Guilty. Anne Mather
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now without being seen.
Taking a deep breath, she gave in to the inevitable. She couldn’t ask them to wait while she put on some clothes. That would be foolish. Besides, if this man was going to become her son-in-law, the sooner he saw her as she really was, the better.
But, even as she was making this decision, the flap of the letterbox was lifted, and Julie called, ‘Mum! Mum, are you there? Open the door, can’t you? It’s raining.’
‘Oh! Is it?’
Without more ado, Laura hurried down the last few stairs, and hastily turned the key. The door was propelled inward almost before she had time to step out of the way, and Julie appeared in the open doorway, looking decidedly out of humour.
‘What were you—–? Oh, Mum!’ Julie stared at her with accusing eyes. ‘You’re not even dressed!’
‘I was taking a bath,’ replied Laura levelly, trying to maintain her composure. ‘Besides,’ she lifted her shoulders defensively, ‘you’re early.’
‘It is after six,’ retorted Julie, pushing her way through to the living-room. ‘God, what a drive! The traffic was appalling!’
Laura’s lips parted, and she stared after her daughter with some confusion. What did she mean? Surely she hadn’t driven herself up to Northumberland. Julie did have a Metro, she knew that, for getting about town, but the engine she had heard hadn’t sounded anything like Julie’s Metro. It had been low and unobtrusive, that was true, but there had been no doubting the latent power behind its restrained compulsion.
Shaking her head, she moved to the open doorway, and peered out into the rain. And, as she did so, a tall figure loomed out of the gloom, with suitcases in both hands, and Julie’s Louis Vuitton vanity case tucked under one arm. He was easily six feet in height—tall for an Italian, thought Laura inconsequently—with broad shoulders encased in a soft black leather jerkin. He was also very dark; dark-skinned, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with the kind of hard masculine features that were harsh, yet compelling. He wasn’t handsome in the accepted sense of the word, but he was very attractive, and Laura knew at once why Julie had decided that he was the one.
THEN, realising that by hovering in the doorway she was forcing him to stand in the rain, Laura made a gesture of apology, and got out of his way. He stepped into the tiny hall with evident relief, immediately dwarfing it by his presence, and Laura backed up the stairs to give him some space.
‘Hi,’ he said easily, and his deep, husky tones brushed her nerves like black velvet. With apparent indifference to her hair, or her state of undress, he put down the suitcases, and allowed the vanity case to drop on top of them ‘You must be Julie’s mother,’ he added, straightening. ‘How do you do? I’m Jake Lombardi.’
He spoke English without a trace of an accent, and Laura thought how awful it was that she couldn’t even greet him in his own language. ‘Laura Fox,’ she responded, coming down the stairs again to take the hand he held out to her. And as the damp heat of his palm closed about hers, she had the ridiculous feeling that nothing was ever going to be the same again. ‘Um—welcome to Burnfoot.’
‘Thanks.’
He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and shaded by thick lashes. For all he had shown no obvious reaction to her appearance, she had the feeling that no aspect of her attire had missed his notice, and in spite of herself, a wave of colour swept up from her neck to her face.
She wasn’t used to dealing with younger men, she thought impatiently, chiding herself for her lack of composure. And particularly not a man who displayed his masculinity so blatantly. Against her will, her eyes had strayed down over the buttons of an olive-green silk shirt, to where the buckle of a black leather belt rode low across the flat muscles of his stomach. The belt secured close-fitting black denims that clung to the strong muscles of his thighs like a second skin. The fact that Laura also noticed how they moulded his sex with equal cohesion was something she instantly rejected. For God’s sake, she thought, horrified that she should even consider such a thing. What was the matter with her?
‘Are you going to close that door and come in?’
Julie’s peevish complaint from the living-room came as a welcome intervention, but when Laura would have stepped round Jake to attend to it, he moved aside, and allowed his own weight to propel the door into its frame.
‘It’s closed,’ he said, still looking at Laura, and, with the panicky feeling that he had known exactly what she was thinking a few moments ago, she turned towards the stairs.
‘I won’t be a minute,’ she said, not looking to see if he was watching her, and, without giving Julie time to lodge a protest, she ran up the stairs to her room.
Her mirror confirmed her worst fears. Her face was scarlet, and, even to her own eyes, she looked as guilty as she felt. But guilty of what? she wondered. It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong. Heavens, she was no femme fatale, and she was a fool if she thought he had been flattered by her attention. On the contrary, he had probably found her unwary appraisal amusing, or pitiful, or both. Right now he was probably regaling Julie with the news that her mother had been lusting after his body. Oh, God, it was embarrassing! What must he be thinking of her?
However, right now she couldn’t afford to let that get to her. She was probably exaggerating the whole incident anyway, and the best way to put the matter behind her was to go down and behave as if nothing had happened. Then, if Jake Lombardi had been discussing her with Julie, it would look as if he had been imagining things, and not her.
Earlier, she had laid out the dress she had intended to wear on the bed, but now, looking at it with new eyes, she saw it was far too formal for this evening. Made of fine cream wool, it had a soft cowled collar, and long fitted sleeves, and, bearing in mind Julie’s remarks about not making the best of herself, Laura had bought it at Christmas, to silence her daughter’s criticisms. In the event, however, Julie had not come home at Christmas, and the dress had hung in the wardrobe ever since, a constant reminder of her extravagance.
Now, she picked it up, and thrust it back on to its hanger. The last thing she wanted was for Julie to think she was dressing up to impress her fiancé, she thought grimly. Or for him to think the same, she added, pulling out a pair of green cords, and a purple Aran sweater, that had seen better days. Whatever Julie thought, she was almost forty, and she refused to behave like a woman twenty years younger.
Her hair gave her no trouble, and she coiled it into its usual knot without difficulty. And, as the colour receded from her face, she began to feel more optimistic. She had allowed the fact that she had answered the door in her bathrobe and nothing else to upset her equilibrium, and now she had had time to gather herself she could see how silly she had been. It had probably amused Jake Lombardi that she had been caught out. And why not? He was no doubt used to much more sophisticated surroundings, and more sophisticated women, she acknowledged drily.
She leant towards the mirror to examine her face. Should she put on some make-up? she wondered, running her fingers over her smooth skin. She had intended to, but, now that she had been seen without it, was there much point? She didn’t wear much anyway, and she was lucky enough to have eyelashes that were several shades darker than her tawny hair. Golden eyes, the colour of honey, looked back at her warily, and she allowed a small smile to touch the corners of her mouth. Compared to her daughter, she was very small change indeed, she thought ruefully. So why try and pretend otherwise?
The hardest part was going downstairs again. She entered the living-room cautiously, steeling herself to meet knowing smiles and shared humour, but it didn’t happen. Although Julie was stretched out in front of the fire her mother had lit when she’d come home, Jake wasn’t in the room, and Laura’s expression mirrored her surprise.
‘He’s gone to lock up the car,’ remarked Julie carelessly, extending the empty glass she was holding towards her mother. In a fine suede waistcoat over