His Pretend Wife. Lucy Gordon

mean I mustn’t ask if you “ravished” me?’

      He was angry then. ‘You know damned well I didn’t.’

      ‘How do I know?’

      ‘Because you’d know if I had.’

      ‘So why undress me at all?’

      ‘If I’d just dumped you into bed fully clothed your mother would have guessed that you were incapable. I was trying to make everything look as normal as possible. But I’m a doctor. I’m used to naked bodies, and yours meant nothing to me.’

      She glared. It was maddening not to be able to tell him that this was just what she minded most.

      Grace put her head out of the window. ‘Andrew, Lilian’s on the phone.’

      She couldn’t help overhearing the first part of the call. ‘Lilian? Hi, honey, yes, I got here OK—it was a wonderful few days, wasn’t it? You know I do—’ He gave a soft laugh that seemed to go through Ellie.

      She stood still, filled with sensations that she didn’t understand and couldn’t control. Andrew was a man, not a boy. He excited her and mystified her, and he had all the allure of the unknown. But her chief sensation, although she didn’t understand it then, was childish, hurt pride.

      There and then she made up her mind that she was going to make him fall in love with her, and that would show everyone. Above all it would show him that he couldn’t look down on her from lofty heights.

      Oh, God, she thought now, looking back down the tunnel of years, I was only seventeen. What did I know?

      The house stood well back from the road, almost hidden by trees. It was large and costly, the residence of a wealthy, successful man.

      It was dusk as Andrew drove up the winding drive, and there were no lights to greet him. But for himself the house was empty, and even he spent very little time here since his wife and son had departed. He had a bachelor flat near the hospital.

      This grandiose place wasn’t a home to him. It never had been. He’d bought it three years ago to satisfy Myra, who’d fallen in love with its size and luxury. She’d been the wife of the youngest top-ranking cardiothoracic surgeon in the country, and she’d expected to live appropriately. Andrew had demurred at the house, which was almost a mansion, with a porticoed door and walls covered with ivy. But Myra had insisted, and he’d yielded, as so often, to conceal the fact that his feeling for her had died. If it had ever lived.

      For a while she’d enjoyed playing lady of the manor. She’d named the place ‘Oaks’ after the two magnificent trees in the garden. She’d bought their son, Simon, a pony, and had him taught to ride in the grounds. But by that time their marriage had effectively been over. She hadn’t even wanted Oaks as part of the divorce settlement.

      He was pouring himself a drink when his mobile went. It was Myra, which made his head immediately start to ache.

      ‘You’re no easier to get hold of than you ever were,’ she said wryly. ‘Where are you?’

      ‘The house.’

      ‘What are you rattling around in that place for?’

      ‘I can’t think.’

      ‘Just checking about the weekend. Simon’s looking forward to seeing you.’

      ‘Look, I was going to call you about that—’

      ‘Don’t you dare!’

      ‘I’ll have to work over the weekend. Can’t you explain to Simon, make him understand?’

      ‘But he already does understand, Andrew. It’s what he understands that should be worrying you. He understands that he’s always last on your list of priorities.’

      ‘That’s not true.’

      ‘Damn, it is true! Look, I married you knowing your work always came first. I made that choice. But Simon didn’t. He expects to have a father who loves him—’

      ‘Don’t dare say I don’t love my son,’ he barked.

      ‘Do you think I need to say it? Don’t you think he knows it every time you let him down?’

      ‘Put him on.’

      The talk with his son was a disaster. Simon was quiet and polite, saying, ‘Yes, Daddy,’ and ‘It’s all right, Daddy,’ at regular intervals. And it wasn’t all right. It was all dreadfully wrong, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

      He was tired to the bone. He microwaved something from the freezer, barely noticing what it was, then settled down in front of his computer. For two hours he worked mechanically and only stopped because his head was aching too badly for him to think. But that was good. He didn’t want to think.

      He wondered why he suddenly felt so drained and futile. The demands of work were crushing, but they always were. Pressure, stress, instant decisions, life and death—these were the things he thrived on, without which he wouldn’t exist. Suddenly they weren’t enough. Or rather, they were too much. For the first time in his career—no, his whole life—he wondered if he could cope with everything that was required of him.

      It was absurd to connect this sudden loss of confidence with the brief moment in the hospital corridor when he’d been confronted with a past he’d thought safely dead and buried.

      Buried. Not dead.

      He hunted in the top drawer of his desk until he found a set of keys, selected one, and used it to open the bottom drawer. At the back, buried under a pile of papers, was an envelope, stuffed with photographs. He laid it on the desk, but made no move to open it, as though reluctant to take the final step.

      At last he shook out the contents onto the desk, and spread them out with one hand. They were cheap snaps, nothing special, except for the glowing faces of the two young people in them.

      The girl’s long blonde hair streamed over her shoulders in glorious profusion, her face was brilliant with life. It was that life, rather than her beauty, that made her striking. All youth and abundance seemed to have gathered in her, as though any man who came near her must be touched by her golden shadow, and be blessed all his days.

      Blessed all his days. There was a thought to bring a bitter smile to the face of a man who’d felt that blessing, and seen it die.

      He lingered over the girl’s laughing face, trying to reconcile it with the weary look he’d seen on the woman in the corridor. Just once her gaze was turned on the young man, and he studied her expression, trying to detect in it some trace of the love he’d once believed in. In every other picture she was looking directly at the camera.

      By contrast, the man had eyes only for her, as though nothing else in the world existed for him. His hands were about her waist or on her shoulder, touching her face, his expression one of tender adoration.

      Andrew wanted to seize him, shake him, crying, You fool, don’t be taken in by her. She’s nothing but a cold-hearted little schemer, who’ll break your heart and laugh at you.

      She’d been laughing when he’d first seen her at the party, dancing with blissful abandon. With her head thrown back in enjoyment, her eyes sparkling, she’d seemed the very embodiment of everything he’d given up on the day he’d decided to be the greatest doctor in the world. He’d devoted himself to study, ignoring the young, heedless pleasures that other medical students had seemed to find time for. They’d been all right for people who’d been satisfied with being ordinary doctors, but he hadn’t been satisfied, and he hadn’t been going to be ordinary.

      Without warning this shimmering pixie had burst on him, and before he’d been able to control the feeling, he’d been filled with fierce regret for the whole side of life he’d rejected. He’d escaped to the kitchen, away from the sight of her.

      But then she’d appeared, looking even younger close-up, and he’d known that she’d been dangerous