Книга - Sinful Truths

Sinful Truths
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.Is it a sin to seduce your own wife? When Jake McCabe separated from his wife, he was convinced she had betrayed him. But now Isobel is back in his life – and he’s caught up in the same heated desire that held him tight when they first married. At all costs, he must not give in to their passion…But soon Jake begins to wonder if there is more to the story than he first thought…and if Isobel is innocent, he must face the possibility that he may be the father of her baby after all!







Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




Sinful Truths

Anne Mather







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




CONTENTS


Cover (#uf7ddea94-21bf-5cd1-b1de-9b1dde9bfc0c)

About the Author (#uc59eccf7-a2ce-516e-9035-b01f660a1019)

Title Page (#uc525d215-ae82-5cb7-bbaa-65cee327f06b)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u344ce1d8-27e1-56ac-9d92-ca63cf0e2383)


THE apartment was in one of the more expensive parts of the city. Not a high-rise, despite the many luxury apartments that were available in that kind of real estate. No, the apartment Isobel had chosen was on the upper floor of a converted Victorian townhouse, and what it lacked in modern amenities it more than made up for in style and elegance.

It didn’t surprise Jake that she had preferred the older building. Isobel came from old money, and, however straitened her circumstances, she’d rather freeze in rooms that had never been intended to be warmed by central heating than live in comfort in contemporary uniformity.

Not that it hadn’t been expensive. Jake knew exactly how expensive it had been. He should do, he reflected ironically. He’d bought it for her when they separated, and he’d held the lease on it ever since.

Jake had to park his car on the adjoining street and walk the couple of hundred yards to Eaton Crescent. It was raining, typical May weather, and he scowled as the downpour soaked the shoulders of his leather jacket. Another jacket bites the dust, he thought resignedly, wondering when he’d got used to discarding clothes like unwanted parking tickets. He should have used an umbrella. There was a golfing one in the boot of his car, put there by a grateful salesman when he’d bought the expensive vehicle. Needless to say, it had never been used.

There was a panel beside the door with the names of the various occupants of the apartments beside individual bells. It was supposed to be for security purposes, but Jake knew that persistent callers simply rang all the bells until someone was foolish enough to let them in. There was no intercom, and although at the time he’d bought it he’d expressed his doubts to Isobel, she had been indifferent to his concerns.

‘Don’t pretend you care what happens to us,’ she’d declared coldly, on their way back to the estate agent’s office, and he’d refused to take the bait.

Now, pushing back the thoughts of that ugliness, Jake pressed Isobel’s bell and waited for the door to unlatch. She knew he was coming so she could hardly pretend to be out.

He didn’t have to wait long. Almost immediately the catch was released and he pushed open the door into the hall.

Despite its rather gloomy interior, the hall smelled pleasantly of pot-pourri and furniture polish. A cleaning service kept the public halls and stairways in excellent repair, and the immediate impression was of warmth and gentility.

The door closed automatically behind him, and after brushing a careless hand over his wet hair Jake mounted the carpeted stairs two at a time. He was breathing a little heavily when he reached the second landing, and he reminded himself that he hadn’t been to the gym in a while. Sitting in front of a computer might be easier than cutting rocks, so to speak, but it was a hell of a lot less healthy.

Isobel’s door wasn’t open. He’d thought it might have been as she’d obviously let him in, but it wasn’t. Restraining the impulse to try the handle, he lifted his hand and knocked, waiting a little impatiently for her to answer.

But Isobel didn’t answer the door. Emily did. And she stood glaring at him with all the rage and resentment he’d used to expect from her mother.

‘What do you want?’

Her question took him by surprise. He’d felt sure Isobel would have discussed his visit with her. But clearly she hadn’t, and he was left having to explain to a precocious ten-year-old that her mother was expecting him.

‘Well, she’s not here,’ Emily declared with evident satisfaction. ‘So you’ll just have to come back some other time.’

Jake blinked. ‘You’re not serious,’ he said, recalling the trouble he’d had keeping this appointment in the first place. Not to mention the bitch of having to park in the next street and walk half a mile in the pouring rain.

‘Yeah, I am, actually,’ the girl responded smugly. She was obviously enjoying his frustration. She made as if to close the door again. ‘I’ll be sure and tell her you called—’

‘Wait!’ Before she could slam the door in his face, Jake wedged his foot against the jamb. He winced as the heavy wood thudded against his boot, but he held firm, and Emily was eventually forced to admit defeat.

‘Mummy’s not going to like this, you know,’ she exclaimed, tossing back her plait of dark brown hair. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

‘I can and I will,’ retorted Jake grimly. ‘Now, why don’t you stop behaving like a brat and tell your mother I’m waiting?’

‘I’ve told you, she’s not here,’ declared Emily, her voice wobbling a little now. ‘Who do you think you are, trying to force your way in here, frightening me?’

Jake had thought it would take rather more than his not unfamiliar presence to frighten Isobel’s daughter, but perhaps he was wrong. In any event, he was suddenly reminded that despite the fact that she was tall for her age—and insolent, as he knew to his cost—she was still a child, and he regretted losing his temper with her.

So all he said was, ‘I’m your mother’s husband. Now, where is she? She knew I was coming. Why the—why isn’t she here?’

Emily pursed her lips. ‘She’s at Granny’s,’ she admitted after a minute. ‘I don’t know how long she’s going to be.’

‘At your grandmother’s?’ Jake felt his temper simmering again, and determinedly tamped it down. But he should have known that Lady Hannah would have some hand in this. She had never liked him, never approved of her daughter having anything to do with him. Never accepted that without his help she wouldn’t still own that mouldering pile she called the family seat.

Now he took a deep breath. ‘You don’t mean she’s in Yorkshire, do you?’

‘No.’ Emily pouted. ‘She’s at a Granny’s flat.’

‘Right.’ At least that wasn’t a couple of hundred miles away. ‘What’s she doing there?’ he asked, proud that no evidence of his own frustration showed in his voice.

Emily shrugged her thin shoulders and he thought how like Isobel she was. Her hair was lighter, of course, and at present her childish features only hinted that one day she might possess her mother’s beauty. But she was tall and slender, and her eyes were the same luminous shade of blue.

‘Granny sent for her,’ she answered at last. Then, as if compelled to make the compromise, ‘She’s not very well.’

A curse slipped out before he could prevent it, but the only reaction Emily made was to arch her brows in a reproof that was uncannily like her grandmother’s. ‘So you’ve no idea when she’ll be back?’

Emily hesitated. ‘Well—she said she wouldn’t be long,’ she muttered unwillingly.

‘Wait a minute.’ Jake had just had a thought. ‘Are you on your own?’

‘What’s it to you?’ Emily resumed her defiant attitude. ‘I’m not a baby, you know.’

‘Maybe not.’ Jake scowled. ‘But even a ten-year-old should know better than to open the door to a stranger.’

‘Actually, I’m almost eleven,’ Emily corrected him scornfully. ‘Not that I’d expect you to remember that. You’re just my father.’

‘I am not your—’

Jake broke off abruptly. He refused to get into an argument with her about her parentage. He didn’t know why the hell Isobel had told her he was her father, unless it was her way of shifting the blame. It was certainly true that it had caused an unbreakable rift between him and her daughter. And any hope he might have had of making an ally of the child had been stymied by her lies.

‘Anyway, I knew it was you,’ Emily added carelessly. ‘I saw you out of the window.’ Her eyes surveyed him with a surprisingly adult appraisal. ‘You’re wet.’

Jake’s jaw compressed. ‘You noticed,’ he said drily, glancing down at his rain-spotted jacket. ‘Yeah, you may have observed that it’s raining.’

‘Peeing it down,’ agreed Emily, with a calculated effort to shock. ‘I s’pose you’d better come in.’

Jake hesitated. ‘Did your mother tell you I was coming?’ he demanded, suddenly sensing why she’d been looking out of the window. He wondered if it also explained Isobel’s willingness to leave her daughter alone while she travelled across London at the start of the rush hour. My God, did she expect him to stay until she got back? To act as Emily’s babysitter, no less?

‘She might have done,’ Emily responded indifferently, turning and walking away from him. She paused halfway down the hall and looked back at him. ‘Are you coming in or not?’

Or not, thought Jake savagely, glancing at the narrow gold watch on his wrist and stifling an oath. It was already after five. He’d promised Marcie he’d pick her up from her hairdresser’s in Mayfair at six. Dammit, he wasn’t going to make it.

He heard the sound of a door opening downstairs and looked hopefully over the banister. But it was only one of the other tenants, probably arriving home from work. Suppressing his anger, he stepped unwillingly into his wife’s apartment.

Emily had already taken his acceptance for granted and disappeared into a room at the end of the hall. If Jake’s memory served him correctly it was the kitchen, and, shrugging out of his wet jacket, he shouldered the outer door closed and followed her.

As he’d expected, Emily was in the kitchen, filling the kettle at the sink and plugging it in.

‘I expect you’d like some coffee,’ she said, her cool detachment reminding him again of her mother. ‘I’m afraid it’s only instant. Mummy says we can’t afford anything else.’

Jake gritted his teeth as he slung his jacket onto a vacant stool. The casual aside had really got to him. Why couldn’t they afford anything else? He’d paid Isobel enough over the years, goodness knew.

But it wasn’t something he wanted to take up with the child, and he watched from between lowered lids as Emily spooned coffee into a china mug. She was evidently used to the task. She cast a glance in his direction as she took a jug of milk from the fridge.

‘Do you take milk and sugar?’ she asked politely, and Jake blew out an exasperated breath.

‘I didn’t say I wanted anything,’ he said shortly. Then, unwillingly, ‘Ought you to be handling boiling water?’

‘Oh, please!’ Emily gave him a cynical look. ‘Don’t pretend you care what happens to me.’ The luminous blue eyes dismissed his concern. ‘And, as it happens, I’m perfectly capable of making tea or coffee. I’ve been doing it for ages.’

Jake’s jaw compressed. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so.’ Emily braced herself against the counter, arms spread out to either side. ‘So—what do you want?’

‘Like I’m going to tell a precocious little girl like you,’ retorted Jake, resenting her tone. ‘When did your mother leave?’

Emily shrugged. ‘A little while ago.’

‘How little a while ago?’

‘I don’t know.’ She put up her hand and pulled her plait over one shoulder. ‘An hour, maybe.’

‘An hour?’

Jake felt slightly reassured. By his reckoning, it should take Isobel no more than an hour to reach the service flat in Bayswater. She’d spend—what?—maybe half an hour with her mother before coming back? Two and a half hours in all. Which meant he would be too late to pick Marcie up as he’d expected, but not too late to make their dinner engagement with the Allens.

‘You didn’t say how you liked your coffee.’

While he’d been mulling over his options the kettle had boiled and Emily had filled the mug with boiling water. ‘I—as it comes,’ he muttered, deciding there was no point in complaining now that the coffee was made. ‘Thanks,’ he added, when she pushed the mug towards him. His lips twisted. ‘Aren’t you joining me?’

‘I don’t drink coffee,’ said Emily, hesitating a moment before leading the way into the adjoining living room. ‘We might as well go in here.’

Jake arched his brows, but, picking up his jacket and his coffee, he followed her. She was right. He might as well make himself comfortable. They both knew he wasn’t going anywhere until Isobel got home.

The living room was the largest room in the apartment. When Isobel had moved in she’d furnished it in a manner that suited the high ceilings and polished wood floors. Instead of modern chairs and sofas she’d chosen a pair of mahogany-framed settees and two high-backed armchairs upholstered in burgundy velvet. There were several occasional tables and a carved oak cabinet containing the china and silverware her mother had given them as a wedding present. A tall bookcase, crammed with books, flanked the Adam-style fireplace, where Isobel’s only concession to the twenty-first century smouldered behind a glass screen. But an open fire would have been too dangerous with a young child in the apartment, and the gas replacement was very convincing.

Long velvet curtains hung at the broad bay windows, their dark rose colour faded to a muted shade. The huge rug that occupied the centre of the floor was faded, too, and Jake wondered if that was a deliberate choice. Goodness knew, with the money he paid her every month—and her job—she shouldn’t be hard up.

But as he looked about him he noticed there were definite signs of wear and tear about the place. The cabinets were in need of attention and the polished floor was scuffed. Was Isobel finding it too much, juggling a job and looking after her home and family?

Determined not to feel in any way responsible for Isobel’s problems, Jake draped his jacket over the back of a chair. Then, lounging onto one of the sofas, he hooked an ankle across his knee. The coffee was too hot to drink at present, so he set the mug on the floor beside him.

He should have known better, he reflected, as Emily hustled across the room to set an end table beside him. She placed a coaster on it and bent to pick up his mug, but he forestalled her. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, containing his impatience. ‘You can go and do your homework or whatever it is you usually do at this time of the afternoon.’

But Emily apparently had no intention of leaving him on his own. ‘I can do my homework later,’ she said, seating herself in the armchair across the hearth from him. ‘I’ve got plenty of time.’

But I haven’t, thought Jake drily, regarding the girl through exasperated eyes. She was certainly Isobel’s daughter, he reflected, noticing the way she sat with her back straight, her knees demurely drawn together. Or perhaps that was a result of her grandmother’s teaching. The old lady had certainly influenced Isobel. Why shouldn’t she influence her granddaughter, too?

At least his scrutiny appeared to be getting through to her. She was still wearing the grey skirt, white blouse and dark green cardigan she wore for school, and now she averted her eyes, poking a finger through one of the buttonholes on the cardigan. Was she nervous of him? he wondered, feeling a reluctant trace of sympathy at the thought. Dammit, what lies had Isobel told her about him?

‘So,’ he said, feeling obliged to say something, ‘what’s wrong with your grandma?’

‘Granny’s not well,’ she repeated, not too nervous to take the opportunity to correct him. ‘I told you that.’

‘Yeah, but what’s wrong with her?’ asked Jake shortly. ‘Do you know?’

Emily compressed her small mouth. ‘I think—I think it’s something to do with her heart,’ she responded at last. Then, with more confidence, ‘She had an operation last year.’

‘Did she?’

Jake frowned. Isobel had told him nothing about that. But then, why would she? They hardly ever saw one another these days.

‘You don’t like Granny, do you?’ Emily remarked suddenly, and Jake caught his breath.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You don’t like Granny,’ Emily reiterated blandly. ‘She says you never did.’

‘Does she?’ Jake was aware of an anger out of all proportion to the offence. ‘Well, she’d know, I suppose.’

‘Why?’ Emily arched enquiring eyebrows and Jake sighed.

‘I guess because she never liked me,’ he replied after a moment’s consideration. Why shouldn’t he defend himself? The old girl had had it her own way long enough. ‘I dare say she didn’t tell you that.’

‘No.’ Emily looked doubtful. ‘Is that why you don’t live with us any more?’

‘No!’ Jake knew he sounded resentful and he quickly modified his tone. ‘Look, why don’t you go and watch TV or something? I’ve got some calls to make.’

Emily frowned. ‘What calls?’

‘Phone calls,’ said Jake shortly, getting to his feet and pulling his cellphone out of his jacket pocket. ‘Do you mind?’

‘I don’t mind.’ Emily shook her head. ‘Who are you going to call?’

My mistress?

Jake tried the answer on for size and instantly rejected it. His quarrel had never been with the child, after all. She was the innocent victim here and he had no desire to hurt her.

‘A friend,’ he said instead, sitting down again. ‘No one you know.’

‘A woman-friend?’

Emily was persistent, and once again Jake had to guard his tongue.

‘Does it matter?’ he asked, maintaining a neutral tone with an effort. He paused significantly. ‘Can I have a little privacy here?’

‘May I have a little privacy,’ Emily corrected him primly. ‘Granny says you keep beans in cans.’

Granny had far too much to say for herself, thought Jake savagely. But he was relieved when Emily got to her feet and started towards to the door.

‘I’ll go and see what we’re having for supper,’ she said with evident reluctance. ‘It’s probably going be late when Mummy gets back.’

Jake opened his mouth to say it had better not be, and then closed it again. Emily had left the room in any case. Besides, he was half convinced she’d only been baiting him. For a ten—almost eleven—year-old, she was remarkably mature.

Marcie sounded less than pleased when she came on the line. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be late. Honestly, Jake, I thought you said it wouldn’t take long.’

Jake sighed. He could hear the sounds of the hair salon in the background: the constant buzz of voices, the hum of the driers, the subtle Muzak that was supposed to relax the clients.

‘There’s been a complication,’ he said, hoping she could hear him. ‘Isobel’s not here.’

‘She’s not there?’ Obviously she could hear him loud and clear. ‘So what’s the problem? You’ll have to see her some other time.’

‘No, I can’t. That is—’ Jake knew it wasn’t going to be easy convincing her that he had to stay. ‘Emily’s here.’

‘The kid?’

‘Isobel’s daughter, yes.’ Jake didn’t really like the dismissive way Marcie had spoken of her. ‘She’s on her own.’

‘So?’

‘So I’ve got to stay until her mother gets back,’ said Jake evenly. ‘You’d better order a cab to take you home from the salon.’

‘No!’ Marcie sounded furious. ‘Jake, do you have any idea how difficult it is to order a cab at this time of the evening?’

‘I know.’ Jake blew out a weary breath. ‘I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do.’

‘There is something you can do,’ she retorted angrily. ‘You can leave your wife’s bastard on her own and get over here and pick me up like you promised.’

‘Don’t call her that!’ Jake couldn’t prevent the automatic reproof. ‘For God’s sake, Marcie, she’s not to blame because Isobel’s gone to her mother’s.’

‘And nor am I,’ responded Marcie grimly. ‘Come on, Jake, you know she’s trying it on. She probably guessed how you’d feel when you found—Emily—on her own.’

‘She didn’t have a lot of choice,’ said Jake, wondering why he was defending his wife to his girlfriend. ‘The old lady’s ill, apparently. I guess it could be her heart.’

‘My heart bleeds.’ Marcie snorted, but then, as if realising how unsympathetic she sounded, she took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ she said, capitulating, ‘I’ll take a cab home. And you’ll pick me up in—what? An hour and a half?’

‘Something like that,’ agreed Jake, glancing at his watch. Surely Isobel would be back by half-past six.

‘You haven’t forgotten we’re going out this evening, have you, Jake?’ Marcie had heard the unspoken doubt in his voice and reacted to it. ‘You’ll need at least an hour to shower and change.’

‘I know that.’ Jake was beginning to feel harassed. ‘Back off, will you, Marcie? I’ll be there.’

‘Oh, Jake.’ Marcie groaned. ‘I’m sorry if I sound like a bitch. I’ve just been looking forward to this evening so much. I haven’t spent the best part of the day in the beauty salon to have—well, to have Isobel spoil it.’

‘She won’t spoil it. I promise.’ Jake hoped he wasn’t making promises he couldn’t keep. ‘Gotta go now. I’ll see you later.’

He didn’t give her a chance to argue. Out of the corner of his eye he’d glimpsed Emily hovering just beyond the doorway into the kitchen, and he had no intention of providing her with any juicy gossip to relay to her mother.

As soon as he’d flipped the phone closed she showed herself, however. ‘Finished?’ she asked, and he nodded, wondering if he was being naïve in thinking she hadn’t been listening all along.

But it was too late to do anything about it now and, picking up his coffee, he took a grateful gulp. Thankfully, it was cool enough to drink, and surprisingly good besides. Clearly she hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said she’d done it before.

‘Would you like some more?’ she asked as he set down the empty mug, but Jake declined.

‘Not right now,’ he said, and as she turned away to return the mug to the kitchen he found himself watching her with a curiously critical eye.

In her school uniform, she could have been any one of the hundred or so children who attended the Lady Stafford Middle School. But, despite himself, Jake knew he’d have no difficulty in picking her out of a crowd. Although he’d only seen her a handful of times in the past ten years, he’d have recognised her anywhere, and if it hadn’t been so annoying it would have been pathetic.

Dammit, she wasn’t his daughter. She had never been his daughter, and if Isobel hadn’t been so hell-bent on lying to her, he and the child might well have achieved a friendly relationship. As it was, Emily hated him and he resented her.

She came back then, resuming her seat opposite him, and rather than suffer the discomfort of another prolonged appraisal Jake chose another tack.

‘So, what do you do in your spare time?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Do you have a computer?’

‘Of course I have a computer. Everybody does.’

Emily was scathing, and Jake tried again. ‘How about computer games?’ he suggested. ‘I’m pretty good at them myself.’

‘You play computer games?’

She couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice, and Jake felt an unwilling sense of indignation. Evidently Isobel had been selective in choosing what information to give the child, and he would enjoy exploding her bubble.

‘I invent them,’ he said flatly. ‘Among other things. Didn’t your mother tell you?’

‘No.’ There was a reluctant glimmer of interest in Emily’s eyes. ‘What games have you invented?’

Jake frowned, pretending to think. ‘Let me see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Have you heard of Moonraider? Space Spirals? Black Knights?’

Emily’s jaw had dropped. ‘You invented Black Knights?’ she exclaimed incredulously. ‘I don’t believe it.’

Jake shrugged. ‘You’ve played it, then?’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Emily glanced over her shoulder. ‘Mummy bought me a Dreambox for Christmas.’

Jake pulled a wry face. ‘That was good of her.’

‘Why? Oh, God!’ Emily pressed both hands to her cheeks. ‘Did you invent Dreambox?’

‘I own Dreambox,’ Jake told her ruefully. ‘And I don’t think your mother would approve of you saying “Oh, God”, do you?’

‘Granny would report me to Father Joseph,’ agreed Emily, pulling a face. ‘I’d probably have to say a hundred Hail Marys for taking the Lord’s name in vain. But still—’ She stared at him admiringly. ‘You own Dreambox! Cool!’

Jake was surprised at how flattered he was by her reaction. She was only a child, but the hero-worship in her eyes felt good. He was genuinely pleased that she approved of him. It made him want to go out and buy her every game he’d marketed to date.

‘You wouldn’t—like—play Black Knights with me?’ she suggested suddenly. ‘Just till Mummy gets back, I mean. It would give us something to do.’

Jake hesitated. He had the feeling Isobel would not approve of this development. Okay, maybe she’d had some crazy idea that if she threw him and Emily together he might change his mind about her. But the arrangement had to be on her terms, not his.

To hell with that!

Looking at the girl’s expectant face, he made a gesture of acceptance. ‘Why not?’ he said, getting to his feet again. ‘Where’s your computer? In your room?’

Some time later, when Jake’s cellphone began to ring, he was shocked to find it was nearly seven o’clock. He’d been so absorbed in the game, which he’d discovered Emily played extremely well, that he’d forgotten the time. Dodging witches and goblins, vaulting over chasms where dragons lurked, laughing at the obstacles someone’s vivid imagination had created, he’d realised how much fun it was to play with someone who genuinely wanted to beat him. Apart from his second-in-command at McCabe Tectonics, everyone else he employed seemed keener on winning his approval than winning the game.

With a word of apology to the child, he strode back into the living room, where he’d left the phone, and glanced at the small screen with some misgivings. As he’d expected, it was Marcie’s number displayed there and she wasn’t pleased. ‘Where are you?’ she demanded. ‘I thought you were picking me up at seven o’clock.’

‘Seven-thirty,’ he amended, not knowing why he’d bothered making the distinction. Even if he left now, he wasn’t going to make it.

‘Okay, half-past seven,’ she conceded irritably. ‘So, are you on your way? I know you’re not at the house. I already tried there.’

Right.

Jake expelled a weary breath, and as he did so he heard the sound of Isobel’s key in the lock.

Well, it had to be Isobel, he mused blackly, aware that she couldn’t have chosen a more awkward time to return. Here he was, trying to placate his girlfriend, with his wife as an unwilling audience.




CHAPTER TWO (#u344ce1d8-27e1-56ac-9d92-ca63cf0e2383)


EMILY came into the room at that moment, too. She must have heard Isobel, and she bounded eagerly across the living room to meet her.

‘Daddy and I have been playing computer games,’ she exclaimed, by way of a greeting, and Jake didn’t have time to cover the mouthpiece of his phone before Marcie latched on to the anomaly.

‘Daddy and I?’ she spat angrily. ‘What’s going on, Jake? I thought you said you weren’t the kid’s father.’

‘I’m not.’

Jake balked before saying anything more with his wife regarding him from the hall doorway. Dammit, there was no easy way to do this. Whatever he said, he was going to offend somebody.

‘Jake.’ Isobel was civil enough, but he could see the strain in her face. ‘It was good of you to stay.’

Yeah, right.

Jake bit back the sardonic response, giving her a brief nod of acknowledgement as Marcie spoke again. ‘Is Isobel there?’ she demanded. ‘Jake—’

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he interrupted her, aware that he was building up trouble for himself later, but unable to do anything about it right now. ‘Take a cab to the hotel, will you? I’ll join you there as soon as I can.’

‘Jake—’

‘Just do it,’ he said tightly, and felt a momentary pang of remorse when she rang off without saying another word.

Flipping his phone closed, he was aware that Isobel was still watching him. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve upset your dinner arrangements,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was as quick as I could be, but my mother isn’t well.’

‘I’m sorry.’

It was a standard response and her lips twisted a little wryly at his words. ‘Yes—well, that’s not your problem.’ Her face softened as she looked at Emily. ‘I hope you’ve been a good girl.’

Emily grimaced. ‘I’m not a baby, Mummy. Like I said before, Daddy and I have been playing Black Knights.’ Her face brightened. ‘He owns Dreambox. Did you know that?’

Isobel’s lips thinned. ‘Yes. He’s very clever,’ she said drily, unbuttoning her navy overcoat and unwinding a silk scarf from around her neck. ‘Now, why don’t you go and make me some tea, Em? I think—’ She looked questioningly at Jake. ‘I think we have to talk.’

Emily pulled a face. ‘Do I have to?’

‘Em!’

‘Oh, all right.’

Emily flounced out of the room and Isobel finished taking off her coat. Underneath, she was wearing a cream silk shirt and a navy skirt that ended an inch or two above her knees, but Jake barely noticed. What disturbed him was how thin she had become; the bones of her shoulders were clearly evident beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.

Yet she was still beautiful, he reflected unwillingly. The pale oval of her face was framed by ebony-dark hair, drawn back from a centre parting and secured in a loose chignon at her nape. Luminous blue eyes and high cheekbones only emphasised the generous width of her mouth, and her porcelain skin gave her a fleeting resemblance to the Madonna.

But Jake knew she was no saint. Isobel was—had always been—a warm, passionate woman, and although he despised her for the way she’d treated him, he had never lost his admiration for her grace and elegance.

Now, however, he was concerned by her appearance, and with the comments that Emily had made still ringing his ears he said abruptly, ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’



Isobel carefully folded her coat and laid it over a chair. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. Then, straightening, ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to hang about, but there was nothing I could do. Mama phoned and…’

Her voice trailed away and Jake’s mouth compressed. ‘And you couldn’t let her down,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘Tell me something new.’

Isobel’s lips tightened. ‘You don’t understand. She’s been extremely—fragile—since her—well, in recent months.’

‘Since her operation, you mean?’ Jake regarded her with cynical eyes. ‘Emily told me.’

‘I see.’ Isobel hesitated. ‘Then you’ll know that by-pass operations on the elderly can have—complications.’

‘So that’s what it was.’ Jake nodded. ‘I didn’t know.’

Isobel frowned. ‘But you said—Emily—’

‘She was pretty vague.’ He shrugged, and then glanced about him. ‘Look, why don’t you sit down? You look tired.’

‘Thanks.’

It was hardly a compliment, but Isobel was glad to accept his advice. She was tired; exhausted, actually. She had been for weeks; months. Ever since she’d heard that her husband was involved with Marcie Duncan.

Of course, he’d had affairs before. Several, actually, over the years, and she’d suffered through every one of them. But his relationship with Marcie was something different. It had gone on for so much longer, for one thing, and for another a friend had told her that Marcie was telling everyone that he was going to marry her.

Except he was still married to Isobel.

Expelling a quivering breath, she moved into the room and seated herself on the sofa nearest to the door. Then, as he lounged into the chair opposite, she forced a formal smile.

But it was difficult. Bloody difficult, actually, she thought with a sudden spurt of anger. Sitting opposite the man you had once thought you loved better than life itself was never going to be easy, and she despised the fact that he could come here and behave as if all they had ever been to one another was polite strangers.

He looked so damned relaxed, she mused tensely. In the kind of casual gear he wore to work, which her mother had always deplored on a man in his position, he looked completely at his ease and she resented it.

A black tee shirt was stretched across his broad shoulders and exposed the ribbed muscles of his stomach. He didn’t appear to have an ounce of spare flesh on him, and tight-fitting moleskin pants hugged his narrow hips and long powerful legs. A leather jacket, still displaying the fact that it had been raining when he arrived, was hung over the back of a chair and one booted foot rested casually across his knee.

He was not a handsome man, she assured herself, unwilling to admit that his strong, hard features possessed something more than mere good looks. His skin was darker than the rest of his colouring, his hair streaked in shades of silvery blond and amber, and eyes as green as his Irish roots should have indicated a fair countenance. But somewhere in Jake’s mongrel ancestry—as her mother would say—there had been a darker strain. Just another reason why Lady Hannah Lacey had opposed his marriage to her only daughter.

‘Have you been waiting long?’ she asked at last, rather than broach the subject she was sure was his reason for being here, and Jake regarded her through narrowed lids.

‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Our appointment was for five o’clock, wasn’t it?’

Isobel sighed. ‘Do we have to have appointments?’ She smoothed her damp palms over the slim lines of her skirt. ‘This isn’t a business meeting, is it?’

Jake didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, ‘I guess you know why I’m here,’ and a shiver feathered its way down her spine.

‘Do I?’ She refused to make it easy for him. ‘Dare I suspect that you’ve finally decided to acknowledge that you have a daughter?’

‘No!’ Jake’s appearance of relaxation disappeared. His boot thudded onto the carpet and he leaned forward in his seat, legs spread wide, forearms resting along his thighs. ‘We dealt with that fiction some time ago, and I don’t intend to let you divert me with it now. I’m here because it’s past time we put an end to this travesty—’

‘What are we having for supper, Mummy?’

Isobel didn’t know if Emily had been eavesdropping on their conversation or whether her intervention was as innocent as it appeared. Either way, it achieved the dual purpose of providing a distraction and putting Jake off his stride.

He swore, quite audibly, and Isobel glared at him reprovingly before transferring her attention to her daughter. ‘Have you made the tea?’ she asked, ignoring her husband’s scowling face. ‘We can decide what we’re having for supper later.’

‘Will Daddy be staying for supper?’

Emily was nothing if not persistent, and despite everything Isobel was tempted to smile. ‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘Just fetch the tea, sweetheart. Then you can go and start running your bath.’

‘Oh, must I?’

‘Do as your mother says,’ said Jake harshly, and Emily’s expression changed from mild disappointment to cold fury.

‘Don’t you tell me what to do, you—you womaniser!’ she exclaimed angrily, and Isobel didn’t know which of them was the most astounded at her outburst.

After the way Emily had behaved when she’d got home Isobel had hoped that she and Jake had come to some sort of compromise. She should have known better.

Predictably, Jake recovered first. ‘You little bitch!’ he snapped. ‘How dare you call me a womaniser?’

‘Because it’s what you are,’ declared Emily, unwilling to back down, and Jake snorted.

‘I bet you got that from your grandmother, didn’t you?’ he demanded. ‘That old—’

‘I heard it at school, actually,’ Emily contradicted him, her voice breaking a little now. ‘It’s what the older girls say about you. They laugh about it. They say you’ve had loads of girlfriends and that you don’t care about Mummy and me at all.’

Isobel didn’t know where to look. It was obvious that the child’s words had shocked her husband, but she knew she couldn’t allow Emily to get away with insolence, whatever the justification.

‘I think you owe your father an apology, Emily,’ she said quietly, uncaring what Jake thought of her words. But his response overrode hers.

‘I don’t care what people say,’ he retorted grimly, but Isobel could tell from his tone that that wasn’t entirely true. Jake was not without feelings, after all, and Emily’s accusations had the ring of truth. ‘Your mother knows I would never allow her—or you—to suffer from my actions.’

‘But we do,’ muttered Emily tearfully. ‘Why can’t we be a proper family? Why can’t you live with us, like any proper father would?’

‘Emily—’

Isobel was desperate to stop this from going any further, but Jake had had enough.

‘Because I’m not your father,’ he snapped savagely, and Isobel closed her eyes as Emily’s face whitened and the tears began to fall in earnest.

‘You are,’ she protested, in spite of her distress, and although Isobel got to her feet and started towards her it was too late. ‘I know you are,’ she persisted. ‘Mummy says so. And Mummy doesn’t tell lies.

‘And nor do I,’ said Jake, driven to his feet also. ‘For pity’s sake, Emily—’

‘I don’t want to listen to you.’ Emily put both hands over her ears and stared at him through tear-drenched lashes. ‘I am your daughter. You know I am.’ She turned despairingly towards Isobel. ‘Tell him, Mummy. Tell him that’s who I am. He has to believe you. Especially today.’

Isobel managed to get an arm about her daughter’s shoulders, but Jake wasn’t finished. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Why especially today?’

‘Because of the game,’ said Emily tremulously. ‘Because of Black Knights. You said it yourself. You said I was like you. I played to win.’



It was at least forty minutes before Isobel returned to find Jake pacing about the living room like a caged lion. His eyes turned instantly to her as soon as she appeared in the doorway, and she could tell from the stark lines that etched his mouth that he had been fighting his own demons since she’d led the weeping child away.

‘How is she?’ he demanded, pausing on the hearth, and because he was back-lit by the orange flames of the fire his face was partly in shadow.

‘How do you think?’ Isobel wasn’t inclined to reassure him, even if it wasn’t all his fault that Emily had got so upset. Then, reluctantly, she added, ‘She’s gone to sleep. Finally. She was exhausted.’ She paused. ‘I’m surprised you’re still here.’

Jake’s jaw tightened. ‘Where else would I be?’

‘Oh, right.’ Isobel’s nostrils flared in sudden comprehension. ‘We never did finish our conversation, did we?’

Jake bit off an oath. ‘That’s not why I stayed.’

‘No?’ Isobel felt too weary to cope with anything just now. She glanced at her watch and was astonished to find it was after half-past-eight. ‘Goodness, is that the time?’

‘You didn’t even get that cup of tea,’ remarked Jake wryly. ‘I could do with a drink myself. How do you feel about me making us both one?’

‘I can do it.’ The last thing Isobel wanted was for Jake to feel he had to look after her. It would be far too ironic. ‘I assume you’d prefer something stronger than tea? All I’ve got is sherry, I’m afraid.’

‘No beer?’

‘I don’t like beer,’ said Isobel stiffly. ‘And I can’t aff— I mean, we have no use for spirits.’

Jake’s mouth tightened, and she guessed he knew exactly what she had been going to say. But, although she prepared herself for an argument, all he said was, ‘How about cola? Surely Emily drinks that?’

‘Diet cola,’ agreed Isobel, starting towards the kitchen. ‘I think we’ve got some in the fridge.’

Jake followed her, his hands pushed into his hip pockets, his hair rumpled, as if he had spent some of the time he’d been waiting running his fingers through it. Yet he still looked as attractive as ever, and Isobel thought how unfair it was that one man should continue to have such power over her.

But it was dangerous thinking about that now, and she busied herself taking a can of cola from the fridge, setting it and a glass on the counter nearest to him. Then, switching on the kettle, she emptied the pot of tea Emily had made earlier.

Jake didn’t touch the glass. He simply flipped the tab and drank straight from the can, his head tipped back, the muscles in his throat moving rhythmically as he swallowed the chilled liquid.

Isobel found herself watching him and quickly looked away. But in her mind’s eye she could still see the smooth column of his throat and the brown skin that disappeared into the neckline of his tee shirt.

He seemed darker-skinned than usual, and she wondered where he had spent his winter break this year. Then she remembered. There had been an article in one of the tabloids about how ex-Page Three model Marcie Duncan had been seen holidaying with her latest conquest, computer millionaire Jake McCabe, in the Seychelles.

There had been pictures, too, but Isobel hadn’t looked at those. She wouldn’t have seen the article at all if Lady Hannah hadn’t saved it for her. She winced. Sometimes she couldn’t make up her mind whether her mother truly had her best interests at heart or if she got some perverted kind of pleasure out of proving that she had been right all along.

‘Thanks.’

While she had been wool-gathering Jake had finished the can, and now he crushed it in his fist before dropping it into the swing bin beside the sink.

Isobel forced herself to concentrate on what she was doing. ‘Do you want another?’ she asked, grateful that the kettle had boiled and she could make her tea. Her legs felt decidedly wobbly and she would be glad when she could sit down.

‘Not right now.’ Jake shifted restlessly as she put milk into a mug and filled it from the pot. Then, in a low voice, ‘I guess I should apologise.’

Isobel tried not to show her surprise. Flicking him an uncertain glance, she moved past him into the living room again. ‘If you mean it,’ she said at last, resuming the seat she’d occupied earlier on the sofa. She sipped her tea. ‘Mmm, I was ready for this.’

She was aware that Jake was still standing in the doorway behind her, and she wished she could see his face. Or perhaps not, she amended. She had never been able to hide her feelings from him.

When her nerves felt as if they’d been stretched to breaking point he moved into the room, but instead of sitting in the armchair, as before, he joined her on the couch.

‘I mean it,’ he said, his weight depressing the cushion beside her. ‘I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. But, dammit, Belle, I thought she knew.’

Isobel steeled herself to look at him. ‘Knew what?’ she asked, though she knew exactly what he meant.

Jake blew out a breath. ‘That I’m not her father,’ he declared harshly. ‘If you insist on having me say it yet again.’

Isobel’s dark brows ascended. ‘But you are her father,’ she said, as she had said so many times before. ‘You just don’t want to believe it.’

‘Damn right.’ He sounded angry. ‘For God’s sake, Isobel, how long are you going to persist with this—this fabrication?’

Isobel put her mug down on the table beside her. ‘As long as it takes, I suppose,’ she replied, amazed that she could sound so cool when inside she was burning up. Then, realising that she couldn’t delay the moment any longer, she lifted her shoulders in a wary gesture. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you wanted to see me?’

Jake stared at her, his eyes as vivid as jade in his dark face. ‘Do you think it’s fair on Emily to give her unreal expectations?’ he demanded, without answering her, and Isobel sighed.

‘You mean because her father refuses to acknowledge her?’ she asked tersely. ‘I don’t think so.’

Jake’s jaw hardened. ‘Dammit, she’s not my child!’

‘She is.’

‘How can you say that? When you and Piers Mallory were having an affair at the time?’

Isobel pursed her lips. ‘We were not having an affair!’

‘You slept with him.’

‘I was in bed with him,’ she said, annoyed to find her voice was shaking. ‘But not through choice.’

Jake snorted. ‘Oh, right. Are you saying he raped you now?’

‘No.’ Isobel picked up her tea again, endeavouring to warm her frozen hands on the mug. ‘But I’d been drinking. I don’t remember anything about it.’

With an oath Jake got up from the sofa and paced grimly across the rug. His powerful frame cast a long shadow across the hearth and she turned to stare into the flames of the gas fire rather than look at him. But the temptation to do so was almost irresistible, and only the fact that the hot liquid was burning her palms caused her to turn her attention to putting the mug down again.

‘He was my friend,’ said Jake, speaking through his teeth, and Isobel felt the familiar frustration building inside her.

‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘That was the trouble, wasn’t it? You couldn’t believe your friend could do something so—so—’

‘Unlikely?’ suggested Jake scornfully, but Isobel shook her head.

‘So despicable,’ she corrected, looking up at him with accusing eyes. ‘And on that basis you decided that Emily couldn’t possibly be your daughter. That she was his.’

Jake blew out a breath. ‘I don’t want to talk about this.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘For God’s sake, Belle, be honest for once in your life!’ Jake came to stand in front of her and she averted her eyes from the impressive bulge of his manhood. ‘We’d been married for three years, dammit, and you hadn’t got pregnant. Are you telling me we suddenly got lucky? I don’t think so.’

‘We’d been trying to avoid me getting pregnant,’ cried Isobel fiercely. ‘You know that.’

‘But accidents happen. That’s what you said, isn’t it?’

Isobel groaned. ‘Well, what are you saying?’ she demanded, putting out a hand as if to ward him off. ‘That Piers Mallory is so—so macho that one night with him was enough?’

‘If it was just one night,’ retorted Jake harshly. ‘And I only have your word for that.’

Isobel couldn’t sit still any longer. Trembling violently, she got to her feet, pushing him aside and stumbling away from the sofa. Of course he only had her word for it. Piers was never going to admit what he’d done.

‘In any case, your getting pregnant was just adding insult to injury,’ said Jake heavily, and there was a trace of bitterness in his voice now. ‘How could you do it, Belle? How could you have an affair with my best friend? God, you knew how I’d feel about it. Piers and I had been friends since we started college.’

Isobel gripped the back of a chair for support, her nails digging into the fabric as she struggled to regain control. ‘Piers was never your friend, Jake,’ she said, ignoring his immediate growl of derision. ‘He wasn’t. He was jealous of you, of our life together. He’d have done anything to split us up.’

‘That’s crap and you know it.’ Jake was scathing. ‘I don’t know why you keep repeating the same old story, the same old lies. It’s not as if I haven’t heard it all before.’

Isobel held up her head. ‘I suppose I’m hoping that one day you’ll come to your senses and believe me,’ she replied huskily. ‘That you’ll at least consider that Emily might be your daughter.’

‘She’s not,’ said Jake flatly. ‘She’s nothing like me.’

‘She’s nothing like Piers Mallory either,’ retorted Isabel, feeling the familiar wave of despair creeping over her. ‘For pity’s sake, Jake, when have I ever lied to you?’

‘When you told me that you and Piers had never slept together,’ Jake responded at once. ‘You were pretty convincing then.’

‘Because it’s true.’

‘But you’re not denying he was making love to you when I found you?’

Isobel’s shoulders sagged. ‘He was trying to, yes.’

‘Right.’ Jake regarded her contemptuously. ‘So why do you persist in saying you never had sex with him?’

Isobel shook her head. ‘I don’t believe I did. In any case, I was—afraid.’

‘Afraid of me?’

‘Afraid of what would happen if you believed I’d been unfaithful to you,’ she moaned miserably. ‘I knew how you’d react.’

‘You weren’t wrong.’ Jake gave a weary shake of his head. ‘And you told me you didn’t even like him.’

‘I didn’t.’

But Isobel knew she was fighting a losing battle. It was a battle she’d been fighting and losing for the past eleven years, and nothing she said or did was going to change Jake’s mind now.

‘It’s getting late,’ he said abruptly. ‘And you look exhausted, never mind Emily. I’d better go.’

Isobel stared at him. ‘But we haven’t talked.’

‘No.’ he was sardonic. ‘Well, not about anything that matters anyway.’ He paused. ‘I’ll come back another day. When I’ve got more time and you’re not dead beat.’

Isobel’s lips twisted. ‘You certainly know how to flatter a girl, Jake. I’d forgotten how charming you can be.’

‘You don’t need me to flatter you, Isobel.’ Jake swung his jacket off the chair and shouldered his way into it. Then, almost reluctantly, he added, ‘You know how bloody attractive you are. You always have. I guess that was why I found it so hard to trust you. I knew it was only a matter of time before you found some other mug to add a little excitement to our marriage.’




CHAPTER THREE (#u344ce1d8-27e1-56ac-9d92-ca63cf0e2383)


JAKE was at his desk by eight o’clock the next morning.

He could have been there much earlier. He hadn’t been to bed. He’d spent most of the night switching channels on the too-large digital TV Marcie had insisted he should install in his bedroom, and which he’d actually set up in the den, trying not to think about the row they’d had at her apartment when she’d got back from dining with the Allens—alone.

But then, that was what happened when you allowed your soon-to-be-ex-wife to ruin what should have been a very pleasant evening, he reflected ruefully. Frank Allen and his wife were old friends of his, and he knew Marcie had been relying on him to persuade the media tycoon to back her bid for network stardom.

She’d already done some TV work, appearing on chat shows, celebrity quizzes and the like, but she wanted to be taken seriously. She wanted to bury her bimbette image once and for all, and make her name with her own daytime talk show.

It had been a long shot at best. Jake knew that. Frank Allen hadn’t been in the business for more than forty years without being able to spot an amateur when he saw one. Marcie looked good on panel shows, when her contribution meant less to the producers than her appearance, but she simply didn’t have what it took to take centre stage.

Jake had suggested she ought to consider acting lessons, but Marcie had quickly vetoed that idea. She hadn’t become the most successful photographic model of the decade by admitting she didn’t have what it took to further her career. She didn’t want to hear that she needed more than good looks to make it in the very competitive world of television. Because other people had done it, she confidently believed that she could do it, too.

She had taken the fact that Jake hadn’t turned up at the restaurant as a personal slight. Even though he’d sent a message to both Marcie and Frank Allen—in Marcie’s case enclosed with an enormous bouquet of red roses, which he’d had the devil’s own job to acquire at half-past nine at night—explaining that he’d been inadvertently held up and apologising for letting them down, she’d still been furious.

Finding him waiting for her at her apartment when she’d returned home had not placated her. She’d virtually thrown the bouquet at him, declaring that he’d deliberately ruined the evening, that he cared more for his estranged wife and her snotty-nosed brat than he did about her.

There had been no reasoning with her, and Jake had eventually scooped up the bouquet and left the apartment. He’d deposited the roses in the nearest wastebin. He’d been angry, too, but whether it had been with himself or her he hadn’t cared to speculate.

Which was why he was at his desk before the rest of the staff turned in, scowling at his computer screen, wishing last night had never happened. And not just because of the row with Marcie. They’d had rows before, and no doubt would again. That was a given in their relationship. But because last night for the first time he’d learned that Isobel’s daughter had a wit and a personality all her own.

Until then he’d hardly spoken to the child. His dealings with her mother had been brief at best, and his memories of Emily were of a shy toddler, hiding behind Isobel’s skirts, or a sulky pre-teen, who’d resented his presence.

Well, she’d resented his presence last night, too, he conceded. To begin with, anyway. But afterwards, after they’d discovered a common interest in computer games, she’d become almost friendly. She’d actually laughed at his efforts to keep up with her, and he’d felt an unexpected surge of admiration at her ability to keep two steps ahead.

That was why he felt so bad about what had come after, he thought now, stabbing savagely at the keys. Dammit, he hadn’t meant to hurt the kid. It wasn’t his fault that Isobel had never told Emily the truth, but he’d felt bloody guilty when she’d got so upset.

Which was the real reason why he hadn’t joined Marcie and the Allens at the restaurant. After what had happened he hadn’t felt like being sociable with anyone, even Marcie, and when she’d come home, accusing him of God knows what, he’d almost lost it. The temptation to tell her that the world didn’t revolve about her selfish little life had trembled on the tip of his tongue, and he’d known he had to get out of there before he said—or did—something he’d regret.

And he did regret it this morning, he told himself grimly. He’d been more than generous with Isobel over the years, and he had no reason to feel guilty because she’d chosen to keep her daughter in the dark. What had Emily said? That she was almost eleven? Yes. Definitely old enough to understand that people—even people you loved—didn’t always do what was expected of them. He wasn’t the traitor here; Isobel was. Emily’s mother had betrayed their marriage by having an affair with another man.

Piers Mallory.

His best—ex-best—friend.

And she was the result.

He was concentrating so hard on the display he’d brought up on the computer screen that he wasn’t aware he was no longer alone. When a hand descended on his shoulder he swore violently, turning a savage face to the intruder.

Shane Harper, his second-in-command, lifted both hands in mock surrender.

‘Hey, the door was open,’ he said, strolling round Jake’s desk. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He paused, evidently hoping for vindication. ‘You’re early. Couldn’t you sleep?’

‘Something like that.’ Jake’s mouth flattened into a rueful grin. ‘Sorry for the profanity. I was miles away.’

‘In some dark chasm, by the sound of it,’ remarked Shane drily. ‘I’ve got coffee in my room. Want some?’

Jake pushed back his chair from the desk and got to his feet. ‘Yeah,’ he said, raking back his hair with a careless hand. ‘That sounds good. Lead me to it.’

Shane’s office, like Jake’s and those of the other senior members of staff, opened onto a huge room where many of the other employees worked. Wooden screens divided the floor into booths that gave a semblance of privacy to their occupants. Already one or two operators were at their desks, computer screens flickering to life, eyes blinking owlishly over the mugs of coffee that seemed a necessary jump-start to the day.

Jake followed Shane into an office very like his own and leaned against the door to close it. Then he sprawled into a chair across the desk from Shane’s, licking his lips in anticipation when the other man put a mug of steaming black liquid into his hand.

As expected, the coffee was rich and aromatic, the caffeine exactly what he needed to jump-start his own day. It bore no resemblance whatsoever to the instant variety Emily had served him the night before, and he felt a renewed surge of irritation at the thought of Isobel telling her daughter they couldn’t afford any better.

That was a lie, pure and simple. The allowance he made his wife, plus what she earned herself, should keep them in relative luxury. But there was no denying that the apartment was beginning to look shabby, and Emily wasn’t likely to lie about something like that. So where was the money going? What was she spending it on?

‘Hello? Earth to McCabe? Did you just bail out on me again?’

Shane’s words brought him out of the deepening depression he’d been sinking into, and Jake pulled a wry face as he took another swallow of his coffee.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, trying to concentrate on what was happening in the present instead of drifting back into the past. ‘Lack of sleep, I guess. What were you saying?’

‘I asked if you’d enjoyed your evening at L’Aiguille,’ declared Shane good-naturedly. ‘You obviously had a hell of an evening, but I don’t know if it was good or bad.’

Jake grunted. ‘It wasn’t good,’ he said, setting the mug down on the desk and rubbing his palms over his knees. ‘I didn’t get to L’Aiguille.’ He grimaced. ‘Marcie wasn’t pleased.’

‘I can believe it.’ Shane arched disbelieving brows. ‘What happened? I thought you’d arranged to have dinner with the Allens.’

‘We had. Marcie did.’ Jake lifted his hands and folded them at the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t.’

Shane frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘No. Nor did she,’ remarked Jake with a prolonged sigh. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Hey.’ Shane stared at him. ‘Weren’t you planning on seeing Isobel yesterday?’ A dawning light entered his eyes. ‘I get it. Marcie didn’t want you to see Isobel. She kicked up a fuss and you bailed out.’

‘Yeah.’ Jake gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Something like that.’

‘But—’ Shane would have pursued it further, but a sudden hardening of Jake’s expression warned him it would not be wise. Instead, he changed his words. ‘How is Isobel, anyway? And that kid of hers? What was her name? Emma?’

‘Emily,’ Jake amended, before he could stop himself. Then, dropping his hands, he reached for his coffee again. ‘They’re fine. Thanks for asking.’

Now it was Shane’s turn to give his friend a conservative stare. He’d obviously realised there was more to this than a simple tiff over Jake’s wife, but he knew better than to push his luck.

‘Great,’ he said, reaching for a printout that was lying on his desk. ‘By the way, these are the projected figures for Merlin’s Mountain. Jay thinks it should supersede all the other games if the results of the ad campaign are anything to go by, and they usually are. Oh, and Steve wants to talk to you about his firewall. According to him, it’s the only hacker-proof system there is.’

‘And he should know,’ observed Jake drily, relieved that the conversation had turned to business matters. He didn’t want to offend Shane. They’d been friends too long for him to take the other man’s support for granted. But talking about Isobel had never been easy for him and, after last night, he would prefer to be able to put the whole sorry affair out of his mind.

Which wasn’t going to happen. He knew that. Knew it even more forcibly later that morning, when his cellphone rang and the small screen displayed Marcie’s number.

He was in the middle of a meeting with the finance department at the time, and he was tempted to turn off the phone and ignore it. He could always say he’d left the phone in his office and someone else had hijacked the call. Or he could simply tell her he was busy and that he’d have to call her back.

Some choice.

Stifling a curse, he offered a word of apology to his colleagues and, getting up from the table, crossed to the windows. Standing looking down at the rain-soaked London streets some twenty floors below, he thought how much he hated the city sometimes. He put the phone to his ear. ‘McCabe.’

‘Jake.’

Marcie’s tone was considerably warmer than it had been the night before. Evidently time had mellowed her mood and she was apparently prepared to be magnanimous.

‘Marcie.’ Despite the overture, Jake felt unaccountably reluctant to return it. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘So formal, darling.’ Marcie’s voice would have melted honey. ‘Actually, I thought you might have rung me. You know how upset I was last night. I’ve hardly slept.’

Jake refrained from mentioning that he hadn’t been to bed himself. He refused to give her that satisfaction. Instead he said flatly, ‘I was pretty bugged myself.’

A silence, and then Marcie spoke again. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to apologise. Must I remind you that it wasn’t me who let you down? What you did was—well, pretty unforgivable. I was made to look like a complete idiot.’

‘How?’

Jake heard the accusation in his voice but couldn’t seem to help it. Right now he wasn’t in the mood for one of Marcie’s famous fits of histrionics. Last night he would have told her what had happened, would have explained about Isobel and Emily—well, some of it anyway. Enough to make her realise that he’d had no choice but to do what he had, that on this occasion Isobel had had to come first. But at this moment he didn’t much care what she believed.

‘You know I wanted you to sound Frank out about the chances of me getting my own show,’ Marcie answered, a predictable tremor in her voice. ‘You knew I couldn’t bring it up myself. I hardly know the Allens. They’re your friends, not mine.’ She paused, and when he didn’t say anything she went on more aggressively, ‘And his wife is such a snob. When I told her what I’d been doing for the past five years her jaw almost dropped through the floor. Supercilious bitch! She made me feel like I was the lowest form of pond life. Like she’d never taken her clothes off to get what she wanted. I tell you, Jake, I’ve had it with women like her. I don’t think they know what century they’re living in. How I stopped myself from pushing her stupid face into the salmon mousse I’ll never know.’

Jake had to smile then. The image of Marcie using strongarm tactics on Virginia Allen was just so ludicrous. Frank’s wife was a lady. Heavens, there’d been occasions when she’d refused to attend one of her husband’s openings because she’d considered it too risqué. He could quite believe she’d been horrified at the news that Marcie had made her living as a photographic model. In her opinion, models—fashion models included—were not much better than paid courtesans.

‘I’d like to have seen that,’ he said now, the humour in his voice unmistakable, and Marcie giggled.

‘You might have, if you’d been there,’ she said tartly, proving that she hadn’t quite forgiven him yet. Then, evidently deciding she ought to quit while she was ahead, she added, ‘So how about joining me for lunch instead? I’ve got some champagne in the fridge I’d intended to open last night. We could see what novel ways we can find to drink it. What do you say, darling? It’s Louis Roederer. Your favourite.’

It was a tempting offer, but Jake had to refuse it. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting a supplier for lunch, and this afternoon I’m flying to Brussels to meet up with our European distributors. I don’t expect I’ll be back much before midnight.’

Marcie groaned. Then, with obvious inspiration, ‘I could come with you. I’m free all day.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Jake let her down lightly. ‘How much work do you think I’d get done with you along for the ride? No, Marcie. I guess we’re going to have to put the champagne on ice for another day.’

‘If I don’t find someone else to drink it with, you mean?’ she flashed shortly, and Jake expelled a weary breath.

‘Your call,’ he said drily, aware that a significant silence had fallen behind him. He’d been on the phone too long, and there was only so much that could be decided in his absence.

‘So I won’t see you until Saturday,’ Marcie said tightly.

‘Looks that way,’ agreed Jake, casting an apologetic glance over his shoulder. ‘I’ll call you when I get back.’

The sound of Marcie’s phone disconnecting was his answer, and he pulled a face at his reflection in the rain-washed windows before closing his own phone and slipping it into his pocket.

Then he turned back to his colleagues. ‘Sorry about that, gentlemen,’ he said, forcing a smile for their benefit. ‘What’s that expression? A little local difficulty, right? Now, where were we?’



Isobel was tempted to keep Emily home from school the next morning. The girl had had a restless night, crying out in her sleep, waking herself up every couple of hours to go to the bathroom. Naturally Isobel hadn’t slept much either, and they were both hollow-eyed at breakfast.

But she had a pile of properties on her desk at work, and meetings with clients scheduled for most of the morning. Isobel knew she didn’t dare take another day off. She’d already stretched her boss’s goodwill to breaking point in looking after her mother, and she didn’t kid herself that her skill at selling houses was indispensable.

Besides, she had the feeling that her daughter would be better off at school. Staying at home would only remind her of what had happened the night before, and Isobel was desperate that Emily should put that unpleasantness behind her. She was only a child, after all. She didn’t understand. Jake should never have taken out his own frustration with Isobel on the girl.

Yet what had she expected? She’d known that sooner or later he—or someone else—would tell Emily of the doubts concerning her paternity. Her mother had threatened to do so more than once. But Isobel had warned her, on pain of excommunication, not to say anything to upset the child until she was old enough to handle it.

And they’d been getting along with their lives quite well. They weren’t well off. Emily’s school fees, and the money Isobel paid towards her mother’s expenses, ensured that there was little change at the end of the month. But she knew there were others far less comfortable than themselves.

Lady Hannah’s illness, however, had made a severe dent in her income—and her confidence. Isobel had had no idea where she would find the money to pay for her mother’s treatment. The idea of the old lady having to wait to have her operation in a National Health hospital had not been an option. The doctor had admitted that Lady Hannah might die before the life-saving surgery was performed, and there’d been no way Isobel could allow that to happen.

She suspected Jake might have loaned her the money if she’d asked him. But she’d had no desire to involve him, no desire to precipitate exactly what had happened the night before. So she’d sold her car, and what little jewellery she’d possessed, and cut their expenses to the bone to pay back the mortgage she’d raised on the apartment.

Of course, she hadn’t anticipated that Jake might want to see her, that her mother might be taken ill on the very afternoon he was due to arrive. It was years since there’d been any serious contact between them. If he needed to speak to her, he usually phoned, and she’d actually begun to believe that Emily might be a young woman before Isobel had to confess her part in Jake’s estrangement from his family.

But that was before Marcie Duncan came on the scene. Marcie, who was young and beautiful, who didn’t just want an affair, who wanted a husband.

Isobel’s husband.

‘Am I really not—not his daughter?’ Emily asked suddenly, as Isobel was wondering what she was going to tell her mother when she visited her this evening, and she turned to look at the child. She’d been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed that Emily had put down her cereal spoon and was regarding her now with wide, troubled eyes.

‘No, you are his daughter.’ Isobel was adamant. She didn’t care if she aggravated Jake; she wasn’t going to lie to the child. ‘We talked about this last night, Em, and I told you not to worry about it. Whatever—Daddy—says, however painful his words may be, you are his daughter. You’re our daughter. And—I love you very much.’

‘He doesn’t.’ Emily was dogged, and she pushed her untouched bowl aside. Then, cautiously, ‘Why doesn’t he believe us?’

Isobel stifled a groan. ‘I—your father has never forgiven me for something I did before you were born,’ she admitted at last. ‘It’s my fault, not his.’

Emily frowned. ‘What did you do?’

But that was beyond even Isobel’s abilities to explain. ‘It’s not important now,’ she said, getting up from the breakfast bar and carrying her coffee cup to the sink. ‘Go on, eat your cornflakes. We’ve got to leave in ten minutes and I want to phone the hospital first.’

‘The hospital?’ To Isobel’s relief, Emily was distracted, and although she didn’t make any attempt to eat her cereal, she was obviously concerned. ‘How long is Granny going to be in hospital?’

‘I don’t know.’ Anxiety clogged Isobel’s throat for a moment. Although the events of the night before had served to divert her thoughts from her mother’s relapse, the reality of the situation was suddenly almost too much to bear. She and Lady Hannah hadn’t always seen eye-to-eye, and there’d been times when Isobel had thought the old lady was going out of her way to cause trouble for her. But she was her mother, her only living relative apart from Emily, and if anything happened to her she’d be completely devastated. On top of everything else it just seemed too much.

‘Is she going to die?’

Emily’s voice betrayed the panic that Isobel was trying so hard to hide, and in an effort to reassure the child she gave a short laugh.

‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed, pointing at Emily’s dish again. ‘You can come with me to see her this evening. Now, eat your breakfast. I don’t want you falling ill, too.’

To her relief, Emily picked up her spoon and made a gallant attempt to swallow her cereal. But she was still upset, and Isobel wondered again if she ought to send her to school in this state.

But she didn’t have a lot of choice. Without her mother to call on she was severely limited in the arrangements she could make. There was always Sarah Daniels, of course, but although her friend had always professed herself willing to act as babysitter, she had three children of her own to care for.





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