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‘Thank you, Father,’ he said smoothly. ‘I know that Abigail will bear that in mind. But I’m here now.’
‘Indeed?’ The priest looked up at him almost absently from behind the tiny, half-moon-shaped spectacles he wore. ‘And you are ...? I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘I’m Nick Harrington,’ came the decisive response, and then, because the priest seemed to be waiting for some further explanation, he added, ‘An old friend of the family. I have known Abigail since she was a little girl. Her late stepfather was a great friend to me.’
‘I see.’ The priest nodded. ‘Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Harrington.’
He was probably relieved, thought Abigail, watching as the two men shook hands. He had been up to the house several times since Orlando’s death, saying that she really ought to have someone with her.
She remembered him standing in his shabby cassock, looking around the sumptuous drawing-room with a curious and yet bewildered expression. As though confused by the fact that Abigail had all the material possessions anyone could ever possibly want, and yet she had no one to come and sit with her and hold her hand while she mourned her dead husband.
‘It’s time we were leaving,’ said Nick in a low voice. Only this time he did take Abigail’s elbow, holding onto it firmly, as if he was afraid that she might stumble and fall. And Abigail let him guide her, grateful for the support he offered.
‘Won’t you come back to the house for some lunch, Father?’ he was saying to the priest. ‘Some of the others have already set off, I see.’ His disapproving gaze took in Orlando’s friends, who were noisily wending their way towards the long line of black limousines as though it were a wedding and not a funeral.
One of the women, a dark, elfin creature named Jemima, was tossing a black feather boa flamboyantly across one slim, couture-clad shoulder, her glossy black head flung back in a gesture of extravagant laughter.
Abigail noticed the twist of scorn which had hardened Nick’s mouth into a forbidding line, and wondered what he and the priest must be thinking of this whole bizarre funeral.
But the priest, at least, seemed oblivious to Nick’s disapproval, and nodded his bald head with enthusiasm. ‘Lunch would be very welcome,’ he said eagerly, ‘and I’d be delighted to join you. Friday happens to be my housekeeper’s day off and she usually leaves me a fish salad which, frankly, leaves rather a lot to be desired! I’ll walk up to the house—it isn’t very far.’
‘No, no. It’s much too far.’ Nick shook his dark head. ‘Please take my car,’ he said, and pointed to the longest of the low black vehicles which stood in line. ‘Really, I insist.’
‘But what about you?’ asked the priest.
‘I’ll go with Mrs Howard,’ answered Nick, and his eyes defied Abigail to argue with him.
But she was past caring, or arguing. She was numb and cold and exhausted. She let Nick propel her towards one of the waiting cars as though she were a mannequin in a shop-window—her limbs light and useless as if they had been fashioned from plastic. The lethargy which had been plaguing her for days began insidiously to overwhelm her.
She sank down on the squashy black leather seat and closed her eyes, expecting a barrage of questions, but when none came she opened them again and found him observing her, his face curiously expressionless. And that in itself was surprising. Normally there was at least dislike or disapproval on the face of Nick Harrington when he was in her company.
Outside the car, the trees were like charcoal line-drawings etched in stark contrast against heavy grey snow-clouds, and oddly childlike. It was funny, she thought suddenly, but even in the early days of their relationship, when they had been relatively happy, she and Orlando had never discussed having children. Abigail shivered. Not funny at all, really.
Nick saw the shiver and rapped on the glass immediately. ‘Could you increase the heating?’ he instructed the driver curtly. ‘It’s like Siberia in the back here.’
A welcome, warm blast of air hit Abigail immediately and she expelled a breath of relief as some of the icy chill left her body.
She seemed to have been cold for days now, a dull, bone-deep coldness she couldn’t shift, not since the night the policeman had knocked on the heavy oak door and had waited to give her the momentous news.
She had known immediately that her husband was dead, from the grim look on the policeman’s face, but long, agonising seconds had passed before he had asked her that chillingly final question, ‘Are you the wife of a Mr Orlando Howard?’
There had been shock at first, deep and profound shock, but hot on its heels had come relief. Blessed relief that Orlando could never taunt her again.
And Abigail had had to live with the guilt of those feelings ever since ...
‘Are you okay?’ Nick’s deep voice seemed to come from out of nowhere, and Abigail forced herself back to the present with an effort.
‘I suppose so.’ She nodded her head stiffly. That dream-like feeling had washed over her again, and all her reflexes seemed to be on auto-pilot. It seemed easier to cope when she felt that way.
‘You’ll feel better now that the funeral is over.’ His eyes were fixed on her face, like a doctor waiting for a reaction from a patient.
‘Yes,’ she replied. But will I, she wondered? Would she ever feel better again?
‘You look tired, Abby,’ he observed neutrally. ‘Exhausted, in fact.’
‘I am.’
‘Then rest,’ he urged. ‘At least until we get back to the house.’
Her normal response to him—if any of her responses to Nick could ever be described as normal—would have been to tell him to mind his own business. His high-handedness was something she usually resented. But he was right, she was too exhausted—even to resist him.
Abigail tried to lean her head back, but the hat she wore prevented her from doing so. She lifted her hand and removed first the pin securing it and then the black, wide-brimmed, rather exotic creation from her head.
She never wore hats as a rule, she found them too constricting. She had chosen this one today because Orlando had loved hats, the more outrageous the better. And she had failed him in so many ways as a wife. The least she could do was to don a fancy hat in his honour—to play the part he would have wanted her to play at his funeral.
But it was such a relief to remove it. She tossed it on the seat beside her and shook her head vigorously, allowing the thick, straight honey-coloured hair to fall down unfettered around her shoulders.
Nick was watching her, his eyes narrowed as the bright hair spilled down in contrast against the black suit, and it was several moments before he spoke. ‘You didn’t contact me directly when Orlando was killed.’
It was as much a question as a statement, Abigail acknowledged. Almost an accusation, too. She absently pushed a lock of hair off her pale cheek. ‘I didn’t see the point. I knew that you’d read about it in the papers. We haven’t exactly been living in each other’s pockets since my marriage, have we? Or before it either, come to that. And you never bothered to hide your dislike of Orlando.’
‘The feeling was entirely mutual. Orlando made no secret of his aversion to me, you know.’
Stung into defence, Abigail sat up in her seat. ‘He, at least, had a reason for disliking you!’
‘Oh?’ The green gaze was unperturbed. ‘And what was that? Envy of my material status? Because if there was ever a man who demonstrated avarice like it was going out of fashion, then it was Orlando.’
‘Why, you ... you ... unbearable brute!’ Abigail only got the words out with a monumental effort. ‘How can you speak so ill of the dead!’
‘I said the same when he was alive, and to his face,’ Nick contradicted coolly. ‘The reason Orlando hated me was because he was a failure and I wasn’t. And because he knew that if I’d stuck around I might just have been able to knock some sense into your pretty but dense little head and stopped you marrying him.’
Disbelief stirred in the depths of Abigail’s eyes, so dark blue that they looked like ink. ‘You really think you would have been able to stop me marrying him?’
He shrugged. ‘It was a pity that he managed to talk you into a register office wedding which could be performed relatively quickly.’
‘That made a difference, did it?’ she challenged.
His eyes glittered. ‘Of course it made a difference. You see, I had rather counted on your love of the big occasion coming to the fore, Abigail. You aren’t your mother’s daughter for nothing. And if you had opted for a church wedding and all that it entailed, then it would have given me plenty of time to have changed your mind.’
Abigail gave a bitter laugh. ‘And you bother asking why I didn’t contact you after Orlando died? I can only wonder why you turned up today at all.’
‘Because I’m the closest thing to a relative you have,’ he pointed out coolly.
‘I know,’ Abigail’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘And aren’t I the lucky one?’
‘Aren’t you just?’ he agreed mockingly, and stretched his long legs out in front of him.
She had been trying very hard not to look at him too closely, and she didn’t want to ask herself why. But that unconsciously graceful stretch made her acutely aware of his physical presence and she found herself unable to tear her eyes away from him.
Even among very good-looking men Nick had always stood out from the crowd. Over the years Abigail had tried to analyse his particular appeal, and once again she attempted to be objective as she watched him covertly from beneath the thick, dark sweep of her eyelashes.
No one could deny that he had a superb physique. He was lightly tanned and muscular, without an ounce of spare flesh lurking on that impressive frame.
But loads of men had good bodies, she reasoned. Orlando, her late husband, had possessed a magnificent physique, which he had shown off whenever possible by wearing the most clinging and revealing clothes he could get away with.
And that, supposed Abigail, was the difference. Nick didn’t emphasise his shape; he didn’t have to. It would have been glaringly obvious to even the most unobservant person that Nick had a body to die for—even if he’d been swathed in sackcloth. The loose-cut suit he wore now, for example, merely hinted at the flat, hard planes of his abdomen and the heavily muscled thighs which lay beneath, and Abigail felt an uncomfortable awareness of his proximity tickling away at her nerve-ends.
But it was his face which had always drawn women to Nick, and it wasn’t just the pure, clean lines of his classically even features which attracted them. Or the curiously sensual curve of his mouth, its softness so at odds with the hard, jutting jaw which lay beneath. No, it was something beyond mere beauty which had held so many women in thrall.
His eyes were as alive and as green as grass, framed by lashes so thick and black and lush that just looking at them felt sinful.
But it was more than that. His eyes were watchful and wary, too. At times they seemed almost calculating—although calculating what, it was impossible to say. His eyes held secrets.
And that was the main attraction, Abigail conceded reluctantly. Nick Harrington was like an intricate puzzle that you could spend the rest of your life trying to get to the bottom of.
The sensual mouth had curved into a slow, humourless smile. ‘You’ve grown up, Abby,’ he observed, with a touch of wry surprise. ‘That was a pretty thorough inspection you just subjected me to.’
Her mouth thinned slightly as she met his curious green gaze. Grown up? How right he was. Marriage to Orlando had made her grow up in a big way. ‘And does it bother you?’ she queried coolly.
‘A beautiful girl giving me the once-over?’ he mocked. ‘Who in their right mind would object to that? Though to be scrupulously fair, Abby, I really ought to return the compliment. Oughtn’t I?’
For a moment she was confused, and then, with a rapidly thudding heart, she saw exactly what he meant.
He let his gaze linger from breast to hip, on the long line of her legs which were outlined by the thin material of her black skirt. His eyes roved over her with such a careless, almost insolent appraisal that Abigail found herself blushing furiously, and fastened her hands tightly onto the lapels of her jacket as though she were holding onto a life-jacket.
Because he had never looked at her like that before. As man to woman. For many years she had secretly wanted him to, but now that it was happening she found it curiously unsettling. And insulting.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nick!’ she snapped angrily. ‘I know that ogling women probably comes as easily to you as breathing—but it isn’t really an appropriate time to ogle me, is it? Or have you always found widows easy prey in the past?’
That hit home. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth Abigail regretted them, her heart sinking with some nameless fear as his mouth became an ugly line and the light of retaliation flared in his eyes. ‘If we’re talking appropriate behaviour,’ he mocked, ‘then I’ve yet to see your tears, Abigail, dear. I’ve rarely met a widow who was so composed. Or who showed quite so much of her beautiful, black-stockinged thighs.’
‘It was the only black suit I had!’ she said defensively.
‘Which just happens to mould every sexy curve of that beautiful body?’ he mocked, with cold laughter in his eyes.
‘Any more of this and I’m getting out and walking,’ she threatened, wondering if he had any inkling of just how her body was betraying her by responding to that erotic criticism.
‘Not in those shoes, you aren’t, sweetheart!’ And the laughter was switched off as he glanced down at the delicate, black patent leather concoctions which were strapped around her narrow ankles. ‘Unless you’re planning to spend the rest of the day in the local casualty department, that is.’ He gave her another appraisal, but this time there was none of the lazy approval which had made her heart race like a train. This time his eyes were impartial. And disapproving.
‘What the hell have you been doing to yourself?’ he demanded. ‘Why are you so thin?’
Abigail glared. ‘Most women in the western hemisphere are striving for cheekbones, Nick!’ she retorted. ‘Don’t you know that you can never be too rich or too thin?’
‘Slenderness should not equal unhealthiness,’ he replied.
‘I am not unhealthy!’
‘No?’ He turned her face towards him and cupped it in his strong, brown hand and Abigail felt, suddenly and frighteningly, terribly, terribly vulnerable. ‘Then why are your cheeks so pale? Your face so pinched? I don’t know about interesting hollows, Abigail—they’re more like bloody great ravines in your case!’ He let his hand drop.
‘Orlando was an actor!’ she said, as if that really mattered. ‘And he liked me to look good!’
‘A thin, pale, pretty little accessory—the compliant little doll,’ he mused reflectively. ‘So, no change there, then.’
‘It wasn’t like that!’
‘No? Then why don’t you tell me what it was like? Tell me about your relationship with Orlando.’
‘No!’ she declared heatedly, aware that he had unwittingly touched on the rawest nerve of all. ‘Why on earth would I want to tell you anything?’
‘Because confession is good for the soul, didn’t you know that, Abby?’ he purred, and now his green eyes were as watchful as a cat’s. ‘Wasn’t marriage everything you dreamed it would be? Did the delectable Orlando fall in your expectations of him?’
And this, too, hit home—far more accurately and woundingly than he could ever have imagined. Abigail’s mouth trembled violently, pain and anger overwhelming her as she met the mocking question in his eyes.
‘You have no right to talk to me that way, Nick! To ask me questions like that! Especially not today,’ she finished on a shudder.
His face was quite expressionless. ‘Oh, but that is where you are wrong, Abby. I have every right,’ he answered, with a smooth assurance which made her want to lash out at him.
She drew a deep breath. ‘And why’s that?’
‘Because your stepfather trusted me. He appointed me executor of his will—’
‘Nick,’ interrupted Abigail. ‘Philip died well over a year ago. You fulfilled all your obligations as executor then. I inherited Philip’s estate—end of story. We are no longer bound by even the most tenuous of ties. We need never see each other again.’
‘No, I don’t suppose we do.’ He gave her a long, considering look. ‘But here I am.’
‘Here you are,’ she said dully, a sharp pang of apprehension overwhelming her as she tried to imagine never seeing him again.
There was silence in the car as it purred through the narrow, frosty lanes, and Abigail tried to tell herself that the unsettling feelings his appearance had provoked were simply a reaction to her husband’s death. And a reminder of her youth, of simpler times, when the outside world had not seemed such a big and hostile place. Because I was cosseted and protected from it, Abigail recognised as she stared at the ploughed fields, where frost like icing sugar glittered thickly.
‘What made you decide to sell all the shares that Philip left you?’ asked Nick suddenly.
The question was so unexpected that Abigail started as though he had tipped icy water over her head. ‘How did you know that?’
He gave her an impatient look. ‘Oh, come on, Abby—I know you wouldn’t exactly qualify as businesswoman of the year, but you can’t be that naive! If shares are floated on the stock market, then it isn’t exactly a state secret, is it?’
‘N-no,’ answered Abigail uncertainly. She would just as easily have ridden a rocket to the moon as been able to talk with any degree of knowledge on the subject of stocks and shares; she had left all that kind of thing to Orlando. Because that, more than anything, had kept him off her back. In more ways than one. A dull flush crept into her cheeks.
‘It just surprised me, that’s all,’ said Nick, giving her a shrewd look. ‘Just as it surprised me that you sold the New York apartment earlier in the year,’
Abigail tasted the bitter flavour of memory in her mouth, the utter chaos of the last year coming back to torment her. ‘Yes, the New York apartment,’ she echoed, in a hollow kind of whisper. ‘Sold.’
‘There’s no need to sound so horrified.’ Nick threw her a strange glance. ‘You knew all about the sale, of course?’
‘How could I not know?’ she queried. ‘It was my flat, wasn’t it? And my inheritance.’
His 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.’
