A Cure For Love. PENNY JORDANЧитать онлайн книгу.
her; there was very little chance of her running into him a second time.
Perhaps not, but she knew it was that brief, shocking sight of him which was responsible for today’s introspective mood, for the shadows that showed in her eyes and skin, for the pain that lurked within her, waiting for her to relax her guard.
She gave a tiny shiver as she let herself out of the house. She had things to do, a life to live, and she had promised little Michael that she would call round to see him later on this afternoon.
If she had one secret regret it was that she had not had more children. There was something so special, so magical and humbling about the knowledge that the physical expression of one’s love had led to the creation of a child…
She got into her car and started the engine. It was high time she put those kinds of thoughts very firmly behind her, and yet, as Jessica had reminded her, at thirty-eight she was still young enough to have another child.
Another child…Her hands gripped the steering-wheel. First she would have to find herself a lover…a lover, not a potential father for her unborn child. A lover—the very last thing she wanted or needed in her life. What on earth was the matter with her? Was it just her conversation with Jessica which was having such an unsettling effect on her, or was it something more than that…something to do with that disturbing sighting of Lewis…with her dreams…the emotions…the needs that continued to haunt her, no matter how much she tried to deny them?
She knew it was only because Lewis had been her only lover that those embarrassing and erotic dreams that sometimes tormented her sleep should always portray him as her partner, and that in all reality their lovemaking had probably never really been quite as intense, as passionate, as fulfilling as her dreams suggested, and yet she also knew that it was those same dreams that strengthened her unwillingness to allow another man into her life; that it was those dreams, those memories that prevented her from allowing herself to find a quieter, gentler, safer happiness with another man.
It was only when she reached the roundabout close to the hospital that she recognised with a guilty start that she had driven right across town so wrapped up in her thoughts that she wasn’t really aware of having done so.
It was exactly two o’clock as she walked into the hospital and told the smiling receptionist that she had an appointment with Dr Hanson.
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Robinson. I’ll just let him know that you’re here.’
Over the years Lacey had grown accustomed to people mistakenly addressing her as Mrs Robinson. Her reversion to her maiden name had been an instinctive gesture of revulsion against retaining anything given to her by Lewis, and, although at first she had been quick to correct people and tell them that it was Miss Robinson, these days she had ceased to bother. Correction tended to disconcert or confuse them more than their mistake concerned her.
She turned away while the girl used the intercom, and then turned back to the desk when she heard her saying, ‘If you’d just like to go down to Dr Hanson’s office…’
Having thanked her and confirmed that she knew the way, Lacey set off down the corridor.
She had to pass the maternity ward on the way to Ian’s office, and through the open doors she heard the mewling cry of the new born. Her insides clenched on that familiar, never forgotten mixture of anxiety and love. It didn’t seem possible that it was over nineteen years since Jessica’s birth. She remembered how thrilled she had been when they had told her that she had a daughter, how proud…how…how elated almost, and then later had come the panic, the depression, the tears, and the miserable desolation of knowing that she was alone in her joy, that for her there was no partner to share in the happiness of their child’s birth.
The nurses had been wonderful, and luckily she had overcome her depression.
She realised that she had stopped outside the ward. Sighing to herself, she shook her head and forced herself to continue down the corridor.
The door to Ian’s office was closed. She knocked briefly on it out of politeness and then opened it and walked in.
She had expected to find Ian on his own, but it wasn’t the shock of realisation that someone else was with him that stopped her in her tracks; it was the discovery that the other man in his office was none other than Lewis.
Lewis…here in Ian’s office. Her whole body felt heavy and cumbersome, unable to respond to the sluggish commands of her brain, and yet at the same time her stomach was churning, her metabolism racing so frantically out of control that she was afraid she might literally be sick where she stood.
Ian, apparently oblivious to her shocked distress, was smiling at her, coming over to stand beside her and put a friendly arm around her shoulders as he said warmly, ‘Lewis, I’d like you to meet a very good friend of mine: Lacey Robinson. Lacey has been the main motivator behind the appeal. She’s worked far harder than the rest of us put together.’
Ian gave her a fond smile.
‘Did Jessica get off all right this morning? A pity that she couldn’t stay on a bit longer. Still, it’s her first year and she won’t want to miss out on any of her tutorials. Jessica is Lacey’s daughter,’ Lacey heard him explaining to Lewis. ‘I must admit I still find it hart to believe that Lacey is the mother of a university student.’
Lacey could feel her face beginning to burn with a mixture of shock and anxiety. She couldn’t bring herself to look at her exhusband…couldn’t endure the contempt and disinterest she knew would be in his eyes. She knew that Ian was only meaning to flatter her, that he genuinely did believe she looked much younger than her thirty-eight years; that he genuinely did find it difficult to believe that she was Jessica’s mother; but that didn’t stop her from feeling hideously embarrassed as though she were one of those women who made a point of telling everyone within earshot that she had been a child bride, and that they and their daughters were more like sisters really. That kind of thing had always made her squirm and feel acutely sorry for the poor unfortunate daughters, who in some way were almost never allowed to grow up to maturity, who always seemed to be held back by their mothers’ determinedly clutching on to ‘youth’, who were never quite as pretty or as popular as their mothers had been at their age—and yet stubbornly she refused to open her mouth and make any disclaimer. After all, why should she feel any need to justify herself in any way to Lewis?
She could see him just within the periphery of her vision. He was standing in the shadows of the room, his head slightly averted, as though he didn’t want to look at her, to acknowledge her.
His hair, she realised, was still as dark as it had always been, untouched by grey and apparently as thick and vibrant as ever. She remembered how she had loved to touch it, to feel the soft springiness of its curl beneath her fingertips, envying him that natural characteristic which had been denied her. And yet he, it seemed, had been equally fascinated by the soft sleek fall of her own straight locks, praising their silkiness, saying her hair was fluid and warm like sun-stroked water. When they made love he had liked the sensation of her hair against his skin…against his body. He had coaxed her to rub herself against him like a small sleek cat, and the sound he had made in his throat when she did so had not been unlike the rusty purr of some jungle animal.
He had taught her so many things about both his sexuality and her own; not just in terms of the physical act of union, but also of the wide variety of small intimate pleasures that could arise from the lightest, most delicate, and sometimes often unexpected kind of touch. He had been both gentle and passionate, demanding and patient. He had been the best of lovers, and the worst of husbands.
She started to shiver suddenly as her body caved in under the pressure of her shock. Lewis still hadn’t looked at her properly nor she at him and yet she had recalled faultlessly and unwantedly the sensation of his hands against her skin, coaxing, stroking, loving…hands which she now saw were bunched into hard, tense fists.
He moved abruptly, flexing his fingers, a gesture unfamiliar to her and which, being unfamiliar, should have released her from her bondage to her unwanted memories; but instead it eroded her self-discipline, and anguish