were the odds? she mused, shaking her head as she unloaded another batch of muffins onto a cooling tray. Life could be so unpredictable. Not to mention needlessly cruel.
At another time, in another place, she and Luke might have had the chance to become more than occasional lovers. She liked to think so. She couldn’t deny that when they were together, she couldn’t think of anything but him. He filled her, both mentally and physically. He took over her life—and her body—to the exclusion of anyone else.
Did she love him?
The thought came out of nowhere.
She sighed. The fact was, five years ago, she could have loved him; she knew that. That was why she’d done something she’d never done before. She’d phoned a man who wasn’t her husband. Phoned him late in the evening, and asked him to meet her somewhere she’d been sure Harry would never go.
It had taken a lot of courage to actually pick up the phone in the first place. But after the row she’d had with Harry, she’d been desperate to speak to another human being; someone who wouldn’t turn every word she’d uttered into a threat.
Harry had become an expert at that. He’d always said he couldn’t trust her, but now she could see he’d used that as a way to justify his own behaviour.
That night, after his making more ridiculous accusations about her behaviour, she’d been half afraid he was going to kill her. He’d evidently enjoyed frightening her, but, when he’d put his hands around her throat, she’d suspected even Harry had been alarmed by his own violence. He’d stormed out of the apartment, telling her he was going to his club and not to expect him back before morning, leaving her, as he’d done many times before, shaken and afraid.
For a few minutes after his departure, Abby remembered she’d lain on the floor where he’d left her, too numb to move. She’d heard the door slam, but she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t still in the apartment. He’d pretended to leave on other occasions and then come back to catch her out.
But, eventually, grateful that she was still alive, she’d forced herself to her feet and dragged herself into the bathroom. She’d wanted to examine her injuries. To reassure herself that there was no blood. It was rare that Harry left any visible signs of his cruelty on her body, but tonight he seemed to have lost all control.
As well as the bruising on her arms and ribs and abdomen, there’d been purple finger marks on her neck. Touching them, flinching from the pain, she’d felt sick inside. She’d ached in every part of her body, and she’d been afraid he wouldn’t stop until she was dead.
For a while she’d simply stood in the shower, trying to wipe the memory of the last couple of hours from her mind. She’d run the shower hot, to erase the chill inside her, but not even the stream of water had seemed to work.
Then she’d remembered the card Luke Morelli had given her. She’d stepped out of the shower and stumbled into the bedroom, hoping she still knew where it was.
Stereotypically, she’d hidden it beneath her underwear, and she’d been half afraid Harry might have searched her drawers and found it. But, despite his accusations, her husband had never really believed there was any chance of her being unfaithful to him. He’d known she was too afraid of what it might mean to her mother. He’d never doubted the power he had over her because of Annabel Lacey’s illness.
Meeting Luke that night had been the most reckless thing she’d ever done. She’d never forget the thrill it had given her to find him at the Parker House, waiting for her.
Tall and dark and undeniably gorgeous.
She’d just wanted to throw herself into his arms...
* * *
Later that morning, Lori came through from the bookshop, looking for her mid-morning cup of coffee.
It had been a busy morning so far and Abby was feeling unusually weary. It was because she had so much playing on her mind, she thought, but she perked up a bit when she saw her friend.
‘Hi,’ she said, reaching for a coffee mug. ‘I think I’ll join you.’
‘Why not?’ Lori, a slim, attractive woman in her early thirties, grinned and propped her elbows on the counter. ‘It seems pretty quiet at present.’
‘It is now,’ agreed Abby, filling the cups. ‘How about a banana muffin?’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ said Lori, sniffing appreciatively. ‘You know, if I worked in here all day, I’d spend most of my time sampling the merchandise.’ She grimaced. ‘I’d soon be as fat as butter.’
‘Not you,’ said Abby, setting the muffin on a plate, adding a dessert fork, and handing it over. ‘There you go. Enjoy.’
‘I will.’ Lori forked a mouthful of the muffin as Abby sipped her cappuccino, her expression mirroring her delight.
‘This is awesome!’
‘I’m glad you like it. It’s a new recipe I found—’
The sudden surge of nausea took Abby completely by surprise. She felt the hot, strong beverage she’d been sipping rise into the back of her throat, and gagged. Then, lifting an apologetic hand towards Lori, she almost ran into the small bathroom situated at the back of the storage area.
Once again, she was violently sick. She had little in her stomach, but that didn’t stop her from retching painfully. She was sluicing her face with cold water from the hand basin when Lori tapped on the open door.
‘Hey, Abby,’ she said, viewing her friend with some concern. ‘Are you okay?’
Abby wiped her face with a tissue and turned with a shaky smile. ‘I am now,’ she said ruefully. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’ Lori came to put an arm about her shoulders. ‘Does this happen often?’
‘Just today,’ said Abby, resting her hips against the basin for support. ‘I mean, I’ve felt a bit queasy for the past few days, but it’s only today that I’ve actually thrown up.’
‘So what do you think it is?’
Abby shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Something I’ve eaten, perhaps.’ She paused. ‘Do you think I should close the café?’
‘That depends.’ Lori straightened away from her. ‘Have you eaten anything dodgy recently?’
‘Well—no. Not that I can think of, anyway.’
Lori caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you couldn’t be pregnant, could you?’ she asked awkwardly. ‘You have been looking a bit—well—peaky for a couple of weeks.’
Abby stared at her in alarm. ‘Pregnant?’ she echoed. ‘I—no. Of course not.’
Lori shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘But you have been seeing that guy who’s bought Gifford’s estate, haven’t you? Luke Morelli. I recognised him the first time he came into the café weeks ago.’ She grimaced. ‘Blame it on the gossip magazines. I’ve seen his picture several times. He’s usually escorting some glamorous socialite or other to a charity function or a film premiere. You know what men like him are like.’
Just the thought of that made Abby feel sick all over again.
‘He’s quite famous, you know.’
‘Is he?’ This was a side of Luke she’d never seen. But then, how well did she really know him? Not that well at all, it seemed.
There were a few tense moments when Abby just stared at her. Then she said cautiously, ‘But how did you know I’ve been seeing him?’ and Lori sighed.
‘Greg told me,’ she admitted. ‘He’s such an old gossip. I wouldn’t have believed him, but Joan Miller said she’d seen Morelli’s car outside the café one evening a few weeks