by Penny Jordan
‘Fern’s driving,’ Nick announced before Fern herself could say anything. ‘And besides, she has no head for alcohol.’
Fern was uncomfortably aware of the briefly appraising look Jennifer Bowers was giving them from the other side of the room; a look which said quite plainly what the MP thought of Nick’s attitude towards her.
Hurt and humiliated, Fern could feel her colour rising as the anger and pain built up inside her, coupled with the knowledge that there was no way she could express what she was feeling; that even when they were back at home and on their own she would not be able to explain to Nick how his behaviour hurt her.
And that was surely her fault and not his, the result of her early upbringing and the loving but old-fashioned parents who had taught her with gentle insistence that little girls, especially nice, well-behaved little girls, did not behave aggressively, did not argue with others, did not express views which contradicted those of others, and always went out of their way to make life easier for others. Being polite and helpful, her parents had called it.
And since Nick insisted that he loved her, she must surely be the one at fault in feeling this frightening dislocation from life; this subversive awareness that she did not love him in return even though she knew she ought to.
In the distance she heard the doorbell ring, shifting her focus back from her introspective thoughts of the past and into the present.
‘Ah, here are our final couple. They haven’t been together for very long. I expect that’s why they’re late. They probably stopped on the way for…’ Venice gave a small expressive shrug as she went to welcome them.
Fern turned away, smiling at Roberta as she came over to her and announced, ‘I almost forgot… I wanted to have a word with you about the charity auction we’re organising. You’re still on to help sort out the jumble stuff, by the way?’
Fern was just about to answer when the drawing-room doors opened and Venice swept in, ushering the last arrivals inside.
Fern looked towards the doors automatically and then froze, paralysed with shock, her whole body going numb as she stared at the couple who had just walked in; or, rather, at the man who had just walked in.
Adam. She could feel the sound of his name pounding inside her skull, a silent, anguished protest of torment and pain that affected every single nerve-ending of her body; the sensation of her fear that it would be stronger than her self-control making her feel as physically sick as though she had actually let that silent private sound of torment become a physical nerve-jarring reality, revealing to everyone around her exactly what she was feeling… what she had been feeling for so long that suppressing those feelings had drained her energies to the point where there was simply nothing left over for anything else.
In those seconds of agonised confusion and fear it was as humiliating and terrifying as though she had been standing naked in front of them all… worse, in fact; but then she felt Nick’s hand on the small of her back, heard the surprised chagrin and envy in his voice as he commented disbelievingly to her, ‘Where the hell did Adam find her?’
And hard on the heels of the grateful realisation that somehow fate had been kind to her and that she had not betrayed her feelings came the sickening awareness, not just of the youth and prettiness of the girl who was with Adam, but also the way she stood uncertainly close to his side, and the way he moved closer, protectively towards her, smiling encouragingly down at her.
Fern could literally feel the knife-twist of jealousy and pain spearing inside her, the hot agony of longing and guilt that rose up so that she felt almost as though she was drowning in her own anguish.
‘Fern…’
She heard Adam say her name… saw him coming towards her.
‘Adam.’
Was that really her voice? It sounded so cool, so contained, so totally the opposite of all that she was feeling.
No one would ever guess, watching the wary way they greeted one another, that Adam was her brother-in-law, she recognised bleakly, or rather her stepbrother-in-law. There was after all no blood relationship between Nick and Adam; Nick’s mother had married Adam’s father when Nick had been in his early teens and Adam almost a young adult, and physically of course they could not have been more dissimilar.
Where Nick was all dapper blond elegance, Adam was…
She found she was having to swallow hard past the obstruction which had somehow lodged in her throat as her mind, her thoughts, her emotions, obviously resentful of the constrictions she had placed upon them, rebelled and relayed to her not the actual reality of Adam as he now stood before her, tall, distinguished in the formal evening clothes which subtly emphasised the essential maleness of him, his dark, normally slightly unruly thick hair firmly brushed—and newly cut—his eyes a calm, sober grey; but Adam as she had once seen him, his skin damp with sweat, tiny beads of it lodging in the hollow at the base of his throat, the scent of it, of him, filling her nostrils with a musky and body-trembling awareness of his masculinity, his eyes, so calm and steady now, burning with a molten silver heat, making her tremble, unleashing within her needs, desires, feelings she had never known she could possess.
For all his workouts at the gym, for all the obvious pride and self-satisfaction Nick took in his body and his sexuality, he had never, could never… She swallowed hard, forcing herself to ignore the taunting images filling her memory and to concentrate instead on the girl standing so shyly at Adam’s side.
She couldn’t have been a day over nineteen, Fern reflected, unable to stop herself from responding to the shy, hesitant smile she was giving her.
Enviably tall, with pretty dark hair, she had eyes which still held the doe-like innocence of extreme youth, her mouth its vulnerability and uncertainty.
The last time she had seen her, Fern remembered wryly, she had had a brace across those now perfect little white teeth and she had been wearing her school uniform.
‘Fern, you remember Lily James, don’t you?’ Adam queried, gently bringing the younger girl forward.
‘Yes… yes, of course I do. How are you, Lily? How are your parents?’
She sounded as though she was old enough to be Lily’s grandmother, Fern recognised ruefully, but there was not even a decade between them.
It was totally contrary to Fern’s own nature to be unkind to anyone, much less an obviously shy young girl like this, even if… when…
Even when what? Fern asked herself bitterly as she smiled warmly at the younger girl, gently trying to put her at her ease.
Even if Adam loved her…
Her heart seemed to jolt right up into her throat, its already nervous beating becoming a frantic distressed hammering.
The palms of her hands were damp with sweat, her nails curling painfully into their softness as she fought to suppress the cry of agony she could feel building in her throat.
What was wrong with her? She had always known that one day Adam would fall in love… that someone would eventually cause him to abandon the bachelor state which Nick had always claimed he would never voluntarily give up.
‘If you really want my stepbrother,’ he had told Fern once before they were married, ‘then the only way you’re likely to get him is by tricking him into getting you pregnant. Very keen on being seen to do the right thing, is our Adam. Do you want him, Fern?’ he had added slyly.
‘Adam is just a friend,’ she had responded tautly. After all, no nice, decent girl ever admitted even to herself that she could possibly want a man who did not want her… or at least that was the message she had picked up from her mother’s carefully protective teachings.
And she had believed it. And still believed it?
She could feel the pain stirring inside her again, tearing, wrenching, streaked with guilt and shame.
Adam was standing so close to her that she was actually conscious of the scent of him, not the faint cool hint of cologne he was wearing, but the basic personal male smell…
Despairingly she moved back from him, giv
ing Lily a small apologetic smile as she started to excuse herself.
‘Fern.’
She could hear the tension in Adam’s voice and the anger, and her own stomach muscles clenched in response.
She couldn’t look at him. She dared not…
‘I think Venice wants us to go through into the dining-room,’ she told him distantly as she turned away and looked for Nick.
* * *
The meal they were served was superbly presented, an exotic combination of all that was luxurious and first rate, which must have cost Venice as much as she probably spent on food in a year, Fern reflected tiredly, unable to face the richness of her food, nor the smell that rose up from her plate.
They had almost finished their pudding when without warning Venice turned to John Parkinson and asked, ‘What do you think of this plan to bulldoze Broughton House and build shops and offices on the land?’
‘What plan?’ Roberta’s husband asked with some concern.
‘Oh, haven’t you heard?’ Venice queried. ‘It’s all over the town that someone local is planning to put in a bid for the place, ostensibly as a private home, but in reality because he… they have very different plans for it.
‘Of course it would have to be someone with the right kind of local contacts and influence so that they could get planning permission pushed through, wouldn’t you say so, Adam?’
Although she was smiling sweetly at Adam, no one could have been in any doubt that it was Adam to whom Venice was referring when she spoke of ‘someone local’ acquiring Broughton House. But surely Adam would never lend himself to that kind of scheme?
It was true that Adam, as an architect, was bound to be interested in anything which might lead to new commissions, and it was certainly no secret that he was part of a highly successful local conglomerate which had designed, built and now ran several small local shopping parades and housing schemes, but all of them had been completely above board and free from any taint of the kind of underhand usage of power and position which Venice was now none too subtly implying.
‘Perhaps we ought to organise a committee to oppose it,’ Venice continued without giving Adam any chance to reply. ‘I have actually heard that what’s being proposed isn’t just a small parade of shops, but a huge hypermarket. Of course you have to admire whoever it is for his chutzpah. If he can pull it off, it will make him very, very wealthy, and I suppose to be fair there will be those who will say that the town does need that kind of facility. What do you think, Adam?’
‘Broughton House is in an area of “outstanding natural beauty”,’ Adam told her quietly. ‘I should imagine it would be impossible to get planning permission for that kind of venture.’
‘Oh, but surely not if one had the right connections… knew whom to approach and how,’ Venice persisted, smiling sweetly at him.
There was a small, uneasy silence which Nick broke by turning to Adam and saying silkily, ‘You don’t seem particularly surprised, Adam, but then perhaps you know more about what’s going on than the rest of us. After all, as a member of the town council…’
‘Like Venice, I have heard the rumours,’ Adam countered, ‘but that seems to be all they are… rumours.’
‘But the house is up for sale and unliveable-in in its present state,’ Venice persisted. ‘And surely you, Adam, both as an architect and a councillor, must know something…’
‘Mrs Broughton lived in it…’
Fern froze as she heard the unsteady huskiness in her own voice, her words cutting right across Venice’s deliberate probing, deflecting attention away from Adam and towards herself, drawing not just an irritated little frown from Venice at her intervention, but an angry glare from Nick as well.
‘Fern has always had a ridiculously sentimental attachment to the place,’ Nick announced tersely, giving her a cold look.
‘Well, I for one would be very surprised to hear that anyone would be foolish enough to imagine they could get planning permission for that kind of venture,’ Jennifer Bowers announced briskly. ‘And if anyone tried, I should certainly oppose it. After all, we haven’t spent all these years protecting the character and history of the town only to go and have hypermarkets built on its unspoilt land.’
‘Adam’s the expert on the town’s history and preservation,’ Venice persisted. ‘And I still have a sneaking suspicion that he knows more about what’s going on than he wants to tell us.’
Because Adam himself was involved in some scheme or other to destroy the house? That was what Venice was implying, and Adam himself had done and said nothing that really contradicted her subtle accusations. Because he couldn’t?
As she glanced round the table, Fern suspected that she wasn’t the only one wishing that Adam would make a more definite and unequivocal rebuttal of Venice’s hints.
‘Have you heard anything about this supermarket business?’ Roberta asked her later as they waited for Venice’s maid to bring down their coats.
Fern shook her head.
Was what Venice had been suggesting true? Was Adam involved in some plan to secretly circumvent the planning controls operating locally? And what about Nick’s earlier thoughts that Adam wanted the house to raise a family?
The maid came back downstairs, apparently unable to find Fern’s jacket. Quietly she went upstairs to look for it herself.
The coats were all placed on a bed in one of the spare rooms. She had to move several before she could find her own thin jacket, and as she lifted one of them, a heavy, plain wool man’s coat, she knew immediately that it was Adam’s. Her fingers tightened into the fabric. She could feel the hot salt burn of the tears clogging her throat and for a moment the impulse, the need to bury her face in the soft black fabric and breathe in the scent of Adam from it was so strong that she had the coat halfway to her face, the fabric gripped tightly in her fingers, before she fully realised what she was doing.
Appalled, she dropped it, turning round quickly, her face flushed with guilt as she mechanically reached for her own jacket.
As she pulled it on, she realised that in dropping Adam’s coat she had dislodged a heavy folded brochure from an inside pocket. She bent to pick it up and replace it and then stiffened as she realised what it was.
Through the tears which blurred her vision she could see the photograph of Broughton House on the front cover of the sale brochure.
She was twenty-seven years old, still a relatively young woman, but suddenly she wished with almost savage intensity that she were older, her life closer to its end, and with it the end of all the pain, the misery, the guilt which daily became an even greater burden to her.
She was Nick’s wife, she reminded herself; she had no right to…
To what? To love another man?
‘Stay with me, Fern,’ Nick had begged her. And then later when she had told him about Adam he had said it again.
He must genuinely want and need her to overlook what she had done, mustn’t he? And surely in view of that she owed it to him to stay.
And besides, what was the point in her leaving? she had recognised numbly. Where else was there for her to go—now that she had been all the way to hell and back again? And to heaven as well?
Shakily she turned away, almost running towards the door and down the stairs.
CHAPTER THREE
‘MMM… nice,’ Zoe murmured teasingly against Ben’s mouth as she wrapped herself around him, curling her body into the sleepy morning warmth of his.
It hadn’t been easy getting their precious time off to coincide; Monday was the one morning of the week when neither of them had to get up early for work, the restaurant where Ben was currently working closed on Mondays and Zoe having begged, cajoled and bribed the others at the London airport hotel where she was working so that she could have Mondays off as well.
She loved it when they were together like this, she thought drowsily as she snuggled deeper into Ben’s naked warmth, rubbing her face against his skin and nuzzling him with lazy, appreciative s
ensuality.
Once, in their early days together, Ben had told her that she was just like a little cat with her soft fluid body and her habit of rubbing herself affectionately against him.
In truth there was something prettily feline about her small triangular face and the soft sinuous grace of her body.
But Zoe had an energy that had nothing catlike about it, an electric buzzing force that made her grey eyes sparkle with enthusiasm, and which seemed to crackle around her like a live force-field.
There was nothing kittenish about her either; she scorned such ploys and affectations. It was, Ben reflected wryly as he slid his fingers into the thick dark mass of curls haloing her face, only now, in these their most intimate moments, that her normal exuberance was calmed and tamed, to reveal her vulnerability and sensuality.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ he told her as he felt her hand slide downwards over his body.
Zoe laughed, turning her face into the curve of his throat and kissing him lovingly.
She laughed again as she heard him groan and felt him turn his body in towards her, his actions running directly counter to his words.
It had always been like this between them right from the very start, Ben, cautious, concerned, wanting to hold back; take time and to be sure; she…
She made a voluptuous sound of appreciation against his skin as her fingers closed gently round him.
…She impatient, impulsive, knowing almost from the first moment they had met that she wanted him.
She felt him move against her, his body aroused, hard; she caressed him slowly, enjoying her own body’s response to him, the taut, heavy feeling in her breasts; the sensitivity of her nipples especially when she rubbed herself rhythmically against his chest, the small betraying, knowing pulse that grew insistently urgent as she let herself absorb the hot silky texture of his skin, anticipating the pleasure that lay ahead, the pleasures they had already known.
Ben wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head and then, when she lifted her face to look at him, her mouth.
His skin smelled of warmth and sleep and the faintly acrid scent of his sweat, and that special unmistakable scent that was his alone and which as always she found unbearably erotic. She wondered if her scent affected him in the same way. Ben didn’t like talking about sex. In the northern city in which he had grown up, boys… men grew up with an attitude towards sex which was very different from the ones she had absorbed from her own middle-class parents.