That Kind Of Man

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?