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‘But why? It takes what? Two and a half hours by train? It’s a day trip.’
Polly smiled. A little self-consciously. ‘It’s silly.’
Gabe turned to look at her. Now he was intrigued; what on earth made Polly Rafferty blush in embarrassment?
‘I can keep a secret.’
‘I know.’ She winced. ‘You already know far too many of mine. I can’t give you any more.’
She had a point. It was odd, knowing things not even her brother knew. Tied them together in a way that wasn’t as unwelcome as it should be. He should even the score, make them equals.
Gabe turned his concentration back to the road ahead, navigating a tight bend before answering. ‘That’s fair. How about I tell you two of mine and then you answer?’
She leant back in her seat and considered. ‘They have to be embarrassing secrets. Or deeply personal. Things you have never told anyone.’
‘Okay.’ He took a deep breath. Gabe was a businessman; he had always done what he needed to to get ahead. A little stretching of the truth here, taking a gamble on an assumption there. Nothing dishonest or illegal—more a prevarication.
But he couldn’t prevaricate here; Polly was right. He did owe her a secret or two.
He just had so many to choose from. It might be nice to let one or two of them out, to lighten the load.
Gabe concentrated on the road ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. ‘When I was ill I hated my parents so much I couldn’t even look at them when they came to visit.’
He heard her inhale, a long, shuddering breath. But she didn’t protest or tell him he must be mistaken. ‘Why?’
‘Because they hurt so damn much. Every needle in my vein pierced them twice as hard, when I retched, they doubled over. My illness nearly killed them. They wanted me to live, to fight, so badly that when I slipped back I knew I was failing them. My illness failed them.’
He could feel it again: the shame of causing so much hurt, the anger that they needed him to be strong when it was almost too much. The responsibility of having to fight, to stay alive for them.
‘They must love you a lot.’ Her voice was a little wistful.
‘They do. And I love them but it’s a lot. You have to be strong for yourself in that situation, single-minded. Their need distracted me. Added too much pressure.’
‘Is that why you don’t want children?’
He thought back to her scan, to the life pulsing inside her, the unexpected protectiveness that had engulfed him and picked his words carefully.
‘Our lives are so fragile, our happiness so dependent on others. I’ve been cancer free for nearly ten years, Polly. But it could come back. I don’t want to put a wife or a child through the suffering I put my parents through. I don’t want to suffer like that for someone else. Is it worth it?’
There was a pause and he knew without looking that her hand would be back at her midriff.
‘I hope so,’ she said after a while.
He continued driving while she busied herself with her phone. ‘You still haven’t told me your second secret.’ She was looking away again. It was like being in the seal of the confessional: intimate and confidential.
Gabe didn’t even consider before he answered. ‘Ever since I kissed you in the office I’ve wanted to do it again.’
Another silence. This one more loaded. He was achingly aware of her proximity, of her bare arms, the blonde hair piled precariously in a loose knot, the hitch in her breath as he spoke.
His words had unlocked a desire he didn’t even know he carried, one he had hidden, locked down. The kiss had been totally inappropriate. They were colleagues; she was his boss. He didn’t want or need anything complicated—and nothing about Polly Rafferty was simple.
She was prickly and bossy. She didn’t know the names of half her staff and was rude to and demanding of the ones she did know. She worked all the time. She was pregnant.
Sure, she was conventionally pretty with her mass of blonde silky hair, her dark blue eyes and legs that went on for ever but that was just the surface. It was the inappropriately intimate conversations with cars, that carefully hidden vulnerability and her way of looking into a man’s soul and seeing just what it was that made him tick that made her dangerous.
It made her formidable. It made her utterly desirable.
‘What does the tree mean?’ Her words pierced the thickened atmosphere, the soft voice a little unsteady, her hands twisting on her lap.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your tattoo? What does it mean?’
His mouth twisted. ‘My mother didn’t cry once during any of my treatment but she wept when I showed her that tattoo. And not with pride.’
