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It was only when Ashley mentioned his name in a studiedly casual way that she received yet another shock.
‘Have you spoken to Mr Marchant?’ she asked the housekeeper.
Christine nodded as she slid a carton of orange juice into the fridge. ‘Yes, he rang me just before he went off to London,’ she answered.
Ashley’s heart missed a beat. ‘To London?’ she repeated—some stupid element of hurt pride not wanting to admit that she didn’t have a clue what the older woman was talking about.
‘Didn’t he tell you? No? Actually, I wondered when he’d be going down there again,’ confided Christine. ‘He hasn’t been for ages, which is very unusual—not since you started working here, come to think of it.’
With an effort, Ashley kept her face blank. Even more hurtful than the thought that he hadn’t bothered to tell her he was going was the realisation that Jack had a whole different life about which she knew precisely nothing.
But of course he did! What did she expect? That he should be languishing here, isolated from the world, just waiting for someone like her to walk into his life? He had money, connections and a faintly glamorous profession, which he didn’t even need to do because he was independently rich through his inheritance. Of course he had another life!
She tried to concentrate on his novel, which had now reached a nail-biting section involving some undercover work which was leading up towards a bloody ambush. But the work which she’d previously found so engrossing had lost something of its appeal and it wouldn’t take a genius to work out why.
She missed the dark force of Jack’s character as he sat working on the other side of the room. She missed the conversations they would have over their morning coffee. The way he would sometimes look up and the light from his dark eyes would pierce through her like a laser beam. And she missed feeling singled out by him—as if he thought she was somehow special. Mealtimes were dull without him and she felt like an imposter—as if she had no legitimate reason to be there. And the house felt empty—as if it had lost its heart and soul.
With spare time on her hands, she began to wonder whether Jack had been right and whether she was the world’s biggest hypocrite. Because she had wanted him to make love to her and yet had denied it—even to herself. She had responded to him with all the passion of a woman and then run away like a frightened little girl. Had she been so scared of her own feelings that she didn’t dare risk it—or was she just guarding herself against the possibility of being hurt by him?
She missed him more than she had thought it was possible to miss anyone. And then one morning she had to dodge round one of the cleaners, who was polishing the oak floor in the hall, and when she walked into the kitchen Ashley saw Christine bustling around on a day when she wasn’t supposed to be working.
‘Hello! I didn’t know you were coming in today,’ Ashley said.
The housekeeper put down the cookery book she’d been poring over. ‘No, I wasn’t—but Mr Marchant’s coming back for the weekend!’
Ashley’s heart began to pound with excitement as she told herself that it didn’t matter that he hadn’t bothered mentioning it to her. The most important thing was that Jack was coming home. Back home—where he belonged. He’d be walking into the study every morning just as he used to—with those dark, clever eyes watching her. Once more, they would spend long days together.
And if he tried to kiss her again—would it really be the end of the world? What if she just went with the flow and let him make love to her—as most women in her position would have done? Would that be so very wrong, given the feelings she had for him? Maybe it was time to stop acting like a little girl and to embrace all that went with being a woman. Ashley found herself grinning like an idiot as suitable words to express her joy seemed grossly inappropriate. ‘That’s… nice,’ she managed.
‘Is it?’ Christine’s tone was disapproving as she reached into the cupboard for some eggs. ‘Not when he suddenly announces he’s bringing people with him—and barely giving me enough time to do the catering.’
Ashley stilled as an unknown foreboding began to creep over her skin. ‘People?’ she echoed quietly. ‘W-what people?’
‘Oh, some of his fancy friends, I expect.’ The housekeeper gave a shrug. ‘Those glamorous types who are a nightmare to cook for—won’t eat dairy, won’t eat wheat—never heard anything like it! That Nicole will probably be among them. She usually is.’
Ashley’s heartbeat now became dizzyingly erratic. He was bringing people here? Well, of course he was. What had she expected—that he might run it past her first? ‘Really?’ she questioned, in a voice she didn’t quite recognise as her own.
‘You would think,’ continued Christine darkly, ‘that he would deal with his other commitments and priorities at home, before he goes gallivanting off to London with all those other women.’
But Ashley scarcely heard her. Vaguely, she wondered what the housekeeper meant by commitments and priorities—but there were much more pressing issues on her mind. Those other women, Christine had said.
What women? And who was ‘Nicole’?
Bile rose in her throat. There she’d been—like a fool—reading everything into that passionate kiss she’d shared with Jack on the moor. Reading everything into it when it had meant nothing to him. A sensual diversion which must have given him a disappointing outcome. Why, he hadn’t been in touch with her since—not once—and he hadn’t even bothered to tell her he was coming back.
And that he wouldn’t be alone.
CHAPTER SIX
ACAR door slammed and Ashley’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. She glanced up at the clock, surprised to see that it was after six. So Jack was home at last—bringing all his friends with him.
Outside, she heard doors slam, closely followed by footsteps, laughter—and throaty feminine giggles. So Christine had been right. A feeling of nausea rose in her throat but she sat as silently as a statue, praying she could stay undiscovered before slipping quietly upstairs when the coast was clear.
She stayed perfectly quiet until she heard the clip-clopping of high heels mounting the stairs. They were probably going to change for dinner, she thought—the elaborate dinner which Christine had been preparing for most of the afternoon.
And then the door opened and she felt her heart crashing against her ribs as Jack walked in. It was barely a week since she’d seen him and yet it felt as if a slow year might have passed. Dressed completely in black—close-fitting black jeans and a black cashmere sweater—his tall figure looked dark and imposing. His face was dark too and his expression unfathomable as he shut the door softly behind him.
Absence made him look startlingly unfamiliar and she tried to study his face objectively—as if it were the first time she’d ever seen it. There were shadows beneath his eyes, which made his expression look brittle, and she found herself thinking how tired he looked. She wanted to turn round and to slide her arms around his neck. She wanted him to kiss her.
