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Authors: Sara Craven
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she wouldn't have interrupted him, but there was nothing normal about the
present circumstances, she thought wryly as she reached for the door handle, only to
pause as she heard him speak.
He was obviously talking on the telephone, not loudly, but the door's panels were thin,
and she was standing too close to avoid overhearing what he was saying.
'No.' His voice was clear, reassuring. 'She has no idea, I swear it.' A brief silence, then,
'Yes, of course it's only a matter of time before she realises, but we'll deal with that when
we need to. And you mustn't worry about it. It's my problem. Bye, sweetheart.' And the
phone went down.
Kate stood, her hand still extended towards the door handle, as if she'd been turned to
stone. Eavesdroppers, she thought numbly. What was that old saying about
eavesdroppers? That they never heard anything to their own advantage. And, like so
many cliches, it held a hard and bitter kernel of truth.
She wanted to tear down the door with her nails. She wanted to scream and rave, and
batter him with her fists. Ryan, her husband—her betrayer.
But she did none of those things. Instead of opening the door and walking straight in, she
knocked quietly, and waited.
The door was flung open, and Ryan looked her over, his brows caught together in a faint
frown.
He said courteously, but coldly, 'I hope this is important.'
She wanted to say, You mean as important as the conversation you've just been having?
But panic held her mute. She swallowed, searching for the right words, and was suddenly
aware of an intense feeling of nausea.
'Kate.' There was a thinly veiled note of impatience in his voice. 'What is it?' His frown
deepened as he surveyed her. 'Is something wrong?'
That was the moment, of course. The moment to say, Yes, I know that you're in love with
someone else, and it's crucifying me.
Instead, she said hoarsely, 'I—I think I'm going to be sick.'
She gagged, then covered her mouth, and ran, half stumbling, up to the bathroom.
The ten minutes which followed were painful and unpleasant, and left her totally drained,
her head swimming.
She hadn't even realised that Ryan had followed her, until he came to kneel beside her,
cradling her head against his shoulder, and wiping her face with a wet cloth.
'Thank you,' she managed.
'Hush,' he said quietly. 'There's no need to say anything.' He helped her to her feet, and
out of the bathroom.
He sat her down on the edge of the bed, removed her shoes, then began to unbutton her
shirt. His fingers were gentle but totally impersonal, and that, Kate realised, feeling the
first scalding tear on her cheek, was somehow the worst thing of all. The ultimate confir-
mation of the nightmare.
'I can manage.' Some remnant of pride forced the words from her in an agonised croak.
'I'm sure you can,' he agreed levelly. 'But I intend to help, just the same.'
He undressed her as if she were a child, slipped the ivory nightgown over her head, then
turned back the covers and lifted her into bed.
He said, 'And there's no need to cry, either.'
She thought, Isn't there? Isn't there?
Aloud, she said, 'I know.' She reached for a box of tissues. 'I just hate being sick, that's
all.'
'I see.' He was silent for a moment then said, 'I'd better ring my mother—find out if
anyone else has been ill.'
'Oh, no.' She caught at his sleeve. 'I—I'm sure it was nothing I ate. I mean—you're
obviously fine and I—well, I haven't really been feeling well all day.'
His brows lifted. 'I see. Is that why you came home early?'
Kate touched the scalloped edge of the sheet, avoiding his gaze. 'One of the reasons.'
'It was quite a surprise,' he said drily.
And for me, she thought. And for me. My life has been teeming with them just lately.
She said, 'I—I wish it had been a more pleasant surprise.' She drew a breath. 'For both of
us.'
There was another taut silence, then he said, 'Would you like some brandy?'
She shook her head. 'Just a glass
present circumstances, she thought wryly as she reached for the door handle, only to
pause as she heard him speak.
He was obviously talking on the telephone, not loudly, but the door's panels were thin,
and she was standing too close to avoid overhearing what he was saying.
'No.' His voice was clear, reassuring. 'She has no idea, I swear it.' A brief silence, then,
'Yes, of course it's only a matter of time before she realises, but we'll deal with that when
we need to. And you mustn't worry about it. It's my problem. Bye, sweetheart.' And the
phone went down.
Kate stood, her hand still extended towards the door handle, as if she'd been turned to
stone. Eavesdroppers, she thought numbly. What was that old saying about
eavesdroppers? That they never heard anything to their own advantage. And, like so
many cliches, it held a hard and bitter kernel of truth.
She wanted to tear down the door with her nails. She wanted to scream and rave, and
batter him with her fists. Ryan, her husband—her betrayer.
But she did none of those things. Instead of opening the door and walking straight in, she
knocked quietly, and waited.
The door was flung open, and Ryan looked her over, his brows caught together in a faint
frown.
He said courteously, but coldly, 'I hope this is important.'
She wanted to say, You mean as important as the conversation you've just been having?
But panic held her mute. She swallowed, searching for the right words, and was suddenly
aware of an intense feeling of nausea.
'Kate.' There was a thinly veiled note of impatience in his voice. 'What is it?' His frown
deepened as he surveyed her. 'Is something wrong?'
That was the moment, of course. The moment to say, Yes, I know that you're in love with
someone else, and it's crucifying me.
Instead, she said hoarsely, 'I—I think I'm going to be sick.'
She gagged, then covered her mouth, and ran, half stumbling, up to the bathroom.
The ten minutes which followed were painful and unpleasant, and left her totally drained,
her head swimming.
She hadn't even realised that Ryan had followed her, until he came to kneel beside her,
cradling her head against his shoulder, and wiping her face with a wet cloth.
'Thank you,' she managed.
'Hush,' he said quietly. 'There's no need to say anything.' He helped her to her feet, and
out of the bathroom.
He sat her down on the edge of the bed, removed her shoes, then began to unbutton her
shirt. His fingers were gentle but totally impersonal, and that, Kate realised, feeling the
first scalding tear on her cheek, was somehow the worst thing of all. The ultimate confir-
mation of the nightmare.
'I can manage.' Some remnant of pride forced the words from her in an agonised croak.
'I'm sure you can,' he agreed levelly. 'But I intend to help, just the same.'
He undressed her as if she were a child, slipped the ivory nightgown over her head, then
turned back the covers and lifted her into bed.
He said, 'And there's no need to cry, either.'
She thought, Isn't there? Isn't there?
Aloud, she said, 'I know.' She reached for a box of tissues. 'I just hate being sick, that's
all.'
'I see.' He was silent for a moment then said, 'I'd better ring my mother—find out if
anyone else has been ill.'
'Oh, no.' She caught at his sleeve. 'I—I'm sure it was nothing I ate. I mean—you're
obviously fine and I—well, I haven't really been feeling well all day.'
His brows lifted. 'I see. Is that why you came home early?'
Kate touched the scalloped edge of the sheet, avoiding his gaze. 'One of the reasons.'
'It was quite a surprise,' he said drily.
And for me, she thought. And for me. My life has been teeming with them just lately.
She said, 'I—I wish it had been a more pleasant surprise.' She drew a breath. 'For both of
us.'
There was another taut silence, then he said, 'Would you like some brandy?'
She shook her head. 'Just a glass
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