скачать книгу бесплатно
‘You mean because her father refuses to acknowledge her?’ she asked tersely. ‘I don’t think so.’
Jake’s jaw hardened. ‘Dammit, she’s not my child!’
‘She is.’
‘How can you say that? When you and Piers Mallory were having an affair at the time?’
Isobel pursed her lips. ‘We were not having an affair!’
‘You slept with him.’
‘I was in bed with him,’ she said, annoyed to find her voice was shaking. ‘But not through choice.’
Jake snorted. ‘Oh, right. Are you saying he raped you now?’
‘No.’ Isobel picked up her tea again, endeavouring to warm her frozen hands on the mug. ‘But I’d been drinking. I don’t remember anything about it.’
With an oath Jake got up from the sofa and paced grimly across the rug. His powerful frame cast a long shadow across the hearth and she turned to stare into the flames of the gas fire rather than look at him. But the temptation to do so was almost irresistible, and only the fact that the hot liquid was burning her palms caused her to turn her attention to putting the mug down again.
‘He was my friend,’ said Jake, speaking through his teeth, and Isobel felt the familiar frustration building inside her.
‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘That was the trouble, wasn’t it? You couldn’t believe your friend could do something so—so—’
‘Unlikely?’ suggested Jake scornfully, but Isobel shook her head.
‘So despicable,’ she corrected, looking up at him with accusing eyes. ‘And on that basis you decided that Emily couldn’t possibly be your daughter. That she was his.’
Jake blew out a breath. ‘I don’t want to talk about this.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘For God’s sake, Belle, be honest for once in your life!’ Jake came to stand in front of her and she averted her eyes from the impressive bulge of his manhood. ‘We’d been married for three years, dammit, and you hadn’t got pregnant. Are you telling me we suddenly got lucky? I don’t think so.’
‘We’d been trying to avoid me getting pregnant,’ cried Isobel fiercely. ‘You know that.’
‘But accidents happen. That’s what you said, isn’t it?’
Isobel groaned. ‘Well, what are you saying?’ she demanded, putting out a hand as if to ward him off. ‘That Piers Mallory is so—so macho that one night with him was enough?’
‘If it was just one night,’ retorted Jake harshly. ‘And I only have your word for that.’
Isobel couldn’t sit still any longer. Trembling violently, she got to her feet, pushing him aside and stumbling away from the sofa. Of course he only had her word for it. Piers was never going to admit what he’d done.
‘In any case, your getting pregnant was just adding insult to injury,’ said Jake heavily, and there was a trace of bitterness in his voice now. ‘How could you do it, Belle? How could you have an affair with my best friend? God, you knew how I’d feel about it. Piers and I had been friends since we started college.’
Isobel gripped the back of a chair for support, her nails digging into the fabric as she struggled to regain control. ‘Piers was never your friend, Jake,’ she said, ignoring his immediate growl of derision. ‘He wasn’t. He was jealous of you, of our life together. He’d have done anything to split us up.’
‘That’s crap and you know it.’ Jake was scathing. ‘I don’t know why you keep repeating the same old story, the same old lies. It’s not as if I haven’t heard it all before.’
Isobel held up her head. ‘I suppose I’m hoping that one day you’ll come to your senses and believe me,’ she replied huskily. ‘That you’ll at least consider that Emily might be your daughter.’
‘She’s not,’ said Jake flatly. ‘She’s nothing like me.’
‘She’s nothing like Piers Mallory either,’ retorted Isabel, feeling the familiar wave of despair creeping over her. ‘For pity’s sake, Jake, when have I ever lied to you?’
‘When you told me that you and Piers had never slept together,’ Jake responded at once. ‘You were pretty convincing then.’
‘Because it’s true.’
‘But you’re not denying he was making love to you when I found you?’
Isobel’s shoulders sagged. ‘He was trying to, yes.’
‘Right.’ Jake regarded her contemptuously. ‘So why do you persist in saying you never had sex with him?’
Isobel shook her head. ‘I don’t believe I did. In any case, I was—afraid.’
‘Afraid of me?’
‘Afraid of what would happen if you believed I’d been unfaithful to you,’ she moaned miserably. ‘I knew how you’d react.’
‘You weren’t wrong.’ Jake gave a weary shake of his head. ‘And you told me you didn’t even like him.’
‘I didn’t.’
But Isobel knew she was fighting a losing battle. It was a battle she’d been fighting and losing for the past eleven years, and nothing she said or did was going to change Jake’s mind now.
‘It’s getting late,’ he said abruptly. ‘And you look exhausted, never mind Emily. I’d better go.’
Isobel stared at him. ‘But we haven’t talked.’
‘No.’ he was sardonic. ‘Well, not about anything that matters anyway.’ He paused. ‘I’ll come back another day. When I’ve got more time and you’re not dead beat.’
Isobel’s lips twisted. ‘You certainly know how to flatter a girl, Jake. I’d forgotten how charming you can be.’
‘You don’t need me to flatter you, Isobel.’ Jake swung his jacket off the chair and shouldered his way into it. Then, almost reluctantly, he added, ‘You know how bloody attractive you are. You always have. I guess that was why I found it so hard to trust you. I knew it was only a matter of time before you found some other mug to add a little excitement to our marriage.’
CHAPTER THREE (#u344ce1d8-27e1-56ac-9d92-ca63cf0e2383)
JAKE was at his desk by eight o’clock the next morning.
He could have been there much earlier. He hadn’t been to bed. He’d spent most of the night switching channels on the too-large digital TV Marcie had insisted he should install in his bedroom, and which he’d actually set up in the den, trying not to think about the row they’d had at her apartment when she’d got back from dining with the Allens—alone.
But then, that was what happened when you allowed your soon-to-be-ex-wife to ruin what should have been a very pleasant evening, he reflected ruefully. Frank Allen and his wife were old friends of his, and he knew Marcie had been relying on him to persuade the media tycoon to back her bid for network stardom.
She’d already done some TV work, appearing on chat shows, celebrity quizzes and the like, but she wanted to be taken seriously. She wanted to bury her bimbette image once and for all, and make her name with her own daytime talk show.
It had been a long shot at best. Jake knew that. Frank Allen hadn’t been in the business for more than forty years without being able to spot an amateur when he saw one. Marcie looked good on panel shows, when her contribution meant less to the producers than her appearance, but she simply didn’t have what it took to take centre stage.
Jake had suggested she ought to consider acting lessons, but Marcie had quickly vetoed that idea. She hadn’t become the most successful photographic model of the decade by admitting she didn’t have what it took to further her career. She didn’t want to hear that she needed more than good looks to make it in the very competitive world of television. Because other people had done it, she confidently believed that she could do it, too.
She had taken the fact that Jake hadn’t turned up at the restaurant as a personal slight. Even though he’d sent a message to both Marcie and Frank Allen—in Marcie’s case enclosed with an enormous bouquet of red roses, which he’d had the devil’s own job to acquire at half-past nine at night—explaining that he’d been inadvertently held up and apologising for letting them down, she’d still been furious.
Finding him waiting for her at her apartment when she’d returned home had not placated her. She’d virtually thrown the bouquet at him, declaring that he’d deliberately ruined the evening, that he cared more for his estranged wife and her snotty-nosed brat than he did about her.
There had been no reasoning with her, and Jake had eventually scooped up the bouquet and left the apartment. He’d deposited the roses in the nearest wastebin. He’d been angry, too, but whether it had been with himself or her he hadn’t cared to speculate.
Which was why he was at his desk before the rest of the staff turned in, scowling at his computer screen, wishing last night had never happened. And not just because of the row with Marcie. They’d had rows before, and no doubt would again. That was a given in their relationship. But because last night for the first time he’d learned that Isobel’s daughter had a wit and a personality all her own.
Until then he’d hardly spoken to the child. His dealings with her mother had been brief at best, and his memories of Emily were of a shy toddler, hiding behind Isobel’s skirts, or a sulky pre-teen, who’d resented his presence.
Well, she’d resented his presence last night, too, he conceded. To begin with, anyway. But afterwards, after they’d discovered a common interest in computer games, she’d become almost friendly. She’d actually laughed at his efforts to keep up with her, and he’d felt an unexpected surge of admiration at her ability to keep two steps ahead.
That was why he felt so bad about what had come after, he thought now, stabbing savagely at the keys. Dammit, he hadn’t meant to hurt the kid. It wasn’t his fault that Isobel had never told Emily the truth, but he’d felt bloody guilty when she’d got so upset.
Which was the real reason why he hadn’t joined Marcie and the Allens at the restaurant. After what had happened he hadn’t felt like being sociable with anyone, even Marcie, and when she’d come home, accusing him of God knows what, he’d almost lost it. The temptation to tell her that the world didn’t revolve about her selfish little life had trembled on the tip of his tongue, and he’d known he had to get out of there before he said—or did—something he’d regret.
And he did regret it this morning, he told himself grimly. He’d been more than generous with Isobel over the years, and he had no reason to feel guilty because she’d chosen to keep her daughter in the dark. What had Emily said? That she was almost eleven? Yes. Definitely old enough to understand that people—even people you loved—didn’t always do what was expected of them. He wasn’t the traitor here; Isobel was. Emily’s mother had betrayed their marriage by having an affair with another man.
Piers Mallory.
His best—ex-best—friend.
And she was the result.
He was concentrating so hard on the display he’d brought up on the computer screen that he wasn’t aware he was no longer alone. When a hand descended on his shoulder he swore violently, turning a savage face to the intruder.
Shane Harper, his second-in-command, lifted both hands in mock surrender.
‘Hey, the door was open,’ he said, strolling round Jake’s desk. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He paused, evidently hoping for vindication. ‘You’re early. Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘Something like that.’ Jake’s mouth flattened into a rueful grin. ‘Sorry for the profanity. I was miles away.’
‘In some dark chasm, by the sound of it,’ remarked Shane drily. ‘I’ve got coffee in my room. Want some?’
Jake pushed back his chair from the desk and got to his feet. ‘Yeah,’ he said, raking back his hair with a careless hand. ‘That sounds good. Lead me to it.’
Shane’s office, like Jake’s and those of the other senior members of staff, opened onto a huge room where many of the other employees worked. Wooden screens divided the floor into booths that gave a semblance of privacy to their occupants. Already one or two operators were at their desks, computer screens flickering to life, eyes blinking owlishly over the mugs of coffee that seemed a necessary jump-start to the day.
Jake followed Shane into an office very like his own and leaned against the door to close it. Then he sprawled into a chair across the desk from Shane’s, licking his lips in anticipation when the other man put a mug of steaming black liquid into his hand.
As expected, the coffee was rich and aromatic, the caffeine exactly what he needed to jump-start his own day. It bore no resemblance whatsoever to the instant variety Emily had served him the night before, and he felt a renewed surge of irritation at the thought of Isobel telling her daughter they couldn’t afford any better.
That was a lie, pure and simple. The allowance he made his wife, plus what she earned herself, should keep them in relative luxury. But there was no denying that the apartment was beginning to look shabby, and Emily wasn’t likely to lie about something like that. So where was the money going? What was she spending it on?
‘Hello? Earth to McCabe? Did you just bail out on me again?’
Shane’s words brought him out of the deepening depression he’d been sinking into, and Jake pulled a wry face as he took another swallow of his coffee.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, trying to concentrate on what was happening in the present instead of drifting back into the past. ‘Lack of sleep, I guess. What were you saying?’
‘I asked if you’d enjoyed your evening at L’Aiguille,’ declared Shane good-naturedly. ‘You obviously had a hell of an evening, but I don’t know if it was good or bad.’
Jake grunted. ‘It wasn’t good,’ he said, setting the mug down on the desk and rubbing his palms over his knees. ‘I didn’t get to L’Aiguille.’ He grimaced. ‘Marcie wasn’t pleased.’
‘I can believe it.’ Shane arched disbelieving brows. ‘What happened? I thought you’d arranged to have dinner with the Allens.’
‘We had. Marcie did.’ Jake lifted his hands and folded them at the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t.’
Shane frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘No. Nor did she,’ remarked Jake with a prolonged sigh. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Hey.’ Shane stared at him. ‘Weren’t you planning on seeing Isobel yesterday?’ A dawning light entered his eyes. ‘I get it. Marcie didn’t want you to see Isobel. She kicked up a fuss and you bailed out.’
‘Yeah.’ Jake gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Something like that.’
‘But—’ Shane would have pursued it further, but a sudden hardening of Jake’s expression warned him it would not be wise. Instead, he changed his words. ‘How is Isobel, anyway? And that kid of hers? What was her name? Emma?’
‘Emily,’ Jake amended, before he could stop himself. Then, dropping his hands, he reached for his coffee again. ‘They’re fine. Thanks for asking.’
Now it was Shane’s turn to give his friend a conservative stare. He’d obviously realised there was more to this than a simple tiff over Jake’s wife, but he knew better than to push his luck.
‘Great,’ he said, reaching for a printout that was lying on his desk. ‘By the way, these are the projected figures for Merlin’s Mountain. Jay thinks it should supersede all the other games if the results of the ad campaign are anything to go by, and they usually are. Oh, and Steve wants to talk to you about his firewall. According to him, it’s the only hacker-proof system there is.’
‘And he should know,’ observed Jake drily, relieved that the conversation had turned to business matters. He didn’t want to offend Shane. They’d been friends too long for him to take the other man’s support for granted. But talking about Isobel had never been easy for him and, after last night, he would prefer to be able to put the whole sorry affair out of his mind.
Which wasn’t going to happen. He knew that. Knew it even more forcibly later that morning, when his cellphone rang and the small screen displayed Marcie’s number.
He was in the middle of a meeting with the finance department at the time, and he was tempted to turn off the phone and ignore it. He could always say he’d left the phone in his office and someone else had hijacked the call. Or he could simply tell her he was busy and that he’d have to call her back.
Some choice.
Stifling a curse, he offered a word of apology to his colleagues and, getting up from the table, crossed to the windows. Standing looking down at the rain-soaked London streets some twenty floors below, he thought how much he hated the city sometimes. He put the phone to his ear. ‘McCabe.’
‘Jake.’
Marcie’s tone was considerably warmer than it had been the night before. Evidently time had mellowed her mood and she was apparently prepared to be magnanimous.
‘Marcie.’ Despite the overture, Jake felt unaccountably reluctant to return it. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘So formal, darling.’ Marcie’s voice would have melted honey. ‘Actually, I thought you might have rung me. You know how upset I was last night. I’ve hardly slept.’
Jake refrained from mentioning that he hadn’t been to bed himself. He refused to give her that satisfaction. Instead he said flatly, ‘I was pretty bugged myself.’
A silence, and then Marcie spoke again. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to apologise. Must I remind you that it wasn’t me who let you down? What you did was—well, pretty unforgivable. I was made to look like a complete idiot.’
‘How?’
