The Three-Year Itch

The Three-Year Itch Liz Fielding Being snowbound with your husband…Career girl Abbie had thought her marriage to devilishly sexy Grey Lockwood a blissfully happy one, but three years in and the cracks are starting to show. Surely a baby is the glue to hold this marriage together? Grey doesn’t think so! And with trust shaken, and hurt on both sides, they go their separate ways.Is one way to heal a marriage!But those around them know they are meant to be, so conspire to reunite them. And there is nothing like being snowbound in an idyllic cottage to cool tempers, force a truce but also to raise temperatures as they try to keep warm… “So you want to play games, do you, Mrs. Lockwood?” Abbie lowered her lashes, seductively. “Why, sir, I don’t know what you mean.” “Then I’ll have to show—” The telephone began to ring. For a moment Grey gazed down at her, then he dropped the briefest kiss on her mouth. “It appears you have a reprieve.” She didn’t want a reprieve and reached out for him. “Whoever it is will leave a message, Grey. Don’t go.” “It’ll be Robert. I should have phoned him an hour ago.” He raised her hand absently to his lips. “Why don’t you see if you can rustle up something for supper?” “Well, gee, shucks. Thanks, mister,” she murmured as he disappeared in the direction of the study. It was the first time she had ever come third. To a phone call and food. Born and raised in Berkshire, England, LIZ FIELDING started writing at the age of twelve when she won a hymn-writing competition at her convent school. After a gap of more years than she is prepared to admit to—during which she worked as a secretary in Africa and the Middle East, got married and had two children—she was finally able to realize her ambition and turn to full-time writing in 1992. She now lives with her husband, John, in West Wales, surrounded by mystical countryside and romantic, crumbling castles, content to leave the traveling to her grown-up children and keeping in touch with the rest of the world via the Internet. You can visit Liz Fielding’s web site via Mills & Boon at: www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) The Three-Year Itch Liz Fielding www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Table of Contents Cover (#u8f7f49b9-27b8-578e-8ef2-ec547093517f) Excerpt (#ufa220c7a-d245-500d-bef4-9068fe988ddb) About the Author (#ue9e55a13-eb50-5445-a42c-1f6a96b43095) Title Page (#ud4d9bd83-fb3a-515d-9aaf-e72c06f3dffa) CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#u6f97f602-35ab-514b-a4c2-6a6d01046b45) ABBIE LOCKWOOD glanced sympathetically at the crowds milling around the luggage carousel as she walked by, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t have to. Travelling time was too precious a commodity to be wasted queueing for luggage, and she carried no more than the drip-dry, crumple-free essentials, packed along with her precious laptop computer and camera, in a canvas bag small enough to be carried aboard a plane with her. She moved swiftly, eagerly through the formalities and into the airport arrival hall, glancing about her for Grey, her excitement deflating just a little as she didn’t immediately spot the heart-churning smile that told her he was glad she was home. She stretched slightly onto her toes, although at five feet ten in her drip-dry socks, she didn’t really need to. Besides, he wasn’t the kind of man you could miss. He stood a head clear of the most pressing crowd and she knew that if she hadn’t immediately caught sight of his tall, athletic figure it was because he wasn’t there. Abbie’s sharp stab of disappointment punctured her brilliant feeling of elation at being home, at a job well done. Grey always came to meet her. Never failed, no matter how busy he was. Then she shook herself severely. It was ridiculous to be so cast down. He might just have been delayed, or a client might have needed him urgently—he might even be in court. She hadn’t been able to contact him directly, so he hadn’t been able to explain … He’d probably left a message, she thought, fighting her way through the crowds to the information desk. It was unreasonable to expect him to drop everything and come running just because she had been away for a couple of weeks and was dizzily desperate to hold him in her arms and hug him tight. It was just that he had never failed her before. That was all. ‘My name is Abigail Lockwood,’ she told the young woman at the desk. ‘I was expecting my husband to meet me but he isn’t here. I wonder if he left a message for me?’ The girl checked. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing here for you, Mrs Lockwood.’ ‘Oh, well,’ she said, trying to hide a sudden tiny tremor of unease, the totally ridiculous feeling that something must be wrong. ‘I expect we’ve got our wires crossed somewhere. I’d better take a taxi.’ The girl smiled on automatic; she had clearly heard it all a thousand times before. All the excitement, the high of returning home had drained from her by the time the taxi set her down outside the elegant mansion block where she and Grey lived, and she just felt tired. But she found a smile for the porter, who gallantly admired her tan and asked her if she’d had a good trip. ‘Fine, thanks, Peter,’ she replied. ‘But I’m glad to be home.’ Two fraught weeks touring the sprawling streets of Karachi with a distraught mother in search of her snatched daughter in a tug-of-love case had not been a barrel of laughs. ‘That’s just what Mr Lockwood said not five minutes ago, when he got back.’ ‘He’s home?’ In the middle of the afternoon? Something must be seriously wrong. ‘Yes, Mrs Lockwood, and very glad to see you back safe and sound, I’m sure. Leave your bag; I’ll bring …’ But Abbie, too impatient to wait for the ornate wrought-iron lift to crank her up two floors, was already flying up the stairs, her bag banging against her back, her long legs taking the steps two at a time, all tiredness forgotten in her need for reassurance. Then as she reached the door she felt suddenly quite foolish. If Grey had been ill, or hurt, Peter would certainly have said something. It was far more likely that, realising that he wouldn’t make the airport in time, Grey had come home to surprise her. Well, she thought, her full mouth lifting into a mischievous little smile, she would surprise him instead. She opened the door quietly, put her bag on the hall floor and for a moment just enjoyed the wonderful sensation of being in her own home, surrounded by the accumulated clutter of their lives, instead of confined to the anonymous comfort of a hotel room. She could hear sounds of activity coming from the small study that they shared and, easing off her shoes, she padded silently across the hall. Grey was propped on the edge of his desk, listening to the messages on the answering machine, pen poised above his notepad to jot down anything that needed a response. For a moment she stood in the doorway, simply enjoying the secret pleasure of watching him. She never tired of looking at the way his thick, dark hair curled onto his strong neck, at the sculptured shape of his ear, the long, determined set of his jaw. She could see his beloved face reflected in the glass-fronted bookcase, the furrow of concentration as he noted a telephone number. She was reflected beside him but, head bent over the notepad, he had not yet noticed her. Then, as he reached her message, telling him the arrival time and flight number of her plane, he swore softly, glanced swiftly at his watch and reached for the phone. As he did so he finally caught sight of her reflection and their eyes met through the glass. ‘Abbie!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry! I’ve only just got your message …’ ‘So I heard,’ she said, her soft voice full of mock reproach. ‘And since I rang twenty-four hours ago I shall want a detailed itinerary of your movements to cover every last second of that time.’ She had been teasing, expecting him to respond in kind, with lurid details of an impossible night of debauchery and an offer to demonstrate … Instead he raked his long fingers distractedly through his hair. ‘I had to go away for a couple of days. I’ve only just got back.’ ‘Oh?’ It was odd, she thought, flinging herself into his arms in the frenetic excitement of the arrivals hall at the airport had always seemed the most natural thing in the world, but here, in their own home, the atmosphere was more constrained, with the answering machine droning on the background and Grey poised on the edge of the desk, pen still in his hand. ‘And what exotic paradise have you been gadding off to the minute I turn my back?’ she asked. For the space of a moment, no more, his eyes blanked. ‘Manchester,’ he said. ‘A case conference.’ If it hadn’t been so ridiculous, Abbie would have sworn he’d said the first thing that came into his head, but she had no time to think about it before he dropped the pen and closed the space between them, gathering her into his arms. ‘Lord, but I’ve missed you,’ he said. She couldn’t answer, couldn’t tell him how much she had missed him, because her mouth was entirely occupied with a long and hungry kiss that scorched her in a way that the Karachi sun had quite failed to do. When finally he lifted his head, his warm brown eyes were creased into a smile. ‘Welcome home, Mrs Lockwood.’ ‘Now that,’ she said huskily, ‘is what I call a welcome.’ Abbie lifted her hands to his face, smoothed out the lines that fanned about his eyes with the tips of her fingers. ‘You look tired. I suppose you’ve been working all the hours in the day, and half the night as well, while I’ve been away?’ ‘It helps to pass the time,’ he agreed. ‘But you’re absolutely right. I am tired. So tired, in fact, that I think I shall have to go to bed. Immediately.’ Abbie squealed as he swiftly bent and caught her behind the knees, swinging her up into his arms. ‘And I’m going to have to insist you come with me. You know how very badly I sleep when I’m on my own.’ ‘Idiot!’ she exclaimed, laughing. ‘Put me down this minute. I’ve been travelling all day, and if I don’t have a shower …’ ‘A shower?’ Grey came to a sudden halt. Then his mouth curved into a slow smile that was so much more dangerous than his swift grin. ‘Now that is a good idea.’ ‘No, Grey!’ she warned him. He took no notice of her protest, or her ineffectual struggles to free herself from his arms, but headed straight into the bathroom and, stopping only to kick off his shoes, stepped with her into the shower stall. ‘No!’ Her voice rose to a shriek as the jet of water hit them both. Then he was kissing her hungrily as the water ran over their faces, pulling her close as the water drenched her T-shirt, pouring in warm rivulets between her breasts and across the aching desire of her abdomen. Then she gave a whispered, ‘Oh, yes,’ as he eased her T-shirt over her head, unfastened her bra and tossed them into a dripping pile upon the bathroom floor. His lips tormented hers as he hooked his finger under the waistband of her jeans, flicking open the button as with shaking fingers she reached up and began to unfasten his shirt. Then he slipped his hands inside her jeans and over her buttocks, easing them down her legs. She was almost melting with desire by the time he turned her round and began slowly to stroke shower gel across her shoulders and down her back. A long, delicious quiver of pleasure escaped her lips and he laughed softly. ‘I thought you said no,’ he murmured, his tongue tracing a delicate little line along the curve of her ear as his hands slid round to cradle her breasts and draw her back against him. ‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours to stop,’ she sighed, lying back against him, relishing the intense pleasure of his wet skin against hers, the touch of his hands stroking the soap over her body. She had dreamed of this in the sterile emptiness of her hotel room five thousand miles away and had determined that, no matter what the temptation, how good the story, she had accepted her last foreign assignment. It would be a wrench. She loved her job. She was a good photo-journalist and knew the feature on tug-of-love children that she was putting together needed the on-the-spot reality of her Karachi trip. The desperate hunt, the endless knocking on the doors, an officialdom that seemed not to care about a woman deprived of her child, the photographs that would show the anguish when she had finally found her daughter, only to have her snatched from her grasp and bundled away once more, would make a heartbreakingly compelling story. But no more. Every time she went away it seemed that her marriage suffered just a little. Nothing that she could put her finger on. Tiny irritations. But things happened to them while they were apart that they seemed unable to share. She came back impatient at complaints about a leaky washing machine or some other domestic drama when she had spent a week with refugees or the victims of some terrible natural catastrophe. But Grey was the senior partner in a prestigious law firm. He didn’t have time to deal with the minor domestic trivialities of life. He had once joked that they could do with someone else—a job-share wife to take care of the details while she was away. ‘I think I’d rather have a job-share husband,’ she had returned, easily enough, joining in with his laughter, but the warning had not been lost on her. Grey Lockwood was the kind of man who turned women’s heads. And, like most men, he only had to look helpless and they flocked to mother him. Except that mothering wasn’t all they had in mind. She worked very hard to ensure that her absences were as painless as possible, but some things couldn’t be foreseen. How long would it be before some sympathetic secretary noticed the vulnerable chink in their marriage and began to lever it apart with personal services that extended beyond the use of her washing machine? Certain as she was that he loved her, she knew Grey was not made of wood. He was a warm, flesh-and-blood man—full of life, full of love. And she loved him as much as life itself. She turned eagerly in his arms and began to soap him, spreading her hands across his broad shoulders, slipping the tips of her fingers through the coarse dark hair that spread across his chest and arrowed down across his flat belly until she heard him gasp. ‘I don’t know about you, Grey,’ she said, tipping her head back to look at him from beneath the heavy lids of her fine grey eyes, ‘but I think I’m clean enough.’ He said nothing, simply flipped the shower switch, pulled a towel from the rack to wrap about her shoulders, then, sweeping her up into his arms, he stepped out of the shower stall and carried her to bed. The first time after she had been away was always special. A slow rediscovery of one another, a reaffirmation of their love. But now Grey seemed seized by an almost desperate urgency to know her, to reclaim her as his. Even as he followed her down onto the bed she saw something in his face, some savage, primeval need that excited her even as a quiver of apprehension rippled through her. ‘Grey?’ Her almost tentative query was brushed aside as he reared above her, his knee parting her legs, the dominant male driven by the desire to plant his seed. She cried out as her breath was driven from her, her hands seizing the muscle-packed flesh of his shoulders, her nails digging in as he took her on a roller-coaster ride of meteoric intensity—a ride which she began as a passenger but then, as the pace, almost the fury of his driving passion set alight a hitherto unsuspected chord of wanton sensuality deep within her, she rose to him, matching his ardour thrust for thrust until they came crashing back to earth, satiated, exhausted, drenched with sweat. As he rolled away from her and lay staring at the ceiling a long shuddering sigh escaped him. ‘You’ve been away too long, Abbie.’ Then he turned to her. ‘Did I hurt you?’ She shook her head. ‘Surprised me a little, that’s all.’ She touched the score-marks her nails had riven in his shoulders in the heat of passion. ‘But I like surprises.’ And she reached forward to lay her lips against the slick salty warmth of his skin, sighing contentedly as he gathered her into his arms. Tomorrow she would ache a little, but it would be a good feeling and she would carry it with her as a secret knowledge, a constant reminder of the fact that she was desired, loved. Abbie was the first to wake, the weight of Grey’s arm across her waist disturbing her as she moved. For a moment she remained perfectly still, soaking in the pleasure of having his face buried against her shoulder, the pleasure of being home. Going away had its miseries, but without separation there would never be these blissful reunions. She lay quietly, her face inches from his, reminding herself of every feature, every tiny line that life had bestowed upon him, very gently touching an old childhood scar above his brow. She could tell the exact moment when he woke. He didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. There was just the faintest change in breathing, the tiniest contraction of the muscles about his eyes. She grinned. It was an old game, this. How long could he maintain the pretence? She began slowly to trace the outline of his face with the tip of one finger, moving slowly up the darkening shadow of his chin to his lower lip. Did it quiver slightly under the lightest teasing of her nail? She gave him the benefit of the doubt, this was not a game to be hurried. She dipped her head to trail a tiny tattoo of kisses across his throat, his chest, her tongue flickering across flat male nipples that leapt to attention. Still he did not move, and she continued her teasing quest across the hard, flat plane of his stomach until the tell-tale stirring of his manhood could no longer be ignored. But, before she had quite registered the fact that the game was over and won, he had turned, flipping her over onto her back, his hands on her wrists, holding her arms above her head, pinning her to the bed, utterly at his mercy. ‘So, you want to play games, do you, Mrs Lockwood?’ She lowered her lashes seductively. ‘Why, sir, I don’t know what you mean.’ ‘Then I’ll have to show—’ The telephone began to ring. For a moment Grey gazed down at her, then he dropped the briefest kiss on her mouth. ‘It appears that you have a reprieve.’ He released her, rolling away and rising to his feet in one smooth movement. She didn’t want a reprieve and reached out for him. ‘Whoever it is will leave a message, Grey. Don’t go.’ ‘It’ll be Robert. I should have phoned him an hour ago.’ He raised her hand absently to his lips. ‘Why don’t you go and see if you can rustle up something for supper?’ ‘Well, gee, shucks, thanks, mister,’ she murmured as he disappeared in the direction of the study. It was the first time she had ever come third. To a phone call and food. ‘Grey?’ He lifted his head from his distant contemplation of the supper Abbie had thrown together from the rather sparse contents of the refrigerator. ‘Can we talk?’ ‘Mmm?’ He had been distracted ever since he had talked to Robert; now he seemed to come back from a long way off, but as he looked up he caught her eye, became very still. ‘Go ahead, I’m listening.’ I want to have a baby. Your baby. It sounded so emotional, almost desperate put like that. Not a good start. But that heartfelt ‘You’ve been away too long …’ gave her the courage to press on. ‘I wondered what you thought about starting a family,’ she said. He looked up, momentarily shaken, his eyes dark with something that might almost have been pain. Then he shook his head. ‘Leave it, Abbie. This is not a good moment.’ Whatever reaction she had expected, it certainly wasn’t that. ‘Not a good moment’? What on earth did that mean? ‘You did say we were apart too much …’ she began, trying to lift an atmosphere that had suddenly become about as light as a lead-filled balloon. ‘And a baby would fix that?’ Grey sat back in his chair, abandoning any further attempt to eat. ‘That’s a somewhat drastic solution, isn’t it?’ Drastic? The second she had opened her mouth Abbie had realised the moment was all wrong, but it shouldn’t ever be that wrong, surely? Confused, hurt, she said, ‘I … I thought we both wanted children.’ ‘Eventually,’ he agreed coolly. ‘But we had an agreement, Abbie. No children until you’re ready to give them your full-time care.’ ‘Yes, but—’ ‘Do you really think you can have it all?’ he demanded, cutting off her protest, and she saw to her astonishment that he was now genuinely angry with her. ‘Most of your friends manage it, I know, by cobbling their lives together with nannies and living from one crisis to the next. But they don’t disappear into the wide blue yonder for a couple of weeks whenever a tantalising commission is dangled in front of them.’ ‘Neither do I! I never go anywhere without discussing it with you first.’ ‘But you still go,’ he declared. ‘That was the deal we made. God knows I miss you when you’re away, Abbie, I’ve never made any secret of that fact—but it’s a choice we both made right at the beginning. You said you’d need five years to establish yourself in your career, then you could take a break.’ ‘I don’t remember carving it on a tablet of stone!’ Suddenly the discussion was getting too heated, too emotional, but she couldn’t stop. ‘I … I want to have a child now, Grey.’ ‘Why?’ Because I love you and having your baby would be the most wonderful thing that could happen to me. His detached expression did not invite such a declaration. In the absence of an immediate answer, he provided one for her. ‘Because all your friends are having babies,’ he said dismissively. ‘Rubbish!’ ‘Cogently argued,’ he replied. ‘God, I hate it when you go all lawyerish on me,’ she declared fervently. ‘What would you do if I simply stopped taking the pill?’ The words were out. It was too late to call them back. But his expression betrayed nothing. ‘Is that emotional blackmail, Abbie,’ he asked, very quietly, ‘or a statement of intent?’ Her face darkened in a flush of shame. She had always considered their marriage an equal partnership. Right now it didn’t feel that equal, but a child needed two loving parents and it was a decision they had to make together. Slowly, deliberately she shook her head. ‘I’ve been thinking about this for months, Grey,’ she told him. The planes of his face hardened imperceptibly. ‘And now you’ve made up your mind, you’ve decided to inform me of your unilateral decision?’ ‘It wasn’t like that, Grey. I … I just wanted to be sure.’ ‘Well, I want to be sure, too,’ he declared. Then, as if trying to claw away from the edge of some yawning precipice, he went on, more gently, ‘What about your career? You’re beginning to make a real name for yourself—’ ‘I don’t intend to stop working, Grey,’ she said, interrupting. Lord, if that was his only concern then there was no problem. ‘I thought if we had a nanny I could get on with—’ The tight constraint finally snapped. ‘Damn it, Abbie, a baby is not an accessory that every professional woman needs to prove that she’s some kind of superwoman. I won’t have a child of mine dumped at six weeks with a nanny while her mother gets on with her real life.’ He flung his napkin on the table, pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. ‘You don’t understand!’ she flung at him. ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ ‘I’ve listened. Now it’s my turn to think. Months you said you’d been thinking about this? How many months? I think I should at least be granted as long as you.’ ‘Don’t walk away from this, Grey,’ she warned him. ‘I’m serious.’ ‘So am I.’ For a moment they stared at one another across the table as if they were strangers. Then Grey gave an awkward little shrug. ‘We’ll talk about it again in six months. Now, since I’m really not very hungry, I’ll go and deal with the messages that have piled up on the machine.’ Abbie, stunned into silence, remained where she was. She didn’t understand what had happened. One moment they had been sitting quietly having their supper and the next they were tearing emotional lumps off one another. ‘Well, you really made a mess of that, Abigail Lockwood,’ she told herself aloud. More of a mess than she would have thought possible. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he didn’t want her to have his child … But that was ridiculous. Grey loved to be around children. She had been the one who’d wanted to wait a while to give her career a chance. She almost wished she hadn’t been so successful … With a sigh, she gathered the plates, cleared away and collected her bag from the hall. If he had decided to work, then so would she; while he dealt with his calls she could download her laptop onto the PC. But before that she would insist that he listen to her. He might still oppose the idea of starting a family, but at least he would know she had no intention of dumping her longed for baby with a nanny and de-parting for all corners of the globe at a moment’s notice. Hardly any wonder he was angry if he thought that was her intention. Grey, on the telephone, stopped speaking and looked up as she entered the study, placing his hand over the receiver. ‘Give me a minute will you, Abbie?’ he asked. ‘This is—’ She didn’t wait to find out what it was, but backed out, closing the door behind her with a sharp snap. ‘Abbie?’ He found her a few minutes later, loading the washing machine. ‘Where’s your bag, Grey? You must have some washing if you’ve been away.’ ‘In the bedroom. Abbie, about the phone call …’ She didn’t want to listen to him explaining why suddenly he had secrets where there had never been secrets before. She knew some of his work was highly confidential, but they had always shared a study; he trusted her discretion … Or maybe it wasn’t work at all. The thought leapt unbidden into her head. She straightened, pushed past him and crossed the hall to the bedroom, where she unzipped his bag and began to remove his clothes. Then she collected the clothes they had so carelessly jettisoned while under the shower. Two pairs of wet jeans? She glanced at the pair she was already holding which had come from his bag. What kind of lawyer took jeans to a case conference, for heaven’s sake? Not Grey. He had a wardrobe full of sober, well-cut suits that he kept for the office. And as she scooped up the pair he had been wearing she caught the faintest scent of woodsmoke that clung to the cloth, reminding her of the cottage. He was still in the kitchen standing in front of the washing machine when she returned, so that she had to ask him to move before she could load the clothes. ‘Excuse me, Grey,’ she said stiffly. For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to move. Then he shrugged, shifted sideways. ‘Abbie, will you stop fussing about and let me explain?’ he demanded as she pushed in the clothes, keeping her eyes determinedly upon her task. ‘Explain? You wanted to make a private telephone call. What’s there to explain about that?’ Everything, she thought as she banged the door shut, set the programme, and when she turned away he was standing in front of her, blocking the way. ‘I know you’re angry with me for not wanting you to have a baby right now—’ ‘Give the man a coconut,’ she interrupted flippantly as she tried to sidestep him. But it wasn’t true. She was angry with him for not wanting to talk about it, for not listening. It was so unlike him. He caught her arm as she brushed past, held her at his side. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed as if I didn’t care. I do. And I will think about it … it’s just that it’s been a difficult couple of weeks.’ ‘Difficult?’ She was immediately contrite. ‘What’s happened? Is it Robert?’ she asked, remembering the earlier telephone call. ‘Robert?’ At her mention of his brother his eyes narrowed. ‘You rang him earlier. I just wondered …’ She hesitated in the face of his guarded expression. ‘I thought perhaps Susan had been causing more trouble.’ ‘No. It’s not Susan …’ He gave another of those awkward little shrugs that were so out of character. ‘I can’t explain right now.’ ‘No?’ She stiffened abruptly. ‘Then I can’t understand. If you’ll excuse me, Grey?’ she said with polite formality. ‘It’s been a very long day, and if I don’t lie down right now, I think I might just fall down.’ He stared at her as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Well, that was fine with her. That made two of them who were having that kind of trouble today. He stepped back abruptly to let her pass, his jaw tight, a small angry muscle ticking away at the corner of his mouth. ‘Then I certainly won’t disturb you when I come to bed. Goodnight, Abbie.’ She made it to the bedroom before the tears stung her eyes. What on earth was happening to them? They had been married for three years. Three blissfully happy years. Of course they’d had rows. Loud, throwing-the-china rows on more than one occasion, rows that had lasted for seconds, blowing away the tensions, before the most glorious and lengthy reconciliations. But never a row like this, that you couldn’t put your finger on. A tight-lipped, hidden secrets, polite kind of row. Something was wrong. She had sensed it from the moment of her arrival at the airport when he hadn’t been there to meet her. He would normally have checked the answering machine from his hotel while he was away. He’d had plenty of time to get her message last night. But he hadn’t. Something had happened while she was away. But what? She curbed the instinct to turn back and confront him. Demand to know. Things were bad enough. True to his word, Grey didn’t disturb her when he came to bed. Despite the long hours of travelling, sleep eluded her, but hours later, when Grey finally came to bed, she closed her eyes, and whether he believed it or not he didn’t challenge her pretence. He didn’t put on the light, but quietly slipped out of his clothes and lowered himself gently into the bed beside her, and after a moment he turned his back. She opened her eyes in the darkness and lay for hours, listening to his soft breathing and thinking about the plans she had made so eagerly on her journey home. Was it possible, she wondered miserably, that she had left the decision not to accept any more overseas jobs just one assignment too late? She woke to a room still darkened by the heavy velvet curtains drawn across the window, but the sunlight was spilling in from the hallway and she knew instantly that it was late. She lay for a moment in the silent flat, knowing that she was alone and hating it. She had hoped that the morning would bring some kind of reconciliation. Neither of them had behaved exactly brilliantly, but they had both been tired last night and she was prepared to acknowledge that, while Grey might have been a little more receptive, she might have picked a better moment to suggest a total upheaval to their lives. Instead he had left while she was asleep. Gone to his office without even saying goodbye. She had intended to stay at home that day, attend to wifely things. Shop, prepare a good meal. Reclaim her surroundings from two weeks of Grey’s bachelor housekeeping. Instead she found she had a need to reinforce herself as a person in her own right. And there was no better way of doing that than work. She flung back the cover and slipped out of bed. But as she reached for her wrap she frowned. On the wall opposite the bed had hung a small Degas. Not a great painting—nothing that would set the galleries of the world at each other’s throats—but very pretty and very genuine. It was gone. Had they been burgled while she was away and he hadn’t wanted to frighten her? Was that why it had been a difficult week? Abbie flew to her jewellery box, locked in a small drawer in her dressing table, but it was there with all the pieces he had bought her during three happy years. She picked up the phone to call him at his office, then hesitated. There was probably some perfectly logical explanation. Grey sometimes lent it to galleries for exhibition—maybe he had simply forgotten to mention it to her. They hadn’t exactly spent the evening in close conversation. She replaced the receiver. That was probably it, she decided. It would wait until he came home. Trembling just a little, she went into the kitchen to make some tea. On the centre island, where she couldn’t possibly miss it, stood the silver bud-holder that Grey had bought her for their first wedding anniversary. In it was a red rose, a half-opened bud. And there was a note propped against the bud-holder—a plain sheet of paper, folded once. She opened it. ‘I thought you needed to sleep. I’ll see you this evening. Grey.’ That was all. No apology. But then he had taken the trouble to go out and find a rose for her before he drove into his City office. It wasn’t quite like buying a pint of milk from the corner shop. It couldn’t have been the easiest thing to find at seven-thirty in the morning. Yet why did she have the disturbing feeling that he might have found it a whole lot easier than waking her up and saying that he was sorry? CHAPTER TWO (#u6f97f602-35ab-514b-a4c2-6a6d01046b45) Two hours later Abbie, dressed in a loose-fitting pair of heavy slub silk trousers in her favourite bitter chocolate colour and a soft creamy peach top that glowed against her tanned skin and hair, bleached to a streaked blonde by the sun, was discussing the layout of her feature for the colour supplement of a major newspaper with her commissioning editor. Her photographs had been forwarded by courier and now the two of them were bent over the light box, deciding which ones to use. ‘You’ve done a great job, Abbie. This photograph of the mother getting into that tiny plane to fly up into the hills to start looking all over again—’ ‘I tried to stop her. If only I could have gone with her …’ ‘No. That’s the right place to end it. A touch of hope, bags of determination and courage. A mother alone, searching for her missing child. You deserve an award for this one.’ ‘I don’t deserve anything, Steve,’ she said, suddenly disgusted with herself for being so pleased with the finished result. ‘I just hope she’s all right. Anything could happen to her up there and no one would ever know.’ Steve Morley gave her a sharp look. ‘You sound as if you’ve got just a little bit too emotionally involved in this one, Abbie. You were there to record what happened, not become responsible for the result. The woman has made her decision. It’s her daughter. And your story will make a difference …’ ‘Will it? I wish I thought so.’ ‘Trust me,’ he said firmly. ‘Come on, I’ll take you out to lunch.’ Trust. An emotive word. But without it there was nothing. Was too much time apart eroding that precious commodity between her and Grey? She would trust him with her life, and yet … and yet … There were too many gaps, too many empty spaces yawning dangerously between them. Baby or not, her mind was made up. She wouldn’t be going away again. As they made their way down in the lift Steve distracted her by asking her where she would like to eat, and reluctantly she let go of her thoughts about the future to concentrate on more immediate concerns. ‘I’ve found this really good Indian restaurant,’ he continued, ‘but after two weeks on the sub-continent, I don’t suppose you’d be interested—’ ‘You suppose right, Mr Morley,’ she interrupted, very firmly. Then she grinned. ‘Now, how good did you say that feature was?’ Steve groaned. ‘L’Escargot?’ ‘L’Escargot,’ she affirmed with a grin. ‘Upstairs.’ Lunch was a light-hearted affair, with Steve bringing her up to date on what had been happening during her absence and offering several suggestions for future features. ‘How do you feel about a month in the States for us?’ He continued hurriedly as he saw she was about to object, ‘Human interest stuff in the deep South—Atlanta. It’s the sort of thing you’re particularly good at. Although since your charming husband got a decent price for his Degas at auction last week I don’t suppose you actually need the money,’ he added, with an offhand little shrug. The Degas? Sold? Despite the whirl of conflicting emotions storming through her brain she wasn’t fooled by Steve Morley’s casual manner. He had hoped to take her unawares, provoke some unguarded response. If he thought the Lockwood family were in any sort of financial trouble he would want to know. It was probably the whole reason for this lunch. ‘You don’t normally cover the art market, do you, Steve?’ she asked, arching her fine brows in apparent surprise. ‘I mean, doesn’t that take brains …?’ He grinned, aware that he had been caught out, but was unrepentant. ‘I cover everything that has the Lockwood name attached to it, and if you’re ever seriously in need of funds, Abbie, I’m always deeply interested in brother Robert’s doings.’ ‘I thought we had an agreement? You don’t ask me about Robert and I’ll continue to work for you.’ He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t hurt to remind you now and again that I’m always receptive to a change of heart.’ ‘Forget it. And Atlanta. I’m not in the market for overseas work for a while.’ ‘The old man getting a bit restive, is he?’ He had gone straight to the heart of the matter, and she had known Steve too long to attempt to string him some line. ‘Even the best marriage needs to be worked at, Steve.’ ‘I won’t argue with that. I only wish my wife had been quite so dedicated.’ He shrugged. ‘And if the pretty piece I saw Grey having lunch with last week is anything to go by, I’d say you haven’t left it a day too long.’ ‘Pretty piece?’ Abbie felt the smile freeze on her face. Steve shrugged. ‘From what you said, I thought you must at least suspect something was up …’ ‘Suspect something?’ It had been a moment’s shock, that was all. On top of everything else that had happened she should have been reeling. But if there was one thing of which she was absolutely certain it was this: if her husband had been lunching with another woman, there had to be some perfectly rational explanation. ‘Oh, Steve, really!’ she chided, even managing a small laugh to show him how ridiculous such an idea was. But she knew it would need more than that. Taking his hand between her fingers, she regarded him solemnly with large grey eyes. ‘Would you like me to tell you something that has just occurred to me?’ she asked. ‘Something rather amusing?’ Relieved that she was apparently not about to have hysterics, Steve smiled. ‘Fire away.’ ‘It’s just that … well, I wondered what Grey would say if someone mentioned to him that they had seen me having lunch upstairs at L’Escargot with one of the best looking men in London.’ And she leaned forward and kissed him, very lightly on the lips, before releasing his hand. It was a reproach. A gentle one, but it wasn’t lost on her companion. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Point taken. I suppose I jumped to the most obvious conclusion because you were away … A bad habit. My only excuse is that I started out on a gossip column.’ ‘It’s a bad habit that will cost you the biggest bowl of strawberries in this house,’ she replied sweetly. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, summoning the waiter, but somehow they didn’t taste of anything very much, although she forced herself to eat every one. And when Steve dropped her off outside her home, she didn’t go straight inside, but walked across the road to a small park, occupied in the middle of the afternoon by nannies, identifiable only by their youth and the expensive coach-built prams they wheeled before them in the sunshine, and middle-aged ladies walking small, immaculately groomed dogs. Surely she was right? Grey was straight down the line. If he had found someone else he would tell her. He could never have made love to her like he had yesterday if he was having an affair, could he? Except that he had never before made love to her in that desperate, almost angry way. And then, afterwards, he had left her without a backward glance. Oh, that was ridiculous, she chided herself. She was feeling bruised by their row, that was all. But even as she sat in the sunshine, convincing herself of the fact that he loved her, she wondered why she felt the need to do so. They were the perfect couple, after all. Teased by their friends because they were always the first to leave a party, envied for the freedom they were able to give one another, the almost transparent trust. And yet were things quite so perfect? Grey’s willingness to co-operate with a career that took her away regularly had always, to her, seemed a demonstration of how much he loved and trusted her. She had always rather pitied friends who hinted they would never leave a man that good-looking on his own for more than five minutes, let alone five days. But now little things that hadn’t seemed important suddenly took on a new significance. Grey had had a series of late nights working on a difficult case just before she went to Karachi. Yet he had once said that the need to work late betrayed one of two things: a man incompetent at his job, or a man unwilling to go home to his wife. And Grey was certainly not incompetent. She caught herself, unable to believe the direction in which her mind was travelling. The fact that Steve had seen him having lunch with another woman meant nothing. She was probably a client, or a colleague. Even if she was nothing whatsoever to do with his work she trusted him, for heaven’s sake. It was certainly no more sinister than her lunch with Steve. The whole thing was utter nonsense. She was just edgy with him because of that stupid row. And if he had sold the Degas because of financial worries, that would certainly explain his reluctance to start a family, his reluctance for her to give up lucrative assignments. If only he had explained, trusted her. Trust. The word seemed to be everywhere today. Happier, she was even willing to concede that his reaction to her immediate desire for a baby had been justified. She had been so full of her plans that she had expected him to leap into line without a thought. Well, she could start the necessary reorganisation of her life without making an issue of it. In fact she had already begun. No more overseas assignments. She would tell him all about it when they were at the cottage. A couple of weeks at Ty Bach would give them a chance to talk when they were more relaxed, time to discuss the future properly. She should have waited until then to broach her plans. And, feeling considerably happier, Abbie stood up, dusted herself off and walked briskly back to the flat. Yet Grey’s key in the lock just after six brought an unexpected nervous catch to her throat. ‘Abbie?’ He came to the kitchen doorway and leaned against the door, smiling a little as if pleased to see her there. ‘Hello.’ ‘Hello.’ A little shy, just a little formal. ‘You’re early.’ ‘Mmm,’ he agreed. ‘I asked the boss if I could leave early so that I could take my wife out.’ ‘Idiot,’ she murmured, laughing softly. ‘You are the boss.’ ‘Obviously a very good one …’ he said, walking across to her and resting his hands lightly about her waist. There was only the slightest tenseness about his eyes to betray what they both knew. That this was a peace overture. ‘I said yes.’ So that was the way he was going to deal with it. Pretend last night had never happened. Love means never having to say that you’re sorry? Maybe. She lifted her hands to his shoulders, raised herself a little on her toes and kissed him, very lightly. ‘Thank you for the rose.’ ‘I’m glad you liked it.’ His face relaxed into a smile. ‘I risked life and limb climbing over the park railings to pick it for you.’ ‘Grey!’ she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth at the idea of a sober-suited solicitor clambering over the park fence at dawn. ‘You didn’t!’ He lifted one brow. ‘Idiot!’ she exclaimed. ‘Suppose someone had seen you?’ ‘If it made you happy it was worth the risk.’ He put one arm about her to draw her closer, and with his other hand he raked back the thick fringe of hair that grew over her brow and dropped a kiss there. ‘Besides, I know I could rely on you to bake me a sponge with a file in it and ingeniously smuggle it into jail. Your cakes are so heavy that no one would suspect a thing.’ ‘Idiot!’ she repeated, but this time flinging a punch at his shoulder. ‘Possibly,’ he agreed. ‘And I’ve got something else.’ He produced a pair of theatre tickets from his inside pocket and held them before her eyes. ‘You did want to see this?’ ‘Grey! How on earth did you manage to get hold of them?’ she demanded, eagerly reaching for them so that she could see for herself. ‘They’re like golddust.’ He smiled at her reaction. ‘You’ll have to retract the “idiot” first,’ he warned her, holding them tantalisingly out of her reach. ‘Unreservedly. Heavens, all this attention will go to my head,’ she said happily, leaning her head against his chest. ‘Oh? And who else has been spoiling you?’ ‘Only Steve Morley. He took me out to lunch,’ she added, lifting her head to look into his eyes. Was she hoping for some immediate confession about his own lunch date? If so, she was disappointed. ‘Lucky Steve,’ he said, with just a touch of acid in his voice. It was not lost on Abbie. Grey had never said anything, but Abbie sensed a certain reserve in his enthusiasm for that particular journalist and his newspaper. But then, since they took particular relish in hounding his brother, Robert Lockwood, a politician and the most glamorous member of the government front benches—including the women—that was hardly surprising. ‘Did he take you somewhere nice?’ She told him and his brows rose to a satisfactory height. ‘Spoilt indeed,’ he said, releasing her and crossing to the fridge to extract a carton of juice. ‘He must have been very pleased with your feature.’ ‘Very—in fact he immediately offered me a month in America.’ ‘I’m impressed,’ he said, without much enthusiasm, as he tipped the juice into the glass. ‘And so you should be,’ she declared, and, just a little peeved by the lack of congratulations, didn’t bother to tell him that she had turned it down. ‘You’re apparently married to one hot property. Steve was talking about awards for the tug-of-love story.’ ‘Just as well I didn’t leap at the chance of fatherhood, then.’ He sipped the juice. ‘So when will you be going?’ ‘You wouldn’t mind?’ she asked, heart sinking just a little. ‘I’ve never been away that long before.’ ‘We made a deal, Abbie. I’m not going to start coming the heavy husband now you’re on the brink of something special. You have to be available if you’re going to be a star.’ Being a star was becoming less attractive by the day. ‘I thought being good meant that you were able to pick and choose your assignments,’ she said. ‘Besides, what about our holiday? I’m looking forward to having you to myself for a couple of weeks.’ ‘You’d trade two weeks at an isolated cottage in Wales for a month in the States?’ She would trade anything for two weeks alone with him, and it didn’t matter where, but he didn’t wait for her answer. ‘Anyway, there’s been a bit of a hitch about the cottage.’ ‘Oh? I thought it was all arranged.’ Before she had gone away he had been full of plans. Most of them involving lying on the beach and doing absolutely nothing except making love for two weeks. He must have seen her disappointment, because he put down the glass and crossed to her. ‘I’m sorry, but Robert wants to use the cottage this summer, Abbie. It’s the one place the Press don’t know about; even if they found out, it’s hardly the easiest place to find, and the locals have a way of forgetting how to speak English when anybody starts getting nosy. He needs to spend some time with his family.’ Abbie felt a little stab of guilt. She had a very soft spot for her brother-in-law. Grey’s older brother was good-looking, brilliant—the youngest minister in the government. He should have been the happiest man alive. But he had a wife who kept him glued to her side with the threat of a scandal that would wipe out his career should he take one step to end their disastrous marriage. So he continued to play happy families for the benefit of the media, although he spent as much time as possible at his London flat and Jonathan, their son, was now at boarding-school. ‘How is Robert? I saw his photograph in the newspaper when I was on the plane. I thought he looked more at ease than I’ve seen him for a long time. Has there been some kind of reconciliation?’ she asked. ‘Is Susan going to the cottage with them?’ Grey didn’t answer, although his mouth hardened into a straight line. ‘Come on, let’s go out and enjoy ourselves.’ And it was only later, as she drifted off into sleep, that she remembered about the painting. It was three days later that Abbie saw Grey with his ‘pretty piece’. She had been shopping and had decided to drop in and see if he could join her for lunch in a local wine bar they occasionally went to. Her cab had just dropped her off outside the office when she saw his tall figure heading purposefully along the road and then turning into the small park in the square around the corner from his office. She set off after him. If he’d bought sandwiches to eat in the park she would happily share them. The good weather had brought out the office workers in droves, and they were sitting on benches and lying on the grass, soaking up the sun. Abbie lifted her hand to shade her eyes and swept the area for Grey. For a moment she didn’t see him. Then she did. And in that moment she wished, more than anything in the world, that she hadn’t seen him. That she hadn’t followed him. That she had decided to stay at home and do some dusting. That she was anywhere but this small green City oasis. A ‘pretty piece’ Steve had called her. Steve was right. But then he had a well-tuned eye when it came to a woman. She was small, with a delicate bone structure and the translucent complexion that so often went with very dark hair—hair that hung down her back, straight and shiny as a blackbird’s wing. Abbie felt a sharp stab of jealousy as she recognised that special kind of fragility that made men feel protective—the kind of fragility that she had never possessed as a self-consciously gawky teenager, a tall young woman. Grey was the only man she had ever known who had to bend to kiss her, but never in the way he bent now to tenderly kiss the cheek of his dark beauty. Then he put his arm about her shoulder as he leaned forward over the padded baby buggy she was wheeling, reaching out to touch the tiny starfish fingers of the infant lying there. It was a scene of such touching domesticity that if he had been some unknown man she would have glanced at the pair of them and thought what a perfectly charming picture they made. Abbie shrank back into the darker shade of the trees, her heart beating painfully, her throat aching with the urgent desire to scream, her hand clamped over her mouth to make sure she didn’t. She wanted to leave. Walk away. Run away from that place. The idea of spying on her own husband was so alien, so disgusting that she felt sick. But she remained rooted to the spot, unable to make her feet move, to tear her eyes from the two figures, or the baby lying gazing up at its mother, as they walked almost within touching distance of her on their slow circumnavigation of the path that rimmed the little park. ‘If there’s anything else you need, Emma, just ring me,’ Grey said as they passed, blithely unaware of Abbie standing motionless in the shadow of the trees. The girl murmured something that Abbie couldn’t hear and he shook his head. ‘At the office unless it’s an emergency.’ Then the girl looked up at Grey, her dark eyes anxious. ‘Yes, she came back a couple of days ago.’ There was apparently no need for further explanation. ‘I’ll take you down to the cottage as soon as …’ As they moved on, turned the corner, his voice no longer reached her. The cottage. He had arranged to take this girl called Emma to Ty Bach. All that talk about Robert had been lies … lies … No wonder he had wanted her to go to America. He had other plans for his summer vacation. And it was hardly surprising that he didn’t want her to have a child. He hadn’t wasted much time in arranging for a job-share wife, it seemed. But obviously one family at a time was enough. No, Abbie. A small voice inside her head issued an urgent warning. You’re leaping to conclusions. There might be a rational explanation. Must be. This was some girl from the office who had become pregnant, needed help. Or someone from the law centre. A client. No, not a client. He had kissed her, and kissing clients—even on the cheek—was asking for trouble. But something. Please God, something—anything. Think! But her brain was as responsive as cotton wool. When the pair reached an unoccupied bench on the far side of the park, Emma sat down and Grey joined her, his arm stretched protectively along the back of the seat. They chatted easily for a while, laughed at some shared joke. Then Grey, glancing at his watch, produced an envelope from inside his jacket pocket. Emma took it, stowed it carefully in her bag without opening it and then, when Grey stood up, got quickly to her feet and hugged him. He held her for a moment, then, disengaging himself, he looked once more at the sleeping child and touched the baby’s dark curls before turning to walk briskly back towards the gate. There had been nothing in their behaviour to excite interest. No passionate kiss, no lingering glances. They had looked for all the world like any happily married couple with a new baby, meeting in the park at lunchtime. Abbie instinctively took a step further back into the cover of the bushes as Grey approached the gate, but he looked neither to left nor right. Then he crossed the road and stopped at a flower stall to buy a bunch of creamy pink roses, laughing at something the flower-seller said as he paid for them. A moment later he had disappeared from sight, and Abbie finally stepped out into the dazzling sunlight. For once in her life—her ordered, planned, tidy life—Abbie didn’t know what to do. And then quite suddenly she did. It was perfectly clear. She was a journalist. Not the foot-in-the-door investigative kind, but nevertheless a trained observer, with a mind cued to extract information as painlessly as possible from even the most reluctant of interviewees. If this were a story she would go across to where the girl was still sitting on the shady bench and find some way to strike up a conversation. It shouldn’t be difficult, for heaven’s sake. Babies and dogs were a gift—guaranteed to make the most reserved people open up. She didn’t want to do it, but she had to. And on legs that felt as if they were made of watery jelly, Abbie forced herself to walk towards the girl her husband had put his arm around and called Emma. She had nothing in her mind. No plan. No idea of what she was going to say. But it wasn’t necessary. As she approached the bench the girl looked up and smiled. No, not a girl. Close up, Abbie realised that she must be hearer thirty than twenty. A woman. ‘It’s really too hot for shopping, isn’t it?’ she said as she saw Abbie’s bags. Her voice was silvery, light and delicate, like the rest of her. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Was it hot? She felt so terribly cold inside that she couldn’t have said. But it was an opening and she sat down. ‘Did you buy anything nice?’ A simple question. Difficult to answer, but she managed it. ‘A shirt and a sweater. For my husband,’ she added, unable to help herself. No! Put the woman at her ease—talk to her, her subconscious prodded her. Forget that this is personal. Treat it like any other story. ‘And socks,’ she continued. ‘Men never seem to have enough socks, do they?’ Smile. Make yourself smile. ‘I have this theory that there is a conspiracy between the washing machine manufacturers and the sock-makers …’ Apparently the grimace that locked her jaw had been somehow convincing, because Emma laughed. ‘You could be right. But I wouldn’t care if I could only just go out and buy a pair of socks for my man. Unfortunately he has the kind of wife who would notice.’ ‘Oh?’ Would she? Would she query strange socks in the laundry? Yes, she rather thought she would. ‘I can’t even keep things for him at my place. It would be so easy to get them muddled up.’ ‘I suppose so.’ Abbie felt herself blushing at such unexpected frankness, yet she was well aware of how easily some people would talk about even their most intimate lives to perfect strangers. Especially if there were constraints on talking to family or friends. But the last thing on earth she wanted to discuss with this woman was her ‘man’s’ wife. She stared at the buggy. ‘A baby is rather more personal than a pair of socks,’ she said, forcing the words from her unwilling lips. But she had to be sure. ‘The greatest gift of all.’ The woman’s smile was full of secrets as she leaned forward and touched the child’s fingers. ‘That’s what he said. And, while he may leave me one day, I’ll always have his child.’ ‘How old is he?’ Abbie asked hoarsely, as jealousy, like bile burning in her throat, swept over her. ‘Twelve weeks.’ The woman called Emma brushed back the mop of dark hair that decorated his tiny head. ‘He was born just after Easter.’ When Abbie had been steeping herself in the miseries of an African refugee camp. Had Grey been with this woman, holding her hand, encouraging her as she went through the pangs of giving birth to his son? No! Her heart rebelled. Surely it was impossible. And yet … She leaned over the buggy, letting her hair swing forward to cover her expression, and as she came face to face with the sleepy child she felt the blood drain from her face. ‘He’s beautiful,’ she said, her voice coming from somewhere miles distant. As beautiful as his father had been as a baby. Abbie remembered her laughter as they had looked through a pile of old family photograph albums that they had found when they had cleared his father’s house last year. Grey had been a bonny, bright-eyed baby, with a mop of black curly hair. The child lying in front of her might have been his twin. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked, wondering that she could sit there and pretend that nothing was happening. Grateful for the numbness that somehow stopped her screaming with pain … ‘Matthew.’ ‘Matthew?’ Not Grey. At least he hadn’t done that to her. But it was bad enough as with every painful scrap of hard-won fact she became more certain of just what he had done. Matthew Lockwood. Founder of Lockwood, Gates and Meadows, solicitors. Grey’s father, her dear, kind father-in-law, who had been dead for just a year. The child had been named for him. ‘It’s a lovely name,’ she said quickly, as she saw that some response was expected. ‘Your …’ What? What could she call him? Friend? Lover? Her mouth refused to frame the word. ‘He must be very happy.’ The woman leaned forward and touched the child, and his little hand tightened trustingly about her finger. ‘Yes. He’s thrilled with the baby—sees him whenever he can. But it’s difficult for him.’ She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘His wife would never give him a divorce.’ And that finally broke through the pain and at last made her angry. ‘Wouldn’t she?’ Abbie asked, a little grimly. Now she knew, was absolutely certain, that Grey had been having an affair, deceiving her for at least the better part of a year. And in a way he was deceiving this woman too, with his lies. What had he said about her? How had he described her? Did the mother of his child know that when he left her bed, when he came home, he made sweet love to her as if … as if she was the only woman in the world? Except that she wasn’t. How could he do that? The man she loved, had thought she knew, was suddenly a stranger. A stranger who could, it seemed, smile as if his heart was all hers, tell her that he loved her, with the taste of this woman’s kisses still upon his lips. The very thought was like a knife driving through her heart. How could she not have suspected? Not have seen the deceit in his eyes? Only anger made her strong enough to sit there and carry on as if her world wasn’t disintegrating about her, kept her head high as she turned to Emma, determined to discover just how far his lies extended. ‘Has he asked his wife for a divorce?’ The woman gave the tiniest little shrug, the bravest of smiles. ‘I wouldn’t let him. A messy divorce would cause problems. With his job.’ She gave a little shake of the baby’s hand, turning her head away to hide the sparkle of tears. ‘And we can’t let Daddy have that, can we, sweetheart?’ And the baby gave a broad, gummy smile. It was a nightmare. A waking nightmare from which there could never be the escape of knowing that, no matter how dreadful, it had all been nothing but a horrible dream. But still Abbie pushed herself. The greater the betrayal, the more it hurt her, the better. With every thrust of the knife the easier it would be to do what she had once thought impossible and hate him. ‘A divorce is no big deal these days, surely?’ she insisted, denying herself any avenue of escape. Then she added hopefully, ‘Unless he’s your doctor?’ ‘Oh, no!’ Emma exclaimed, horrified. ‘He’s …’ She hesitated, as if she shouldn’t say what he was. ‘He’s a lawyer.’ ‘I see.’ And she did see—all too clearly. She had wanted to be sure and now Emma’s words rang like the clang of doom, slamming the door closed on any possibility of doubt. His confession written in blood couldn’t have been more convincing. One of Grey’s associates had been obliged to resign from the firm a year or so back, after having an affair with one of his clients. Her husband had turned nasty. She looked at the hand linked with the baby’s fingers and she could see the telltale mark where a wedding ring had once rested. Was that how she had met Grey? Sobbing out her heartbreak in her husband’s office? How impossible to refuse this fragile creature a comfortable shoulder to cry on. How easy to become emotionally entangled when your wife was away for weeks at a time. ‘I don’t mind, really. I knew all along that he would never leave her and I accepted that. At least I have Matthew.’ ‘Maybe it will all work out,’ Abbie said dully. ‘You mustn’t give up hope. Things change.’ ‘Do you think so? I do sometimes dream about it.’ Emma gave a little smile. ‘Sometimes we can be together for a while and pretend. He has a cottage in the country that he shares with his brother. They’re very close, and he’s been so good about us using it …’ She glanced at her watch and leapt to her feet. ‘Is that the time? I must be off—it’ll soon be time for Matthew’s feed.’ She kicked off the buggy’s brake, then paused to look down at Abbie, her face creased in concern. ‘Are you all right? You look rather pale. Would you like a drink? I’ve got a can …’ ‘No!’ She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Really, I’m fine. Thank you.’ Civilised behaviour. She should be scratching the woman’s eyes out … but what good would that do? The woman called Emma smiled uncertainly. ‘If you’re sure?’ ‘Don’t keep Matthew waiting for his lunch,’ she said, forcing a smile. For a moment she remained where she was, watching Emma wheel the jaunty little buggy around the bright flowerbeds. Then she too stood up and walked away, leaving her shopping behind her on the bench. It was just after three when she arrived at the flat. Plenty of time to put the matter beyond all doubt before Grey came home. Not that there was any doubt left in her mind, but the evidence so far was purely circumstantial. She knew enough of the law to know the dangers of convicting on that. She took the ring binders from the shelf and flicked back through the credit card accounts, meticulously filed month by month and paid on the dot. April. The day after she had flown out to Africa. Petrol purchased at a service station just inside the Welsh border. The same date. A trip to a supermarket in Carmarthen. She and Grey had shopped there the last time they had stayed at the cottage. May. Where had she been in May? Two days on an oil rig in the north sea. More petrol. Another trip to the supermarket. She wondered what had headed the shopping list. Disposable nappies? June. Another trip to Wales. Each entry was a knife wound in her heart. The July account had not yet arrived, but the slips were there to prove his lie. On the day he had told her he was working in Manchester he had filled his petrol tank on the M4 near Cardiff. She remembered that he had been wearing jeans the day she’d come home, the scent of woodsmoke clinging to them. For a moment misery threatened to engulf her as she clung to the desk. Then, taking a deep breath, she forced herself to go on. There was no time for misery. Yet. She put the file back on the shelf and took down the one containing the statements for Grey’s personal account. He hadn’t even bothered to disguise his transactions. Large single payments of exactly the same amount for the last three months. And, remembering the envelope she had seen him pass to Emma, she had presumably witnessed another of those payments today. Tucked into the correspondence pocket of the file was a letter dated two days earlier from the bank, confirming that a trust fund had been set up in the name of Matthew Harper, using the proceeds of the sale of the Degas … She had asked him what had happened to the painting. He had told her that it had been sold to help Robert out of a financial jam. And she had believed him. CHAPTER THREE (#u6f97f602-35ab-514b-a4c2-6a6d01046b45) FOR a long time Abbie sat there considering the possibility of revenge. Why not? She could wreck his career, drag in his brother, throw the kind of mud that, no matter how much you tried to wash it off, stuck like glue. One call to Steve and all the deceit, the lies would be plastered on the front page. Not because anyone would care about Grey or her, but because of Robert. And hurting Robert would hurt Grey. And she wanted to hurt him. She wanted him to know how it felt to be betrayed. She knew all the right people to call in order to do the maximum amount of damage. She could break apart his life, make him suffer as she was suffering now. She was hunched over the desk, her head resting on tense little fists as she forced herself to believe what a week ago would have been unthinkable: that he had lied to her, deceived her, betrayed her. She had every right to hurt him with any weapon she could lay her hand on … Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/liz-fielding/the-three-year-itch/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.