CHAPTER FOUR

      IT HADN’T been a particularly exhausting day, not compared to some, but when Melanie walked into the cottage that evening she felt bone-weary. Try as she might she’d been unable to think of anything else but Forde all day, endless post-mortems addling her brain until she barely knew which end of her was up. If James had asked her once if she was OK, he’d asked her a dozen times. She wondered what her very able assistant would have said if she’d told him she was verging on a cataclysmic nervous breakdown, she thought wryly, going through the nightly routine of taking off her boots on the mat and then heading for the stairs. Laughed, most likely, because he wouldn’t have taken her seriously. James thought she was the ultimate cool, collected, modern woman. Everyone did. Only Forde had ever understood the real her.

      She mentally slapped herself for the thought. None of that. If she was going to take up the threads of this new life again—threads that had nearly been broken last night—then she had to control her mind. Simple. Only it wasn’t.

      After turning on the taps for a warm bath, she went through to the bedroom, steeling herself to glance at the bed. It was rumpled and very, very empty. A shaft of physical pain made her wince. Grimly, she stripped off the covers and dumped them in her linen basket for a wash, opening the windows wide to let in the perfumed night air. It was her imagination that she could still smell Forde’s unique scent—a mixture of the expensive aftershave he favoured and his own chemical make-up, which turned into an intoxicating fragrance on his male skin.

      It was as she was slipping off her jeans that she noticed the little ball of paper in a corner of the room where it had clearly been thrown. Her note. Oh, Forde, Forde …

      She shut her eyes for a moment but tears still seeped beneath her closed lids. What must he have felt like reading it? But she couldn’t go there. She mustn’t. Walking across the room, she bent and picked it up. She didn’t straighten the paper out but held the little ball in one hand, stroking where he’d touched with one finger, guilt and shame washing over her.

      She continued to cry all the time she was in the bath, but after she’d washed her hair and dried herself, she splashed her hot face with cold water and took stock. No more crying. She was done.

      She pulled on an old pair of comfortable cotton pyjamas and looped her damp hair into a high bun, before going downstairs and fixing herself something to eat with the groceries she’d collected on the way home. It was hard to force the food down; she was on tenterhooks waiting for Forde’s call, but she managed to clear her plate and her full stomach helped to quieten her jangling nerves some.

      The call came at eight o’clock.

      ‘Hi.’ His voice was cool and steady. She expected him to ask how she was or mention her ignominious flight before he awoke that morning, but, Forde being Forde, he didn’t do the expected. ‘We need to iron out the details for you to work at Hillview. You said you had some conditions?’

      ‘Yes.’ Her voice came out as a squeak and she cleared her throat. His rich, smoky tones had brought a whole rush of emotions she could have done without. ‘But before I start, are you sure Isabelle will want me around after—after everything?’

      ‘After you walking out and demanding a divorce, you mean?’ His even voice belied the content of his words. ‘Quite sure. My mother has always taken the view that what goes on between a couple is their business and theirs alone. You know her, you should realise that. Now, your conditions?’

      Melanie felt she’d been thoroughly put in her place, and her voice was crisp when she said, ‘Firstly, in spite of what you’ve just said, I shall need to come and see Isabelle and discuss whether she wants me to do the job. If she does, then I’ll take it, but all the arrangements will be between myself and your mother. I don’t want you involved.’

      ‘Can you see my mother letting me be involved?’ he asked drily.

      ‘What I mean is—’

      ‘What you mean is that you don’t want me around, popping in for a visit, things like that?’

      It was exactly what she meant. ‘I can’t stop you visiting your mother,’ she prevaricated awkwardly, ‘but in the circumstances it would be better all round if you tried to avoid doing so when I’m there, I guess.’ ‘Noted.’

      Oh, hell, this was going worse than she’d imagined. ‘Of course if there’s a crisis of some kind with Isabelle’s health—’

      ‘I’ll be allowed on the premises,’ he finished for her.

      ‘Look, Forde—’

      ‘Next condition,’ he said politely.

      Melanie took a deep breath. She was not going to let him get under her skin. ‘James and I are working on a job at the moment and there’s another lined up straight afterwards, which cannot wait, but it won’t take long. We were due to begin a fairly substantial project mid-September but I’ve been in touch with the people concerned and they’re happy to delay a while. In fact they’ve said they’d prefer the work doing in the spring because—’ She faltered; too late she wished she hadn’t begun the sentence. ‘Because the lady is expecting a baby at the end of October and hasn’t been too well lately. Her husband feels it would have been a little stressful for her. So, we’ve a space for Isabelle if she wants it.’

      ‘Business is good by the sound of it.’

      She swallowed hard. ‘Yes, yes, it is.’

      ‘One thing I must make clear, and this isn’t to be shared with my mother. I intend to pay for the work, my Christmas present to her, but as she’s somewhat proud at the best of times I shan’t mention it until the job is finished. With that in mind, there will be no need to worry about getting anything but the best in materials and so on, but you might like to quote her a substantially lower price than is realistic. Once you’ve priced the job and given me an estimate, you have my word I will pay in full whenever you wish. Understood?’

      She took a moment to consider his words. She had intended to do the work at the very lowest margin she could manage, but if Forde was paying it would mean she could price it the same way she would do for anyone else. And she could understand why Forde was keeping it a secret until it was a fait accompli. Isabelle was extraordinarily proud of her successful son but had always refused to accept a penny from him, declaring Forde’s father’s death had left her mortgage free and with a nest egg in the form of a life assurance her husband had taken out some years before he’d died. Having had Forde late in life at the age of forty-three, Isabelle also had a very good pension from the civil service where she’d been employed all her working life before leaving to become a full-time mother when Forde was born.

      Melanie cleared her throat. ‘I understand. It might be helpful to me if payment for the bulk of the materials I use could be given as the job progresses. Cash flow and so on.’

      ‘Fine. When can you talk to her?’

      ‘Tomorrow evening?’ Better to get it over with.

      ‘Good. I’ll ring her tonight and tell her I’ve suggested you for the work and you’re agreeable, depending on the job when you assess it, and you’ll be in contact tomorrow. OK? Anything else?’ he added crisply.

      It was totally unfair, not to mention perverse, but his businesslike tone was making her want to scream. Last night they’d indulged in wild, abandoned sex and she’d slept in his arms, and he was talking as though he were discussing a contract with some colleague or other. Keeping her voice as devoid of emotion as his,