Sinful Truths

CHAPTER THREE

JAKE was at his desk by eight o’clock the next morning.

He could have been there much earlier. He hadn’t been to bed. He’d spent most of the night switching channels on the too-large digital TV Marcie had insisted he should install in his bedroom, and which he’d actually set up in the den, trying not to think about the row they’d had at her apartment when she’d got back from dining with the Allens—alone.

But then, that was what happened when you allowed your soon-to-be-ex-wife to ruin what should have been a very pleasant evening, he reflected ruefully. Frank Allen and his wife were old friends of his, and he knew Marcie had been relying on him to persuade the media tycoon to back her bid for network stardom.

She’d already done some TV work, appearing on chat shows, celebrity quizzes and the like, but she wanted to be taken seriously. She wanted to bury her bimbette image once and for all, and make her name with her own daytime talk show.

It had been a long shot at best. Jake knew that. Frank Allen hadn’t been in the business for more than forty years without being able to spot an amateur when he saw one. Marcie looked good on panel shows, when her contribution meant less to the producers than her appearance, but she simply didn’t have what it took to take centre stage.

Jake had suggested she ought to consider acting lessons, but Marcie had quickly vetoed that idea. She hadn’t become the most successful photographic model of the decade by admitting she didn’t have what it took to further her career. She didn’t want to hear that she needed more than good looks to make it in the very competitive world of television. Because other people had done it, she confidently believed that she could do it, too.

She had taken the fact that Jake hadn’t turned up at the restaurant as a personal slight. Even though he’d sent a message to both Marcie and Frank Allen—in Marcie’s case enclosed with an enormous bouquet of red roses, which he’d had the devil’s own job to acquire at half-past nine at night—explaining that he’d been inadvertently held up and apologising for letting them down, she’d still been furious.

Finding him waiting for her at her apartment when she’d returned home had not placated her. She’d virtually thrown the bouquet at him, declaring that he’d deliberately ruined the evening, that he cared more for his estranged wife and her snotty-nosed brat than he did about her.

There had been no reasoning with her, and Jake had eventually scooped up the bouquet and left the apartment. He’d deposited the roses in the nearest wastebin. He’d been angry, too, but whether it had been with himself or her he hadn’t cared to speculate.

Which was why he was at his desk before the rest of the staff turned in, scowling at his computer screen, wishing last night had never happened. And not just because of the row with Marcie. They’d had rows before, and no doubt would again. That was a given in their relationship. But because last night for the first time he’d learned that Isobel’s daughter had a wit and a personality all her own.

Until then he’d hardly spoken to the child. His dealings with her mother had been brief at best, and his memories of Emily were of a shy toddler, hiding behind Isobel’s skirts, or a sulky pre-teen, who’d resented his presence.

Well, she’d resented his presence last night, too, he conceded. To begin with, anyway. But afterwards, after they’d discovered a common interest in computer games, she’d become almost friendly. She’d actually laughed at his efforts to keep up with her, and he’d felt an unexpected surge of admiration at her ability to keep two steps ahead.

That was why he felt so bad about what had come after, he thought now, stabbing savagely at the keys. Dammit, he hadn’t meant to hurt the kid. It wasn’t his fault that Isobel had never told Emily the truth, but he’d felt bloody guilty when she’d got so upset.

Which was the real reason why he hadn’t joined Marcie and the Allens at the restaurant. After what had happened he hadn’t felt like being sociable with anyone, even Marcie, and when she’d come home, accusing him of God knows what, he’d almost lost it. The temptation to tell her that the world didn’t revolve about her selfish little life had trembled on the tip of his tongue, and he’d known he had to get out of there before he said—or did—something he’d regret.

And he did regret it this morning, he told himself grimly. He’d been more than generous with Isobel over the years, and he had no reason to feel guilty because she’d chosen to keep her daughter in the dark. What had Emily said? That she was almost eleven? Yes. Definitely old enough to understand that people—even people you loved—didn’t always do what was expected of them. He wasn’t the traitor here; Isobel was. Emily’s mother had betrayed their marriage by having an affair with another man.

Piers Mallory.

His best—ex-best—friend.

And she was the result.

He was concentrating so hard on the display he’d brought up on the computer screen that he wasn’t aware he was no longer alone. When a hand descended on his shoulder he swore violently, turning a savage face to the intruder.

Shane Harper, his second-in-command, lifted both hands in mock surrender.

‘Hey, the door was open,’ he said, strolling round Jake’s desk. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He paused, evidently hoping for vindication. ‘You’re early. Couldn’t you sleep?’

‘Something like that.’ Jake’s mouth flattened into a rueful grin. ‘Sorry for the profanity. I was miles away.’

‘In some dark chasm, by the sound of it,’ remarked Shane drily. ‘I’ve got coffee in my room. Want some?’

Jake pushed back his chair from the desk and got to his feet. ‘Yeah,’ he said, raking back his hair with a careless hand. ‘That sounds good. Lead me to it.’

Shane’s office, like Jake’s and those of the other senior members of staff, opened onto a huge room where many of the other employees worked. Wooden screens divided the floor into booths that gave a semblance of privacy to their occupants. Already one or two operators were at their desks, computer screens flickering to life, eyes blinking owlishly over the mugs of coffee that seemed a necessary jump-start to the day.

Jake followed Shane into an office very like his own and leaned against the door to close it. Then he sprawled into a chair across the desk from Shane’s, licking his lips in anticipation when the other man put a mug of steaming black liquid into his hand.

As expected, the coffee was rich and aromatic, the caffeine exactly what he needed to jump-start his own day. It bore no resemblance whatsoever to the instant variety Emily had served him the night before, and he felt a renewed surge of irritation at the thought of Isobel telling her daughter they couldn’t afford any better.

That was a lie, pure and simple. The allowance he made his wife, plus what she earned herself, should keep them in relative luxury. But there was no denying that the apartment was beginning to look shabby, and Emily wasn’t likely to lie about something like that. So where was the money going? What was she spending it on?

‘Hello? Earth to McCabe? Did you just bail out on me again?’

Shane’s words brought him out of the deepening depression he’d been sinking into, and Jake pulled a wry face as he took another swallow of his coffee.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, trying to concentrate on what was happening in the present instead of drifting back into the past. ‘Lack of sleep, I guess. What were you saying?’

‘I asked if you’d enjoyed your evening at L’Aiguille,’ declared Shane good-naturedly. ‘You obviously had a hell of an evening, but I don’t know if it was good or bad.’

Jake grunted. ‘It wasn’t good,’ he said, setting the mug down on the desk and rubbing his palms over his knees. ‘I didn’t get to L’Aiguille.’ He grimaced. ‘Marcie wasn’t pleased.’

‘I can believe it.’ Shane arched disbelieving brows. ‘What happened? I thought you’d arranged to have dinner with the Allens.’

‘We had. Marcie did.’ Jake lifted his hands and folded them at the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t.’

Shane frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘No. Nor did she,’ remarked Jake with a prolonged sigh. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Hey.’ Shane stared at him. ‘Weren’t you planning on seeing Isobel yesterday?’ A dawning light entered his eyes. ‘I get it. Marcie didn’t want you to see Isobel. She kicked up a fuss and you bailed out.’

‘Yeah.’ Jake gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Something like that.’

‘But—’ Shane would have pursued it further, but a sudden hardening of Jake’s expression warned him it would not be wise. Instead, he changed his words. ‘How is Isobel, anyway? And that kid of hers? What was her name? Emma?’

‘Emily,’ Jake amended, before he could stop himself. Then, dropping his hands, he reached for his coffee again. ‘They’re fine. Thanks for asking.’

Now it was Shane’s turn to give his friend a conservative stare. He’d obviously realised there was more to this than a simple tiff over Jake’s wife, but he knew better than to push his luck.

‘Great,’ he said, reaching for a printout that was lying on his desk. ‘By the way, these are the projected figures for Merlin’s Mountain. Jay thinks it should supersede all the other games if the results of the ad campaign are anything to go by, and they usually are. Oh, and Steve wants to talk to you about his firewall. According to him, it’s the only hacker-proof system there is.’

‘And he should know,’ observed Jake drily, relieved that the conversation had turned to business matters. He didn’t want to offend Shane. They’d been friends too long for him to take the other man’s support for granted. But talking about Isobel had never been easy for him and, after last night, he would prefer to be able to put the whole sorry affair out of his mind.

Which wasn’t going to happen. He knew that. Knew it even more forcibly later that morning, when his cellphone rang and the small screen displayed Marcie’s number.

He was in the middle of a meeting with the finance department at the time, and he was tempted to turn off the phone and ignore it. He could always say he’d left the phone in his office and someone else had hijacked the call. Or he could simply tell her he was busy and that he’d have to call her back.

Some choice.

Stifling a curse, he offered a word of apology to his colleagues and, getting up from the table, crossed to the windows. Standing looking down at the rain-soaked London streets some twenty floors below, he thought how much he hated the city sometimes. He put the phone to his ear. ‘McCabe.’

‘Jake.’

Marcie’s tone was considerably warmer than it had been the night before. Evidently time had mellowed her mood and she was apparently prepared to be magnanimous.

‘Marcie.’ Despite the overture, Jake felt unaccountably reluctant to return it. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘So formal, darling.’ Marcie’s voice would have melted honey. ‘Actually, I thought you might have rung me. You know how upset I was last night. I’ve hardly slept.’

Jake refrained from mentioning that he hadn’t been to bed himself. He refused to give her that satisfaction. Instead he said flatly, ‘I was pretty bugged myself.’

A silence, and then Marcie spoke again. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to apologise. Must I remind you that it wasn’t me who let you down? What you did was—well, pretty unforgivable. I was made to look like a complete idiot.’

‘How?’

Jake heard the accusation in his voice but couldn’t seem to help it. Right now he wasn’t in the mood for one of Marcie’s famous fits of histrionics. Last night he would have told her what had happened, would have explained about Isobel and Emily—well, some of it anyway. Enough to make her realise that he’d had no choice but to do what he had, that on this occasion Isobel had had to come first. But at this moment he didn’t much care what she believed.

‘You know I wanted you to sound Frank out about the chances of me getting my own show,’ Marcie answered, a predictable tremor in her voice. ‘You knew I couldn’t bring it up myself. I hardly know the Allens. They’re your friends, not mine.’ She paused, and when he didn’t say anything she went on more aggressively, ‘And his wife is such a snob. When I told her what I’d been doing for the past five years her jaw almost dropped through the floor. Supercilious bitch! She made me feel like I was the lowest form of pond life. Like she’d never taken her clothes off to get what she wanted. I tell you, Jake, I’ve had it with women like her. I don’t think they know what century they’re living in. How I stopped myself from pushing her stupid face into the salmon mousse I’ll never know.’

Jake had to smile then. The image of Marcie using strongarm tactics on Virginia Allen was just so ludicrous. Frank’s wife was a lady. Heavens, there’d been occasions when she’d refused to attend one of her husband’s openings because she’d considered it too risqué. He could quite believe she’d been horrified at the news that Marcie had made her living as a photographic model. In her opinion, models—fashion models included—were not much better than paid courtesans.

‘I’d like to have seen that,’ he said now, the humour in his voice unmistakable, and Marcie giggled.

‘You might have, if you’d been there,’ she said tartly, proving that she hadn’t quite forgiven him yet. Then, evidently deciding she ought to quit while she was ahead, she added, ‘So how about joining me for lunch instead? I’ve got some champagne in the fridge I’d intended to open last night. We could see what novel ways we can find to drink it. What do you say, darling? It’s Louis Roederer. Your favourite.’

It was a tempting offer, but Jake had to refuse it. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting a supplier for lunch, and this afternoon I’m flying to Brussels to meet up with our European distributors. I don’t expect I’ll be back much before midnight.’

Marcie groaned. Then, with obvious inspiration, ‘I could come with you. I’m free all day.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Jake let her down lightly. ‘How much work do you think I’d get done with you along for the ride? No, Marcie. I guess we’re going to have to put the champagne on ice for another day.’

‘If I don’t find someone else to drink it with, you mean?’ she flashed shortly, and Jake expelled a weary breath.

‘Your call,’ he said drily, aware that a significant silence had fallen behind him. He’d been on the phone too long, and there was only so much that could be decided in his absence.

‘So I won’t see you until Saturday,’ Marcie said tightly.

‘Looks that way,’ agreed Jake, casting an apologetic glance over his shoulder. ‘I’ll call you when I get back.’

The sound of Marcie’s phone disconnecting was his answer, and he pulled a face at his reflection in the rain-washed windows before closing his own phone and slipping it into his pocket.

Then he turned back to his colleagues. ‘Sorry about that, gentlemen,’ he said, forcing a smile for their benefit. ‘What’s that expression? A little local difficulty, right? Now, where were we?’

Isobel was tempted to keep Emily home from school the next morning. The girl had had a restless night, crying out in her sleep, waking herself up every couple of hours to go to the bathroom. Naturally Isobel hadn’t slept much either, and they were both hollow-eyed at breakfast.

But she had a pile of properties on her desk at work, and meetings with clients scheduled for most of the morning. Isobel knew she didn’t dare take another day off. She’d already stretched her boss’s goodwill to breaking point in looking after her mother, and she didn’t kid herself that her skill at selling houses was indispensable.

Besides, she had the feeling that her daughter would be better off at school. Staying at home would only remind her of what had happened the night before, and Isobel was desperate that Emily should put that unpleasantness behind her. She was only a child, after all. She didn’t understand. Jake should never have taken out his own frustration with Isobel on the girl.

Yet what had she expected? She’d known that sooner or later he—or someone else—would tell Emily of the doubts concerning her paternity. Her mother had threatened to do so more than once. But Isobel had warned her, on pain of excommunication, not to say anything to upset the child until she was old enough to handle it.

And they’d been getting along with their lives quite well. They weren’t well off. Emily’s school fees, and the money Isobel paid towards her mother’s expenses, ensured that there was little change at the end of the month. But she knew there were others far less comfortable than themselves.

Lady Hannah’s illness, however, had made a severe dent in her income—and her confidence. Isobel had had no idea where she would find the money to pay for her mother’s treatment. The idea of the old lady having to wait to have her operation in a National Health hospital had not been an option. The doctor had admitted that Lady Hannah might die before the life-saving surgery was performed, and there’d been no way Isobel could allow that to happen.

She suspected Jake might have loaned her the money if she’d asked him. But she’d had no desire to involve him, no desire to precipitate exactly what had happened the night before. So she’d sold her car, and what little jewellery she’d possessed, and cut their expenses to the bone to pay back the mortgage she’d raised on the apartment.

Of course, she hadn’t anticipated that Jake might want to see her, that her mother might be taken ill on the very afternoon he was due to arrive. It was years since there’d been any serious contact between them. If he needed to speak to her, he usually phoned, and she’d actually begun to believe that Emily might be a young woman before Isobel had to confess her part in Jake’s estrangement from his family.

But that was before Marcie Duncan came on the scene. Marcie, who was young and beautiful, who didn’t just want an affair, who wanted a husband.

Isobel’s husband.

‘Am I really not—not his daughter?’ Emily asked suddenly, as Isobel was wondering what she was going to tell her mother when she visited her this evening, and she turned to look at the child. She’d been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed that Emily had put down her cereal spoon and was regarding her now with wide, troubled eyes.

‘No, you are his daughter.’ Isobel was adamant. She didn’t care if she aggravated Jake; she wasn’t going to lie to the child. ‘We talked about this last night, Em, and I told you not to worry about it. Whatever—Daddy—says, however painful his words may be, you are his daughter. You’re our daughter. And—I love you very much.’

‘He doesn’t.’ Emily was dogged, and she pushed her untouched bowl aside. Then, cautiously, ‘Why doesn’t he believe us?’

Isobel stifled a groan. ‘I—your father has never forgiven me for something I did before you were born,’ she admitted at last. ‘It’s my fault, not his.’

Emily frowned. ‘What did you do?’

But that was beyond even Isobel’s abilities to explain. ‘It’s not important now,’ she said, getting up from the breakfast bar and carrying her coffee cup to the sink. ‘Go on, eat your cornflakes. We’ve got to leave in ten minutes and I want to phone the hospital first.’

‘The hospital?’ To Isobel’s relief, Emily was distracted, and although she didn’t make any attempt to eat her cereal, she was obviously concerned. ‘How long is Granny going to be in hospital?’

‘I don’t know.’ Anxiety clogged Isobel’s throat for a moment. Although the events of the night before had served to divert her thoughts from her mother’s relapse, the reality of the situation was suddenly almost too much to bear. She and Lady Hannah hadn’t always seen eye-to-eye, and there’d been times when Isobel had thought the old lady was going out of her way to cause trouble for her. But she was her mother, her only living relative apart from Emily, and if anything happened to her she’d be completely devastated. On top of everything else it just seemed too much.

‘Is she going to die?’

Emily’s voice betrayed the panic that Isobel was trying so hard to hide, and in an effort to reassure the child she gave a short laugh.

‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed, pointing at Emily’s dish again. ‘You can come with me to see her this evening. Now, eat your breakfast. I don’t want you falling ill, too.’