PROLOGUE
CHRISTMAS morning.
Bella leaned towards the mirror and stroked bright scarlet onto her lush mouth. A flag of defiance? Or an attempt to remind herself that she was still alive?
She recapped the lipstick and dropped it into her bag, then shrugged a soft leather jacket over the misty-heather sweater that matched her worn denims. She breathed irritably through her nostrils as her hair caught beneath the collar. Grabbing the long, silky black length of it in both hands, she secured it punitively in an elastic band.
It had once been her trademark—or one of her trademarks. Her silky jet hair, her lush scarlet mouth and the startling contrast of water-clear silver eyes had earned her the envied, yet oddly unenviable position of top photographic model of the decade.
A position of make-believe, of clever camera angles, exotic backdrops and the wizardry of the makeup artist—a position she’d gladly jettisoned when she’d married Jake. Preferring reality, as she’d perceived it then. The reality of being the wife of one of the most successful financial brains to work in the City, the sexiest, most charismatic, strong-minded man she had ever met. Jake Fox.
But the reality had been his, not hers. The real world had proved a hard place to live in when his reality had been his inability to give her what she wanted.
They had met and married in a breathtakingly short space of time. For him, she now knew, it had been lust at first sight. For her something different—so different that it meant a meeting point was impossible. She pushed that thought out of her head.
It was over. She had to keep that stark reality to the forefront of her mind.
She wouldn’t think about anything else—the might-have-beens or if-onlys. Not now. Not until she could begin to hope to cope with it.
Snatching up her hastily packed case, she walked from the bedroom where memories of their lost and glorious passion seemed to echo mockingly from the very walls. She dared not risk a backward glance because if she did she feared she might change her mind and stay until he decided to come home, then beg for the chance to try again, and resign herself to a life of shattered dreams.
But she had too much self-respect for that. He had proved himself incapable of giving her what was her due. She couldn’t allow herself to live with that.
Her chin lifted with stoic determination as she walked through to the elegant sitting room, avoiding the state-of-the-art kitchen where last night’s celebration meal was cold and congealing in delicate bone china serving dishes.
Her fingers were shaking as she took the note from her bag. She’d written it in the early hours, after he’d walked in unexpectedly on her and Guy; after that blisteringly savage word he’d thrown at her; after he’d walked out to heaven only knew where.
It was to have been their third wedding anniversary celebration, and it had turned into a wake.
When he’d phoned from the States four days ago she’d begged him to wrap up his business meetings and get home for their anniversary. A quiet celebration for two. She’d told him they had to talk and find a way through to each other. His tone had been gentler, more loving than she’d heard it in ages, when he’d assured her he’d be home in good time—as if he, too, knew they had to cement the cracks instead of blindly papering them over; as if he too needed to draw closer, reaffirm their vows.
But he hadn’t come. All day she’d waited, made preparations, planning the perfect menu, choosing his favourite wine, dressing herself at last in the little black silk creation he always said made her look sexy enough to short circuit his brain. All the time listening, ears straining for the sound of him walking through the door, her eyes flicking repeatedly to her tiny gold-banded wrist-watch, her pulse rate quickening with mounting anxiety.
By ten she’d just about given up hope, given up entirely on the spoiled meal. And when she’d heard the phone ring out half an hour later she’d picked it up, almost sobbing with relief. She’d been convinced it was Jake, letting her know he’d been delayed, apologising, letting her know he was on his way.
When it had turned out to be Guy Maclaine, business associate and long-time friend, calling to wish her merry Christmas and tell her his wonderful news, she’d gone to pieces, angry tears flooding down the phone lines because Jake had obviously forgotten his promise to be here. And because her relationship with Guy went back years, was very special, he’d come straight round. And half an hour later—wouldn’t you know it?—Jake had walked in.
By then, of course, it had been too late.
She propped the note against the empty wine bottle on one of the glass-topped tables where he would be sure to see it—if and when he returned. It, the bottle and the single glass were the only discordant notes in what was otherwise a perfect room. It took some doing, as much courage as she had, because that farewell letter was so final. It ended their marriage.
But she did it. She had no real choice. And took several moments to compose herself, standing by the great sweep of the windows that looked out over the Docklands development.
Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, amidst the sprawling tense unseen family gatherings, then a stiffening of her spine. This was the worst Christmas Day she had eve
r had to face. But she wouldn’t think about it.
Bella took up her case and walked out.
CHAPTER ONE
DECEMBER 23rd. Almost a year later.
‘It seems a long way to come for a few days’ break,’ Bella ventured, staring through the afternoon murk at the towering hillsides. Now she knew why this range went by the name of The Black Mountains!
‘Nearly there, so stop grumbling!’ Evie countered blithely, changing gear as they left the road for what looked like a sheer mountain track. ‘It’s going to be fun, I promise. Better than being cooped up in that London flat of ours for the entire holiday.’
Fun? It was a bitter reminder that the past year had been anything but. Just work and more work, taking her position as head of the agency’s New Accounts section so seriously that over one of their rare, leisurely lunches Guy had warned her, ‘Sweetheart—never mind everything else we’ve got going for us—I’m talking as your boss now, and I’m telling you to slow down.’
He’d taken her hand across the table, stroking it softly, his dark eyes concerned. ‘I know life can be a bitch, and things aren’t going your way right now. But working yourself to a standstill won’t help either of us. You’re in danger of pushing yourself into a physical breakdown.’
It was a view shared by Evie. Not that she’d ever come right out with it, but it was there in her eyes. In the space of twelve months Bella had become a dedicated workaholic, using every spare minute, not allowing herself time to brood. Was that why Jake had worked so hard? To stop himself thinking about the way their marriage had been slowly unravelling, falling apart? Had he found their relationship unful-filling right from the day he’d woken up to discover his lust had been finally slaked and there was nothing else left?
Her breath caught. She swallowed the lump in her throat with ferocity. She wouldn’t let herself think about it. Or him. Ever.
It would be a long time before she would be strong enough to take out and examine just what she had lost—contemplate the disintegration of precious dreams, the slow and devastating demise of the expectations that had turned into a nightmare, without falling apart.
‘It will be different,’ she said. Her voice was soft as she glanced affectionately at her sister, watching the way those bright blue eyes narrowed as she concentrated on the increasingly steep and narrow track ahead, her dark curls clustering around her pretty, plump face.
This break—a week in a rented holiday cottage in the Welsh mountains—had been Evie’s surprise Christmas gift. Even if Bella would have preferred to pretend Christmas wasn’t happening and take enough work back to the flat she had shared with Evie since her marriage had fallen apart to keep her occupied until she could get back to the office early in the New Year, she wouldn’t have dreamed of saying so, of throwing Evie’s good intentions back in her face.
‘Look—’ She consciously brightened her voice, making herself take an interest. ‘There’s already snow on the mountain tops.’ Against a bright blue sky it was sparkling, festively pretty. ‘I hope you’ve brought a shovel. If this cottage we’re staying in gets buried in ten-foot drifts you’re going to need it!’
‘No worries!’ There was a hint of banked-down excitement in Evie’s voice. ‘The forecast on the telly promised clear skies and frosts for the entire holiday period. The only hard graft, big sister, will be building the fire up. Promise!’
She’d have to take her sister’s word for it. She rarely, if ever, watched the small screen herself. She’d tried to begin with, especially when Evie stayed in to watch something she said was unmissable. Unable to concentrate on the moving images, Bella had conjured up his face every time—Jake as she’d last seen him, the hard, handsome features stamped with bitterness and contempt.
‘Keeping the fires burning can be your holiday job, kiddo.’ She was doing her best to enter into the spirit of this unusual Christmas gift, to ignore the scaldingly angry pain that the mere thought of Jake sent through her. ‘I’ll cook the turkey—you did say everything was supplied?’
She didn’t need to ask. Evie had been bombarding her with every last detail ever since she’d sprung the surprise the evening before. But it gave her something to say, something to give the impression that she was looking forward to the break, taking an appreciative interest.
Strangely, her sibling seemed at a loss for words right now, clearing her throat before she pointed out, ‘According to the instructions, it should be just over the brow of this hill.’
‘You’re the driver.’ And thank heavens for that Bella knew she would never have found her way through this bleak landscape of winter-bare mountains and the network of rutted tracks without radar, yet Evie was driving her bright red Corsa as if she’d made the journey a thousand times before.
Sure enough, as they crested the brow the cup-shaped valley below cradled a slate-roofed stone cottage backed by a windscreen of spruce, bounded on three sides by a narrow mountain stream. In the summer it would be idyllic, a popular holiday let for people who valued solitude and simple pleasures. But in the heart of the winter?
Bella suppressed a shudder and turned on a smile. Little Evie, bless her, had done this for all the best reasons. She wasn’t to know that nothing, but nothing on God’s earth could stop her remembering that tomorrow would be her fourth wedding anniversary—and the day after that a whole empty, hateful year since she’d finally conceded her marriage was over.
She’d tried; heaven knew she’d tried to purge him and their ill-destined marriage from her mind, but had dismally failed. He had a way of sneaking inside her head when she was least expecting it. She hated it when that happened; it made her feel she had no control over her thoughts.
‘Looks cosy,’ she remarked, falsely bright, trying not to notice the sudden rush of agony to her heart. The little car bounced to a halt beside the narrow wooden footbridge that spanned the stream a few yards from the cottage. Small-paned windows were built into stout stone walls, and there was a door that looked solid enough to withstand a hurricane. Bella undid her seat belt and twisted round, reaching into the back for the two canvas bags, quickly packed last night.
‘We won’t need much,’ Evie had stated. ‘Jeans and sweaters and lots of woolly socks.’