That Kind Of Man. Sharon Kendrick

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СКАЧАТЬ though her memory was somehow defective where Nick Harrington was concerned.

      ‘Hello, Abigail,’ he said quietly, in that deep, slumberous voice whose accent defied description. But that was hardly surprising—he had been educated at the finest universities in the world. He was the original nomad—a rich, successful nomad, with his fancy homes and his rare paintings and fast cars.

      She had not seen him since the eve of her wedding, close on a year ago, when he had been so unbearably rude to Orlando. And to her. When he had arrived at their hotel as if he owned the place, had coldly summoned them into his presence and threatened to call a halt to the wedding.

      But he hadn’t been able to.

      And how wonderful it had been to see the powerful Nick Harrington impotent for once! Unable to exert his formidable will to shape the future. Like a precious gift, Abigail had treasured the memory of his dark, implacable face as she had made her wedding vows in Chelsea’s famous Register Office.

      Come to think of it, his face looked just as forbidding and implacable right now. ‘Hello, Nick,’ she responded calmly.

      ‘How are you, Abby?’ he said softly, and the concern in his voice sounded almost genuine.

      ‘I’m, I’m ...,’ she responded falteringly, only it all came out in a kind of wobbly gulp. Perhaps it was the concern that did it, or the use of her childhood nickname, or maybe even the unaccustomed gentleness in his voice. Because for the first time since Orlando’s death Abigail felt the salt taste of tears welling up at the back of her throat. She made a small, choking sound, terrified that she was going to break down in front of him.

      He frowned again deeply, as if any show of vulnerability was distasteful to him. ‘Are you okay?’ He gave her a narrow-eyed look of interrogation and seemed half inclined to take her elbow, but then appeared to think better of it. He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his grey trousers, and Abigail was appalled to find herself noticing how the fine fabric stretched almost indecently over his muscular thighs. ‘Are you okay?’ he repeated.

      ‘What do you think?’ she asked bitterly, because he was the only person in the world she could take it out on right now. Because surely Nick, more than anyone, knew how unfair life could be?

      ‘I don’t think you’d care to hear what I think,’ he said, in a bitter, impatient kind of voice, and Abigail’s head jerked up in surprise at the underlying menace she heard there.

      He might not be her favourite person in the world, but at this precise moment he was her only lifeline, the person closest to her, who knew her better than anyone else in the world. Could bridges not be mended in troubled times? ‘I would,’ she answered quietly, her heavy-lidded blue eyes bright with unshed tears and filled with appeal as she sought for clever, confident Nick to make some sense of it all. ‘Tell me what you think about it, Nick?’ she appealed.

      But he merely shook his dark head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in a bland, steady voice, ‘about Orlando.’

      Some small, vague hope which had flared up inside Abigail was snuffed out. She had never thought that Nick would be the kind of person simply to spout out polite platitudes. She lifted her chin squarely and looked him full in the eye. ‘I could have accused you of many things, Nick Harrington,’ she told him proudly, ‘but never of hypocrisy! How have you got the nerve to stand there and say you’re sorry, when everyone knows what you really thought of Orlando?’

      He didn’t flinch, his unwavering green gaze not tainted by an iota of guilt. ‘Just because I didn’t like him—’

      ‘Hated him, you mean,’ she corrected fiercely.

      He shook his head. ‘Everything’s always so black and white for you, isn’t it, Abigail?’ He sighed, as if it gave him little pleasure to say the words. ‘Hate is too strong an emotion to use in connection with Orlando. You have to feel passion before you can hate someone, and I couldn’t summon up enough energy to feel hatred for a man I did not respect.’

      ‘No, of course you couldn’t!’ agreed Abigail caustically. ‘Any emotion other than the desire to make money is too strong for Mr cold-fish-Harrington, isn’t it?’

      He gave her a long, steady look. ‘At the moment, the overwhelming emotion I’m experiencing is a desire to put you over my knee,’ he said evenly, ‘and beat some of that damned cynicism out of you!’

      His eyes narrowed and he seemed to be measuring his words carefully. ‘Just because I didn’t like the man, it doesn’t mean I wanted to see him dead, Abigail. To die at any age is a tragedy, but to die when you’re only twenty-five is a waste. An utter, utter waste.’ His mouth thinned into a disapproving line. ‘What happened? Was he drunk when he died?’

      ‘He was abseiling, for heaven’s sake!’ she responded in an outraged tone. ‘He would hardly be drunk!’

      Broad shoulders were shrugged dismissively, but the expression in those grass-green eyes was sombre. ‘Rumour has it that Orlando was a man in search of cheap thrills. Any kind of thrills. So maybe marriage didn’t quite match up to his expectations, hmm, Abby?’

      The implication behind his words was shocking. Automatically, and oblivious to the now silent stares of the other mourners, Abigail’s hand flailed up to slap him. But his reflexes were lightning-fast, and he caught it just as it was about to connect with his cheek and held it there, so that to an outside observer it looked almost as though she was about to stroke his face and he was letting her. No. Not just letting her. Encouraging her.

      Her fingers inadvertently brushed against his cheek, and his skin felt like warm satin. Incredibly, she found herself wanting to stay like that. Just like that.

      Angrily, a guilty blush staining her face with its stinging heat, Abigail snatched her hand away, but not before she had surprised a cold little glint of triumph lurking in the depths of his green eyes. In some mad, shaming way, she felt as though she had been compromised.

      ‘Don’t you ever dare do anything like that again,’ she said in a fierce undertone, and then heard a gentle cough behind her. She spun round to find the elderly priest standing there, looking almost apologetic, and Abigail guiltily realised that the service had come to an end.

      And she hadn’t even noticed; she had been far too busy sparring with Nick. What must the priest think of her?

      ‘If you feel the need to talk any time, Mrs Howard,’ the priest was saying, in the soothing kind of voice he had used on innumerable occasions before, ‘any time at all, then please do. My door is always open for you, my dear. You know that.’

      His genuine kindness affected her as much as anything had done that day, and Abigail felt her throat uselessly constricting as she struggled to find words to respond to him. Did Nick notice her discomfort? Was that why he chose to answer when she could not?

      ‘Thank you, Father,’ he said smoothly. ‘I know that Abigail will bear that in mind. But I’m here now.’

      ‘Indeed?’ The priest looked up at him almost absently from behind the tiny, half-moon-shaped spectacles he wore. ‘And you are ...? I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.’

      ‘I’m Nick Harrington,’ came the decisive response, and then, because the priest seemed to be waiting for some further explanation, he added, ‘An old friend of the family. I have known Abigail since she was a little girl. Her late stepfather was СКАЧАТЬ