'Yes.' Jake's voice was husky, liquid.
'Why?'
'You know why. No games, Deborah.' His fingers moved against her throat and he watched her with narrowed eyes. Deborah bent her head, his gentle touch aching along every nerve in her body. 'No,' she said on a sigh. It was a denial of everything that was happening, everything that had gone before. 'Jake, please .. .'
He tilted up her face, staring into her eyes. 'Don't lie to yourself, Deborah, don't lie to me.' His voice was hard. 'You came here for the same reason I did. It's not over between us. It never will be. I want you with a hunger that tears away at me twenty-four hours a day, a hunger I can't feed with anyone else.'
Deborah's heart lurched violently. She gazed at him, her mouth dry. He was describing her own feelings exactly. Jake read the expression in her wide shocked eyes. 'It's the same for you,' he said quietly.
'I don't want it to be that way,' she whispered in anguish. 'It frightens me.' He was talking about desire. He would never talk about love.
'God, do you think I do?' The bitter anger in his voice jerked her head up. His eyes were burning with emotion, his shoulders hunched with tension. She swallowed with difficulty. 'What about Leila?'
'What about her?' He sounded impatient, as though the question was irrelevant.
'Is she ... is she your lover?' She knew she was provoking an explosion, but she had to ask.
'Dammit, no!' Jake muttered through clenched teeth, as though pushed beyond endurance. His fury filled the room, as he swore violently. 'Do you think I sleep with every women I came into contact with?'
Deborah flinched. 'How should I know? It certainly wouldn't surprise me.' She felt raw, hurt, her heart squeezing with pain. She needed some defence against him and the feelings he could arouse so effortlessly. She needed to believe that he was lying, but defeated, she couldn't. She was attacking him because it was the only form of defence she had. And it didn't seem to be working.
'You little bitch,' he said, breathing quickly.
'At least Robert married me,' she threw at him desperately, as though the words were a talisman of protection, her courage failing by the second.
Jake froze, his eyes darkening to black, his mouth cruel. 'God, I could kill you for that,' he said hoarsely. A shiver of fear ran down Deborah's spine. She moved away a little, regretting her own rash words, knowing that it was far too late to back away.
'I'm bored with talking,' she said, with all the coolness she could muster. 'I want to get some sleep.' She flashed him a pointed glance. 'Do you mind?'
Jake was silent for a moment, his face a cold, expressionless mask. Then he smiled, a slow cruel smile, that left Deborah shaking inside.
'Oh yes, I mind,' he said too softly. 'I haven't finished with you yet.'
Deborah couldn't speak, her face paling as she read his dark expression.
'No, Jake . ..' she said, her voice shaking violently. 'No . . .'
He laughed, holding her glance, a naked desire flaring in his eyes, as he looked at her, a desire so powerful that she was hypnotised with fear. It stripped away everything but his need, and she felt an unbidden response aching into life inside herself. His eyes were glittering, his face taut, the bones hard. His strength terrified her. His strength, his desire, and his anger. She watched, unable to move a muscle as his hands reached out slowly.
'Don't.. .' she whispered, as he pulled the pins from her hair, so that it fell loose about her shoulders.
He looked at her, his face all shadowed angles in the candlelight, his eyes black, glinting.
'It's as though we've never been apart,' he said quietly, threading his fingers through the loosened silk of her hair, feeling the texture, the shining thickness against her skin. 'Three years is a hell of a long time to wait.'
Holding herself rigid, Deborah abandoned her pride and whispered. 'Please, Jake, let me go.'
He shook his head. 'I can't,' he said thickly. 'I have to know what Stevens taught you.'
He bent, his mouth against her throat, kissing her skin tenderly, unhurriedly. She shuddered at his touch, desire racing through her body, heating her blood. She wanted to push him away, but she couldn't move, couldn't protest.
Jake raised his head, staring into her eyes, as his hands began unbuttoning the cashmere dress. She felt the sensual brush of his fingers against her bare skin, moving lower, until the dress fell away altogether.
'Jake' The words wouldn't come and she knew
that he saw the fever in her eyes. Taking her body between his hands, his mouth parted hers in a deep savage kiss that made her head spin. She couldn't control her response. It was as hot as fire and as
violent as his demand.
He didn't offer tenderness now, only desire and as his mouth plundered hers, Deborah felt her control slipping away. She didn't want to feel like this. If she let him make love to her now, she would hate herself, despise her own weakness. But she felt Jake's mouth kissing her naked breasts, and moaned, arching back her head, her inhibitions dissolving. She wanted him, so badly. She couldn't fight the sensations that were running through her like a tidal wave.
Then suddenly, she was past coherent thought, reaching for him blindly. He shuddered as she touched him, his mouth finding hers again, lifting her into his powerful arms and laying her gently on the rug in front of the fire. His burning glance swept slowly over her nakedness, his hands exploring the soft familiar curves of her body.
It was a deliberate act of possession. He touched her with a lingering slowness, easing the long-unsatisfied need inside himself. He stared down at her pale slender body, his breath coming quickly and unevenly. He kissed her flesh, following the path laid bare by his hands. He made love to her slowly, holding back, reining his own desire as he aroused her, until Deborah reached for him, pulling him down, her hands touching his smooth powerful shoulders, his deep chest, crying out his name as he entered her.
His mouth bruised hers with a devouring intensity, the trust of his body betraying his agonising need.
She clung to him, shaking, no longer aware of anything but his strength, his mastery and the desire that was almost too fierce to bear. She knew that she cried out her love for him. She couldn't help herself.
She held him, her nails raking his smooth skin, her body yielding, opening beneath his, and for the first time in three long, empty years, Jake possessed what had always been his.
She gave him everything, her body, her soul, forgetting in her abandonment that it had never been enough, that in the cold light of day there would be nothing but regrets.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Five weeks later, Deborah realised that she was pregnant.
She woke one morning with a feeling of nausea in her stomach. She climbed out of bed, wondering if it could be something she had eaten at dinner with Cole, the night before.
In the kitchen she spooned coffee into the percolator and switched it on, and as the fragrant smell of the beans filled the room, she knew she was going to be sick. She staggered dizzily into the bathroom and vomited into the basin.
She seemed to lean for ages against the cool tiles, retching violently, but the sickness and dizzyness finally subsided and she splashed her face with cold water.
Back in the kitchen, she switched off the percolator, unable to face the thought of coffee and mentally went through what she had eaten the night before.
She and Cole had dined late, after a particularly long day at the office. Deborah had chosen cold duck and salad, followed by fresh raspbery tart. She hadn't eaten much at all, her appetite was small these days. Surely it couldn't have been ...?
Her eyes lighted on the calender and the glass of water she had been sipping fell from her fingers, smashing on the tiled floor. She looked at the date, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. Two weeks overdue. She hadn't even noticed. She had been so caught up with avoiding Jake, with concentrating on her work ...
Defeated, she rested her head in her hands, the full implications of the situation
sinking in, and burst into tears. She didn't hear Oliver entering the flat.
He strolled into the kitchen whistling. 'I did knock...' he began cheerfully, then, 'Deborah, what on earth's the matter?'
He looked around the kitchen at the shattered glass on the floor, at Deborah, deathly pale and crying her eyes out. 'What is it?' he demanded again, when she didn't answer.
Deborah made an effort to pull herself together. 'I think I'm pregnant,' she blurted out, and immediately wished she hadn't.
Oliver looked surprised, but his voice was casual as he asked. 'Are you sure? Have you seen a doctor?'
'No, I only—no.' She hadn't even thought of it. She would have to have a test. It might be a false alarm, after all, she hadn't been eating or sleeping properly. It could be that she was run down, or anaemic. She could be jumping to conclusions.
'I'm scared,' she admitted, folding her arms across her breasts, hugging herself.
'It'll be okay,' Oliver smiled, and bent to kiss her forehead. 'Go and wash your face, and I'll make some tea.'
Deborah did as she was told, numbly staring at her red eyes in the bathroom mirror. She looked a positive sight, and even the cold water did nothing to help. She touched the flatness of her stomach with her fingers. Was she really carrying Jake's child? Hysterical laughter rose in her throat. It couldn't be true. It just couldn'tl
She had not seen him since that night at the cottage.
With a sense of desolation, she remembered waking in the darkness, lying still in his arms, her hair against his naked shoulders, his throat. She had felt drained, utterly miserable. Beneath her cheek, she had felt the deep strong rhythm of his heart. She lay still for an hour, his powerful arms holding her tightly, his hand curved over her breast, possessively. It had been the worst kind of agony to leave, but she would have been unable to face him in the cold clear light of the morning.
So she had crept about in the dark, hardly daring to breathe, dressing, collecting her things. She had left without waking him.
Luckily, it had not been snowing and with the help of a passing farmer and his tractor, she had finally managed to get her car back on to the main road.
Back in London she had been staying with a friend. Running away, hiding, she thought with self-contempt. Jake had been trying to get in touch with her. He had telephoned a number of times. He had been to the flat. He had been angry, Oliver had told her that, angry because he knew she was deliberately avoiding him.
Two weeks ago he had stopped telephoning. She had heard from Tess that he was in France on business, so she had come back to the flat. She felt so foolish, so weak. She knew that in the end she would have to face him. After that night in the cottage, they would have to see each other again, but she still didn't feel strong enough to face him. He would know now that she loved him, and that was too humiliating to bear.
She couldn't put him out of her mind for a single second, even though she knew that her love was not reciprocated. He wanted her, as she wanted him. It was an all-consuming explosive desire. She couldn't deny that any more than she could resist it. Knowing, in some deep secret part of her, that he would follow her to Windermere, she had gone there because she needed to see him, because she had needed to experience the soul-destroying satisfaction of his lovemaking one more time.
He was right. It would never be over between them. There would be nobody else for her, not as long as she lived.
She picked up a comb and pulled it through her hair. It was all so hopeless, she felt like crying again, and she longed for the comfort of Jake's arms, for his strength to lean on. And the worst thing was, that if she got in touch with him, she could have that comfort, that strength. He had offered tenderness the night they had been together, albeit after he had forced her to submit without reserve. She didn't understand why, but it had always been that way between them.
It would be so easy to submit, so easy and so pleasurable. A tiny voice of reason forced its way into her consciousness. Jake wanted her now—but how long would it last? Six months? A year, maybe? And that was optimistic. If she allowed their affair to continue, wouldn't she be hurt all over again? And would she have the strength to recover a second time?
She groaned, covering her face with her hands. Was she such a fool that she was longing to make the same mistake again? When she was alone, it was so easy to promise herself that she wouldn't become involved again. When she was with Jake, it was a different story. Her body and her heart turned traitor and she didn't have the strength to fight herself as well as him.
Which was why she would continue keeping out of his way. She would avoid him like the plague.
She let out her breath on a long shaking sigh, fighting the treacherous longing she could feel inside. If she was pregnant—the complications were too enormous to think about. She would have the test before even daring to think about it. There was no point in piling up problems unnecessarily.
Oliver had made a pot of tea and some toast. She sat down at the kitchen table, pale but in control of herself. Oliver poured the tea into two cups. 'Have something to eat,' he said, staring at her.
Deborah looked at the pile of thin toast and felt sick again. 'I couldn't.'
'You should eat something. You're as thin as a rake,' Oliver reproved, frowning.
'I'm not hungry,' she said firmly, sipping the hot tea, enjoying it.
Oliver ate the toast himself, watching her the whole time. 'We'll go and see Ralph. He'll tell you, one way or the other.'
Ralph Taylor was one of Oliver's closest friends, a doctor, with a general practice nearby.
Deborah nodded, grateful that Oliver wasn't asking any questions. 'I suppose it's the best thing.'
'It is.' He stood up. 'Come on, let's go now and get it over with.'
Deborah was a mass of nerves as they drove to the surgery. She wanted it to be a false alarm, but Ralph Taylor, in his quiet pleasant way, confirmed the worst. She was pregnant with Jake's child.
Oliver drove her back to the flat in silence. She felt panic-stricken, not knowing how she would cope, not knowing what to do next. She had the feeling that Oliver was angry, even though he said nothing, and
that worried her too.
Back home, he came upstairs with her. 'I'll make some coffee,' he said, his face grim. 'I don't know about you, but I'm dying for a cup.'
'I'm not an invalid, so don't treat me like one,' Deborah snapped, irritated because he was talking to her as though she was a child.
'You don't want a cup of coffee?' He was half smiling, obviously amused by her bad temper.
Deborah smiled too. 'I'm sorry,' she said, knowing that she had been unfair. 'Actually, I'd love one.'
In the kitchen she stood looking out of the window, and felt herself trembling, her eyes filling with tears. 'I don't know what to do,' she said, not turning round.
She felt Oliver's hand touch her shoulder, his voice close, angry. 'It's Logan's, isn't it? Dammit, I thought that was all over, I thought you were finished with him.'
Deborah nodded in silence, and he continued, 'You don't have to have it, you know, not if you don't want to.' She flicked the tears from her cheeks with her fingers, and thought about that, rejecting it immediately, instinctively. She couldn't kill the unborn life inside her. She couldn't kill Jake's child.
'I don't want an abortion,' she replied firmly.
Oliver turned her round to face him. 'You haven't thought about it.'
'I have, I couldn't do it.' She looked at him, and he saw that she meant it.
'You'll have to tell him, then,' he said flatly.
'Why?' The thought filled her with horror.
'Come on.' Oliver lifted his hands in an angry gesture. 'How the hell do you think you can bring up a child with no help, no support?'
'I won't ask him for money,' Deborah said, angry with herself, because he was asking all the questions she had no answers for. 'It's not his problem.'
'No?' Oliver laughed humourlessly. 'You've got to be realistic
, Deborah. He's got a right to know. It's his child as well.'
'I know, I know.' Near to tears again, she sank into a chair and rested her head in her hands. Oliver poured the coffee, and pushed a handkerchief towards her. His voice was gentler as he said, 'Oh, Deb, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be harassing you at a time like this. You should be resting, or whatever it is pregnant women do.'
Deborah managed a shaky smile and sipped her coffee gratefully. 'How would you feel if you found out that Beatrice was pregnant?' she asked curiously.
Oliver's mouth twisted. 'I certainly wouldn't believe it was mine,' he said, then seeing that Deborah was deadly serious. 'Really, I'd be bloody delighted.'
'It was an unfair question.' Deborah hated herself for her tactlessness, her selfishness. 'I'm sorry.'
Oliver shrugged. 'It doesn't matter, honestly it doesn't. Besides, you know damn well that it's irrelevant.'
'Yes.' She couldn't fool Oliver. He knew her too well. 'But I don't think Jake would want to be saddled with a child.'
'You don't know that.' Oliver was being maddeningly reasonable.
'I do.' She heard her voice breaking, giving her away.
'You still love him,' Oliver said flatly. Deborah didn't answer. There was nothing to say.
d
Oliver left soon after, and she paced the flat, trying to get things into perspective. To find herself pregnant was a shock. It seemed extraordinary that she had conceived so easily during that one night with Jake. But beneath the anxiety and the worry about the future, she felt a tiny, unexpected dart of happiness. If she was honest, she wanted the child. She didn't know why. Her reasons were too deep-rooted, her emotions too mixed up.
Feeling brighter than she had done for weeks, she took a shower, then spent the rest of the day cleaning the flat. Because she had been away, there was a lot of dust and it was a relief to throw herself into some physical work.
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