That Kind Of Man. Sharon Kendrick
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dark, enigmatic face looked almost pitying. ‘Poor little rich girl,’ he murmured, and turned his dark profile to the car window to survey briefly the English winter landscape. The fat flakes of snow had multiplied and now there were whole armies of them, swirling down to settle on the iron-hard ground.
‘In theory it was your inheritance,’ he continued relentlessly. ‘But when you married dear Orlando, of course, what was yours became his, and what was his became yours. That’s what I love about marriage,’ he added sarcastically. ‘The total trust involved.’
‘You cynical—’
‘Not to mention the fundamental inequality of the equation,’ he carried on relentlessly. ‘Orlando got half your substantial fortune, and you got half Orlando’s debts.’ He gave her a bland smile. ‘Or did you do the decent thing and get rid of them for him? It’s such a strain to begin a marriage with money problems pressing down on you, wouldn’t you say, Abby?’
‘Shut up!’ she yelled heatedly, turning in times of stress to the simple insults of their youth. ‘Just shut up, will you?’
‘Make me,’ he suggested softly.
She did not see the danger in his challenge. ‘Too right I will!’ Abigail lunged at him, hurling herself across the back seat of the car to land half on top of him, with her hands curled up into tiny fists.
She hit him over and over again, pummelling at the solid wall of his chest, calling him every name under the sun, scarcely aware of what she was doing or saying, until at last he captured both hands in one large, firm hand and held them away from him. She became suddenly aware that her face was very close to his, and that her heart was pounding inside her head. And that his lips were parted, almost as if ... as if...
The flicker of desire she felt was immediately obliterated by despair and Abby quickly shut her eyes. When she opened them again it was to find Nick staring down at her repressively, still grasping her hands tightly within his.
‘That’s enough, Abby,’ he told her sternly. ‘Understand? Enough!’
She shook her head, the thick, honey-coloured hair swaying wildly. ‘No! It is not enough!’ she retorted, her voice cracking with the strain of the last few days ... the last few months... ‘Oh, God, Nick...Nick...’
‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s all right, Abby. I know.’
‘No, you don’t!’ she wailed, as the memory of her marriage slammed home to crush her spirit yet again. ‘You can’t possibly know! No one can!’
‘I know that you need to cry,’ he told her, softly and very deliberately, and drew her into his arms. ‘I know that if you bottle it up much longer, then you’ll explode.’
‘Oh, Nick,’ she moaned, and, burying her face in his immaculate shoulder, Abigail dissolved into helpless, sobbing tears.
ABIGAIL did not move her head away from Nick’s shoulder, and he let her cry until there were no tears left, until her sobs became dry, exhausted gasps.
He took a large, beautifully pressed handkerchief from his pocket and silently handed it to her, but her hands were trembling so much from the flood of raw emotion that she could barely hold onto it. Abigail waved his hand away distractedly.
‘Here,’ he said, frowning. ‘Let me.’ His touch was almost gentle as he pushed stray strands of hair from her wet cheeks and then dried die tears away.
Abigail felt foolish and vulnerable. And Nick was the last person in the world she would have chosen to witness her breaking down in a full flood of hysterical tears.
‘Better now?’ he queried, after a moment or two.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Then let’s go.’ Nick rapped on the smoked-glass panel which divided them from the driver, and it was only then that Abigail noticed the car had pulled over onto the side of the road.
‘W-why did we stop?’ she sniffed as the car pulled away.
‘I didn’t think that you’d want an audience while you wept,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘And certainly not an audience consisting of that crowd up at the house,’ he added disparagingly.
Abigail blew her nose rather more noisily than usual. ‘They’re Orlando’s friends,’ she objected automatically, more because it was the habit of a lifetime, objecting to anything Nick said, rather than because she actually disagreed with him.
‘And yours?’ he quizzed softly. ‘Are they your friends, too?’
Abigail looked at him. ‘Not really, no.’
‘Oh?’
Abigail was beginning to discover that he was simply not the kind of man you could reproach for asking deeply personal questions—that was the trouble. Was it because he had known her for most of her life that he felt he had the right to probe? Or did he ask all women questions like this? ‘They’re not my type.’
He nodded his head, as though her answer came as no surprise to him. ‘I see.’ He glanced down at his shoulder to find a stray, glistening tear, and he ruefully brushed it away with one long finger.
The gesture touched her unbearably—but she didn’t for the life of her know why. And so that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself yet again, by blubbing all over him, Abigail said the first mundane thing which came into her head. ‘I’m sorry about your jacket.’
‘It’s just a jacket.’ He shrugged.
‘I’ll have it cleaned—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ he interrupted grimly. ‘Stop talking as though we had just met at a cocktail party! I think I preferred you shouting and punching me to that.’
She smiled at the exasperation on his face; for the first time in days she actually smiled. And then her heart missed a beat as his exasperation turned into a brief smile which matched hers.
‘I must look a sight,’ she said automatically.
Green eyes scanned her face, but the smile had disappeared and irritation had replaced it. ‘A bit,’ he answered tersely. ‘Your face is all blotchy and it’s obvious you’ve been crying.’
‘Gee—thanks,’ she answered drily. ‘When I need a boost in confidence, remind me to avoid you like the plague!’
‘Just what is it with you, Abby?’ he demanded softly. ‘You’re supposed to be playing the grieving widow, not a flaming fashion model! Can’t you function properly unless you know you’re looking beautiful?’
She gazed at him in amazement, more at the fact that Nick, Nick, had paid her some kind of compliment—even if it was a backhanded one!—than at his tone of voice. ‘Beautiful?’
He made a clicking sound of impatience. ‘Sorry,’ he said in a bored voice, leaning back carelessly against the seat and staring into space, ‘but I’m not playing that game.’
‘What game?’ she asked, genuinely confused.
His voice changed into a parody of a woman gushing. ‘Oh, heavens, Nick—surely you don’t think that I’m beautiful!’ His eyes hardened as his gaze roved over the pale oval of her face. ‘Particularly when the woman in question has the kind of face which could launch a thousand ships, if you’ll excuse the somewhat hackneyed expression.’
She didn’t have the energy to row. ‘Let’s drop it, shall we?’
‘With pleasure. Anyway, we’re here.’ Nick turned to glance out of the window as the car made its way up the sweeping gravel-drive towards the handsome Georgian house which she and Orlando had