Joanna Neil – It Happened In Paradise: Wedded in a Whirlwind / Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex! / His Bride in Paradise (страница 22)

‘You lost the baby?’

‘Not because of the accident. The driver saved my life twice over that day. First stopping his car. Then realising that there was something seriously wrong and calling an ambulance.’

‘You were in that much pain? Was it an ectopic pregnancy?’

She nodded. ‘By the time Ivo made it back from wherever he was, I was home and it was over. A minor traffic accident. Nothing to make a fuss over.’

‘You never told him? You lost your baby and you never told him?’

‘He already had the world on his shoulders. He didn’t need me as well. And I was so ashamed…’

‘You didn’t do anything.’

‘I thought about it, Jago. I was so desperate…’

He muttered something beneath his breath, then said, ‘And this man who could demand such a thing? Where was he when all this was happening?’

‘Keeping his fingers crossed that I’d go through with it?’ she offered. Then, with a shrug, ‘No, that’s unfair. He came rushing to the hospital to make sure I was okay, but I couldn’t bear to look at him any more. Couldn’t bear to see his relief. Face what I’d done.’

‘You hadn’t done anything,’ Jago said, reaching for her, taking her into his arms in that eternal gesture of comfort.

Did he think she would cry again? Before, her tears had been of relief. A normal, human reaction. But this was different. She had no more tears to cry for herself…

‘You would never have gone through with it,’ he said, holding her close. And he kept on saying it. Telling her that it was not her fault, that she shouldn’t blame herself. Saying over and over, that she would not have rejected her own baby.

This was the absolution she’d dreamed of. And why she’d never told anyone.

She didn’t deserve such comfort. It had been no one’s fault but her own that she’d been pregnant. It was her burden. Her loss. And she pulled away.

‘How did you guess it was ectopic?’ she asked. How many men knew what an ectopic pregnancy was, without it being explained in words of one syllable?

‘My grandfather was a doctor, wanted me to follow in his footsteps and maybe I would have, if I hadn’t been taken to Egypt at an early age…’ For a moment he drifted off somewhere else, to a memory of his own. Happier times with his family, no doubt. Then, shaking it off, he said, ‘I remember him talking about a patient of his who’d nearly died. Describing the symptoms. He said the pain was indescribable.’

It wasn’t the pain that she remembered. It was the emptiness afterwards, the lack of feeling that never ceased…

‘What happened to you, Miranda? Afterwards.’

‘The next logical step, I suppose. My parents, my boyfriend, even my baby had rejected me. All that was left was to reject myself so I stopped eating.’ Then, because she didn’t want to think about that, because she wanted to hear about Egypt and Jago as an impressionable boy, however unlikely that seemed, she said, ‘What about you?’

‘Manda…’

‘No. Enough about me. I want to hear about you,’ she insisted, telling herself that his use of the diminutive had been nothing more than a slip. It meant nothing…

‘In Egypt?’ he asked.

Yes… No… Egypt was a distraction and she refused to be distracted.

‘When you walked away from your family,’ she said.

She felt the movement of muscle, more jerk than shrug, as if she’d taken him unawares. The slight catch in his breathing as if he’d jolted some pain into life. Physical? Or deeper?

Then, realising that she was transferring her own mental pain on to him, that it had to be physical, she sat up. ‘You are hurt!’

‘It’s nothing. Lie back.’ And, when she hesitated, ‘Honestly. Just a pulled muscle. It needs warmth and you make a most acceptable hot-water bottle.’

‘Would that be “Dr” Jago talking?’

‘I don’t think you need to be a doctor to know that.’

‘I guess not.’ And, since warmth was all she had to offer, she eased gently back against him, taking care not to jar his shoulder.

‘Is that okay?’

‘Fine,’ he said, tightening his arm around her waist so that she felt as if she was a perfect fit against him.

Too perfect.

‘So?’ she said, returning to her question, determined not to get caught, dragged down by the sexual undertow of their closeness, a totally unexpected—totally unwanted—off limits desire that was nothing more than a response to fear.

She didn’t want to like Nick Jago, let alone care about him. Not easy when a man had saved your life. When his kiss had first warmed her, then heated her to the bone.

And the last thing she wanted was his pity.

CHAPTER NINE

‘TELL me about your life,’ she pressed. ‘Away from here. Are you, or have you ever been, married?’ she asked, using the interrogatory technique of the immigration form. Turning the question into something of a joke. ‘How about children?’

Jago didn’t make the mistake of shrugging a second time, just said, ‘No, no and none.’

‘None that you know of,’ she quipped.

‘None, full stop. I’m not that careless.’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘It’s okay. It’s one of those hideous things that men say, isn’t it? As if it makes them look big.’

‘Some men,’ she agreed. Then, before she could stop herself, ‘What about long-term relationships?’

She was making too much of it, she knew. It didn’t matter. Tomorrow, please God, they’d be out of here and would have no reason to ever see one another again.

They’d step back into their own lives and be desperate to forget that, locked in the darkness, they’d shared the darkest secrets of their souls with a stranger.

‘What about the woman who’s been telling the world that this…’ she made a small gesture that took in their unseen surroundings ‘…was all her own work?’

‘Fliss? I was under the apparently mistaken impression that she came under the sex-without-strings heading. She was, allegedly, a postgraduate archaeology student and when she turned up on site looking for work experience I was glad to have another pair of hands. My mistake. I should have made an effort to check her credentials.’

‘As opposed to her “credentials”,’ Manda said, unable to help herself from teasing him a little. ‘Which, let’s face it, no one could fail to miss.’

‘You’ve got me.’ He laughed, taking no offence. ‘Shallow as a puddle and clearly getting no more than I deserve.’

‘Which is?’

‘Being made to look a fool? Although maybe the gods have had the last laugh after all,’ he said, no longer amused. ‘The temples, as a tourist attraction, which was the entire point of that scurrilous piece of garbage she and the Tourism Minister concocted between them, would seem to be dead in the water. And what does my reputation matter? The suffering caused by this earthquake is far more important.’

He took the bottle of brandy from her bag and offered it to her.

‘No. Thanks.’

‘Just take a mouthful to wash the dust out of your mouth,’ he suggested, ‘then maybe it really would be a good idea to try and get some sleep.’

She eased forward, took the bottle, gasping as a little of the hot liquor slid down her throat, for a moment totally unable to speak.

‘Good grief,’ she managed finally. ‘Do people actually drink this stuff?’

‘Only the desperate,’ he admitted.

‘It would be quicker—and kinder—to shoot yourself. Here,’ she said, passing it back to him. ‘Can you pass me my bag?’

He handed it to her, then eased himself carefully into a sitting position.

He was in pain.

Had he just pulled a muscle? Or had he torn something in that long, desperate moment when he’d hung on to her? When he’d helped her over the top to safety.

She didn’t ask, knew he’d deny it anyway. Instead, she dug out the nearly empty pack of wipes from the soggy interior of her bag. Then, having used one to wipe the worst of the dust from her face and hands, she took another and, lifting the big capable hand that had held her, had hung on as the earth shook beneath them, she began, very gently, to wipe it clean.

Jago stiffened at the first touch of the cool, damp cloth on his thumb.