Hawk's Way: Rebels. Joan Johnston

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      And maybe then he could move on.

      ‘Lydia? Tonight?’ Jake gave what he hoped was a casual shrug, and tried to ignore the sudden lurching of his heart. ‘Sure. Why should I mind?’

      ‘Well, that’s what I said,’ Tom replied. ‘Anyway, whatever, you’re going to have to see each other this week so you might as well get used to it.’

      ‘Absolutely. It’s not a problem,’ he assured Tom, hoping it was true. ‘How are the plans going?’

      ‘Oh, pretty smooth. There’s a lot to do, but, having just had a dry run, as it were, I don’t suppose it’s as bad as it could have been.’

      Jake winced inwardly. A dry run? Was that how they viewed the disastrous mess last year had been?

      ‘It could have been a simpler affair,’ he pointed out, and Tom gave a rueful laugh.

      ‘With Mel orchestrating it? Not a chance. My darling girl wants all the bells and whistles, and that’s what she’s having. It seems to be a family failing.’

      Except, of course, that Lydia had looked increasingly unhappy with it—or with him? He didn’t know. He hadn’t stopped to find out.

      ‘What time are we going out?’ he asked now, and Tom shrugged.

      ‘Seven-thirty? Table’s booked for eight-thirty, but we could go for a drink first.’

      ‘Fine. I’ll be ready. Right, stick that mug in the dishwasher and get out of here. I’ve got viewers coming to see the house in ten minutes and I need to check it. How’s your room?’

      ‘It’s fine. Lord, man, you’re such a nag.’

      ‘Check it.’

      Tom saluted, vaulted off the edge of the worktop, dropped his mug in the dishwasher with a clatter and sauntered out into the hall. Jake shook his head, wiped down the worktop again, took a last look round and headed for the hall.

      Fresh flowers stood in a huge vase on the side table, the sun was streaming into the drawing room windows and it looked good. He heard Tom coming downstairs two at a time, humming.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Spotless. It’ll knock ’em dead.’ Tom punched him affectionately on the shoulder and headed out through the back door, just as the front doorbell rang.

      They loved it. Everyone who’d looked at it loved it. There was going to be a mammoth fight over it, apparently, and the agent predicted that it would go to sealed bids, with people making their best and final offers at some time in the next week or two.

      Well, at least it wouldn’t hang on, he thought heavily, closing the door behind the viewers at shortly after five. They’d wanted to look at everything several times, and he’d sent them off on their own and then had to listen to them raving about the kitchen for a good ten minutes.

      Every little feature that Lydia had factored in, the woman had picked up on. The convenient way the trays slotted into units and became part of the fabric, the ingenious way the cupboards hinged out to give access to the back, the huge and practical work island with a granite area for pastry-making inset into the solid mahogany top, the butcher’s block set into another area—she’d loved them all.

      She’d loved the deep butler’s sink under the window, the decorative tiling behind the Aga, the butler’s pantry with its stone shelves and floor-to-ceiling storage—all of it, each scrap of worktop and every single knob had been commented on and caressed lovingly.

      She’d been particularly interested in the space under the worktop in the side of the island nearest the Aga.

      ‘It’s a dog bed,’ Jake had explained.

      She’d blinked and looked at it, then at him. ‘It is?’

      ‘Potentially. I’ve had to spend more and more time in London, though, and the dog wouldn’t have fitted in,’ he’d explained economically.

      ‘Oh, how sad. Our dog would love it, so near the Aga. What a clever idea. Still, maybe one day you’ll be able to have your dog.’

      Jake had done the only thing he could—he had smiled and nodded and tried not to grind his teeth too loudly.

      And now, finally, they were gone, after one last look round the upstairs, and he was on his own. He went into the drawing room, dropped into his favourite chair and sighed.

      Why the hell had she had to come back?

      Lydia wasn’t at all sure about going out that evening. She’d fallen into bed at three-thirty, and to her surprise she’d slept soundly till seven. Now Mel was sitting on her bed shoving a cup of tea in her hand and telling her to get up and come out, it would do her good and they had so little time left before she was married.

      That wasn’t how it felt to Lydia. The week ahead stretched away into the hereafter, as far as she was concerned, and she couldn’t see any way round it. That being the case, she might as well get used to it. She threw the bedclothes off, slid out of bed and put the tea down to cool.

      ‘I’ll come,’ she agreed. ‘How dressy is it?’

      ‘Anything—I’m wearing a casual silk trouser suit.’

      Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘I have shorts—that’s about it.’

      ‘You have loads of clothes!’

      ‘And none of them will fit. I’m thinner, Mel.’

      ‘Not that much thinner. Let’s see—here, look, this is nice and it fits where it touches. Wear that.’

      Jake’s favourite dress. Oh, hell. She sighed, dropped the dress on to the bed and headed for the bathroom. ‘OK. Give me five.’

      It took longer, of course, because her hair needed washing, but luckily the tan covered the shadows round her eyes, so she slapped on a bit of smoky eyeshadow, a flick of mascara and a dash of soft pink lipstick, and then shimmied into the dress.

      It still looked good. It was long and soft and floaty, and she just hoped that Jake wouldn’t remember it was what she’d been wearing when he’d proposed to her.

      It was that dress. Damn. Of all the things she could have worn, it had to be that one. He’d had fantasies about her in it, standing with the wind blowing it against her body and lovingly outlining every curve.

      Not that she’d have many curves to outline now, he thought, studying her critically. Without the baggy T-shirt he could see the slender arms and narrow waist, the small, high breasts and, when she moved, the angle of her hipbone.

      She wasn’t wearing a bra. She usually didn’t—with the breasts that she scornfully described as two grapes on a chopping board she hardly needed to, but the cool night air had pebbled her nipples and he wished she’d put a jumper on before he disgraced himself.

      ‘Right, are we ready?’ Tom asked, hugging Mel to his side, and Lydia nodded.

      ‘I’m starving. I hate aeroplane СКАЧАТЬ