It seemed to her that he hadn't taken his eyes off her since she first stepped into the taxi.
'No ... I realise that.'
There was a certain stiffness in his posture and she suddenly remembered his broken ribs, the car accident. Had she hurt him, cannoning forward like that? Her heart constricted against her will.
'Do your ribs hurt?' she heard herself asking in a small sympathetic voice.
Jake's eyes held hers, filled with cynical mockery. 'They hurt like hell,' he told her softly, and she knew what he was thinking.
'Looking for sympathy?' she queried coldly.
Jake laughed, a low growl of genuine amusement. 'I'm already basking in your sweet concern, and believe me, I appreciate it.'
Deborah gritted her teeth. 'I just happened to notice it in the newspaper, that's all. Don't imagine I really care. I'm merely trying to make this . .. this ridiculous situation a little more bearable.'
'Really?' Jake's firm mouth curved up at the corners. He looked pleased with himself.
'Yes, really,' Deborah replied, wishing she had held back and not said a word.
'Why so angry, I wonder?' Jake mused wickedly.
Deborah turned away. Why indeed, she wondered, but did not bother to answer him. She felt very close to tears again and she was desperate that he should not see her cry.
'Deborah .. .' He spoke her name deeply, the familiar intonation making her heart turn over. He had already seen her tears.
'No,' she whispered, keeping her head down, not daring to look at him.
'You don't know what I'm going to say,' he teased,
and the gentleness in his voice was almost her undoing. The atmosphere between them had suddenly changed, the air laden with unspoken emotion.
'Jake, please ...' She could feel herself trembling. 'Please just leave me alone.'
He swore softly under his breath. 'Give me one good reason why I should.' Without warning, he reached out, his long fingers taking her chin, turning her face up to his.
She felt totally exposed as their eyes met, hers brimming with tears, frightened and unsure and slightly defiant.
Jake looked at her with dark intensity, surprised at her vulnerability. She was still so fragile, so easily hurt. She had rim from him, disappeared without a word and married another man. And it seemed impossible that he still held the power to hurt her, to make her cry like this.
He released her chin, allowing her the privacy of lowering her eyes again.
'I'm sorry,' he said quietly.
Deborah frowned, swallowing back her tears, wondering at the sudden apology. What had he read in her eyes during those few defenceless seconds?
'Forget it.' In control again, she managed a tight smile, her lashes flickering upwards, not quite daring to look at him.
The moments ticked by in heavy silence. Through her lashes, she watched him remove a slim gold case from his pocket. She watched his hands compulsively. They were strong and tanned, the fingers long, hard-skinned. She remembered their touch against her skin.
'Cigarette?'
His voice made her jump. 'No ... no thanks,' she stammered in confusion.
'You don't mind if I ...?'
'Of course not.'
His mouth curved in a slight smile as though he found her abrupt retort amusing. She averted her eyes, thinking that the taxi ride was lasting forever. She heard the flaring of a lighter, and again, that rich aroma of Turkish tobacco.
It was strange how a smell could carry you back into the past, whereas memory could be so deceptive.
'I hear you're working for Cole Sullivan.' He was deliberately trying to lighten the atmosphere, and Deborah, stiff and over-suspicious, wondered at his motive.
'Yes.' Her one word answer was deliberately uncooperative.
'Do you enjoy it?' He was not to be put off. She heard the teasing amusement in his voice.
'Yes, I enjoy it.' At the thought of Cole and that last dinner in Corfu, faint colour stole into her cheeks, and although she tried to hide it, she was well aware that Jake had seen it.
Through the haze of fragrant smoke that veiled his hard face she could see the narrowing of his eyes.
'Look, do we have to talk?' she demanded coldly, so exposed she felt as though her skin had been ripped away.
Jake smiled, and she couldn't read his expression. 'What are you so scared of?'
'You,' she replied with bald honesty and regretted it immediately.
'Why?' He shot the question back expressionlessly.
'I don't know.' It was an unsteady half-truth.
Jake sighed, about to say something, changing his mind.
Deborah fiddled with the gold bangle on her wrist, trying to work out the answer to his question. The very sight of him made her heart beat violently, that was frightening enough. He seemed so untouched, as though he had forgotten they had ever been lovers, as though she was a stranger.
His voice broke into her reverie. 'Tess tells me that you've accepted her invitation to the party.'
Deborah nodded. She wished now that she hadn't and it showed in her eyes. She could not have imagined how traumatic it would be, meeting Jake face to face again.
'Yes, of course. It would have been churlish to refuse just because of ...' She shrugged, fighting for composure.
'Because of us?' Jake completed the sentence for her, his hard mouth mocking.
'If you like.' She didn't like the admission. She pulled the collar of her coat higher around her throat. Jake watched the movement, the shaking fingers. 'Cold?' he taunted in a low voice.
'What do you think?' She couldn't help snapping, tension evident in every line of her slender body.
'I think, for Tess's sake, we should seem to be getting along with each other,' Jake said expressionlessly.
Deborah stared. 'Is that what this is all about?' she demanded unsteadily, suddenly realising that this meeting had been planned. She should have remembered that Jake left nothing to chance. Pride stiffened her spine. 'Well, you can rest assured that I won't upset Tess in any way at all. I'm looking forward to seeing her, actually.'
'And she you,' Jake responded with a smile. Then with heartfelt relief, Deborah felt the taxi pulling to a halt and glancing out of the window, found herself in front of her own house. At last.
She fumbled in her bag for her purse, wanting to pay for her share of the taxi. Ridiculous though it was, she couldn't bear the thought of being in debt to him, however small the amount was.
'Forget it,' he said, reading her clumsy actions.
'No, I can't ...' Her fingers wouldn't work. She couldn't open her purse.
'Deborah, I said forget it.' There was amusement in his voice but a warning, too.
'I ... I ...' Defeated, she reached for the door handle and clambered out. 'Thank you'
She felt gauche and so foolish. What was the matter with her? Trembling, tongue-tied, unable to express herself in any way at all, she felt like a shy adolescent, faced in the flesh with some long-loved idol.
'The pleasure is mine.' He smiled though his eyes were serious, unreadable.
She turned away, nearly bolting through the gate, diving into her handbag again for the doorkeys. The sky was darkening, a light flurry of snow beginning to fall, as the winter evening drew in. The street lights gave off their all-pervading orange glare and it was so cold that her breath hung on the air in a wide cloud. Her handbag seemed suddenly bottomless, filled with unnecessary rubbish and she couldn't find her keys anywhere.
She was waiting, listening for the noise of the taxi drawing away and the longed-for knowledge that Jake had gone. And she almost jumped out of her skin when a hand gently touched her shoulder. She whirled around to find him only inches away, towering over her, tall and powerful and somehow menacing.
'You forgot these.' He held out the two carrier bags that held her new dress and shoes.
'Oh' She took them from him, electricity
burning her as their fingers brushed. 'Thanks.'
'What's the matter?' Jake asked, staring at her again.
'I—nothing, I don't know what you mean.'
His mouth tightened impatiently. 'Why are you so damned afraid of me?'
'I'm not.' She drew herself up, her green eyes meeting his with defiance.
'Have dinner with me tonight, then?' he said with a smile.
Dumbfounded, Deborah shook her head. 'I already have plans for this evening,' she managed shakily.
'Tomorrow?' There was a silky mockery in his voice as though he knew she would refuse.
'No.' She pushed a hand through her hair, feeling the wetness of snow clinging there.
'Why not?'
'Why are you asking me?' she countered, her knees trembling at the persuasive charm in his face.
'Isn't it obvious?'
'No, otherwise . . .' Her voice trailed off as she looked into his eyes, her heart lurching at what she read there. It could not be translated into words or thoughts. It was pure emotion and it demanded response.
'What do you want from me?' she whispered, suddenly frightened. 'Why are you doing this?'
'I want to make some kind of contact with you. I want to get through that wall of ice you've built around yourself,' Jake replied grimly. 'I want to know why you're frozen up inside. I want to know what happened to the woman I knew.'
Deborah laughed bitterly. How could he be so blind? How could he not know that if she was frozen behind a wall of ice, it was all his fault?
'I'm surprised you even remember.'
'Oh, I remember.' His voice was low, shivering through every nerve in her body. 'I remember everything, every moment we spent together.'
'That was years ago,' she retorted, still trembling violently. 'It's all over now, and after Tess's party we won't see each other again, so let's just leave it at that, shall we?'
'Do you really believe that?' Jake asked, surveying her through narrowed eyes.
Deborah bit her lip, betraying her anxiety. 'I don't understand . . .'
'No, you don't, do you?' he said calmly and she heard him laughing as she turned her head away.
The snow was falling heavily now, whirling down from the impenetrable darkness above. Neither of them noticed. She still hadn't found her keys, but she had the feeling that if she opened the front door, Jake would be inside before she had time to stop him. She didn't want that.
'Obviously not. So why don't you tell me?' she answered coolly, wanting him to go. She didn't know what to say to him and she could not bear to look at him. Her nerves were stretched as tight as wire.
Jake's long fingers closed around her chin, tilting back her head and forcing her to meet the probing depths of his eyes.
She struggled, her breath locked in her lungs, but he was far too strong for her. She couldn't move an inch beneath the strength of those fingers.
He watched her impotent struggling, gazing into her pale face with cool intensity. 'Don't fight me, Deborah,' he warned softly. 'You can't win, so don't back yourself into a corner. I never lose, as any number of people who have tried to take me on could tell you.' He lifted his other hand, gently stroking back the wet hair from her forehead.
'Thanks for the warning.' She tried to make her voice acid but it only came out shakily.
Jake smiled again and said too smoothly. 'It's not a warning, Deborah, it's a promise.'
He released his grip on her chin and turning on his heel, walked away into the darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
The days sped by with supernatural speed and the day of Tess's party dawned all too soon.
Deborah woke that morning with a headache, a dull pain throbbing in her temples.
She hadn't slept well, a nervous anxiety in her stomach keeping her tossing and turning all night, but after a shower, a cup of strong black coffee and two aspirins, she felt a little more human.
She dressed in tight denim jeans and a thick baggy pink sweater, still clutching her cup of coffee as she wandered into the lounge.
It was a high-ceilinged room, the walls ragged cream. An old Persian carpet—a present from Oliver, lay on the polished wooden floorboards, and between the two high windows with their wooden shutters, stood her two work desks cluttered with books and drawings, brushes and pens.
It was a perfect room for working in because the windows faced the north, their cold, demanding light suitable for the colours she had to match in her designs.
She sipped her coffee slowly, the pile of work on the desks somehow accusing her. She'd hardly done a thing since returning from Corfu and Cole was already making noises about the new collection. She was going to be very busy over the next week or so. As well as the designs Cole had already made a number of appointments for her. When it came to business, he was as hard as nails and he wouldn't take any excuses.
She had never been the victim of his sharp tongue, but she had heard him tearing into other people who had dared to be inefficient, and it had scared the living daylights out of her. She really would have to get on with some work. Perhaps it would even take her mind off Jake.
The doorbell rang as she moved towards the cluttered desk and she half smiled, realising that she was glad of the diversion.
Oliver wouldn't be up yet, it was far too early, and besides, she had heard him coming in last night. He had sounded pretty drunk, kicking the empty milk bottles down the steps as he staggered through the front door. Deborah had given him two cups of strong black coffee and left him to it, exasperated and a little saddened by his helplessness.
She ran downstairs as the bell rang again. Outside stood a delivery man with an armful of deep red roses, their heavy scent mingling with the cold morning air.
'Mrs Deborah Stevens?' The young man smiled.
Deborah nodded, staring, and the flowers were thrust into her hands. It seemed as though there were hundreds of them, transporting her back to the summer. She knew who they were from without reading the attached card, although she tried to tell herself that they might be from Cole, or even an unknown admirer.
She was pushing the front door shut with her foot, when Beatrice arrived. Still stunned by the flowers, the older woman was in the hall before Deborah could say a word.
'My, you must be popular. And a rich man too, by the look of it—hot house roses at this time of year,' Beatrice remarked, raising her delicate eyebrows as she watched Deborah struggling with the flowers.
'You'd think so, wouldn't you?' Deborah's voice was dry. Popular was not the word she would have chosen herself, she thought, as she surveyed the other woman.
As always, Beatrice looked fantastic, her dark hair gleaming in a smooth chignon, her pale face flawlessly made up. Her long boots were light leather, matching her woollen skirt and fur trimmed woollen coat.
'Is Oliver around?' Beatrice moved towards his internal front door.
'I don't think he's up yet.' Deborah stepped forward, worried.
'I'll wake him up, then,' Beatrice smiled, shutting the door behind her as she stepped inside, leaving Deborah alone in the hall.
Oliver might be angry, but it was his own fault, she decided as she climbed the stairs. Beneath that cool beauty, Beatrice hid a quick determined mind. If she wanted Oliver, he would have to sort it out for himself. There was nothing Deborah could do.
Back in her flat, she carefully put down the roses and picked up the attached envelope. Inside, a small card had one word scrawled across it in strong black handwriting. Jake.
She stared at it, feeling again his presence, his strength. Why had he sent her flowers? Why had he asked her to have dinner with him?
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled with worry. She couldn't begin to fathom his motives.
The loud rapping on the door made her jump. It was Oliver, pale and bleary, hastily dressed, his feet bare.
'Have you got any coffee?' he demanded, walking in.
Deborah frowned at him. 'In the kitchen.'
He padded towards the door, re-emerging moments later with a bowl full of co
ffee beans.
'Very neat. I can't find a bloody thing in my kitchen.'
'Too many empty bottles?' Deborah enquired sarcastically, still staring at the flowers.
Oliver pulled a face. 'Very witty. What's the matter with you this morning?'
Beneath his drowsy pallor, Deborah could see that he was excited, elated.
It was Beatrice who had brought him back to life. Deborah knew how his mind worked. Beatrice had come to see him, she had actually made the effort to come to the flat. And to Oliver, trapped by love he could not fight, that seemed to prove some sort of caring.
'There's nothing the matter with me,' she said, smiling at him because she couldn't bear to spoil that elation.
'You look worn out,' Oliver told her bluntly, only noticing the roses as he walked towards the door. 'Who are they from?'
'It's none of your business, and besides, Beatrice will be waiting for you,' she said sweetly.
'Okay, okay. You'll tell me in your own good time,' Oliver sounded confident. 'See you later.'
'I won't be counting on it,' she replied, as she shut the door behind him, and heard him laughing as he ran downstairs.
Refusing to think too deeply, she scouted round for vases and finally filled five with the roses. Their scent and colour filled the flat, vivid and redolent of sunny afternoons.
She made herself more coffee and stood by the window, all thought of work forgotten. A light snow shower had coated the roofs, and had already turned to slush in the street. It was cold, a misty winter morning, the weather uncharacteristically bad for March. She sipped her coffee slowly, enjoying the bitter flavour, and watched two sparrows fighting in the garden opposite.
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