That was the main attraction, Abigail conceded reluctantly.

Nick Harrington was like an intricate puzzle that you could spend the rest of your life trying to get to the bottom of.

The sensual mouth had curved into a slow, humourless smile. ‘You’ve grown up, Abby,’ he observed, with a touch of wry surprise. ‘That was a pretty thorough inspection you just subjected me to.’

‘And does it bother you?’ she queried coolly.

‘A beautiful girl giving me the once-over?’ he mocked. ‘Who in their right mind would object to that? Though to be scrupulously fair, Abby, I really ought to return the compliment ...’

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

That Kind of Man

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘OH, ORLANDO! Darling, darling Orlando!’ An unknown blonde wearing black gave a dramatic cry.

Abigail had noticed the woman in church. She had been sobbing loudly throughout the service, but now Abigail could observe that the tears she had cried had left her mascara miraculously unsmudged. She had wondered briefly whether the woman had been one of her husband’s lovers, before pulling herself up short—for that way lay madness.

The bitter wind lifted a stray strand of honey-coloured hair and whipped it across Abigail’s pale face, and the gentle lashing movement forced her to give herself a little shake. Because it was all like a dream—some weird and crazy dream. Not a nightmare exactly, but something pretty close to it. Unreal. Yes, that was it. Unreal. As if this were all happening to someone else. And not to her.

Abigail shivered violently as a fat flake of snow fluttered down from the gun-metal sky like a frenzied bird, to eventually settle on her hand. She had worn a pair of fine black kid gloves in an attempt to keep warm, but, even so, her fingers still shook like a drunk’s as they clutched onto a single scarlet rose.

She was cold. Cold as an arctic waste. Unprotected from the furies of the winter weather, she stood by the graveside wearing the only black outfit she had had in her wardrobe—a thin, two-piece suit whose material, if not colour, was more suited to a spring day.

Black was not a colour she normally wore, but for today it was a must. And Orlando would have expected it. Because no matter what had gone on between them—no matter what a mess their marriage had been—he should not have died.

She was too young, she thought, casting a disbelieving look around her. Much too young to be a widow at nineteen, standing with and yet curiously apart from Orlando’s wild, thespian friends, who even now were loudly reciting extravagant poetry. How she wished that they would stop. During their histrionics at the church she had been half tempted to tell them to shut up, but the last thing she wanted today, of all days, was a row.

If only she had someone there for her. Someone to rely on. Someone strong enough to lean on. Or at least to cast a few withering looks of disapproval which might make some of the people present behave more circumspectly.

But she had no one. Her mother was dead, her beloved stepfather was dead—both killed in a horrific car crash just months before her wedding. It seemed that everyone she loved was taken away from her. The only person she had left in the world was Nick, and theirs was only the most tenuous link—a link that was always in danger of being broken by their mutual dislike.

Because Nick Harrington had resented her since the moment he had first set eyes on her, on what should have been one of the happiest days of her life ...

She had been sitting on her stepfather’s shoulders at the time. Philip Chenery had been proudly carrying her into the vast hallway of his mansion, tucked away high up in the Hollywood Hills.

Abigail had been breathless with excitement. The day before, her beautiful actress mother had become Mrs Philip Chenery in the most fairytale wedding ceremony Abigail could have imagined. Her mother had married one of Hollywood’s biggest producers, and the three of them were going to live happily ever after in the most glamorous house in the world.

In the shiny marbled hallway, all the staff had lined up to meet Philip’s new wife and her young daughter—and Nick, as the son of Philip’s cook, had been scowlingly forced to stand in line too.

Abigail had only been seven at the time. Some psychologists said that it was impossible to remember that far back. But Abigail did. The memory of meeting Nick Harrington was scorched onto her mind for ever and a day.

She would never forget the way those clever, slanting green eyes had fixed her coolly in their sights. The eighteen-year-old boy had already possessed a heart-breakingly handsome face, but it was a proud and cold face. He hadn’t shown a flicker of emotion as he’d stared at her, but Abigail had immediately sensed his disapproval.

The product of a ravishing Italian mother and a brilliant English father, Nick Harrington had inherited all the very best characteristics from both nationalities. His keen, natural intelligence and outrageously good looks ensured that men would always try to emulate him and women would spend a lifetime casting hungry glances in his direction.

Abigail had discovered later that Philip had a soft spot for the boy, whose father had abandoned him just as her own father had abandoned her. He had recognised Nick’s outstanding potential immediately and had invested in his education. Not surprisingly, the two of them had formed a close bond.

So perhaps it was only natural that Nick should have resented Abigail. She was, after all, trespassing on his territory.

Abigail had seen it differently.

She’d been a small girl already thrust into a brand-new life, miles away from England, and Nick’s attitude had unsettled her. Nick Harrington had been the serpent in her paradise, and, because of it, a silent bond of enmity had been born.

She had been grateful that he was more than a decade her senior, that she had been sent far away to her mother’s old boarding-school in England, and that their meetings were destined to be brief, during her school vacations.

As she had grown older she had supposed that the animosity might die a natural death, but her supposition had been wrong. Nick had seemed to resent her more as each year passed, and when she had blossomed into womanhood it had got even worse—he had actually seemed to despise her. So she just did the sensible thing and despised him right back.

Yes, there was certainly no love lost between her and Nick Harrington.

And yet ...

It was stupid, really, but at times today she had found herself wishing that he had bothered to come to her husband’s funeral. Nick’s might not be a face she welcomed seeing in normal circumstances, but at least it was a familiar face. And right now she longed for the sight of something familiar, for she was as lonely as she could ever remember feeling.

But, in response to the news of Orlando’s death, there had been nothing more than an exquisite display of pure white lilies and a brief, almost curt letter of condolence which had given Abigail little comfort.

No phone call. No appearance at the church—even though she had craned her neck to look for his dark head rising above all the others ...

The priest was now intoning the final words of farewell as the coffin was slowly lowered into the earth and Abigail raised the hand which still clutched the rose so tightly.

A chill breeze briefly lifted the delicate scarlet petals of the rose upwards, so that they flapped like wings, and then Abigail threw it down onto the coffin, with the kind of dramatic gesture she knew her late husband would have appreciated.

Then, without knowing why she did it, she tore the black kid gloves from her pale hands and hurled them away from her, so that they, too, slowly fluttered down to alight on top of the polished coffin.

She raised her pale, strained face, a sudden movement catching her attention, and she felt an odd, prickling sensation as she looked up and found herself staring directly into Nick Harrington’s enigmatic eyes—as cold and as green as a northern fiord.

He stood apart from the rest of the mourners, tall and lean, his dark, handsome face cruel and arrogant and proud. The narrow-eyed look he threw at Abigail was one of pure challenge.

She felt as though she had been woken from a long and drugged sleep—her senses leaping into life as though they had been newly born. Just the shock of seeing him again made Abigail’s heart contract painfully in her chest. She felt all the blood drain from her cheeks and, just for a second, she had to fight to stay upright.

He gave her a brief, frowning scrutiny as he observed her reaction, and then began walking rapidly towards her until he was standing in front of her, towering over her like some dark, malevolent statue.

And Abigail found herself having to strain her neck to stare upwards at him, even though she was wearing high, rather tottery black heels. Each time she saw him she was always slightly amazed by his impressive height and extraordinary presence—as though her memory was somehow defective where Nick Harrington was concerned.

‘Hello, Abigail,’ he said quietly, in that deep, slumberous voice whose accent defied description. But that was hardly surprising—he had been educated at the finest universities in the world. He was the original nomad—a rich, successful nomad, with his fancy homes and his rare paintings and fast cars.

She had not seen him since the eve of her wedding, close on a year ago, when he had been so unbearably rude to Orlando. And to her. When he had arrived at their hotel as if he owned the place, had coldly summoned them into his presence and threatened to call a halt to the wedding.

But he hadn’t been able to.

And how wonderful it had been to see the powerful Nick Harrington impotent for once! Unable to exert his formidable will to shape the future. Like a precious gift, Abigail had treasured the memory of his dark, implacable face as she had made her wedding vows in Chelsea’s famous Register Office.

Come to think of it, his face looked just as forbidding and implacable right now. ‘Hello, Nick,’ she responded calmly.

‘How are you, Abby?’ he said softly, and the concern in his voice sounded almost genuine.

‘I’m, I’m ...,’ she responded falteringly, only it all came out in a kind of wobbly gulp. Perhaps it was the concern that did it, or the use of her childhood nickname, or maybe even the unaccustomed gentleness in his voice. Because for the first time since Orlando’s death Abigail felt the salt taste of tears welling up at the back of her throat. She made a small, choking sound, terrified that she was going to break down in front of him.

He frowned again deeply, as if any show of vulnerability was distasteful to him. ‘Are you okay?’ He gave her a narrow-eyed look of interrogation and seemed half inclined to take her elbow, but then appeared to think better of it. He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his grey trousers, and Abigail was appalled to find herself noticing how the fine fabric stretched almost indecently over his muscular thighs. ‘Are you okay?’ he repeated.

‘What do you think?’ she asked bitterly, because he was the only person in the world she could take it out on right now. Because surely Nick, more than anyone, knew how unfair life could be?

‘I don’t think you’d care to hear what I think,’ he said, in a bitter, impatient kind of voice, and Abigail’s head jerked up in surprise at the underlying menace she heard there.

He might not be her favourite person in the world, but at this precise moment he was her only lifeline, the person closest to her, who knew her better than anyone else in the world. Could bridges not be mended in troubled times? ‘I would,’ she answered quietly, her heavy-lidded blue eyes bright with unshed tears and filled with appeal as she sought for clever, confident Nick to make some sense of it all. ‘Tell me what you think about it, Nick?’ she appealed.

But he merely shook his dark head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in a bland, steady voice, ‘about Orlando.’

Some small, vague hope which had flared up inside Abigail was snuffed out. She had never thought that Nick would be the kind of person simply to spout out polite platitudes. She lifted her chin squarely and looked him full in the eye. ‘I could have accused you of many things, Nick Harrington,’ she told him proudly, ‘but never of hypocrisy! How have you got the nerve to stand there and say you’re sorry, when everyone knows what you really thought of Orlando?’

He didn’t flinch, his unwavering green gaze not tainted by an iota of guilt. ‘Just because I didn’t like him—’

‘Hated him, you mean,’ she corrected fiercely.

He shook his head. ‘Everything’s always so black and white for you, isn’t it, Abigail?’ He sighed, as if it gave him little pleasure to say the words. ‘Hate is too strong an emotion to use in connection with Orlando. You have to feel passion before you can hate someone, and I couldn’t summon up enough energy to feel hatred for a man I did not respect.’

‘No, of course you couldn’t!’ agreed Abigail caustically. ‘Any emotion other than the desire to make money is too strong for Mr cold-fish-Harrington, isn’t it?’

He gave her a long, steady look. ‘At the moment, the overwhelming emotion I’m experiencing is a desire to put you over my knee,’ he said evenly, ‘and beat some of that damned cynicism out of you!’

His eyes narrowed and he seemed to be measuring his words carefully. ‘Just because I didn’t like the man, it doesn’t mean I wanted to see him dead, Abigail. To die at any age is a tragedy, but to die when you’re only twenty-five is a waste. An utter, utter waste.’ His mouth thinned into a disapproving line. ‘What happened? Was he drunk when he died?’

‘He was abseiling, for heaven’s sake!’ she responded in an outraged tone. ‘He would hardly be drunk!’

Broad shoulders were shrugged dismissively, but the expression in those grass-green eyes was sombre. ‘Rumour has it that Orlando was a man in search of cheap thrills. Any kind of thrills. So maybe marriage didn’t quite match up to his expectations, hmm, Abby?’

The implication behind his words was shocking. Automatically, and oblivious to the now silent stares of the other mourners, Abigail’s hand flailed up to slap him. But his reflexes were lightning-fast, and he caught it just as it was about to connect with his cheek and held it there, so that to an outside observer it looked almost as though she was about to stroke his face and he was letting her. No. Not just letting her. Encouraging her.

Her fingers inadvertently brushed against his cheek, and his skin felt like warm satin. Incredibly, she found herself wanting to stay like that. Just like that.

Angrily, a guilty blush staining her face with its stinging heat, Abigail snatched her hand away, but not before she had surprised a cold little glint of triumph lurking in the depths of his green eyes. In some mad, shaming way, she felt as though she had been compromised.

‘Don’t you ever dare do anything like that again,’ she said in a fierce undertone, and then heard a gentle cough behind her. She spun round to find the elderly priest standing there, looking almost apologetic, and Abigail guiltily realised that the service had come to an end.

And she hadn’t even noticed; she had been far too busy sparring with Nick. What must the priest think of her?

‘If you feel the need to talk any time, Mrs Howard,’ the priest was saying, in the soothing kind of voice he had used on innumerable occasions before, ‘any time at all, then please do. My door is always open for you, my dear. You know that.’

His genuine kindness affected her as much as anything had done that day, and Abigail felt her throat uselessly constricting as she struggled to find words to respond to him. Did Nick notice her discomfort? Was that why he chose to answer when she could not?

‘Thank you, Father,’ he said smoothly. ‘I know that Abigail will bear that in mind. But I’m here now.’

‘Indeed?’ The priest looked up at him almost absently from behind the tiny, half-moon-shaped spectacles he wore. ‘And you are ...? I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘I’m Nick Harrington,’ came the decisive response, and then, because the priest seemed to be waiting for some further explanation, he added, ‘An old friend of the family. I have known Abigail since she was a little girl. Her late stepfather was a great friend to me.’

‘I see.’ The priest nodded. ‘Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Harrington.’

He was probably relieved, thought Abigail, watching as the two men shook hands. He had been up to the house several times since Orlando’s death, saying that she really ought to have someone with her.

She remembered him standing in his shabby cassock, looking around the sumptuous drawing-room with a curious and yet bewildered expression. As though confused by the fact that Abigail had all the material possessions anyone could ever possibly want, and yet she had no one to come and sit with her and hold her hand while she mourned her dead husband.

‘It’s time we were leaving,’ said Nick in a low voice. Only this time he did take Abigail’s elbow, holding onto it firmly, as if he was afraid that she might stumble and fall. And Abigail let him guide her, grateful for the support he offered.

‘Won’t you come back to the house for some lunch, Father?’ he was saying to the priest. ‘Some of the others have already set off, I see.’ His disapproving gaze took in Orlando’s friends, who were noisily wending their way towards the long line of black limousines as though it were a wedding and not a funeral.

One of the women, a dark, elfin creature named Jemima, was tossing a black feather boa flamboyantly across one slim, couture-clad shoulder, her glossy black head flung back in a gesture of extravagant laughter.

Abigail noticed the twist of scorn which had hardened Nick’s mouth into a forbidding line, and wondered what he and the priest must be thinking of this whole bizarre funeral.

But the priest, at least, seemed oblivious to Nick’s disapproval, and nodded his bald head with enthusiasm. ‘Lunch would be very welcome,’ he said eagerly, ‘and I’d be delighted to join you. Friday happens to be my housekeeper’s day off and she usually leaves me a fish salad which, frankly, leaves rather a lot to be desired! I’ll walk up to the house—it isn’t very far.’

‘No, no. It’s much too far.’ Nick shook his dark head. ‘Please take my car,’ he said, and pointed to the longest of the low black vehicles which stood in line. ‘Really, I insist.’

‘But what about you?’ asked the priest.

‘I’ll 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 her nerve-ends.

But it was his face which had always drawn women to Nick, and it wasn’t just the pure, clean lines of his classically even features which attracted them. Or the curiously sensual curve of his mouth, its softness so at odds with the hard, jutting jaw which lay beneath. No, it was something beyond mere beauty which had held so many women in thrall.

His eyes were as alive and as green as grass, framed by lashes so thick and black and lush that just looking at them felt sinful.

But it was more than that. His eyes were watchful and wary, too. At times they seemed almost calculating—although calculating what, it was impossible to say. His eyes held secrets.

And that was the main attraction, Abigail conceded reluctantly. Nick Harrington was like an intricate puzzle that you could spend the rest of your life trying to get to the bottom of.

The sensual mouth had curved into a slow, humourless smile. ‘You’ve grown up, Abby,’ he observed, with a touch of wry surprise. ‘That was a pretty thorough inspection you just subjected me to.’

Her mouth thinned slightly as she met his curious green gaze. Grown up? How right he was. Marriage to Orlando had made her grow up in a big way. ‘And does it bother you?’ she queried coolly.

‘A beautiful girl giving me the once-over?’ he mocked. ‘Who in their right mind would object to that? Though to be scrupulously fair, Abby, I really ought to return the compliment. Oughtn’t I?’

For a moment she was confused, and then, with a rapidly thudding heart, she saw exactly what he meant.

He let his gaze linger from breast to hip, on the long line of her legs which were outlined by the thin material of her black skirt. His eyes roved over her with such a careless, almost insolent appraisal that Abigail found herself blushing furiously, and fastened her hands tightly onto the lapels of her jacket as though she were holding onto a life-jacket.

Because he had never looked at her like that before. As man to woman. For many years she had secretly wanted him to, but now that it was happening she found it curiously unsettling. And insulting.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nick!’ she snapped angrily. ‘I know that ogling women probably comes as easily to you as breathing—but it isn’t really an appropriate time to ogle me, is it? Or have you always found widows easy prey in the past?’

That hit home. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth Abigail regretted them, her heart sinking with some nameless fear as his mouth became an ugly line and the light of retaliation flared in his eyes. ‘If we’re talking appropriate behaviour,’ he mocked, ‘then I’ve yet to see your tears, Abigail, dear. I’ve rarely met a widow who was so composed. Or who showed quite so much of her beautiful, black-stockinged thighs.’

‘It was the only black suit I had!’ she said defensively.

‘Which just happens to mould every sexy curve of that beautiful body?’ he mocked, with cold laughter in his eyes.

‘Any more of this and I’m getting out and walking,’ she threatened, wondering if he had any inkling of just how her body was betraying her by responding to that erotic criticism.

‘Not in those shoes, you aren’t, sweetheart!’ And the laughter was switched off as he glanced down at the delicate, black patent leather concoctions which were strapped around her narrow ankles. ‘Unless you’re planning to spend the rest of the day in the local casualty department, that is.’ He gave her another appraisal, but this time there was none of the lazy approval which had made her heart race like a train. This time his eyes were impartial. And disapproving.

‘What the hell have you been doing to yourself?’ he demanded. ‘Why are you so thin?’

Abigail glared. ‘Most women in the western hemisphere are striving for cheekbones, Nick!’ she retorted. ‘Don’t you know that you can never be too rich or too thin?’

‘Slenderness should not equal unhealthiness,’ he replied.

‘I am not unhealthy!’

‘No?’ He turned her face towards him and cupped it in his strong, brown hand and Abigail felt, suddenly and frighteningly, terribly, terribly vulnerable. ‘Then why are your cheeks so pale? Your face so pinched? I don’t know about interesting hollows, Abigail—they’re more like bloody great ravines in your case!’ He let his hand drop.

‘Orlando was an actor!’ she said, as if that really mattered. ‘And he liked me to look good!’

‘A thin, pale, pretty little accessory—the compliant little doll,’ he mused reflectively. ‘So, no change there, then.’

‘It wasn’t like that!’

‘No? Then why don’t you tell me what it was like? Tell me about your relationship with Orlando.’

‘No!’ she declared heatedly, aware that he had unwittingly touched on the rawest nerve of all. ‘Why on earth would I want to tell you anything?’

‘Because confession is good for the soul, didn’t you know that, Abby?’ he purred, and now his green eyes were as watchful as a cat’s. ‘Wasn’t marriage everything you dreamed it would be? Did the delectable Orlando fall in your expectations of him?’

And this, too, hit home—far more accurately and woundingly than he could ever have imagined. Abigail’s mouth trembled violently, pain and anger overwhelming her as she met the mocking question in his eyes.

‘You have no right to talk to me that way, Nick! To ask me questions like that! Especially not today,’ she finished on a shudder.

His face was quite expressionless. ‘Oh, but that is where you are wrong, Abby. I have every right,’ he answered, with a smooth assurance which made her want to lash out at him.

She drew a deep breath. ‘And why’s that?’

‘Because your stepfather trusted me. He appointed me executor of his will—’

‘Nick,’ interrupted Abigail. ‘Philip died well over a year ago. You fulfilled all your obligations as executor then. I inherited Philip’s estate—end of story. We are no longer bound by even the most tenuous of ties. We need never see each other again.’

‘No, I don’t suppose we do.’ He gave her a long, considering look. ‘But here I am.’

‘Here you are,’ she said dully, a sharp pang of apprehension overwhelming her as she tried to imagine never seeing him again.

There was silence in the car as it purred through the narrow, frosty lanes, and Abigail tried to tell herself that the unsettling feelings his appearance had provoked were simply a reaction to her husband’s death. And a reminder of her youth, of simpler times, when the outside world had not seemed such a big and hostile place. Because I was cosseted and protected from it, Abigail recognised as she stared at the ploughed fields, where frost like icing sugar glittered thickly.

‘What made you decide to sell all the shares that Philip left you?’ asked Nick suddenly.

The question was so unexpected that Abigail started as though he had tipped icy water over her head. ‘How did you know that?’

He gave her an impatient look. ‘Oh, come on, Abby—I know you wouldn’t exactly qualify as businesswoman of the year, but you can’t be that naive! If shares are floated on the stock market, then it isn’t exactly a state secret, is it?’

‘N-no,’ answered Abigail uncertainly. She would just as easily have ridden a rocket to the moon as been able to talk with any degree of knowledge on the subject of stocks and shares; she had left all that kind of thing to Orlando. Because that, more than anything, had kept him off her back. In more ways than one. A dull flush crept into her cheeks.

‘It just surprised me, that’s all,’ said Nick, giving her a shrewd look. ‘Just as it surprised me that you sold the New York apartment earlier in the year,’

Abigail tasted the bitter flavour of memory in her mouth, the utter chaos of the last year coming back to torment her. ‘Yes, the New York apartment,’ she echoed, in a hollow kind of whisper. ‘Sold.’

‘There’s no need to sound so horrified.’ Nick threw her a strange glance. ‘You knew all about the sale, of course?’

‘How could I not know?’ she queried. ‘It was my flat, wasn’t it? And my inheritance.’

His dark, enigmatic face looked almost pitying. ‘Poor little rich girl,’ he murmured, and turned his dark profile to the car window to survey briefly the English winter landscape. The fat flakes of snow had multiplied and now there were whole armies of them, swirling down to settle on the iron-hard ground.

‘In theory it was your inheritance,’ he continued relentlessly. ‘But when you married dear Orlando, of course, what was yours became his, and what was his became yours. That’s what I love about marriage,’ he added sarcastically. ‘The total trust involved.’

‘You cynical—’

‘Not to mention the fundamental inequality of the equation,’ he carried on relentlessly. ‘Orlando got half your substantial fortune, and you got half Orlando’s debts.’ He gave her a bland smile. ‘Or did you do the decent thing and get rid of them for him? It’s such a strain to begin a marriage with money problems pressing down on you, wouldn’t you say, Abby?’

‘Shut up!’ she yelled heatedly, turning in times of stress to the simple insults of their youth. ‘Just shut up, will you?’

‘Make me,’ he suggested softly.

She did not see the danger in his challenge. ‘Too right I will!’ Abigail lunged at him, hurling herself across the back seat of the car to land half on top of him, with her hands curled up into tiny fists.

She hit him over and over again, pummelling at the solid wall of his chest, calling him every name under the sun, scarcely aware of what she was doing or saying, until at last he captured both hands in one large, firm hand and held them away from him. She became suddenly aware that her face was very close to his, and that her heart was pounding inside her head. And that his lips were parted, almost as if ... as if...

The flicker of desire she felt was immediately obliterated by despair and Abby quickly shut her eyes. When she opened them again it was to find Nick staring down at her repressively, still grasping her hands tightly within his.

‘That’s enough, Abby,’ he told her sternly. ‘Understand? Enough!’

She shook her head, the thick, honey-coloured hair swaying wildly. ‘No! It is not enough!’ she retorted, her voice cracking with the strain of the last few days ... the last few months... ‘Oh, God, Nick...Nick...’

‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s all right, Abby. I know.’

‘No, you don’t!’ she wailed, as the memory of her marriage slammed home to crush her spirit yet again. ‘You can’t possibly know! No one can!’

‘I know that you need to cry,’ he told her, softly and very deliberately, and drew her into his arms. ‘I know that if you bottle it up much longer, then you’ll explode.’

‘Oh, Nick,’ she moaned, and, burying her face in his immaculate shoulder, Abigail dissolved into helpless, sobbing tears.

CHAPTER TWO

ABIGAIL did not move her head away from Nick’s shoulder, and he let her cry until there were no tears left, until her sobs became dry, exhausted gasps.

He took a large, beautifully pressed handkerchief from his pocket and silently handed it to her, but her hands were trembling so much from the flood of raw emotion that she could barely hold onto it. Abigail waved his hand away distractedly.

‘Here,’ he said, frowning. ‘Let me.’ His touch was almost gentle as he pushed stray strands of hair from her wet cheeks and then dried die tears away.

Abigail felt foolish and vulnerable. And Nick was the last person in the world she would have chosen to witness her breaking down in a full flood of hysterical tears.

‘Better now?’ he queried, after a moment or two.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Then let’s go.’ Nick rapped on the smoked-glass panel which divided them from the driver, and it was only then that Abigail noticed the car had pulled over onto the side of the road.

‘W-why did we stop?’ she sniffed as the car pulled away.

‘I didn’t think that you’d want an audience while you wept,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘And certainly not an audience consisting of that crowd up at the house,’ he added disparagingly.

Abigail blew her nose rather more noisily than usual. ‘They’re Orlando’s friends,’ she objected automatically, more because it was the habit of a lifetime, objecting to anything Nick said, rather than because she actually disagreed with him.

‘And yours?’ he quizzed softly. ‘Are they your friends, too?’

Abigail looked at him. ‘Not really, no.’

‘Oh?’

Abigail was beginning to discover that he was simply not the kind of man you could reproach for asking deeply personal questions—that was the trouble. Was it because he had known her for most of her life that he felt he had the right to probe? Or did he ask all women questions like this? ‘They’re not my type.’

He nodded his head, as though her answer came as no surprise to him. ‘I see.’ He glanced down at his shoulder to find a stray, glistening tear, and he ruefully brushed it away with one long finger.

The gesture touched her unbearably—but she didn’t for the life of her know why. And so that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself yet again, by blubbing all over him, Abigail said the first mundane thing which came into her head. ‘I’m sorry about your jacket.’

‘It’s just a jacket.’ He shrugged.

‘I’ll have it cleaned—’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ he interrupted grimly. ‘Stop talking as though we had just met at a cocktail party! I think I preferred you shouting and punching me to that.’

She smiled at the exasperation on his face; for the first time in days she actually smiled. And then her heart missed a beat as his exasperation turned into a brief smile which matched hers.

‘I must look a sight,’ she said automatically.

Green eyes scanned her face, but the smile had disappeared and irritation had replaced it. ‘A bit,’ he answered tersely. ‘Your face is all blotchy and it’s obvious you’ve been crying.’

‘Gee—thanks,’ she answered drily. ‘When I need a boost in confidence, remind me to avoid you like the plague!’

‘Just what is it with you, Abby?’ he demanded softly. ‘You’re supposed to be playing the grieving widow, not a flaming fashion model! Can’t you function properly unless you know you’re looking beautiful?’

She gazed at him in amazement, more at the fact that Nick, Nick, had paid her some kind of compliment—even if it was a backhanded one!—than at his tone of voice. ‘Beautiful?’

He made a clicking sound of impatience. ‘Sorry,’ he said in a bored voice, leaning back carelessly against the seat and staring into space, ‘but I’m not playing that game.’

‘What game?’ she asked, genuinely confused.

His voice changed into a parody of a woman gushing. ‘Oh, heavens, Nick—surely you don’t think that I’m beautiful!’ His eyes hardened as his gaze roved over the pale oval of her face. ‘Particularly when the woman in question has the kind of face which could launch a thousand ships, if you’ll excuse the somewhat hackneyed expression.’

She didn’t have the energy to row. ‘Let’s drop it, shall we?’

‘With pleasure. Anyway, we’re here.’ Nick turned to glance out of the window as the car made its way up the sweeping gravel-drive towards the handsome Georgian house which she and Orlando had bought just after their marriage. They drove through the impressive gardens which were flanked by vast yew tunnels, and a flash of afternoon sunlight glinted off the distant lake.

Through the windows of the lighted drawing-room, Abigail could see people opening bottles and bottles of champagne, and she mentally steeled herself to confront them, wishing that she could order them out of her house and have the place to herself again. Time to lick her wounds and recover.

But tomorrow they would all be gone, she reminded herself. Tomorrow she would have the peace she craved.

‘It’s strange,’ Nick remarked as the car drew to a halt with a soft, swishing sound, ‘but I never imagined that you would end up living in a big, impressive pile in the English countryside, out in the middle of nowhere like this.’

‘Orlando wanted to,’ she found herself telling him. ‘And I liked it here, too,’ she added defensively.

His gaze was unwavering. ‘And did Orlando always get what Orlando wanted?’

Did he know? Had he somehow guessed? Was that the reason for the piercingly direct gaze which seemed perceptive enough to be able to read her mind? Abigail shuddered violently as shame and revulsion washed over her. There was no point in denying what was as obvious as the nose on her face. ‘He did, mostly,’ she managed. ‘He was well schooled in the art of persuasion, you know.’

‘Yes. So I believe.’ Nick looked down at her pale hands, knotted together and lying against the black skirt. ‘Abby, you’re trembling.’ He sounded appalled. ‘What on earth is the matter with you?’

She settled for her only credible source of defence. ‘Need you ask? It’s been a fraught day. A fraught week. And I’m not particularly looking forward to going in there and mingling with people I don’t even like.’

‘Then don’t do it.’

She gave him a sad little smile. ‘I can’t just opt out like that.’

‘Can’t you?’ he queried softly. ‘You can do whatever you want to do, you know.’

‘Only if your name happens to be Nick Harrington,’ came her dry response. ‘And we don’t all have your determination.’

This received the glimmer of a smile. ‘Come on,’ he said, and helped her out of the car with an old-fashioned courtesy which she was quite unused to. It had the effect of making her feel very warm and safe and secure. A girl could get used to being cosseted like this, thought Abigail with a wistfulness which was totally alien to her.

Her instincts had always taught her to be wary where this man was concerned, but instinct also told her that nothing could ever harm her while Nick was around. In a topsy-turvy world, he had a rare strength and constancy of character.

She watched him as he slammed shut the door of the limousine behind them and they slowly began to mount the pale blonde stone of the front steps.

Nick Harrington would, she thought, with a sudden, unwelcome pang of realisation, make some woman one hell of a husband.

They had almost reached the front door when she stopped and turned to face him. ‘You always give me such a hard time, Nick—’

‘Do I?’

‘You know you do. You always have done.’

‘You need someone to say no to you, Abby. You’ve had a whole lifetime of people spoiling you, giving you exactly what you want.’

‘No,’ she corrected. ‘People giving me what they wanted me to have. It isn’t the same thing at all.’

Was that understanding which momentarily glimmered in the verdant depths of his eyes? On an impulse she placed her hand on his forearm. ‘Thank you for coming today,’ she told him honestly, because right at that moment he seemed the only solid, familiar shape in her quicksand-shifting world. ‘I appreciate it. Really, I do.’

He nodded as she let her arm fall but, far from looking gratified at receiving possibly the first compliment she had ever paid him, his face was grim and unyielding. ‘Don’t speak too soon, sweetheart,’ he said ominously, turning the door handle and pushing it open.

And Orlando’s friends were suddenly flocking around them, like vultures at a carcass, before Abigail had a chance to ask him exactly what he meant.

In Ireland the post-funeral party was known as a wake, though Abigail had often wondered why, since, judging from the facial expressions of most of the people here today, they looked about as unawake as she could imagine. In fact, a few of them looked just about ready to pass out.

She did what little mingling was necessary, but the effort it took must have shown on her face, for Nick soon came to stand beside her; he frowned, and then dipped his dark head to say in an undertone, ‘Why don’t you sit down? Take the weight off your feet.’

She didn’t know why she found it so difficult to follow suggestions when they were made by Nick—but she did. She always had done. And yet what he said made sense. Come on, Abby, she reasoned with herself, stop beating yourself up.

‘Okay.’ She nodded, and sat down stiffly in one of the high-backed chairs, forcing herself to sip from a glass of champagne, but pushing aside the untasted smoked salmon sandwiches on the place beside her, which were already curling up at the edges.

She drank the whole glass down, thinking that it might make her feel better, but by the end of it she felt resoundingly and head-achingly sober, though everyone else was well away, quaffing like mad at the vintage brand which Orlando had always preferred as though it were going out of fashion.

Nick had, in effect, she thought gratefully, now taken on the role of host. Abigail had barely been able to string two sentences together since they had returned—to find the party in full swing.

‘Do you want me to get rid of them?’ he asked her softly as they listened to one of Orlando’s buddies from drama school telling an outrageous story about her dead husband.

‘Soon,’ she answered.

Nick winced as the teller reached the predictably lewd and lascivious punchline, which was greeted with raucous laughter. ‘Doesn’t that kind of talk about your husband bother you?’ he asked her curiously.

Oh, what little he knew! Abigail shook her head. ‘Very little bothers me these days,’ she answered calmly, thanking a benevolent God that Orlando’s elderly parents, living in Spain because it was a kinder climate for people with chest problems, had been considered too frail and in too much shock to attend their son’s funeral.

‘Some of these people have come a long way to be here today, Nick,’ she explained quietly as she met his bemused stare. ‘Let them have their fill of food and drink. I need never see any of them again.’

He raised dark, quizzical eyebrows. ‘That bad, huh?’

She nodded her head reluctantly, the thick hair feeling hot and heavy against her neck. ‘That bad. So let them feel free.’

And they felt free, all right. The trouble was that they seemed like bottomless pits where the alcohol was concerned. Abigail was seriously concerned that, any minute now, someone would completely disgrace themselves. I really ought to go and ask the caterers to start serving coffee, she thought tiredly, unable to summon up the energy to move as she watched the guests group and regroup, dark dramatic figures, swaying more and more as each second passed.

Jemima, the dark, elfin-looking creature, with stray feathers from the feather boa sticking tantalisingly to her scarlet lips, was behaving quite outrageously—even for a member of Orlando’s entourage.

She made a beeline for Nick as soon as she spotted him, and then tried to drape herself all over him.

Abigail observed him with wry amusement as he politely attempted to keep her at arm’s length. His body language spoke volumes! Surely even Jemima must be able to sense that he was not in the least bit interested in her?

Apparently not. Jemima let a wing of raven hair fall provocatively over one half of her face, and looked up at Nick with huge dark eyes, blurred by alcohol. ‘Are you Abigail’s lover?’ she slurred.

Abigail held her breath as she waited for his reaction. There had been plenty of women in his life. He was a man of the world, and, naturally, she imagined that he must be terribly liberal and unshockable. Well, he certainly looked shocked now. Shocked and outraged! Abigail was amazed.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he queried icily.

Jemima clearly had a thick skin. ‘I just sh-shaid,’ she mumbled. ‘Are you getting it on? With Abigail?’

Suddenly the room went completely still. Curious, debauched-looking faces were turned with avid interest towards the tall man in the elegant dark suit.

Not a flicker of emotion stirred the breathtakingly handsome features, and yet his face was somehow all the more threatening for its complete lack of expression. Abigail thought that it was like looking at a cold, glittering mask of a man’s face.

‘Abigail buried her husband today,’ Nick told Jemima with frosty disdain. ‘And even if you don’t have a breath of decency in your body, then at least you might show her a little respect.’

His eyes became stormy, and Abigail saw that those strong, capable hands had clenched into fists beside the powerful shafts of his thighs. Quickly she looked away again.

‘Perhaps you would like to apologise to her before you leave?’ he suggested stonily.

‘Apologise?’ Jemima’s voice was shrill and she shot Abigail a malicious stare. ‘Apologise for what? For stating the truth? Come on, darling—everyone knows that Abigail and Orlando had a very open marriage. In the truest sense of the word,’ she finished, with a suggestive little pursing of her big, glossy lips.

For a moment Abigail met Nick’s appalled eyes over the top of Jemima’s head. She saw the bleak, disbelieving question written there, before his mouth thinned with distaste and he said, quite firmly, ‘The party’s over, folks, I’m afraid. And I’d like you all to leave.’

Jemima was still staring at Abigail, but the spite which was spitting from her eyes had now evolved into pure jealousy. ‘Sure we’ll leave,’ she drawled. ‘And we wish you all the luck in the world—you’ll need it! Orlando always said that going to bed with Abigail was like sleeping with an ice-cube!’

Abigail started as though she had been stung.

Like a child trying desperately not to cry, she crammed her fist into her mouth, as if to halt the bitter words of denial. She wanted to move, to run, to hide, to scream, but she felt powerless and heavy, as though the blood in her veins had turned to stone. She was trapped. Paralysed with fear. She made a tiny cry at the back of her throat, like that of a wounded animal, and she saw, from his look of fury, that Nick had heard the pitiful little sound.

‘Get out of here!’ he snarled, and the anger on his face subdued every person present. He took a slow, menacing step towards Jemima, who was staring up at him in horror, as if unused to the full brunt of a truly masculine rage.

‘Yes, you,’ he emphasised to Jemima in disgust, before turning to face the rest of them. ‘And all you others! You greedy, grasping pathetic bunch of parasites! You can take your nasty little stories and your freeloading ways and your sordid little lives and get out of here. Now!’

The strangely subdued gathering needed no second bidding. Glasses were hastily put down and they began to scuttle out, like children chastised by the headmaster.

It took about five minutes for the room to empty, leaving only the priest and two white-aproned waitresses, who stood looking up at Nick with a kind of nervous respect. The priest hastily said a polite farewell and left.

‘Did you mean for us to go, too, sir?’ one of the waitresses asked tentatively.

And Abigail then witnessed the most astonishing transformation.

Nick turned to the two women with a wide, apologetic smile and a rueful shake of his dark head. ‘No, of course I didn’t mean for you to go, too,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry if you thought I did. I just thought that things had gone quite far enough—’

‘Oh, they had, sir!’ piped up the other. ‘They had! And you did absolutely right to say what you did! We was just saying in the kitchen—never heard language like it in our lives! Especially at a funeral! Absolutely disgusting!’

Nick glanced over at Abigail, who was still sitting motionless on the stiff-backed chair. ‘I just didn’t want Mrs Howard distressed any more—’

And suddenly Abigail could bear it no longer. Was Nick an actor, just like Orlando? Able to switch his emotions on and off at will, like a tap? One minute ejecting forty people from a room by the sheer force of his will and the next oozing so much charm that he had two middle-aged women positively eating out of his hand.

Jumping out of the chair, she stumbled towards the door. The older of the two waitresses tried to halt her.

‘Miss—’

The careworn arm she placed on Abigail’s arm was comforting and, Abigail supposed, reassuring, too. But she was still too disturbed to do anything other than shake it off distractedly. ‘Let me go,’ she pleaded, on a harsh gasp which seemed to be torn from somewhere deep inside her. ‘Please! Let me go!’

‘It’s all right,’ she heard Nick tell them, in a clipped and decisive voice. ‘Mrs Howard will be fine. Please let her go.’

CHAPTER THREE

ABIGAIL ran out of the room and directly up the staircase which rose from the inner hall, her laboured breathing sounding loud and distorted in the almost eerie silence which had settled on the house.

She did not go to hers and Orlando’s bedroom; she had not slept there for months.

But it was a magnificent room, overlooking the house’s greatest glory—its eighteenth-century garden—and Abigail had half thought that she might move back in, once the policeman had told her that Orlando was never coming home again.

But now she knew that nothing would ever entice her to sleep in that room again.

Instead, she made her way to the East Room, whose curtains were drawn almost shut, leaving only a chink in the heavy brocade, giving the bedroom a gloomy half-light which suited her mood perfectly.

With a sense of relief, she kicked off the spindly high-heeled shoes, unbuttoned her black jacket and lay down on the wide four-poster bed, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

In the distance she could hear the faint chink of china and glass being clattered, and supposed that the waitresses were clearing away the debris from the food.

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