In Bed with Her Ex. Nina Harrington

the hostility from his eyes.

      To her relief she could feel him softening, feel the hostile tension drain from him, replaced by a different kind of tension.

      ‘Hold me,’ she whispered.

      He did so, reaching for her, drawing her down to stretch out on the bed, or letting her draw him down. Neither of them really knew.

      Their first encounter had been entirely sexual. This one was on a different plane. No words were spoken, but none were needed. In each other’s arms they seemed to find again the things that had been missing the first time—sweetness, warmth, the joy of the heart.

      Afterwards they held each other with gentle hands.

      ‘We’ll get there,’ she promised. ‘We’ll find a way, my darling, I promise we will.’

      He didn’t reply, and she suddenly became aware that his breathing was deep and steady. She turned her head, the better to see his face, and gave a tender smile as she saw him sunk in sleep.

      It had always been this way, she remembered. He would love her with all the power and vigour of a great man, then fall asleep like a child.

      ‘That’s right, you sleep,’ she murmured. ‘Sleep and I’ll take care of everything.’

      Slowly her smile changed. Now it was one of triumph.

      In the twilight world that came just before awakening she relived a dream. So many times she’d fallen asleep in his arms, knowing that he would still be there in the morning. Sometimes she’d opened her eyes to find him looking down at her adoringly. At other times he would be sunk in sleep, but always reaching for her, even if only with his fingertips. It was as though he could only relax with the assurance of her presence.

      And me, she thought hazily, knowing he would be there meant that life was good. She opened her eyes. She was alone. He was gone.

      She sat up, looking around frantically, certain that there was some mistake. The room was empty. Hurrying out of bed, she searched all the rooms but there was no sign of him. Marcel had stolen away while she slept.

      But he’d vowed to keep her a prisoner. The outer door would be locked.

      It wasn’t. It yielded at once and she found herself looking out into an empty corridor. Something about the silence was frightening.

      She slammed the door and leaned back against it, refusing to believe that this could have happened. Last night they’d found each other again, not totally but enough for hope. They should have spent today talking, repairing the past. Instead he’d walked out.

      But he might have fled through caution, she thought. Don’t judge him until you’ve spoken to him.

      She dressed carefully. Cassie or Mrs Henshaw today?

      Finally she settled on a mixture, restrained clothing as befitted her job, but with her hair flowing freely. He would understand. A quick breakfast and she was ready to face whatever the challenge was.

      The door to Marcel’s apartment was opened by a middle-aged woman with a friendly face.

      ‘Bonjour. I am Vera, Marcel’s secretary. He has left me instructions to be of service to you.’

      ‘Left you—? Isn’t he here?’

      ‘He had to leave suddenly. For what reason he did not say. I’m a little surprised because he has so much to do, and he didn’t even tell me where he was going.’

      So that was that. He was snubbing her, escaping to some place where she couldn’t follow. Perhaps she should simply take the hint and leave, but that seemed too much like giving in without a fight. How he would triumph if he returned to find her gone. Grimly she settled down to work.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      LAURA Degrande had settled contentedly in a small house in the suburbs of Paris. It wasn’t a wealthy district, but she always said life was better without wealth. Her marriage to Amos Falcon had not been happy, and the only good thing to come from it was her son, Marcel. He would have kept her in luxury, but she refused, accepting an allowance that was comfortable, but no more, despite his indignant protests. It was the only blot on their otherwise affectionate relationship.

      Her face lit up when he appeared at her door.

      ‘My darling, how lovely to see you. I was thrilled to get your call this morning. What is it that’s so urgent?’

      Hugging her, Marcel said, ‘I need to look through some old stuff that you stored for me.’

      ‘Have you lost something?’

      ‘You might say that. Are the bags where I left them?’

      ‘Still in the attic.’

      ‘See you later.’

      He hurried up the stairs before she could answer, and shut himself away in the little room, where he began to pull open bags and boxes, tossing them aside when they didn’t contain what he wanted. When Laura looked in he turned a haggard face towards her.

      ‘There’s something missing—a big grey envelope—I left it here—it’s gone—’

      ‘Oh, that. Yes, I found it but there was only rubbish inside, shreds of paper that you’d obviously torn up. I thought they should be thrown out.’

      ‘What?’ The sound that broke from him was a roar of anguish. His face was haggard, desperate. ‘You threw it out?’

      ‘No, calm down. I thought about it but then I remembered what you’re like about not throwing things away. So I stored them safely—up here on this shelf. Yes, here’s the envelope.’

      He almost snatched it from her with a choking, ‘Thank you!’

      Laura left the room quickly, knowing that something desperately important had happened, and he needed to be alone to cope with it.

      Marcel wrenched open the envelope and a load of small bits of paper cascaded onto the floor. Frantically he gathered them up, found a small table and began to piece them together. It was hard because his hands were shaking, and the paper had been torn into tiny shreds.

      As he worked he could see himself again, on that night long ago, tearing, tearing, desperate with hate and misery.

      He’d left the hospital as soon as he was strong enough, and gone straight to Cassie’s home. The lights were out and he knew the worst as soon as he arrived, but he still banged on the door, crying her name, banging more desperately.

      ‘You’re wasting your time,’ said a voice behind him. ‘She’s gone.’

      Behind him stood a middle-aged man who Marcel knew vaguely. He was usually grumpy, but today he seemed pleased at the bad news he was imparting.

      ‘Gone where?’ Marcel demanded.

      A shrug. ‘How do I know? She packed up and left days ago. I saw her get into a posh car. Bloke who owned it must be a millionaire, so I reckon that’s finished you. She saw sense at last.’

      Seeing Marcel’s face, he retreated hastily.

      At first he refused to believe it, banging on the door again and screaming her name, until at last even he had to accept the truth. She’d gone without a backward glance.

      He didn’t remember the journey home, except that he sat drinking in the back of the taxi until he tumbled out onto the pavement and staggered into the building.

      On the mat he found an envelope, with his name in Cassie’s handwriting. The sight had been enough to make him explode with drunken rage and misery, tearing it, tearing, tearing, tearing—until only shreds were left.

      He’d left England next morning. At the airport he’d had a brief glimpse