Cherish Collection January 2014 (Books 1-12). Rebecca Winters

to her, and while she’d been able to cling to him the world had still been a good place. The discovery of his betrayal had been a blow over the heart that had affected her as much as Dan’s. Perhaps even more.

      Now the comfort that Jackson had seemed to offer was gone. Gone for ever. For how could she ever believe in anyone again?

      She dropped her head, covering her eyes with her hand, seeking escape, forgetfulness, while her body trembled with sobs.

      ‘No,’ she told herself sharply. ‘I said I wasn’t going to give in to this again. And I’m not. I’m going to have a new world that I’ll build myself, without anyone’s help.’

      But somehow strength and resolution were no help to her now. She gazed yearningly at the pyramid, looming high and peaceful as it had done for thousands of years—as it would do for thousands more. How petty seemed human problems against that monument and the ancient wisdom it represented. How many humans had stood before its magnificence feeling their own triviality?

      ‘If only I knew what I—’ she whispered. ‘If only I could tell—’

      But there was only silence and the awesome, unyielding beauty that seemed to come from another universe.

      At last she turned away and moved inside, where she went to bed and lay sleepless for several hours.

      * * *

      For several minutes after Freya went inside, the man standing on the next balcony stayed silent and motionless, relieved that she hadn’t discovered him.

      Jackson wasn’t proud of himself for watching Freya while she hadn’t known he was there, but her entrance had taken him by surprise. He remembered that day several weeks ago, when she’d discovered his innocent deception about Dan and attacked him furiously. A few hours later he’d spotted his father standing outside the door, secretly listening to Freya and her mother talking inside. Without being able to make out the words, Jackson had guessed what was being said.

      Seeing his son, Amos had placed a finger over his lips and shaken his head. When Jackson had tried to make him leave he’d refused. Nor would he discuss what he’d heard.

      ‘And don’t you tell them that you saw me,’ he’d demanded. ‘There are things a man should keep to himself.’

      Jackson had agreed, though reluctantly. Having concealed the truth from Freya once, it hurt him to deceive her by concealment a second time. It had been a relief to leave for Egypt soon afterwards. Now a malevolent fate had tricked him into spying on her. Leaving the balcony had been impossible. The door to his bedroom was too noisy to risk. He’d had no choice but to stay and see things his conscience told him he had no right to see.

      Like father, like son, he thought bitterly. He always said he wasn’t like Amos, but then something like this happened and—oh, hell!

      The quarrel with Freya had hurt him. When he’d first tried to help her through the misery of her cancelled wedding it had been partly from kindness, partly from guilt. Gradually he’d come to enjoy their relationship. The sense that he could bring her comfort had made him feel good about himself in a way that had been new to him.

      Which just went to show how conceited he could be, he told himself wryly.

      The pleasure of protecting her had been real, and her fury when she’d discovered the truth had been a blow to his heart. Then she’d seen him off at the airport and demanded a hug, giving him a moment of hope. He’d dared to think next time they met the past would be forgiven, their friendship restored.

      But then had come his call to England about Amos’s health, and the things he’d said to Freya thinking he was speaking to Janine. He’d said nothing that could offend her, but he’d adopted a pleading tone that now embarrassed him. How foolish he must have sounded.

      When they’d met again earlier that day she’d been coolly affable, full of calm good sense. No sign of hostility, but no pleasure either. It was as though the old, friendly Freya no longer existed.

      But she’d returned tonight at the dinner table. Chatting with Larry, she’d burst into delighted laughter, then indulged in a bout of teasing backchat with him.

      Debra, sitting beside himself, trying to lure his attention away from Freya, had murmured, ‘Those two are really on each other’s wavelength, aren’t they?’

      ‘Are they?’ he’d responded with a fairly convincing display of indifference.

      ‘No doubt of it. He took to her from the first moment. You’ve got to admit she’s a looker.’

      ‘Is she?’ Freya’s personality had always appealed to him more than her looks. Studying her at that moment, he’d had to admit she was at her best—much as she had been on her wedding day.

      ‘Oh, come on!’ Debra had exclaimed. ‘She’s really pretty, but Larry likes them best when they laugh with him.’

      ‘Would you like some more wine?’ he’d asked with a fixed smile.

      He would have offered her anything to shut her up.

      Now there was no doubt. The Freya he’d once known hadn’t disappeared after all. She was reappearing, as lively, jokey and fun-loving as always.

      But for Larry. Not for himself.

      He’d promised to keep his distance, and for his father’s sake that promise had to be kept. So he’d given her only the attention that courtesy demanded. Then he’d hidden behind the shield Debra offered, flirting with her, seeming riveted by her company, to conceal the fact that his real attention was for Freya. He’d tried to be glad that she was getting on so well with Larry, but somehow he just hadn’t been able to manage it.

      When the meal was over he’d seen Debra to her door and bade her a courteous goodnight, pretending not to see the invitation in her eyes, or her bafflement when he ignored it. Then he’d returned to his own room.

      There had been no light under Freya’s door, suggesting that she hadn’t returned. Where was she? he’d wondered. Alone? Or had her joke about dodgy characters being fun actually held some meaning? Was she exploring that meaning? With Larry?

      No, not Freya. Not after one brief meeting.

      Surely not.

      But then where was she?

      He’d gone out to look at the pyramid, looming in the darkness, and had still been standing there when she’d arrived next door. Straining his ears, he’d heard no voices and realised, with relief, that she was alone. Next moment she’d appeared on her balcony.

      He’d moved forward, meaning to speak to her, then stopped. Something about her as she’d stood there, gazing up into the night, had made him pause, enjoying the air of rapture that seemed to permeate her being. But it had passed suddenly, replaced by a sigh.

      He’d watched as her shoulders had sagged, hoping to see her pleasure return. Instead she’d dropped her head in her hands and he’d been able to hear her weeping.

      He’d clenched his hands, longing to reveal himself and comfort her but knowing that he didn’t dare. She would never forgive him.

      He’d seen the sobs convulse her, possessing her whole body with a nameless grief. Frantically he had sought for the answer. Was it the sight of himself that had hurt her after so long? Or did the pain of that terrible day still torment her, reducing everything else to nothing?

      In the aftermath of her wrecked wedding, how often had he heard her declare defiantly that she wasn’t going to cry? She hadn’t always managed to fight back the tears, but her courage and defiance had seldom faltered. He’d known her confident, efficient at her job, ready to confront life on equal terms. But until now he hadn’t known her defeated.

      The sight of her yielding to despair had made him long to reach out and console her. It would have been easy to climb the low wall that separated his balcony from hers and take her in his arms, lavish her with warmth and comfort. For a moment he’d been