Jack Riordan's Baby

by Anne Mather

  ‘Is this better?’ she asked huskily, and Jack could only gaze at her with stunned disbelieving eyes.

  He expelled a harsh breath, still not entirely convinced she meant what she said. His stomach was twisted as tight as a drum, and although his senses were telling him to take what she was offering without further explanation, a latent instinct for self-preservation warned him that nothing was ever that simple.

  ‘Rachel,’ he said, his voice uncertain even to his own ears. But she didn’t want to talk.

  Lifting her hand, she laid a slender finger across his mouth, and he couldn’t stop his lips from turning against her soft skin. Capturing her hand, he brought her palm to his mouth, his tongue seeking the texture and the taste of her. But before he could do more than touch her she snatched her hand away.

  ‘I thought you wanted me,’ she whispered, reaching for his belt and using it to tantalise him. ‘But you’re vastly overdressed.’

  Jack could hardly breathe. Whatever way he wanted to play it, this was like some crazy dream, and he was no longer capable of dividing the illusory from the reality. Somehow he managed to push his suit pants and his boxers down his legs, kicking them off the bed, too. Then he knelt beside her, content for a moment just to marvel at his own good luck.

  She was beautiful, he thought unsteadily. He’d almost forgotten how incredibly beautiful she was. Small, high breasts, a narrow waist, and hips that flared sweetly above long, sexy legs. Her skin was smooth, unblemished, honey-toned from the hours she spent outdoors. The Devon coast could be as hot as the Mediterranean, and Rachel had always loved the sun.

  He allowed his hand to skim the slopes of her breasts above the provocative line of the bra. Then, with a little less restraint, he dipped his hand into the lace and cupped one warm rounded globe.

  Her nipple was hard. It thrust against his palm. He didn’t need to glance at himself to know that his erection was hard and prominent, too. It jutted from its soft nest of dark hair with a total lack of modesty.

  ‘You’re overdressed, too,’ he said thickly, unable to resist tugging on the strings that tied the thong and pulling it away. ‘That’s much better.’

  She shifted a little restlessly when he replaced the thong with his hand, his thumb finding the throbbing nub of her womanhood, his fingers discovering that she was wet and ready for him.

  And, God, he was ready for her, he thought, stretching beside her and seeking her moist mouth with his lips. She was all he wanted, had ever wanted before three miscarriages and her refusal to let him near her had got in the way.

  He was sorry when she turned her head to one side, preventing him from prolonging the kiss. Apparently Rachel wasn’t interested in foreplay. Or else, like himself, she was eager to consummate their reunion. There was no denying he couldn’t wait to be a part of her again. Even his wildly beating heart couldn’t deter him.

  Her bra had a front fastening; so convenient, he thought gratefully, releasing it easily. Her breasts spilled into his hands, but when he would have taken one swollen nipple into his mouth she shook her head.

  ‘Please, Jack,’ she said, taking his face between her palms. ‘Just—do it.’

  Jack was more than willing. But after he’d moved to kneel between her spread thighs he remembered he had no protection. ‘I—I don’t have a—’

  He gestured meaningfully, but Rachel didn’t seem concerned. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered huskily, arching her body towards him in a tantalising invitation he couldn’t resist. ‘For pity’s sake, Jack—’

  He needed no second bidding. And, despite the fact that it had been more than two years since he and Rachel had last made love, they fitted together perfectly. He slid into her in one smooth, easy motion. Her tight muscles closed about him hotly, slickly, and Jack’s head swam with the undiluted pleasure of it all.

  ‘Oh, baby,’ he breathed, burying his face in the scented hollow between her breasts, and although until then she hadn’t put her arms around him, now they came almost convulsively about his shoulders, holding him against her.

  For a short while he was content to lie there with her, to feel the intimacy of man against woman, skin against skin. He felt himself stretching her and filling her, and his racing pulse gradually slowed its mindless beat.

  But Rachel was restless, shifting beneath him, urging him to take what she’d so generously offered. So he began to move, slowly at first, withdrawing almost to the point of separation before sliding into her again.

  He felt the sweat beading on his forehead, felt the restraint he was putting on himself tighten almost to breaking point. She was so desirable, so willing, and the fear that somehow, some way, this was going to be denied him, drove him to quicken his pace.

  Yet there was no way this wasn’t a benediction. He loved her sinuously, sensuously, arousing her almost in spite of herself, crazy as that seemed. But she wrapped one leg and then the other about his hips and he knew she couldn’t control what was happening any more than he could.

  He felt her muscles tighten about him only a moment before her climax shook her slender frame. He thought she might have cried out, though she stifled the sound against his chest. And Jack found his own release only seconds later, the rippling waves of her orgasm a potent stimulus he couldn’t deny. For the first time in years, he spilled his seed inside her, feeling the shuddering warmth draining out of him, draining him, so that although he knew he must be crushing her, he didn’t have the strength to roll away…

  CHAPTER THREE

  RACHEL WAS IN the kitchen with Mrs Grady when Jack came downstairs the next morning.

  He’d wakened to find himself alone in the big bed and, judging by the fact that the other side of the mattress had been stone-cold, he suspected his wife had slept somewhere else. Someone, probably Rachel, had thrown the coverlet over his lower limbs—in deference to Mrs Grady’s sensibilities, no doubt. But the candles had all guttered out, and, like any venue after a party, the room had felt stale and lifeless.

  He’d thrown all the windows open before taking his shower, determined not to read too much into Rachel’s absence. Then, because he wasn’t planning on going into the office today, he’d dressed in a black tee shirt and his oldest pair of jeans. The jeans were tight, and worn in obvious places, so he left the button at his waist unfastened. He knew he felt better than he’d done for months—relaxed and rested. An unfamiliar condition for him these days.

  Rachel was standing with her back against one of the limed oak units, a mug of what he guessed was coffee in her hand, talking to Mrs Grady. Unlike him, she didn’t look either relaxed or rested, though Jack thought she could never look less than stunning. In a rose-patterned see-through voile shirt that tied at her waist, worn over an ivory vest and loose taupe trousers, she looked cool and elegant. Her straight blond hair was loose and brushing her collar, and his first thought was how sensuous it had felt against his skin the night before.

  His entrance silenced the two women, however, but Jack refused to be deterred. ‘Good morning,’ he said into the sudden vacuum. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Riordan.’ It was Mrs Grady who answered, and Jack noticed Rachel avoided his eyes. ‘I expect you’ll be wanting breakfast. What can I get you?’

  Jack wished Rachel would look at him, but after a brief glance in his direction she left him to speak to the housekeeper and went to stand in front of the huge porcelain sink, staring out at the garden at the side of the house. It wasn’t unusual for her to ignore him. God knew, he’d gotten used to it over the past couple of years. But after last night he didn’t understand her attitude, and as Mrs Grady busied herself taking eggs from the fridge, Jack crossed the room to stand beside his wife.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, his voice dangerously husky. ‘I missed you when I woke up.’

  Rachel took a sip of her coffee before replying. Then, ‘Did you?’ she said, without looking at him. ‘I suppose you’re used to sex in the morning as well.’

 
; Now, why had she said that? As Jack stared at her with narrowed eyes, Rachel cursed herself for allowing her own inadequacies to colour her speech. For God’s sake, the last thing she wanted was to think about sex with Jack. Or say anything to remind her of how perfect their lovemaking had been the night before.

  It was hard enough just looking at him. Jack had always been a good-looking man—‘drop-dead gorgeous’ was what Karen had said—and even with a night’s growth of stubble on his chin Rachel had to agree with her. She assumed he had his Irish heritage to thank for his dark hair, which was usually too long and often unruly, and for his green eyes, as pure and clear as a mountain lake—what irony! And his strong, sensual features, which were too hard-boned to be really handsome.

  The whole added up to a man with a tenacity of purpose even her father had admired. The fact that he was also tall and lean and moved with the sinuous grace of a big cat gave him the kind of sexuality few women could resist.

  The miracle was that he’d married her. They’d fallen in love and theirs had been a fairy-tale romance. Rachel had believed that nothing and no one could come between them. But she’d been so wrong.

  ‘Did I miss something?’

  Jack’s voice had an edge to it now that Rachel couldn’t mistake. She had to tell him, she thought. It wasn’t fair to let him go on thinking they were together again. But the temptation was there to put it off for the time being. She knew she’d need only to say the word for them to spend the rest of the day in bed.

  But she couldn’t do that. Jack was like a drug, and it had been hard enough to wean herself off him the first time around. ‘I’m sure you know what I mean,’ she said, deliberately casual. ‘I know you’ve been sleeping with—with other women, Jack. You haven’t lived like a monk all these months.’

  ‘My God!’ Jack’s reaction was predictably violent and Rachel cast an anxious look over her shoulder to see if Mrs Grady was listening. But the housekeeper had left the room, evidently deciding to leave them to it. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’

  Rachel’s mouth was dry. ‘Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it? You have been seeing someone else?’

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of people,’ retorted Jack harshly. ‘What’s this all about, Rachel? What was last night all about? Why didn’t you tell me how you felt before you—?’

  He broke off abruptly, turning away to rake unsteady fingers through his hair. All of a sudden he felt sick and dizzy; the aftermath of too much excitement? he thought bitterly. Or anticipation of the nightmare to come?

  ‘Jack?’

  Rachel sounded almost concerned now, and he wondered if she’d guessed that something was wrong. But the last thing he needed was for her to feel sorry for him. He had some pride, albeit somewhat shredded after last night.

  ‘Just go away, Rachel,’ he said, gripping the overhanging lip of granite with both hands. He made a sudden decision. ‘I’ve got to go into the office.’ He straightened. ‘I’ll see you when I see you, right?’

  Rachel touched his arm and he flinched. God, he had it bad, he thought. She’d only to lay a hand on him and he wanted to turn round and drag her—kicking and screaming, if necessary—into his arms. Despite his shaky equilibrium, and the fact that she’d apparently only been using him the night before, he still wanted her. And how pathetic was that?

  ‘You’re not dressed for the office,’ she said now, and Jack knew he had to turn and face her.

  ‘I was hungry,’ he said, even though the thought of the omelette Mrs Grady had offered to make for him was making him feel sick.

  Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘I suppose you can’t wait to see her, can you?’ she said, and Jack blinked at the sudden attack.

  ‘To see her?’ he echoed. ‘Who the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘This woman,’ she persisted. ‘She works in your office, doesn’t she?’ She paused, and when he made no reaction she went on, ‘Karen Johnson? Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten her.’

  Jack swayed back on the heels of his loafers. ‘How the hell do you know about her?’

  ‘I know.’ Rachel refused to tell him the woman had been here.

  ‘I can’t believe you were interested enough to investigate my life.’

  ‘Can’t you?’ His words pained her, but she managed to hide it. ‘I guess we don’t know one another very well anymore.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ he countered, feeling his heart quickening in tune with his rising agitation. ‘For God’s sake, Rachel, I didn’t move out of your bed!’

  ‘You know why I did,’ she cried, stung into defending herself, but Jack wasn’t in the mood for compromise.

  ‘They were my babies, too,’ he said savagely. And then, feeling as if he’d pass out if he didn’t get some air, he walked unsteadily across the kitchen floor. ‘Just go to hell, Rachel,’ he muttered, going out of the door.

  Jack was sitting in his office in Plymouth, slumped over his desk, when the intercom buzzed. Scowling, he pushed himself up and pressed the answering button. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’ve got a call, Mr Riordan.’ His secretary sounded apologetic. ‘I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, but it’s your wife.’

  ‘My wife?’ Jack was stunned. He had no idea why Rachel should be ringing him after their altercation that morning. But he was ever the optimist, he thought dourly. ‘Put her on.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Riordan.’

  The line went dead for a moment, and then a voice said, ‘Hello, Jack.’

  It wasn’t Rachel. That was his first thought, and his spirits foundered. And because of that his response was savagely blunt. ‘Karen,’ he said, recognising her voice instantly after what Rachel had said. The way he was feeling now, if the woman had been in the immediate vicinity he’d have wrung her neck.

  ‘Darling—you remember me!’ she exclaimed, and Jack wondered how she expected him to forget. She’d been ringing him off and on for the past three months—ever since she’d been fired, actually. So many times, in fact, that he’d had to ask his secretary to monitor all his calls.

  ‘Don’t call me darling,’ he snapped, wondering why he didn’t just slam down the receiver. He’d done it before. ‘Do you want to tell me what you’re doing? Impersonating someone else is a criminal offence. If you ring this number again I’ll have you arrested. There’s a word for what you’re doing, Karen, and it’s harassment.’

  ‘Oh, Jack, don’t be so stuffy. You didn’t used to be like this when we were together.’

  ‘We were never together, Karen.’ Jack was wearily aware he’d said all this before. ‘We went out together once. And believe me, that was a mistake.’

  Karen only laughed. ‘You don’t mean that, Jack.’

  ‘Yes, I do. And I mean it when I say I’m going to report you to the authorities. I should have done it before. But I guess I felt sorry for you.’

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Jack.’

  Her tone had altered now, and he could tell he’d annoyed her. Well, good! Way to go. He hoped she’d got the message at last.

  ‘Feel sorry for yourself, Jack,’ she went on sharply. And then, her tone softening again, ‘We need to be together. You know that. You can fight it if you like, but it won’t do you any good.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Jack lost patience. ‘Get a life, Karen. One that doesn’t include stalking me!’

  He would have slammed the phone down then, but she must have sensed it, and rushed into speech. ‘We’re going to have a baby, Jack,’ she burst out wildly. ‘That’s why I’ve been ringing you. We have to talk.’

  Rachel spent the morning in the studio Jack had had built for her in the garden. It was on the far side of the property, with a magnificent view of Foliot Cove. The cove was at the foot of the cliffs that etched this part of the coastline, and could be reached by a flight of stone steps some previous owner of the land had had carved out of the rock.

  Rachel was quite a gifted painter, using both oils and charcoal in various forms. But her f
avourite medium was watercolour, and she’d created quite a name for herself in recent years, illustrating children’s books for the London publisher who’d recognised her talent.

  Today, however, it was hard to concentrate. She kept thinking about what she’d done the night before, and remembering Jack’s face when she’d told him she knew about his affair with Karen Johnson.

  He hadn’t admitted he was having an affair with Karen, but then he hadn’t denied it either. Instead, he’d accused her of abandoning their marriage. Of moving out of their bed and effectively putting an end to their relationship.

  Yet surely he should be able to understand how she’d been feeling at that time? Three times she’d become pregnant, three times she’d felt the miracle of life inside her, and three times she’d lost the baby in the third month. All right, perhaps she hadn’t given enough thought to how Jack was feeling. Perhaps she had been totally tied up with her own emotions, her own grief.

  But Jack had always seemed so strong, so impervious to anything life threw at him. The eldest son of an Irish labourer and his wife, who had emigrated to England in the sixties, he’d worked hard to get his degree in civil engineering. He was the only member of his family who’d ever gone to university, and although one of his brothers and all three sisters were settled now, with families of their own, for years Jack had helped to support his siblings, doing two jobs even when he was at university so that he could send money home.

  She couldn’t help wondering now if she’d been too quick to put his behaviour down to disappointment. Disappointment that he wasn’t going to be a father, and disappointment in her, too, as a woman. She’d believed he thought she’d let him down—not once, but three times. And when she had refused to let him near her again, he’d turned to someone else.