That Kind Of Man. Sharon Kendrick
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was not a colour she normally wore, but for today it was a must. And Orlando would have expected it. Because no matter what had gone on between them—no matter what a mess their marriage had been—he should not have died.
She was too young, she thought, casting a disbelieving look around her. Much too young to be a widow at nineteen, standing with and yet curiously apart from Orlando’s wild, thespian friends, who even now were loudly reciting extravagant poetry. How she wished that they would stop. During their histrionics at the church she had been half tempted to tell them to shut up, but the last thing she wanted today, of all days, was a row.
If only she had someone there for her. Someone to rely on. Someone strong enough to lean on. Or at least to cast a few withering looks of disapproval which might make some of the people present behave more circumspectly.
But she had no one. Her mother was dead, her beloved stepfather was dead—both killed in a horrific car crash just months before her wedding. It seemed that everyone she loved was taken away from her. The only person she had left in the world was Nick, and theirs was only the most tenuous link—a link that was always in danger of being broken by their mutual dislike.
Because Nick Harrington had resented her since the moment he had first set eyes on her, on what should have been one of the happiest days of her life ...
She had been sitting on her stepfather’s shoulders at the time. Philip Chenery had been proudly carrying her into the vast hallway of his mansion, tucked away high up in the Hollywood Hills.
Abigail had been breathless with excitement. The day before, her beautiful actress mother had become Mrs Philip Chenery in the most fairytale wedding ceremony Abigail could have imagined. Her mother had married one of Hollywood’s biggest producers, and the three of them were going to live happily ever after in the most glamorous house in the world.
In the shiny marbled hallway, all the staff had lined up to meet Philip’s new wife and her young daughter—and Nick, as the son of Philip’s cook, had been scowlingly forced to stand in line too.
Abigail had only been seven at the time. Some psychologists said that it was impossible to remember that far back. But Abigail did. The memory of meeting Nick Harrington was scorched onto her mind for ever and a day.
She would never forget the way those clever, slanting green eyes had fixed her coolly in their sights. The eighteen-year-old boy had already possessed a heart-breakingly handsome face, but it was a proud and cold face. He hadn’t shown a flicker of emotion as he’d stared at her, but Abigail had immediately sensed his disapproval.
The product of a ravishing Italian mother and a brilliant English father, Nick Harrington had inherited all the very best characteristics from both nationalities. His keen, natural intelligence and outrageously good looks ensured that men would always try to emulate him and women would spend a lifetime casting hungry glances in his direction.
Abigail had discovered later that Philip had a soft spot for the boy, whose father had abandoned him just as her own father had abandoned her. He had recognised Nick’s outstanding potential immediately and had invested in his education. Not surprisingly, the two of them had formed a close bond.
So perhaps it was only natural that Nick should have resented Abigail. She was, after all, trespassing on his territory.
Abigail had seen it differently.
She’d been a small girl already thrust into a brand-new life, miles away from England, and Nick’s attitude had unsettled her. Nick Harrington had been the serpent in her paradise, and, because of it, a silent bond of enmity had been born.
She had been grateful that he was more than a decade her senior, that she had been sent far away to her mother’s old boarding-school in England, and that their meetings were destined to be brief, during her school vacations.
As she had grown older she had supposed that the animosity might die a natural death, but her supposition had been wrong. Nick had seemed to resent her more as each year passed, and when she had blossomed into womanhood it had got even worse—he had actually seemed to despise her. So she just did the sensible thing and despised him right back.
Yes, there was certainly no love lost between her and Nick Harrington.
And yet ...
It was stupid, really, but at times today she had found herself wishing that he had bothered to come to her husband’s funeral. Nick’s might not be a face she welcomed seeing in normal circumstances, but at least it was a familiar face. And right now she longed for the sight of something familiar, for she was as lonely as she could ever remember feeling.
But, in response to the news of Orlando’s death, there had been nothing more than an exquisite display of pure white lilies and a brief, almost curt letter of condolence which had given Abigail little comfort.
No phone call. No appearance at the church—even though she had craned her neck to look for his dark head rising above all the others ...
The priest was now intoning the final words of farewell as the coffin was slowly lowered into the earth and Abigail raised the hand which still clutched the rose so tightly.
A chill breeze briefly lifted the delicate scarlet petals of the rose upwards, so that they flapped like wings, and then Abigail threw it down onto the coffin, with the kind of dramatic gesture she knew her late husband would have appreciated.
Then, without knowing why she did it, she tore the black kid gloves from her pale hands and hurled them away from her, so that they, too, slowly fluttered down to alight on top of the polished coffin.
She raised her pale, strained face, a sudden movement catching her attention, and she felt an odd, prickling sensation as she looked up and found herself staring directly into Nick Harrington’s enigmatic eyes—as cold and as green as a northern fiord.
He stood apart from the rest of the mourners, tall and lean, his dark, handsome face cruel and arrogant and proud. The narrow-eyed look he threw at Abigail was one of pure challenge.
She felt as though she had been woken from a long and drugged sleep—her senses leaping into life as though they had been newly born. Just the shock of seeing him again made Abigail’s heart contract painfully in her chest. She felt all the blood drain from her cheeks and, just for a second, she had to fight to stay upright.
He gave her a brief, frowning scrutiny as he observed her reaction, and then began walking rapidly towards her until he was standing in front of her, towering over her like some dark, malevolent statue.
And Abigail found herself having to strain her neck to stare upwards at him, even though she was wearing high, rather tottery black heels. Each time she saw him she was always slightly amazed by his impressive height and extraordinary presence—as though her memory was somehow defective where Nick Harrington was concerned.
‘Hello, Abigail,’ he said quietly, in that deep, slumberous voice whose accent defied description. But that was hardly surprising—he had been educated at the finest universities in the world. He was the original nomad—a rich, successful nomad, with his fancy homes and his rare paintings and fast cars.
She had not seen him since the eve of her wedding, close on a year ago, when he had been so unbearably rude to Orlando. And to her. When he had arrived at their hotel as if he owned the place, had coldly summoned them into his presence and threatened to call a halt to the wedding.
But he hadn’t been able to.
And how wonderful it had been to see the powerful Nick Harrington impotent for once! Unable to exert his formidable will to shape the future. Like a precious gift, Abigail had treasured the memory of his dark, implacable face as she had made her wedding vows in Chelsea’s famous Register Office.
Come to think of it, his face looked just as forbidding and implacable right now. ‘Hello, Nick,’ she responded calmly.
‘How are you, Abby?’ he said softly, and the concern in his voice sounded almost genuine.
‘I’m, I’m ...,’ she responded