Just One Last Night

by Helen Brooks

  She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  He studied her thoughtfully as she finished her second glass of wine. Her voice and body language belied her blank face. Underneath that formidable barrier she presented, that of a capable, strong businesswoman and woman of the world, Melanie was scared. Of him. He had acknowledged it at the same time he’d come to the conclusion she had never believed they’d make old bones together. She had loved and trusted him, he knew that, but he also knew now that those feelings had made her feel vulnerable and frightened. She had been on her own emotionally all her life before they’d met—twenty-five years—and that tough shell had been hard to break, but he’d done it. She had let him in. But not far enough, or they wouldn’t be in this mess right now.

  Following through on his thoughts, he said, ‘I blamed myself at first after the accident, you know—for the distance between us, for the way every conversation fragmented or turned into a row. Stupid, but I didn’t understand you’d made the decision to shut me out and nothing short of a nuclear explosion could have changed things.’

  She didn’t say a word. In fact she could have been carved in stone. A beautiful stone statue without feelings or emotion.

  ‘The accident—’

  ‘Stop talking about the accident,’ she said woodenly. Although she had been the one to insist they called it that. ‘It was a miscarriage. I was stupid enough to fall downstairs and I killed our son.’

  ‘Nell—’

  ‘No.’ She held up her hand, palm facing him. ‘Let’s face facts here. That is what happened, Forde. He was born too early and they couldn’t save him. Another few weeks and it might have been all right, but at twenty-two weeks he didn’t stand a chance. I was supposed to nurture him and keep him safe and I failed him.’

  In one way he was glad she was talking about it; she’d refused to in the past, locking her emotions away from him and everyone else. In another sense he was appalled at the way even now, over sixteen months later, she was totally blaming herself. She had been a little light-headed that morning and had stayed in bed late after he’d left for work, Janet having brought her up a breakfast tray some time around ten o’clock. At half-past ten Janet had heard a terrible scream and a crash and rushed from the kitchen into the hall, to find Melanie lying twisted and partially conscious at the foot of the stairs, the contents of the tray scattered about her.

  It had been an accident. Tragic, devastating, but an accident nonetheless, but from the time their son had been stillborn some hours later Melanie had retreated into herself. He hadn’t been able to comfort her, in fact she’d barely let him near her and at times he was sure she’d hated him, probably because he was a reminder of all they’d lost. And so they’d struggled on month after miserable month, Melanie burying herself in the business she’d started and working all hours until he was lucky if he saw her for more than an hour each night, and he— Forde’s mouth set grimly. He’d been in hell. He was still in hell, come to it.

  He wanted to say, ‘Accidents happen,’ but that was too trite in the circumstances. Instead he stood up, drawing her stiff, unyielding body into his arms. ‘You would have given your life for his if you could have,’ he said softly. ‘No one holds you responsible for what happened, Nell, don’t you see?’

  Melanie drew in a shuddering breath. ‘Please go now.’

  She felt brittle in his grasp; she was too thin, much too thin, and even as he held her she swayed slightly as though she was going to pass out. ‘What’s the matter?’ He stared into her white face. ‘Are you unwell?’

  She looked at him, her eyes focusing, and he realised she was holding onto him for support. ‘I—I think I must be a little tipsy,’ she murmured dazedly. ‘I missed lunch and I haven’t eaten yet, and two glasses of wine …’

  Hence the reason she’d spoken about the miscarriage, but, hell, if he needed to keep her in a permanent state of intoxication to break through that iron shield, he would. He gentled his voice when he said, ‘Come indoors, I’ll get you something.’

  ‘No, I can manage. I— I’ll ring you.’

  There was no way on earth he was walking out of here right now, not when they were talking—properly talking—for the first time since Matthew’s death. For a second a bolt of pain shot through him as he remembered his son, so tiny and so perfect, and then he controlled himself. He said nothing as he led her into the house and when he pushed her down on one of the dining room chairs and walked into the kitchen, she made no protest. He rifled the fridge before turning to face her. ‘OK, I can make a fairly passable cheese omelette—’ He stopped abruptly. Tears were washing down her face.

  With a muttered oath he reached her side, lifting her against him and holding her close as he murmured all the things he’d been wanting to say for months. That he loved her, that she was everything to him, that life was nothing without her and that the accident hadn’t been her fault …

  Melanie clung to him, all defences down, drinking in the strength, the hard maleness, the familiar smell of him and needing him as she’d never needed him before. She had never loved anyone else and she knew she never would; Forde was all she had ever wanted and more. At the back of her mind she knew there was a reason she should draw away but it was melting in the wonder of being in his arms, of feeling and touching him after all the months apart.

  ‘Kiss me.’ Her voice was a whisper as she raised her head and looked into his hard, handsome face. ‘Show me you love me.’

  He lowered his mouth to hers, brushing her lips in a tender, feather-light kiss, but as she blatantly asked for more by kissing him back passionately, her mouth opening to him, the tempo changed.

  She heard him groan, felt all restraint go and then he was kissing her like a drowning man, ravaging her mouth in an agony of need. When he whisked her off her feet, holding her close to his chest, his mouth not leaving hers, she lay supine, no thought of escape in her head.

  Their lovemaking had always been the stuff dreams were made of and she’d been without him for so long, she thought dizzily. She needed to taste him again, experience his hands and mouth on her body, feel him inside her …

  She was barely aware of Forde carrying her up the stairs but then she was lying on the scented linen of her bed and he was beside her, the darkness broken only by the faint light from the window. He continued to kiss her as he tore off his clothes in frantic haste, caressing the side of her neck, the hollow under her ear with his burning lips before taking her mouth again in a searing kiss that made her moan with need of him.

  Her robe had come undone and now he slipped it off her completely, his voice almost a growl as he murmured, ‘My beautiful one, my incomparable love …’

  There was no coherent thought in her head, just a longing to be closer still, and the fierceness of his desire matched hers. They touched and tasted with a sweet violence that had them both writhing and twisting as though they would consume each other, and when he plunged inside her she called out his name as her body convulsed in tune with his. Their release was as fierce and tumultuous as their lovemaking, wave after wave of unbearable pleasure sending them over the edge into a world of pure sensation, where there was no past and no future, just the blinding light and heat of the present.

  Forde continued to hold her as the frantic pounding of their hearts quietened, murmuring intimate words of love as their breathing steadied. Her eyes closed, she settled herself more comfortably in the circle of his arms as she’d done so many times in the past after a night of loving, her thick brown lashes feathering the delicate skin under her eyes as she sighed softly. Within moments she was fast asleep, a sleep of utter exhaustion.

  Forde’s eyes had accustomed to the deep shadows and now he lifted himself on one elbow, his gaze drinking in each feature of her face. Her skin was pure milk and roses, her eyelids fragile ovals of ivory under fine, curving brows and her lips full and sensuous. He carefully stroked a strand of silky blonde hair from her brow, unab
le to believe that what had happened in the last hour was real.

  He had had women before he’d met Melanie, and when he’d first seen her at a mutual friend’s wedding he’d thought all he wanted to do was possess her like the others, enjoy a no-strings affair for as long as it lasted. By the end of their first date he’d fallen deeply in love and found himself in a place he’d never been before. They had married three months later on her twenty-sixth birthday and taken a long honeymoon in the Caribbean, which had been a magical step out of time.

  His body hardened as he remembered the nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms. For the first time he’d understood the difference between sex and making love, and he’d known he never wanted to be without this woman again for a moment of time.

  They had returned to England where Melanie had spent the next little while giving his house in Kingston upon Thames a complete makeover to turn it into their home, rather than the very masculine bachelor residence he’d inhabited. She had given up her job working for a garden contractor when they’d got married; Melanie had wanted to try for a baby straight away and whatever she’d wanted was fine with him. He knew her history, the fact she’d never had a family home or people to call her own, and had understood how much she wanted her own children, little people who were a product of their love.

  He frowned in the darkness, still studying her sleeping face. What he hadn’t understood, not then, was that her haste to start a family was motivated more by fear than anything else. She’d been like a deprived child in a sweet shop cramming its mouth with everything in sight because it was terrified it would soon find itself locked outside once again in the cold.

  And then the miscarriage happened.

  He groaned in his soul, shutting his eyes for a moment against the blackness of that time.

  And everything had changed. Melanie had changed. He felt he’d lost his wife as well as his child that day. He hadn’t doubted at first that he would get through to her, loving her as he did, but as weeks and then months had gone by and the wall she’d erected between them had been impenetrable he’d begun to wonder. When he had returned home one night and found her gone—clothes, shoes, toiletries, every personal possession she had—and read the note she’d left stating she wanted a divorce, it almost hadn’t come as a surprise.

  He had been so angry that night. Angry that she could leave him when he knew nothing on earth could have made him leave her. And bereft, desperate, frantic with fear for her.

  Melanie stirred slightly before curling even closer, her head on his chest and her hair fanning her face. His arms tightened round her; she seemed so small, so fragile, so young, but in part that was deceptive. She had walked away from him and made a new life for herself over the last months, managing perfectly well without him. Whereas he… He had been merely existing.

  He hadn’t expected this tonight. Hell, the understatement of the year, he thought wryly. Would she regret it in the morning? His chin nuzzled the silk of her hair. He’d have to make damn sure she didn’t, he told himself grimly. He had told her, in one of their furious rows after she had first left him when she had been staying with friends, that he would never let her go, and he meant it. But he’d also seen then that she was at the end of her tether, mentally, physically and emotionally. So he’d drawn back, given her space. But enough was enough. Tonight had proved she still wanted him physically however she felt about their marriage, and that was a start.

  He lay perfectly still in the darkness while Melanie slept, the acutely intelligent and astute mind that had taken him from relative obscurity to fabulous wealth in just a few short years dissecting every word, every gesture, every embrace, every kiss they’d shared. When the sky began to lighten outside the window he was still awake, only finally drifting off after the birds had finished the dawn chorus, Melanie still held close to his heart.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE sun was well and truly up when Melanie’s eyes eased open after the first solid night’s sleep she’d had since leaving Forde. She had slept so deeply that for a moment she was only semiconscious, and then memories of the previous night slammed into her mind at the same time as she became aware that she was curled into the source of her contentment.

  Forde.

  Frozen with horror, she stiffened, petrified Forde would open his eyes, but the steady measured vibration beneath her cheek didn’t pause, and after a moment she cautiously raised her head. He was fast asleep.

  She disentangled herself slowly, pausing to look into his face. Her gaze took in the familiar planes and hollows, made much more boyish in slumber; the straight nose, high cheekbones, crooked mouth with its hint of sensuality even in repose, and the dark stubble on his chin. A very determined chin. Like the man himself.

  How could she have been so unbelievably stupid as to sleep with him again? Her breath caught in her throat as her stomach twisted. And it was no good blaming the wine. She had wanted him last night; she had ached and yearned for him since the time they’d parted, more to the point.

  But she didn’t need him, she told herself stonily. She had proved that; she had lived without him for seven months, hadn’t she? And she was getting by.

  She had barely survived losing Matthew. She had wanted nothing more than to die, the grief and guilt crucifying. She didn’t ever want to be in a place where something like that could happen again. She wouldn’t be in such a place.

  She slid carefully out of bed, the trembling that had started in the pit of her stomach spreading to her limbs. She had to get out of the house before Forde woke up. It was cowardly and mean and selfish, but she had to. She loved him too much to let him hope they could make a go of their marriage. It was over, dead, burnt into ashes with no chance of being resurrected. It had died the moment she’d begun to fall down those stairs.

  But he would be hoping, a little voice in the back of her mind reminded her relentlessly as she gathered her clothes together as silently as a mouse. Of course he would. As mixed messages went, this one was the pièce de résistance.

  Once in the kitchen she dressed swiftly, scared any moment there would be movement from upstairs. Then she wrote him a note, hating herself for the cruelty but knowing if she faced him this morning she would dissolve in floods of tears and the whole sorry mess would just escalate.

  Forde, I don’t know how to put this except that I’m more sorry than I can say for behaving the way I did last night. It was all me, I know that, and it was inexcusable.

  Melanie paused, her stomach in a giant knot as she considered her next words. But there was no kind way to say it.

  I can’t do the together thing any more and that’s nothing to do with you as a person. Again, it’s all me, but it’s only fair to tell you my mind is made up about the divorce. I’ll still do the work for Isabelle if you want me to. Ring me about it tonight. But no more visits. That’s the first condition.

  Again she hesitated. How did you finish a note like this? Especially after what they’d shared the night before.

  Tears were burning at the backs of her eyes but she blinked them away determinedly. Then she wrote simply:

  I hope at some time in the future you can forgive me. Nell

  She owed him the intimacy of the nickname at least, she thought wretchedly, feeling lower than anything that might crawl out from under a stone. He had been attempting to comfort her last night when they’d first come into the house, and she had practically begged him to make love to her. She had instigated it all; she knew that.

  Creeping upstairs, she placed the note on top of the clothes he’d discarded so frantically the night before but without looking at him again. She couldn’t bear to.

  It was only when she was driving away from the house that the avalanche of tears she’d been holding at bay burst forth. She managed to find a lay-by that was hidden from the road by a row of trees once she’d entered it, and cut the engine.

  Steeped in misery made all the worse by the remorse and self-condemnation she was feeling, she
cried until there were no more tears left. Then she wiped her eyes and blew her nose and got out of the car to compose herself in the warm, fresh air. The chirping of the birds in their busy morning activities in the trees bordering the lay-by registered after a minute or two, and she raised her eyes, searching out a flock of sparrows who were making all the noise.

  Life was so simple for them, for all the animal kingdom. It was only Homo sapiens, allegedly the superior species, who made things complex.

  The fragrance of Forde still lingered on her skin, the taste of him on her lips. Hugging her arms about her, she recalled how it had felt to have him inside her again, taking her to heaven and back. Falling asleep with her head on his chest, close to the steady beat of his heart, had felt like coming home and had been as pleasurable as their lovemaking.

  She straightened, her soft mouth setting. She wasn’t going to think about this. She was too early to arrive at the farmhouse where she and James would be working for the next week or so, but there was a café on the way that would be open. She’d go and buy herself breakfast.

  The café only had one other occupant when she pushed open the door, a lorry driver who was reading his paper while he shovelled food into his mouth. After ordering a round of bacon sandwiches and a pot of tea, Melanie made her way to the ladies’ cloakroom, locking the door behind her. The small room held a somewhat ancient washbasin besides the lavatory, and she peered into the speckled mirror above it. She’d looped her hair into a ponytail before leaving the house but it was in dire need of attention. And she hadn’t showered or brushed her teeth.

  Stripping off her clothes, she had a wash with the hard green soap, which was as ancient as the washbasin, before drying herself with several of the paper towels in the rusty dispenser. Dressing quickly, she brushed her hair and redid her ponytail before applying plenty of the sunscreen she always carried in her handbag. Brushing her teeth would have to wait.