Maids Under The Mistletoe Collection. Christy McKellen

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      * * *

      Even after a bracingly cool shower, Emma still felt prickly and hot with nervous tension.

      Being here, in such close proximity to Jack, was playing havoc with her composure.

      She knew it was necessary and practical to stay here today, but she had no idea how she was going to get through the day without doing or saying something she might regret—just as she had a few minutes ago in the kitchen when she’d blurted out why she’d deliberately cut contact with his sister.

      Not wanting to dwell on that misstep right now, she dried herself and put on the clothes Jack had found for her and left out on her bed while she was in the en-suite bathroom.

      The thought of him being in her room while she was naked next door gave her a twinge of nerves. He could so easily have come in when she was in there. Walked into the shower and joined her. If he’d wanted.

      But clearly he didn’t. And that was for the best.

      It would be ridiculous to even contemplate the idea of anything developing between them again.

      They’d be fools to think they could breach the chasm that had grown between them over the years. They were different people now. Wiser, older—harder, perhaps. More set in their ways. Certainly not young and carefree and full of excitement for the future as they had been right before they got married.

      Twisting the necklace that had her wedding ring looped through it—something she’d never taken off, not in all the years they’d been apart—she gave it a sharp tug, feeling it digging into the back of her neck, reminding herself that any connection they’d once had was lost now and that she’d do well to remember that.

      They would get a divorce and that would be the end of it. Then they could move on with their lives.

      Trying to ignore the tension in her chest that this thought triggered, she turned on her heel and went downstairs to eat the breakfast Jack had promised her.

      Passing through the hallway, she noticed that the handset had been left off the phone and it occurred to her that the press must have started calling by now to try and find out who she was and to hound them for details about their clandestine marriage.

      It seemed Jack’s plan was to ignore them for as long as possible.

      Just as she thought this, the doorbell rang and continued to ring as if someone was leaning on it, determined not to stop until someone answered the door.

      Damn press. They’d been the same way right after her father’s death, hounding her and her mother for weeks, trying to get titillating sound bites or pictures that they could use in their repellent articles.

      Hurrying out of the hall, she went straight to the kitchen to find Jack standing at the large range cooker, frying delicious-smelling bacon in a cast-iron pan.

      It was such an anachronistic scene it made her tummy flip.

      This was not how she’d pictured Jack whenever she’d allowed herself to think about him over the years.

      Not that she’d allowed herself to do that too often.

      When they’d been young and in love she’d thought of nothing but him: how it felt to be held in his arms, to be loved and worshipped by him. Then how it would be to live with him. Laugh with him every day. Grow old with him.

      He was just as handsome now as he’d been when they’d got married, more so if anything. He’d grown into his looks, his face more angular, showing off that amazing bone structure of his, and his body harder and leaner than it had been in his youth.

      She guessed he must have done regular power-gyming along with his power-businessing in the States. Wasn’t that what all executives did now? Strong body, strong mind and all that.

      ‘Something smells wonderful,’ she said, walking over to where he was busy cracking eggs into the pan.

      ‘It’s my natural scent. I call it Eau de Charisma,’ he said with a quirked brow as she came level with where he was standing.

      She was so surprised that he’d made a joke, she instinctively slapped him gently on the arm in jest and just like that she was transported back in time, into a memory of Jack making her laugh like this the morning before they’d skipped off to the register office. She’d been trying to fix his tie and their fake squabbling had almost escalated into a rough and lustful lovemaking session on the kitchen table.

      The memory of it hit her hard, chasing the breath from her body so that she had to back away from him quickly and sit down at the table, her legs suddenly shaky and weak.

      What was wrong with her?

      Couldn’t she even eat breakfast without going to pieces?

      Jack didn’t seem to notice though and, after tipping their food onto bone-china plates, each one probably worth more than her entire stock of crockery at home, he brought them over to the table, placing hers in front of her without a word and sitting down opposite.

      ‘Thank you,’ she managed to murmur, and he nodded back, immediately tucking into his food.

      Her appetite had totally deserted her, but she couldn’t leave the food he’d so generously made for her, so she struggled through it, taking a lot of sips of tea to wash it past the large lump that had formed in her throat.

      Neither of them spoke until their plates were clean.

      Jack leant back in his chair and studied her, only making the jitters in her stomach worse.

      Clearing her throat hard, she looked down and concentrated on straightening her knife and fork on the table until she’d got the feeling under control.

      ‘Let’s go and sit in the living room where it’s more comfortable,’ he suggested, and she nodded and got up gratefully, feeling a twang of nerves playing deep inside her.

      * * *

      Jack took the armchair near the fireplace and watched Emma as she fussed around the sofa she’d chosen to sit on, fluffing cushions and straightening the covers.

      He felt stressed just watching her.

      ‘Emma, why don’t you sit down? I don’t think that cushion’s going to get any fluffier.’

      Giving the offending article one last pat, she plonked herself onto the sofa opposite him and let out a low groan.

      ‘I’m so full! There’s a good chance I won’t be able to move off this sofa now I’ve sat down, which is a worry because the view from here is giving me a headache.’ She flashed him a speculative smile.

      ‘Who decorated this place anyway? Please tell me it wasn’t you,’ she said with a glint in her eye. ‘I really can’t be associated with a man that thinks that aubergine and mustard yellow are good colour choices for what’s meant to be a relaxing environment.’

      He snorted in amusement. ‘It was chosen by my grandfather’s assistant—who he was not so secretly bedding—and I haven’t had time to change it since I’ve been back in England.’

      She СКАЧАТЬ