Jack Riordan's Baby

by Anne Mather

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  Lucy was persistent, and Rachel’s head was beginning to ache with the constant barrage of advice. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘this is my problem, right? I’ve got to deal with it. It’s good of you to be concerned about me, but I need to handle this in my own way.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  At last Lucy seemed to get the message, and for the rest of the evening Rachel steered clear of anything that might remind her of their earlier conversation. Once again she was grateful that she hadn’t told Lucy Karen was expecting a baby. The comparison with the break-up of her own marriage would have been just too obvious to ignore.

  Jack spent the evening switching channels on the wide-screen TV in the den. The room had originally started out as a family room, but without the expected influx of young children it had acquired bookshelves and a writing bureau, as well as an entertainment console.

  Rachel often used the room as a second studio. It was large and high-ceilinged, and it had good light. In colder weather, particularly if there was snow on the ground, it was easier for her to work indoors.

  Tonight, however, the room seemed unusually quiet. Even with the television playing it felt abandoned and remote from human contact. Much like himself, he thought, hesitating only a moment before reaching for the bottle of single malt he’d brought in with him. Who really cared if he killed himself? he reflected. Rachel might be better off without him.

  It was only a little after half-past-nine when he heard the Audi’s engine. It had a distinctive sound, different from the Ford Mrs Grady sometimes drove. He couldn’t believe it. When Rachel had dinner with Lucy Robards she was rarely back before eleven or eleven-thirty. He knew because he’d lain awake many a night waiting for her to come home.

  He wanted to stay where he was and ignore her. To pretend he was so interested in the documentary that was being screened at this moment that he hadn’t heard her come in. But the fear that she might go upstairs without seeing him was paramount. Ignoring the tell-tale flutter of his heart, he opened the door.

  Rachel was standing in the hall, putting her keys away in her purse, when she caught sight of him. The expression that crossed her face at that moment was hardly flattering, but Jack refused to be put off. She looked marvellous, the slinky dress she was wearing accentuating every sensuous curve of her slender body. It crossed his mind that she was dressed too sexily to have been having dinner with only Lucy. Had that woman organised a cosy foursome with some of her newspaper colleagues? Surely not, he thought bitterly. He suspected Lucy Robards would chew nails before allowing another man into her life.

  All the same, seeing Rachel like this reminded him of the way she’d looked when he’d come home and found her practically naked. When he’d thought the house was on fire—only to get burned up himself. God, she’d been so beautiful, so desirable; it gave him a hard-on just to think of it. Or was his body reacting to present forces, the knowledge that she was his wife and, God help him! he still wanted her?

  ‘Did you want something?’ Rachel asked now, tucking her purse under her arm, making him envy the small pouch pressed hard against her soft breast.

  ‘You’re early,’ Jack said lamely, wondering what she’d do if he invited her to have a drink with him in the den. Probably say that she was tired, he decided. She certainly didn’t look very friendly.

  ‘Lucy was tired,’ Rachel said, not altogether truthfully. In actual fact it was she who had used that excuse, not her friend. Then, because she couldn’t ignore how he looked, so pale and hollow-eyed, she asked, ‘How are you?’ She despised herself for feeling sorry for him, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Did Mrs Grady make you some supper?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t go out, if that’s what you’re asking,’ said Jack, trying to calm his rampant libido. For God’s sake, in his state his sexual urges should be easy to control. But they weren’t. Then, recklessly, he said, ‘Come and have a drink. I’d welcome the company. I’ve not spoken to a soul except Mrs Grady all evening.’

  ‘Not even Karen?’ Rachel couldn’t prevent the provocative rejoinder, and she saw the look of frustration that crossed his dark face.

  ‘Not anyone,’ he repeated, realising how impossible it would be to tell her about the report Karen had sent him now. It probably wasn’t such a good idea to spend time alone with Rachel either. In his present weakened condition it would be far too easy to make mistakes.

  He was about to say, Forget it, when she beat him to it. ‘All right,’ she said, lifting her slim shoulders in a careless gesture of dismissal. ‘I’ll have a drink with you.’ She walked towards him, taking off first one shoe and then the other. Then, lifting them to eye level by their straps, she added, ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  Jack gave a careful shake of his head, relieved when the action didn’t cause his senses to swim. Backing up against the door, he allowed her to pass him, her perfume surrounding him as she did so, warm and fragrant, overlaid with the fresh, womanly scent of her body.

  As he followed her into the room and turned off the television he wondered why she’d suddenly decided to humour him. A month ago she wouldn’t have hesitated before making some puerile excuse and heading up to her bedroom. But then, a month ago he’d have had more sense than to offer the invitation.

  It was dark outside, and before doing anything else Jack switched on the pair of floor lights that stood at either end of the bookshelves. There was already a lamp burning on the bureau, and the room looked suddenly more attractive in the mellow light.

  ‘Sorry—no candles,’ he said shortly, knowing it was a loaded comment, but she didn’t take offence.

  ‘You liked them?’ she asked, immediately putting him on the defensive again, and Jack had to take a steadying breath before replying.

  He didn’t honestly know if the fact that his heart was doing flip-flops was her fault or his, but he had to calm down. ‘They were—different,’ he said, hoping that wouldn’t elicit another disturbing reminiscence of that night. He crossed the room and determinedly picked up the bottle of single malt. ‘I’ve got Scotch, or Scotch and water. Or I can get you something else from the fridge. Wine, perhaps? Your choice.’

  ‘Scotch is fine,’ said Rachel, perching on the edge of the armchair where he’d been sitting earlier and massaging her aching soles. ‘Mmm, that’s much better.’

  Trying to ignore the fact that when she rested her foot across her knee her legs parted and her skirt rode enticingly high on her thighs, Jack found a second glass and splashed an inch of Scotch into it. ‘Water?’

  ‘I’ll take it straight,’ she said, looking up at him through her lashes. Her fingers brushed his as she took the glass. ‘Thanks.’

  Jack turned away, recklessly refilling his own glass. But even the smell caused a distinct shortness of breath, and he put it down again. Then, because it would have been too unsettling to sit opposite her, he made do with hooking his hip onto a corner of the bureau.

  Needing to normalise the situation, he said, ‘Did you have a pleasant evening?’

  ‘It was okay.’ In all honesty Rachel couldn’t say she’d enjoyed it.

  ‘It was just you and Lucy, right?’

  Rachel frowned. What was that supposed to mean? ‘Yes,’ she replied warily. ‘I told you what I was doing before I went out.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jack crossed his arms, his tee shirt tightening across his broad shoulders. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘Wondered what?’

  Jack knew he shouldn’t have said anything. He really didn’t want to get into an argument with her. Take it easy, he told himself. Think what you’re saying before you open your big mouth. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered now, reaching behind him for his glass and then remembering he shouldn’t have any more. ‘Is your drink all right?’

  ‘It’s whisky,’ Rachel said drily. ‘I don’t think even you could louse it up.’ She paused, considering. ‘Why did you ask if Lucy and I were on our own?’

  Jack stifled a
groan. ‘No reason.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Rachel wasn’t buying that. ‘Nobody asks a question for no reason.’ She hesitated. ‘Did you think I had a date?’

  ‘No.’ Jack tried for indignation, but when that didn’t work he said wearily, ‘All right. Maybe I did. You have to admit you don’t usually make such an effort when you’re going out with her.’

  Rachel’s eyes widened. ‘You noticed?’ she said mockingly. She stretched out her slim legs, making no effort to push her skirt down. ‘Do you think I look nice?’

  Nice wasn’t even adequate, but Jack wasn’t going to tell her that. It obviously amused her to provoke him, and if he had any sense he’d ignore it. The trouble was, there seemed to be some kind of blockage between his brain and his sex.

  ‘Yeah, you look nice,’ he said tightly, a reluctant smile hovering about his mouth. ‘Very glamorous. Very sexy.’

  Rachel’s lips parted, but whether it was because she was surprised at the compliment or simply continuing the game she seemed to be playing, Jack couldn’t be sure. Whatever, when her tongue appeared to wet her lower lip he felt the jolt of his reaction spread like wildfire through his body.

  ‘You look nice, too,’ she said, convincing him she was only toying with him. ‘You always looked good in jeans.’

  Yeah. Jack swallowed. The trouble was, they were bloody tight, bloody revealing at the moment, and he was glad that the angle of the bureau prevented her from seeing what she was doing to him. ‘Thanks,’ he said, not meaning it. ‘So—where did you have dinner?’

  It was another attempt to turn the conversation into safer channels, but Rachel seemed determined not to oblige him. ‘Oh, we had lasagne at Romano’s,’ she declared offhandedly. ‘How about you? You look a little flushed. Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?’

  Jack couldn’t prevent a snort of frustration now. ‘What’s with all the concern?’ he asked. ‘A few hours ago you were telling me I shouldn’t expect you to care how I was feeling. Now suddenly you’re Florence Nightingale! I’d like to know what’s caused this sudden change of heart. Do you feel guilty, or what?’

  ‘Why should I feel guilty?’ Despite her determination not to let him get to her, his words caught her on the raw. ‘I can’t help being concerned about you. You’re my husband.’

  Now it was Jack’s turn to look surprised. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said sceptically. ‘And when did you remember that, exactly?’

  ‘I’ve never forgotten it,’ retorted Rachel, faint colour rising up her throat. ‘I’m not the one who’s been playing away.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ said Jack harshly, relieved to be back on more familiar ground, but Rachel had other ideas.

  ‘In any case, I thought I proved how I felt a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘It’s almost three weeks since we—connected,’ he said, using that word deliberately. ‘And I don’t think remembering I was your husband had anything to do with that. You wanted to prove you could make me want you—and what do you know? You succeeded. But don’t get too excited, baby. It would have taken a stronger man than me to refuse that invitation.’

  Rachel’s face burned now. ‘You can’t help being objectionable, can you?’ she snapped. Slamming her glass down onto an end table, she got abruptly to her feet. ‘I don’t know why I agreed to have a drink with you. I felt sorry for you, I suppose. But that was stupid, because you don’t need anyone’s sympathy. You’re completely heartless!’

  I wish.

  Jack knew a moment’s regret, but he refused to let her have the final word. Moving into her path, he said softly, ‘I’m sorry. That was mean.’ He looked over her shoulder. ‘Don’t go. You haven’t even finished your drink.’

  ‘You finish it,’ muttered Rachel resentfully, but she didn’t push past him, and before he could think what he was doing, Jack slipped his arms about her waist.

  It was a mistake. He knew that as soon as he felt the silky fabric of her dress beneath his hands. Smooth and slippery, it moved against her skin, revealing she was wearing little underneath. And, although only moments before she’d been angry with him, she did nothing to stop his hands from sliding down over her hips to the provocative curve of her bottom.

  The dress was absurdly short, and he was tempted to find the hem and explore beneath it. Bare golden skin invited him to do it, and when he let one hand entwine in her hair she tilted her face up without resistance.

  It would be so easy, he thought, and his groin ached in anticipation. So easy to lift the hem and forget everything in that hot wet place between her legs. He wanted to. God, his erection was fighting his jeans for supremacy, and in spite of what she’d said before he touched her he had the feeling Rachel wouldn’t object.

  But that was her intention, he realised. The eyes she’d turned up to his were no longer resentful, but eager and expectant, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. And he knew in that moment why she’d agreed to have a drink with him. However unlikely it seemed, she wanted him to make love to her again.

  But why? Why? As his pulse ebbed and flowed with the effort of trying to control his emotions, he wondered if the little scheme she’d engineered hadn’t worked and she’d decided to try again.

  It was crazy, but it was obvious she thought he was putty in her hands. Even the dress she’d worn was designed to slip easily off her shoulders, and if she was wearing any underwear it would be as skimpy and erotic as he remembered from before.

  His heart skipped one beat, then another. Trying for distraction, he told himself he could do this—or rather pretend to. Why shouldn’t he humour her? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d withdrawn and spent himself elsewhere.

  ‘Are you going to kiss me?’

  Rachel was gazing up at him, but her face seemed to be wavering in front of his eyes. ‘Why not?’ he muttered, not sure whether he was answering her question or his, and lowering his head he allowed his lips to brush against her soft mouth.

  She was all fire and heat, her tongue darting to meet his with an urgency that spoke of her own desires, her own needs. Her hands were all over him, reaching for his face, nails curling into the damp hair at his nape, slipping down between them to pull his tee shirt up and find the bare skin of his stomach.

  He couldn’t help himself. He leaned into her, deepening the kiss, indulging himself in the sensual hunger she was creating. Her bare leg brushed against his calf, performed a crazy little caress before wrapping itself around him. She leaned in closer and he felt her rubbing herself against his throbbing sex.

  God! A wave of sweat enveloped him, and as she fumbled with the button at his waist he felt his senses swim dangerously close to the edge. He couldn’t breathe; for a moment he was sure his heart had stopped beating altogether, and the need for survival overcame all else.

  Tearing her hands from his zip, he managed to stagger back from her. He didn’t know how he looked. Pretty ghastly, he suspected, but Rachel wasn’t looking for reasons.

  ‘You bastard!’ she swore, evidently unaware of what was happening to him. ‘I should have expected something like this. You have to win, don’t you, Jack? One way or the other.’

  Jack fought for breath. ‘You don’t understand—’ he choked, but she wasn’t interested in explanations.

  ‘Oh, yes, I do,’ she retorted, not prepared to listen to anything he had to say. ‘Get out of my way, damn you!’ she snapped, pushing him aside without hesitation, marching out of the room with as much pride as she could muster in bare feet.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DESPITE FEELING LESS than one hundred per cent, Jack left for the office early the next morning. He’d slept badly, but that wasn’t new. These days his good nights were few and far between. He’d never considered what made people hypochondriacs until he’d been faced with his present predicament. But there was no doubt that his fluttering pulse and the dizziness made him supremely conscious of every breath he took when he was in bed.

  He reached his office without encounteri
ng anyone but Harry. He’d collected a cup of coffee on the way, and sat down at his desk to drink it. It probably wasn’t the most sensible thing to drink after last night’s little fiasco. But, what the hell? He had to have some stimulation in his life.

  He thanked God now that Rachel hadn’t been aware of what was happening. She might have been angry with him—scrub that, she was angry with him—but he’d have been mortified if she’d known her pathetic push had driven him to his knees.

  If he’d harboured any doubts that what the doctors had told him was true, last night had delivered a rude awakening. He’d been warned to slow down, to avoid stress and over-stimulation, but he’d just continued on his merry way, refusing to believe his problems wouldn’t go away on their own. Now he believed it.

  So what was he going to do? Delegate his work to someone else and take a prolonged rest? That was one of the recommendations he’d been given before they’d started all these tests and examinations. In the days when he’d been certain he could handle this on his own.

  A knock at the door caused him to stiffen. But it was only Harry who, as well as sorting the post, worked as doorman as well. ‘Another letter for you, Mr Riordan,’ he said, handing over an ordinary business-sized envelope. ‘You’re an early bird this morning.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jack managed a smile and took the white envelope reluctantly. What now? he wondered, feeling his heart beating heavily in his chest.

  ‘Seems like you could do with a lie-in now and again,’ Harry commented, with the familiarity of long service. ‘You’re looking tired, Mr Riordan. You need a holiday. All these high-pressure deals are wearing you out.’

  Jack took a breath. ‘Mr Fox seemed to manage okay. He was a lot older than me when he retired.’

  Harry grimaced. ‘Mr Fox never ran a business as big as this, Mr Riordan. When he started up it was just a small operation. I knew Bob Fox for over twenty years, and he never took on anything he couldn’t handle.’