Marriage Reclaimed: Marriage at a Distance / Marriage Under Suspicion / The Marriage Truce. Sara Craven

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      In whose wake came Gabriel again. Joanna found her hands balling into fists in her lap. She made herself unclench them, and reach for her glass instead.

      ‘Leaving already?’ He sounded all concern as he watched Joanna swallow the last of her wine. ‘Shall I phone for a taxi to take you back to the Manor, darling?’

      ‘No, thanks. I have my car.’ Her tone was terse.

      His brows lifted. ‘But do you think it’s wise to drive—when you’ve been drinking?’

      Her smile back at him was saccharine-sweet. ‘One glass of wine with a meal? I don’t think that would trouble the breathalyser, do you? And Paul’s promised to make me an enormous pot of black coffee at his place, anyway, so—there’s really nothing to worry about.’ She got to her feet. ‘Do enjoy your meal,’ she added. ‘I can recommend the sea bass.’

      And, without a backward glance, Joanna walked to the door and out into the night’s dark chill, which she recognised because it already shivered in her heart.

CHAPTER NINE

      ‘YOU can be a powerful woman.’ Paul caught up with Joanna in the street, his tone a mixture of surprise and admiration.

      ‘When the occasion warrants it.’ She felt in her bag for her car keys, aware that her hands were shaking.

      ‘I suppose I should have known,’ he went on. ‘When I saw you mastering that horse the other day.’ He paused. ‘What a shame you no longer have the chance to ride it.’

      ‘You have an amazing memory for detail.’ She sent him a tight-lipped smile. ‘I’m sorry for the premature ending to our meal. It was—most enjoyable.’

      ‘But it doesn’t have to end here. You told your husband you were coming back to my place for coffee.’ He gave her a persuasive look. ‘I hope you’re not going back on your word.’

      Her heart sank. ‘I wasn’t really serious about that…’ she began.

      ‘Well, I am,’ he said firmly. ‘Besides, you don’t want him to find out you just went tamely home, as per instructions, do you?’

      Actually, Joanna thought, that was none of his business. Her lips were parting to tell him so when another car turned the corner into the High Street and pulled up outside the wine bar with a squeal of brakes.

      Turning, Joanna saw Cynthia climb out of the driving seat and walk across the pavement with a click of high heels.

      She felt as if she’d swallowed an enormous stone which had become lodged in her midriff. And the fact it was exactly as she’d expected made no difference at all.

      She looked up at Paul Gordon. ‘No,’ she said evenly. ‘That’s the last thing I want. And I’d be glad of some coffee. I’ll fetch my car and follow you, shall I?’

      ‘I’ll have the coffee brewing,’ he promised, and went off jauntily.

      Joanna turned, and began to walk in the opposite direction. The impulse to keep going until she fell off the edge of the world was a strong one.

      She was developing a headache, if she was any judge, and all she wanted to do was drive home, take some paracetamol and fall into bed. And decent oblivion.

      Spending another hour or more in Paul Gordon’s company, and drinking coffee too, would do nothing to improve her physical well-being or her temper. And it was all Gabriel’s fault, she thought, lashing herself on to the next stage of vindictiveness.

      Because anger was so much easier to deal with than hurt and heartbreak. And soon those would be all that was left to her.

      The Lodge was lit up like a Christmas tree when she got there. But that was better than a continuation of the wine bar’s intimate candlelit ambience, she decided sourly, parking her car.

      As she reached the door it opened, and Paul was there smiling at her.

      ‘I’d begun to think you weren’t coming,’ he chided playfully.

      Shrewd of you, Joanna thought, recalling the ten minutes she’d spent sitting in the High Street car park, fighting with herself.

      She said lightly, ‘I’m a woman of my word.’ Not to mention a prize idiot and a stubborn mule, she thought as he helped her off with her coat.

      The living room at the Lodge wasn’t big, but it had been nicely decorated and furnished by the Osbornes, with a sofa and an easy chair covered in dark green flowered chintz and a paler green carpet.

      She glanced around her with genuine pleasure. ‘This is really cosy. So, where do you do your writing?’

      ‘I thought the table in the window.’ He grimaced. ‘My computer’s still packed away in boxes, I’m afraid.’

      She looked at him in faint surprise, having gained the impression his novel was in full swing.

      She said, ‘I understood publishers imposed all kinds of deadlines.’

      ‘I’m probably not important enough for that. Not yet, anyway.’

      ‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,’ she said tactfully, aware it was the response he wanted. Playing him at his own game, she realised wearily.

      He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a tray laid with pottery mugs, a cream jug and a cafetière.

      Whatever reservation she might have about him, his coffee was excellent, and she complimented him sincerely, causing him to launch into a monologue about the exacting art of the choosing and blending of beans.

      Were all would-be writers as self-obsessed as this? Joanne wondered with faint amusement.

      She’d deliberately chosen the chair to maintain her own space, and was annoyed when he fetched a leather pouffe from a corner and established himself at her feet.

      ‘That’s better.’ He smiled up at her.

      ‘And that’s a matter of opinion,’ she returned under her breath, debating with herself how soon she could leave. She would have to finish her coffee at least, and it was too hot to gulp down.

      She looked at the painting over the mantelpiece. ‘Is that one of Sylvia’s?’

      ‘Possibly. I’m not really into amateur daubs.’

      That was the kind of thing Cynthia said, and she stiffened. ‘I don’t think either of those terms applies to Mrs Osborne’s work.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ He didn’t sound repentant. ‘But I’m just more used to shows at the Hayward Gallery. That is, if you want to talk about art. Now, I’d rather talk about you.’

      For a writer, his dialogue could use a little work, she thought judiciously.

      ‘A very boring topic.’ She kept her tone light.

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