The Yuletide Engagement & A Yuletide Seduction (20 page)

Gabe sliced up the onion with one of her sharp knives, and Jane couldn't help but admire the way he diced it into small pieces, ready for sautéing in the butter he had gently melting in a frying pan on top of the Aga. And he was obviously enjoying himself too, perfectly relaxed, humming softly to himself as he worked.

Strange; she had always thought of Gabriel Vaughan as an over-tall man, powerfully built, his face set into grimly angry lines. And this man, grinning to himself as he fried onions, didn't fit into that picture at all…!

He turned to take a sip from the nearest of the two glasses of wine he had poured out for them. “This is fun, isn't it?” He smiled widely at her.

Jane's smile was much more cautious; she had a feeling a little like having been swept over by a tornado, not even sure how the two of them had come to be in her kitchen cooking a meal together. He was the very last man she would have thought she would spend any time with!

“Jane?” he prompted softly at her silence, no longer smiling, frowning at her lack of response.

It was the disappearance of that smile that affected her the most; it had been a completely natural smile, without cynicism or innuendo. He really had been enjoying himself a moment ago as he'd cooked the onions!

And now she felt guilty for upsetting his pleasure…

“You dealt with that onion very professionally,” she told him lightly, taking a break to sip her own wine. “At a guess, I would say it's something you've done before!” she added teasingly.

“Dozens of times,” he nodded, that light note back in his voice as he turned to toss the onions in the butter. “I've always liked to cook at home,” he shrugged. “Although I have to admit I haven't done so for some time.” He frowned at the realisation. “Jennifer—my wife—didn't think it was worth bothering to eat at all if there was no one to see her doing it,” he added ruefully.

His wife. Jennifer. How the very sound of that name had once hurt her! But now she'd heard it, from the man who had been her husband, and she felt nothing, not even the numbness that had once been so necessary to her.

“There was you,” she told Gabe dismissively, suddenly busy with the pasta once again.

“There was me,” he echoed self-derisively, tipping in the minced steak to cook with the onions. “Unfortunately, Jennifer was the type of woman who was more interested in what other women's husbands thought of her rather than what interested her own husband!”

Jane hadn't even been aware of holding the knife in her hand, let alone how she came to slice her finger with it, but suddenly there was blood on the work surface in front of her, and, she realised belatedly, a stinging pain on the index finger of her left hand.

How ironic, she thought even through the pain, that it should be her left hand that she had cut. The hand that had once worn her wedding ring…

“It was something I— Hell, Jane!” Gabe suddenly saw the blood too, taking the frying-pan off the heat
before rushing over to her side, pressing her finger to stop the flow of blood. “What the hell happened?” He barked his concern. “Do you think it's bad enough to need stitches? Perhaps I should call—”

“Gabe,” Jane cut in soothingly—she was the one with the cut finger, but he was definitely the one who was panicking! “It's only a tiny cut. A hazard of the trade,” she added lightly, deliberately playing down the problem this cut would give her over the next busy few weeks. Preparing food, having her hands constantly in and out of water—this cut, even though it really wasn't very serious, would cause her deep discomfort for some time to come.

Damn; she couldn't remember the last time she had done anything this silly. Of course, it had been Gabe's comments about his wife that had caused her lapse in concentration…

“You'll find some plasters in the cupboard over the dishwasher,” she told him abruptly, moving to wash the cut under cold water as he went to get the plasters, the stinging pain in her hand helping to relieve some of the shock she had felt at hearing him discuss his wife so casually.

Gabe deftly applied the plaster once her finger had been dried. “I don't have a wife any more, Jane,” he told her softly, his gaze searching as he looked down into her face.

He believed it was the thought of having dinner with a potentially married man that had caused her to have this accident! Perhaps it was better that he should continue to think that was the reason…

“I'm glad to hear it,” she dismissed lightly. “Because if you did,” she added as she saw the light of triumph
in his eyes, “Evie—the woman downstairs—” she reminded him who had let him into the building—and why “—would be devastated. It would blow all her romantic illusions out of the window!”

“I see,” he sighed, nodding abruptly, before turning his attention back to his bolognese sauce. “My wife died,” he rasped harshly, no longer looking at Jane.

Because the memory of Jennifer's death must still be a painful one for him, Jane acknowledged. She should know, better than most people, that a person didn't necessarily have to be nice to have someone fall in love with them.

And Jennifer Vaughan had not been a nice woman: tall, beautiful, vivacious, and ultimately dangerous, with a need inside her to bewitch every man she came into contact with, while at the same time eluding any ownership of herself. Only one man had succeeded in taming her even a little. Gabriel Vaughan. And from the little he had so far said about Jennifer, and from what Jane already knew from her own experience, that ownership had been bitter-sweet—and probably more bitter than sweet!

But there could be no doubting that, despite all her faults, Gabe had loved his wife—

“Jennifer was a bitch,” he bit out suddenly, those aqua-blue eyes piercing in their intensity now as he turned back to hold Jane's gaze. “Beautiful, immoral, whose only pleasure in life seemed to be to destroy what others had built,” he told Jane grimly. “Like a child with a pile of building bricks another child may have taken time and care to put in place; Jennifer would knock it all down, with an impish grin and a flash of her wicked green eyes!”

Jane swallowed hard. She didn't want to hear any of this! “Gabe—”

“Don't worry, Jane,” he bit out derisively. “The only reason I'm telling you this is so that you know I'm not about to launch into some sorrowful tale about how wonderful my marriage was—”

“But you loved her—”

“Of course I loved her!” he rasped, reaching out to grasp the tops of Jane's arms, his gaze burning with intensity now. “I married her. Maybe that was my mistake, I don't know.” He shook his head impotently. “The excitement was all in the chase to Jennifer.” His mouth twisted. “A loving captive was not what she wanted!”

“Gabe, I really—”

“Don't want to hear?” He easily guessed her cry of protest. “Well, that's just too bad, because I intend telling you whether you want to know or not!” he told her savagely.

“But why?” Jane choked, looking up at him imploringly, her face pale, eyes dark brown. “I've asked you for nothing, want nothing from you. I don't want anyone—”

“You don't want anyone disturbing the life you've made for yourself in your ivory tower,” he acknowledged grimly. “Oh, I'll grant you, it's comfortable enough, Jane.” He looked about him appreciatively. “But, nevertheless, it's still an ivory tower. And I'm giving you notice that I intend knocking down the walls—”

“Doesn't that make you as destructive as you just described your wife?” Jane cut in scornfully, her whole body rigid now, standing as far away from him as his grasp on her arms would allow.

Because those fingers were like steel bands on her
flesh, not hurting, but at the same time totally unmoveable. The only way to distance herself from him was verbally, to hurt him as his words were hurting her.

“Late wife, Jane,” he corrected her harshly. “Past tense. And no, it doesn't make me like Jennifer at all. I'm not out to destroy for destruction's sake. I want to build—”

“For the couple of months or so you claim you're going to be in England?” she came back disgustedly, shaking her head. “I don't think so, thank you, Gabe. Why don't you try Celia Barnaby?” she scorned. “I'm sure she would be more than happy to—”

Her words were cut off abruptly as Gabe's mouth came crashing down on hers, pulling her into the hardness of his body, knocking the breath from her lungs as he did so, rendering her momentarily helpless.

And Gabe took full advantage of that helplessness, his mouth plundering, taking what he wanted, sipping, tasting the nectar to be found there. And then finally the onslaught ceased, Gabe having sensed her lack of response.

He began to kiss her gently now, his hands moving to cradle either side of her face as his lips moved caressingly against her own, that gentleness Jane's undoing.

She began to respond…!

Something deep, deep inside her began to break free at the softly caressing movement of Gabe's lips against hers, a yearning for something she had denied herself for the last three years, a warming to an emotion she hadn't allowed in her life for three years.

But Gabe didn't love her. And she certainly didn't love him. And anything else they might be able to give
each other would be totally destroyed the moment he discovered who she really was…!

Gabe raised his head slightly, his hands still cradling each side of her face, his eyes glittering down into hers, but not with anger now—with another emotion entirely. “I'm not interested in Celia Barnaby, Jane,” he told her huskily. “In any way. The only reason I was anywhere near her home at all the other evening was because I knew you would be there,” he admitted self-derisively.

It was as she had guessed, but hoped wasn't true. Gabe had to have been one of those extra guests Celia had telephoned her about—and it had been by his own design.

“I want you, Jane—”

She pulled sharply away from him, breathing easier once she was free. “You can't have me, Gabe,” she told him dully. “Because I don't want you,” she added as he would have protested, his expression grim now. “I realise it must be difficult for the eligible Gabriel Vaughan to accept that a woman may not want him, but—”

“Cut the insults, Jane,” he put in scathingly. “I heard what you said the first time around! What is it about you, Jane?” he added with a shake of his head as he took in her appearance from head to toe, her hair slightly dishevelled now from his caressing fingers, her eyes twin pools of sherry-brown in the paleness of her face. “I've wanted you since the moment I first set eyes on you! Not only that,” he continued harshly, “but I've found myself thinking more—and now talking, too—about the wife I've tried to put from my mind for three years. Why is that, do you think, Jane?” His eyes glittered with anger once again, but it was impossible to tell whether that anger was directed at Jane or himself.

She knew exactly why she had thought more of the past, of Paul, her own dead husband, this last week. Gabriel Vaughan, with his own involvement in that death, had brought back all the unwanted memories she had mainly succeeded in pushing to the very back of her mind. And part of Gabe, Jane was beginning to realise—although it was only subconsciously in him at the moment—recognised something in her, evoking his own thoughts and memories of the past.

How long before those subconscious memories became full awareness…?

“I really have no interest in learning why, Gabe,” she told him dismissively. “And that's something I do know the answer to—I'm not interested in you!” She looked across at him with cold challenge, her heart pounding loudly in her chest as she waited for his reaction.

He predictably met that challenge, his gaze unwavering. “You know damn well that isn't true—and so do I!” he bit out harshly. “Whoever he was, Jane—” he shook his head “—he certainly isn't worth hiding yourself away—”

“In my ivory tower?” she finished scornfully, angry with herself and him—for the tell-tale colour that had appeared in her cheeks when he had challenged her denial of being interested in him. Because he had breached the barriers she had erected around her emotions, no matter how briefly… “Was Jennifer worth it?” she returned pointedly.

His brows arched, his mouth twisting ruefully. “Neatly turned, Jane,” he drawled admiringly. “But completely ineffective; Jennifer, and anything she may have done while she was alive, lost the power to hurt me long ago,” he assured her disgustedly.

“How about the pain she caused when she died?” Jane returned harshly.

And then wished she hadn't as she saw Gabe's gaze narrow speculatively. She was becoming careless in her own agitation with this situation…!

“She died in a car accident, Jane,” Gabe said softly. “And there's nothing more final than death,” he added harshly. “Dead people can't hurt you.”

“Can't they?” she breathed huskily.

He gave a firm shake of his head. “If Jennifer hadn't died when she did, I think I would one day have ended up strangling her myself! So you see,” he added scathingly, “the only thing Jennifer did when she died was save me the trouble of doing the job myself!”

It wasn't. Jane knew it wasn't. And, no matter how bitter he might now have become about his wife's past behaviour, so did Gabe. Because three years ago, after the car accident in which Jennifer died, Gabe had been like a man demented, had needed to blame someone, and with the death of the only person he could blame he had turned his anger and humiliation onto the only person left in the whole sorry mess that he could still reach…!

Gabe was right when he guessed a man was responsible for her living in an emotional fortress, what he chose to call her “ivory tower”.

It was the same man who was partly responsible for her becoming plain Jane Smith.