитать онлайн книгу.
Forde.
Frozen with horror, she stiffened, petrified Forde would open his eyes, but the steady measured vibration beneath her cheek didn’t pause, and after a moment she cautiously raised her head. He was fast asleep.
She disentangled herself slowly, pausing to look into his face. Her gaze took in the familiar planes and hollows, made much more boyish in slumber; the straight nose, high cheekbones, crooked mouth with its hint of sensuality even in repose, and the dark stubble on his chin. A very determined chin. Like the man himself.
How could she have been so unbelievably stupid as to sleep with him again? Her breath caught in her throat as her stomach twisted. And it was no good blaming the wine. She had wanted him last night; she had ached and yearned for him since the time they’d parted, more to the point.
But she didn’t need him, she told herself stonily. She had proved that; she had lived without him for seven months, hadn’t she? And she was getting by.
She had barely survived losing Matthew. She had wanted nothing more than to die, the grief and guilt crucifying. She didn’t ever want to be in a place where something like that could happen again. She wouldn’t be in such a place.
She slid carefully out of bed, the trembling that had started in the pit of her stomach spreading to her limbs. She had to get out of the house before Forde woke up. It was cowardly and mean and selfish, but she had to. She loved him too much to let him hope they could make a go of their marriage. It was over, dead, burnt into ashes with no chance of being resurrected. It had died the moment she’d begun to fall down those stairs.
But he would be hoping, a little voice in the back of her mind reminded her relentlessly as she gathered her clothes together as silently as a mouse. Of course he would. As mixed messages went, this one was the pièce de résistance.
Once in the kitchen she dressed swiftly, scared any moment there would be movement from upstairs. Then she wrote him a note, hating herself for the cruelty but knowing if she faced him this morning she would dissolve in floods of tears and the whole sorry mess would just escalate.
Forde, I don’t know how to put this except that I’m more sorry than I can say for behaving the way I did last night. It was all me, I know that, and it was inexcusable.
Melanie paused, her stomach in a giant knot as she considered her next words. But there was no kind way to say it.
I can’t do the together thing any more and that’s nothing to do with you as a person. Again, it’s all me, but it’s only fair to tell you my mind is made up about the divorce. I’ll still do the work for Isabelle if you want me to. Ring me about it tonight. But no more visits. That’s the first condition.
Again she hesitated. How did you finish a note like this? Especially after what they’d shared the night before.
Tears were burning at the backs of her eyes but she blinked them away determinedly. Then she wrote simply:
I hope at some time in the future you can forgive me. Nell
She owed him the intimacy of the nickname at least, she thought wretchedly, feeling lower than anything that might crawl out from under a stone. He had been attempting to comfort her last night when they’d first come into the house, and she had practically begged him to make love to her. She had instigated it all; she knew that.
Creeping upstairs, she placed the note on top of the clothes he’d discarded so frantically the night before but without looking at him again. She couldn’t bear to.
It was only when she was driving away from the house that the avalanche of tears she’d been holding at bay burst forth. She managed to find a lay-by that was hidden from the road by a row of trees once she’d entered it, and cut the engine.
Steeped in misery made all the worse by the remorse and self-condemnation she was feeling, she cried until there were no more tears left. Then she wiped her eyes and blew her nose and got out of the car to compose herself in the warm, fresh air. The chirping of the birds in their busy morning activities in the trees bordering the lay-by registered after a minute or two, and she raised her eyes, searching out a flock of sparrows who were making all the noise.
Life was so simple for them, for all the animal kingdom. It was only Homo sapiens, allegedly the superior species, who made things complex.
The fragrance of Forde still lingered on her skin, the taste of him on her lips. Hugging her arms about her, she recalled how it had felt to have him inside her again, taking her to heaven and back. Falling asleep with her head on his chest, close to the steady beat of his heart, had felt like coming home and had been as pleasurable as their lovemaking.
She straightened, her soft mouth setting. She wasn’t going to think about this. She was too early to arrive at the farmhouse where she and James would be working for the next week or so, but there was a café on the way that would be open. She’d go and buy herself breakfast.
The café only had one other occupant when she pushed open the door, a lorry driver who was reading his paper while he shovelled food into his mouth. After ordering a round of bacon sandwiches and a pot of tea, Melanie made her way to the ladies’ cloakroom, locking the door behind her. The small room held a somewhat ancient washbasin besides the lavatory, and she peered into the speckled mirror above it. She’d looped her hair into a ponytail before leaving the house but it was in dire need of attention. And she hadn’t showered or brushed her teeth.
Stripping off her clothes, she had a wash with the hard green soap, which was as ancient as the washbasin, before drying herself with several of the paper towels in the rusty dispenser. Dressing quickly, she brushed her hair and redid her ponytail before applying plenty of the sunscreen she always carried in her handbag. Brushing her teeth would have to wait.
She was about to leave the cloakroom when she glanced at herself in the mirror again and then drew closer, arrested by the look in her eyes. She blinked, unnerved by the haunting sadness. Was that what Forde had seen? Worse, was that why he had stayed and made love to her? He’d stated quite clearly that the only reason he had come to see her was to discuss the work he wanted her to undertake for Isabelle. Had he felt sorry for her? He had left her severely alone since the time she’d threatened to take out a restraining order; maybe he was seeing other women now?
Feeling emotionally sick, she left the cloakroom and went into the main part of the café. The lorry driver had left but a group of motorbike enthusiasts were clustered around three tables, talking and laughing. She saw them glance her way but, after one swift glance, kept her head down. Dressed in leathers and with tattoos covering most of their visible flesh, they were a little intimidating, as were the huge machines parked outside next to her beaten-up old truck.
The waitress brought her sandwich and tea immediately as she sat down. Aware her eyes were still puffy from the storm of weeping, Melanie forced down the food as quickly as she could and drank one cup of tea before standing up to leave. She had just reached the door when someone tapped her on the shoulder and she turned sharply to find a huge, bearded biker behind her.
‘Your bag, love,’ he said, holding out her handbag, which she realised she’d left on a chair, the keys to the car being in her pocket. And then, his eyes narrowing, he added, ‘You all right?’
‘Yes, yes, th-thank you,’ she stammered, feeling ridiculous.
‘You sure?’
His blue eyes were kind under great winged eyebrows, and, pulling herself together, Melanie managed a smile. ‘I’m fine, and thank you for noticing the bag,’ she said, silently acknowledging this was an apt lesson in not going by appearances.
He grinned. ‘I’m well trained, love. My girlfriend’s the same. Forget her head, she would, if it wasn’t screwed on.’
Once on the road again, Melanie gave herself a stern talking-to. The biker had asked if she was all right and the honest answer would have been no, she doubted if she would ever be what he termed ‘all right’ again, but that was nobody’s fault but her own. She should have known better than to marry Forde and