Читать книгу Falling for Mr. Mysterious - Barbara Hannay - Страница 8

NIGHTS were the worst for Jude. During the day, he could keep his thoughts under control and he wouldn’t allow himself to worry. At night, however, the shadowy fears returned to haunt him, jumping out to snare him when he was almost asleep, or sneaking by the back door, sliding into his dreams.

Tonight, he came awake, shaking and drenched in a cold sweat, and he sat up quickly, hating the fact that waking brought very little comfort. His real life was almost as frightening as his dreams. His increasingly frequent headaches pointed to something serious, especially as lately his vision had begun to blur at the edges.

Alone at night, with no distractions, he found it so much harder to stop himself from worrying. This damn problem was dominating his life right now—even though he tried to hide it as best he could. All his life he’d viewed any illness as weakness—a bad habit he’d no doubt learned from his father, who’d never had any sympathy for their childhood illnesses. Measles, flu, grazed knees … his dad had always made his irritation very apparent.

Once, when Jude was about ten, he’d broken his leg playing football.

‘This will be a test of your manhood,’ his father had said. ‘Nobody likes a whinger.’

It was a message Jude had taken to heart.

Now, he noted the time—three-thirty a.m.—which wasn’t too bad. He’d already had several hours’ sleep, and he only had to manage for a few more hours before it would be daylight again.

Rolling over, he closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, but in the perfect stillness he heard noises coming from down the hall.

Soft sounds of crying.

From Emily’s room.

Any lingering thoughts about his own problems vanished. Jude sat up, listening intently through the darkness. Emily’s sobs were muffled, no doubt by her pillow, but, even so, the crying went on and on in an uncontrollable outpouring of misery.

The sounds were like hammer blows to Jude’s conscience. He knew damn well that if Alex were here Emily wouldn’t be crying like this. He’d promised Alex he’d keep an eye on her.

His feet hit the floor and he was halfway across the room before his head caught up with his chivalrous impulses.

OK. What, exactly, was he planning to do? Go to Emily? Offer her a shoulder to cry on?

Brilliant. If she’d broken her heart over a good-for-nothing boyfriend, she was hardly going to welcome another lusty bloke offering to hold her in his arms.

Sinking back onto the edge of his bed, Jude remembered the way she’d looked at dinner as she’d talked about her unhappy track record with men. She’d seemed so fragile, with shadows beneath her eyes and a trembling droop to her soft pink mouth. It was hard to believe she was the same tough cookie who managed an entire district’s bank accounts.

Obviously, the louse of a boyfriend had struck a cruel blow, and she’d come here to recuperate. To be consoled by Alex.

Alex would have known how to help her. Alex would have listened and encouraged her to talk and he would have known, instinctively, what she needed. Whereas Jude felt utterly helpless and totally inadequate. To make matters worse, he’d more or less accepted her offer to leave, which was tantamount to booting her out of the door.

How lousy was that after he’d promised to look out for her?

At last the crying settled down, but Jude couldn’t get back to sleep. He was in the kitchen quite early, brewing coffee, when Emily came into the room. In her nightgown.

Far out. He almost dropped the coffee pot. What was she thinking?

Her nightdress wasn’t deliberately provocative or see-through, but the frothy concoction of cream and lace frills hinted at her nakedness underneath. And, with her red-gold hair tumbling about her pale shoulders, she looked like an old-fashioned princess, a young Elizabeth the First. An appealing but tired princess who’d spent a troubled and anguished night.

Jude tried his best not to stare at the delightful hints of her breasts and bottom. He wondered if Emily assumed he was immune—gay, like Alex. He knew he should probably explain that this wasn’t the case, but he wasn’t sure how he could introduce the subject without tying himself in knots and embarrassing them both.

Instead, he tried to cover his reaction with an attempt at cheerfulness. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked brightly. ‘In the mood for pancakes? Or bacon and eggs?’

To his surprise, Emily made a shooing gesture. ‘Don’t worry about breakfast. I can look after it. You need to start your writing.’

‘What are you? A slave-driver?’ He smiled to indicate this was an attempt at humour.

Emily merely blinked. ‘I thought you wrote madly all day and didn’t bother about meals.’

Well, yes, he had given that impression last night, hadn’t he? Truth was, he’d been writing since four a.m., and his hunger pangs had steadily mounted. For hours now he’d been fantasising about the breakfast ingredients they’d bought last night.

About to grab a frying pan, he saw, again, the red-rimmed despair in Emily’s eyes, lingering traces of her midnight tears. She would probably find cheery chatter at breakfast painful. Perhaps the kindest thing he could offer was to stay clear and hide behind his work.

‘I’ll head off then,’ he said quickly. ‘But, before I go, I’ve been thinking about your plan to leave. You know there’s no need.’

He couldn’t quite believe he’d said that. The words had jumped out of nowhere.

Emily looked surprised, too. Her eyes widened and Jude almost back-pedalled. His life over the next week would be so much easier without her here.

‘Are you sure, Jude?’

‘Of course. You’re Alex’s cousin, and he wants to make his home welcome to you. You’ve more right to be here than I have.’

Her blue eyes sparkled with a suspicious sheen. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

Jude was quite sure he hadn’t been half as kind as Alex had hoped. He cleared his throat. ‘And if you need to talk …’

To his dismay, Emily flushed brightly.

‘I don’t mean to pry,’ he added awkwardly. ‘I’m not Alex, but if there’s any way I can help …’

‘That’s sweet of you, Jude, but I couldn’t dump my problems onto you.’

He shrugged, unsure what to say. Counselling was so not his forte.

Then Emily gave a helpless flap of her hands. ‘Oh, heck. Perhaps I should tell you what happened. Just to clear the air.’

He waited, leaning against the door jamb, trying to look as if he had all the time in the world.

‘I’ve been seeing a geologist for over a year,’ she said quietly but steadily. ‘His name’s Michael and he came to Wandabilla regularly as part of his work. Exploratory prospecting—that sort of thing. And—’ she gave a hopeless little shrug ‘—he was charming and sexy and I fell in love …’

On the word love her voice cracked and she took another deep breath while her gaze was fixed on the jug of yellow daffodils on the kitchen counter.

‘This week, Michael and I were supposed to go away on holiday together. I’d taken my annual leave. Everything was planned.’

Again Emily paused, paying serious attention to the daffodils. ‘We were due to fly to Fiji, but on the night before our flight, a friend sent me a link to a Facebook page. Actually, it was a link to Michael’s wife’s Facebook page.’

Suddenly, her mouth twisted out of shape.

Jude’s throat tightened. ‘You’re absolutely sure it was him?’ he asked, keeping any hint of reproach from his voice.

Emily nodded. ‘Michael admitted it. He could hardly deny it when the photo was there on the screen. There he was with his lovely wife and two beautiful children. They live in South Australia and his name’s not even Michael. It’s Mark.’

Jude’s hands fisted, itching to land a punch on the rat’s nose.

‘So that’s my sad little story.’ Emily’s lips tilted in a travesty of a smile. ‘But please don’t worry. I’m OK. Heartbreak’s not fatal. I’ll get over it.’

‘But you must stay here as long as you need to,’ Jude said. ‘Try not to take any notice of me. Just treat this place as your own.’

‘Well, if you’re sure … thanks.’

He raised his coffee mug in a salute, and managed to smile. ‘I’ll be off to the salt mines, but I might sneak back later to make some toast.’

‘Oh, I can make toast for you.’ Suddenly she was eager, as if to make amends. ‘What would you like on it? Marmalade? A slice of bacon?’

‘Ah—bacon would be great. Thank you.’

‘Actually,’ she said with a hopeful look, ‘I make a great bacon sandwich.’

‘Sounds terrific.’

As Jude retreated to his room, he told himself that keeping his distance from Emily was, truly, his wisest option. She needed privacy to get over her heartache, and he had plenty of reasons to keep to himself.

Reasons he preferred not to think about now. But the appointment at the hospital was looming towards him like headlights on a speeding freight train. Every time he thought about the tests and the possible outcome, he was flooded by a rush of anxiety.

Shaking those thoughts aside, he opened his work in progress, and he prayed that his muse would be friendly, letting him escape into a world of fantasy.

The words did not flow.

Not the right words, at any rate. Jude’s morning commenced poorly and came to a grinding halt when Emily, still in her nightdress, appeared at his door with a tray.

‘Breakfast,’ she said softly, as if she were afraid to interrupt a genius at work.

The tray held the promised bacon sandwich, which smelled amazing, as well as a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and another pot of coffee.

‘My ministering angel,’ he told her and she gave a self-conscious laugh.

‘Hardly.’

‘Well, in that get-up, you look like some kind of angel.’

She blushed and looked upset and Jude immediately wished he could take the words back. Too late, she was already whirling away and he found himself watching her retreating heels, flashing pink beneath the frilled hem of her nightdress.

He didn’t see her again for the rest of the day. Which was, he decided, a very good thing.

Naturally he was grateful that he’d been left in peace. Except … the afternoon’s writing fared as badly as the morning’s. Ideas wouldn’t come. Words evaded Jude and when he emerged from his room at the end of the day, he felt particularly irritable and sluggish. And mad with himself for wasting precious hours.

Usually, when he felt like this, he went for a long, brisk walk to shake out the cobwebs. This evening, however, he was distracted by enticing aromas wafting from the kitchen.

Following his nose, he discovered Emily wrapped in one of Alex’s gaudy aprons, and looking especially fetching with her bright hair pinned up in a loose knot from which fiery tendrils escaped.

‘That smells amazing.’

She turned to him and she was a bit pink and flushed, but much happier than she’d been when she’d left his office this morning. In fact, she sent him a bright-eyed smile. ‘It’s coq au vin. I hope you like it.’

‘I’m sure I’ll love it, but I don’t expect you to cook for me, Emily.’

‘I don’t mind. I like cooking, and it’s my way of repaying you for last night’s dinner.’ She shot him a quick enquiring glance. ‘Or were you planning to go out?’

It occurred to Jude that he should have called one of his mates and planned an evening out. Surely that was a wiser plan than spending another night at home with this far too attractive girl.

However, he found himself saying, ‘I don’t have any plans.’ And he helped himself to a glass of iced water from the fridge. ‘That dinner smells sensational.’

‘So speaks a self-confessed pushover when it comes to food.’

‘Sprung,’ he admitted with a rueful smile.

Emily smiled, too, and he thought he could stare at her smile for ever …

‘I’ve tried to keep quiet,’ she said. ‘Have you had a productive day?’

‘Not very.’

For a moment she looked worried, but then her eyes widened with unmistakable excitement. ‘I bought one of your novels this afternoon. It’s called Thorn in the Flesh and I’ve started reading it. It’s fabulous, Jude. Totally gripping. I’m hooked, and it’s exactly what I needed to stop me from dwelling … on … everything.’

‘I’m glad it hit the spot.’

To his surprise, she folded her arms and leant a shapely hip against a kitchen cupboard with the air of someone settling in for a discussion. ‘Morgan, the heroine, is really tough,’ she said. ‘Mentally tough. And I like the way she guards her heart.’ Emily rolled her eyes. ‘I should be more like her.’

Jude shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re too hard on yourself. Fictional characters are always larger than life.’

‘That’s true, I guess.’

‘I could never live up to my hero’s standards.’

She nodded. ‘Raff’s a very cool customer, isn’t he?’

‘Of course.’

Of course … Jude thought. His heroes had always been very cool and very tough, ever since he’d first created them for the stories he told to his little sister, Charlotte. At the age of eight he’d been trying to drown out the nightly ordeal of their parents’ rowdy arguments.

These days, with new enemies, Jude wished it was as easy to escape from reality.

Emily had turned to the stove and was adjusting the flame beneath the fragrantly simmering pot. ‘Have you heard from Alex?’ she asked casually.

‘Not today.’

‘Do you miss him?’ She gave the pot a stir.

Finishing his iced water, Jude shrugged. ‘Not especially. He’ll only be away for three weeks or so.’

Then he saw the way Emily was watching him, her blue eyes soft and round with obvious sympathy, and he realised with a slam of dismay that she’d decided he was Alex’s lover.

He should deny it now. Tell her the truth. Hell, just looking at her in her simple jeans and Alex’s striped apron, Jude was fighting off desire so strong that it startled him. He was surprised that Emily could stand there in the same room and not be aware of his screaming lust.

Thing was, it should have been dead easy to set her straight. How hard was it to make a simple statement? By the way, Emily, I’m not gay.

All things being equal, he would have told her. Immediately. No problem.

Except … there were other factors at play here. Emily was enjoying a kind of immunity in this apartment, but if she knew the truth about him, she was likely to pick up on the attraction he felt. For all kinds of reasons, that was a bad idea.

Her trust in men had taken a severe hammering and she’d come here seeking sanctuary. Feeling safe was very important to her right now, and Jude didn’t want to upset that. This apartment offered her time-out. From men. Time to pick up the pieces after her recent relationship disaster. The last thing she needed was an awareness of a new guy with the hots for her.

Just as importantly, Jude knew he was totally crazy to entertain randy thoughts when he’d come to the city to find out what the hell was wrong with him. He needed a medical diagnosis, not a romantic entanglement with the first gorgeous girl who walked through the door.

All things considered, it was much easier and safer to simply let Emily assume that he was gay. After all, she wouldn’t be here for long, and he—

Hell. He had his life on hold until he knew what the future had in store for him.

When Emily woke the next morning she felt marginally happier. She’d slept quite well during the night, no doubt because she’d gone to bed feeling thoroughly relaxed after a pleasant evening at home with Jude.

They’d enjoyed a leisurely meal, which Jude had complimented lavishly, and then they’d sunk into comfy armchairs and read novels in the pleasantly heated lounge room while CDs played softly in the background. It had been rather cosy and undemanding, the kind of evening she’d often spent with Alex.

Now, having dressed in jeans and a sweater because she didn’t want another comment about angels and nightgowns, she wandered into the kitchen at almost nine o’clock. It was the longest sleep she’d had in ages. No wonder she felt better.

To her surprise, there were no signs that Jude was up. The kettle was cold, which meant he’d either made his cuppa long ago, or he hadn’t bothered.

She made coffee and blueberry pancakes and assembled a breakfast tray, as she had on the previous day, then knocked softly on Jude’s door. After all, bringing him breakfast was the least she could do when he was hard at work and generously sharing his living space with her.

He didn’t answer to her knock, which was another surprise. She wondered if he was in some kind of artistic frenzy, typing madly as the clever words flowed straight from his imagination through his fingertips and onto the keyboard. He might be very angry if she interrupted.

Then again … he’d welcomed the breakfast she’d prepared yesterday. She knocked again, less cautiously this time.

There was a muffled growl from inside.

‘Jude, would you like coffee and pancakes?’

At first he didn’t answer, but then the door opened slowly and Jude leant a bulky shoulder against the door frame. He was wearing black boxer shorts and a holey grey T-shirt that hugged his muscly arms and chest. His eyes were squinted as if the muted light in the hallway was too bright.

His dark hair was tousled into rough spikes, his jaw covered in a thin layer of dark stubble, but it was the glassy strain in his eyes that told Emily he was in pain.

‘I won’t bother with breakfast this morning,’ he said dully. Then, added as an afterthought, ‘Thanks, those pancakes look great, but I’m not hungry.’

‘Are you unwell?’

‘Headache.’

‘Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can get you? Do you need aspirin? Camomile tea?’

A ghost of a smile flitted over his face and he started to shake his head, then grimaced, as if the movement was too painful. ‘I have medication. Don’t worry, I’m used to this. I’ll hit the sack for an hour or so and then I should be fine.’

Clearly, Jude didn’t want to be bothered by any more questions, so Emily tiptoed away, leaving him to rest, but she felt disturbed and worried. She’d experienced guys with hangovers, but Jude hadn’t been drinking, and he’d said he was used to these headaches. How awful for him.

A pool of morning sunlight on the balcony beckoned, so, feeling unaccountably subdued, she ate her breakfast at a little wrought-iron-and-glass table, with Thorn in the Flesh propped against a pot plant. She finished the last two chapters while she ate.

Jude’s story was wonderful. Not only was there a fabulously thrilling chase at the end to catch the bad guys, but there was also a lovely and poignant romantic finale for the deserving hero and heroine. She marvelled that a gay man could portray the male-female emotions so perfectly.

There was only one problem. When Emily put the book down, she came back to earth with an abrupt and unhappy thud. Her own romances had never finished happily. Every one of them had ended suddenly and miserably, leaving her to feel like The World’s Greatest Romantic Loser.

She couldn’t help wondering if there was something crucially wrong with her personality. Some genetic defect that caused her to always fall for the wrong man.

All she wanted, really, was to be like her parents, to find one person to love, one relationship to feel safe inside. She’d grown up watching their warmth and affection and she’d listened many times to their story of how they’d met at a country dance and married young, never regretting their decision.

Even her brother Jack had been lucky in love. He’d married his high school sweetheart, Kelly, a girl from a nearby farm. There’d only ever been one girl for Jack, and now he and Kelly were ridiculously happy.

Emily’s family made finding love look easy, and yet she’d tried so many times and failed. Now, she punished herself with memories, starting with Dimitri, the dark and ruggedly handsome Russian choreographer at the ballet school in Melbourne.

Having taken advantage of her youth and naivety, Dimitri had promptly dropped her overnight when he took up with one of the stars of the Australian Ballet. Emily had taken almost a year to recover from that heartbreak.

Back home in the Wandabilla district, she’d met Dave, a nice, safe farmer, and this time she was sure she’d struck gold. She would marry and live on a farm near her family, and she could envision her happy future so easily.

Dave had been as different from Dimitri as possible—practical and rough around the edges, and not the slightest bit interested in ‘culture’. She’d been happy to swap satin pointe shoes and the barre for tractors and cow manure.

But Dave’s first love was rodeos and, eventually, he’d taken off on the competition circuit, travelling to all the outback events. He’d expected Emily to throw up her job and follow him, but she wasn’t prepared to do that, she’d realised, much to her own surprise.

In western New South Wales, Dave had discovered Annie, a camp-drafting champion who shared his passion, and his phone calls to Emily had stopped.

After that, Emily had thrown herself into her work. She’d attended workshops on customer relations and marketing, and any other professional development programmes that could boost her up the corporate ladder.

When she’d dived into the dating pool—unsurprisingly, it was rather shallow in Wandabilla—she’d set herself strict rules. No longer would she be so trusting and open, and she wouldn’t allow herself to fall in love again until she met a man who ticked all the right boxes. Following her new plan, she’d never gone out with any one fellow more than a few times, and she was determined from then on that she would be the one who ended her relationships.

She had been feeling quite confident again. Before Michael had arrived in town.

Conservatively good-looking, intelligent and charming, Michael had been perfect. Emily had learned from her mistakes, however, and she’d resisted his attention at first. Michael had chased her with flattering persistence and, in the end, she’d decided he was genuine in his admiration.

And surely he was safe? He wasn’t a foreign artist or an outback drifter. He wasn’t even a local. He was a geologist from South Australia, prospecting in the Wandabilla district for a mining company.

Admittedly, Michael was only in her district for six weeks at a time, but he flew back regularly, and he always wrote to her or phoned her while he was away.

In time she was confident that he was The One.

After all, weren’t geologists clever and educated, and as solid and dependable as the rocks they studied?

What a joke.

Emily let out a long groan of frustration. And pain.

Losing Michael hurt. So much. Her pain went way beyond disappointment. She felt betrayed, used and foolish, as if she hadn’t gained one single jot of wisdom since Dimitri. And, even though she was the innocent party, she felt guilty that she’d slept with someone else’s husband and father.

She could too easily imagine how deeply Michael—no, Mark’s—wife loved him, could imagine how hurt the other woman would be if she ever found out.

Emily’s sense of gloom dived even deeper when she returned to the kitchen and saw the blinking light on her mobile phone.

Wincing at the possibilities, she clicked on her message bank and discovered five—count them, five—new text messages from people in Wandabilla.

Normally, she would try to reply, to at least thank these people for their concern, even though they weren’t genuinely close friends but mainly curious gossipers.

Today, however, there were also three voice messages from Michael-slash-Mark, and his first message was full of apologies and entreaties, begging her to ring him back.

Hearing his voice brought a fresh slug of misery and anger, and Emily almost hurled the phone across the room.

She might have done that, actually, if she wasn’t worried that the crash would wake Jude. Her gaze flashed to his novel, Thorn in the Flesh, sitting on the breakfast tray, and she remembered Morgan, Jude’s tough heroine.

Emily needed to be like her. From now on.

Smiling, she picked up the phone and deleted every single message without responding.

It felt good.

Very good, actually.