‘Yes—he is my friend and Mum’s, like you,’ Ben had replied happily as they’d walked up the path to the door.
‘I will remember that,’ Jed had offered as he’d said goodbye to Ben.
Phoebe’s smile had vanished when his dark head had bent towards her.
‘Uncle Julian be damned! I will be back later, and you’d better have some answers ready,’ he’d hissed with sibilant softness, before walking off.
Thinking about Jed’s threat was doing her no good at all, Phoebe decided as she entered her bedroom and removed her now damp clothes—bathing Ben was a lively operation at the best of times. She dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a blue shirt and, picking up a brush from the dresser, pulled out the few pins remaining in her once elegant topknot. She gave her a hair few vigorous strokes before flicking the long length behind her ears and fastening it with a simple band, then left the bedroom.
Quietly she descended the stairs and turned towards the kitchen at the back of the cottage. A soothing cup of tea that was what she needed. There was no point stressing over a knock on the door that might never happen, so she picked up the kettle, took it to the sink, filled it with water and switched it on. She opened one of the kitchen cupboards and took out a mug, a faint smile curving her mouth. It had been a present from Ben last Christmas, with the help of Aunt Jemma, and the inscription on the white porcelain proclaimed the owner to be the ‘Best Mum in the World’.
A timely reminder! Her position was clear, and if Jed Sabbides turned up again all she had to do was remember she was a great mum and tell him to take a hike…
Phoebe carried the mug of tea into the sitting room and sank down on the long, large soft-cushioned sofa that curved into an open end, in a modern take on a chaise longue, and faced the fireplace. Her aunt had insisted on buying the sofa, saying she had spent sixty years with old-fashioned furniture and wanted something different. Actually, it worked quite well—though Ben spent a lot of time perched on the open end because it was closest to the television…
She took a sip of her tea and thought of lighting the log fire, but it wasn’t worth it this late, she decided. Picking up the remote, she switched the television on, flicking through the channels, but there was nothing that captured her interest.
Sighing she glanced around the room. She loved this house—her home…It had originally been a nineteenth-century stone-built semi-detached farm labourer’s cottage, two up and two down, belonging to her aunt. When the cottage next door had come on to the market four years ago, with the help of a diamond necklace and some other unwanted jewellery Phoebe had bought it.
With Aunt Jemma’s agreement she had converted the two into one good-sized detached house. Consequently the entrance hall was surprisingly spacious, with a single new wide oak staircase. On one side was the sitting room, which stretched from front to back, and on the other side the original front room had been left to provide a dining room that doubled as a study. At the rear was a large L-shaped family kitchen, and upstairs there was a bathroom and three double bedrooms—her aunt’s with an en-suite bathroom—a family bathroom, her own room, and the third bedroom over the hall: Ben’s room…A gravel drive ran down one side of the house, and with a new garage built at the bottom of the garden the conversion was complete. And a great success Phoebe thought, glancing contentedly around.
A big armchair stood at one side of the fireplace, with a tall standard lamp behind it and a mahogany bureau against the wall. On the other side was the television. In the centre was a coffee table, and a Persian rug in shades of turquoise was spread in front of the fire, providing a nice contrast with the oak wood floor. Beneath the front window was an antique desk and chair of her aunt’s, and beneath the back window an old sailor’s trunk Phoebe had picked up at a car boot sale that was ideal for storing some of Ben’s toys. Maybe not the height of fashion, but in the soft glow of the standard lamp it was warm and welcoming—a real family room.
Unfortunately she had a sinking feeling that her happy home might be about to change, if Jed had his way. Draining her mug of tea, she rose to her feet and headed back to the kitchen.
She was worrying for nothing, she told herself deter-minedly. Jed could not take her child unless she let him, and she was not that dumb. She rinsed out the mug and put it back in the cupboard, and with a last look around the kitchen decided to mark papers for a while.
Ensconced in the study over an hour later, she was chuckling over an essay Elizabeth Smith—one of her sixteen-year-old students—had written. According to her, the French Resistance fighters in World War II had used the internet to publicise their cause!
Then she heard the knock on the door. She toyed with the idea of not answering, but she didn’t want Ben disturbed and reluctantly got to her feet. Moment of reckoning, she thought as she walked down the hall, rubbing her suddenly damp palms down her slender thighs. It could only be one man.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.
It was dark out, but the light from the hall illuminated the tall figure of Jed, his hand raised as if to knock again—but then patience had never been one of his virtues, she recalled. When he wanted something, be it a business deal or a woman, he went straight for his objective with all the skill and guile at his disposal. As far as she knew he had never failed. But there was always a first time, she told herself…
The dark eyes surveying her were inscrutable, but she sensed the tension in his broad shoulders. Phoebe straightened, keeping her spine rigid. He was wearing the same casual clothes, with the addition of a leather jacket, and now dark st
ubble shadowed his square jaw. If anything he looked more dangerous and more intimidating than before. Suddenly she was aware of how isolated the house was, situated at least a ten-minute walk from the village, and how alone she was with only a sleeping child for company. Her heart beat a little faster.
‘It is rather late to be calling. Anything you wish to say to me can wait until the morning. I want an early night.’ And, tightening her grip on the door handle, she began to close the door. But a strong hand closed like a vice around her wrist.
‘Who with? Uncle Julian?’ he drawled, his big body crowding her as he urged her back into the hall and closed the door behind him.
‘Don’t be disgusting—and I would like you to leave,’ she continued doggedly, determined to remain polite but firm. She tried to ignore the sudden leap in her pulse beneath his enfolding hand, and made herself look steadily up at him.
Big mistake…His dark eyes burned like living coals of fire into hers, and she could not tear her gaze away.
‘Why, damn you? Why?’ he demanded, taking her hand behind her back to pull her close against his tall frame. ‘You told me you were pregnant swiftly enough. What the hell did I do so wrong that a few months later you would deny me knowledge of my son?’
She saw the fury, the angry confusion in his eyes, and ignoring it flung back her head. ‘He is not your son,’ she declared defiantly. It was a desperate last-ditch attempt to get him to leave. She was aware of the tension in him, and also aware of the pressure of his hard body against her own. She had never known a man who could affect her physically as strongly as Jed did, and she trembled. He felt her telltale tremor, Phoebe knew, as his dark eyes narrowed with a more sinister light.
‘I know you for the liar you are, and I could strangle you for what you have done to me and mine.’ His free hand snaked around her neck, his long fingers grasping the thick swathe of her hair and twisting it around his wrist, pulling her head back. ‘But don’t worry. There are other ways to make you suffer.’
Held captive in his hold, she stared helplessly into his dark eyes and recognised the menacing sensuality in the darkening depths. ‘No,’ she choked, and splaying her hands defensively against his broad chest tried to break free. But he pushed her hand higher behind her back, forcing her harder against him as his dark head descended and he subdued her with a brutal kiss.
His hand at her nape held her head firm as he ravaged her mouth with a ruthless, domineering passion that Phoebe fought to resist. But, trapped against his broad chest, it was a useless exercise.
Indifference was her only hope, but it was a futile hope as the demanding pressure of his firmly chiselled lips against her own and the thrusting of his tongue into the moist interior of her mouth, the achingly familiar taste of him, incredibly awakened a long-denied desire. She tried to force the physical memories back, but her traitorous body had a will of its own and it betrayed her. Her breath caught in suffocating excitement as a curl of heat ignited in her belly, sending her pulse rate rocketing and making her shudder in involuntary response.