It seemed unlikely. After the way he’d left the house earlier she was fairly sure she wouldn’t see him again that day. But that wasn’t entirely Jack’s fault. She was going to bed earlier and earlier these days, escaping into oblivion to avoid the inevitable questions Jack’s absence always created.
The roar of a car’s engine in the drive caused a sudden quiver in her stomach. It could be Mrs Grady, of course, but she didn’t think it was. Mrs Grady drove a Ford, not an Aston Martin. And this definitely sounded like a powerful car.
Rachel’s nerves tightened instinctively, and she took a gulp of wine to calm her racing pulse. There was no reason to get all chewed up, she told herself. Jack had probably forgotten something. He’d probably come in and go out again without her even seeing him.
A car door slammed, and in spite of her assurances Rachel’s mouth felt dry. She took another sip of wine, just to irrigate her throat, and then almost choked when Jack appeared in the open doorway.
She should have shut the door, she chided herself, still convinced he wasn’t staying. But Jack had other ideas.
‘Hi,’ he said civilly, much to her surprise after the way he’d left the house. ‘Good. I’m just in time.’
Rachel swallowed. ‘This—’ She gestured towards the round table, with its green and yellow place mats, its Villeroy and Boch china, its silver cutlery. ‘This is for you?’
‘For both of us,’ amended Jack, taking off his charcoal suit jacket and dropping it over the back of one of the ladder-backed dining chairs. He loosened the top button of his shirt and pulled the knot of his silver-grey tie away from his collar. Then he approached the wine cooler where Rachel was standing, her wine glass forgotten in her hand. ‘Is that Chablis?’
‘Don’t you know?’ She couldn’t keep the resentment out of her voice. ‘I imagine you must have arranged this with Mrs Grady before you left.’
‘I phoned,’ he corrected her again, a flicker of his eyes registering the way she moved around the table to put some space between them. He helped himself to a little of the wine. But only a little, she noticed. Whatever else he’d come home for, it wasn’t to drown his sorrows. He took a mouthful. ‘Mmm, that’s pretty good.’
Rachel shook her head, putting her glass down on the table with a slightly unsteady hand. She mustn’t let him do this to her, she told herself. She wasn’t going to let him behave as if nothing had happened. They both knew it had. Karen Johnson was part of their lives, for better or for worse.
All the same, as Jack stood there regarding her from beneath lashes any woman would have died for, Rachel was unwillingly reminded of the concern she’d had about him earlier. There was something different about him today. She didn’t know what it was, but it troubled her.
‘Shall we sit down?’
Jack spoke, and in spite of her thoughts Rachel gave a careless shrug. ‘If you like.’
Jack waited until she’d taken the chair opposite before joining her. He wondered if she thought he hadn’t noticed her edging her place setting around the table so that there was no way their elbows would touch, but he didn’t comment on it. It was enough that she wasn’t sniping at him—yet, anyway. No doubt that would come when he told her about Karen’s call.
Rachel reached for the wine and refilled her glass. She felt as if she needed some false courage, and one glass just wasn’t doing it. Despite her determination not to do so, she couldn’t help wondering why there were those lines of strain beside his mouth. However strenuous last night had been—and she coloured at the memory—he had been as eager to satisfy his needs as she had been.
Realising he was waiting for her to have some soup before helping himself, Rachel lifted the lid of the tureen and ladled a spoonful into her bowl. Then she pushed the handle of the ladle in Jack’s direction.
Judging by the little he took for himself, his appetite was as non-existent as her own, and once again she fretted over the reasons why. Last night he’d seemed exactly the same as usual; but then, last night she’d been intent on achieving her own ends, not his, she assured herself grimly.
Of course, his haggard appearance might have something to do with his guilty conscience, she thought, dipping her spoon into the soup with more force than enthusiasm. He was thirty-seven, for God’s sake. What else could it be?
‘Did you sleep well?’
His words took her completely by surprise—as they’d been meant to do, she guessed, annoyed that she’d been caught out. ‘Not very,’ she said, not altogether truthfully. After she’d left him sleeping soundly in her bed, she’d crashed in one of the other guest rooms. She must have been exhausted, because she hadn’t been aware of anything until the morning sun had poured in through the uncurtained windows and she’d realised what she’d done. After that, sleep had definitely been out of the question.
Jack arched a disbelieving brow. ‘Shame,’ he said, putting his spoon aside. ‘I slept like the dead.’
It was an unfortunate choice of words, particularly in the circumstances, and Jack hoped they weren’t prophetic. But Rachel was immune to their relevance.
‘Now, why am I not surprised?’ she asked scornfully. ‘It comes of not having a conscience, I suppose.’
‘I have a conscience.’ Jack was stung into a retort. ‘Do you?’
‘Me?’ Rachel was taken aback. ‘Why should I have a conscience?’
‘Well, let me see…’ Jack lay back in his chair and toyed with his wine glass, but his eyes never left her flushed face. ‘You don’t think last night’s play was just the tiniest bit unethical?’
Rachel moistened her dry lips. ‘You’re my husband. What was unethical about it?’
Jack let out a short laugh. ‘Oh, baby, you don’t really expect me to answer that?’
‘Don’t call me baby.’
‘Why not?’ Jack gave her an innocent look. ‘Like you just said, I am your husband.’
Rachel pushed back her chair and got up from the table. ‘If you’ll excuse me—’
Jack got up, too, and blocked her exit. ‘I won’t,’ he said, aware that he was probably blowing any chance of appealing to her better nature by acting this way, but he couldn’t let her go like this. ‘We’re not finished yet.’
‘I don’t want anything more to eat.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the food.’
Rachel looked up at him with angry eyes. He guessed it was annoying her that in spite of her height he still had several inches on her. ‘You can’t keep me here.’
‘Oh, I think I can.’ Jack sidestepped—first one way, then the other, successfully preventing her from getting past him. ‘Now, why don’t you go and sit down again, and we’ll talk?’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I DON’T WANT to talk to you.’ Rachel was scowling now, and he could feel her frustration. The perfumed heat of her body was rising off her in waves, and after last night it was all he could do to keep a sense of perspective. ‘And I don’t want to sit down,’ she added tersely. ‘I want to go to my room.’
‘Works for me.’ Jack was willing. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You won’t!’
‘No?’ Jack adopted a puzzled look. ‘It was okay for me to go there last night.’
‘Last night was a mistake.’
‘Right.’ Jack pretended to consider it. ‘So the whole scene: the absence of any electric lights, the incense-scented candles, you