Page 27 of Prognosis Irreconcilable Differences

Both in and out of the bedroom.

It wasn’t very feminist, but she was way out of her depth in Nathan’s glamorous world so it was just easier to let him plot their course.

Jacqueline found it no hardship playing Nathan’s adoring wife. When they were out on display she slipped into the role effortlessly, enjoying their easy banter and the way he flirted and looked at her as if he was going to spread her on his toast the second he got her alone.

Which he did at every opportunity.

Abigail Slater was everywhere she turned in those two weeks. The younger woman clearly held a torch for Nathan, and Jacqui wondered how shrewd, savvy Vince could be so blind to it. Jacqui got the impression that, although the younger woman had backed off, she could see right through their façade and was just waiting for the moment they let down their guard, or Jacqui dropped out of the scene altogether.

It made her work a bit harder at the whole newly-reconciled-couple thing. She flirted with Nathan a little bit more when Abigail was round — smiled wider, was more tactile, laughed in a way that spoke of intimacy far greater than any words could.

She had to admit to a touch of jealousy too. The thought of Nathan with Abigail was disturbing. Actually, now she was back in his life — in his bed — again, the thought of Nathan with any woman was disturbing. Years after their split, it wasn’t an emotion she had a right to.

But it was there anyway.

The highlight of the fortnight was a trip to Sydney on Nathan’s private jet. He had a major business meeting with lawyers in the morning, and when he suggested she join him she jumped at the chance to tag along.

Afterwards he took her down to the water, and they climbed on board a yacht which sailed them under the Sydney Harbour Bridge, past the Opera House and around to Watsons Bay. They dined on fresh seafood and drank champagne as the sun sparkled like party lights on the surface of the harbour.

She looked at Nathan over the rim of her champagne glass. ‘You look tired.’

He chuckled. ‘That’s because I’m sleeping with a nymphomaniac’

Jacqui smiled. ‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black.’

Nathan’s laughter fizzed through her blood like the champagne bubbles on her tongue.

‘Seriously,’ she said, leaning forward and snatching his sunglasses off his face. His usually clear green gaze looked bleary, as if he had a hangover. ‘You look old.’

‘Hey!’ he protested, squinting as the sun stabbed into his weary eyeballs.

‘Do you always keep up this insane pace? I mean, you get home long after I’ve gone to bed, and then...’ She stopped and blushed.

‘And then you keep me up for hours,’ he supplied.

She ignored the way his deep baritone made it sound deliciously dirty. She’d been so swept along the last couple of weeks, trying to come to terms with her crazy new life, she hadn’t realised until now — until this moment of stillness — that they hadn’t actually talked about anything of consequence since that day on the beach.

‘I don’t think you even kept these kind of hours as a resident.’

He shrugged, retrieving his sunnies, feeling the instant relief behind his eyeballs as the lenses cut through the harsh sunlight. He made a quick dismissive gesture with his hands. ‘I thrive on it.’

It occurred to her then that, apart from when they were out socialising or when he was making love to her, he just didn’t seem very...content. She’d been so busy shoring up her emotional defences she hadn’t been paying attention to him.

She searched his face, frustrated by her inability to see his eyes. ‘But are you happy?’

Her question cut right to the centre of the persistent well of discontent that never seemed to be far from the surface, and he cursed her intuition.

‘Of course,’ he dismissed. ‘This is the culmination of all my dreams, what I’ve been working towards.’

Jacqui felt a prickle of unease at his terse reply. She reached for his glasses again and pursed her lips as he moved his head to evade her grasp. ‘Really? You don’t come to bed and talk for hours about your day.’

‘That’s because I’m too busy making love to you.’

She ignored him. ‘I remember when you couldn’t wait to tell me about the patient you’d saved, or the baby you’d delivered, or the latest joke old Dulcie in Rehab told you.’

In the two weeks she’d been back in his world she hadn’t witnessed anything that told her he actually enjoyed his work. He was about to take his company public — surely that deserved some level of conversation?

Some degree of excitement?

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