His Rags-to-Riches Bride. Susan StephensЧитать онлайн книгу.
your surrogate brother.’
He added icily, ‘Also, in case you’ve forgotten, you lost any right you ever had to enquire into my private life two years ago.’
He allowed her a moment to digest that, then went on, ‘We share this flat, but we maintain our own space at all times. So, if I intend to be here for a meal I’ll let you know, and we’ll make some arrangement about the use of the kitchen. But we both cook for ourselves, and there’ll be no cosying-up round the stove. Understood?’
‘Of course,’ she said tautly, aware that her face had warmed. ‘Although cosy is never a word I’d associate with you. And I’ll make very sure that I repay you for the food I’ve used this evening.’
He said wearily, ‘Don’t be so damned absurd. I’m not actually begrudging you a meal. Just don’t make a habit of it.’
His firm mouth tightened. ‘This is not a situation either of us would have chosen, Laine, but it exists, and we must make the best of it. And we do that by going our own ways and leading our own lives. Right?’ He added, ‘After all, you were the one who said privacy should be respected.’
He waited until she slowly nodded, then finished his whisky and got to his feet, taking the glass into the kitchen. She heard the faint rattle as he put it in the dishwasher.
It all seemed so normal—so domestic, she thought. Except, of course, that it was just the opposite. This was a battleground, and she had to make damned sure she wasn’t a casualty. Not again.
On his way back Daniel paused momentarily, looking down at her, the hazel eyes hard.
‘By the way,’ he added, his voice soft but not gentle, ‘please don’t bother to wait up for me—tonight or any other night.’
And he went across to his room and closed the door, leaving her staring after him from her corner of the sofa as if she’d been frozen there.
Laine was at the stove, draining the pasta to go with the chicken, when she heard the faint slam of the flat door, signalling his departure.
And goodnight and goodbye to you, too, she thought, grinding black pepper over her penne as if she was twisting someone’s throat.
Much of her earlier appetite seemed to have deserted her, but she forced herself to eat at least some of her solitary meal, sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, rather than at the elegant circular dining table in the living room.
I’d feel silly in there on my own, she thought. But I’d have felt an even bigger fool if I’d used the silverware and the crystal and set two places.
Jamie had told her to be nice, but it was difficult to see how that was to be achieved now that her first awkward attempt at rapprochement had been so signally rejected.
But maybe that was for the best too—under the circumstances.
You’re not Si’s little sister any more. Words which told her quite unequivocally—even brutally—that there was nothing left, not even a residual fondness. And certainly none of the reluctant sense of obligation that had led to their marriage.
He’d totally shrugged off his unwanted responsibilities and reclaimed his freedom. At the same time coldly emphasising that Daniel wanted the woman she’d become no more than he’d desired the girl she’d once been.
And that from now on she was on her own in every conceivable way.
Her heart felt like a stone in her chest. It had never occurred to her even for a moment that she could find herself in this impossible situation. All along she’d had just one simple plan—never to be alone with him again. There was no alternative scheme—no fall-back position—because she’d believed with painful confidence that they’d never be necessary.
Yet here she was, she thought wretchedly. Trapped and, for the foreseeable future anyway, helpless.
If it had been the same for him she could perhaps have steeled herself to bear it. Learned to move about in their shared space as if she was tiptoeing on eggshells. Taught herself to edge round him—live on some perimeter of this joint existence.
But the fact was that he didn’t care. Because she didn’t matter enough to make him do so. She’d once been a burden, now she was no more than a nuisance—a vague irritant in the smooth running of his life. Nothing more.
All the pain, the tears, the stumbling days and sleepless nights, and the yawning desolation of loneliness had been hers alone.
And just the knowledge of that was the kind of anguish she’d prayed she would never feel again.
An anguish she could never let him see in the weeks that stretched ahead. Because she wasn’t sure which would be worse to endure—his indifference or his pity.
She swallowed thickly, pushing her plate away, and slid off the stool. Don’t think, she told herself. Keep busy.
She worked like a robot, stacking the dishwasher and selecting a programme, then placing the extra chicken with its thick, aromatic sauce in a covered dish in the fridge, to provide her with her next evening meal, before tidying the kitchen and restoring the stove and surfaces to their earlier pristine gleam.
Making certain she’d leave no trace of her presence for him to complain about there either, she told herself with cold resolve.
It was a long evening. Laine tried watching television, but she soon realised she’d grown completely out of touch with current programming, and found herself flicking restlessly from channel to channel, searching for something that might grip her interest.
In the end she gave up in exasperation, and decided to read instead. There were some books on the alcove shelves that were new to her—most of them thrillers that she guessed had been acquired by Jamie, and each of them triumphantly claiming to be ‘the new number-one bestseller’.
They can’t all be that, surely? she thought, pulling a face as she picked the least overtly lurid. But the story failed to engage her particularly, and the identity of the villain seemed all too obvious even by chapter three, so, sighing, she abandoned that as well.
One of the things she’d managed to rescue from the boat was her address book, and she sat slowly turning over the pages, trying to summon up the courage to ring someone—anyone. Fiona from the gallery, perhaps? Or Celia Welton, her best friend from school, who’d been her bridesmaid at that ill-fated wedding.
At the same time she knew full well that she wouldn’t be doing so—or not yet, anyway. Because she wasn’t ready to face the inevitable questions—especially when it emerged that she and Daniel were back sharing a roof.
She’d been let off the hook when their marriage had ended with such startling suddenness, because people had recognised that she was in desperate pain, and suppressed their natural curiosity and concern, standing back to allow her to recover. Celia, in particular, bewildered but loyal and kind, had helped picked up the pieces.
But this new development would require answers that simply weren’t possible immediately.
Because she was still in shock. She needed time to think things through. To come up with some feasible explanation for everything that had happened to her. And make it clear that sharing a flat with Daniel was not the basis for some kind of reconciliation—and never would be.
She swallowed. Which meant, in turn, that at some point she might be asked about what had happened two years earlier. Why her marriage hadn’t survived the honeymoon, or even the wedding night, given the bleak significance of that swift annulment. Because after this length of time, tact would not be a primary consideration any longer.
And if they did ask, what the hell could she say? she wondered wearily. Certainly not the truth.
And if she tried saying that she’d realised she didn’t love him no one would believe her for a moment. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve too openly and for too long for that.
She didn’t