Читать книгу The Bachelor's Baby - Liz Fielding - Страница 6

JAKE HALLAM couldn’t take his eyes off her. She arrived late for the christening, caught in one of the showers that had been chasing across the valley all day, and as she walked towards him a sudden shaft of sunlight lit up in the raindrops that clung to her.

They sparkled against the silver-grey velvet cloak that swirled around her ankles. Sparkled on the spray of flowers she was carrying. Sparkled on long dark lashes that curtained her eyes.

Then she pushed back the wide hood of her cloak and the sun, slanting through the stained glass of the old church, lit up the short, elfin cut of her pale blonde hair.

The baby, nestling in his mother’s arms, whimpered restlessly and the newcomer leaned over, touched his cheek. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she cooed softly, in a voice like melted chocolate. The infant’s complaint was immediately transformed into a smile.

And then she looked up, straight into his eyes, and repeated the soft, ‘Hello’. Even without the ‘gorgeous’ tag, he felt the same instant desire to grin as she offered him a slender hand. ‘I’m Amaryllis Jones.’

‘Amaryllis?’

‘That’s just for formalities,’ she said gravely. ‘Now we’ve been introduced you may call me Amy.’ He would have done, if he could have caught his breath. ‘And you’re Jacob Hallam. Willow and Mike have told me all about you.’

‘It’s Jake,’ he said quickly. ‘And whatever Willow and Mike have told you—’ he bit back the denial as he remembered where he was ‘—is probably true.’

‘Really?’ The corners of her mouth tucked into a small, teasing smile as she tilted her head thoughtfully to one side. ‘I wonder. So few people live up—or down—to their reputations.’

Even as he struggled to remind himself that he was in church, godfather to the infant about to be baptised and with no business to be thinking the kind of thoughts that were racing through his head, she turned away to kiss Willow, the baby’s mother, and apologise for her lateness.

‘I noticed the bluebells in the orchard as I was leaving. They’re just the colour of Ben’s eyes so I stopped to pick some.’

That was all. Normality returned. Amy took baby Ben from his mother. The vicar ushered them towards the font and Jake thought he must have imagined the spark of something hot and sweet that had crossed the space between himself and Amy. An unspoken promise that said… Not now. Later.

As if she’d read his mind Amaryllis Jones lifted her lashes, flickered a sideways glance at him.

Her eyes weren’t blue. They were green and ocean-deep and he was suddenly out of his depth and floundering. It was an unfamiliar sensation and every instinct warned him that he should head for the door while he still could. But he was keeping a promise he’d made to stand as godfather to Mike and Willow’s first child and escape wasn’t an option.

Yet all through the service Jake was distracted by the scent of the flowers she carried. It wove a spell through his mind so that all through the tea that followed, and the champagne and the toasts to baby Ben’s health and happiness, he was intensely aware of her presence shimmering on the edge of his consciousness. Once the photographs had been taken, and escape was possible, they had circled the company, keeping the maximum distance between them as if by unspoken agreement, understanding that to be close was to risk instant conflagration.

But when he’d glanced in her direction he’d had the feeling that he’d just missed meeting her gaze. Maybe it was simply his imagination working overtime. Maybe. Yet without a word spoken, without a gesture or so much as a lift of a brow, they arrived at the door at the same time, ready to leave.

‘Hold on, Amy, it’s raining again,’ Mike said, as he walked them to the door. ‘You’ll get wet on your broomstick. I’ll run you home.’

‘Broomstick?’ Jake repeated, turning to risk the heat of those dangerous eyes.

And for the first time since she’d arrived in church Amy met his gaze head-on. ‘Mike thinks I’m a witch.’ She should have been smiling. She wasn’t. ‘Don’t you, Mike?’ she asked, but her eyes continued to hold Jake prisoner.

Mike hesitated, and she tilted her head back and laughed, her throat a perfect white curve that Jake’s hand ached to cradle. Then Willow called from the nursery and Amy said, ‘You’re needed, Mike.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘I’ll take Amy home,’ Jake said.

‘You’re quite sure? It’s out of your way…’

‘Quite sure.’ He’d been going that way ever since Amy had looked at him. Maybe Mike was right. Maybe she was a witch.

‘Oh. Right. Well, thanks… And thank you for today. Both of you. Give us a call when you get back from the States, Jake. Come and stay.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, Mike added, ‘And take care.’

They paused on the doorstep and there was a moment of silence while Amy, her eyes level with his, regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You’re quite sure?’ she asked after a moment, echoing Mike’s words.

She wasn’t talking about the lift.

Neither was he when he replied, ‘Quite sure.’ Jake led the way to his car, opened the door. Her cloak trailed over the edge and he bent to lift it, tuck it inside. The material was soft, sensual beneath his fingers. Silk velvet. Like a woman’s skin. Maybe that was why his hands were shaking as he slid the key into the ignition. ‘Which way?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Left.’ He glanced at her. ‘I live on the other side of the village. It’s not far.’

Not far, but it was a different world. Mike and Willow’s home was minimalist modern, a labour-saving miracle of architecture designed for busy people and set in a low maintenance courtyard garden with a small paddock beyond that was grazed by a neighbour’s elderly pony.

Amy, in total contrast, lived in a piecrust cottage surrounded by an old-fashioned garden filled with spring flowers that bloomed with wild abandon. They spilled over onto the brick paths, splattering their legs with raindrops as they ran for the door.

Once they’d reached the shelter of the pitch-roofed porch they paused for breath. And to look at one another. Take a moment to consider. Nothing had been said, but they both knew that once he was beyond the front door all the thoughts that were now safely in their heads would spill over into unstoppable action; there would be no stepping back.

It was as if she was saying, You’re quite sure? again. But this time silently. His own silence was all the answer she needed, and she held out her key to him. It hung there between them, shimmering dull silver in the stormy light, and at the back of Jake’s mind warning bells began to ring.

‘I don’t do commitment,’ he said roughly. Almost hoping that she would tell him to go. Leave. Get out.

She didn’t say any of those things. She said nothing, her green eyes holding his, demanding that he make his own decision about whether to go or stay. The warning bells clanged with a desperate urgency but all afternoon her eyes had silently promised him everything he had ever wanted from a woman. Promised that she would fulfil his every dream.

She was wasting her time. He had no dreams. He was a hollow man, rich in the stuff that money could buy, but without a heart, incapable of love.

Most of the time he lived with it, scarcely noticing the emptiness. Today, wrapped in the warmth of friends whose love for each other, whose happiness had reached new heights with the birth of their baby son, he had been painfully aware of his own shortcomings.

Amy Jones was offering him a chance to forget, lose himself for a few hours, and without a word he gathered in key and woman in one movement. For a moment he simply held her, breathed in the scent of rain-washed earth and wallflowers and bluebells. For a moment anything seemed possible.

Fantasy, he knew, but his mouth came down on hers with a deep hunger, a longing to be proved wrong.