A Passionate Affair. Elizabeth Power
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set: a nightclub where you could dance the night away and even get breakfast in the morning. No one went there just for dinner.
Nicki sniffed a very eloquent sniff. ‘I’ve never liked tall dark men,’ she said flatly. ‘Especially when their egos match their… hat size.’
‘I’ve never seen Taylor in a hat.’
The two women stared at each other for a moment before they both smiled weakly. ‘I’ll get you a sandwich while you get stuck into that report,’ Nicki said quietly.
‘Thanks.’
The rest of the day passed without incident. Nicki insisted Marsha have dinner with herself and her husband, and after a pleasant evening in their Paddington flat they drove her home, waiting outside until she waved to them from the bedsit window to say all was well. Their concern was sweet, but made Marsha feel slightly ridiculous. Taylor wasn’t violent, for goodness’ sake, or dangerous—not in an abusive sense anyway. She knew he would rather cut off his right hand than raise it to a woman. She very much doubted his pride would allow him to try and see her again anyway, outside of the divorce court.
She slept badly that night, tossing and turning and drifting into one nightmare after another until, at just gone six, she rose from her rumpled bed and had a long warm shower. Thank goodness it was Friday and she had the weekend in front of her to get a handle on all this. She needed to be able to take a long walk in the fresh air and get her thoughts in order.
She always thought better out in the open. It was a hangover from her childhood and teenage years, when she had liked nothing better than to escape the confines of the dormitory and communal dining hall and wander about in the grounds of the home, staying out until she was found and brought back by an irate assistant.
It was during those times that she had eventually come to terms with the fact that it was probably her fault she had been returned to the home twice when adoption attempts had fallen through.
She had told herself so often the story of how her mother would come back for her—arms open wide as she tearfully told her daughter how much she loved her—that she had been unable to separate fact from fiction. She couldn’t not be there when her mother came, she had determined, and so—much as she hated it—she couldn’t live anywhere else.
It was after her best friend had left the home and forgotten all her extravagant promises to write and visit that she had begun to face the prospect that just wishing for people to behave a certain way didn’t mean it was going to happen. But by then it had been too late.
She had been labelled withdrawn and difficult, and was no longer a cute little girl, but a gawky youngster approaching teenage years with braces on her teeth and spots on her chin.
By the time the ugly duckling had turned into a diffident and shy swan she had learnt she could rely on no one but herself. If she didn’t expect anything of anyone she wouldn’t be disappointed, and if she didn’t let anyone get near they wouldn’t be able to hurt her. Simple.
Only it hadn’t worked that way with Taylor. From the second she had seen him she had wanted him; it had been as clear and unequivocal as that. Not that she hadn’t known it was madness.
She turned off the shower, wrapping a towel round her and walking through into the main room. Sunlight was already slanting golden shafts into the room and the day promised to be another warm one.
Yes, she’d known it was madness, she reiterated as she dried her hair. Deep inside she’d continually asked herself how serious he was about relinquishing his love ’em and leave ’em lifestyle. Did he want her for a lifetime? Did he need her as she needed him? Could she handle the complex being that was Taylor Kane? Would he grow bored with marriage or, worse, her? Those questions had plagued her from day one.
‘Who fed your insecurities with the very thing you most feared?’ Taylor’s words came back to her with piercing suddenness, causing her hand to still before she threw the hairdryer on to the sofa.
He had insisted on his innocence that night eighteen months ago and he was still insisting on it. Had he sent her a letter giving the telephone number of this stranger who had allowed him to share his room in Germany? It was easy for him to say so now, when so much time had elapsed, and surely it was more than a little farfetched to think the letter had got lost in the post?
The ring of the telephone right at her elbow made her jump a mile, and she put a hand to her racing heart before glancing at her watch. Six-thirty. Who on earth was calling her at six-thirty?
She refused to admit she was expecting it to be Taylor, but the minute she lifted the receiver and heard his voice her heart galloped even faster. He had spoken only her name, his voice even, and she couldn’t tell what sort of mood he was in.
‘Hello, Taylor.’ She was pleased to hear her voice betrayed nothing of what she was feeling.
‘Did I wake you?’
Prevarication seemed the best response. She wasn’t about to let him know she had been up with the birds because he had invaded her dreams as well as every waking moment. ‘It is six-thirty in the morning,’ she said coolly. ‘I don’t normally rise before seven.’ Which was true.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ His voice was warm and soft and did the craziest things to her nerve-endings.
Marsha breathed out very slowly. ‘Most people reach for a book rather than the phone in that situation.’
‘I’m not most people.’
Now, that was definitely the truest thing he had ever said! She stared at the painted wall some feet away, trying to work out where he was coming from. He didn’t sound mad, but he had always been able to conceal anger very well. ‘What do you want?’ she asked carefully.
‘You.’ It was immediate. ‘But I’ll settle for breakfast.’
In his dreams! She forced a sarcastic laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, well, I guess I can throw stones at Mrs Tate-Collins’s window and see if she’s in the mood for warm croissants. Say what you like, but I think I might be in with a chance there.’
She stared at the receiver as she tried to assimilate the implication of what he had just said. ‘Where are you, exactly?’ she said flatly.
‘Exactly?’ The pause was deliberate. ‘Well, if we’re talking exactly, I’m on the second paving slab to the left of the steps which lead up to the front door of your building.’
He was outside? For a second she was tempted to tell him to go ahead and wake Mrs Tate-Collins, but knowing he would almost certainly call her bluff restrained her. She didn’t want him sitting in the basement telling Mrs Tate-Collins all the ins and outs of this ridiculous situation, as he knew full well.
She tried one last time. ‘Go home, Taylor.’
‘No chance.’
She dipped her head, shaking it irritably before she said, ‘Doesn’t what I want count for anything?’
‘Absolutely not. We’ve done it your way over the last months and what have we got? No nearer to sorting anything out and even more tangles in the web.’
‘I could get a restraining order. That way you wouldn’t be able to keep harassing me.’
‘You could try.’ It was mordant. ‘But I doubt if any court in the land would agree that offering you dinner, giving you a helping hand when you were sick and then calling by with breakfast constitutes harassment.’
She took a deep breath to combat the anger his supremely confident voice had aroused. He took the biscuit for sheer arrogance. ‘I’ll open the front door.’
‘Thanks.’
Sixty seconds later a light knock announced his arrival. She had just had time to pull on a pair of