by Penny Jordan
‘Dear God, what happened?’
Jaime recognised the voice, but she couldn’t put a name to it. Near at hand a child was crying, a high-pitched, keening sound. Fern . . . but no, it wasn’t Fern.
‘Come on, Jaime, move your legs.’ She recognised the voice.
‘Blake.’
She didn’t realise she had croaked his name until she heard the other male voice exclaiming thankfully, ‘She’s come round.’
‘And she doesn’t seem to have broken anything. I’ll take her back. She’ll need to see a doctor—there could be concussion.’
‘I can’t understand what she was doing.’
That was Caroline, her voice annoyed. Jaime could just picture her petulant expression.
‘She oughtn’t to be on the road if she can’t control her car better than that.’
‘She told me that she was worried about her brakes. She said she was going to take her car in on our way back.’
Jaime could place the other male voice now, Rick Brewer, the insurance assessor. She struggled to sit up, to explain to him that something had gone wrong with her car, but something stopped her.
‘Lie still.’
She opened her eyes, disconcerted to discover that she was lying full-length on the grass verge, her Mini a crumpled mess in the hedge. She shuddered, re-living the sickening impact, and then winced as she felt the pain in her chest.
‘Just as well you’re a law-abiding citizen and you were wearing your seat belt. . .’ Blake told her curtly. ‘I’m going to take you home and get a doctor out to see you.’
Out of the comer of her eye, Jaime could see Caroline pout. Rick Brewer, too, looked disconcerted, until Blake explained tersely, ‘Jaime is my wife.’
‘Perhaps I can offer you a lift,’ Rick suggested to Caroline. ‘We could call at the garage and get them to tow the car away.’ He frowned, very much the insurance official. ‘They’ll need to check those brakes. . . .’
‘Leave the car,’ Blake said curtly. ‘I’ll make all the arrangements that are necessary.’
Jaime wanted to protest, but her head was thumping, nausea driving out the ability to speak. She didn’t want Blake having anything to do with her car. Did he suspect, as she did, that it had been tampered with? Was he hoping to destroy the evidence, in order to protect Caroline and Barrons, or, even worse, had he been an actual party to it? She didn’t believe for one moment they had wanted her to have a fatal accident—just a fright, and if she hadn’t had to brake so hard to avoid that child, probably the worst that could have happened was a bad swerve when she tried to cross the road to drive the car into the garage, where the same garage hand who had been bribed to make the brakes unsafe in the first place would no doubt have put them right, and she would have been a step nearer to withdrawing from the committee. How had they planned to work on Charles? Perhaps, by offering him a large slice of the Barron corporate business, she wondered cynically.
‘Now, just lie still, and I’ll try not to hurt you.’
She knew that Blake was being as gentle as he could, but even so she wanted to protest that she didn’t want to go with him, that she didn’t want to be alone with him, and, strangely enough, her feelings sprang not from a fear that he might hurt her but from a dread that, in her weakened emotional state, she might betray to him how she felt, but, before she could protest, a sharp pain knifed through her, stealing away her consciousness, wrapping her in a dense black cloud of oblivion.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Well, everything seems to be in working order. You’ll need to keep an eye on her, just in case there is any concussion. You know what to look for.’
Jaime was dimly aware of Dr Philips talking to someone who stood in the shadows of the unfamiliar room as he bent over her, searching for bruises and abrasions. ‘She’s lucky she got off so lightly.’
‘Yes.’
Jaime recognised the terse assent, and struggled to sit up.
‘Fern,’ she protested huskily, suddenly remembering her small daughter, ‘she’s with Mrs Simmonds. I must go and get her.’
‘You won’t be going anywhere—at least, not until tomorrow or the day after,’ Dr Philips told her, with cheerful disregard for her maternal anxiety.
‘Don’t worry about Fern, Jaime. I’ll go and collect her,’ Blake interjected.
‘Where am I?’ Jaime lifted her throbbing head, and gazed round the unfamiliar bedroom. She was lying in a large double bed that almost filled the floor space. An old-fashioned wardrobe stood in one comer of the room, almost opposite the curtained window, the door hanging open. She could see men’s clothing hanging up inside and, on the matching dresser, was a small pile of change and some masculine toilet articles.
‘This is your room.’ She whispered the accusation into the shadowy comer by the door where Blake stood. ‘Why have you brought me here? I want to go home.’
‘Now, now, Jaime. Stop making such a fuss,’ Dr Philips soothed. ‘Naturally, Blake brought you here. Who do you think could look after you and Fern if you stayed at home alone? Now just lie still. I’m going to give you an injection that will help you sleep. . . .’
‘My car. . .’ Jaime croaked feebly, knowing that, for now, she had no option but to give in to the combined male opposition of Dr Philips and Blake.
‘Stop worrying so much,’ Blake intervened roughly, ‘The car’s been taken care of. I’m having it towed to my garage where they’ll give it a thorough inspection.’
‘No!’ Jaime wanted to shout her protest, but Dr Philip’s injection was already taking effect, and the sound emerged as a pitifully small whisper. She wanted an independent garage to check over her car—someone she could trust. A forlorn tear trickled down her cheek as she admitted to herself how much she longed to be able to trust the man standing watching her with such apparent concern.
‘Wake up, Mummy, I’ve brought you your breakfast!’
Jaime opened her eyes reluctantly, wondering why the window had changed places, and then she remembered. Fern stood just inside the door of what, Jaime felt sure, must have been Blake’s room, beaming with excitement. Her small daughter’s face looked scrubbed and clean, her curly hair neatly brushed, the soft pink cord dungarees and toning T-shirt all properly fastened.
‘I dressed myself this morning,’ Fern declared importantly, just as though she realised what Jaime was thinking. ‘Well, Daddy did help me with some things,’ she admitted, obviously feeling that she ought to share the praise. ‘He told me a lovely story last night—all made up— and I had to sleep in a proper bed. I liked it. Today I’m going to play with the twins again. Daddy’s going to take me when you’ve had your breakfast, because you’ve got to re ... re. . . .’
‘Recuperate,’ Blake drawled laconically, emerging in the open doorway carrying a tray.
‘Grapefruit, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. I trust that is to Madame’s liking?’
Jaime turned her head away so that he couldn’t see her tears. That had been the breakfast he had always made her as a Sunday treat—on those rare Sundays when he had been at home.
‘I must get up and dressed, then I can get back to the cottage. Fern and I have put you out enough. You really shouldn’t have brought me here.’
‘No? Then where should I have taken you?’ Blake demanded, his face grim. ‘To Thomson’s?’
He saw her expression, and said harshly, ‘You’re my wife, Jaime, remember? And you’re staying here until Dr Philips says you can go.’
‘No,’ Jaime fumbled awkwardly with the bedclothes, flinging them back, forgetting the brevity of her cotton nightdress as she swung her feet to the floor.
When she tried to stand up, it was just as though her legs were stuffed with candy floss. They completely refused to support her. She swayed sickly, and would have fallen if Blake hadn’t put the tray down on the dresser and scooped her up in his arms.
‘That settles it,’ he said grimly, ‘You’re staying here. You’re as weak as a kitten. For God’s sake,
Jaime. What are you so terrified of? That people might gossip? So what! We are married, and you’re staying for your own protection, if nothing else.’
He broke off as he caught her faint gasp. So now he was as good as admitting it. Her body throbbed with pain, and she longed for the numbing sanctuary of Dr Philips’ drug.
‘Protection against what?’ she demanded huskily, willing him to tell her the truth, but instead he merely placed her carefully back on the bed, tugging the discarded quilt around her. She could feel the clean warmth of his breath against her skin, stirring the soft hair at her temples, setting up a reaction that was a staccato thud of her pulses by the time it reached her bloodstream.
‘Would you like more pillows?’ Blake had piled the pillows up behind her, propping her up with a solicitous care that, in other circumstances, would have had her breaking down in tears and begging him to take her in his arms.
‘This is Daddy’s bed,’ Fern told her, climbing up to sit beside her. ‘Simon and Mark’s Mummy and Daddy sleep in the same bed. . .’
Jaime didn’t dare look up. She knew Blake was watching her.
‘Lucky Simon and Mark’s Daddy,’ Blake drawled succinctly.
‘If you’re my Daddy, why don’t you sleep in this bed with Mummy?’ Fern pressed, the import of Blake’s mocking comment lost on her.
It wasn’t lost on her though, Jaime thought, knowing that her flushed face betrayed her response. As Blake leaned towards her with the tray, settling it beside her, she glimpsed the green glitter of desire in his eyes and her own pulses leapt in recognition. Their lovemaking had always been tumultuously passionate, and she knew already that Blake still desired her—just as he probably desired many attractive women. Desire on its own meant nothing.
‘If Mummy wants me to share her bed, she only has to ask me,’ Blake replied to Fern, his mouth curling in amusement as he saw the way Jaime’s lips compressed. He had no right to torment her like this, using Fern’s innocence.
‘Well, Mummy?’ he murmured huskily, his lips almost touching her temple.
‘Perhaps, if Mummy had you to share her bed, she wouldn’t cry at night,’ Fern continued blithely, unaware of the reaction of both adults to her artless remark. Jaime had never realised that Fern had heard her crying at night. Sometimes, she wasn’t even aware of it herself until she woke up with tears on her face.
‘Don’t be silly, Fern,’ she burst out impulsively. ‘You’re imagining things.’ She had to look away from Fern’s small, worried face. How could she pretend that Fern was wrong when she knew. . . .
‘Fern, why don’t you go downstairs and see what the postman’s brought?’ Blake suggested softly, without taking his eyes off Jaime’s pale face.
‘Do you cry at night, Jaime?’ he asked quietly, when Fern had gone.
‘No, of course not,’ Jaime denied, hoping that the faintly high-pitched, defensive tone of her voice wouldn’t betray her. ‘Like I said, Fern must have imagined it. . . .’
‘And yet she has struck me as a rather pragmatic child. What’s the matter, aren’t you hungry?’
She had been, but all at once her appetite had gone.
‘Blake, about my car. . . .’
If her intention had been to distract his attention, she had succeeded, Jaime thought seconds later as he walked away from the bed and leaned against the window, his powerful frame outlined by the sunlight.
‘You should never have been driving it, Jamie,’ he said severely, ‘the brakes were in a very dangerous state. When did you last have them serviced?’
Either he genuinely didn’t know the truth, or he was one hell of an actor, Jaime thought bitterly, and the awful thing was that she didn’t really want to know which, in case he had known, so she said nothing about the car’s recent service.
‘Now I want your promise that you won’t go back to the cottage—at least, not until your mother returns.’
What did she have to lose that she hadn’t lost already? Her heart? That was already in his keeping. Her pride? Wasn’t that already in tatters? Her safety . . . weren’t she and Fern safer here with Blake than on their own?
‘After I drop Fern off at the Vicarage, I’m going to Dorchester.’
He didn’t say why, and Jaime didn’t ask.
‘I should be back later this afternoon. Dr Philips said if you felt up to it today you could come downstairs, but that was all.’
Anything was better than lying in Blake’s bed. Perhaps her imagination was working overtime, but she could almost believe it still held traces of his unique male scent, and she couldn’t lie here all day, remembering how it had been when they were married.
‘I should like to get up.’
‘Bathroom is the door opposite. Would you like me to carry you there?’
Jaime froze, tensing as he pushed broad shoulders off the wall, and came towards her.
‘No . . . no . . . I can manage.’
To her relief, he didn’t press the point and, although she had to grit her teeth to do it, ignoring the pain in her bruised body, Jaime did eventually manage to make her way to the bathroom. The warm caress of the shower helped to ease away some of the pain. The soap she found there reminded her of Blake, and she grew angry with herself for the erotic thoughts she couldn’t dismiss as she lathered her skin.
‘Jaime, you okay in there?’
The door was thrust open before she could call out, and she stood transfixed, all too aware of Blake’s stunned green gaze slipping over her naked body.
He recovered from the shock faster than she could, surprise replaced by a smouldering sensuality that left her in no doubt as to his response to her nudity. Her skin was still slick with water, her nipples erect, and Jaime blushed hotly, knowing that they were mirroring the arousal suggested by her inner thoughts.
Blake made a thick sound in the back of his throat, breaking the spell which had held her motionless. Jaime made a clumsy grab for a towel, shielding her body with it, her breathing rapid and shallow.
‘You’re perfectly safe.’ The green gaze flicked over her body again, but this time without desire—without any discernible emotion, as far as Jaime could see. ‘I’m not going to pounce on you. I thought you might have fainted. Dr Philips told me to watch out for signs of concussion.’
‘Well, you were certainly looking hard enough,’ Jaime responded heatedly, trying to cover her response to him with anger, ‘Where did you expect to find them?’
Blake took a step towards her. Another moment, and she would be in his arms, crushed against the powerful wall of his chest. Her heart started to beat in heavy anticipation. Her mouth went dry, and Jaime touched her tongue nervously to her lips.
‘Daddy, when are we going . . .?’
The hand Blake had extended towards her dropped heavily to his side.
‘Coming now, Fern,’ he called back through the open door. ‘Saved again,’ he said mockingly to Jaime, his eyes narrowing suddenly as he added in a lower, taunting voice, ‘always supposing you really wanted to be.’
Despite her protests, Blake insisted on carrying Jaime downstairs and settling her in a chair in his study within easy reach of the ’phone which he had brought in from the hall. He had also made her a fresh breakfast and practically stood over her while she ate it. A thermos of coffee had been placed beside her, plus an assortment of books.
‘Now, don’t move from there,’ he ordered as he left, ‘not one single step.’
As she heard Fern chattering excitedly to him as they headed for the Ferrari, Jaime was overwhelmed with a feeling of loneliness; the sensation of having been deserted and excluded. Surely, she couldn’t be jealous of her own child? Blake had only been gone half an hour when Jaime ignored his instructions. None of the books he had left her appealed, but on the study shelves she recognised the dust jacket of what she realised must be his second novel. She had read his first one without recognising that the writer was her husband. His second hadn’t been published in paperback yet. She managed to struggle
out of her chair and across to the shelves, despite her stiff limbs, and within half an hour she was so deeply engrossed in Blake’s novel that she no longer noticed her bodily discomfort.
Set in Central America, it was a gripping story for which he had obviously drawn on his own El Salvador experiences, and Jaime felt humbled by Blake’s compassionate grasp of the feelings of the peasant army described in his book. His descriptions gave her a far deeper insight into the problems of the area than any newspaper stories had ever done. His heroine, the young, initially naive American reporter, sent out by her newspaper to get a ‘human interest story slanted in favour of the United States’ was so well drawn that Jaime found herself jealous of the character and wondered whom Blake had based her on. Obviously not her. She didn’t possess a single jot of that girl’s courage or intelligence. Her love affair with the guerilla leader made Jaime’s heart ache in anguished sympathy as the girl was torn between what she saw as her duty and her love for a man so much removed from her culture and background. When, in the end, they were both killed in an ambush, Jaime felt tears sting her eyes. The love scenes between them had been pure poetry. How could it have happened that Blake had possessed this sensitivity; this intense well of emotion that he used so apparently effortlessly on paper, that she had never known was there?
When she had finished the book, Jaime dozed for a while. Mrs Simmonds rang to sympathise about her accident and to assure her that Fern was welcome for as long as Jaime wanted her to have her.
‘And, of course, I can’t say how pleased we are that you and Blake . . . (the Reverend Simmonds had married Jaime and Blake in the village church) . . . are back together again. I know your mother always hoped it would happen.’