His behaviour, in light of all Abby’s unanswered questions, was like a slap in the face.
The caller was Kate, she thought instantly.
And then as quickly she chastised herself. Max must have dozens of friends and associates, family too, who’d feel comfortable telephoning him at eight-thirty in the evening. The caller didn’t have to be Kate Mayhew. She was becoming paranoid, Abby acknowledged heavily. Believing everything Max did or said was somehow connected to the other woman.
She still had no idea what she was going to do about their relationship. Despite what she had learnt earlier today, and judging by his appearance here this evening, Max was obviously quite happy to let it continue. But she knew that she couldn’t. Not under these circumstances.
She needed to know why Max had made love to her. Was it because the first time he had wanted to put a halt to their conversation about the woman called Kate who had called him? And the second time because Abby had been asking him questions about Gary Holmes?
Honesty had always been such a big part of her life. It was far too late for her to behave in any other way now. She could try simply asking Max for the truth about Kate Mayhew, telling him what she had seen this morning, but in reality she had already asked him about the other woman—several times—only to be told by Max not to go there.
‘I have to go, Abby.’ Max strode forcefully back into the room, his expression grim. ‘Something’s happened.’ He ran a hand through the dark thickness of his hair. ‘I can’t explain right now, but—’ He shook his head frustratedly. ‘I have to go,’ he repeated flatly.
‘Okay,’ she agreed dully, her gaze studiously avoiding meeting his.
‘Abby…?’ He grasped her arm as she turned away, one hand moving beneath her chin as he forced her to look up at him.
It didn’t help. He looked so good, she loved him so much—and he was probably leaving her to go to another woman!
‘It isn’t what you think, Abby. Hell, I don’t know what you think!’ he ground out, shaking his head impatiently. ‘This is what happens in my life—the way that it is. I receive a call and—’
‘And you have to go,’ she said evenly.
‘Damn it, yes—I have to go!’ His hands dropped back to his sides as he moved away from her. ‘You’ve worked in television for a while now, Abby, in the media. You must know how it is—how my life has been for the last two years since I went back out as a political reporter. My stage is now the world stage, and when something of a political nature happens in it I have to go where it’s happening. No matter what might be going on in my own life at the time,’ he added heavily.
She gave a confused frown. ‘You’re saying that call was work-related?’
‘Well, of course it was work-related. What else—?’ Max broke off abruptly, his gaze narrowing on her with slow deliberation. ‘You have been different the last couple of days, Abby,’ he began slowly, ‘and I’m pretty sure, knowing him as well as I do, that this change probably has something to do with Gary Holmes. Unfortunately, it isn’t something I have the time to deal with right now.’ He glanced down at his wristwatch impatiently. ‘I have transport waiting for me, and I really do—’
‘—have to go,’ she finished for him, unable to hide the pain in her voice.
‘Abby, when I get back we need to talk.’ Max stood close to her again, cradling either side of her face with warm hands. ‘Really talk. All I ask in the meantime is that you shut your ears to anything Gary Holmes might have to say about me.’ His mouth tightened. ‘I should have dealt with him long ago. I realise that now. This time he may not leave me any choice. Will you trust me on this for a while, Abby?’ He looked down at her intently.
How could she trust him when she had actually seen him and Kate Mayhew together?
But not trusting him, she realized, now that she was with him again, didn’t stop her loving him…
She had never felt so miserable in her life.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I can,’ Max promised huskily, before his head lowered and his lips claimed hers with an aching need, sipping, tasting, as if he were committing the taste and feel of her to memory.
She didn’t understand any of this. How could Max kiss her like this, be with her like this, if he really was involved with another woman?
Another woman he was even now leaving her to go to?
She pulled away. ‘You have to go, Max,’ she reminded him distantly.
He sighed. ‘I wish it didn’t have to be like this.’
So did she. But in retrospect perhaps this separation from Max was exactly what she needed to get back to her normal confident self; it was a sure fact that this relationship, a triangle she couldn’t even begin to comprehend, was doing nothing for her whatsoever!
As she sat in her office the following day, eating a working lunch, watching the breaking news on television of a terrorist attack on the leader of one of the Middle Eastern countries—he’d been taken hostage—which was threatening to bring down the whole already shaky government, she wished that she and Max hadn’t parted quite so distantly.
The voice of Max Harding—live coverage was unavailable at the time, due to the continuing unrest in the country—was informing her that so far there had been no ransom demand made for the kidnapped leader, and that the country was in turmoil as its citizens feared further action, possibly military reprisals, that would lead to all-out war in a country that had already known its fair share of death and destruction.
CHAPTER NINE
‘YOU look terrible, darling.’ Dorothy voiced her concern as she sat across from Abby in the conservatory of her home.
Abby gave a wan smile; even with the help of blusher on her cheeks, she knew that her godmother only spoke the truth.
But the last week had been the worst she had ever known—continually watching the news just in order to hear the sound of Max’s voice.
The news from the war-torn country—the terrorists had executed the leader rather than releasing him, and the military were retaliating with force—was far from encouraging. But she had heard nothing from Max personally, and as each successive day passed her anxiety for him grew. The way they had parted and her unasked questions about his relationship with Kate Mayhew had faded into the background in her single-minded concern for his safe return.
In fact, her godmother’s telephone call this morning to ask her to come over to the house had been a happy diversion of those worries. Although, looking at Dorothy’s slightly flustered expression, she was beginning to have her doubts, sensing that the other woman wasn’t happy with this conversation at all.
‘Dorothy, has something happened?’
‘Well, yes, darling. I’m afraid it has.’ Her aunt sighed her obvious relief that Abby had introduced the subject. ‘And Paul thought that the news might be better coming from me—’
‘Dorothy, you’re starting to frighten me now!’ Abby stood up restlessly, her face pale. ‘What is it? Has something happened to Max? What—?’
‘Abby, calm down.’ Her godmother looked deeply concerned at her reaction. ‘He isn’t dead, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
Well, of course it was what she was worried about. The country he was in was extremely unstable politically, and the fighting between the terrorists and the military had increased over the last two days. Max’s reports had ceased altogether. In fact, there was very little news coming out of the country at all at the moment.
‘Sit down, Abby—please,’ Dorothy instructed briskly. ‘Take deep, calming breaths, drink some of this.’ She handed Abby the glass of water she had poured. ‘And I’ll tell you the little that we know.’
‘Oh, God…!’ Abby groaned weakly, her hand gripping the water glass so tightly she threatened to break it.
‘I said he’s all right, Abby,’ her godmother insisted firmly. ‘Max managed to get a message out through the television network there, who then passed it on to the English network, who passed it on to Paul, who passed it on to
me, feeling it would be better if I spoke to you.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘Apparently Max and his cameraman were caught up in some shooting a couple of days ago—he wasn’t injured,’ she added quickly, as Abby paled even more, ‘but the terrorists—wishing to play on a world stage, presumably—took the two of them hostage two days ago—’
‘Two days ago?’ Abby repeated disbelievingly. ‘But there’s been nothing on the news, nothing in the—’
‘There’s going to be. Which is why I’m talking to you before that happens,’ Dorothy told her gently. ‘After shooting the leader of the country, these terrible people obviously realised they had left themselves with no leverage. A foreign news crew must have seemed like a good way to recapture some of that leverage. There’s going to be a news bulletin relayed later today, stating their demands,’ she concluded heavily.
Abby felt sick. She couldn’t believe this was happening. And she knew as well as the rest of the world how these situations usually turned out.
They needed to talk when he got back, Max had said. But what if he didn’t get back?
‘Drink some of your water, Abby,’ Dorothy instructed firmly.
She did so without even knowing she had. ‘What do they want?’
‘What do they all want?’ The other woman sighed. ‘Freedom from tyranny in their given country, the release of political prisoners. It’s never going to happen, of course. The military will eventually take control again, and put in one of their own as leader, and so it will all start again.’
Abby moistened dry lips, thoughts racing but going nowhere. ‘And Max?’
Dorothy sighed. ‘As I said, he’s one of the people the terrorists are now holding as bargaining power.’
But the western world didn’t negotiate with terrorists. Not now, not ever…
She swallowed hard, feeling as if her world had been turned upside down, and inside out; like everyone else, she had watched these situations before. But, although she’d watched them with compassion for the hostages’ families, it had been in a detached way, never dreaming it would one day happen to the man she was in love with.
Did anyone ever think something so horrendous could happen to someone they loved?
‘Abby, Max wanted you specifically to know that he’s okay.’ Dorothy came down on her haunches beside where Abby sat, taking one of her hands in both of hers.
She looked dazedly at the other woman. ‘He did?’
‘He did.’ Dorothy squeezed her hand reassuringly.
‘I—But—What about Kate?’ Even in her complete shock she couldn’t help but think of the other woman in Max’s life, of what this might mean to her.
‘Kate?’ Her godmother looked puzzled now. ‘I know nothing about anyone called Kate. The message that he’s okay was for you and you alone.’
He was okay for the moment. Until the terrorists’ demands weren’t met. And then, as had happened so many times before, the killing would start.
Oh, God…!
The misunderstandings, the uncertainty between them, now seemed totally unimportant. Only Max and his safety mattered to her now.
And Kate Mayhew.
Because, much as Abby hated the fact, much as she hated the other woman’s role in Max’s life, she knew that she couldn’t let the other woman just hear about this as a news item flashed on the television screen. That would just be too cruel after what the other woman had already gone through.
Someone had to go and tell Kate Mayhew what had happened.
And that someone would have to be Abby.
‘I’m terribly sorry.’ The other woman smiled at Abby blandly as the two women stood in the golden south-facing drawing room of Kate Mayhew’s London home. ‘I believe you told my housekeeper that your name is Annie Freeman?’
‘Abby,’ she corrected automatically, not so sure, now that she was here, that this was a good idea.
It had been instinctive, perhaps—the need to see someone, be with someone, who cared for—loved?—Max as much as she did. But here, in the quiet elegance of Kate Mayhew’s home, with family photographs of before and since Rory Mayhew’s death adorning every surface, Abby was having serious doubts.
The fact that Kate Mayhew was so startlingly beautiful didn’t help.
The tall, slenderly elegant redhead had always looked lovely, of course—a beautiful accessory on her politician husband’s arm—but the last two years, away from the public stadium, she had become even more so. The denims and T-shirt and loosely flowing red hair were certainly not anything she would have worn as the wife of a serving minister, and made her appear much younger than the thirty-five Abby knew her to be.
‘Abby,’ the other woman acknowledged, in the cool, well-modulated voice Abby remembered so well from their brief telephone conversation just over a week ago. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Abby shook her head; this wasn’t a social call, and—instinct apart—she didn’t intend staying long. She would just say what she had to say and then leave. ‘I believe we spoke on the telephone last week,’ she added softly.
A flicker of recognition showed briefly in the other woman’s eyes before it was quickly masked. She was looking at her guardedly now.
She was so beautiful, Abby thought dully. Absolutely stunning. And the thought that Max had been secretly involved with this woman for the last two years was heartbreaking.
She had to get out of here!
‘Did we?’ Kate Mayhew shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you told my housekeeper that you’re here in connection with my son’s school…?’
It was the best excuse Abby had been able to think of at the time, knowing the other woman was unlikely to let someone involved with the media past the front door. Any more than she would have agreed to see a woman Max was possibly involved with. Abby wouldn’t be here herself if she hadn’t felt she owed it to the other woman not to let her just see the shocking news relayed over an impersonal television screen!
‘I lied,’ she told the other woman briskly, just wanting to get this over with now. ‘I’m a friend of Max Harding’s—’
‘Who?’ Kate Mayhew enquired with light confusion.
‘Oh, please.’ Abby really wasn’t in the mood to play games. ‘Even supposing the two of you haven’t remained friends, you would hardly be likely to forget your husband’s appearance on Max’s programme shortly before he died—’
‘I think you had better leave!’ The other woman was breathing hard in her agitation, her face pale now, hands tightly clenched together. ‘Abby Freeman,’ she repeated. ‘I realise who you are now. And, let me assure you, I have no intention of talking to a reporter—’
‘I’m not a reporter!’ Abby was just as angry, her nerves stretched to breaking point, sure now it had been a mistake to come here. ‘I just thought—wrongly, it seems—that you’d like to know that, no matter what you might hear on the news later today, Max has got word out that he’s okay.’ He was still alive, anyway. And, really, that was all that mattered. Whether he came back to her or to this woman wasn’t important. Only that he should come back.
The other woman was even paler now, sculptured cheekbones standing out starkly, big eyes a deep brown. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You will. Later today,’ Abby warned her abruptly.
Those brown eyes widened. ‘Are you threatening me? You get into my house under false pretences, talk about people I don’t even know—’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ Abby was beyond patience with this woman now; Max was in danger, and this woman was continuing to deny she even knew him! ‘I came here with the sole intention of reassuring you as to Max’s safety. But, as you don’t even know him, it doesn’t really matter, does it!’ Her voice broke emotionally. ‘Just as it isn’t going to matter to you if in the next couple of days he’s shot and killed!’ There were two spots of angry colour in her cheeks now. ‘I’m so glad I don’t have friends like you!’ She turned on her heel and walked
out of the room, out of the house.
And out of Kate Mayhew’s life, she hoped.
‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’
Abby blinked up at Max dazedly as he stormed into her apartment, his face furious, eyes glacial as he demanded an answer to his question.
Almost three weeks she had been waiting to see him again. Two of those weeks in absolute terror for his life as she recoiled from the awful photographs being shown of him and the other hostages on public television.
The English government had tried every diplomacy they could to secure their release without actually giving in to the terrorists’ demands. And then yesterday, finally, the military had managed to overpower the terrorists—having put in place a leader who realised the benefits of a sympathetic western world—and release all the hostages still alive. Max—thankfully!—still amongst them.
Abby had first cried, and then laughed with absolute relief. And then she had cried some more. Her last twelve days had been an absolute hell of a different kind from Max’s.
Something Dorothy had told her she looked like when she had come to Abby’s apartment yesterday to tell her the good news.
She certainly wasn’t looking her best now, she knew—a fact the make-up lady had fussed about four days ago as she’d gone about the business of repairing as much of the damage as she could. Although there had been little she could to do erase the shadows from beneath Abby’s eyes from lack of sleep, or the hollows in her cheeks from lack of appetite. Wardrobe hadn’t been too happy about the hasty alterations they’d had to make to her suit either, her figure having become almost wraith-like.
Max didn’t look as if he had fared too much better. Very pale, much thinner than he had been, his hair in need of cutting.
He had never looked dearer to Abby!
But, after waiting in a state of increasing agitation for him to come to her apartment once he was safely back in England—his telephone call from the plane had been necessarily brief—at least, she had thought it was necessary, now she wasn’t so sure—she certainly hadn’t been expecting his first words to be ones of attack!
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