Читать книгу Second Chance For Love - SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Страница 7

JOSEY lay in the big bed with her eyes open, trying to make herself believe that all this was actually real. Bright sunlight streamed through yellow chintz curtains, falling on the faded home-made patchwork that covered her bed and warming the mellow oak of the old-fashioned furniture.

Yesterday morning, and most other mornings for years past, she had woken in a stylish Italian bed, in a room with smart white walls and a pale beech floor, where she could just glimpse the south column of Tower Bridge if she leaned slightly to her left. Colin would be in the shower, and she would pad out of bed and into their glossy space-age kitchen, to pour him a glass of orange juice from a carton in the refrigerator.

But yesterday had gone—irrevocably. Her marriage—or rather the empty shell of it that she had been clinging to as if it were some kind of security blanket for so long—was over, and she had to face the world on her own. And this world was very different from any she would have expected to find herself in.

She didn’t remember much about getting here from the hospital. The doctor had injected her with some kind of pain-killer, and she had wanted to do nothing but sleep. She vaguely recalled a low, rambling building of weathered brick and flint, and the perfume of roses on the night air. And a cosy, old-fashioned kitchen, with a slightly uneven quarry-tiled floor, and a wicker dog-basket with a well-chewed red blanket beside a large inglenook fireplace.

These images came back to her like snap-shots in her mind. She could remember too, with a feeling that made her mouth a little dry, how she had stumbled woozily, and Tom had picked her up as if she weighed nothing at all, and carried her up a flight of steep, narrow stairs, and brought her into this room, with its low, oak-beamed ceiling and big comfortable bed.

And she had been so clumsy with her wrist splinted and tied up in a sling that she had had considerable trouble getting out of her clothes and into her nightdress, and he had had to come and help her. But the unceremonious way he had dealt with the task had told her quite unmistakably that any modesty on her part would have been quite wasted—she held absolutely no allure for him whatsoever.

What she didn’t remember, though it was the one thing she had been trying to look for, was anything that suggested the presence of a wife or children in the house. She had only the impression of an exclusively male atmosphere—the shelf above the fireplace was merely a convenient place to put anything that didn’t have an immediate home, none of the roses from the garden had found their way indoors, and the curtains were purely functional and slightly in need of a wash.

With a wry smile she acknowledged to herself that such interest in the details of his domestic arrangements was really rather silly. But maybe she just needed a shred of romantic fantasy, to cushion the shock of the abrupt ending of her marriage. And maybe she was looking to him for just the smallest reassurance that she might still have some attraction for a man because it was so long since Colin had shown the least interest in her.

With a sigh she eased herself gingerly up on the pillows. If it was flattery she was seeking, she was wasting her time with Tom Quinn. Maybe he reserved all his warmth for the animals he cared for—he seemed to have little to spare for the human species, or at least for the female half of it.

But then what did she expect? Maybe five or six years ago she might have been able to make some impression, but she was going to have to take herself seriously in hand if she was ever going to expect any man to be attracted to her again. If it wasn’t already too late; she was getting dangerously close to her sell-by date.

Goodness, she felt stiff. Every inch of her body ached, her head was sore, and her wrist was both throbbing and numb at the same time. And she was dying for a cigarette. Forming the thought brought the familiar craving, and she knew that somehow she was going to have to get out of bed to reach the packet, which was on the dressing-table on the far side of the room.

Tears of self-pity rose to her eyes. It was an exhausting effort even to move, and the dressing-table seemed a hundred miles away. But that raw need wouldn’t let her have any peace. Tossing aside the quilted bedcover with an exclamation of impatience, she swung herself round and put her feet on the floor.

Dark pain swam before her eyes, and she had to wait a moment for it to clear. Then gritting her teeth she tried to stand up. She had managed about three steps when the door opened, and Tom appeared on the threshold, a breakfast tray in his hands.

‘What the devil are you doing getting out of bed on your own?’ he demanded brusquely.

‘I…I was trying to get my cigarettes,’ she explained, giving up and sinking back on to the bed.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I thought…you’d probably be busy or something,’ she mumbled. Suddenly she was all too acutely aware of the way the dipping neckline of her silk nightdress revealed the gaunt hollows of her shoulders, while the pale ivory colour did absolutely nothing for her washed-out complexion. She crawled back under the bedclothes, drawing them up over her. ‘I’m sorry.’

A flicker of impatience crossed his face. ‘You don’t have to keep apologising,’ he grated, setting the tray down on a low pine chest beside the bed. He moved across and picked up the cigarettes, tossing them on to the bed with undisguised contempt. ‘Eat your breakfast,’ he advised tersely. ‘It’ll do you more good than those things.’

‘I…I don’t know if I can eat very much,’ she stumbled, eyeing the laden tray without appetite. ‘I don’t usually have breakfast.’

‘No.’ The wry twist of his mouth conveyed what he didn’t actually say—that she was too thin. He stood looking down at her in critical appraisal as she lit her cigarette, drawing on it deeply in relief. ‘How many of those do you smoke a day?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Oh…only about twenty or so.’ She shrugged, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I know they’re no good for me, and I’ve tried giving them up, but I just can’t.’

‘You could if you wanted to.’

She slanted him a resentful look from beneath her lashes. It was easy enough for him to say that—he’d probably never smoked. He didn’t look the sort of man who had ever suffered from a lack of will-power. ‘Yes, well…I’ll give them up some time,’ she promised vaguely. ‘But not just at the moment—they say you shouldn’t try to give up when you’re under stress.’

‘That’s the best time to do it,’ he persisted with ruthless insistence. ‘If you can cope without them now, you’ll be able to cope without them any time.’

Those stupid tears were stinging the backs of her eyes again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled thickly, and then, remembering that he had told her not to keep saying she was sorry, she apologised for that too. ‘I’m sorry.’

He laughed drily. ‘Eat your breakfast,’ he repeated, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Josey leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes. How had she ever let herself sink into such a mess, that she couldn’t start the day without a cigarette? It was no wonder that Tom treated her with such disdain.

Wearily she turned to the breakfast tray he had brought her. There was far more food than she could ever manage, even if she had been feeling more like her usual self. With a groan she realised that she wouldn’t be able to manage half of it—and Tom was going to be even more annoyed with her.

He had every right to be, of course—she had been nothing but a nuisance to him since she had all but smashed up his car last night. It would be better if she just took herself off to a hotel somewhere, out of his way. Holding that thought resolutely in her mind, she rolled herself painfully out of bed.

There was a small sink in the corner of the room, and she dragged herself over to it and had a sketchy wash, and then with some considerable difficulty got dressed. She had just finished, and was struggling one-handed to re-fasten her suitcase when Tom came back into the room.

‘What do you think you’re doing now?’ he demanded. ‘I told you not to try getting out of bed on your own—and you haven’t even touched your breakfast.’

‘I know—I’m sorry.’ Damn—he had told her not to keep saying that. ‘You’ve been very kind to me, and I’m very grateful, but I can’t trespass on your hospitality any longer. If I could just use your telephone, I’ll ring for a taxi, and find a hotel somewhere.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he rapped, his patience strained. ‘You’re as weak as a kitten. Get back into bed.’

‘No—I’m leaving,’ she insisted, though already just the effort of getting dressed and packing her bag had left her feeling exhausted. ‘I’m just a nuisance—you don’t want me here…’ Oh, damn—why did her voice have to waver so pathetically? She tried to pick up her suitcase, but it was loaded with bricks, and she slumped to her knees, tears of frustration stinging her eyes.

‘Get back into bed,’ he repeated, the sudden gentleness in his voice so unexpected that it made her sob harder. ‘You’re in no fit state to go anywhere today.’ His strong arms came around her, helping her to her feet, and he led her over to the bed, sitting down beside her, still holding her comfortingly close. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel so unwelcome.’ The taut note in his voice made her wonder just how rare it was for him to apologise. ‘I suppose I’m more used to four-legged patients than two-legged ones.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, her mind half-drugged by the evocative male muskiness of his skin. ‘I must be in your way. You’ve got work to do, and I’m taking up your time, running around after me, making my breakfast…’

‘Vi made your breakfast,’ he corrected her drily. ‘She couldn’t bring it up herself—she’s got a touch of arthritis, and can’t manage the stairs.’

‘Oh…’ She managed to stifle her tears, helped by a strong dose of curiosity. It didn’t seem very likely that this Vi was his wife, if she was old enough to suffer from arthritis. ‘Who’s Vi?’ she asked, trying to sound as if she had no more than a casual interest.

‘My housekeeper.’

‘Oh.’ She flickered him a cautious glance from beneath her lashes. ‘You’re…not married then?’

‘No.’

‘So…who was Maggie?’

‘Maggie?’ He looked faintly puzzled. ‘Oh, you mean Maggie Hunter? She’s the wife of a farmer over by Saltham Marsh. I was on my way to look at one of their cows when we—er—ran into each other.’

‘Oh…’ She could feel a faint blush of pink colouring her cheeks. Had she revealed a bit too much by asking such a pointed question?

He reached out and took the bowl of cereal from the tray, putting it into her hands. ‘Come on—just try and eat some of this,’ he coaxed. ‘You’ll feel a lot better with some good food inside you.’

She doubted it, but she made the effort just to please him—and rather to her surprise she was able to eat most of the contents of the bowl.

‘That’s better,’ he approved. ‘Don’t worry about the rest—maybe you’ll be able to eat a little more later.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now that you’re dressed, you might as well come downstairs and rest on the settee. I have to go out, but at least it’ll be a bit more interesting for you than being stuck up here with nothing to do.’

‘Thank you.’ She managed to smile, though it was rather a weak effort. ‘You’ve been very kind.’

He smiled back at her—and her heart flipped over. It was the first time she had seen him smile, and it was like the sun coming out, transforming his hard features at a stroke. ‘Some people would say that kindness isn’t my strong point,’ he remarked with an inflexion of sardonic humour. ‘At least as far as human beings are concerned.’

‘Oh, no,’ she protested a little breathlessly. ‘You’ve done so much for me.’

‘Yes, well…You don’t have to keep thanking me,’ he grated, that terseness back in his voice, as if he found her thanks even more irksome than her presence. ‘Come on, I’ll help you downstairs. Can you walk, or shall I carry you?’

‘Oh, no—I can walk.’ The thought of being scooped up in those strong arms again was enough to make her heart thud. Really, it was plain ridiculous, she scolded herself. She was reacting like a schoolgirl, not a sensible married woman of thirty-one. Just because he was so good-looking…

And he was. It was no use telling herself that it was simply the circumstances that were making her more than usually vulnerable. She had never even reacted to Colin like this. And the danger was that the powerful tug of physical attraction she was feeling was undermining her common sense, luring her into building all sorts of stupid romantic fantasies about him—especially now she knew that he wasn’t married.

But she must be very careful not to give herself away, she reminded herself firmly. He most certainly wouldn’t appreciate it.

The kitchen was the main room of the house. It had that old-fashioned country feel about it that interior designers were always trying to recreate, and never could. No one could reproduce the comfort of the huge sofa that she was lying on, with old Jethro curled up in the crook of her knees, nor capture the feeling of sunshine streaming through a window on to whitewashed brick walls.

Last night she hadn’t paid much attention to the location of the house, but it seemed to be in the middle of the village, and people were passing by outside all the time, calling to each other in greeting. Dogs barked occasionally; a rumbling farm tractor had gone past twice, the second time leaving a waft of rich country air in its wake; a couple of horses had clattered by; somewhere close to the window she could hear a bird singing.

Josey had wondered what Vi would think of a strange woman turning up in Tom’s house in the middle of the night, but that lady had been kindness itself. From the minute Josey had come downstairs she had fussed over her, making her comfortable with piles of soft cushions and bringing through some battered old magazines from the waiting-room of Tom’s surgery for her to read.

Before she had left, she had insisted on bringing her a cup of strong tea, and a thick wedge of moist dark fruit-cake, home-baked. It was years since she had eaten home-baked cake—her mother had always used to make cakes on Fridays for the weekend, and she had learned herself, but Colin never ate cake, and so it had never seemed worth bothering.

But this was delicious. Jethro lifted his head, sniffing hopefully at her hand, hinting that perhaps she might like to share her good fortune with a friend. She stroked his sleek head, laughing.

‘Are you allowed tit-bits like this?’ she asked him. ‘I’m not sure that cake’s very good for you.’ His liquid eyes—so like his master’s—gazed at her meltingly, and she could not be immune. ‘All right,’ she conceded, breaking off a small piece and holding it out for him. ‘But don’t tell.’

The telephone began to ring, but she ignored it. Vi had told her that the answering service would cut in, and after a moment it did. With a sigh she laid her head back on the cushions, and closed her eyes. Sooner or later she was going to have to ring Colin, an let him know about the accident, and where she wa . But not yet.

The clicking of the latch on the front door brought her awake as she was beginning to slide away into sleep again, and she lifted her head, expecting Tom. But Jethro clearly didn’t—there was no bark of welcome. He simply shifted his head, turning it away from the door in a manner of bored contempt.

The woman who appeared in the doorway was about the same age as Josey herself, a willowy blonde with the fine bone-structure and peaches-and-cream complexion of the English upper classes. Her white kid jodhpurs and leather riding-whip gave the same impression, and her voice had the cut-glass diction of the county set.

‘Oh…’ She regarded Josey with refined astonishment, rather as if she were something naughty the Labrador had done on the carpet. ‘I called to see Tom.’

That haughty manner made Josey’s hackles rise. ‘He’s out,’ she responded, deliberately unhelpful.

‘I see…’

Josey felt the sharp scrutiny of those ice-blue eyes, missing nothing, and sensed a hostility that was a little puzzling—unless this young madam regarded the local vet as her personal property, and resented the interloper. ‘Can I give him a message?’ she enquired, cuttingly polite.

‘Oh…No, it’s all right. I thought perhaps Zella had thrown a spavin, but it’s probably nothing. I’ll walk her home gently, and if that doesn’t do the trick I’ll call him out later.’

The smile was confident enough, but the voice held just a hint of uncertainty. It had clearly unsettled her to find another woman ensconced in Tom’s kitchen, apparently very much at home. And Jethro, bless him, decided at that moment to start licking Josey’s hand, as if to demonstrate a bond of deep affection.

‘Fine—I’ll tell him you called,’ she responded casually.

So who was that? she wondered as the door closed behind the visitor. A proper little lady of the manor—was she a regular girlfriend of Tom’s? But clearly, in spite of the impression she had tried to give, she wasn’t quite sure of him—and that gave Josey a kind of perverse satisfaction.

But of course it was all just a daydream. She would only be here for a few days—as soon as she was well enough, she would be leaving. Besides, he wasn’t remotely attracted to her anyway—he had made that more than clear.

Automatically her hand reached out for her cigarettes, but then with a muttered curse she remembered that she had smoked the last one half an hour ago. She had known that she was running short, but she hadn’t liked to ask Tom to buy some for her.

But now she was beginning to feel that uncomfortable craving. How far was it to a shop that might sell cigarettes? It was so frustrating to feel so weak—even to think of walking a hundred yards made her want to cry with exhaustion. And first she would have to get upstairs to her bedroom to fetch her purse.

If only she could give the horrible things up. She knew the unpleasant smell of tobacco smoke clung to her hair and clothes, and she had lately noticed that her teeth were starting to turn yellow from the nicotine. And she had read somewhere that smoking caused the skin to age prematurely—she’d used to have good skin. But she needed a smoke—needed it as a starving man needed food.

The stairs seemed like Mount Everest, but with grim determination she managed to climb them. She had to sit down on the edge of the bed to recover, and at that moment the sound of a car drawing up beside the house came to her ears, and from Jethro’s excited barking she guessed that it was Tom. Damn, why did he have to come back now, and catch her?

She heard him come in, and speak a few words to Jethro, and then he was coming up the stairs two at a time. She rose to her feet, ready to confront him, feeling as guilty as a naughty schoolgirl—though she knew she had every right to go out and buy herself a packet of cigarettes if she wished to.

On the threshold he paused, a look of angry impatience crossing his face. ‘What are you doing up here?’ he demanded.

‘I…I’m sorry.’ Automatically she was apologising again. ‘I didn’t mean…I just came up to——’

‘You shouldn’t be climbing the stairs when there’s no one in the house,’ he grated. ‘What if you’d fallen?’

Her temper—strained by the nicotine craving—was close to snapping. ‘All right—I’m not completely stupid, you know,’ she retorted tartly. ‘If I’d thought I might fall, I wouldn’t have tried it.’

The sharpness of her response had startled her as much as it did him, and as he frowned at her she sighed inwardly, waiting for him to bite her head off. But instead, quite unexpectedly, that incredible smile unfurled. ‘I’m sorry,’ he conceded wryly. ‘I was just worried—you should be resting.’

She couldn’t quite meet his eyes, conscious that her cheeks were tinged a delicate shade of pink. ‘I…I’ve been resting all day,’ she managed, trying hard to keep her voice steady. ‘I ought to be ready for a five-mile run.’

A little stiffly, she rose to her feet. She would go without the damned cigarettes now. Maybe he was right—if she could manage to give them up when she was at such a low ebb, she would never need them again. ‘Oh…by the way,’ she added, slanting him a covert look from beneath her lashes, ‘there was a woman here to see you a little while ago. Something about her horse. She said she might call you later.’

‘She didn’t leave a name?’

‘No. She…seemed to think you would know who it was.’

A flicker of some expression passed across his eyes, but it was gone too quickly for her to read it. ‘I see,’ was all he said.

Having asserted that she was sure she wouldn’t fall, she was alarmed by how dizzy she felt as she gazed down the steep flight of stairs. But she wasn’t going to let him see that—he might offer to carry her again. Resolutely gritting her teeth, she took hold of the banister and slowly made her way down.

It was quite a relief to get back to the settee. She sank down a little more heavily than she had intended, leaning back and closing her eyes. It was hard to believe that just that small amount of effort could be so exhausting. Beside her she heard Tom laugh drily.

‘You’re not quite as fit as you think you are, are you?’ he remarked, a sardonic glint in his eyes.

‘No, I’m not,’ she conceded. ‘I feel perfectly all right when I’m sitting down, but when I try to move around it catches up with me.’

‘You’ll be better in a day or two,’ he assured her, his voice surprisingly gentle. ‘I’m just going to put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

‘Y-yes, please.’ It made her nervous when he was being kind to her—it felt much safer when he was shouting.

Why did he have to be so utterly gorgeous? Aver-agely good-looking she could have coped with, but in her present highly susceptible state this just wasn’t fair. She watched him covertly from beneath her lashes as he made the coffee, fascinated by every economical movement.

There was something so very self-sufficient about him; he was a man who didn’t need a woman around. He had Vi to take care of his domestic comfort, and probably a whole posse of willing young ladies to minister to his other needs, without ever being offered much in the way of commitment. He got all the close companionship he needed from his dog.

But, though he wasn’t married now, had he been once? She judged him to be maybe in his middle thirties—surely even he hadn’t been able to get off scot-free all these years? There were so many things she wanted to know about him, but she guessed that he wouldn’t easily be persuaded to talk about himself.

He brought her coffee, and then folded himself into the battered old armchair beside the fireplace, his long, lean legs sprawled across the stone hearth. Jethro collapsed in a bundle at his feet, his head draped over his ankles, his eyes closed in sheer bliss.

Josey sipped her coffee, searching her mind for something to say, simply to make conversation. ‘This is a nice cottage,’ she remarked, trying to keep her tone light and casual. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘It was my uncle’s place. We were partners for a while, but he retired about five years ago—though he still comes in to help with the small animal clinic a couple of afternoons a week.’

‘You…were born around here, then?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘My parents have got a farm, over by Withingham. Cows, mostly, and a few pigs. But my brother does most of the work now—he’s the farmer out of the two of us. My father’s nearly seventy—though he insists he isn’t quite ready to retire yet!’

His tone was quite friendly, and, emboldened, she risked probing a little further. ‘Had you always wanted to be a vet?’

‘Ever since I was a kid,’ he responded with a grin. ‘I was always over here, pestering my uncle to let me help him. I used to drive him mad, bringing in birds that had broken a wing, or a rabbit I’d let out of a farmer’s gin-trap. That didn’t make me very popular in certain quarters, either,’ he added darkly. ‘Sometimes I think that, the more I know about people, the more I prefer animals.’

‘It must be hard work,’ she mused.

He laughed drily. ‘Yes, it is—damned hard work, and there’s no money in it.’ He slanted her a look of hard mockery. ‘Not the sort of money that would run to a Porsche, anyway.’

She blinked in shock—that gibe had stung.

‘So what sort of work did you do in London?’ he persisted, a cynical edge in his voice, as if he was expecting something totally frivolous.

‘Oh, I…used to be a secretary,’ she stumbled. ‘But I haven’t worked for several years now. My…husband didn’t want me to.’

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Nearly nine years. A long time, isn’t it? You can get less than that for murder these days.’

He lifted one dark eyebrow in sardonic enquiry. ‘It seemed like a prison sentence?’

‘Worse!’ She was unable to keep the bitterness from her laugh. ‘At least with a prison sentence you get time off for good behaviourl’

‘But on the other hand, you wouldn’t get to serve your sentence in some posh Docklands penthouse, or drive around in a flash sports car,’ he pointed out with a touch of asperity.

She flashed him a look of angry indignation. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you weren’t exactly in a hurry to leave, were you?’ he taunted.

‘Well, no…but I——’

‘Nine years—was it worth it for all that comfortable lifestyle?’ he sneered. ‘The clothes, and the jewellery, and the fast cars…’

‘That’s not true!’ she protested, stung. ‘How can you judge me? You don’t even know me.’

‘I don’t need to know you—I just have to look at you.’ His eyes lashed her with icy disdain. ‘What is it they say—“You can never be too rich or too thin”? You’ve dieted so much to fit the fashionable image you’re practically a bag of bones, and you’re so screwed-up you can’t get by without those things.’ He cast a contemptuous glance at the empty cigarette packet on the table beside her. ‘I’ll tell you something—if you put on a bit of weight you might look halfway decent, but until you sort out what’s going on in your head, you’ll never——’

His words were interrupted by a sharp ring at the doorbell. He rose swiftly to his feet and crossed the room, to admit a tall, ruddy-faced young man, still in his muddy wellington boots. In his arms he was carrying a drooping bundle, wrapped in an old blanket.

‘I’m sorry to barge in like this, Tom—I know it ain’t your surgery tonight. But it’s our old Shep,’ he blurted out, agitated and upset. ‘He was perfectly all right this morning, but when the missus came in from fetching the kiddies from school he was like this—couldn’t move, couldn’t get up, wasn’t even interested in his bone. Daft old mutt, he is, and getting on a bit now, but the kids love him. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do.’

‘That’s fine, Bob,’ Tom assured him swiftly. ‘Bring him through to the clinic.’

‘Do you…think he’s going to be all right?’

Tom hesitated, casting a doubtful eye at the bundle in the young farmer’s arms. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he promised.