The Impetuous Bride

He glanced at his watch. There was someone coming to see the house at four—just an hour away. He had to go and tidy the kitchen—the kitchen Lydia had designed and installed, the kitchen she’d planned as if it were her own.

She was everywhere in it. Every finishing touch, every clever little idea screamed her name. That was one reason why he was selling up. That and her return. Watching her day after day flitting about the place, hearing that beautiful tinkling laugh, watching her run to her car with those never-ending, gorgeous legs flashing in the sun—

He’d had dreams about those legs tangling with his, entwined around his waist as he buried himself deep inside her.

He growled impatiently, and she looked up, straight at him. She was too far away to read her expression, but he couldn’t stay there in case she came over and read the yearning in his eyes.

He lifted his hand in a casual salute and turned away, walking back to the house with a heavy heart. He couldn’t let her do this to him. He couldn’t wallow in self-pity like this or he just wouldn’t survive.

He had this week to get through, and the wedding next Saturday, a week today, and then he wouldn’t have to see her again. He could leave the house. Packers could clear it and bring the things he wanted to London, and the rest could be sold.

And maybe then he could move on.

‘Lydia? Tonight?’ Jake gave what he hoped was a casual shrug, and tried to ignore the sudden lurching of his heart. ‘Sure. Why should I mind?’

‘Well, that’s what I said,’ Tom replied. ‘Anyway, whatever, you’re going to have to see each other this week so you might as well get used to it.’

‘Absolutely. It’s not a problem,’ he assured Tom, hoping it was true. ‘How are the plans going?’

‘Oh, pretty smooth. There’s a lot to do, but, having just had a dry run, as it were, I don’t suppose it’s as bad as it could have been.’

Jake winced inwardly. A dry run? Was that how they viewed the disastrous mess last year had been?

‘It could have been a simpler affair,’ he pointed out, and Tom gave a rueful laugh.

‘With Mel orchestrating it? Not a chance. My darling girl wants all the bells and whistles, and that’s what she’s having. It seems to be a family failing.’

Except, of course, that Lydia had looked increasingly unhappy with it—or with him? He didn’t know. He hadn’t stopped to find out.

‘What time are we going out?’ he asked now, and Tom shrugged.

‘Seven-thirty? Table’s booked for eight-thirty, but we could go for a drink first.’

‘Fine. I’ll be ready. Right, stick that mug in the dishwasher and get out of here. I’ve got viewers coming to see the house in ten minutes and I need to check it. How’s your room?’

‘It’s fine. Lord, man, you’re such a nag.’

‘Check it.’

Tom saluted, vaulted off the edge of the worktop, dropped his mug in the dishwasher with a clatter and sauntered out into the hall. Jake shook his head, wiped down the worktop again, took a last look round and headed for the hall.

Fresh flowers stood in a huge vase on the side table, the sun was streaming into the drawing room windows and it looked good. He heard Tom coming downstairs two at a time, humming.

‘Well?’

‘Spotless. It’ll knock ’em dead.’ Tom punched him affectionately on the shoulder and headed out through the back door, just as the front doorbell rang.

They loved it. Everyone who’d looked at it loved it. There was going to be a mammoth fight over it, apparently, and the agent predicted that it would go to sealed bids, with people making their best and final offers at some time in the next week or two.

Well, at least it wouldn’t hang on, he thought heavily, closing the door behind the viewers at shortly after five. They’d wanted to look at everything several times, and he’d sent them off on their own and then had to listen to them raving about the kitchen for a good ten minutes.

Every little feature that Lydia had factored in, the woman had picked up on. The convenient way the trays slotted into units and became part of the fabric, the ingenious way the cupboards hinged out to give access to the back, the huge and practical work island with a granite area for pastry-making inset into the solid mahogany top, the butcher’s block set into another area—she’d loved them all.

She’d loved the deep butler’s sink under the window, the decorative tiling behind the Aga, the butler’s pantry with its stone shelves and floor-to-ceiling storage—all of it, each scrap of worktop and every single knob had been commented on and caressed lovingly.

She’d been particularly interested in the space under the worktop in the side of the island nearest the Aga.

‘It’s a dog bed,’ Jake had explained.

She’d blinked and looked at it, then at him. ‘It is?’

‘Potentially. I’ve had to spend more and more time in London, though, and the dog wouldn’t have fitted in,’ he’d explained economically.

‘Oh, how sad. Our dog would love it, so near the Aga. What a clever idea. Still, maybe one day you’ll be able to have your dog.’

Jake had done the only thing he could—he had smiled and nodded and tried not to grind his teeth too loudly.

And now, finally, they were gone, after one last look round the upstairs, and he was on his own. He went into the drawing room, dropped into his favourite chair and sighed.

Why the hell had she had to come back?

Lydia wasn’t at all sure about going out that evening. She’d fallen into bed at three-thirty, and to her surprise she’d slept soundly till seven. Now Mel was sitting on her bed shoving a cup of tea in her hand and telling her to get up and come out, it would do her good and they had so little time left before she was married.

That wasn’t how it felt to Lydia. The week ahead stretched away into the hereafter, as far as she was concerned, and she couldn’t see any way round it. That being the case, she might as well get used to it. She threw the bedclothes off, slid out of bed and put the tea down to cool.

‘I’ll come,’ she agreed. ‘How dressy is it?’

‘Anything—I’m wearing a casual silk trouser suit.’

Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘I have shorts—that’s about it.’

‘You have loads of clothes!’

‘And none of them will fit. I’m thinner, Mel.’

‘Not that much thinner. Let’s see—here, look, this is nice and it fits where it touches. Wear that.’

Jake’s favourite dress. Oh, hell. She sighed, dropped the dress on to the bed and headed for the bathroom. ‘OK. Give me five.’

It took longer, of course, because her hair needed washing, but luckily the tan covered the shadows round her eyes, so she slapped on a bit of smoky eyeshadow, a flick of mascara and a dash of soft pink lipstick, and then shimmied into the dress.

It still looked good. It was long and soft and floaty, and she just hoped that Jake wouldn’t remember it was what she’d been wearing when he’d proposed to her.

It was that dress. Damn. Of all the things she could have worn, it had to be that one. He’d had fantasies about her in it, standing with the wind blowing it against her body and lovingly outlining every curve.

Not that she’d have many curves to outline now, he thought, studying her critically. Without the baggy T-shirt he could see the slender arms and narrow waist, the small, high breasts and, when she moved, the angle of her hipbone.

She wasn’t wearing a bra. She usually didn’t—with the breasts that she scornfully described as two grapes on a chopping board she hardly needed to, but the cool night air had pebbled her nipples and he wished she’d put a jumper on before he disgraced himself.

‘Right, are we ready?’ Tom asked, hugging Mel to his side, and Lydia nodded.

‘I’m starving. I hate aeroplane food.’ She yawned hugely, and then laughed. ‘Sorry. I was in bed. Mel dug me out half an hour ago.’

In bed. Wonderful. Just what he needed. Between that and her pert little nipples, he was going to make an idiot of himself for sure. He tugged his heavy cotton sweater down and just prayed that it wouldn’t get too hot in the restaurant.

The atmosphere was dreadful. Mel and Tom did their best to keep the mood light, but Lydia was too tired to join in really and Jake, working his way steadily through the wine, was grimly silent.

Until the coffee was served, that was, and then he sprawled back in his chair, one arm coiled round the back, and regarded her levelly as he stirred his sugarless black coffee with unwarranted determination.

‘So, Lydia, do tell—did you “find yourself” on the hippy trail?’

‘Hippy trail?’ she said, trying not to wince at the coldness of his tone. ‘I met a lot of very interesting people—very nice people. I made some wonderful friends, and learned a great deal about trust and team work and sharing. And you? What have you done in the last year?’

‘Oh, turned over a few more companies, stripped a few assets, trashed a few lives—you know the sort of thing.’

‘Nothing worthwhile, then,’ she quipped, hating herself even while she knew it was just self-defence.

He laughed coldly. ‘Absolutely not—not compared to dumping my fiancé just before the wedding and disappearing off round the world like an irresponsible child. I’m amazed you haven’t come back reeking of patchouli and covered in multiple body piercings.’

She closed her eyes briefly, reeling from the shock of his unwarranted attack. Well, maybe not unwarranted, but totally out of character—wasn’t it? Tom seemed to think so. He jerked upright and glowered at his old friend. ‘Hell, Jake, that’s a bit harsh,’ he said.

‘Is it? The woman jilts me two days before our wedding and you say I’m harsh? I don’t think so.’

Lydia felt hot colour scorch her cheeks. Her heart was pounding and she thought she was going to be sick. She just had to get out of there, away from him and his bitterness and hatred before it destroyed the crumbling veneer around her and exposed her pain. She looked round desperately at Mel.

‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll get a taxi home. I don’t really want this coffee, and I’m tired.’ She stood up, conscious that Jake, who last year would have stood up without fail, was still sprawled in the chair scowling into his cup. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Tom, take her home,’ Mel said hurriedly.

‘No, we’ll all go,’ Jake said, standing up abruptly and pulling his wallet out. ‘There’s no point pretending we’re having fun.’ He dropped a handful of notes on the table, nodded to the waiter and headed for the door, his coffee untouched.

‘Is everything all right?’ the waiter asked anxiously, fluttering round them, and Tom soothed him.

‘It’s fine. We’re just rather tired. Thank you.’

He put a proprietorial arm around Lydia’s shoulders, and led her out of the door. Mel was ahead of them, steaming after Jake and giving him hell, if Lydia’s guess was right. Oh, damn. She should have stayed at home in bed and not come out with them. It was foolish to expect that they could be civil.

It might be water under the bridge by now, as Tom had said, but it had been a tidal wave, and the bridge was damaged beyond repair.

He seemed so angry still. That puzzled her, because for all she’d felt she didn’t really know him, she’d known that much about him, and he wasn’t a vindictive or unkind person.

So why, then, was he so angry? Unless it was because he still cared about her. And if he still cared that much, if he was still so angry, then maybe he really had loved her. It might just have been wounded pride, of course, but if not, was it really too late, or was there still a chance for them to mend the bridge?

Lydia didn’t know. All she knew was that she had a week in which to find out—a week that only hours ago had seemed to stretch on for ever, and now seemed nothing like long enough…

CHAPTER TWO

JAKE was standing by the front passenger door of Tom’s car, but Mel elbowed him out of the way.

‘You can sit in the back with my sister and apologise for bitching at each other, or get a taxi. Right now I don’t much care which, but I’d be grateful if you’d manage to behave towards each other in a civilised fashion. I’m not asking you to be buddies, clearly that’s too much, but you could at least be polite.’

And she slid into the front seat, slammed the door and left them standing by the car in silence.

After an endless moment, Jake reached for the handle, opened the door and held it for her without a word. Still in silence, Lydia climbed into the back and slid across the seat, and he folded himself in beside her, fastened his seat belt and stared straight ahead.

‘Sorry, Lydia. Sorry, Jake.’

They both glared at Mel. ‘Butt out, little sister,’ Lydia said tightly. ‘I can fight my own battles.’

‘Nevertheless, I think—’

‘Drop it, Mel,’ Tom said, and started the car, turning the radio on. Lydia realised she was shaking all over, hanging on by a thread, and she could feel the waves of tension coming off Jake.

They’d driven about two tense and emotionally charged miles before he sighed and turned to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said tightly. ‘I didn’t mean to snipe at you. I just find this very difficult.’

He wasn’t alone! She’d been wondering for ages just why she’d let herself be talked into this calculated disaster of an evening. ‘It’s OK,’ she conceded, desperate to end this war that had sprung up between them. ‘I never expected you to kill the fatted calf.’ She tried a tentative smile, and his mouth flickered just briefly.

It wasn’t a smile, but it was a concession, and the tension eased noticeably, to her huge relief. She relaxed back against the seat, still shaking with reaction, but at least they were nearly home.

They pulled up on the drive a few minutes later, and Tom cut the engine. ‘Coffee?’ Mel suggested, and gave them both a considering look over the back of the seat. ‘Think you two can cope with that?’

‘I should think we’ll manage,’ Jake said drily, and, opening the door, he got out and helped Mel from the car, leaving Tom to open Lydia’s door.

He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and smiled at her worriedly. ‘You OK?’ he asked softly, and she nodded.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Come on in, it’s chilly.’

She rubbed her bare arms briskly to warm them, and led the way into the kitchen. The Aga was warm, as ever, and she put the kettle on automatically and leant against the front rail, her back to the stove and her hands wrapped round the rail for warmth.

Her mother came into the kitchen and commandeered Mel and Tom immediately, leaving her alone with Jake, and she was suddenly conscious of the way she was standing and the way Jake was looking at her. Dear God, did he think she was being deliberately provocative?

She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers gripping her upper arms defensively, and gave him a cautious smile. ‘I’m sorry about Mel,’ she began, but he cut her off with a short, humourless laugh.

‘No. She was right. I apologise. It was unforgivable. I shouldn’t have poked fun at you; you have every right to do what you like with your life.’

‘Not if it hurts other people,’ she murmured softly.

He was silent, his eyes expressionless, and then he turned away, reaching for the mugs with a familiarity that tore at her heart. How many times had she watched him do that? Struggling to fill the silence, she groped for a topic. ‘How did you get on with the house this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘Were the people OK?’

He gave her a strange look. ‘We discussed this over dinner,’ he reminded her, and she coloured.

‘I meant, did you like them? Would you like them to have your house? It’s a very personal thing selling something you’ve worked hard on and care about—you want to make sure it goes into the right hands.’

‘It’s a house, Lydia,’ he said in a tight voice. ‘Just a house.’

She shrugged and pulled the kettle off the hob, lowering the cover down over the hotplate with exaggerated care. ‘Coffee or tea?’

‘Coffee—thank you.’ He set the mugs down beside her, and his arm brushed hers, bringing lingering warmth to the cold skin. He was so close she could smell the faint citrus scent of his aftershave, so familiar it made her ache to hold him, to slip into his arms and rest her weary head on his chest and cry her eyes out for all the stupid things she’d done in the last year.

Instead she moved away, out of range of the scent of his body, and made the coffee with brisk and economical movements. ‘I’ll take theirs into the study—I can tell this is going to be one of those long confabs that will drag on for ages.’

She put four mugs on a tray and carried them through, earning distracted smiles of thanks, and went back to the kitchen.

Jake was sitting at the table, his long fingers curled around his mug, staring down into its murky contents as if it held the secret of eternal life. There was a box of mint crisp chocolates on the side and she offered him one. He shook his head, but she had two, dipping them in her coffee and sucking them. It was a disgusting habit, but they tasted better like that and she was hardly trying to impress him.

Just as well, judging by the strange way he was looking at her.

‘They liked it,’ he said abruptly, and she paused in her sucking and looked at him in utter confusion.

‘They? They liked what?’

‘The viewers,’ he explained. ‘They liked your kitchen. She waxed lyrical on every single feature. I thought she was going to rip out the dog bed and take it with her.’

Lydia smiled wryly. ‘Oh, dear. Still, I suppose it’s a good sign.’

‘Oh, absolutely. The agent seems to think they’ll all come to blows over it. It certainly won’t hang about on the market, apparently.’

Lydia felt a great pang of regret. It would have been her house, hers and Jake’s, and they would have brought their children up in it.

If their marriage had stood the test of time. Instead it had fallen even before the first hurdle.

‘You ought to come and see the house before it goes,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve done a lot more since you left. It was in a pretty basic state when I bought it—I don’t know if you can remember.’

Remember? How could she forget walking round the echoing emptiness with him, excitement gripping her at the thought of transforming the basic and antiquated scullery into a wonderful family kitchen that would be the heart of his beautiful home. Not for her, of course, not at that stage, but for him and some nameless woman who would become his wife.

‘I want children,’ he’d said, ‘so nothing too precious.’

And she’d imagined the children, little blue-eyed, dark-haired clones of their father, with mischievous smiles and infectious laughter.

It was in that kitchen that he’d first kissed her…

She jerked herself back to the present and his invitation. ‘I’d love to see it—and of course I remember it. It will be interesting to see what you’ve done.’

Heartbreaking, too, but she couldn’t seem to walk away from him no matter how sensible it might be. And it could be her last chance to see it.

‘When?’ she asked, and he shrugged.

‘Tomorrow? Come for breakfast. Your body clock will be all up the creek, so tired as you are I don’t suppose you’ll be able to lie in. Ring me. I’ll cook for you.’

She met his eyes, and for a moment there was a glimmer of the old Jake, then it was gone again.

‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘That would be lovely. Don’t wait in, though. I might sleep—who knows?’

‘I’ll be in,’ he assured her, and it sounded almost like a promise.

He must be crazy. He couldn’t sit in the same room with her without being reminded of her defection, and yet he was inviting her over—and for breakfast, for heaven’s sake! Not coffee, not a cup of tea, but breakfast, the most intimate meal of all—a meal they’d never shared.

He was mad. He had to be. Bringing her back into the house and filling every nook and cranny of it with her image was absolutely the last thing he needed, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if those images would haunt him for years, because the house would be sold and she’d never even been to his new flat in London.

No, it was just a short-lived torture, a bit of flagellation that if he wasn’t such a masochist he would have avoided like the plague, but he was too weak and too stupid to steer clear of her.

He drained his coffee and stood up. She was drooping over the table, struggling to keep her eyes open after her long flight, and he was keeping her up.

Not that he ought to care, but for some absurd reason he did.

‘I’m off,’ he said briskly. ‘Go to bed. Call me in the morning.’

She stood up and went to the door with him, and without thinking he lowered his head and brushed her lips.

‘Sleep tight, Princess,’ he murmured roughly, and then could have kicked himself for the familiar endearment.

He walked home in the dark, striding along the lane in the faint moonlight, his body stalked by the image of her leaning against the Aga, her nipples clear against the soft fabric of her dress, the tip of her tongue chasing the last melted smear of chocolate on her lips, the gentle sway of her body as she moved.

He could still smell the light, teasing fragrance of her skin, taste the chocolate on her lips. His palms ached to cup those small, soft breasts, to cradle her bottom and lift her against him as he lost himself in her.

Damn. He stripped off his sweater and unfastened his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers and letting the cool night air to his skin. Damn her for her hold over him.

It was just because he’d never had her, of course, because she’d always held back from that last intimacy. If he’d made love to her he could have forgotten her, could have got her out of his system.

Maybe now was a chance—not out of revenge, but just as a way of purging his emotion.

And maybe he was a bigger fool than he’d thought.

He went in, slammed the door behind him and took the stairs three at a time. Maybe a cold shower would bring him to his senses.

She rang him at a quarter to nine, knowing he would be up. He was always up by six, so he’d told her in the past, and he answered the phone on the second ring.

‘Hi,’ he said, and his voice sounded gruff and sexy and early-morning, and did nothing for her composure.

‘I’m awake,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘Is it too early? I’m dying for coffee.’

‘Of course not. Come on round. I’ll leave the back door open.’

She pulled her wet hair into a ponytail, contemplated putting on make-up and told herself not to be ridiculous. She was going for breakfast, nothing else.

Her jeans hung on her, but they would have to do. She slid her feet into sandals, tied a jumper round her shoulders in case it was chilly out and walked briskly round to his house.

Although it was next door, technically, it took a couple of minutes to walk there along the lane, and the fresh morning air felt wonderful on her skin. It had rained in the night, just lightly, and the air was cool and damp and scented with honeysuckle and roses.

It was gorgeous, so much more subtle than the exotic scents of the tropics, and Lydia felt the tension in her ease a little. Nevertheless, she approached the back door with a certain amount of trepidation. She’d put so much of herself into the design of this particular kitchen, and then later so much love into the planning of the other things they’d hoped to do, and now she would see what he had achieved—and what he was casually going to hand over to another person without a pang, because it was, in his words, ‘just a house’.

Not to Lydia. Never to Lydia.

She tapped on the open door and went in, greeted by the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon, and there he was, standing at the work island in a pair of ancient jeans faded almost to white over the knees and seat, a soft T-shirt tucked in, emphasising the breadth of his shoulders and the neatness of his waist.

‘Hi,’ he murmured, and threw her a smile that made her heart kick. ‘Come on in.’