The Hidden Years. PENNY JORDAN

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СКАЧАТЬ But then you always did prefer emotionalism to logic, didn’t you, Sage?’

      ‘What are you doing here, Daniel? You’re on the wrong side of the village for the motorway and London…’

      ‘Yes. I realise that. I took a wrong turning and had to turn back again.’

      She had the odd feeling that he was lying, although what he was saying sounded plausible. Was it because of her knowledge of the man, her awareness that taking a wrong turning in anything was the last thing he was likely to do, that she found it hard to believe him?

      He was watching her, she realised, refusing to give in to the magnetic pull of his concentration. His eyes were grey, the same metallic colour as his car, and she didn’t need to look at him to remember how powerful an effect that intense concentration could have. He also had the most ridiculously long curling lashes. She remembered how she had once thought they gave him a look at times of being almost vulnerable. More fool her; ‘vulnerable’ was the very last description that could be applied to him. He was solid steel all the way through.

      The sick pounding in her head, which had started to ease a little as she walked, had returned. Automatically she raised her hand and pressed her fingers to her temple.

      ‘Migraine?’

      She stared at him, forgetting her resolve not to do so, surprise momentarily widening her eyes.

      ‘How did you…?’

      The ironic look he gave her made her stop, the swift colour burning up under her skin stripping away the veneer of fifteen years of sophistication and reducing her once again to the girl she had once been.

      ‘I’ve got a retentive memory,’ he told her drily.

      ‘You must have,’ she agreed bitterly.

      ‘I’ll give you a lift. It isn’t safe for a woman to walk alone at night these days… Not even out here.’

      ‘No, thanks, I’d prefer to walk. I need the fresh air…’

      ‘So go and walk round Cottingdean’s gardens once you get home. You should be safe enough there…’

      His calm assumption that she would allow him to make her decision for her infuriated her. ‘I don’t want a lift,’ she repeated tightly, but he had already taken hold of her arm and was walking her towards his car.

      Thankfully the thickness of her jacket muffled the sensation of his fingers on her arm, and his touch, although firm, wasn’t constraining.

      It was easier to go with him than to argue, she decided weakly as he opened the passenger door and waited politely until she was safely inside before closing it on her.

      ‘You really needn’t have done this.’

      ‘I know,’ he agreed as he set the car in motion.

      He was a good driver, careful, controlled.

      ‘Odd,’ he mused, as the gates to the house appeared, ‘you’re the last person I’d envisage chairing a committee for environmental protection.’

      ‘I’m not,’ Sage told him stiffly. ‘I’m simply standing in for my mother.’

      ‘Really? The Sage I knew would have taken that as a heaven-sent opportunity for sabotage rather than a sacred bit of family flag-waving.’

      Sage felt herself stiffening. This was what she had been dreading from the moment she had set eyes on him. Being reminded of the past, of its pain, of its shadows…and most of all being reminded of the person she had been…

      Was it reading her mother’s diaries which had thrown so sharply into focus the differences between them, made her so sharply aware of her own shortcomings, of her own faults, not just of omission but of commission as well?

      ‘No comment?’ Daniel asked her softly as he brought the car to a halt.

      ‘Did you ask me a question?’ Sage challenged him acidly as she reached to open her door. ‘I thought you were simply making a statement. How I live my life has nothing to do with you, Daniel…it’s my own affair.’

      ‘Or affairs,’ he murmured cynically, making her forget that she was still wearing her seatbelt, so that she pushed open the heavy door and tried to get out, only to discover infuriatingly that she was still trapped in her seat.

      ‘Still the same old Sage. Impatient, illogical. So damn used to getting her own way that she doesn’t even have the sense to avoid any obstacles.’

      He opened his own door, and was round her side of the car almost before she had finished unfastening her seatbelt.

      She discovered that she was trembling as she got out of the car, not with dread any longer, but with anger…anger, and something else, something that fuelled her adrenalin and banished the pain from her temples.

      ‘Thanks for the lift.’

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      His face was in the shadows, but as he turned away from her to walk back to the driver’s door his expression was briefly illuminated by the moon, and for an instant he might have been the old Daniel she had once known so well, only to discover she had not really known him at all.

      Daniel Cavanagh… Why had he come back into her life, and now of all times, reopening doors—wounds—she had thought long since sealed?

      Daniel Cavanagh… She discovered she was shivering again as she walked towards the house, fighting against the threatening avalanche of memories she was only just managing to keep at bay.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      IT WAS no use—she wasn’t going to sleep tonight, Sage acknowledged, sitting up in bed. She didn’t want to sleep…she was actually afraid of going to sleep, afraid of the memories which might be unleashed once she was no longer in complete control of her own mind.

      She moved restlessly in her bed, and stared at her watch. Two o’clock. She might as well be doing something constructive as lying here like this, trying not to think, not to remember…something constructive such as…such as reading the diaries?

      What was she hoping to find there? Or was she simply using them as a panacea, a deterrent, a means of holding her own thoughts at bay?

      She went downstairs, the house making the familiar creaks of an old building. She opened the desk drawer and extracted the diary she had been reading, taking it back up to bed with her, plus a couple of apples from the fruit bowl in the kitchen. They were the slightly sour, crunchy variety she had always preferred, different from the soft juicy red fruit both her mother and Faye loved.

      Her mother always explained away her sweet tooth by saying it was a result of the war, of being deprived of sweet things. When she made this explanation she was always slightly defensive; it was a small enough weakness in an otherwise very strong woman. Sage felt an unfamiliar twinge of guilt over the way she had often childishly and sometimes cruelly drawn attention to it. Children were cruel, she acknowledged wryly—they had no compunction about using whatever weapons fell into СКАЧАТЬ