That Kind Of Man. Sharon Kendrick

go with Mrs Howard,’ answered Nick, and his eyes defied Abigail to argue with him.

      But she was past caring, or arguing. She was numb and cold and exhausted. She let Nick propel her towards one of the waiting cars as though she were a mannequin in a shop-window—her limbs light and useless as if they had been fashioned from plastic. The lethargy which had been plaguing her for days began insidiously to overwhelm her.

      She sank down on the squashy black leather seat and closed her eyes, expecting a barrage of questions, but when none came she opened them again and found him observing her, his face curiously expressionless. And that in itself was surprising. Normally there was at least dislike or disapproval on the face of Nick Harrington when he was in her company.

      Outside the car, the trees were like charcoal line-drawings etched in stark contrast against heavy grey snow-clouds, and oddly childlike. It was funny, she thought suddenly, but even in the early days of their relationship, when they had been relatively happy, she and Orlando had never discussed having children. Abigail shivered. Not funny at all, really.

      Nick saw the shiver and rapped on the glass immediately. ‘Could you increase the heating?’ he instructed the driver curtly. ‘It’s like Siberia in the back here.’

      A welcome, warm blast of air hit Abigail immediately and she expelled a breath of relief as some of the icy chill left her body.

      She seemed to have been cold for days now, a dull, bone-deep coldness she couldn’t shift, not since the night the policeman had knocked on the heavy oak door and had waited to give her the momentous news.

      She had known immediately that her husband was dead, from the grim look on the policeman’s face, but long, agonising seconds had passed before he had asked her that chillingly final question, ‘Are you the wife of a Mr Orlando Howard?’

      There had been shock at first, deep and profound shock, but hot on its heels had come relief. Blessed relief that Orlando could never taunt her again.

      And Abigail had had to live with the guilt of those feelings ever since ...

      ‘Are you okay?’ Nick’s deep voice seemed to come from out of nowhere, and Abigail forced herself back to the present with an effort.

      ‘I suppose so.’ She nodded her head stiffly. That dream-like feeling had washed over her again, and all her reflexes seemed to be on auto-pilot. It seemed easier to cope when she felt that way.

      ‘You’ll feel better now that the funeral is over.’ His eyes were fixed on her face, like a doctor waiting for a reaction from a patient.

      ‘Yes,’ she replied. But will I, she wondered? Would she ever feel better again?

      ‘You look tired, Abby,’ he observed neutrally. ‘Exhausted, in fact.’

      ‘I am.’

      ‘Then rest,’ he urged. ‘At least until we get back to the house.’

      Her normal response to him—if any of her responses to Nick could ever be described as normal—would have been to tell him to mind his own business. His high-handedness was something she usually resented. But he was right, she was too exhausted—even to resist him.

      Abigail tried to lean her head back, but the hat she wore prevented her from doing so. She lifted her hand and removed first the pin securing it and then the black, wide-brimmed, rather exotic creation from her head.

      She never wore hats as a rule, she found them too constricting. She had chosen this one today because Orlando had loved hats, the more outrageous the better. And she had failed him in so many ways as a wife. The least she could do was to don a fancy hat in his honour—to play the part he would have wanted her to play at his funeral.

      But it was such a relief to remove it. She tossed it on the seat beside her and shook her head vigorously, allowing the thick, straight honey-coloured hair to fall down unfettered around her shoulders.

      Nick was watching her, his eyes narrowed as the bright hair spilled down in contrast against the black suit, and it was several moments before he spoke. ‘You didn’t contact me directly when Orlando was killed.’

      It was as much a question as a statement, Abigail acknowledged. Almost an accusation, too. She absently pushed a lock of hair off her pale cheek. ‘I didn’t see the point. I knew that you’d read about it in the papers. We haven’t exactly been living in each other’s pockets since my marriage, have we? Or before it either, come to that. And you never bothered to hide your dislike of Orlando.’

      ‘The feeling was entirely mutual. Orlando made no secret of his aversion to me, you know.’

      Stung into defence, Abigail sat up in her seat. ‘He, at least, had a reason for disliking you!’

      ‘Oh?’ The green gaze was unperturbed. ‘And what was that? Envy of my material status? Because if there was ever a man who demonstrated avarice like it was going out of fashion, then it was Orlando.’

      ‘Why, you ... you ... unbearable brute!’ Abigail only got the words out with a monumental effort. ‘How can you speak so ill of the dead!’

      ‘I said the same when he was alive, and to his face,’ Nick contradicted coolly. ‘The reason Orlando hated me was because he was a failure and I wasn’t. And because he knew that if I’d stuck around I might just have been able to knock some sense into your pretty but dense little head and stopped you marrying him.’

      Disbelief stirred in the depths of Abigail’s eyes, so dark blue that they looked like ink. ‘You really think you would have been able to stop me marrying him?’

      He shrugged. ‘It was a pity that he managed to talk you into a register office wedding which could be performed relatively quickly.’

      ‘That made a difference, did it?’ she challenged.

      His eyes glittered. ‘Of course it made a difference. You see, I had rather counted on your love of the big occasion coming to the fore, Abigail. You aren’t your mother’s daughter for nothing. And if you had opted for a church wedding and all that it entailed, then it would have given me plenty of time to have changed your mind.’

      Abigail gave a bitter laugh. ‘And you bother asking why I didn’t contact you after Orlando died? I can only wonder why you turned up today at all.’

      ‘Because I’m the closest thing to a relative you have,’ he pointed out coolly.

      ‘I know,’ Abigail’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘And aren’t I the lucky one?’

      ‘Aren’t you just?’ he agreed mockingly, and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

      She had been trying very hard not to look at him too closely, and she didn’t want to ask herself why. But that unconsciously graceful stretch made her acutely aware of his physical presence and she found herself unable to tear her eyes away from him.

      Even among very good-looking men Nick had always stood out from the crowd. Over the years Abigail had tried to analyse his particular appeal, and once again she attempted to be objective as she watched him covertly from beneath the thick, dark sweep of her eyelashes.

      No one could deny that he had a superb physique. He was lightly tanned and muscular, without an ounce of spare flesh lurking on that impressive frame.

      But loads of men had good bodies, she reasoned. Orlando, her late husband, had possessed a magnificent physique, which he had shown off whenever possible by wearing the most clinging and revealing clothes he could get away with.

      And that, supposed Abigail, was the difference. Nick didn’t emphasise his shape; he didn’t have to. It would have been glaringly obvious to even the most unobservant person that Nick had a body to die for—even if he’d been swathed in sackcloth. The loose-cut suit he wore now, for example, merely hinted at the flat, hard planes of his abdomen and the heavily muscled thighs which lay beneath, and Abigail felt an uncomfortable awareness of his proximity tickling away at