Ryan's Revenge. Lee Wilkinson
Читать онлайн книгу.
continued to scream hysterically.
He said something short and sharp to her that stopped the screaming, and a second later he had cleared the parapet and had plunged into the water.
Rooted to the spot, Virginia watched him haul the small dripping figure from the lake and set him on his shoulders. Judging by the roars of fright the child was letting forth, he was mercifully uninjured.
The water was somewhere in the region of three-and-a-half feet deep, and came past Ryan’s waist, as he waded a few steps to rescue the capsized yacht.
Letting go of the pushchair, the woman, now sobbing loudly with relief, hovered, arms outstretched ready to embrace her son.
Belatedly, Virginia’s brain kicked into action, and realising that no real harm had been done, she grabbed her bag and leaving Ryan to cope, bolted.
Hurrying as fast as she could to the nearest of the park’s side entrances, she made her way between the ornate metal bollards and out onto busy Kenelm Road.
A black cab was cruising past and, hailing it, she pulled open the door and jumped in, breathing hard, her heart racing.
‘Where to, lady?’
‘Sixteen Usher Street.’
Sinking back, drenched in perspiration, she glanced in the direction of the park. There was no sign of pursuit and, starting to tremble in every limb, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks. She’d escaped.
But for how long?
Ryan knew all about her. Where she worked, where she lived, her movements… He had said he wanted her back, and he wasn’t a man to give up.
Just seeing him again had shaken her to the core, but the knowledge that he wanted her back had been even more traumatic.
It had been so entirely unexpected. Never once had she considered the possibility that he might want her back again.
It was unthinkable. The very idea made her blood turn to ice in her veins. All he wanted was revenge. He didn’t even love her.
If he’d loved her, it might have been different…
But if he’d loved her she would never have left him in the first place…
Her hectic thoughts were interrupted by the taxi turning into Usher Street and coming to a halt in front of number sixteen.
It was a quiet street of cream-stuccoed town houses with basements guarded by black wrought-iron railings, and steps leading up to elegant front doors with fluted fanlights.
Charles had inherited the house from his parents, some five years previously. A confirmed bachelor, at least until Virginia had come along, he’d talked about moving somewhere smaller, easier to manage. But in truth he was comfortable there, and it was reasonably close to the gallery.
Recalling agitatedly what Ryan had said about his detective following her, Virginia suddenly felt uncomfortable.
She scrambled out of the taxi and, having reached through the window to pay the driver, ran up the steps to let herself in.
Feeling invisible eyes boring into her back, her palms grew clammy, and pointing the truth of the saying, more haste less speed, it took several attempts to turn the key in the lock.
Her heart throwing itself against her ribs, she dropped the key into her purse, slammed the door behind her, and hurried through the hall and into a large attractively furnished living-room with long windows.
Dropping her bag on the couch she crossed the room and peered cautiously from behind the curtains, half expecting to see a strange man opposite, lurking behind a newspaper.
Apart from a woman walking past whom she recognised as a neighbour, the sunny, tree-lined street was deserted.
With a feeling of anticlimax, Virginia told herself satirically that she was either getting paranoid, or had been watching too many detective series on the television.
But her attempt to josh herself out of it failed dismally. The threat to her new-found security was chillingly real and couldn’t be laughed away.
Becoming aware that her head was now throbbing fiercely, she went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and swallow a couple of painkillers.
Then, uncomfortably hot and sticky, she decided to have a shower and wash her hair. Physically, at least, that should make her feel better.
She stripped off her clothes and, removing the pins from her hair, shook it loose before stepping beneath the jet of warm water.
As she reached for the shampoo, she found herself wondering about Ryan. He must have been saturated…
Had he walked back to his hotel? Or braved it out and hailed a taxi? Was he at this precise minute also taking a shower?
In the old days, alone in his Fifth Avenue penthouse, they had enjoyed showering together…
While the scented steam rose and billowed, her own hands stilled as she recalled how his hands had roamed over her slick body, caressing her slender curves, cupping her buttocks, stroking her thighs, finding the nest of wet brown curls, while his tongue licked drops of water from her nipples…
Shuddering at the erotic memory she turned off the water and, winding a towel turban-fashion around her head, began to dry herself with unnecessary vigour, rubbing the pale gold skin until it glowed pink.
Having decided not to bother and get dressed again, she found the Christmas present Charles had given her, a chenille robe-cum-housecoat in moss green and, pulling it on, belted it.
Her feet bare, her naturally curly hair still damp and loose around her shoulders, she was descending the stairs when the phone in the hall began to chirrup.
Reaching out a hand she was about to pick up the receiver when it occurred to her that it might be Ryan, and she hesitated.
Who else was likely to be calling? Who else would know she was home before her usual time?
It kept chirruping, and its sheer persistence tearing at her nerves, she snatched it up.
‘Virginia?’ It was Charles. His well-modulated voice sounded a shade anxious.
‘Yes,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
She took a deep breath. ‘No, of course not.’
‘You didn’t seem to be answering.’
‘I’ve just got out of the shower.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.
‘No. Not at all… I was just ringing to make sure you were all right.’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Certain?’ With his usual sensitivity he had picked up her jumpiness.
Resisting the impulse to tell him about Ryan and beg him to come home, she said with what cheerfulness she could muster, ‘Absolutely. Any idea what time you’ll be back?’
‘I should be home somewhere around eight-thirty. Don’t forget to save me some prawn crackers.’
‘I won’t,’ she promised. ‘Bye for now.’
As she replaced the handset, the grandmother clock whirred and began to chime six-thirty.
Might as well ring for her takeaway now, she decided. It usually took between thirty and forty minutes for an order to be delivered, and she’d only had part of a roll for lunch, the remainder having been fed to a family of sparrows who, nesting in the eaves above her office window, had learnt to line up along the sill, bright-eyed and expectant.
Not that she was hungry.
But something to eat might help to get rid of the hollow,