Читать книгу The Brooding Stranger - Maggie Cox, Maggie Cox - Страница 7

THE day after Karen’s second unfortunate encounter with Gray O’Connell, the cold that had been brewing for days arrived with a vengeance. Having had very little in the way of sleep the night before, she decided to be sensible for once and stay indoors. After a tiring struggle to get the ultimately feeble fire going, she flopped down wearily into the one worn, tapestry-covered armchair with its lacy antimacassar, nursing her mug of hot water and lemon, trying not to succumb to a strong wave of self-pity—a challenge when her eyes were droopy and red from lack of sleep and her nose was stinging and sore from blowing it.

Outside, the rain increased with sudden force, the branches of the trees creaking eerily beneath the weight of it. It was a desolate, lonely sound, but surprisingly it didn’t bother her. Not when she was despondent because of something much more disturbing to her peace of mind. She didn’t relish the thought of leaving this old stone cottage. It was so unfair when Gray O’Connell had only demanded she leave because he’d taken a personal dislike to her. What other reason could there be, when he hadn’t even thought it necessary to explain?

Well, perhaps it would end up being for the best in the long run—his ill-mannered ways certainly didn’t bode well for future encounters if she stayed. Even so, Karen would now have to search for another property to rent in the area. Whatever happened, she wasn’t ready to return home yet. Not when the inevitable questions and perhaps criticisms from family and friends would be waiting for her. She wasn’t nearly ready to explain her feelings or her actions to anyone. The truth was she didn’t know if she’d ever be ready for that. She’d struggled for over a year, pretending she was handling things, and in the end had realised she just had to get away.

Sometimes it had been hard to breathe, staying surrounded by the same old people and the same old scenery. She’d longed to escape.

Putting aside her drink, she sniffed gingerly into her handkerchief, doing her utmost not to irritate her already sore nose. The next instant the sniffing somehow manifested as a muffled sob, and before she knew it her heart was breaking once more. She missed Ryan so much. He’d been her constant companion, her rock. Her heart was submerged in a drowning wave she didn’t have the strength to kick against. He’d been taken from her so suddenly and cruelly that they hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye. Her mind and body had been incarcerated in ice ever since. No one could comfort her. Not her mother, any of her family, or even well-meaning friends. No one but Ryan.

She held her arms across her middle, as if to comfort herself, but knew it was an ultimately useless exercise. Nothing could heal her heartache. Only the passing of time might blunt the edges of sorrow, and eventually when she was ready, the letting in of people who genuinely cared. The crumpled square of linen in her hands quickly became soggy with more tears.

When the knocker hammered in a staccato echo on the front door she froze in her seat, silently willing whoever it was calling on her in this foul weather to go away. The truth was, the way she was feeling, even stirring out of her seat required a colossal effort she didn’t feel up to making right now.

When she didn’t rise to see who it was the knocker hammered again. The sound cut like a scythe through Karen’s already thumping head, making her wince. Hastily wiping her face with the damp, crumpled handkerchief, knowing miserably that she must look a wreck, she reluctantly roused herself to answer it.

Outside in the rain, droplets of water coursing down his coldly handsome face, his arms folded across his chest, Gray O’Connell leaned impatiently against the doorjamb. As Karen stared up at him in surprise, he straightened and jerked his head. ‘Can I come in?’

Frankly amazed that he hadn’t just barged in anyway, Karen nodded dumbly. Inside, the sitting room’s crackling fire blazed a cosy welcome, despite the definite lack of sociability on the part of the house’s tenant. Resignedly making her way back to the armchair, Karen resumed her seat. If only she wasn’t feeling so pathetic she’d tell him to go away—even if he did own the house. She still had some rights as a tenant. Slowly Gray approached the fire. His jacket dripped onto the stone flagged floor. It was partially covered with a hand-woven rug that must have been beautiful and vibrant once, but was now a dull shadow of its former self.

Reluctantly Karen made herself speak. ‘You’d better take off that jacket. You’re soaked.’ Heaving herself back onto her feet again, she forced herself to wait patiently as he reluctantly took it off. He handed it to her without a word, and she took it and hung it on the peg at the back of the door. It smelled of the wind, the rain and the sea, and for a wildly unsettling moment Karen fancied she could detect the arresting male scent of its owner, too. Surreptitiously she allowed her fingers to linger a little longer than necessary on the soft worn leather.

Turning back into the room, she was immediately struck by the intensely solitary picture that her visitor made. He was holding out his long-fingered hands to the fire and his handsome profile was marred by a look of such unremitting desolation that Karen’s heart turned over in her chest. Why had he come here? she wondered. A feeling of desperation clutched her chest. What did he want from her? He’d already told her that he didn’t want her as a tenant. There was no need to tell her again. She’d received the message loud and clear.

‘I couldn’t paint.’ Turning briefly to regard her, almost instantly he returned his gaze to the fire, as though locked deep inside the prison of his own morose thoughts. ‘Not today. And for once I didn’t want to be alone.’

‘I heard that you were an artist.’

‘And I’m sure that’s not all you heard. Am I right?’ He shook his head disparagingly.

In spite of her innate caution, Karen moved hesitantly towards him, surprise and compassion making her brave. Suddenly the inexplicable need to offer this man comfort overshadowed everything—even her personal feelings of misery and pain.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Help what? Free me from this incessant gloom that follows me everywhere? No. There’s nothing you can do to help.’

His voice harsh, Gray pivoted away from the fire and started to pace the room. He was an imposing broad-shouldered man, with hair as black as tar—a dramatic hue that gleamed fiercely as though moonlight was on it—and his very stature made the already small room appear as though it had shrunk. The two of them might have been occupying a dolls’ house.

‘There’s nothing you can do except maybe refrain from asking questions and be silent,’ he uttered less irritably. ‘I appreciate a woman who knows how to be silent.’

Intuitively Karen understood his need for quiet. She’d already registered the turmoil reflected painfully in his eyes and in the grim set of his mouth. This time she wasn’t offended by his sharp words. On soft feet encased only in the thick white socks she wore beneath her jeans, she made her way back to the armchair and sat down. Gathering up the book that earlier on she’d been attempting to lose herself in, she laid it on the coffee table beside the chair and offered him a weak and watery smile.

‘Okay … no questions, and I’ll just sit here quietly.’

She might have meant it when she’d told him, that but it didn’t stop Karen’s mind from teeming with questions and speculations about her taciturn landlord. And heaven knew it was nigh on impossible to concentrate on anything else, with his brooding figure moving restlessly round, up and down in front of her.

‘Why were you crying?’

The question pierced the silence that by mutual agreement had enveloped them. The sound of it reverberated through Karen like the shattering of glass.

‘I wasn’t crying,’ she quickly denied, picking up her book again and staring unseeingly at the cover. ‘I’ve got a cold.’ She sniffed into her handkerchief as if to emphasise the point.

‘You were crying,’ Gray reiterated, his gaze steely. ‘Don’t you think I’m capable of knowing when a woman’s been crying?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.’ She blinked sorrowfully down at the pale cold hands that covered the book in her lap and a shudder of distress rippled through her. Why did he have to call on her today of all days? It was said that misery loved company, but if only he would just go and leave her to her own misery in peace.

‘I don’t want you to know me, either.’ He shook his head, as if warding off further unsettling thoughts, then glared at her.

Karen retreated even more inside herself. Wrenching her glance away, she stared back down at her book. She hadn’t a hope in hell of reading any more of it today—at least not while her brooding landlord was taking up space in the house.

Gray exhaled deeply. ‘You’re probably thinking that’s hardly fair, when I’ve invaded your own peace and quiet and you’re clearly upset.’

‘If you need to talk … just to have someone listen without judging or commenting … then I can do that,’ she answered softly, her heart racing a little because she didn’t know how he’d react.

‘All right,’ he said aloud, almost to himself. ‘All right, then. I’ll talk.’ He breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. ‘My father lived in this house for five years before he died.’ He stopped pacing to address her, his distant storm-tossed gaze restless and preoccupied. ‘He’d never let me put things right. Liked it just as it was, he said … didn’t want my money. He was mad at me because I didn’t stay and work the farm that he used to own—until it got too much for him. The farm that his father and grandfather had owned before him. He didn’t understand that those days were gone. Working the land wasn’t in my blood like it was in his. I had other dreams. Dreams I wanted a chance at. Besides, a man can barely scratch a living out of farming these days—not when the supermarkets can undercut him at every turn and fly in cheap vegetables from Peru rather than buy them from local farms.’

His expression was scornful for a moment, and pressing his fingers hard into his forehead, he twisted his lips angrily. ‘What had my fancy university education and my cleverness done for me? my father asked once. As far as he could see all it had accomplished was to send me away from this place—away from home.’ He paused, as if weighing up the wisdom or indeed lack of it in proceeding with his story. In the end it seemed he’d decided to throw any caution he might be feeling to the wind. ‘He wasn’t interested that I’d made a fortune on the stockmarket. He asked me, “How much money does a man need to live a useful life?” I’ve been pondering that question ever since. I’m not sure how useful it is, but eventually I did find something to do with my life that gave me even more pleasure than making money. I discovered that I loved to paint, and lo and behold it turned out I had some skill at it! My desire to pursue it in the place I grew up finally brought me home, but it was too late for Paddy and me to be reconciled. He was too bitter and too full of regret at what he had lost, and the man was dead from drink three months after I returned. I found him dead down on the beach one morning, a half-bottle of whiskey in his pocket. He’d fallen against a rock and smashed his head.’

A lone tear splashed onto the cover of Karen’s book. Gray’s raw desolation merged with hers, welling up inside her like a dam strained to bursting. Missed opportunities, families torn apart, lost loves—it was all too much to bear.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s no need to be sorry for me. What I did … everything that happened … was down to my own selfish actions. Oh, hell!’ Raking his fingers through the thick black mane that was still sodden from the rain, he shook his head. ‘I don’t know why I’m even telling you all this. I never did believe the adage that confession is good for the soul. Put it down to a momentary descent into madness and despair, if you like.’

‘Sometimes it helps to talk.’

‘Does it? I’m not so sure about that. But I can see how tempting it might be for a man to confide in you. That soft voice and quiet way you seem to possess suggests you might be capable of easing pain … for a while at least. Not that I’m looking for that.’ He regarded her suspiciously for a moment, his voice scathing.

‘Believe me … I’m no expert at healing anybody’s pain, and I wouldn’t pretend that I was.’ Stung, Karen dipped her head.

‘Then we’re even, aren’t we? Because I’m not looking to be healed. So don’t make the mistake of thinking that’s what I came for.’ Throwing her a brief warning glance, Gray O’Connell stalked to the door and grabbed his still wet jacket almost violently off the peg.

Ignoring the insult, Karen immediately got to her feet, her book tumbling unheeded to the floor. ‘Perhaps—perhaps you’d like to stay and have a cup of tea with me?’ she offered uncertainly, her smile unknowingly engaging.

The stark expression of raw need in those startling grey eyes impaled her to the floor. A red lick of heat kindled and grew inside her—heat that transcended her cold and the feeble state her body was currently in and put twin flags of searing scarlet into her cheeks.

‘Tea’s not what I need, Miss Ford. And something tells me you’re not the kind of woman who’d be willing to offer me exactly what it is I do need right now …’

He didn’t need to explain. The force of his desire was as palpable as a storm about to break.

He pulled on his dripping jacket, then yanked open the door with unnecessary force. ‘And, by the way, you can stay here as long as you like. Stay or go—it’s up to you. I don’t really care one way or the other.’

Catching the edge of the door, Karen unhappily watched him go, head down, striding off into the rain, like a man whose broad shoulders were weighted down with the cares of the world. Shockingly, she wished she knew a way to make him stay. The thought made her heart thump hard inside her chest. If her landlord had descended into temporary madness then apparently so had she. It was jolting to realise that craving bold glance he’d shot her just now had had the power to make her feel aroused. Or was it just that it had been so long since a man had regarded her with desire in his eyes?

After Ryan had died she’d told herself she’d never want or need a man again. And it was hard to believe Gray O’Connell of all men wanted her … especially in her current unappealing state. Her usually glossy fair hair had lost its lustre, whilst her cold made her resemble some half-starved waif who needed to be tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle and a steaming bowl of broth—never mind a man with winter-grey eyes and a look fierce enough to quell even the indomitable Queen Boudicca.

Her body grew warm at his assessment that she wasn’t the kind of woman who could offer him exactly what he’d needed right then. How did he know that she couldn’t? Spending night after night cold and lonely and hurting in her bed was apt to make a grieving woman slightly crazy.

Karen sucked in a startled breath as she realised she could even contemplate such a thing with a man who was practically a stranger—especially when only minutes before she’d been breaking her heart over Ryan. Reluctantly closing the door, she leant back against the wooden panelling and shut her eyes. Any port in a storm—that was all Gray O’Connell was looking for. And maybe at the end of the day so was she. The man she’d loved and married was long gone. Maybe any port in a storm was all she could hope for now?

But at least her brooding landlord had said she could stay—even if he had thrown his decision at her like a scrap of meat from his plate. There was really no need for her to feel so stupidly grateful but the fact remained that she was. she was.

On Saturday, Karen made a more prolonged visit to the thriving local town. Elated by her landlord’s grudging permission to let her stay on at the cottage, she vowed she’d celebrate by buying some new bits and pieces to cheer the place up. When she left she’d leave them for whoever came after her, but while she was there they would help make the house feel more like home.

With that thought in mind, she browsed contentedly around the quaint narrow streets and thoroughfares, dipping in and out of enticing little craft shops and bookshops, sampling textures, scents and colours, sometimes buying—sometimes not.

Much of the time her exploration was accompanied by the uplifting Irish tunes that drifted out from many of the pubs she passed. The music stirred her soul, as it had always done. It made her happy and sad simultaneously. Happy for the fierce joy it brought her, and sad because she’d probably left that way of life behind for good. But still the fingers that curled round the strap of her shoulder bag itched to pick up a guitar and play, and she had a brief vision of the instrument tucked away beneath her bed.

Squashing the thought, Karen drifted into a coffee shop for a latte and a Danish pastry, content to sit amongst strangers with lilting Irish voices and enjoy her refreshment in peace.

When she came out again the light was slowly fading, and people were starting to head home. On a last-minute impulse she dived into the bookshop she’d spied on the way across the street to the coffee shop and purchased a little book that had given her some much needed consolation in the months directly after Ryan’s death. Unfortunately she’d left her copy back in the UK. Tucking the book carefully into her bag, she made her way tiredly but contentedly back to where she’d parked the car.

Lifting the lid on the simmering pot of stew, with its delicious and mouthwatering aroma of braised lamb and fragrant herbs, Karen took a deeply appreciative sniff, hearing her stomach growl in response. Her day out had given her the appetite of a Titan, and she was so glad that she’d thought to make dinner the night before, because now all she had to do was let it properly heat through and enjoy it.

In the tiny sitting room scented candles flickered on almost every surface, the mingled scents of sandalwood, musk and vanilla creating a soothing ambience of warmth and relaxation, which was exactly what Karen had hoped for. Now that she’d got over her cold she was fully committed to taking much better care of herself—not just eating sensibly and taking regular exercise, but learning how to relax properly. Something she had never really done up until now.

Her life with Ryan had been wonderful, but the last couple of years before he’d died it had been pretty much commitment after commitment, with barely a blank space in the diary to call their own. Touring up and down the country had taken its toll, and Karen had for ever been promising herself that one day she would definitely make more time for herself. Well, now she had the opportunity.

The atmosphere in the cottage was strangely evocative. It brought to mind images of past times—of an older, more simple way of life, when people had worked the land and, even though they’d struggled to make ends meet, there had been a real sense of community and pulling together to help each other. A sense of sadness lingered in the rooms, too—a melancholy air that was like the wisp of smoke after a candle had been blown out. Karen yearned to do everything in her power to dispel that sadness if she could.

The story of Gray O’Connell’s father Paddy had been on her mind ever since he’d related it, and she had an ache in her heart that hadn’t left since she’d heard it. It was all too easy to imagine the man living here alone, with nothing but his memories and his whiskey to keep him company. No doubt Paddy had sorely missed his son when he’d left to make his fortune. In his case, accomplishing exactly that. In all probability the older O’Connell had been proud of his son’s achievements, but maybe he just hadn’t had the words or the courage to tell him? It was a shame that Gray was torturing himself over what had happened.

At the end of the day everyone had a choice in how they responded to life’s challenges, Karen reflected, and if his father had sought solace in whiskey then that had been his decision and was nothing to do with his son. That said, Gray O’Connell was clearly a troubled man himself.

He was so different in every way from her gentle loving Ryan. She tenderly recalled how her husband had had a real talent for communicating with people, and had always been able to find an encouraging word for anyone downhearted or in despair. In the music business, a temperament like his had been rare. She was so lucky to have had him in her life, if only for all too brief a time.

Exhaling a long, slow breath, she was gratified to see that her efforts at building the fire that evening were impressive, to say the least. Right now the flames were licking high and fierce into a really good blaze, rendering the room snugly warm as a result. In the background Karen’s portable radio added muted sounds of conversation and laughter, and for the first time in a long time she was genuinely at ease. By that she meant she wasn’t yearning for anything—not even company.

Her gaze roamed the room with satisfaction. The three small prints she’d purchased, of three different but equally beautiful traditional stone cottages, all set in the emerald-green landscape of the country, had been carefully arranged side by side above the fireplace. Sitting gracefully in a simple but elegant glass vase she’d found in a junk shop were a mixed bunch of cream and red roses, their evocative, fragrant scent mingling gently with the aromatic candles. They were just small, perhaps insignificant things in themselves, but the pleasure they gave Karen was immense.

Combing her fingers through her newly washed honey-gold hair, she glanced ruefully down at the faded blue jeans and red sweater she was wearing. Both items had definitely lost a little of their shape after several washes. The clothing had taken on the comfortable qualities of a dear old friend. Not that she had many ‘dear old friends’ to call upon since Ryan had gone. She grimaced. It was strange how bereavement either brought people closer or pushed them away.

Shaking off the thought, she wondered if she shouldn’t make more than a passing concession to her new mood of optimism and change into something a little more feminine. There were two very nice Indian cotton dresses in her wardrobe—one dark green with a red velvet inlay on the bodice, and the other a rich luxurious purple that she’d bought in Camden Market back home. It might be nice to wear one of them to highlight all the good things she’d done for herself that day.

Contemplating a quick visit to the bedroom to change, she nearly jumped out of her skin when someone rapped on the door. Lifting the latch, she was greeted by the night, the bitter cold air and a handsome if austere Gray O’Connell.

‘I came by to tell you that I’ve bought some things for the cottage. Is it okay if I drop them round in the morning?’

He addressed her without preamble, not even saying hello. Karen stared, feeling an answering jolt in her stomach when her glance collided with his. She’d never seen such heartfelt loneliness in a person’s eyes. It didn’t help that she knew some of the reasons for that achingly distant look.

‘Sure—of course. Tomorrow morning’s fine.’ What he’d bought and why she couldn’t guess, but somehow that seemed irrelevant right now.

‘Good.’ He turned away, not even bothering with goodbye, and for reasons she couldn’t begin to analyse Karen found herself reluctant to let him go.

‘I’ve made some stew for supper.’ She faltered over the words as hectic colour suffused her face, fully aware that she had his attention more completely than a hunter fixing his sights on his prey before aiming his gun. Inwardly, she gulped. ‘There’s more than enough for two—that is if you haven’t already eaten?’

‘Is this a habit of yours?’

‘What? ‘

‘I mean do you normally extend spontaneous invitations to people you hardly know?’ Gray demanded irritably, booted feet firmly set on her doorstep like a captain at the helm of his ship.

‘You showed up the other day and came in without me inviting you. Is that any different?’

‘I asked you if I could come in and you said yes.’

‘Of course I did … you’re my landlord. So I do know you, don’t I?’

‘Damn it, woman, you’re on your own out here!’

He spoke as though she was far too relaxed about her personal safety for his liking. Karen was taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. Anyone who didn’t know them would think that he cared whether she was safe or not—which was utterly ridiculous when one considered the facts.

‘I know I’m perfectly safe here.’ She kept her voice deliberately soft. ‘I’ve only felt anxious once, and that was when I inadvertently crossed paths with the “big bad wolf” in the woods one day.’

For a moment a muscle tensed, then relaxed again in the side of Gray’s high sculpted cheekbone. One corner of his mouth quirked upwards in the beginnings of a smile. The gesture made him sinfully, dangerously attractive, and Karen had cause to question her wisdom at so recklessly inviting him to join her. Just then she remembered an adage she’d once read that the most dangerous wolves were the ones who were hairy on the inside. Maybe she’d be wise to remember that?

‘And he let you go?’ Gray parried dangerously.

Karen caught her breath. ‘Yes … he let me go.’

‘One day those big blue eyes are going to get you into a barrel full of trouble, little girl.’

‘I’m not a little girl, so stop calling me one. I’m a woman … a woman who’s been married, for goodness’ sake!’

‘Have you? Are you telling me you’re divorced now, then?’ With an impenetrable glint in his eye he shouldered past her into the sitting room.

Mentally counting to five, Karen slowly closed the door on the cold, rainy night outside. She shivered hard, but it was nothing to do with the weather. Glancing across at her visitor, she saw that he’d taken off his jacket and thrown it casually across the threadbare arm of the couch. Once again he moved across to the fire and held out his hands to its warmth—though Karen privately thought it would take a lot more than even a hundred blazing fires to warm the icy river that must pass for blood in Gray O’Connell’s veins.

‘I’m a widow.’ Finally commanding his full attention, she lightly shrugged a shoulder as he turned to survey her.

‘How long since you lost your man?’ It sounded almost poetic, the way he phrased it.

‘Eighteen—nearly nineteen months ago.’ She unfolded her arms to thread her fingers nervously through her hair, mentally bracing herself to receive some sort of barbed reply from this enigmatic man who clearly had so many defences that it was a wonder anything could pierce even a chink of his heavy armour. Not that she was looking for sympathy or anything.

‘Is that why you came here?’ His eyes raked her figure from head to foot, then returned to her face, where they reflected a provocatively unsettling interest in her mouth.

Karen grimaced uncomfortably. ‘Now, about that stew … I hope you’re hungry—’

‘How did he die?’ Though he stood-stock still, Gray’s relentless gaze ate up the distance between them as though channelling electricity—probing her reluctance to give him the information he sought with all the steely-eyed determination of a professional interrogator.

‘I don’t—I don’t really want to talk about it.’ She dipped her head, twisting her fingers into a long burnished strand of hair, then impatiently pushing it away again. Her troubled gaze studied the once colourful swirls woven into the homespun rug at her feet with exaggerated concentration.

‘I seem to remember you advising me that it sometimes helps to talk?’

Glancing up at him, Karen was inexplicably annoyed that he should throw what had, after all, been genuine compassion and concern back in her face.

‘You didn’t buy that idea when I offered it to you—why should you expect me to be any different in return?’

‘In my own case I knew it wouldn’t be of any use. You, however, are an entirely different case, Miss Ford. By the way, what is your first name?’

‘You obviously know that it’s Karen. You’re my landlord. The letting agents must have informed you.’

‘Perhaps I wanted to hear it from your own lips.’ Curling his fingers round the thick black leather belt he wore round his jeans, Gray seriously considered her. ‘You barely look old enough to have been married—let alone widowed.’

‘You know how old I am. I’ve already told you. And Ryan and I were married for five years. His death came as a terrible shock. There was no warning, so I wasn’t prepared. He hadn’t even been ill. He worked hard … too hard. Long hours, with not enough rest—but that’s the culture nowadays, isn’t it?’

Her eyes glazed over with distress. ‘The culture we’re all taught to so admire. As if there’s such virtue in working hard and dying young! My husband suffered a massive heart attack at the age of thirty-five. Can you imagine that? When he went, I wanted to die, too. So don’t stand there and tell me I don’t look old enough to be married, because in the space of those five short years with my husband I lived more life than most people do in ten times as long!’

She was shaking, emotion slamming into her like a train, appalled at giving in to such a passionate display in front of a man who probably regarded such outbursts as a certain sign of weakness … or at least a serious character flaw. If only she could take the words back, keep them private and unsaid, but it was clearly too late for that.

His handsome visage a cool, impenetrable mask of enforced self-control, Gray retrieved his jacket from the couch and wordlessly shrugged it on. As Karen struggled to regain even a shred of her former equilibrium, he came towards her, his expression grim. With her heart in her mouth she automatically stepped back. She saw the glimmer of disquiet in his gaze when she did, as if it took him aback that she might be afraid of him.

‘I’m sorry for your trouble, Miss Ford, and sorry that I clearly intruded where I had no right. I didn’t come here to make you revisit painful memories and upset you. I’ll see you in the morning as arranged—if that’s still all right? If not, we can leave it for another time that’s more convenient.’

Nodding miserably, Karen plucked the material of her soft wool sweater between trembling fingers, twisting it into a knot. ‘Tomorrow morning will be fine.’

‘Good. I’ll wish you goodnight, then.’ Gray’s glance greedily swept her pale solemn face, the distressed China-blue eyes with their long dark blonde lashes that reminded him of a fawn, and the full, almost pouting, trembling lips devoid of so much as a trace of lipstick. A man would have to go a long way to find such innocent unaffected beauty in a woman, he thought.

Karen heard him go to the door, lift the latch and step outside. As he went, her body seemed suddenly to move of its own volition, and she found herself hurrying after him. Out into the rainy night she ran, her eyes squinting up at the water that splashed onto her face, ignoring the cold, ignoring the wind that tore into her hair, sweeping the long sun-kissed strands into a dishevelled cloud.

‘Gray!’

The voice that called out his name was full of anguish and something else—something that Gray registered in his mind with tight-lipped control. Heat seared him like a brand at the realisation, making him rock-hard with need. He turned to survey her. Even in the dark he knew his light-coloured eyes burned as brazenly as a cat’s.

‘What is it?’

‘I just—I just want you to—’

‘Don’t ask me to stay, Karen. I’ll only end up hurting you. Trust me.’

Her lip wobbled as she struggled for the words to tell him what she felt. ‘I want—I need—Dear God! Do I have to spell it out for you?’

She was crying even as she spoke, her tears mingling with the rain. Why was it so hard to just say what she wanted? She missed the physical side of married life. She missed having someone to hold her and touch her and make her feel like a woman again. She didn’t want a relationship with Gray O’Connell. He was the last man on earth she could ever want that with. He was too angry—too wounded to be kind. But they’d both been hurt by life. Why shouldn’t they find comfort in each other’s arms for a little while? It didn’t have to mean any more than that, did it?

‘It would only be sex, sweetheart,’ Gray asserted coldly, as if intuiting her thoughts. ‘Nothing else. Not “making love”, not hearts and flowers and violins. Just sex. Screwing, plain and simple. Would you really settle for that?’

Shock slammed into Karen at his words. The strength seemed to drain out of her legs completely. Yet she stood her ground, blinking back tears, blinking back the rain that had already left a fine damp sheen on her sweater, soaking its way onto her skin.

‘Were you always this cruel?’ she asked boldly into the night. ‘I’ll bet you pulled the wings off dragonflies when you were a boy. I’ll bet you laid traps for poor defenceless animals … I bet you broke your poor mother’s heart!’

In two strides Gray was in front of her, his dark face just inches away from hers, his warm breath fanning her face, making little clouds of steam in the rain. ‘My mother took her own life when I was three. Maybe having me was to blame? Who knows? But whether it was me or my father I’ll never know, and I have to live with that every day. So my advice to you, Karen, would be to think twice before you make such a throwaway comment again, damn you!’

The impact of the bitter words made Karen go rigid. Then, hardly realising what she was doing, she slowly raised her hand tentatively to touch his lips with her fingertips. They were infinitely soft to the touch—soft, but inherently stubborn. Velvet clad in iron. But right then she saw past the anger of the man, past the torment of the grown-up who didn’t know where to go with his pain, and instead saw the small three-year-old boy who had been abandoned by his mother and ultimately abandoned by his father, too. Grief twisted her heart.

Gray grabbed her wrist to wrench her hand roughly away. Before she could react he wove his hands through the damp tresses of her hair to crush her lips beneath his mouth in a bruising, destroying kiss that made her body go limp with dazed reaction and turned her blood into a river of seething, molten desire so hot she thought she would be consumed by the sheer, staggering ferocity of it.

His tongue mercilessly swept the soft warm recesses of her mouth, taking brutal hostage of her flesh and her senses with all the insatiable relentless hunger of a man who’d gone without meat or drink for days—tearing into her with passion, demanding everything, sparing her nothing, until her heart pounded in her chest as if she was riding in a speeding car bent on crashing. When his hands left her hair and moved downwards to drag her hips hard against his, his manhood surged like steel against the giving flatness of her belly, leaving Karen in no doubt of the heat and the hardness in him. A kind of drugging sensuality rolled over her like a wave, robbing her of the power to think, to rationalise, to remain sane.

‘Was it like this with your husband, Karen?’ As he tore his mouth from hers Gray’s eyes burned down at her as though in the grip of a fever. He ignored the rain that was soaking them both as though it didn’t even exist. His midnight lashes blinked the moisture away temporarily.

It took several moments for Karen even to register the question. Her lips were aching and bruisingly tender from his passion, her body crushed against his hard, lean length as his arms held her captive, and it was hard to even remember who she was. Tragic Karen Ford from suburban England—a woman who wrote lyrics about passion, who sang songs all about the kind of love that consumed body and soul but had never personally experienced herself.

The shocking realisation was both a revelation and a trauma. It was as though she was utterly betraying Ryan’s memory by even contemplating it. A sudden vision of her husband’s tender smile imposed itself on her mind, cutting through the sensual fog that enveloped her. It made her twist urgently out of Gray’s embrace to call a halt to the madness. Disgusted with herself for almost succumbing to nothing more than base lust, Karen wiped the back of her hand across her still throbbing lips.

Moving several steps away from the man who had only moments ago taken her body hostage, she anxiously straightened her sweater, pushed back her hair to tidy herself, and tried desperately to summon back the woman who always strove to do the right thing, who didn’t give way to wild, uncharacteristic impulses that threatened to land her in a cauldron of hot water that would scar her for ever and play havoc with her soul.

‘My husband was a good, kind man.’

‘But it’s plainly not kindness you want from me, Karen—is it?’

Gray’s lips twisted mockingly, and Karen felt a shaft of pain pierce her heart like a hot red spike.

‘Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’ he demanded derisively, hands either side of his hips, an imposing dark figure dressed in black, his sombre face a pale, startling contrast in the eerily atmospheric light of the moon. ‘You’ve got to decide, Karen. Either you’re just a girl or you are a woman. When you know the answer perhaps we can come to some mutually satisfying arrangement?’

‘I don’t want—I mean I’m not interested in—’