The Faithful Wife

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Authors: Diana Hamilton

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BOOK: The Faithful Wife
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Jake turned to look at her. It was a mistake.
Bella's huge eyes were pleading, begging for his trust, and she was trying to blink back tears, biting down on her lip to still the trembling.
 
He abandoned his hard-won caution and pulled her into his arms. “Don't cry. Please don't cry! What I said was unforgivable,” he declared against her hair, gathering her closer.
 
Bella lifted her head from his shoulder to search his face, and the anguish in his eyes was unmistakable.
 
She opened her mouth to accept his apology and heard him groan, his head dipping as his lips stopped the words in her throat.
 
His kiss was raw passion. Bella returned it—because this was what she'd been born for. To be his love, and only his.
DIANA HAMILTON
is a true romantic and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in England, in the fairy-tale Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often chaotic life-style, ever since she learned to read and write Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.
Books by Diana Hamilton
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DIANA HAMILTON
The Faithful Wife
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
PROLOGUE
CHRISTMAS morning.
Bella leaned towards the mirror and stroked bright scarlet onto her lush mouth. A flag of defiance? Or an attempt to remind herself that she was still alive?
She recapped the lipstick and dropped it into her bag, then shrugged a soft leather jacket over the misty-heather sweater that matched her worn denims. She breathed irritably through her nostrils as her hair caught beneath the collar. Grabbing the long, silky black length of it in both hands, she secured it punitively in an elastic band.
It had once been her trademark—or one of her trademarks. Her silky jet hair, her lush scarlet mouth and the startling contrast of water-clear silver eyes had earned her the envied, yet oddly unenviable position of top photographic model of the decade.
A position of make-believe, of clever camera angles, exotic backdrops and the wizardry of the makeup artist—a position she'd gladly jettisoned when she'd married Jake. Preferring reality, as she'd perceived it then. The reality of being the wife of one of the most successful financial brains to work in the City, the sexiest, most charismatic, strong-minded man she had ever met. Jake Fox.
But the reality had been his, not hers. The real world had proved a hard place to live in when his reality had been his inability to give her what she wanted.
They had met and married in a breathtakingly short space of time. For him, she now knew, it had been lust at first sight. For her something different—so different that it meant a meeting point was impossible. She pushed that thought out of her head.
It was over. She had to keep that stark reality to the forefront of her mind.
She wouldn't think about anything else—the might-have-beens or if-onlys. Not now. Not until she could begin to hope to cope with it.
Snatching up her hastily packed case, she walked from the bedroom where memories of their lost and glorious passion seemed to echo mockingly from the very walls. She dared not risk a backward glance because if she did she feared she might change her mind and stay until he decided to come home, then beg for the chance to try again, and resign herself to a life of shattered dreams.
But she had too much self-respect for that. He had proved himself incapable of giving her what was her due. She couldn't allow herself to live with that.
Her chin lifted with stoic determination as she walked through to the elegant sitting room, avoiding the state-of-the-art kitchen where last night's celebration meal was cold and congealing in delicate bone china serving dishes.
Her fingers were shaking as she took the note from her bag. She'd written it in the early hours, after he'd walked in unexpectedly on her and Guy; after that blisteringly savage word he'd thrown at her; after he'd walked out to heaven only knew where.
It was to have been their third wedding anniversary celebration, and it had turned into a wake.
When he'd phoned from the States four days ago she'd begged him to wrap up his business meetings and get home for their anniversary. A quiet celebration for two. She'd told him they had to talk and find a way through to each other. His tone had been gentler, more loving than she'd heard it in ages, when he'd assured her he'd be home in good time—as if he, too, knew they had to cement the cracks instead of blindly papering them over; as if he too needed to draw closer, reaffirm their vows.
But he hadn't come. All day she'd waited, made preparations, planning the perfect menu, choosing his favourite wine, dressing herself at last in the little black silk creation he always said made her look sexy enough to short circuit his brain. All the time listening, ears straining for the sound of him walking through the door, her eyes flicking repeatedly to her tiny gold-banded wrist-watch, her pulse rate quickening with mounting anxiety.
By ten she'd just about given up hope, given up entirely on the spoiled meal. And when she'd heard the phone ring out half an hour later she'd picked it up, almost sobbing with relief. She'd been convinced it was Jake, letting her know he'd been delayed, apologising, letting her know he was on his way.
When it had turned out to be Guy Maclaine, business associate and long-time friend, calling to wish her merry Christmas and tell her his wonderful news, she'd gone to pieces, angry tears flooding down the phone lines because Jake had obviously forgotten his promise to be here. And because her relationship with Guy went back years, was very special, he'd come straight round. And half an hour later—wouldn't you know it?—Jake had walked in.
By then, of course, it had been too late.
She propped the note against the empty wine bottle on one of the glass-topped tables where he would be sure to see it—if and when he returned. It, the bottle and the single glass were the only discordant notes in what was otherwise a perfect room. It took some doing, as much courage as she had, because that farewell letter was so final. It ended their marriage.
But she did it. She had no real choice. And took several moments to compose herself, standing by the great sweep of the windows that looked out over the Docklands development.
Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, amidst the sprawling tense unseen family gatherings, then a stiffening of her spine. This was the worst Christmas Day she had ever had to face. But she wouldn't think about it.
Bella took up her case and walked out.
CHAPTER ONE
D
ECEMBER 23rd. Almost a year later.
‘It seems a long way to come for a few days' break,' Bella ventured, staring through the afternoon murk at the towering hillsides. Now she knew why this range went by the name of The Black Mountains!
‘Nearly there, so stop grumbling!' Evie countered blithely, changing gear as they left the road for what looked like a sheer mountain track. ‘It's going to be fun, I promise. Better than being cooped up in that London flat of ours for the entire holiday.'
Fun? It was a bitter reminder that the past year had been anything but. Just work and more work, taking her position as head of the agency's New Accounts section so seriously that over one of their rare, leisurely lunches Guy had warned her, ‘Sweetheart—never mind everything else we've got going for us—I'm talking as your boss now, and I'm telling you to slow down.'
He'd taken her hand across the table, stroking it softly, his dark eyes concerned. ‘I know life can be a bitch, and things aren't going your way right now. But working yourself to a standstill won't help either of us. You're in danger of pushing yourself into a physical breakdown.'
It was a view shared by Evie. Not that she'd ever come right out with it, but it was there in her eyes. In the space of twelve months Bella had become a dedicated workaholic, using every spare minute, not allowing herself time to brood. Was that why Jake had worked so hard? To stop himself thinking about the way their marriage had been slowly unravelling, falling apart? Had he found their relationship unful-filling right from the day he'd woken up to discover his lust had been finally slaked and there was nothing else left?
Her breath caught. She swallowed the lump in her throat with ferocity. She wouldn't let herself think about it. Or him. Ever.
It would be a long time before she would be strong enough to take out and examine just what she had lost—contemplate the disintegration of precious dreams, the slow and devastating demise of the expectations that had turned into a nightmare, without falling apart.
‘It will be different,' she said. Her voice was soft as she glanced affectionately at her sister, watching the way those bright blue eyes narrowed as she concentrated on the increasingly steep and narrow track ahead, her dark curls clustering around her pretty, plump face.
This break—a week in a rented holiday cottage in the Welsh mountains—had been Evie's surprise Christmas gift. Even if Bella would have preferred to pretend Christmas wasn't happening and take enough work back to the flat she had shared with Evie since her marriage had fallen apart to keep her occupied until she could get back to the office early in the New Year, she wouldn't have dreamed of saying so, of throwing Evie's good intentions back in her face.
‘Look—' She consciously brightened her voice, making herself take an interest. ‘There's already snow on the mountain tops.' Against a bright blue sky it was sparkling, festively pretty. ‘I hope you've brought a shovel. If this cottage we're staying in gets buried in ten-foot drifts you're going to need it!'
‘No worries!' There was a hint of banked-down excitement in Evie's voice. ‘The forecast on the telly promised clear skies and frosts for the entire holiday period. The only hard graft, big sister, will be building the fire up. Promise!'
She'd have to take her sister's word for it. She rarely, if ever, watched the small screen herself. She'd tried to begin with, especially when Evie stayed in to watch something she said was unmissable. Unable to concentrate on the moving images, Bella had conjured up his face every time—Jake as she'd last seen him, the hard, handsome features stamped with bitterness and contempt.
‘Keeping the fires burning can be your holiday job, kiddo.' She was doing her best to enter into the spirit of this unusual Christmas gift, to ignore the scaldingly angry pain that the mere thought of Jake sent through her. ‘I'll cook the turkey—you did say everything was supplied?'
She didn't need to ask. Evie had been bombarding her with every last detail ever since she'd sprung the surprise the evening before. But it gave her something to say, something to give the impression that she was looking forward to the break, taking an appreciative interest.
Strangely, her sibling seemed at a loss for words right now, clearing her throat before she pointed out, ‘According to the instructions, it should be just over the brow of this hill.'
‘You're the driver.' And thank heavens for that Bella knew she would never have found her way through this bleak landscape of winter-bare mountains and the network of rutted tracks without radar, yet Evie was driving her bright red Corsa as if she'd made the journey a thousand times before.
Sure enough, as they crested the brow the cup-shaped valley below cradled a slate-roofed stone cottage backed by a windscreen of spruce, bounded on three sides by a narrow mountain stream. In the summer it would be idyllic, a popular holiday let for people who valued solitude and simple pleasures. But in the heart of the winter?
Bella suppressed a shudder and turned on a smile. Little Evie, bless her, had done this for all the best reasons. She wasn't to know that nothing, but nothing on God's earth could stop her remembering that tomorrow would be her fourth wedding anniversary—and the day after that a whole empty, hateful year since she'd finally conceded her marriage was over.
She'd tried; heaven knew she'd tried to purge him and their ill-destined marriage from her mind, but had dismally failed. He had a way of sneaking inside her head when she was least expecting it. She hated it when that happened; it made her feel she had no control over her thoughts.
‘Looks cosy,' she remarked, falsely bright, trying not to notice the sudden rush of agony to her heart. The little car bounced to a halt beside the narrow wooden footbridge that spanned the stream a few yards from the cottage. Small-paned windows were built into stout stone walls, and there was a door that looked solid enough to withstand a hurricane. Bella undid her seat belt and twisted round, reaching into the back for the two canvas bags, quickly packed last night.
‘We won't need much,' Evie had stated. ‘Jeans and sweaters and lots of woolly socks.'
Bella had both bags out and was shivering in the icy wind, but Evie looked glued to the drivers' seat, her voice high and thin as she smacked a fist against her forehead theatrically and wailed, ‘Oh, I'm such a fool! You're not going to believe this!'
‘You forgot the key,' Bella sighed, resigned to footing the bill for whatever damage they did while breaking and entering. Despite her expensive secretarial training, and her recent promotion to a high-profile job, Evie's brain sometimes took on decidedly birdlike qualities.
‘Nope.' She threw the key and Bella fumbled to catch it with frozen fingers. ‘The milk, eggs, fresh veggies. And the turkey, would you believe? The non-perishables are here already, but I was supposed to collect the fresh stuff from the farm we passed back there.' She restarted the engine, adding, ‘I clean forgot. Go on in, there's a love. Get a fire going, huh?'
Bella shrugged, flexing her stiff body, pushing her long black hair away from her face with the back of a gloved hand. It seemed sensible, but... ‘How long will you be?' She hadn't noticed any sign of human habitation for what seemed like ages, and the weather forecasters had got it wrong again. Suddenly the sky was heavy with cloud, pressing against the mountain flanks, the short winter day drawing to a premature close.
‘Half an hour?' Evie was releasing the handbrake. ‘Get inside before you freeze.' And she was gone, circling the car on the sweep of short winter grass, narrowly missing the sturdy wooden picnic table that wouldn't see any use until families came here in the warm summer weather.
Bella smiled wryly, watching the little red car disappear over the brow of the hill. Trust Evie to forget the perishables, drive right past the place where she was supposed to pick them up! At twenty-five, three years younger than Bella, and holding down a responsible job, Evie still hadn't outgrown her occasional periods of scattiness, or the impulsiveness that was such an endearing part of her nature.
Bella shivered, glancing worriedly up at the sky. Snow was beginning to fall, shrouding the tops of the mountains. But if Evie had said she'd be back in half an hour then the farm couldn't be far away. Funny—she'd seen no sign of one herself...
 
Jake Fox pulled the hired Range Rover to the side of the track and consulted Kitty's scrawled instructions. For a schoolteacher his kid sister had appalling handwriting. And an unfortunate taste in men-friends if the current cry for help was anything to go on.
His brows drew together, making a forbidding, dark line above the bridge of his thin, arrogant nose. The UK was the last place he wanted to be over the festive season. He didn't need reminders of the events of a year ago.
He was in the middle of a series of successful business meetings in Geneva and had intended to fly out to Sydney, book into a hotel and settle down to paperwork, readying himself for the raft of meetings scheduled for the New Year. No stranger to concentrated work, he now embraced it with what he himself could recognise as something amounting to obsession.
He thrust the underlying reasons for that out of his head, his frown deepening as he scanned the suddenly darkening sky, the thick, suspiciously storm-like shrouds hiding the tops of the mountains. If it hadn't been for Kitty's stricken desire for his time and attention he would have been heading for the sun...
But he'd been looking out for his sister ever since his father had brought the family to ruin, his addiction to gambling on the stockmarket losing them everything—the family-run business, the four-bedroomed house in the prosperous suburbs, the lot.
Even though Kitty was now twenty-six years old he still thought of her as the wild and troubled twelve-year-old he had held in his arms and tried to comfort when their father had taken his own life. Eight years her senior, he'd felt his responsibility keenly—especially when their mother, worn out with grief and worry, had succumbed to pneumonia six months after the shock of the death of her adored husband.
He'd never thought of himself as having a protective streak, he thought wryly. But perhaps he did, to have agreed to cancel flights, hotel rooms and drop everything when she'd put that call through to Geneva, catching him at his hotel before he left for one of his most important meetings.
‘I need you, Jake. Spend Christmas with me? I've got to have someone to talk to; there's no one else I can turn to! And, yes, before you ask, it's Harry.'
The panic in her voice caught his attention. He said heavily, ‘I thought you and he were settled.' Of all the men Kitty had dated—and to his knowledge they came and went like the flowers in springtime—Harry had become a permanent fixture.
Jake liked Harry, and had guardedly learned to trust him. Steady, good-humoured, also a member of the teaching profession, his influence on Jake's volatile sister had been gratifying. They'd set up home together two months ago. Kitty's letters and phone calls had been full of joy, and he'd planned to pay off the mortgage on their roomy Victorian house as soon as the banns were called.
‘What went wrong?' he asked.
‘I can't talk about it over the phone. But it's trouble with a capital T.' Her normally bubbly tones were absent; she sounded at the end of her tether. ‘Look, a couple I know offered me the use of their holiday home in Wales. I need to get away and think, and talk everything over with you. Please say you'll come, Jake, just for a day or two? Please?'
He mentally jettisoned his plans for a quiet working holiday in the sun. The thought of a cottage in the Principality, in the dead of winter, wasn't going to make him expire from over-excitement, but it was far enough away from London. He rarely made more than flying visits to head office now. Since he had sold the Docklands apartment.
So Wales it would be, and at least he could do his best to sort out Kitty's problems—something he seemed to remember having to do all through her teens and early twenties.
And she was saying, taking his silence for tacit consent, ‘I knew you wouldn't let me down, bruv. Look, I'll post directions through to your London office. Drive up on the twenty-third. I'll try and make sure I'm there ahead of you, but, in case I'm not, there's a spare key in the woodshed at the back.'
And now, the final details of her written instructions committed to memory, he restarted the engine and drove on.
 
The whole package must have cost Evie a small fortune, Bella decided at the end of her tour of inspection. Two bedrooms were tucked under the eaves, small but cosy, with flowery wallpaper and high brass beds spread with top-of-the-range down duvets and patchwork covers. There was a sparklingly clean bathroom and farmhouse kitchen—pine and copper, with colourful rag rugs—complete with a real Christmas tree in a tub and a box of baubles waiting to be hung. The large living room was furnished with antique pine plus squashy chairs and a huge inglenook fireplace that promised long, cosy, relaxing evenings...

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