The Faithful Wife

The sensation of déjà vu was intense, jealousy, pain and the feeling of betrayal taking him by the throat, shaking him. Just as it had done on the night of Christmas Eve over a year ago.

As when he’d first seen her, at the party Alex had dragged him to she was the focus of all his attention, all his needs and desires. A raven-haired beauty in a shimmering dress. Maclaine was cupping her delicate face in his big paw, and she was, as before, curving her slender body into the support of his.

She was listening to what he was saying intently, her fascinating eyes locked with his, smiling a little now. And as Jake, in this crowded, over-heated room, saw only the two of them, so they, obviously, saw only each other.

His eyes closed as a pain so savage he thought it might rip him apart rocked him back on his heels. And when he forced them open again he saw her reach out a pale, slender hand and place it lovingly on the side of his goddamn ugly face.

And he knew he had lost her. For one moment, as his head bowed and his body sagged against the door-frame, he accepted his loss, and his world became a dark, empty, bleak place, a place he didn’t want to be.

But only for a moment. He wouldn’t jump to conclusions. And he knew with a wild lifting of his heart that he trusted her. The scars had healed. Where he loved, he could trust.

Unaware of the curious eyes now turned to him, the gradual silencing of party-time chatter, he lifted his head, straightened his shoulders and pushed his way through the crowded room, his face, though grey with fatigue, scored with the arrogance of his determination.

The changing, charged atmosphere must have penetrated even their mutual absorption, he noted grimly as she turned and met the savage single-mindedness of his narrowed black eyes.

What colour she did have drained from her lovely face and then quickly returned, concentrated in two hectic splashes lying against the high perfection of her cheekbones.

He reached out, his fingers curling around her arm, just above her elbow, keeping himself under tight control because he couldn’t bear to bruise that tender flesh. He would never do her even the slightest harm.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Maclaine didn’t recognise him at first; Jake could see it in his eyes. Then why should he? He hadn’t gone out of the way to seek his former enemy’s company. And he guessed the violence of his emotions must be stamped all over his face. Little wonder the man looked as if he was squaring up to throw him out of his house!

Jake left him in no doubt as to his identity, telling him smoothly, ‘I’ve come to collect my wife. Lovely party, but I’m afraid we can’t stay.’

Bella went with him without a murmur. She was shaking inside, but wouldn’t let it show. Aware of the intense silence in the room, the murmurs that were beginning to break out in their wake, the politely muffled hum of excitement, she stared steadily ahead, every nerve in her body stinging in sharp response to the determined man at her side.

She didn’t bother to find her wrap, didn’t even think of it, wasn’t aware of the lack of it until the cold wind, the deluge of rain, made her gasp.

Silently, he swept her into his arums and strode rapidly between the parked cars. His body was as taut as steel. Anger? Her shocked mind hopelessly grappled for reasons.

There was a black cab waiting at the kerb, the meter ticking over. Jake put Bella in the back and went to give the driver instructions, giving her the opportunity to get her head together.

His behaviour could only mean one thing—he still believed she and Guy were having an affair.

Could all that inner tension stern from the fact that she was still nominally his wife, his property, albeit unwanted property?

She couldn’t believe that. He was the most urbane, controlled man she had ever known. It had to be something more, and yet she couldn’t allow herself to hope. If he still loved her, needed her in his life, he would have told her so.

Wouldn’t he?

‘There was no need to act like a caveman,’ she said in a rough little voice she didn’t recognise as her own as he joined her and the cab drew away from the kerb. ‘I would have left if you’d asked me in the normal manner. And you could have stayed, had a drink, joined in our conversation.’

She was plucking nervously at the hem of her dress. The fabric was sodden, even though he’d whisked her through the deluge as quickly as possible. And his clothes were worse, his hair plastered to his head.

In the dim interior light she could see the harsh black glitter of his eyes. He was having trouble hanging onto his precarious control; she knew that. The way his voice shook told her that. And one more push could do the trick, make him lose the last, tenuous hold and tell her exactly what this was all about.

She thought she knew—she hoped she’d got it right—but she needed to hear it from him.

Taking her courage in both hands, reminding herself that it was probably now or never, she said tartly, ‘You still think I’m capable of having an affair with Guy, right under Ruth’s nose! Is that what you think of me? And now you’ll never know—were we whispering sweet nothings, counting the minutes until we could be properly alone? Or were we having a nice, friendly, innocent conversation? Tough, isn’t it?’

She got a response. Not the one she’d expected. But the way he gave a smothered groan and dragged her into his arms told her all she wanted to know.

Jake felt her body tremble in fevered response, her arms going out to him, fingers tangled in his hair, holding his head to deepen the already fathomless kiss.

His mouth moved slowly over hers, tasting the sweet moistness of her lips. His hands stroked over her body, needing to touch all of her, feel the heady warmth of her flesh beneath the clinging damp cloth.

She still wanted him physically; he knew that. Nothing she could ever say or do could hide that from him. Not when he touched her. And that was all he ever had to do. She couldn’t hide the fire and the fury, the sheer meltdown of her response.