скачать книгу бесплатно
The Other Man
Karen Van Der Zee
Guilty passions When Gwen had been forced to reject the man she loved, she'd thought she'd made the right decision until fate thrust her and Aidan together to rekindle the compelling attraction they had felt in their youth. But twelve years amounted to a lot of living and both had gained a past of their own.Driven by passion, love and guilt, there were two ways to smash this emotional deadlock - to break up, once and for all, or put the past firmly away and seize that second chance… .
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u0342f31c-9765-511d-8343-0b2711448246)
Excerpt (#ub17dff7e-b70b-51fe-9c0f-2e7b07261904)
About the Author (#uc85b8a7d-ab51-5c13-9375-d81f451132ae)
Title Page (#ude714326-a9b5-579f-bd28-4ab535e5180b)
Chapter One (#ucf39c257-c023-5ef7-8596-5f6b274d0e63)
Chapter Two (#uca1c0fbf-684b-55fb-ab7d-ca147ed44124)
Chapter Three (#uec6754ab-7c26-54b6-9451-ed56b760fd7a)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“It was finished twelve years ago.”
Aidan’s mouth turned down. “Oh, was it, now?” His voice was low. “Then why did you come to my house?” He moved closer, his eyes locking with Gwen’s.
Gwen’s heart began to beat wildly. He was too damned intimidating. Too male, too overpowering.
“Stay away from me,” she said shakily.
He looked at her with hooded gray eyes. “What are you afraid of?”
Ever since KAREN VAN DER ZEE was a child growing up in Holland she wanted to do two things: write books and travel. She’s been very lucky. Her American husband’s work as a development econo-mist has taken them to many exotic locations. They were married in Kenya, had their first daughter in Ghana and their second in the United States. They spent two fascinating years in Indonesia. Since then they’ve added a son to the family, as well. They live in Virginia, but not permanently!
The Other Man
Karen Van Der Zee
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_102fe197-45bf-580c-8f97-818e0238b237)
THE MAN was looking at her, silvery gray eyes probing her face, meeting her eyes. Gwen’s heart stood still. She recognized the eyes, if not the rest of him—the unshaven chin, the longish hair.
Aidan. Her body turned to liquid—she couldn’t feel her limbs and muscles anymore. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All she felt was a wild, overpowering emotion that made her heart pound and her blood churn through her body. Was it fear? Anxiety? Pain? Oh, God, she thought, don’t let me faint into my soup. Not with a restaurant full of people watching.
Desperately, she sucked in a gulp of air and tried to focus on Joe’s voice rambling on about the book they’d worked on together.
“Yes,” she said, having no idea what she was agreeing to. Her hand clenched rigidly around her soupspoon, she glanced out the window in an effort not to look the other way, at Aidan. The small, rustic restaurant perched on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific and she watched the turbulent waves crashing on the rocky outcrops, spraying up white spume. It was June and the days were long and she’d been looking forward to seeing the sun set, but dark, ominous clouds had gathered in front of the sun and the sky looked bruised and angry. Gwen gave a convulsive shiver. She wanted to go home,
to the safety of her house. But they’d only just been served their food and she couldn’t ask Joe to drive her back so soon. It was nice of him to take her out. He had meant well. You need to get out, Gwen, he had said. You need some time for yourself.
It took all her strength not to glance over at Aidan. She focused her eyes on her food. Concen-trating hard, she ladled in some of her soup—rich, creamy clam chowder. Her favorite soup, soothing and delicious. She was going to choke on it. She put her spoon down, her hand trembling. She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe.
Twelve years since she’d last seen Aidan. What was he doing here now? She glanced back at him— the need was too strong. There was gray in his hair now, hair that was a little too long and unruly. He looked older, more muscular, tougher. All the polish and shine were gone. Even his silver-gray eyes had a tarnished look about them. His face was brown and more angular than she remembered.
He was with a woman, an attractive woman in her thirties with short black hair and large, ex-pressive eyes. She was talking animatedly, using her hands, looking serious.
His wife.
It shouldn’t hurt, of course. She shouldn’t feel this sharp, jagged jealousy in her chest. She’d known he had a wife for years, but seeing her now made it more real.
My own fault…my own fault…
Aidan turned his head suddenly, as if he’d felt her regard, and again their eyes met. Her heart gave a sickening lurch. She stared, mesmerized, not able to look away from the pale, hypnotic gaze of his eyes.
“Gwen? What’s wrong?” Joe’s voice was worried.
Tearing her gaze away from Aidan, she pushed her chair back. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
Her legs were trembling so much it was a miracle she made her way out of the restaurant dining room and into the ladies’ room without collapsing be-tween the tables. She suppressed an hysterical little giggle, imagining the scene. Leaning on the cold ceramic of the sink, she closed her eyes. Calm down, she ordered herself. Get a grip on yourself. So he’s back. Big deal. Twelve years is a long time. It’s all history now. Think of something else—the book, the baby, anything.
Turning on the tap, she ran cold water over her wrists, splashing water on her silk dress. Periwinkle blue, matching her eyes.
She looked at her face in the mirror. She was ashen and her eyes had a wild, desperate look in them. She closed her eyes and moaned, seeing the man’s face in front of her lids. He looked strange with that dark stubble on his chin, but his eyes she would have recognized in a crowd.
Aidan.
Tears flooded her eyes. “Aidan,” she whispered, wanting to hear his name. “Aidan.”
She didn’t want to feel this way, this terrible pain—a pain full of longing and regret. Where had all that come from so suddenly? So intensely? These feelings shouldn’t have been there anymore; they should have been long gone, fled with time, buried in forgetting.
She had to get back to the table. She couldn’t stay here forever and hide. Swiftly, she pulled a comb through her hair, remembering it had been much longer twelve years ago, remembering Aidan playing with it. In the sun it looks like polished mahogany, he’d once told her, which to her had seemed a wonderfully exotic name for brown. Oh, please, she told herself, stop remembering things! Putting on some fresh lipstick, she willed herself to be calm. Smoothing the long, slim skirt of her dress, she walked out of the ladies’ room, head high.
Aidan. Looking at her. Oh, God. All her fragile control vanished.
He lounged by the large potted palm, hands in his cotton Dockers, looking tall and imposing in the small entryway. Familiar yet alien. Overpow-ering. Dangerous.
He didn’t even look like the man she remem-bered. The beard stubble gave his face something faintly sinister. His clothes were new, but were just the standard cotton trousers and striped, short-sleeved shirt available everywhere. The man she re-membered had worn expensive, designer clothes, had had immaculate haircuts and a clean shaven chin. And a smile in his eyes. There was no smile now. His eyes were a disturbing gray that shrouded darker emotions.
“Hello, Gwen,” he said evenly. “I thought it was you.” His voice, deep, masculine and intimately familiar, slid like expensive brandy through her system—smooth and fiery, spreading a treacherous heat.
It took a moment before she could make her tongue move. “Hello, Aidan,” she returned, hearing the odd, husky tone in her own voice.
For a timeless moment they stared at each other, the heavy silence ripe with old memories and new emotion.
“How have you been?” he asked at last, his tone cool and polite. Yet deep in his eyes she saw a dark turbulence that contradicted the calmness of his face and voice.
“Fine.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, hugging herself. Cooking smells wafted in from the kitchen—garlic, grilled seafood, some-thing fruity. “I didn’t know you were back.” Of course she didn’t. There was no reason for her to know, no way she could have known. Twelve years had gone by since she’d last seen him and the only information she’d had about him she had found in a newspaper article. As a doctor he’d made an in-ternational name for himself in tropical pediatrics, working with children in hospitals in poor, Third World countries. At the time of the article, he and his wife, also a physician, were heading up an im-pressive medical research project in Asia.
And now he was back in Oregon.
“Just for a few months,” he said. “I’m staying at the summer house.”
His parents’ summer house by the beach, a few miles to the south. Not your average, simple summer cottage, but a luxury beach house high on a cliff with lots of glass affording magnificent views. She’d stayed there, slept in the big bed with him. Was he sleeping in the same bed now with his wife? Don’t think, don’t think.
“How are your parents?” she asked, putting herself on automatic pilot, trying to be polite, steering away from the personal.
“They’re doing well. Just embarked on a cruise around the world.” A small pause. He rubbed his chin, something dark and unfathomable in his eyes. “I understand your mother died.”
He hadn’t liked her mother. She swallowed. “Yes.” She’d become seriously ill a month after Aidan had left the country twelve years ago and had died three months later. “It’s a long time ago,” she added.
Only it didn’t seem like it, not now, standing here, seeing him again. All the feelings were still there, all the anguish, as if it had been days instead of years. How could that be, how could that be?
“Yes,” he said. His gaze swept over her with cool appraisal, taking in her silk dress, the jewelry, her expensive shoes. “Life appears to have treated you well,” he stated. There was no inflection in his voice—his words just a simple, clinical obser-vation, yet the slight, downward tilt of the corners of his mouth gave him away.
“Yes.” It was the truth, yet she could well im-agine the things he was thinking, seeing her like this, knowing what he knew. She swallowed hard, not knowing what else to say, wanting desperately to get away. She felt young again, and awkward and confused and she hated herself for it. She was almost thirty years old, not eighteen.
“I have to go,” she said.
He made a gesture with his hand, indicating the dining room. “Is he your husband?”
So he had known. Somebody had told him she’d married. But obviously his information wasn’t up to date.
She shook her head. “No. Marc…my husband died a year and a half ago.” Her voice trembled. “I’ve got to go.” She didn’t want some polite platitude he’d utter for the occasion. She fled back into the dining room and sat down across from Joe, almost tipping over the wineglass as she reached for it clumsily. From the corner of her eyes she noticed Aidan sitting down again at his own table across from his wife.
“I was about to send out a search party,” Joe commented, his brown eyes searching her face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine now,” she lied.
“Your soup’s cold.”
“It doesn’t matter. I had most of it. It was de-licious. Now tell me more about your ideas for another book.” She sat back, determined to give him her full attention, determined not to look again in Aidan’s direction.
In August their first book would come out. She had collected the migrant children’s stories and drawings, he had taken the photographs. It was a beautiful, poignant collection eliciting smiles, laughter, anger and tears: the stories of forgotten children.
No matter how hard she tried, her mind was not on the book. She was acutely aware of Aidan sitting only feet away, afraid to look up and see his face, see the woman sitting across from him. Afraid to see some small intimacy—a smile, a hand touching the other’s. Private gestures that had once be-longed to her.
She felt as if she were suffocating. She had to get out of the place, away from Aidan.
She looked up into Joe’s face. “Would you mind terribly if we left? I don’t feel right being gone. I need to get back to the baby.”
It was an excuse, and she felt vaguely guilty. Alice, the baby-sitter, was a nurse and the mother of three healthy grown children. The baby couldn’t be in safer hands.
She managed to leave the restaurant without looking at Aidan. Outside the wind whipped at her hair and clothes and she dragged in a deep breath of the damp, salty sea air. Joe opened the car door for her and she settled herself in the passenger seat.
For a while the road followed the rugged coastline, offering dramatic views of the wild sea and jagged rocks on the one side, and the wooded mountains on the other. Angry clouds streaked through the sky and violent waves tormented the rocks and beaches. Gwen shivered, feeling a sense of foreboding slithering through her.
Half an hour later she was home, the scent of Poison greeting her as she entered the living room. Alice was sitting on the sofa, feet up, dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt stretched tight across her ample bosom. She was doing a crossword puzzle and the television was off.
The baby was asleep, and had been all the time Gwen had been gone, Alice said, looking distinctly disappointed. “I’d hoped for a bit of cuddling,” she added, and gave a long-suffering sigh. Coming to her feet, she gathered her purse and half-finished crossword puzzle. “By the way, do you know a country in Asia that starts with a B? Ten letters.”
Gwen’s heart made a painful lurch in her chest. “Bangladesh,” she said promptly.
“Wow, you’re good!” Alice scribbled in the word and frowned. “You didn’t even have to think about it.”
Gwen shrugged lightly. “Just happen to know.”
Alice left, not fazed by the rain, back to her husband of twenty-seven years. The house was silent. Gwen walked aimlessly around, nervous, tense. A big, beautiful, silent house. Marc had de-signed it for them. He’d been a talented, creative architect who’d designed many beautiful houses for private clients all over the state, Utah and California. Homes built with natural materials that fit the landscape and seemed part of it.
Thunder rattled the windows. She heard the baby cry and ran up the stairs to the room, picking her up out of her crib, holding her close. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m here, don’t cry.” She stroked the dark hair, kissed the soft, warm cheeks. The small body squirmed against her, as if fighting a frightening dream. She felt so light, so fragile-much too small for a child of eight months. A lump formed in her throat and she felt overwhelmed by love and tenderness and fear.
She switched on a small light and changed Churi’s diaper. She warmed a bottle of milk and sat in the rocking chair, feeding the baby until she fell back to sleep. She sat there for a long time, cradling the warm body against her breast, while tears ran soundlessly down her cheeks.
“I lied, Aidan,” she whispered. “I lied.”
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_ecf6a2c4-22c0-56be-a9c0-78cb936ae3fa)
“YOU LOOK awful,” Alice informed her the next afternoon. “What are you having done? A root canal?” She’d come over to baby-sit Churi while she had her nap so Gwen could go to the dentist. Gwen had planned it that way; she’d be back by the time Churi would be awake again. It made her uneasy to be away when Churi was awake.
“Just a regular cleaning and checkup. I’m fine.” Gwen made a casual gesture. “I just didn’t sleep well.”
Alice grimaced. “That storm was a zinger. The whole house was rattling.”
Gwen grabbed her keys and purse and made for the door before Alice would ask more questions. It had not been the storm outside that had kept her awake, rather the storm inside her head that had prevented her from sleeping.
It was a wonderful sunny June day and she opened the roof of the Porsche and drove away. Signs of the storm’s destruction were everywhere. The sprawling, neatly manicured gardens around the luxury houses located off the wooded road looked disheveled from the storm’s onslaught. Branches and twigs had been ripped off the trees and shrubs and littered the grass. Blooms lay broken and wilted in the flower beds.
Inside Gwen felt as ravished as the gardens. A tight knot of tension in her stomach was growing ever larger. All she’d been able to think about was Aidan, think about that night, twelve years ago, remember the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice, her own.
“Tell me you don’t love me!” Aidan’s hands hard on her upper arms, eyes wild. “Tell me, dammit!”
Anguish searing through her. “All right! All right! I don’t love you!” Tears running down her face. Sobs racking her body. “I don’t love you! I don’t love you!”
She stared blindly ahead of her at the curving road. “Stop it!” she said to herself. “Just stop it!”
