That Kind Of Man. Sharon Kendrick

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      ‘Better now?’ he queried, after a moment or two.

      ‘Yes. Thank you.’

      ‘Then let’s go.’ Nick rapped on the smoked-glass panel which divided them from the driver, and it was only then that Abigail noticed the car had pulled over onto the side of the road.

      ‘W-why did we stop?’ she sniffed as the car pulled away.

      ‘I didn’t think that you’d want an audience while you wept,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘And certainly not an audience consisting of that crowd up at the house,’ he added disparagingly.

      Abigail blew her nose rather more noisily than usual. ‘They’re Orlando’s friends,’ she objected automatically, more because it was the habit of a lifetime, objecting to anything Nick said, rather than because she actually disagreed with him.

      ‘And yours?’ he quizzed softly. ‘Are they your friends, too?’

      Abigail looked at him. ‘Not really, no.’

      ‘Oh?’

      Abigail was beginning to discover that he was simply not the kind of man you could reproach for asking deeply personal questions—that was the trouble. Was it because he had known her for most of her life that he felt he had the right to probe? Or did he ask all women questions like this? ‘They’re not my type.’

      He nodded his head, as though her answer came as no surprise to him. ‘I see.’ He glanced down at his shoulder to find a stray, glistening tear, and he ruefully brushed it away with one long finger.

      The gesture touched her unbearably—but she didn’t for the life of her know why. And so that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself yet again, by blubbing all over him, Abigail said the first mundane thing which came into her head. ‘I’m sorry about your jacket.’

      ‘It’s just a jacket.’ He shrugged.

      ‘I’ll have it cleaned—’

      ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ he interrupted grimly. ‘Stop talking as though we had just met at a cocktail party! I think I preferred you shouting and punching me to that.’

      She smiled at the exasperation on his face; for the first time in days she actually smiled. And then her heart missed a beat as his exasperation turned into a brief smile which matched hers.

      ‘I must look a sight,’ she said automatically.

      Green eyes scanned her face, but the smile had disappeared and irritation had replaced it. ‘A bit,’ he answered tersely. ‘Your face is all blotchy and it’s obvious you’ve been crying.’

      ‘Gee—thanks,’ she answered drily. ‘When I need a boost in confidence, remind me to avoid you like the plague!’

      ‘Just what is it with you, Abby?’ he demanded softly. ‘You’re supposed to be playing the grieving widow, not a flaming fashion model! Can’t you function properly unless you know you’re looking beautiful?’

      She gazed at him in amazement, more at the fact that Nick, Nick, had paid her some kind of compliment—even if it was a backhanded one!—than at his tone of voice. ‘Beautiful?’

      He made a clicking sound of impatience. ‘Sorry,’ he said in a bored voice, leaning back carelessly against the seat and staring into space, ‘but I’m not playing that game.’

      ‘What game?’ she asked, genuinely confused.

      His voice changed into a parody of a woman gushing. ‘Oh, heavens, Nick—surely you don’t think that I’m beautiful!’ His eyes hardened as his gaze roved over the pale oval of her face. ‘Particularly when the woman in question has the kind of face which could launch a thousand ships, if you’ll excuse the somewhat hackneyed expression.’

      She didn’t have the energy to row. ‘Let’s drop it, shall we?’

      ‘With pleasure. Anyway, we’re here.’ Nick turned to glance out of the window as the car made its way up the sweeping gravel-drive towards the handsome Georgian house which she and Orlando had bought just after their marriage. They drove through the impressive gardens which were flanked by vast yew tunnels, and a flash of afternoon sunlight glinted off the distant lake.

      Through the windows of the lighted drawing-room, Abigail could see people opening bottles and bottles of champagne, and she mentally steeled herself to confront them, wishing that she could order them out of her house and have the place to herself again. Time to lick her wounds and recover.

      But tomorrow they would all be gone, she reminded herself. Tomorrow she would have the peace she craved.

      ‘It’s strange,’ Nick remarked as the car drew to a halt with a soft, swishing sound, ‘but I never imagined that you would end up living in a big, impressive pile in the English countryside, out in the middle of nowhere like this.’

      ‘Orlando wanted to,’ she found herself telling him. ‘And I liked it here, too,’ she added defensively.

      His gaze was unwavering. ‘And did Orlando always get what Orlando wanted?’

      Did he know? Had he somehow guessed? Was that the reason for the piercingly direct gaze which seemed perceptive enough to be able to read her mind? Abigail shuddered violently as shame and revulsion washed over her. There was no point in denying what was as obvious as the nose on her face. ‘He did, mostly,’ she managed. ‘He was well schooled in the art of persuasion, you know.’

      ‘Yes. So I believe.’ Nick looked down at her pale hands, knotted together and lying against the black skirt. ‘Abby, you’re trembling.’ He sounded appalled. ‘What on earth is the matter with you?’

      She settled for her only credible source of defence. ‘Need you ask? It’s been a fraught day. A fraught week. And I’m not particularly looking forward to going in there and mingling with people I don’t even like.’

      ‘Then don’t do it.’

      She gave him a sad little smile. ‘I can’t just opt out like that.’

      ‘Can’t you?’ he queried softly. ‘You can do whatever you want to do, you know.’

      ‘Only if your name happens to be Nick Harrington,’ came her dry response. ‘And we don’t all have your determination.’

      This received the glimmer of a smile. ‘Come on,’ he said, and helped her out of the car with an old-fashioned courtesy which she was quite unused to. It had the effect of making her feel very warm and safe and secure. A girl could get used to being cosseted like this, thought Abigail with a wistfulness which was totally alien to her.

      Her instincts had always taught her to be wary where this man was concerned, but instinct also told her that nothing could ever harm her while Nick was around. In a topsy-turvy world, he had a rare strength and constancy of character.

      She watched him as he slammed shut the door of the limousine behind them and they slowly began to mount the pale blonde stone of the front steps.

      Nick Harrington would, she thought, with a sudden, unwelcome pang of realisation, make some СКАЧАТЬ