An Insatiable Passion. Lynne GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
her to the very centre of her being had shown nakedly in his shadowed eyes before he had looked away.
‘What happened between us was very wrong. I wish to God I could wipe it out, but I can’t.’ His intonation had been low and precise, as if he had rehearsed the entire speech beforehand. ‘Your grandparents trusted me and I’ve broken that trust. I’ve got no excuse. I’m five years older and wiser and I should never have touched you.’
‘If you love me, it—’
‘But that’s just the point. I don’t love you in the way a man loves a woman. I care for you deeply as a friend…as a kid sister, if you like,’ he had forced out in harsh interruption.
‘I love you,’ she had whispered, not even able to absorb what he was telling her. It hadn’t seemed real. Nightmares had that quality.
‘It’s an infatuation and it will die,’ he had overruled fiercely. ‘Last night was a mistake, Kitty. I was drunk. That doesn’t excuse me, but that’s the only reason it happened. It wasn’t your fault, it was mine.’ He had stopped to clear his throat. ‘If there should be consequences…’
‘Consequences?’ she had repeated blankly.
‘If you prove to be pregnant,’ he had grated hoarsely, ‘I’ll stand by you, I’ll deal with your grandparents. But I won’t marry you. A marriage between us wouldn’t work. The risk of pregnancy isn’t that great, but if it should happen I promise you that I’ll look after everything. However, the pregnancy will have to be terminated,’ he had concluded harshly.
Three weeks later he had come to her with haunted eyes and gaunt cheekbones. ‘Thank God,’ he had muttered rawly, let off the hook.
He had married Liz quietly in London, the ceremony unattended by any of his family.
They said hearts didn’t break. Kitty’s had. The news of his marriage had shocked everybody, but it had devastated her. It was one thing to humbly accept that he didn’t love her, another thing entirely to accept that he could love and marry someone else. She had lost so much more than a lover. He had been closer to her than her own family. He had been her only real friend. And he had dropped her like a hot potato, retreating with appalled speed from the trap he had seen opening up in front of him. For him that night really had been a disastrous mistake.
He could have let her down more gently. She was convinced Liz hadn’t been in the background then. His own family had known nothing whatsoever about her. But what embittered Kitty most of all was his refusal to admit that he had ever wanted her. A man didn’t make love to a female firmly fixed in his mind as an extra sister. Then, had he employed any other excuse, she might still have harboured hopes. And Jake had been determined to kill even her hopes stone-dead.
Other later memories intruded and she struggled fiercely to close them out…only it didn’t work. She had lied to him when she had told him that she wasn’t expecting his child. Of course she had lied. He had given her no other choice. And ironically, in the end, that lie hadn’t made any difference. A few months later, she had had a miscarriage. Nature’s way, the doctor had said bracingly. For a long time afterwards she had suspected that, had she enjoyed proper medical attention during those crucial early weeks of pregnancy, the outcome might have been very different. She had grieved deeply for that loss, but she had grieved alone.
Grant had said it was for the best, quite unable to understand how she could possibly have wanted the baby after Jake had married Liz. But she had wanted that baby. She had wanted that baby more than she had ever wanted anything either then or since. Slowly she sank back to the present, raising chilled hands to her tear-wet face. Without realising it, she drifted slowly into sleep.
It was pitch-dark when she awoke, freezing cold and stiff. Stumbling up on woozy legs, she fumbled for the light switch. No light came on. The scullery light was equally unresponsive.
‘You idiot,’ she muttered, realising what the problem was. The electricity was off. Indeed, she hadn’t been thinking clearly when she had impulsively planned her stay here.
Luckily her grandmother had been a very methodical woman. The torch still hung above the fridge. Kitty’s watch told her it was nearly ten. It was too late to drive off in search of a hotel. There was food in the car, probably coal or wood in the fuel shed, and she could bring a mattress downstairs to sleep by the fire. She emptied the car and then parked it in the barn out of sight.
With damp matches, she needed perseverance to light a fire. Once she had a promising glow in the grate, she lit the bottled gas cooker and put a now defrosted dish of lasagne into the oven. That done, she located candles in an upper cupboard and switched on the water below the sink. There she came unexpectedly on an unopened bottle of sherry.
By midnight she was sitting cross-legged on top of her makeshift bed, washing back her lasagne with a glass of sherry. Grant would have cringed in fastidious horror from the sight, she conceded ruefully. Already her anger with him was fading. Grant couldn’t help being self-centred, possessive and manipulative.
Eight years ago she had hurled herself into Grant’s arms in a London hotel suite. A frightened and lost teenager, she had been perilously close to a nervous breakdown. The responsibility must have horrified him, but Grant hadn’t been the star of a dozen box-office hits on the strength of looks alone. He had hidden his feelings well. If Grant had rejected her, she would have thrown herself in the Thames. She had had too many rejections to bear one more.
His greatest pleasure had been the successful stage-management of her career. Grant loved to play God. He had made her over from outside in before sending her to drama school in New York. That first year had been a chaotic whirl of new experiences and some truly terrifying ordeals.
The fire was making her uncomfortably warm. Getting up, she removed a silk nightshirt from her case and undressed, ruefully wondering how long it would take her to get to sleep. Insomnia had been her most pressing problem of late. Ironically, it was also what was responsible for the short story she had written and had published in a magazine the previous year. She had sat up scribbling until exhaustion had taken its toll.
As she poured herself another sherry, she tried to concentrate on the intricate plot of the thriller she was planning. It shouldn’t have been difficult. She had been dreaming about the book for months, impatient to sit down and write without distractions.
A faint noise jerked her head up from her notepad. Her eyes dilated, a stifled gasp of fear fleeing her lips. A large dark shape had filled the scullery doorway.
‘I don’t believe this.’ Jake strode into the flickering shadows of mingled fire and candlelight. He towered over Kitty like a dark avenging angel. ‘I could see the light from the road. I thought someone had broken in.’
Behind her breastbone, her heart was still involved in terrified palpitations. ‘How did you get in? The doors are both bolted!’
‘There probably isn’t a catch on a window in this entire house that’s secure. I climbed in through the scullery window,’ he supplied grimly.
‘You can go out by the front door. I’m feeling even less hospitable than I felt this afternoon,’ she flared. ‘You frightened me out of my wits!’
‘Be glad it was me and not a real intruder. God, you can’t be planning to stay here tonight!’ Taking in the evidence around him, he glowered down at her. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Why don’t you go down the road and ask all your other neighbours what they’re doing in their houses after midnight?’ she returned angrily. ‘You’ve got no right to walk in here.’
He bent his dark, arrogant head to avoid the shade on the central light above. ‘I had no idea that you were here,’ he growled. ‘No idea at all.’
‘Well, now that you’ve established that I’m not a gang of bikers in search of a new clubhouse, you are free to go.’ Pointedly she sipped at her drink.
Long fingers coiled round the bottle. He gave it a cursory inspection, his mouth hardening. He straightened,