Читать книгу That Kind Of Man - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 9

ABIGAIL did not move her head away from Nick’s shoulder, and he let her cry until there were no tears left, until her sobs became dry, exhausted gasps.

He took a large, beautifully pressed handkerchief from his pocket and silently handed it to her, but her hands were trembling so much from the flood of raw emotion that she could barely hold onto it. Abigail waved his hand away distractedly.

‘Here,’ he said, frowning. ‘Let me.’ His touch was almost gentle as he pushed stray strands of hair from her wet cheeks and then dried die tears away.

Abigail felt foolish and vulnerable. And Nick was the last person in the world she would have chosen to witness her breaking down in a full flood of hysterical tears.

‘Better now?’ he queried, after a moment or two.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Then let’s go.’ Nick rapped on the smoked-glass panel which divided them from the driver, and it was only then that Abigail noticed the car had pulled over onto the side of the road.

‘W-why did we stop?’ she sniffed as the car pulled away.

‘I didn’t think that you’d want an audience while you wept,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘And certainly not an audience consisting of that crowd up at the house,’ he added disparagingly.

Abigail blew her nose rather more noisily than usual. ‘They’re Orlando’s friends,’ she objected automatically, more because it was the habit of a lifetime, objecting to anything Nick said, rather than because she actually disagreed with him.

‘And yours?’ he quizzed softly. ‘Are they your friends, too?’

Abigail looked at him. ‘Not really, no.’

‘Oh?’

Abigail was beginning to discover that he was simply not the kind of man you could reproach for asking deeply personal questions—that was the trouble. Was it because he had known her for most of her life that he felt he had the right to probe? Or did he ask all women questions like this? ‘They’re not my type.’

He nodded his head, as though her answer came as no surprise to him. ‘I see.’ He glanced down at his shoulder to find a stray, glistening tear, and he ruefully brushed it away with one long finger.

The gesture touched her unbearably—but she didn’t for the life of her know why. And so that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself yet again, by blubbing all over him, Abigail said the first mundane thing which came into her head. ‘I’m sorry about your jacket.’

‘It’s just a jacket.’ He shrugged.

‘I’ll have it cleaned—’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ he interrupted grimly. ‘Stop talking as though we had just met at a cocktail party! I think I preferred you shouting and punching me to that.’

She smiled at the exasperation on his face; for the first time in days she actually smiled. And then her heart missed a beat as his exasperation turned into a brief smile which matched hers.

‘I must look a sight,’ she said automatically.

Green eyes scanned her face, but the smile had disappeared and irritation had replaced it. ‘A bit,’ he answered tersely. ‘Your face is all blotchy and it’s obvious you’ve been crying.’

‘Gee—thanks,’ she answered drily. ‘When I need a boost in confidence, remind me to avoid you like the plague!’

‘Just what is it with you, Abby?’ he demanded softly. ‘You’re supposed to be playing the grieving widow, not a flaming fashion model! Can’t you function properly unless you know you’re looking beautiful?’

She gazed at him in amazement, more at the fact that Nick, Nick, had paid her some kind of compliment—even if it was a backhanded one!—than at his tone of voice. ‘Beautiful?’

He made a clicking sound of impatience. ‘Sorry,’ he said in a bored voice, leaning back carelessly against the seat and staring into space, ‘but I’m not playing that game.’

‘What game?’ she asked, genuinely confused.

His voice changed into a parody of a woman gushing. ‘Oh, heavens, Nick—surely you don’t think that I’m beautiful!’ His eyes hardened as his gaze roved over the pale oval of her face. ‘Particularly when the woman in question has the kind of face which could launch a thousand ships, if you’ll excuse the somewhat hackneyed expression.’

She didn’t have the energy to row. ‘Let’s drop it, shall we?’

‘With pleasure. Anyway, we’re here.’ Nick turned to glance out of the window as the car made its way up the sweeping gravel-drive towards the handsome Georgian house which she and Orlando had bought just after their marriage. They drove through the impressive gardens which were flanked by vast yew tunnels, and a flash of afternoon sunlight glinted off the distant lake.

Through the windows of the lighted drawing-room, Abigail could see people opening bottles and bottles of champagne, and she mentally steeled herself to confront them, wishing that she could order them out of her house and have the place to herself again. Time to lick her wounds and recover.

But tomorrow they would all be gone, she reminded herself. Tomorrow she would have the peace she craved.

‘It’s strange,’ Nick remarked as the car drew to a halt with a soft, swishing sound, ‘but I never imagined that you would end up living in a big, impressive pile in the English countryside, out in the middle of nowhere like this.’

‘Orlando wanted to,’ she found herself telling him. ‘And I liked it here, too,’ she added defensively.

His gaze was unwavering. ‘And did Orlando always get what Orlando wanted?’

Did he know? Had he somehow guessed? Was that the reason for the piercingly direct gaze which seemed perceptive enough to be able to read her mind? Abigail shuddered violently as shame and revulsion washed over her. There was no point in denying what was as obvious as the nose on her face. ‘He did, mostly,’ she managed. ‘He was well schooled in the art of persuasion, you know.’

‘Yes. So I believe.’ Nick looked down at her pale hands, knotted together and lying against the black skirt. ‘Abby, you’re trembling.’ He sounded appalled. ‘What on earth is the matter with you?’

She settled for her only credible source of defence. ‘Need you ask? It’s been a fraught day. A fraught week. And I’m not particularly looking forward to going in there and mingling with people I don’t even like.’

‘Then don’t do it.’

She gave him a sad little smile. ‘I can’t just opt out like that.’

‘Can’t you?’ he queried softly. ‘You can do whatever you want to do, you know.’

‘Only if your name happens to be Nick Harrington,’ came her dry response. ‘And we don’t all have your determination.’

This received the glimmer of a smile. ‘Come on,’ he said, and helped her out of the car with an old-fashioned courtesy which she was quite unused to. It had the effect of making her feel very warm and safe and secure. A girl could get used to being cosseted like this, thought Abigail with a wistfulness which was totally alien to her.

Her instincts had always taught her to be wary where this man was concerned, but instinct also told her that nothing could ever harm her while Nick was around. In a topsy-turvy world, he had a rare strength and constancy of character.

She watched him as he slammed shut the door of the limousine behind them and they slowly began to mount the pale blonde stone of the front steps.

Nick Harrington would, she thought, with a sudden, unwelcome pang of realisation, make some woman one hell of a husband.

They had almost reached the front door when she stopped and turned to face him. ‘You always give me such a hard time, Nick—’

‘Do I?’

‘You know you do. You always have done.’

‘You need someone to say no to you, Abby. You’ve had a whole lifetime of people spoiling you, giving you exactly what you want.’

‘No,’ she corrected. ‘People giving me what they wanted me to have. It isn’t the same thing at all.’

Was that understanding which momentarily glimmered in the verdant depths of his eyes? On an impulse she placed her hand on his forearm. ‘Thank you for coming today,’ she told him honestly, because right at that moment he seemed the only solid, familiar shape in her quicksand-shifting world. ‘I appreciate it. Really, I do.’

He nodded as she let her arm fall but, far from looking gratified at receiving possibly the first compliment she had ever paid him, his face was grim and unyielding. ‘Don’t speak too soon, sweetheart,’ he said ominously, turning the door handle and pushing it open.

And Orlando’s friends were suddenly flocking around them, like vultures at a carcass, before Abigail had a chance to ask him exactly what he meant.

In Ireland the post-funeral party was known as a wake, though Abigail had often wondered why, since, judging from the facial expressions of most of the people here today, they looked about as unawake as she could imagine. In fact, a few of them looked just about ready to pass out.

She did what little mingling was necessary, but the effort it took must have shown on her face, for Nick soon came to stand beside her; he frowned, and then dipped his dark head to say in an undertone, ‘Why don’t you sit down? Take the weight off your feet.’

She didn’t know why she found it so difficult to follow suggestions when they were made by Nick—but she did. She always had done. And yet what he said made sense. Come on, Abby, she reasoned with herself, stop beating yourself up.

‘Okay.’ She nodded, and sat down stiffly in one of the high-backed chairs, forcing herself to sip from a glass of champagne, but pushing aside the untasted smoked salmon sandwiches on the place beside her, which were already curling up at the edges.

She drank the whole glass down, thinking that it might make her feel better, but by the end of it she felt resoundingly and head-achingly sober, though everyone else was well away, quaffing like mad at the vintage brand which Orlando had always preferred as though it were going out of fashion.

Nick had, in effect, she thought gratefully, now taken on the role of host. Abigail had barely been able to string two sentences together since they had returned—to find the party in full swing.

‘Do you want me to get rid of them?’ he asked her softly as they listened to one of Orlando’s buddies from drama school telling an outrageous story about her dead husband.

‘Soon,’ she answered.

Nick winced as the teller reached the predictably lewd and lascivious punchline, which was greeted with raucous laughter. ‘Doesn’t that kind of talk about your husband bother you?’ he asked her curiously.

Oh, what little he knew! Abigail shook her head. ‘Very little bothers me these days,’ she answered calmly, thanking a benevolent God that Orlando’s elderly parents, living in Spain because it was a kinder climate for people with chest problems, had been considered too frail and in too much shock to attend their son’s funeral.

‘Some of these people have come a long way to be here today, Nick,’ she explained quietly as she met his bemused stare. ‘Let them have their fill of food and drink. I need never see any of them again.’

He raised dark, quizzical eyebrows. ‘That bad, huh?’

She nodded her head reluctantly, the thick hair feeling hot and heavy against her neck. ‘That bad. So let them feel free.’

And they felt free, all right. The trouble was that they seemed like bottomless pits where the alcohol was concerned. Abigail was seriously concerned that, any minute now, someone would completely disgrace themselves. I really ought to go and ask the caterers to start serving coffee, she thought tiredly, unable to summon up the energy to move as she watched the guests group and regroup, dark dramatic figures, swaying more and more as each second passed.

Jemima, the dark, elfin-looking creature, with stray feathers from the feather boa sticking tantalisingly to her scarlet lips, was behaving quite outrageously—even for a member of Orlando’s entourage.

She made a beeline for Nick as soon as she spotted him, and then tried to drape herself all over him.

Abigail observed him with wry amusement as he politely attempted to keep her at arm’s length. His body language spoke volumes! Surely even Jemima must be able to sense that he was not in the least bit interested in her?

Apparently not. Jemima let a wing of raven hair fall provocatively over one half of her face, and looked up at Nick with huge dark eyes, blurred by alcohol. ‘Are you Abigail’s lover?’ she slurred.

Abigail held her breath as she waited for his reaction. There had been plenty of women in his life. He was a man of the world, and, naturally, she imagined that he must be terribly liberal and unshockable. Well, he certainly looked shocked now. Shocked and outraged! Abigail was amazed.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he queried icily.

Jemima clearly had a thick skin. ‘I just sh-shaid,’ she mumbled. ‘Are you getting it on? With Abigail?’

Suddenly the room went completely still. Curious, debauched-looking faces were turned with avid interest towards the tall man in the elegant dark suit.

Not a flicker of emotion stirred the breathtakingly handsome features, and yet his face was somehow all the more threatening for its complete lack of expression. Abigail thought that it was like looking at a cold, glittering mask of a man’s face.

‘Abigail buried her husband today,’ Nick told Jemima with frosty disdain. ‘And even if you don’t have a breath of decency in your body, then at least you might show her a little respect.’

His eyes became stormy, and Abigail saw that those strong, capable hands had clenched into fists beside the powerful shafts of his thighs. Quickly she looked away again.

‘Perhaps you would like to apologise to her before you leave?’ he suggested stonily.

‘Apologise?’ Jemima’s voice was shrill and she shot Abigail a malicious stare. ‘Apologise for what? For stating the truth? Come on, darling—everyone knows that Abigail and Orlando had a very open marriage. In the truest sense of the word,’ she finished, with a suggestive little pursing of her big, glossy lips.

For a moment Abigail met Nick’s appalled eyes over the top of Jemima’s head. She saw the bleak, disbelieving question written there, before his mouth thinned with distaste and he said, quite firmly, ‘The party’s over, folks, I’m afraid. And I’d like you all to leave.’

Jemima was still staring at Abigail, but the spite which was spitting from her eyes had now evolved into pure jealousy. ‘Sure we’ll leave,’ she drawled. ‘And we wish you all the luck in the world—you’ll need it! Orlando always said that going to bed with Abigail was like sleeping with an ice-cube!’

Abigail started as though she had been stung.

Like a child trying desperately not to cry, she crammed her fist into her mouth, as if to halt the bitter words of denial. She wanted to move, to run, to hide, to scream, but she felt powerless and heavy, as though the blood in her veins had turned to stone. She was trapped. Paralysed with fear. She made a tiny cry at the back of her throat, like that of a wounded animal, and she saw, from his look of fury, that Nick had heard the pitiful little sound.

‘Get out of here!’ he snarled, and the anger on his face subdued every person present. He took a slow, menacing step towards Jemima, who was staring up at him in horror, as if unused to the full brunt of a truly masculine rage.

‘Yes, you,’ he emphasised to Jemima in disgust, before turning to face the rest of them. ‘And all you others! You greedy, grasping pathetic bunch of parasites! You can take your nasty little stories and your freeloading ways and your sordid little lives and get out of here. Now!’

The strangely subdued gathering needed no second bidding. Glasses were hastily put down and they began to scuttle out, like children chastised by the headmaster.

It took about five minutes for the room to empty, leaving only the priest and two white-aproned waitresses, who stood looking up at Nick with a kind of nervous respect. The priest hastily said a polite farewell and left.

‘Did you mean for us to go, too, sir?’ one of the waitresses asked tentatively.

And Abigail then witnessed the most astonishing transformation.

Nick turned to the two women with a wide, apologetic smile and a rueful shake of his dark head. ‘No, of course I didn’t mean for you to go, too,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry if you thought I did. I just thought that things had gone quite far enough—’

‘Oh, they had, sir!’ piped up the other. ‘They had! And you did absolutely right to say what you did! We was just saying in the kitchen—never heard language like it in our lives! Especially at a funeral! Absolutely disgusting!’

Nick glanced over at Abigail, who was still sitting motionless on the stiff-backed chair. ‘I just didn’t want Mrs Howard distressed any more—’

And suddenly Abigail could bear it no longer. Was Nick an actor, just like Orlando? Able to switch his emotions on and off at will, like a tap? One minute ejecting forty people from a room by the sheer force of his will and the next oozing so much charm that he had two middle-aged women positively eating out of his hand.

Jumping out of the chair, she stumbled towards the door. The older of the two waitresses tried to halt her.

‘Miss—’

The careworn arm she placed on Abigail’s arm was comforting and, Abigail supposed, reassuring, too. But she was still too disturbed to do anything other than shake it off distractedly. ‘Let me go,’ she pleaded, on a harsh gasp which seemed to be torn from somewhere deep inside her. ‘Please! Let me go!’

‘It’s all right,’ she heard Nick tell them, in a clipped and decisive voice. ‘Mrs Howard will be fine. Please let her go.’