Книга - The Yuletide Child

The Yuletide Child
CHARLOTTE LAMB


The birth of a Christmas baby…Dylan was thrilled when, within a few weeks, handsome Ross Jefferson met and married her. But marrying Ross meant that Dylan abandoned her career, friends and the bright lights of the city. It also brought an unexpected pregnancy.Suddenly Dylan found her previously passionate husband was holding her at arm's length, and he seemed to prefer the vivacious wife of his best friend. Christmas was coming and Dylan had to get away. But her car skidded. She was stranded in a blizzard and she was about to have her baby. Now she needed Ross more than ever… .







“You can’t have both me and your mistress!” (#ubba08213-f212-5b69-bce5-3148e7c1191b)She’s sexy, successful . . . and PREGNANT! (#u15e72466-49b0-5315-8e2e-5d7124c6d561)Title Page (#ue03a2b75-ca12-53cf-8b28-afd9308cc5db)CHAPTER ONE (#u9afad117-61d1-563f-913b-2a8a93003b88)CHAPTER TWO (#u16ff92f1-4f77-57dc-9529-03bd794f24c4)CHAPTER THREE (#uc6ddf63e-c7eb-56b4-a342-4944ff49dbd1)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)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“You can’t have both me and your mistress!”

“I haven’t got a mistress!” he said through clenched teeth.

She lifted her chin defiantly, outstaring him, jealousy and pain in her face and voice. “Did you think I’d forgotten about her? Having the baby hasn’t softened my brain or made me lose my memory, Ross. You said you hadn’t been making love to me because your sister told you not to! But I know the truth, don’t I? You haven’t been interested in me because you’re having an affair with Suzy!”


She’s sexy, successful . . . and PREGNANT!

Relax and enjoy the last in our series of stories about spirited women and gorgeous men, whose passion results in pregnancies... sometimes unexpected! Of course, the birth of a baby is always a joyful event, and we can guarantee that our characters will become besotted moms and dads—but what happened in those nine months before?

Share the surprises, emotions, dramas and suspense as our parents-to-be come to terms with the prospect of bringing a new little life into the world.... All will discover that the business of making babies brings with it the most special love of all....


The Yuletide Child

Charlotte Lamb














www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

ONCE the curtain went up and the music began Dylan lost awareness of everything outside the enchanted circle of light in which she and Michael moved, their bodies in total harmony, gliding sinuously, like snakes, entwining, limb against limb, slithering down each other in erotic invitation, then suddenly breaking apart, whirling away in opposite directions, leaping so high the audience always gasped in disbelief. Not that Dylan heard them.

She heard, saw, nothing but Michael and her own black shadow flying across the white backcloth, the white-painted boards under their feet, until their bodies met once more, writhed in embrace, caressing, imploring, slid to the floor and joined there, rose and fell over and over again, quivering in breathtaking ecstasy.

You could have heard a pin drop in the audience. It was the same every night. The watchers were transfixed and aroused, barely breathing, not moving, until the final second when the two young lovers sank into completed repose.

It wasn’t until they took their curtain calls and the thunder of applause broke over them that she began to come out of the hypnotic trance in which she always experienced ‘Exercises for Lovers’.

Sweat pouring down her body, shuddering with anguished breath, trembling and exhausted, with Michael holding her hand, supporting her, she looked out into the audience for the first time, curtseying, bending her head in recognition of the audience response.

Normally she never noticed anyone out there, but tonight her flickering gaze stopped suddenly as it moved over the rows of faces. She stared into dark eyes in a sort of shock.

He was sitting in the front row of the stalls, leaning forward, his stare glowing and intense, face pale in the shadows, hair black as night. Prince of Darkness, she thought, a little feverish, wildly hyper after the fierce concentration of the dance. That was what he looked like: a creature of the night, a lost soul.

She had never seen him before, yet she felt instantly that she had always known him, that he had haunted her dreams all her life.

Michael felt the shudder which ran through her, and shot her a quick, sideways look.

Turning, lifting her hand to his lips, his lithe body bent in a gesture of adoration, he whispered, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, just a ghost walking over my grave,’ she lied, and was surprised that she did, because she and Michael knew each other better than anyone else in the world. She had never hidden anything from him before, but she couldn’t tell him what had just happened to her; she had no words to describe that weird, out-of-this-world sensation.

The flowers came on, as they always did at this point, cellophane-wrapped bouquets from fans. She and Michael accepted them gracefully, cradled them in the crook of their arms, each blowing a kiss to the audience. It was all a ritual, part of the performance, and she went through it in the same well-rehearsed, smiling fashion.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight she kept looking down into the front row of seats, finding those eyes, and feeling her heart beating right through her until her entire body seemed to be one passionate heartbeat.

What is the matter with me? she thought as Michael led her off, their hands still linked, into the wings, followed by the roar of applause which was like waves beating on a rocky shore. They walked past smiling backstage staff who softly clapped.

‘You were wonderful tonight,’ a stagehand said.

She smiled mistily. ‘Thank you.’

‘Beautiful,’ their director told them both. ‘You just keep getting better, both of you.’

At last they escaped into the quiet, narrow, shadowy corridor which led to the dressing rooms. Only then could she begin to wind down from the heights on which they had danced.

Walking into the square, white-painted box of a room with her name on the door, Dylan sat down on the stool in front of her mirror and blankly gazed at her own reflection: a white-painted face, the face of an icon, not of a human being, a make-up created for this performance by a great make-up artist who had taught her how to renew it quite quickly before every show.

A dew of perspiration showed on the white mask, her painted red mouth was trembling, and under the thickly drawn in black brows her blue eyes were dominated by enlarged pupils like glistening black fruit.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ asked Michael from the door, frowning. ‘You aren’t sick, are you?’

She could never talk after a performance. She shook her head, managing a smile.

‘Sure?’

She nodded.

‘Okay, then. See you in twenty minutes?’ Michael said, his grey eyes watchful. He looked after her as if she was a child, but for the moment he let it go, closing the door.

She shut her eyes and just sat there, breathing. The relief of being alone was wonderful. Dancing in a spotlight with hundreds of eyes watching you was an ordeal to her, even though she had been doing it now for years. Oh, of course she loved to dance, and the audience response always lifted her, but she always had the fear of making a mistake, stumbling, missing a cue. The tension wound up and up until you thought you would die, and it took time to unwind afterwards.

She slowly began to remove her make-up; underneath it her skin was red and prickly with heat, so she used a handful of gel to soothe as well as cleanse her skin. She had no dresser; she didn’t need one. Her costume was very simple, just a flesh-coloured, skintight body-stocking which covered her from her neck to her feet. Seen from the auditorium, it looked as if she was dancing in the nude, which was exactly how Michael wanted it to look.

Dylan slowly and carefully unpeeled the costume, like a snake shedding a slippery skin, then dropped it into a wicker basket. Tomorrow morning it would be put into a washing machine by the wardrobe mistress, spin-dried and hung up ready for tomorrow night’s performance.

She always had to dust it inside with talc before she dressed; it was not easy to wriggle into the costume and she had never enjoyed wearing it.

Naked, she walked into her en suite bathroom, used the lavatory, which she was never able to do from the moment she put on her costume until she took it off, then had a long, cooling, relaxing shower, taking her time, dried herself and put on clean white panties and a matching bra.

The new dance ate up energy. It was physically demanding; every night she felt limp and drained afterwards. She was shivering now as if she had flu. For some reason tonight was worse than usual.

Because of those eyes, she thought, seeing them again: primitive, disturbing, the glittering eyes of a wolf in the forest, watching, stalking you before it leapt.

Oh, stop being melodramatic! she told herself, laughing at her own imagination as she went back into the dressing room. He was just another fan staring, and wasn’t that what Michael wanted from the audience—that fixed intensity of attention on what the dancers on stage were doing?

He was a brilliant choreographer and ‘Exercises for Lovers’ was the best thing he had created so far. She was very lucky to have met him at ballet school, to have formed a close partnership with him so young that had formed their careers. Their audiences thought of them together...Adams and Carossi...nobody spoke of one without the other. Dylan was a dancer, pure and simple, she had no other ambition—but Michael Carossi had always dreamt of becoming a choreographer, of being the best in the world. Dancing was not enough for him any more, he needed to invent his own steps, create the ballets they danced.

His choreography was intensely physical. Every day they had to rehearse for hours, bending, stretching, doing those incredible leaps, warming muscles to keep their bodies supple during the performance that evening. This was an exhausting ballet; she would be glad when they changed the programme to something less demanding.

The door into the corridor wasn’t locked. It was un unwritten rule backstage that if a door was closed you did not open it without knocking first and waiting to be invited in, so she never bothered to lock the door before getting undressed.

Hearing the door opening, she called out, ‘I’m getting dressed!’ looked into her mirror and felt her heart kick against her ribs.

He stood in the doorway, his dark eyes piercing her like a laser, moving over her slender, pale-skinned, almost naked body, leaving heat everywhere it touched.

Breathlessly, she managed to say, ‘Didn’t you hear me say I’m getting dressed?’

‘No, I didn’t. Sorry.’ The door shut again.

She was disturbed to find that her hands were trembling as she slid a filmy white slip over her head, smoothing down the delicate straps over her creamy shoulders, a flurry of lace over her breasts. Over that she added a gossamer-fine yellow chiffon dress, tight-waisted, low-necked, full-skirted, which made satisfying swishing noises around her thighs.

She blow-dried her damp hair, brushing the short brown curls into a semblance of order. Michael said the hairstyle made her look like a boy, especially as she had such a skinny, flat, athlete’s body.

Outside her door she heard loud, angry voices, and stiffened. What on earth was going on out there?

The door snapped open; Michael appeared in the doorway, his thin, fine-boned face flushed in anger. ‘This guy says he’s a friend of yours—is that right?’

Over his bony shoulder she met the dark eyes; they pleaded, urged.

‘Yes,’ she heard herself say, and couldn’t believe she had said it, almost contradicted herself, took it back. What on earth was the matter with her, pretending she knew this total stranger?

Of course, if she denied knowing him Michael would have him thrown out at once—and to her surprise she recognised that she didn’t want that to happen. She wanted to get to know this man.

Angrily pushing back a lock of damp, fair hair from his forehead, Michael demanded, ‘Who is he?’

Before she could think of a reply the other man answered for her. ‘None of your business.’ He pushed his way past Michael, closing the door in his face with a cool arrogance that took Dylan’s breath away. She had never seen anyone treat Michael Carossi as if he was just any other man. Michael was used to admiration, respect, the heady fumes of hero-worship from the whole company as well as their audiences. Michael was the god of their little world; the whole company revolved around him, including her.

The stranger stood, staring at her, and suddenly the room seemed far too small, she could hardly breathe.

‘You look...’ he began huskily, then stopped, swallowing; she saw his throat move. ‘Beautiful,’ he finished.

‘Thank you,’ she said, dry-mouthed, and forced a pretence of laugher. ‘I’m not, though—it’s an illusion, especially on stage. It’s just the make-up and clothes. I’m really very ordinary.’ Her eyes glanced sideways into the dressing table mirror at the slender girl reflected there. Brown hair, a small, heart-shaped face, slightly built—there was nothing special about her. There never had been.

‘Ordinary?’ he repeated. ‘Is that really how you feel? All this glamour, the show business stuff, the fans, the fuss people make over you! Do you wish you were just an ordinary girl?’

‘But that’s what I am! An ordinary girl who happens to be able to dance.’

‘You must have wanted to be a dancer!’

‘It just happened to me. I started when I was four years old, taking dancing lessons once a week. All my mother’s idea, actually. I don’t remember ever wanting to; it was all so long ago. I had no idea where it would all end. Nobody warns you that if you go on with it you’ll spend endless days in punishing, gruelling work. They don’t tell you about the muscle strain, the agony of sore feet, the aching back...’ She broke off, surprised by what she was telling him, flushed and worried. If he turned out to be a journalist and published what she had just said Michael would be furious with her! Hurriedly, she asked, ‘Look, who are you? How did you get in here?’

‘Walked in,’ he calmly said.

‘The stage doorkeeper should have stopped you!’ As if poor old George would have had much chance of keeping him out!

Nearly sixty, a cheerful, grey-haired man who had been a dancer once, George had broken a leg when he was thirty and never danced again. He had been given a job backstage and had graduated through various jobs to doorkeeper. Wiry, with a faint limp even now, George was practical and kind-hearted, a father-figure to the young dancers, but he would never be able to deal with a man like this.

The tough mouth curled up at one edge. ‘He was busy on the phone; he didn’t see me!’

Preferred not to, no doubt! thought Dylan. George had a strong sense of self-preservation; he wouldn’t risk getting his head knocked off!

Her blue eyes absorbed everything about the stranger, starting with that mouth. Wide, passionate, beautifully moulded, it had an erotic power that made her quiver. The very idea of being kissed by him made her head swim.

How tall was he? A foot taller than her; her head just came up to his wide shoulders. Now that he was under the raw glare of her dressing room lights she could see that he was not pale at all; no doubt it had been the contrast of his black hair and paler skin in shadows. In fact he was deeply tanned, brown as a berry, and very fit. A lean man, with a lot of muscles under that white shirt. Those stark, angular cheekbones, that strong jaw-line, made him a man any woman would find compelling and any man would find a threat.

‘What’s your name?’

He smiled and her ears beat with a hot pulse. ‘Ross Jefferson. Is Dylan Adams your real name?’

She nodded. ‘What do you do? You aren’t in the theatre, are you?’ He looked as if he spent all his time out of doors, but then she, of all people, knew how deceptive appearances could be!

‘No, I am not,’ he said, grimacing. ‘I’m a forester—I work in a commercially managed forest, way up north—all conifers, of course.’

She gave a sigh of relief—at least he wasn’t a journalist looking for a gossip story!

‘I had a holiday in Norway once, when I was at school. There were forests of fir trees everywhere we went.’ They were making polite conversation on the surface but underneath something very different was happening. She barely knew what she was saying, she was so intent on what she was feeling: a sensuality which was entirely new to her and left her in a state of shock.

She had had a few boyfriends in the past, but her career took first place in her life: there wasn’t time to get seriously involved with anyone. Except Michael, of course; he was always there. They saw each other every day, most of their waking hours, but their relationship was not a sexual one. They were more than friends, less than lovers. Partners, necessary to each other on stage and off, working together, eating together, spending their spare time together. How could she ever have fallen in love with anyone else? Michael left no room for any other man.

At that instant, right on cue, Michael tapped on the door. ‘Are you coming, Dylan? I’m not waiting much longer; I’m starving. Come on!’

‘Will you have supper with me?’ Ross Jefferson quickly asked.

‘I always eat with Michael after a performance.’

His eyes focused on hers intently, his face hard, set. ‘Are you two lovers?’

The direct, flat question made her flush.

‘No, just very good friends.’ Yet more than that; the answer was too simplistic. What else could she say, though? There were no words to describe how close she and Michael were.

‘Then eat with me tonight!’ Ross said urgently, moving closer to her, but not touching her. ‘I want to get to know you. I’m only in London for a week. I’m here on holiday and have to get back to work by next Monday, at the other end of the country. God knows when I shall be able to come to London again. I’ve no time to waste.’

‘Dylan!’ Michael shouted again. ‘Our table is booked for eleven! Come on!’

Still staring into the dark, hypnotic eyes, Dylan called out, ‘You go on without me, Michael. See you tomorrow at rehearsal.’

A silence, then the door was pulled open and Michael stared in at her, at both of them. There was incredulity, alarm, wariness in his elegant face. This had never happened before. She had never shown any sign of preferring another man’s company to his. Something new had entered their magic circle, something dangerous to Michael, and he immediately sensed it. He had powerful intuitions, especially where his own security was involved.

‘I need to talk over tonight’s performance. It won’t wait.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, meaning far more than that she was sorry she couldn’t eat supper with him. She was saying she was sorry she wouldn’t be able to talk through the way they had danced, analyse any mistakes, discuss the audience reaction to this movement or that, the way they always did after each performance, while it was fresh in their minds. Each night was so different, each audience responded differently; you learnt so much from studying them. Added to all that, they had to talk themselves down from the fierce excitement of the night.

And tonight Dylan was changing all that. Tonight Michael was no longer the centre of her universe. A new element had entered the equasion.

‘I’m having supper with Ross,’ she said.

Michael stood there, very still, intensely concentrated on her, staring into her eyes and reading everything in them.

They knew each other so well. She couldn’t hide anything from him. She didn’t even try.

‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ he said at last. The door slammed again; he was gone but she was trembling.

Ross stared at the door, then down at her; she stiffened, waiting for him to question her again about Michael. His eyes were hard and narrowed, dark with thought, but all he said was, ‘Shall we get away before he comes back to argue some more? My car’s parked in the next street.’

The fans were outside the stage door, clustered around Michael, who was signing autographs. Ross took her hand and hurried her away, around the corner, before they were noticed. The crowds had all gone now. The streets were silent; their footsteps rang out in the stillness. This part of London did not have as much traffic at night as the busier parts of town. It was mostly city offices, very few people worked at night around here, and the shops and restaurants were all closed. The air was warm, a faint breeze blew her silky skirts around her legs.

‘Where are we going to eat?’

‘You suggest somewhere.’

‘I know an Italian trattoria not far from here—they stay open until midnight. Do you like Italian food?’

‘Love it.’ He stopped walking, looked down at her. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said abruptly, still holding her hand. Raising it to his chest, he splayed it over his shirt-front. ‘Can you feel my heart beating?’

Her palm flattened, she stood still, the heavy thudding right under her warm skin, and nodded, unable to speak.

Ross looked at her with a passion that made her quiver. ‘Do you feel it, too? It’s as if I’ve been struck by lightning. I think I’ve fallen in love with you at first sight, and I never even believed in such a thing.’

‘Me, too,’ she whispered, and then he bent his head, his warm mouth moving against hers, sending the world whirling crazily around them.

They spent the next two hours talking in a corner of the trattoria, eating their way through melon and prosciutto, the swordfish cooked in tomatoes, olives and garlic, with a green salad, followed by green figs.

‘Are you dieting?’ he asked her, and she laughed.

‘I don’t need to—I use up so much energy every day. I’m underweight for my height. But I love swordfish, don’t you?’

‘I’ve never eaten it before, but it’s good. Tell me about your usual day. When do you get up? Can we have breakfast together?’

‘You’re going too fast!’

‘I have to—there isn’t time to take it slowly. I live hundreds of miles away and I don’t get much time off.’

He told her about his forest, talking passionately about his trees, how he worked among them, the life he led in the northern area between England and Scotland which was his home.

She told him how hard and fiercely she had to work each day, how much she loved to dance, but how tired she often was.

He asked her again about Michael. ‘Has he ever been your lover? Is he in love with you?’

‘No,’ she said to both questions.

‘Don’t tell me you’re just good friends! He’s far too possessive for that to be true!’

‘We’re partners. It’s hard to explain. We need each other. It isn’t love.’ Nothing so easy to define, nothing so simple. Michael threatened the back of her mind like a bruise, darkening her skin, worrying her. How would he reaact to what was happening to her?

‘Never has been?’ insisted Ross, and she shook her head.

‘No. Michael has girlfriends but I was never one of them.’

‘Were there other men in your life?’

‘Nobody special. There was never enough time. I had to work too hard and I was always tired.’

Ross drove her back to her flat in Islington, just a mile away from the theatre.

‘I won’t ask you in; it’s gone one o’clock, and I have to get some sleep,’ she said, sitting in his car outside the building.

‘Breakfast... when?’ He was very close. She knew he was going to kiss her; she was dying for the touch of his mouth. She couldn’t think about anything else. ‘Eight o’clock?’

‘Nine! I’ve got rehearsals at eleven,’ she thought aloud, knowing that tomorrow she was going to regret losing so much sleep. She needed a solid eight hours every night to restore her energy levels, so that she could keep up with her demanding schedule.

‘Skip them and spend the day with me.’

‘I can’t, Michael would kill me. We have to work at the barre every day to keep supple; muscles stiffen up so quickly if you don’t.’

‘When can you get away, then?’

‘Lunchtime. One o’clock. Then I’m supposed to have a rest, a nap before the evening performance. I don’t get much free time.’

‘Breakfast and then lunch,’ he said, framing her face between his hands and bending.

Their mouths clung; she felt heat deep inside her body. It was the first time in her entire life that she had ever wanted a man like that.

A week later they got engaged. The wedding was fixed for a month after that, although her father almost had kittens when she said she was planning to marry so quickly. Her mother would have been dead for two years that spring; it seemed longer. Dylan still missed her and wished she could talk to her about Ross, about getting married. Ingrid Adams had been fifty the year she’d died of cancer, after a mercifully short illness. Dylan’s father, Joe Adams, still hadn’t quite got over it, and was unable to cope with organising a wedding.

‘There isn’t time! You can’t arrange a wedding this soon!’ he said to her helplessly. ‘Why not wait a few months, give yourself time to think, time for us to organise everything?’

‘We don’t want to wait. We just want to get married!’

He looked at her sister, Jenny, throwing up his hands in despair. Jenny tried to argue her out of being in such a hurry, too, but gave up when she realized Dylan simply was not listening.

Michael was worse. Michael went crazy, white and shaking, his eyes black holes in his head. ‘You can’t do this to me—you can’t chuck everything away. For pity’s sake, Dylan, it’s just infatuation. Sleep with him, but don’t marry him. How can you go on with your career if you live at the back of beyond? You have to be in London to dance.’

‘I’m sorry, Michael,’ was all she could say, almost in tears herself, because she hated quarrelling with him. She felt guilty because what he had said was true. She wasn’t just getting married. She was giving up her career. She was walking away from Michael and everything they had built up together.

‘My contract ends this month; I’m not signing up again.’ Their season ended, too, at the same time; they would have gone into rehearsal for a month, then gone on a protracted tour of the States before returning in the autumn to open a new season here in London. Now Michael would be doing all that without her.

Michael grabbed her shoulders and shook her, hoarsely shouting. ‘I won’t let you do it! What about me? What am I supposed to do? I can’t dance without you.’

He made her nervous, but she lifted her chin to stare back at him defiantly. ‘I’m sorry, Michael. Don’t be so angry. I know it’s going to be a problem, but it will be a challenge, too—can’t you see that? You’ll find a new partner; they’ll queue up for the chance to dance with you, you know that. I’m not unique. You’ll find someone else, just as good, probably even better, and go on to even greater heights.’

His face was stormy, full of bitterness. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’re a great dancer, arguably the best of our generation...you can’t throw it all away on this stupid, ordinary, boring guy. My God, Dylan—he’s nobody. He doesn’t even understand what you are, how wonderful you are. He knows nothing about ballet. He is destroying a great dancer without even knowing what a great dancer is!’

Helplessly she pleaded for him to understand, her voice shaking ‘Michael, try to see it from our side—he loves me: we love each other.’

‘Stop saying that—I just told you, it won’t last for ever, it never does. Use your brain, Dylan. What the hell is wrong with you? You’re possessed...out of your mind, crazy.’

She laughed nervously. ‘Maybe I am, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I am being driven, Michael. I can’t think of anything else but Ross. If I stayed on in the ballet I’d be worse than useless. It doesn’t seem important any more. I no longer want to dance.’

He looked as shocked as if she had hit him in the face. ‘You can’t be serious. I’d rather see you dead at my feet than let you stop dancing. The idea is unthinkable. You were born to dance, and I won’t let you stop, do you hear me? You aren’t going to do it!’

‘Yes, I am, Michael.’

It went on day after day, all the same arguments, the same pleas and angry protests, until her wedding day.

Michael’s bitterness and rage made life impossible in the theatre during that month but Dylan rode the storm somehow, her mind entirely set on the moment when she would become Ross’s wife. Michael was right—she was possessed, nothing else mattered to her, she was being carried away by an instinct older than time. She wanted to sleep in Ross’s bed every night, bear his children, spend her life with him. The life force had her in its grip and her career no longer mattered a damn. She found rehearsing tiring; the nightly performances passed in a vague dream. She was no longer part of the company. In her own mind she had already left, although her body went on performing.

She hadn’t believed Michael would come to the wedding, but he did, glowering darkly from his seat in the church. His friends, the company, all the dancers they had been to school with, were on his side, their eyes accusing her of treachery, betrayal. How could she do this to him? they silently asked, those eyes.

Afterwards, at the reception, he walked up to Dylan in her white dress and veil. She stiffened, afraid of what he might do next, but all he did was take her hands and kiss them lingeringly, the backs and then the pale pink palms.

‘I’m not saying goodbye. You’ll be back. You can’t exist away from us. When the madness passes, you’ll come back to me.’

‘Don’t hold your breath, Carossi!’ Ross snapped, tense as a drawn bow beside her, putting his arm around her waist and pulling her close to him.

Michael ignored him as if he was invisible. Dylan watched him walk away, sadness welling up inside her. Ever since they’d first met at ballet school they had been so close, almost one person instead of two; it was hard to say goodbye, harder to think of life without him.

She and Ross left for their honeymoon a few minutes later. They flew to Italy and spent two weeks at a small hotel in the Tuscan hills, making love day and night with a passion that excluded everyone and everything else, although they managed to spend a day at Venice and another at Florence. Dylan remembered both days like waking dreams: she and Ross wandered together, entranced, through the cities, looking at each other, not the beautiful buildings, the River Arno, the Grand Canal, the famous paintings, the statues in the narrow, old streets of both those ancient and exquisite cities. They were merely the background of the happiness Dylan and Ross shared, like painted designs on a stage backcloth.

After their honeymoon Ross took her up north to the house they were going to share, and for the first time she saw his forest, the ranked dark green of the conifers, the scent of pine, the darkness in the heart of the trees. There was no other house in sight. There was very little traffic; few cars ever passed along that narrow road.

Dylan was a city girl, used to the busy streets of London, the noise and fumes, the roofs crowding the skyline, other people everywhere. Even during their honeymoon there had always been crowds circling them. Now they were alone, in a haunted landscape.

This was the first moment she felt a stirring of doubt, a sense of panic. She had married Ross without stopping to think about what she was throwing away, leaving behind; the city she had lived in all her life, the pleasure and pain of dancing, the companionship of the ballet company, the partnership with Michael which had been her life for years.

From her first sight of Ross none of that had seemed to matter any more. She had become a driven creature, only knowing she needed this man more than breath itself. Love had not so much obsessed her as consumed her, taken over her whole life.

Now she was alone with Ross and his forest, facing the consequences of her marriage, looking down into the deep abyss between her past and her future, the life she had led and the life she would lead in future. Standing at the window of their bedroom, looking out, she saw nothing but trees and sky, heard only the wind moving the branches, the sigh and whisper of the forest, and fear prickled under her skin.

What had she done?


CHAPTER TWO

AND then Ross came up behind her, put his arms around her waist and kissed her softly on the side of her neck. Dylan leaned back against him, sighing with pleasure, pushing away her moment of doubt and uncertainty. She loved him more than she had ever loved anything or anyone else before. Whatever she had had to give up weighed very little in the scales against having Ross.

‘Come and meet my trees,’ he whispered.

He always talked about them as if they were human, had feelings, could hear what he said to them and even answered him in their own way. Dylan smiled, touched by that, by his passionate commitment to his work That was what she wanted from him—that deep, unfaltering love. She wanted to give as much back, too.

‘I’m dying to!’ she assured him.

His smile of pleasure made her heart lift. He wanted her to share his feelings about the forest. Dylan wanted to be part of every aspect of his life. Wasn’t that what marriage meant? Sharing everything, becoming one flesh, one heart, one mind?

The unforgettable scent of pine met them as soon as they walked through the gate in their garden hedge into the forest. Ferns brushed their legs, flies and midges buzzed them, powdery-winged brown and blue butterflies hovered over spring flowers in the long grass at the forest rim. Under their feet was the crunch of pine needles. Sunlight laid out needle-fine paths in front of them under the fir trees until they faded into darkness.

As the shadows around them deepened Dylan couldn’t help shivering. ‘It’s quite cold in here, isn’t it?’

She was wearing jeans and a light pink shirt, over which she wore a denim waistcoat but no jacket because the weather was warm for late March, so long as you were out in the sunlight. Once they were deep into the forest, though, the sun didn’t penetrate the closely set trees and her skin had chilled rapidly.

Ross gave her a quick look, then took off his tweed jacket and put it round her shoulders. ‘Better?’

She snuggled into the warmth from his body which the tweed retained along with his own particular body scent. ‘That’s lovely. But I don’t want you to get cold. Maybe we should go back?’

‘Oh, I’m used to working out here in all weathers; I never feel the cold.’ He took her hand. ‘Come on, I want to show you something.’

She had to move quickly to keep up with his long-legged stride. The tall pines stretched all around them now; they were deep into the forest, with very little light to show them where they were going, and Dylan was oddly afraid of the pressing tree trunks, the shadows, the cool, pine-scented air.

All the forests and woods she had ever known had had broadleaf trees, oak and hornbeam, beech and ash, which shed their leaves in autumn and did not grow too close together, so that open glades stretched in places, full of light and giving space for wild flowers and tussocks of long grass. She had never been nervous in those woods, but she was nervous now.

At last Ross stopped moving and put a finger to his lips, whispering to her, ‘Keep very still. Look...there...’ He pointed to a tree a few feet away.

Obediently not moving, Dylan peered, but at first could not see anything interesting. Then there was a shirr of wings, a flash of gold and cream. A tiny bird flew up to a branch of the conifer and perched on a web of ivy. A second later Dylan spotted a basket-shape hanging there; the little bird disappeared into it.

Looking up at Ross, she silently shaped the word ‘nest’.

He nodded. ‘A goldcrest’s nest,’ he whispered, so softly she could only just hear him.

The bird flew out and vanished among the trees, and Ross said very quietly, ‘The nest is made of moss—isn’t it clever, the way it’s made? She must have fledglings. We often get goldcrests here; they feed on insects which live on conifers, breed in the bark—beetles and flies, for instance—not many birds live among fir trees, but it’s a habitat that agrees with goldcrests.’

‘I’ve never seen a goldcrest before,’ she said wonderingly. ‘It’s such a wonderful colour.’

‘No, you wouldn’t have—they aren’t city birds.’

‘I wish I could see the fledglings. Do you know, I’ve never seen a bird’s nest? If I’d had a brother I might have done, but there was just me and Jenny and we never went bird-nesting.’

‘I’m glad to hear it—these days it’s very frowned on. You’re encouraged to use binoculars and watch a nest, never to interfere with it, and certainly never to remove eggs.’

‘Do people still do that?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. Some collectors have no conscience. Luckily, that tree is far too high to climb. Goldcrests aren’t common birds; we have to protect them.’ Glancing at his watch, he said, ‘Look at the time! We’ve been in here nearly an hour. Doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself? We’d better start walking back.’

Dylan was relieved to see the sunlit edge of the forest reappearing. There was something disturbing about the deep interior of the forest; it was so silent and full of shadows, making the skin on the back of her neck creep. She couldn’t say why, except that, perhaps, she knew so little about the natural world. She had lived in a great city all her life. She had a lot to learn.

Just before they left the forest something red flashed up a tree, making her jump and stand still, staring upward.

‘What was that?’

‘A red squirrel,’ Ross said casually.

Her eyes widened. ‘Red? I’ve never seen a red one; in London we only have grey squirrels.’ She stood staring up the tree; the squirrel peered down at her, its bushy tail flicking to and fro. ‘Will it come if I feed it some nuts? There were squirrels in the park near where I lived which came right up to you and took nuts from your hand.’

‘They were semi-tame—this is a wild squirrel,’ Ross told her. ‘It might run down and snatch nuts if you threw them and stayed back, but it wouldn’t eat out of your hand.’

As they finally left the forest, coming out into the sunlight, she asked him, ‘Have you got any books I could read? On the forest?’

‘I’ll find one for you,’ Ross promised. ‘And this evening, after supper, we’ll take another walk. I’ll show you the moths; they are really something! The forest is very different at night.’

Dylan hoped he didn’t notice the atavistic shudder running through her at the idea of going into the forest in the dark. Smiling bravely, she said, ‘Wonderful, I’ll look forward to that.’ Somehow she had to learn to love the forest for his sake.

They never got very far among the trees that night, though. Before they had gone more than a few steps Dylan felt something scuttle across her face and screamed, frantically brushing her skin to get rid of whatever it was.

Ross had a torch in one hand; he switched it on and turned it on her, blinding her. ‘Stand still. Oh, it’s just a spider.’ He flicked one finger. ‘There, it’s gone. It was a wolf spider.’

Shuddering, she said, ‘A wolf spider? Why is it called that? Does it bite?’

Ross switched off his torch and put both arms round her, pulling her close to him, kissing her hair. ‘Of course not. Are you scared of spiders? There’s no need to be; there are no poisonous spiders in Britain. Wolf spiders hunt their prey instead of just sitting in a web waiting for it. And they eat other insects, not people!’

‘How was I to know that? I’m not up on spiders.’ She tried to laugh, lifting her face, and saw his eyes gleaming in the shadows. ‘Even you seem strange,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know you out here, in the dark.’

‘Then I’ll have to remind you who I am,’ he murmured thickly, his head coming down.

His mouth blotted out memory. She was lost at once, kissing him back passionately, her knees giving. Sliding her arms around his neck, she held him tightly, pressing closer, her body moulding itself to his.

Ross pulled her down into the long, whispering ferns and grass, the scent of the earth and the pines making her head swim. Without breaking off their kiss, they hurriedly began undressing each other with shaky hands. Dylan buried her flushed, feverish face in his naked chest, groaning with desire, her lips open on his skin.

‘I want you so much.’

‘Not as much as I want you,’ he muttered, sliding on top of her, and her breath exhaled in a strangled gasp as he parted her thighs.

‘Darling...oh, darling...’

Her arms around his back, she caught him between her thighs, arching up to meet that first, deep thrust. The need intensified into a frenzy as they moved together, their bodies totally entwined, riding fiercely towards the same intense pleasure.

Their deep moans of satisfaction floated up between the trees into the dark night sky. Afterwards they lay sleepily on their crushed bed of fern, still closely twined, his arm under her, her leg curled across him, staring up into the shadows where pale moths flitted, glistening with powdered wings.

‘I love your moths,’ she whispered, drowsily wondering how she could ever have felt uncertain about having married him. She had never been so happy in her entire life. It would be wonderful to sleep out here all night, naked in this forest, under the stars and moon, with the scents and sounds of the earth all around them.

Next day he was up at first light while she was still asleep. He woke her with a cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast before he left for work. Drowsily, she blinked up at him, sunlight on her lashes.

He groaned, bending to kiss the warm valley between her breasts. ‘I wish I didn’t have to go to work. You’re far too tempting in that nightie. Even sexier without it, of course.’ He pushed the deep lace neckline aside and buried his face against her breasts. ‘Mmm...you smell of honey and flowers.’

She stroked his dark hair, ran her fingertips into it, caressed the nape of his neck.

‘Get back in bed, Ross, I want you.’ She pulled him down closer and he laughed throatily.

‘I wish I could, believe me—but I can’t. We’re back in the real world and I have a job to do.’ Straightening, he sighed. ‘Got to go, darling. I can’t be sure what time I’ll be back, but there’s plenty of food in the freezer and the fridge. You’ve got my mobile number if you need me. I’ll have to take the car—I’ll need it to get from one part of the forest to another, with all my equipment and tools—but if you want to go into the village it’s only a couple of miles to walk, or you can get a lift there with the postman if he comes today. He often gives people lifts. Then you’ll only have the walk back to face.’

The distance didn’t bother her; she would enjoy a walk. ‘The exercise will be good for me. I don’t want to lose muscle tone. I have to keep supple, and walking is a very good way of doing that.’

‘I’ll help you keep supple—I can think of some very enjoyable exercises to do every night.’

She giggled. ‘I bet you can.’

‘When did you say your brother-in-law was going to deliver that object you call a car up here?’

‘Don’t make fun of my flower wagon! I love it. It may not go very fast but it is reliable, and it’s a thing of beauty! A one-off, unique. People always stare when I go by in it.’

‘I bet they do,’ Ross said curtly.

She had bought it secondhand from a car auction two years ago: a Mini car painted a metallic green. Michael had transformed it over a couple of weekends, painting a jungle all over it—palms and huge, exotic tropical flowers in extraordinary colours.

‘Phil hopes to bring it up here next weekend. He can’t get the time off during the week. He’ll have to take the train to London to pick up my car, then drive it up here and take the train back home to Penrith. It’s a long journey; it’s very good of Phil to offer to do it.’

Ross nodded. ‘Nice guy, Phil. I liked him.’

The emphasis reminded her that he did not like Michael, and never would. She suppressed a faint sigh. If only they could be friends. They were the two most important men in her life and she hated knowing that they resented each other.

‘And your sister’s nearly as gorgeous as you are,’ Ross added, smiling, then looked at his watch. ‘Must rush. See you, darling. Oh, and I left a couple of books on the forest for you, on the kitchen table.’

It was her first day alone in the house. She got up after she had finished her toast and tea, showered and dressed in jeans and a loose dark pink shirt, then sat down at the kitchen table and worked out a daily schedule for her housework. She had learned discipline in ballet school; you had to be organised or you got nowhere.

After making their bed and tidying the bedroom and all the rooms downstairs she went out into the garden to gather vegetables for supper. She would make a vegetable casserole, she decided, a layered dish of thick slices of carrots, potatoes, onions, parsnips, turnips and young broad beans. It was a meal she had often cooked before, in London, but there she had used vegetables from a nearby street market. They had not been as fresh as the ones she was picking from Ross’s neat, straight rows.

When it was nearly cooked she would stir in tomatoes and mushrooms and sprinkle the top with mixed fresh breadcrumbs and grated cheese to make a crunchy gold topping. She would serve lamb with it for Ross, but she, herself, would only eat the vegetable casserole. As well as exercising daily she would need to diet. For years she had been working out for hours every day, using up a lot of calories and energy. Now that she had stopped she would put on weight if she didn’t watch it.

Looking at her watch, she was shaken to see that it was only eleven! The day was dragging. What if Ross didn’t get back until six or seven? How was she going to cope with such long days alone, with nothing to do and nobody to talk to?

She left the trug of vegetables on the draining board, to wash later, and made some black coffee. While she drank a cup she sat down at the kitchen table and opened one of the books Ross had left her. It was easier to read than she had been afraid it would be—almost every page had a coloured picture on it and the text was direct and simple. She started with a section on the wildlife of a conifer forest, and read for twenty minutes with deep interest until she suddenly heard Ross’s voice outside.

Dropping the book, she rushed to open the front door, then stopped dead as she realised he was not alone. There was a woman in his arms.

Shocked, Dylan froze, staring—who on earth was she? Someone very sophisticated, with blonde hair the colour of a new-hatched chick and a figure with more curves than a switchback ride. Her high, round breasts were shown off by a tight white sweater which clung to every seductive inch, her slim waist was cinched by a black leather belt, and she had very long legs in tight jeans.

Ross turned to smile, his manner unworried and confident. ‘Dylan, this is Suzy Hale. She’s Alan’s wife—I’ve told you about him, one of my colleagues and a very good friend of mine—they live ten miles off. She’s come along to introduce herself and invite us both over for dinner, next week. Isn’t that nice of her?’

Dylan barely heard half he said. She was too busy noticing the smear of bright red lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Did he always kiss his best friend’s wife on the lips?

Somehow, though, she managed a smile and murmured, ‘That would be lovely.’

The blonde slid out of Ross’s grasp and came towards her, holding out her hand, the fingers tipped with bright red nail varnish that matched her lipstick.

‘Hi, Dylan, welcome to the back of beyond!’ Her fingers were firm and warm and her smile was so friendly Dylan couldn’t help smiling back.

‘That’s a London accent, isn’t it?’

The other woman laughed, her head flung back. ‘Well spotted! I was born in Finchley, lived there for years. Bit of a culture shock, this place, isn’t it, to a Londoner? How is the old place? I bet you’re missing it already! I know I do. I rarely get a chance to go there since my family moved to Wales. My brother got a job in a hospital in Cardiff; he’s a physiotherapist. Our parents decided to go, too. My father came from Cardiff originally, so they were keen to go back there. Now I have to stay in a hotel if I go to London, and, as you know only too well, London hotels cost an arm and a leg. But then everything in London is expensive, and on Alan’s salary we can’t afford to spend money like a drunken sailor.’ Dylan was dazed by the speed at which the other woman talked. Scarcely drawing breath, Suzy went on, ‘Ross says you were a ballet dancer—I’m ashamed to admit I’ve never ever seen ballet. The only dancing I ever did was at a rave. I’m not an intellectual, I’m afraid.’ She turned a laughing face at Ross. ‘And 1 can’t believe Ross went to the ballet! Buy the ticket by mistake, did you, Ross? Thought you’d be seeing something like the Folies Bergère?’

Ross seemed very amused by her—did he enjoy her bubbly personality and headlong chatter? Dylan wished she was an extrovert, could talk as easily, but she found it impossible to shed her inhibitions.

Dancing was a physical art; she never needed to talk. She could express herself eloquently in gesture and movement, so she was never self-conscious on a stage, but faced with other people she felt herself tighten up, unable to relax.

‘Actually, I bought a ticket because I saw a big blown-up photo of Dylan outside the theatre,’ Ross said, and Dylan did a double-take. He had never told her that. He glanced at her, dark grey eyes teasing.

‘I knew it! You didn’t go in to see a ballet, you went to see more of Dylan. Did she look sexy in a tutu?’ Suzy roared with laughter.

‘I’m sure she would—but in the photo it looked as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all,’ Ross drawled. ‘She looked totally naked, but when she appeared on stage I realised she was actually wearing a body-stocking.’

Dylan went pink. Was that really why he had come to the ballet that first night? In the hope of seeing her dance in the nude?

‘I bet that was a disappointment!’ Suzy mocked, and he grinned at her.

‘You’ve got a wicked mind!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, Dylan, I have an hour to spare. I’ve finished all the work I need to do this morning, so I popped home to see how you were getting on. I thought maybe we could have an early lunch? Sandwiches and coffee? That won’t take you long, will it? Suzy, you’ll stay, won’t you?’

Politely Dylan said, ‘Yes, please stay, Suzy. It won’t take me a minute to make some sandwiches, or would you rather have pasta? I could make a quick spaghetti with tomato and basil sauce.’

‘Don’t tempt me!’ Suzy groaned. ‘Could you make me a salad sandwich with no butter in it? I’m dieting.’

‘Me, too,’ Dylan said ruefully. ‘How about you, Ross?’

‘Cheese, onion and tomato sandwich for me, darling.’

‘Okay, I won’t be long.’ She went off to the kitchen while Ross showed Suzy into the sitting room. While she cut bread, made the salad filling, sliced Ross’s favourite Cheddar cheese, she kept thinking about that lipstick on Ross’s mouth.

Had that kiss meant anything? But there had been no trace of self-consciousness or secrecy in their behaviour when she appeared. Suzy was just the type who kissed her friends, male or female.

Dylan hoped so. Jealousy was new to her; she never wanted to feel it again, the stab of agony that had pierced her when she first saw the blonde woman in Ross’s arms.

When she carried the tray of sandwiches and coffee through she found Ross and Suzy sitting close together on a couch. For a second Dylan felt the sting of jealousy again, then she saw that they were glancing through an album of wedding photos which Dylan’s sister had made and sent to them.

‘They’re quite alike, aren’t they, Dylan and her sister? ’ Suzy was saying.

‘There is a resemblance,’ Ross agreed. ‘But Dylan’s beautiful and Jenny is only attractive.’

Dylan’s heart turned over—did he really think she was beautiful? Oh, he had said it to her, when they were making love, but this was the first time she had ever heard him say it to someone else.

Her hands trembled; the china rattled on the tray and he and Suzy looked round. Hurriedly Dylan came forward to put the tray down on a low coffee table.

‘Just looking at your wedding pictures,’ Suzy told her. ‘You made a lovely bride.’ Then she leaned over the album again, staring at one photo, and gave a low, throaty gasp. ‘Who is that? He’s the sexiest thing I’ve seen for years—look at those smouldering eyes! Talk about a turn-on!’

Before she looked down at the photo Dylan knew who it was—who else could it be but Michael, lithe and supple in the dark grey suit he had worn for the wedding? The photo had been taken as the guests arrived for the service. All around him were happy, smiling faces, but the photographer had caught him in grim, bitter mood, glowering at the camera.

Ross glanced at it, scowling. ‘Oh, him! He’s a ballet dancer.’

Suzy groaned. ‘You’re kidding? He oozes machismo! But he’s gay, I suppose? They always are, aren’t they? What a waste!’

Dylan opened her mouth to contradict her, explain that male dancers were no more likely to be gay than the female ones, but Ross talked over her curtly. ‘Is that my sandwich, Dylan? I’d better eat it and go. I’m meeting my boss in half an hour. I’ll take my coffee black, thanks. What about you, Suzy?’

‘Black for me, too, thank you. Are these my sandwiches? They look terrific; I’m starving!’

‘Yes, I hope they’re okay,’ Dylan said, handing her the plate.

Suzy bent her head over them, inhaling. ‘They smell wonderful. I love the smell of fresh salad, don’t you? Did you grow all this, Ross? He’s a great gardener, isn’t he, Dylan? I envy you those rows and rows of vegetables. He plants them the way he plants his saplings—straight as a die! Vegetables taste so much better when they’ve just come out of the garden, don’t you agree?’

It was only later, when Ross had gone off back to work and Suzy had set off for her own home, that Dylan remembered that she had never set Suzy right about Michael’s sexual orientation. Next time she had a chance she must do so, but she would make certain Ross wasn’t in earshot. He hated her to mention Michael, which was typical of a man. He saw nothing wrong in laughing, teasing, almost flirting with Suzy, yet he turned nasty if Michael was mentioned. One law for him, another for her, apparently. Dylan resented that. How would he like it if she started sulking or flying into a rage every time he spoke to Suzy?

The following Friday night there was a bad spring storm in the region; all night long the wind howled around the house. Dylan anxiously watched the trees on the forest edge swaying and bending, and heard on the TV news that houses had suffered serious damage, losing tiles or chimneys, while power lines were brought down and trees toppled. Anxiety kept her awake half the night, but towards dawn the winds died down and she fell into a deep sleep, only to be awoken by the shrilling of the telephone.

Ross moaned something and rolled over to pick up the phone. Sleepily, half believing she was still dreaming, Dylan heard him groan.

‘You’re kidding? Completely blocked? Yes, we’ll have to deal with that at once. Of course. I’ll be there. Okay, Alan. See you in half an hour.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Dylan asked, struggling up in the warm bed as he hung up and started to get out of bed.

‘The storm brought down half a dozen trees in Alan’s section of the forest. A couple of them have blocked a road, and people are having to make a big detour. The police rang Alan, asking him to get the road cleared as soon as possible. He can’t do it on his own; he’ll need help. Sorry, darling. I had hoped we could go out somewhere today, but we’ll have to put that off until tomorrow. I may be busy most of the day.’

She tried to hide her disappointment ‘Oh, well, maybe we could do something special tomorrow! I’ll get up and make your breakfast.’

‘No, don’t bother, darling. I’ll just have a cup of tea and a piece of toast.’ He gathered up his clothes and went off to the bathroom, telling her, ‘You stay in bed. Try to get some more sleep.’

That was impossible, of course! she lay listening to the sound of the shower, then a few moments later his quiet footsteps on the stairs, the muted movements in the kitchen. She was still wide awake when Ross left. Dylan heard the front door close quietly, the engine of his four-wheel drive start up, then the sound of him driving away, fast.

For another half an hour she lay listening to the empty house; clocks ticked, floorboards creaked, electricity hummed, but she was all alone. Gulls pattered on the roof; they must have flown inland to escape the storm. In a line of thornbeams at the back of the garden rooks sat on their rough nest, squawking and arguing.

Further away, she heard the rustling and whispering of the forest; the wind had died down but it was still blowing among the branches.

The house was immaculate. She had nothing to do and all day to do it in, alone. Turning over, sobbing, she longed for London, for streets noisy with traffic and people, for the comfort and reassurance of being surrounded by others.

She would have liked to ring her sister, but Jenny would think she was nagging for Phil to go to London and collect her car, and Dylan didn’t want her to feel pressured. Saturday was a family day—they all did things together, went shopping, went to the library, had lunch out at some favourite country pub, took the kids cycling on safe country roads, went sailing or walking. So Phil would probably be bringing her car tomorrow.

Dylan wished, though, that he was coming today—bringing Jenny and the kids with him. That would have been something to look forward to; it would have brightened the whole weekend.

Sighing, she got out of bed and began the usual dull routine of showering, dressing in jeans and a shirt, tidying the bedroom, collecting the clothes she and Ross had worn yesterday, taking them downstairs to go into the washing machine. Within half an hour she had eaten breakfast and finished tidying the already tidy house, so she went out into the garden to deal with the ravages of the night.

The wind had wreaked havoc—torn flowers off stalks, flung twigs and leaves all over the lawns, ruined young lettuce, broken the stems of sweet peas and runner beans. The garden was a sad sight. She spent part of the morning working out there, staking and pruning and raking up leaves and wrecked plants to put on the compost heap.

When she had finished she went back indoors to wash, flushed, with aching muscles. That was the hardest physical work she had done since she’d left the ballet company and she’d enjoyed it. As always, it had changed her mood; she felt more positive, less weepy. Amazing the chemical changes in you brought about by working your body!

Just as she was going upstairs to shower and change she heard the sound of a car engine slowing, stopping, right outside the garden gate. A door slammed, the gate creaked, there were footsteps on the path. Dylan’s heart leapt—it must be Ross, home earlier than he had feared!

She jumped back down the stairs, ran to open the door, ready to fling her arms round him, but it was not Ross standing there. Her entire body jerked in shock, as if she had touched a live wire.


CHAPTER THREE

‘MICHAEL!’ She was so overjoyed to see him that she flung her arms round him impulsively. People in their world were casually affectionate, although she and Michael had never been very demonstrative. He wasn’t that sort of man. There was a deep well of reserve inside him; he guarded his mind and heart from casual eyes and even Dylan had never been entirely sure what he was hiding, only that Michael kept his secrets, even from her.

As their bodies met in close, warm contact she abruptly became aware that this was a man she was holding, not some sexless body she had known most of her adult life.

Shock jabbed into her. She hurriedly began pulling away, but Michael caught her face, framing it between his hands, palms against her flushed cheeks pressing in on the high bones, the smooth, silky skin.

Shaken to her roots, she stared up into his hard grey eyes.

‘Missing us already, you are? What did I tell you?’ His voice was deep with anger, satisfaction, triumph, or perhaps all three. ‘I knew you’d be lost away from us. You made a stupid mistake when you married this guy. You don’t belong with someone like him.’ He stared deep into her eyes and she helplessly leaned on him, like someone paralysed.

In a wail she protested, ‘I love him, Michael!’

‘You mean you wanted to go to bed with him! Was that worth ruining your life for? Why didn’t you just spend a couple of weeks having sex with him all day until you were bored with it?’

Was that really how he saw love? Did it mean nothing to him but a drive to sate a passing lust? The idea horrified her. Ross was so much more than just a body she desired; he was the only man she had ever met who really meant anything to her.

‘Love isn’t just sex, Michael!’ she protested. ‘That may be all you think about, all you need—but for a woman love means a whole lot more than that. I want to share his life, have his children, be with him all the time.’

His blond head lifted: he flicked a glance past her into the house, raising his brows. ‘Oh? So where is he now?’

‘At work,’ she reluctantly admitted.

‘On a Saturday?’ Michael’s tone was sardonic, his face full of mockery, and her flush deepened.

‘There were storms last night; some trees came down—he has to clear a blocked road. He’s responsible for a wide area of the forest here; he deals with every aspect of it, from planting to fighting fires. He doesn’t do a nine to five office job, you know. His work is far more important than that.’

Michael studied her serious face, his own ironic. ‘And how long will Mr Wonderful be working today?’

‘How can he tell? It all depends how long it takes to clear the road,’ she said absently. She had started to think now that her original shock had died away. ‘Michael, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’

‘I brought your car up here for you.’

‘What?’ She looked past him in surprise. She hadn’t noticed the car until now, although how on earth she could have managed to miss it she had no idea! It was parked right outside, the big, multi-coloured tropical flowers glowing as if they were real in the fitful sunlight! You wouldn’t think she could fail to see them, now would you?

‘My flower wagon! Oh, thank you, Michael!’ She ran down the path and walked round the little car, stroking the bonnet, delighted to have it back again. ‘It will make life a lot easier,’ she told Michael, who had joined her. ‘It’s quite a walk to the village, and I can’t go further afield unless Ross drives me. The buses take for ever and there’s only one a day to Carlisle. So I’d be lost without a car.’

Michael’s mouth twisted wryly as he stared at the landscape: the green forest stretching on and on, the road, the grey/blue sky. No houses, no break in the endless trees.

‘How are you going to stand it here? It would drive me out of my mind in twenty-four hours. Give me city life any time. You’re a city girl, Dylan—what on earth are you going to do with yourself up here? Especially if that husband of yours is out at work all the time!’

It was a question she had been turning over ever since she’d first arrived here and realised for the first time how remote and empty the landscape was. The lack of neighbours, the loneliness, all compounded by the fact that Ross was going to leave her alone for many hours every day.

But she wasn’t going to admit all that to Michael. An instinct told her not to betray anything to him that might give him the idea that she was not radiantly happy with Ross.

Turning away, she walked back up to the front door, Michael following her without hurrying. She didn’t look in his direction but she couldn’t help noticing the way he walked—with panther-like grace, flowing movements that held both elegance and a disturbing hint of threat. He wasn’t that much taller than her, yet his lean, supple body was held as taut as a stretched wire, making him seem tall. Why had she never noticed any of that before? Or had custom hidden his masculinity from her during their long partnership?

‘Oh, I have lots to do every day,’ she flung over her shoulder, glad he couldn’t see her face as she spoke; Michael had always been able to read her expressions. ‘The house, the garden...I’ve discovered a real interest in gardening.’

‘So I see,’ he drawled. ‘You carry quite a bit of it around with you, too!’

Dylan darted into the hall and surveyed herself in the mirror hanging just inside the door. Streaks of mud ran down one cheek, decorated the tip of her small nose.

She began to laugh. ‘Don’t I look a sight! You should have told me! I must have brushed a muddy hand across my face.’ She looked down at her hands, grimacing. ‘Yes, that must be it.’

Michael closed the front door and suddenly Dylan became very aware that they were alone in the house. A frisson ran down her spine, worrying her. How many times had she been alone with him over the years since they first met—in his flat or her own, in dressing rooms, on a bare stage, in rehearsal rooms? She had never been conscious of being alone with him before. What was the matter with her?

Had he really changed? In such a short time? She tried to remember how he had looked last time they met, but there was a blankness in her memory, as if Michael was just an outline, a cut-out shape with nothing solid inside it.

Had she simply stopped looking at him years ago? Yes, maybe. And all that time he had been changing, developing... Well, for a start, how long had he been this powerful? They had met when they were scarcely out of their teens. She still remembered him as he had been then, a skinny, slightly built boy with a mass of soft fair hair and light grey eyes. That boy had gone for ever. Now, under his white shirt, she saw the ripple of chest and arm muscles; his shoulders were wider, his blue jeans were moulded to strong thighs and calves. She was looking at a tough, hard-boned, disconcertingly physical man.

Huskily, strangely nervous, she said, ‘Phil was going to collect my car.’

‘I know. Your sister wrote to me, sending a selection of wedding photos. She mentioned that Phil was going to be coming to London to pick up your car, so I rang her and offered to drive it up here.’ Michael wandered away as he spoke, exploring the ground floor of the house, looking into rooms curiously. ‘Not exactly stylish decor, is it?’

She couldn’t deny it; the house was a square, modern box, built of grey stone, with a slate-tiled roof. Neat enough, but it had been decorated by a previous tenant in a muted style which showed little imagination or invention. The colours of the rooms were safe, pale pastels, the ceilings white, the carpets dull blue or green, the curtains matching them.

Defensive against any criticism he made of her new life, she told him, ‘We’re going to redecorate when we get time.’

‘Time is something you’ll have plenty of now, Dylan!’

The sarcasm made her wince. It was painfully undeniable. If there was one thing she had plenty of it was time.

The opposite had been true most of her life—she had lived by clocks, running from bed to rehearsal, to costume fittings, to performance and so back to sleep. Never enough time, never a moment to relax. It had been a terrible strain, one she had begun to yearn to end. She had ached for another way of life—for lazy mornings in bed, a light-hearted drift through the day, long lunches, sunny afternoons on a lounger in a garden, an endless holiday.

Now suddenly she had time and very little to fill it with, and she was appalled at the prospect of life being the same for ever and ever, amen. She found she couldn’t sleep late; she had been trained to get up early and she still did so. Long lunches were out because she had nowhere to lunch and nobody to lunch with. Lounging around in the garden soon palled, which was why she had started gardening. She was lonely and hadn’t enough to do, but she couldn’t admit that to Michael.

She said huskily, ‘I expect I’ll soon make a start on the house, but I want to settle in first. It was kind of you, but you didn’t have to come all this way just to deliver my car. How will you get back? You know you hate travelling by train.’

She hoped he wasn’t expecting her to offer him a room for the night. Ross would be furious if he got back to find Michael staying with them. He would welcome any other friend of hers, but never Michael.

His grey eyes held a spark of derision, as if he had read her thoughts and mocked her.

‘Trying to get rid of me already, Dylan?’

‘No, of course not,’ she stammered, very pink.

‘Don’t worry, I’m dancing on Monday. I have to get back. I’ve already arranged to hire a car from a national firm with offices in Carlisle. I’m to deliver it back to their nearest London branch.’





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