Falling for Mr. Mysterious. Barbara Hannay

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      ‘And, Jude,’ Emily said, as he turned to head out of the kitchen.

      He turned back to her.

      ‘I’ll head off in the morning.’

      His eyes grew cautious and he frowned again. ‘Do you have somewhere to go?’

      ‘I can easily find somewhere. I’ll be fine. Coming here was a spur of the moment thing. I had no idea Alex wasn’t home. Tomorrow I’ll leave you in peace.’

      After a beat, he said, ‘If you’re sure.’

      ‘I am, truly.’

      It was totally silly of her to be disappointed when Jude nodded, then retreated, wishing her goodnight and muttering something about checking his emails.

      Shortly afterwards, with the kitchen tidied, Emily went to Alex’s room and, out of habit, she retrieved her phone from her bag. Almost immediately, she wished she hadn’t bothered.

      The first message was a text from a girlfriend in Wandabilla.

      Is it really true about Michael? OMG. How awful.

      Already, the gossip was spreading.

      Emily’s mind flashed to the photo she’d seen on Facebook just yesterday, a shot of Michael, her boyfriend of twelve months, with his pretty wife and two cute children, a little boy who looked just like him and a baby girl with golden curls.

      Pain washed through her, an appalling tide of anguish and grief. How could he do that? She’d given him a whole year of her life, and she’d been ready to spend the rest of her life with him.

      How could she have been such a fool?

      CHAPTER TWO

      NIGHTS were the worst for Jude. During the day, he could keep his thoughts under control and he wouldn’t allow himself to worry. At night, however, the shadowy fears returned to haunt him, jumping out to snare him when he was almost asleep, or sneaking by the back door, sliding into his dreams.

      Tonight, he came awake, shaking and drenched in a cold sweat, and he sat up quickly, hating the fact that waking brought very little comfort. His real life was almost as frightening as his dreams. His increasingly frequent headaches pointed to something serious, especially as lately his vision had begun to blur at the edges.

      Alone at night, with no distractions, he found it so much harder to stop himself from worrying. This damn problem was dominating his life right now—even though he tried to hide it as best he could. All his life he’d viewed any illness as weakness—a bad habit he’d no doubt learned from his father, who’d never had any sympathy for their childhood illnesses. Measles, flu, grazed knees … his dad had always made his irritation very apparent.

      Once, when Jude was about ten, he’d broken his leg playing football.

      ‘This will be a test of your manhood,’ his father had said. ‘Nobody likes a whinger.’

      It was a message Jude had taken to heart.

      Now, he noted the time—three-thirty a.m.—which wasn’t too bad. He’d already had several hours’ sleep, and he only had to manage for a few more hours before it would be daylight again.

      Rolling over, he closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, but in the perfect stillness he heard noises coming from down the hall.

      Soft sounds of crying.

      From Emily’s room.

      Any lingering thoughts about his own problems vanished. Jude sat up, listening intently through the darkness. Emily’s sobs were muffled, no doubt by her pillow, but, even so, the crying went on and on in an uncontrollable outpouring of misery.

      The sounds were like hammer blows to Jude’s conscience. He knew damn well that if Alex were here Emily wouldn’t be crying like this. He’d promised Alex he’d keep an eye on her.

      His feet hit the floor and he was halfway across the room before his head caught up with his chivalrous impulses.

      OK. What, exactly, was he planning to do? Go to Emily? Offer her a shoulder to cry on?

      Brilliant. If she’d broken her heart over a good-for-nothing boyfriend, she was hardly going to welcome another lusty bloke offering to hold her in his arms.

      Sinking back onto the edge of his bed, Jude remembered the way she’d looked at dinner as she’d talked about her unhappy track record with men. She’d seemed so fragile, with shadows beneath her eyes and a trembling droop to her soft pink mouth. It was hard to believe she was the same tough cookie who managed an entire district’s bank accounts.

      Obviously, the louse of a boyfriend had struck a cruel blow, and she’d come here to recuperate. To be consoled by Alex.

      Alex would have known how to help her. Alex would have listened and encouraged her to talk and he would have known, instinctively, what she needed. Whereas Jude felt utterly helpless and totally inadequate. To make matters worse, he’d more or less accepted her offer to leave, which was tantamount to booting her out of the door.

      How lousy was that after he’d promised to look out for her?

      At last the crying settled down, but Jude couldn’t get back to sleep. He was in the kitchen quite early, brewing coffee, when Emily came into the room. In her nightgown.

      Far out. He almost dropped the coffee pot. What was she thinking?

      Her nightdress wasn’t deliberately provocative or see-through, but the frothy concoction of cream and lace frills hinted at her nakedness underneath. And, with her red-gold hair tumbling about her pale shoulders, she looked like an old-fashioned princess, a young Elizabeth the First. An appealing but tired princess who’d spent a troubled and anguished night.

      Jude tried his best not to stare at the delightful hints of her breasts and bottom. He wondered if Emily assumed he was immune—gay, like Alex. He knew he should probably explain that this wasn’t the case, but he wasn’t sure how he could introduce the subject without tying himself in knots and embarrassing them both.

      Instead, he tried to cover his reaction with an attempt at cheerfulness. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked brightly. ‘In the mood for pancakes? Or bacon and eggs?’

      To his surprise, Emily made a shooing gesture. ‘Don’t worry about breakfast. I can look after it. You need to start your writing.’

      ‘What are you? A slave-driver?’ He smiled to indicate this was an attempt at humour.

      Emily merely blinked. ‘I thought you wrote madly all day and didn’t bother about meals.’

      Well, yes, he had given that impression last night, hadn’t he? Truth was, he’d been writing since four a.m., and his hunger pangs had steadily mounted. For hours now he’d been fantasising about the breakfast ingredients they’d bought last night.

      About to grab a frying pan, he saw, again, the red-rimmed despair in Emily’s eyes, lingering traces of her midnight tears. She would probably find cheery chatter at СКАЧАТЬ