Anne Mather - Season Of Mists

‘You ask me that!’ Piers drew a deep breath. ‘For God’s sake, Abby, the boy believes that I’m his father!’

‘So?’

‘God!’ With a groan of anguish, Piers thrust the long fingers of one hand through his hair. ‘Don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter what you or I believe. It’s what he believes that counts. Do you want him to get hurt?’

‘Why should you care?’

‘I’d care about any child in similar circumstances.’ Piers moved his shoulders impatiently. ‘Abby, you’ve got to tell him the truth. The boy’s bright enough. He’ll understand.’

Abby’s control snapped. ‘Is that what you think? Is that what you really think?’ Her green eyes darted fire. ‘You supercilious prig! How dare you come here and preach to me about the son whose existence you’ve ignored for nearly twelve years! What do you care whether he’s hurt or not? What feelings of remorse will you feel when Matthew and I are safely out of your life for good? How convenient it was to pretend Matthew wasn’t yours! What a comfortable let-out, from a marriage gone sour! Why, you didn’t even have to pay me any maintenance. You could forget all about us!’

Piers’ jaw hardened. ‘That’s not true. I sent you money——’

‘And I returned it,’ cut in Abby contemptuously. ‘I didn’t want your charity!’

‘It was not charity.’

‘What was it, then?’ Abby found she was actually enjoying his evident frustration. ‘A bid to salve your conscience?’ she taunted. ‘An attempt to prove that all I really wanted was your money? Or a way to appease those feelings of guilt you couldn’t quite erase?’

‘No!’ With a face contorted by the strength of his emotions, Piers’ hand came out and closed about her upper arm, jerking her towards him. ‘Believe it or not, one of us still possessed some sense of decency,’ he snapped, his fingers digging into her flesh. ‘You selfish little bitch! When did you ever think of anyone else but yourself?’

Abby brought her hand back then and slapped him, the sound of the impact ringing round the cluttered little room. It was an instinctive reaction to what he had said, an uncontrollable impulse that she regretted almost as soon as it was done. With a sense of horror, she watched the white marks her fingers had made appear on his cheek, and sensed the iron control he was exerting not to respond in kind.

‘I should have expected that from you,’ he grated, and for a few agonising seconds, Abby thought he was about to exact revenge. His grip on her arm tightened, and she was forced even nearer, so that she could feel the hard muscles of his thigh against her hip.

With an unsteady gaze she looked up at him, close enough now to see the pulse beating at his jawline, the flaring hollows of his nostrils, and the thick curling lashes with their sun-bleached tips. He was breathing heavily, his narrow lips separated to reveal the even whiteness of his teeth, his breath mingling with hers, warm and sweet. But it was the savage brilliance of his eyes that held her gaze, those strange tawny irises, flecked with gold, and undoubtedly smouldering with the heat of his anger. They impaled her like a sword, hard and unyielding, and filled with—contempt?

She wasn’t sure any more. As he continued to hold her, as the warmth of her body against his thigh penetrated the fine cloth of his trousers, his expression changed, became fiercer and yet more malleable, his unwilling awareness of her as a woman superseding the violent revulsion she provoked.

‘I should kill you!’ he muttered, bending his head towards her, and Abby’s quivering lips parted almost involuntarily.

He was going to kiss her, she thought incredulously. In spite of his contempt, his anger, his hatred , he still had some feeling for her, and her limbs turned to water as his passionate gaze swept down to her mouth.

And then she was free. In the space of a moment, her blind anticipation of his touch became an unforgivable weakness, and she despised herself utterly as he strode towards the door.

He turned as he reached the door, and with his fingers on the handle, regarded her contemptuously. ‘I hope I never have to see you again,’ he said, any emotion she imagined she had seen in his face erased completely. ‘You’re right—I was glad of the child’s birth to escape from an impossible relationship. Our marriage was a farce from the beginning. Perhaps I should have told you the truth before I married you. Perhaps I was to blame for that. But how was I to know then what an over-sexed little bitch you were, and how little time it would take before you betrayed yourself!’

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