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She wouldn’t have been able to bear his pity, contempt or plain disbelief when he thanked her for the offer but said he wouldn’t take it up, if it was all the same with her. Because that was what would have happened; she knew it in her bones. Otherwise why had he brought the shutters down so effectively?
So she’d invented a headache, blamed it on too much wine, and gone to bed. Where she’d known she’d be safe. And so she had been. He hadn’t so much as poked his head round the door to say good-night.
She spent most of the seemingly interminable journey wishing it was over so she could crawl into her own space, be alone and lick her wounds. But when at last they drew up in front of the mews flat she shared with Evie, Bella panicked. He was her husband, and she’d probably never see him again. If the past year was anything to go on he’d avoid her like the plague.
She simply couldn’t go on like this.
He cut the engine and turned to her, and she got in first, before he could say anything—anything at all. ‘We never did get around to discussing the divorce.’ And she watched his face go tight.
‘Divorce isn’t in the frame,’ he ground out through his teeth.
Was that anger in his black, black eyes? Or sh
ock? Bella didn’t know, or care. It was enough to have brought it home to him that she did exist, as his wife, albeit estranged. That she wasn’t a passing stranger he had decided to be polite to, to the extent of making general, idle conversation to while away the time.
If he didn’t like to be reminded that they were still legally tied, then tough! She would force the situation down his throat if she had to.
Ever since they’d made love he’d brought the shutters down. He treated her with politeness, with impersonal consideration, like a stranger. It was far harder to bear than when he’d been openly scathing, angry with her and at the situation they’d been put in.
‘Why not?’ she countered, her voice splintering with anger. She’d get a real response from him if it killed her! ‘Our marriage is over, despite the mutually satisfying romp we had on the night of our fourth wedding anniversary.’
She’d stress that, oh, she would! He’d hurt her too much. The need to retaliate in kind was despicable, she knew that, but she hadn’t been able to stop the raging words from falling off her tongue.
‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ he told her. His face was white beneath the olive tones of his skin.
So she had forced a reaction, even if it was merely anger at her temerity in daring to mention something he had probably already conveniently forgotten.
‘Oh, but I do,’ she answered him back. ‘Despite the sex, which I have to admit was well up to standard, our marriage was over the moment I knew you didn’t trust me. I knew you didn’t love me because, the way I see it, trust has to be the biggest part of loving. You immediately thought the worst, and went on thinking it. And believing it. I knew then that there wasn’t any point.’
He wasn’t answering. He looked as if she had just exploded a bomb under him. ‘If you don’t want to discuss divorce, we’ll forget it,’ she conceded finally, flatly, the fight draining from her, leaving her feeling weak and hopeless.
Divorce wasn’t in any way important to her. It wasn’t as if she would ever want to remarry. Jake was the only man she had ever loved, could ever love. She’d only mentioned it to get a real response.
She could see his point of view, too. Despite her having returned every one of the allowance cheques that had come through his solicitor, he might be understandably wary of the final break.
A divorce settlement could cost him heavily. The acquisition of wealth seemed the only thing that mattered to him. He wasn’t to know she would never accept a penny from him, and he might suspect she would take him for all she could get, simply out of spite, if the break was made final.
‘Bella—’ He shifted in his seat, facing her now. He took one of her hands in both of his, and she let it stay there. It was beyond her power to snatch it away, and she self-destructively impressed this final touch on her memory banks. ‘We do need to talk. Make arrangements for the future. At the cottage—’ impressive shoulders lifted heavily ‘—the time wasn’t right. You said trust was important.’
His eyes seemed to be probing her soul. ‘I’m working on it, believe me. And I’m asking you to trust me now. We’ll meet soon, have dinner, sort everything out.’ The look in his eyes told her he wanted that very much.
Stupid hope soared again, filling her heart until she felt it might burst, and try as she might she couldn’t stop it.
‘When?’ she asked, her voice low and husky, hoping he’d suggest the very next day.
‘Soon,’ he promised vaguely, his eyes hooded now as he rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles lightly before releasing her hand. ‘I’ll be in touch. I can’t say when. I’ve a fair amount of business to attend to.’
So what else was new?
She released her seat belt, the momentary insanity of hope draining away. Business would always take precedence. Didn’t she already know that? She scrambled out onto the slushy pavement. He would have far more important things to do than wine and dine his estranged wife, to talk her into accepting the status quo.
Because that was what it was all about. She was sure of that now—keep everything the same, a wife, but no wife, tucked away, never seen, making no demands. Avoid having to swallow a divorce settlement that would make a dent in all that money!
‘I’ll see you when I see you, then.’ Echoes of the past! Of the times when she’d watched him walk out of the apartment, immaculately suited, briefcase in hand, his thoughts already gone from her, on another plane entirely. And had that been her voice, all high and hard?
She slammed the passenger door, lifted her bags and walked away, knowing she wouldn’t see him again—because when he did get round to finding the time to make that date she’d tell him to get his solicitor to put whatever was on his mind in writing!
No way would she put herself through the hell of seeing him again.
