Sinful Truths

CHAPTER TWO

EMILY came into the room at that moment, too. She must have heard Isobel, and she bounded eagerly across the living room to meet her.

‘Daddy and I have been playing computer games,’ she exclaimed, by way of a greeting, and Jake didn’t have time to cover the mouthpiece of his phone before Marcie latched on to the anomaly.

‘Daddy and I?’ she spat angrily. ‘What’s going on, Jake? I thought you said you weren’t the kid’s father.’

‘I’m not.’

Jake balked before saying anything more with his wife regarding him from the hall doorway. Dammit, there was no easy way to do this. Whatever he said, he was going to offend somebody.

‘Jake.’ Isobel was civil enough, but he could see the strain in her face. ‘It was good of you to stay.’

Yeah, right.

Jake bit back the sardonic response, giving her a brief nod of acknowledgement as Marcie spoke again. ‘Is Isobel there?’ she demanded. ‘Jake—’

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he interrupted her, aware that he was building up trouble for himself later, but unable to do anything about it right now. ‘Take a cab to the hotel, will you? I’ll join you there as soon as I can.’

‘Jake—’

‘Just do it,’ he said tightly, and felt a momentary pang of remorse when she rang off without saying another word.

Flipping his phone closed, he was aware that Isobel was still watching him. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve upset your dinner arrangements,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was as quick as I could be, but my mother isn’t well.’

‘I’m sorry.’

It was a standard response and her lips twisted a little wryly at his words. ‘Yes—well, that’s not your problem.’ Her face softened as she looked at Emily. ‘I hope you’ve been a good girl.’

Emily grimaced. ‘I’m not a baby, Mummy. Like I said before, Daddy and I have been playing Black Knights.’ Her face brightened. ‘He owns Dreambox. Did you know that?’

Isobel’s lips thinned. ‘Yes. He’s very clever,’ she said drily, unbuttoning her navy overcoat and unwinding a silk scarf from around her neck. ‘Now, why don’t you go and make me some tea, Em? I think—’ She looked questioningly at Jake. ‘I think we have to talk.’

Emily pulled a face. ‘Do I have to?’

‘Em!’

‘Oh, all right.’

Emily flounced out of the room and Isobel finished taking off her coat. Underneath, she was wearing a cream silk shirt and a navy skirt that ended an inch or two above her knees, but Jake barely noticed. What disturbed him was how thin she had become; the bones of her shoulders were clearly evident beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.

Yet she was still beautiful, he reflected unwillingly. The pale oval of her face was framed by ebony-dark hair, drawn back from a centre parting and secured in a loose chignon at her nape. Luminous blue eyes and high cheekbones only emphasised the generous width of her mouth, and her porcelain skin gave her a fleeting resemblance to the Madonna.

But Jake knew she was no saint. Isobel was—had always been—a warm, passionate woman, and although he despised her for the way she’d treated him, he had never lost his admiration for her grace and elegance.

Now, however, he was concerned by her appearance, and with the comments that Emily had made still ringing his ears he said abruptly, ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

Isobel carefully folded her coat and laid it over a chair. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. Then, straightening, ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to hang about, but there was nothing I could do. Mama phoned and…’

Her voice trailed away and Jake’s mouth compressed. ‘And you couldn’t let her down,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘Tell me something new.’

Isobel’s lips tightened. ‘You don’t understand. She’s been extremely—fragile—since her—well, in recent months.’

‘Since her operation, you mean?’ Jake regarded her with cynical eyes. ‘Emily told me.’

‘I see.’ Isobel hesitated. ‘Then you’ll know that by-pass operations on the elderly can have—complications.’

‘So that’s what it was.’ Jake nodded. ‘I didn’t know.’

Isobel frowned. ‘But you said—Emily—’

‘She was pretty vague.’ He shrugged, and then glanced about him. ‘Look, why don’t you sit down? You look tired.’

‘Thanks.’

It was hardly a compliment, but Isobel was glad to accept his advice. She was tired; exhausted, actually. She had been for weeks; months. Ever since she’d heard that her husband was involved with Marcie Duncan.

Of course, he’d had affairs before. Several, actually, over the years, and she’d suffered through every one of them. But his relationship with Marcie was something different. It had gone on for so much longer, for one thing, and for another a friend had told her that Marcie was telling everyone that he was going to marry her.

Except he was still married to Isobel.

Expelling a quivering breath, she moved into the room and seated herself on the sofa nearest to the door. Then, as he lounged into the chair opposite, she forced a formal smile.

But it was difficult. Bloody difficult, actually, she thought with a sudden spurt of anger. Sitting opposite the man you had once thought you loved better than life itself was never going to be easy, and she despised the fact that he could come here and behave as if all they had ever been to one another was polite strangers.

He looked so damned relaxed, she mused tensely. In the kind of casual gear he wore to work, which her mother had always deplored on a man in his position, he looked completely at his ease and she resented it.

A black tee shirt was stretched across his broad shoulders and exposed the ribbed muscles of his stomach. He didn’t appear to have an ounce of spare flesh on him, and tight-fitting moleskin pants hugged his narrow hips and long powerful legs. A leather jacket, still displaying the fact that it had been raining when he arrived, was hung over the back of a chair and one booted foot rested casually across his knee.

He was not a handsome man, she assured herself, unwilling to admit that his strong, hard features possessed something more than mere good looks. His skin was darker than the rest of his colouring, his hair streaked in shades of silvery blond and amber, and eyes as green as his Irish roots should have indicated a fair countenance. But somewhere in Jake’s mongrel ancestry—as her mother would say—there had been a darker strain. Just another reason why Lady Hannah Lacey had opposed his marriage to her only daughter.

‘Have you been waiting long?’ she asked at last, rather than broach the subject she was sure was his reason for being here, and Jake regarded her through narrowed lids.

‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Our appointment was for five o’clock, wasn’t it?’

Isobel sighed. ‘Do we have to have appointments?’ She smoothed her damp palms over the slim lines of her skirt. ‘This isn’t a business meeting, is it?’

Jake didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, ‘I guess you know why I’m here,’ and a shiver feathered its way down her spine.

‘Do I?’ She refused to make it easy for him. ‘Dare I suspect that you’ve finally decided to acknowledge that you have a daughter?’

‘No!’ Jake’s appearance of relaxation disappeared. His boot thudded onto the carpet and he leaned forward in his seat, legs spread wide, forearms resting along his thighs. ‘We dealt with that fiction some time ago, and I don’t intend to let you divert me with it now. I’m here because it’s past time we put an end to this travesty—’

‘What are we having for supper, Mummy?’

Isobel didn’t know if Emily had been eavesdropping on their conversation or whether her intervention was as innocent as it appeared. Either way, it achieved the dual purpose of providing a distraction and putting Jake off his stride.

He swore, quite audibly, and Isobel glared at him reprovingly before transferring her attention to her daughter. ‘Have you made the tea?’ she asked, ignoring her husband’s scowling face. ‘We can decide what we’re having for supper later.’

‘Will Daddy be staying for supper?’

Emily was nothing if not persistent, and despite everything Isobel was tempted to smile. ‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘Just fetch the tea, sweetheart. Then you can go and start running your bath.’

‘Oh, must I?’

‘Do as your mother says,’ said Jake harshly, and Emily’s expression changed from mild disappointment to cold fury.

‘Don’t you tell me what to do, you—you womaniser!’ she exclaimed angrily, and Isobel didn’t know which of them was the most astounded at her outburst.

After the way Emily had behaved when she’d got home Isobel had hoped that she and Jake had come to some sort of compromise. She should have known better.

Predictably, Jake recovered first. ‘You little bitch!’ he snapped. ‘How dare you call me a womaniser?’

‘Because it’s what you are,’ declared Emily, unwilling to back down, and Jake snorted.

‘I bet you got that from your grandmother, didn’t you?’ he demanded. ‘That old—’

‘I heard it at school, actually,’ Emily contradicted him, her voice breaking a little now. ‘It’s what the older girls say about you. They laugh about it. They say you’ve had loads of girlfriends and that you don’t care about Mummy and me at all.’

Isobel didn’t know where to look. It was obvious that the child’s words had shocked her husband, but she knew she couldn’t allow Emily to get away with insolence, whatever the justification.

‘I think you owe your father an apology, Emily,’ she said quietly, uncaring what Jake thought of her words. But his response overrode hers.

‘I don’t care what people say,’ he retorted grimly, but Isobel could tell from his tone that that wasn’t entirely true. Jake was not without feelings, after all, and Emily’s accusations had the ring of truth. ‘Your mother knows I would never allow her—or you—to suffer from my actions.’

‘But we do,’ muttered Emily tearfully. ‘Why can’t we be a proper family? Why can’t you live with us, like any proper father would?’

‘Emily—’

Isobel was desperate to stop this from going any further, but Jake had had enough.

‘Because I’m not your father,’ he snapped savagely, and Isobel closed her eyes as Emily’s face whitened and the tears began to fall in earnest.

‘You are,’ she protested, in spite of her distress, and although Isobel got to her feet and started towards her it was too late. ‘I know you are,’ she persisted. ‘Mummy says so. And Mummy doesn’t tell lies.

‘And nor do I,’ said Jake, driven to his feet also. ‘For pity’s sake, Emily—’

‘I don’t want to listen to you.’ Emily put both hands over her ears and stared at him through tear-drenched lashes. ‘I am your daughter. You know I am.’ She turned despairingly towards Isobel. ‘Tell him, Mummy. Tell him that’s who I am. He has to believe you. Especially today.’

Isobel managed to get an arm about her daughter’s shoulders, but Jake wasn’t finished. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Why especially today?’

‘Because of the game,’ said Emily tremulously. ‘Because of Black Knights. You said it yourself. You said I was like you. I played to win.’

It was at least forty minutes before Isobel returned to find Jake pacing about the living room like a caged lion. His eyes turned instantly to her as soon as she appeared in the doorway, and she could tell from the stark lines that etched his mouth that he had been fighting his own demons since she’d led the weeping child away.

‘How is she?’ he demanded, pausing on the hearth, and because he was back-lit by the orange flames of the fire his face was partly in shadow.

‘How do you think?’ Isobel wasn’t inclined to reassure him, even if it wasn’t all his fault that Emily had got so upset. Then, reluctantly, she added, ‘She’s gone to sleep. Finally. She was exhausted.’ She paused. ‘I’m surprised you’re still here.’

Jake’s jaw tightened. ‘Where else would I be?’

‘Oh, right.’ Isobel’s nostrils flared in sudden comprehension. ‘We never did finish our conversation, did we?’

Jake bit off an oath. ‘That’s not why I stayed.’

‘No?’ Isobel felt too weary to cope with anything just now. She glanced at her watch and was astonished to find it was after half-past-eight. ‘Goodness, is that the time?’

‘You didn’t even get that cup of tea,’ remarked Jake wryly. ‘I could do with a drink myself. How do you feel about me making us both one?’

‘I can do it.’ The last thing Isobel wanted was for Jake to feel he had to look after her. It would be far too ironic. ‘I assume you’d prefer something stronger than tea? All I’ve got is sherry, I’m afraid.’

‘No beer?’

‘I don’t like beer,’ said Isobel stiffly. ‘And I can’t aff— I mean, we have no use for spirits.’

Jake’s mouth tightened, and she guessed he knew exactly what she had been going to say. But, although she prepared herself for an argument, all he said was, ‘How about cola? Surely Emily drinks that?’

‘Diet cola,’ agreed Isobel, starting towards the kitchen. ‘I think we’ve got some in the fridge.’

Jake followed her, his hands pushed into his hip pockets, his hair rumpled, as if he had spent some of the time he’d been waiting running his fingers through it. Yet he still looked as attractive as ever, and Isobel thought how unfair it was that one man should continue to have such power over her.

But it was dangerous thinking about that now, and she busied herself taking a can of cola from the fridge, setting it and a glass on the counter nearest to him. Then, switching on the kettle, she emptied the pot of tea Emily had made earlier.

Jake didn’t touch the glass. He simply flipped the tab and drank straight from the can, his head tipped back, the muscles in his throat moving rhythmically as he swallowed the chilled liquid.

Isobel found herself watching him and quickly looked away. But in her mind’s eye she could still see the smooth column of his throat and the brown skin that disappeared into the neckline of his tee shirt.

He seemed darker-skinned than usual, and she wondered where he had spent his winter break this year. Then she remembered. There had been an article in one of the tabloids about how ex-Page Three model Marcie Duncan had been seen holidaying with her latest conquest, computer millionaire Jake McCabe, in the Seychelles.

There had been pictures, too, but Isobel hadn’t looked at those. She wouldn’t have seen the article at all if Lady Hannah hadn’t saved it for her. She winced. Sometimes she couldn’t make up her mind whether her mother truly had her best interests at heart or if she got some perverted kind of pleasure out of proving that she had been right all along.

‘Thanks.’

While she had been wool-gathering Jake had finished the can, and now he crushed it in his fist before dropping it into the swing bin beside the sink.

Isobel forced herself to concentrate on what she was doing. ‘Do you want another?’ she asked, grateful that the kettle had boiled and she could make her tea. Her legs felt decidedly wobbly and she would be glad when she could sit down.

‘Not right now.’ Jake shifted restlessly as she put milk into a mug and filled it from the pot. Then, in a low voice, ‘I guess I should apologise.’

Isobel tried not to show her surprise. Flicking him an uncertain glance, she moved past him into the living room again. ‘If you mean it,’ she said at last, resuming the seat she’d occupied earlier on the sofa. She sipped her tea. ‘Mmm, I was ready for this.’

She was aware that Jake was still standing in the doorway behind her, and she wished she could see his face. Or perhaps not, she amended. She had never been able to hide her feelings from him.

When her nerves felt as if they’d been stretched to breaking point he moved into the room, but instead of sitting in the armchair, as before, he joined her on the couch.

‘I mean it,’ he said, his weight depressing the cushion beside her. ‘I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. But, dammit, Belle, I thought she knew.’

Isobel steeled herself to look at him. ‘Knew what?’ she asked, though she knew exactly what he meant.

Jake blew out a breath. ‘That I’m not her father,’ he declared harshly. ‘If you insist on having me say it yet again.’

Isobel’s dark brows ascended. ‘But you are her father,’ she said, as she had said so many times before. ‘You just don’t want to believe it.’

‘Damn right.’ He sounded angry. ‘For God’s sake, Isobel, how long are you going to persist with this—this fabrication?’

Isobel put her mug down on the table beside her. ‘As long as it takes, I suppose,’ she replied, amazed that she could sound so cool when inside she was burning up. Then, realising that she couldn’t delay the moment any longer, she lifted her shoulders in a wary gesture. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you wanted to see me?’

Jake stared at her, his eyes as vivid as jade in his dark face. ‘Do you think it’s fair on Emily to give her unreal expectations?’ he demanded, without answering her, and Isobel sighed.

‘You mean because her father refuses to acknowledge her?’ she asked tersely. ‘I don’t think so.’

Jake’s jaw hardened. ‘Dammit, she’s not my child!’

‘She is.’

‘How can you say that? When you and Piers Mallory were having an affair at the time?’

Isobel pursed her lips. ‘We were not having an affair!’

‘You slept with him.’

‘I was in bed with him,’ she said, annoyed to find her voice was shaking. ‘But not through choice.’

Jake snorted. ‘Oh, right. Are you saying he raped you now?’

‘No.’ Isobel picked up her tea again, endeavouring to warm her frozen hands on the mug. ‘But I’d been drinking. I don’t remember anything about it.’

With an oath Jake got up from the sofa and paced grimly across the rug. His powerful frame cast a long shadow across the hearth and she turned to stare into the flames of the gas fire rather than look at him. But the temptation to do so was almost irresistible, and only the fact that the hot liquid was burning her palms caused her to turn her attention to putting the mug down again.

‘He was my friend,’ said Jake, speaking through his teeth, and Isobel felt the familiar frustration building inside her.

‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘That was the trouble, wasn’t it? You couldn’t believe your friend could do something so—so—’

‘Unlikely?’ suggested Jake scornfully, but Isobel shook her head.

‘So despicable,’ she corrected, looking up at him with accusing eyes. ‘And on that basis you decided that Emily couldn’t possibly be your daughter. That she was his.’

Jake blew out a breath. ‘I don’t want to talk about this.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘For God’s sake, Belle, be honest for once in your life!’ Jake came to stand in front of her and she averted her eyes from the impressive bulge of his manhood. ‘We’d been married for three years, dammit, and you hadn’t got pregnant. Are you telling me we suddenly got lucky? I don’t think so.’