She wouldn't discuss the call with him, she decided. She was having enough trouble just functioning, and she really couldn't bear to be humiliated again.
She would find a reason to go. She had to find a reason to go.
When Jack came out of the shower and reached for her, she forced a laugh and danced past him. She took a shower in silence, and when she came out again, she maintained that silence. She didn't trust herself to speak. Flashing a reassuring smile his way whenever she thought it necessary had to be enough. She was dead inside. She was ice.
She dressed in silence, and reached for purse in silence.
"Bella, what's wrong?"
"I have to go, Jack—"
"Go?" he exploded. "You can't go? What's happened?"
She looked down at his hand on her arm. "Please, Jack. I need to go. Don't try to stop me."
Lifting his hand away from her, Jack frowned. He started to say something and then fell silent. "Can't I say anything to persuade you to stay?" he said at last.
"No, Jack. I have to go home."
"If you're quite sure, I'll call my pilot—"
"I am sure, but there's no need for you to do that. I don't want you to think I'm not grateful—"
"What?" Beyond frustration, Jack raked his ruffled hair.
"I don't want you to think that I haven't enjoyed this time in Paris—"
"Our time in Paris," he ground out over her. "And I don't want you to be grateful—I don't want you to be grateful to a man ever again! You said you loved me, Bella, and I know I love you." Jack opened his arms in a bewildered shrug. "How can you leave like this?"
"Quite easily," she said, knowing she would have to be cruel if she stood a chance of leaving Jack. "I'll just put one foot in front of another and walk out the door."
Chapter Eight
When she got back to the Old Hall she refused to see anyone, even Tracey, though Tracey called every day, twice a day. "Just to check you're still alive, and the ghost of the Old Hall hasn't got you yet."
"Not yet," Arabella confirmed each time like clockwork, though today she was glad of the human contact. It was scary up here. Stuffing her phone in the pocket of her jeans, she glanced around. She was upstairs in the attic, looking for something to sell to stave off the creditors. She might have known there'd be nothing left. Harold had gotten here before her. She had approached the bank for a loan, but as the bank was threatening to foreclose on the mortgage, that was a non–starter. And then there was Harold. In jail or not, divorced or not, he was still entitled to half the property, which left Arabella with two choices. She could sell the house and pay Harold his half of whatever was left after the debts were cleared, or she could buy him out—and as she didn't have a penny to scratch her backside with, neither option was open to her.
And worse, she concluded, sitting heavily on a chest, she longed to hear Jack's voice. He'd rung her every day, but she'd declined his calls. How could she pick up the phone after what he'd done? Did he think she was soft in the head?
Apparently, yes, he did. How long was it since they'd parted in Paris? Almost three weeks? And she was still pining for him? Shame on you, Arabella Frost!
Arabella... Delavinci!
Much better, Arabella concluded, feeling better already. She would reclaim her maiden name as of today. She had once been Lady Delavinci, though everyone who knew her had simply transferred her title to Frost when she married Harold. She didn't give a damn about the title, but she would feel better using her childhood name, rather than Harold's name—though it was the only thing he'd ever given her, she recalled with grim amusement. And Jack wasn't the answer to her problems, either. She had to find a solution.
Forced to a
ccept that miracles didn't happen, she left the attic rooms when the room darkened as the sun went behind a cloud. There were no Old Masters hanging forgotten on the walls, no secret drawers in the battered old desks, and no jewels that had slipped forgotten behind a chest—and even if there had been, she doubted the money they'd fetch would be enough to touch the debt.
Pick yourself up! she told herself impatiently as she pulled on her Wellington boots and grabbed her battered old Barbour from the hook.
Where...the...hell...was she?
He'd had enough of this. He had no idea why Arabella had suddenly changed in Paris, or why she was refusing to take his calls now. He only knew that he hadn't changed as far as she was concerned; not one bit. He'd been away on business, but now he was back, and there was only one place he wanted to go, and that was to the Old Hall to find Bella. He didn't know now whether he hated the place or loved it. It had brought him Arabella, but it had also taken her away from him. If she really preferred a house to him—
He would still have to find her, Jack determined, so he could hear that she had finished with him from her own lips.
He hammered on the front door of the hall and peered in through the windows. He rattled the back door, and even contemplated cracking the glass. But after the last time, and the trouble she'd had getting the antique glass replaced, he knew that would only upset her more. And he would have known if she was here. He would have felt her presence in his bones. And if instinct failed him, he knew for sure that Bella wasn't the type to skulk behind doors. She would more likely fling it wide in his face and order him off her property.