going to have a whisky on the rocks.’
It was a drink she had learned to like with Ryan. He nodded, but made no other comment. While she poured the drinks, he was stroking the curves of a sculpture with one of his strong yet sensitive hands. ‘So you got to sculpt in wood, after all,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re very good. And your style has matured,’ he said.
‘I’ve matured,’ she said.
‘I can see that. You have a lot more to say.’
‘To say?’
‘About yourself. About what you see in the world.’ He accepted the drink she offered him. ‘You’ve become an adult.’
‘How kind of you.’ She didn’t bother raising her glass in a toast, but took a much-needed gulp of the fiery whisky. ‘We’d better sit by the fire. This house is cold and damp.’
There was one sofa, facing the fire. The glow of the flames provided a warm light. She did not switch on any more lights, not wanting him to see how bare the cottage really was, beneath the artistic touches she had lavished on it.
They sat facing each other. The rosy light that gave her smooth, pale face an alabaster glow made his look even more rugged and masculine than usual.
Or perhaps he had lost weight; his straight, Norman nose seemed more pronounced than usual, and there were shadows in the cleft of that masterfully erotic mouth.
‘You look tired,’ she commented.
‘I’ve been in meetings in London all day,’ he replied.
‘Not that kind of tired. A deeper tiredness. Too many parties, perhaps?’
‘Parties?’ he repeated. ‘Since you left me, my life has been nothing but work. Work, and hunting for you.’
‘Well,’ she said with a brittle smile, ‘you obviously have plenty on your mind, Ryan. So, now that you’ve caught me at last, why don’t you go ahead and say it?’
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHERE did you go after you ran from me?’ he asked.
‘I went back west, to Exeter. I had some friends there.’
‘And that’s where you got sick?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you get encephalitis?’
‘They could never tell me how I caught it. It started with a terrible headache, that horrible last weekend in London. Remember how sick I was?’
‘Yes,’ he said grimly. ‘I remember.’
‘At first I thought I had bad flu. Then I started to vomit on the train. I couldn’t stop. The first doctor I saw didn’t recognise the symptoms, so there was a delay. I went into convulsions. By the time they got me to hospital, I was going into a coma.’
‘Penny, I’m so sorry.’ His face was tight. ‘Why didn’t you call me? I know we were fighting like tigers, but in those circumstances nothing else would have mattered. I would have run to you.’
‘If it’s any consolation, I remember telephoning you from the station. I think the voice-mail service picked up. I probably didn’t say anything.’
‘Oh, Penny. If you’d left one word—’
‘I wasn’t in a fit state to say much,’ she shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘And you say you were unconscious when you had the miscarriage?’ he asked, his eyes intent.
Penny took another gulp of her whisky. ‘Yes.’
‘How long were you in the coma?’
‘A few days. The antibiotics worked. I was very lucky. After a couple of weeks, they discharged me.’
‘And then?’
She shrugged again. ‘Then I got on with the rest of my life.’
‘You didn’t even bother to tell me your pregnancy was over.’
‘I wrote to you,’ she exclaimed. ‘I know I did.’
‘I never received a word.’ His eyes were hard.
Penny shrugged. ‘Maybe it got lost.’
‘You’re sure you wrote to me?’
‘Ryan, I had just recovered from a brain inflammation. I was scarcely in my right mind. The doctors couldn’t even tell me whether I was going to have permanent brain damage or not!’
‘And do you have any brain damage?’ he asked, watching her over the rim of his whisky glass.
‘What do you care?’ she retorted.
‘I care a great deal. So tell me the truth.’
‘I had to take anticonvulsant medication to prevent seizures. For a while.’
His penetrating grey eyes assessed her. ‘For a while?’
‘I didn’t like the side-effects. So I stopped taking it.’
‘The doctors must have been concerned, surely.’
‘I didn’t tell them.’
‘Was that wise?’
‘It was my decision. I felt much better the moment I stopped the medication. And nothing has gone wrong since.’
His gaze stayed on her for a long, assessing moment, then moved from her to the paintings, dimly visible in the firelight. ‘But the experience changed you.’
‘It was a bad experience. And now I don’t want to discuss it any further.’
‘But I need to know everything, Penny.’
‘That’s too bad.’
‘You have to understand,’ he said evenly, ‘that the last words you spoke to me were a threat to abort our child—’
‘Oh, is that it?’ she cut in. ‘You’re still wondering about that? Whether I am an evil, calculating, vicious woman, ready to commit any bloodthirsty act to get back at you.’
‘Of course you aren’t any of those things.’
‘Then why are you so suspicious? Are you so afraid that I’m really a monster?’
‘I know you’re not a monster,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I wouldn’t love you so much if you were.’
His words made her heart flip over like a hooked fish. ‘Ryan, don’t.’
‘But even if you were a monster,’ he went on, ‘I would still love you. Helplessly and completely. I can’t help loving you, you see. I was born to do it. When you love like that, it’s probably not important to know anything about the one you love. It doesn’t matter anyway, as you’ve just said. But somehow, I can’t help wanting to find out.’
Her hands were trembling as she drained the whisky. ‘Then I shall take great pleasure in keeping that knowledge from you,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘You can just keep wondering whether I’m a liar and maybe worse.’
He had not touched the whisky with his lips yet. Now he tossed the contents of his glass into the fire with a flick of his wrist. The whisky flared into hot green and blue flames, while the ice cubes hissed and evaporated on the embers.
‘Do you know what it’s like to love someone, Penny?’ he asked. ‘I thought you did, but I must have been wrong.’
She had flinched at the blazing whisky in the hearth. The coloured flames died down now, with a hot reek of vaporised alcohol. ‘You were wrong,’ she said.
‘It’s