Page 9 of His Best Mistake

In fact, if it hadn’t been for a last-minute ice-cold flash of reason he’d have done just that. He’d have pulled her into his arms and kissed her, for God’s sake. Stella Grant. The one woman on the planet he absolutely could not – should not – kiss, the one line he should not – would not – cross.

And the appalling thing was, it hadn’t even come as a surprise.

He’d been battling the insanely intense and highly inappropriate attraction from the minute he’d crossed her threshold and slammed shut the door. Bizarrely, it had felt then as if the entire outside world had just sort of disappeared. Stella had started pulling off her hat and unwinding her scarf and it had been like watching a present being unwrapped. The layers had come off one by one until she was down to tight-fitting jeans and one of those Scandinavian sweater things and she was fluffing out her hair, and then – ludicrously, horrifyingly – he’d found himself wondering how far she was going to go, hoping she wasn’t going to stop there – and quite suddenly the hall had been stifling. A bolt of desire had shot through him, its odd intensity making him momentarily dizzy, and his body had instantly responded in the most inconvenient way possible.

But somehow he’d managed to hold it together, positioning himself at the far end of the kitchen, out of her mind-scrambling orbit, and had forced himself to focus on the reason he was here. With a much-loved sister to avenge he’d gone on the attack, looking for a shred of remorse or regret and becoming increasingly irked when neither seemed to be forthcoming, until Stella had flippantly suggested he search her, and just like that his concentration had evaporated.

Automatically his gaze had roamed over her, and before he had time to stop it a vision had slammed into his head. Of him striding over and lifting her so that she sat on the counter, and then moving in close, his hands at her waist, pushing her sweater up and over her head. Of her, shaking out her hair, leaning back and giving him access and permission to do whatever he wanted.

And he’d wanted, he’d definitely wanted, because if he was being honest she was gorgeous. It had been so long and the image had been so vivid and it still was, and –

God.

What the hell was he thinking?

And why was he thinking it again?

A blast of wind slapped him in the face, cutting straight through the heat swirling around inside him, smacking him back to reality, and he went cold. Shuddered. He hadn’t got up close and personal with anyone in four long, lonely years. He wasn’t going to start with Stella Grant, public enemy number one.

But why, of all women, was he so badly attracted to her? And why now?

She was unexpected, Jack told himself grimly, digging his hands into his pockets and setting off up the hill for what hopefully would turn out to be a punishing walk. That was what it was. For some reason, he’d had the woman who’d stolen his sister’s fiancé down as the femme fatale type, all big hair and slumberous eyes and a come-hither expression, wearing precious little clothing and a sultry smile. God knew why. Clearly in the absence of measured consideration, he’d resorted to cliché.

In reality though, she had shoulder-length wavy fair hair, eyes the colour of cornflowers and a peaches-and-cream complexion. Her mouth was the only sinful thing about her, but the rest of her looked sort of wholesome, innocent even, and it had thrown him for a loop.

And then there was the time of year. Late January. Bleak, sad, and preferably spent in a blessedly numbing drunken stupor. The anniversary of his wife’s death four years ago this week always made him edgy and unpredictable. What few emotions he hadn’t shut down could be volatile, and he was self-aware enough to know he harboured a whole load of undealt-with rage and grief, guilt and regret over what had happened. Fifty-one weeks of the year he had it all under control. One week? This week? Not so much.

Was that why he’d charged up here to Scotland, then, no questions asked, instead of hitting the bottle? Because if he was being brutally honest it hadn’t crossed his mind that Stella might be as innocent in all this as his sister. He’d just witnessed Cora’s distress and leapt to conclusions without considering the alternatives.

Had he, then, welcomed what had happened to his sister? No. He’d never, ever have done that, but undeniably it had given him a focus and presented a distraction that he’d relished. And it had meant that Cora had been too preoccupied to issue her customary annual suggestion that he talk to someone, which was a relief because since he didn’t deserve absolution he didn’t see the point. It even – possibly – gave him a stab at atonement because here was a woman he loved in distress, in trouble, and this time he could do something about it.

Scowling into the distance, Jack turned up his collar and ploughed on as other equally uncomfortable truths began to slap him round the head. Such as what Stella had said about fairness. That grated because, annoyingly, she was right. He did value fairness. In his world, where the amounts of money made and lost in a day could be staggering, it seemed important. That was why he donated fifty per cent of his company’s net profit to charity every year. And a defendant did generally have an opportunity to put forward their case before being judged and found guilty, something he’d initially denied her.

As snippets of their confrontation flashed though this mind, Jack recalled the attack and fire with which Stella countered every one of his possibly not-so-valid accusations, and now he found himself thinking that perhaps the attack was justified and perhaps the fire was understandable because as much as he might wish otherwise he had the niggling feeling he might, in fact, believe her.

His instinct – the same instinct that had made him a millionaire by the age of twenty-four and a billionaire by the age of thirty – was certainly pushing him in that direction. There’d been no averting of her gaze. No fudging of answers. Stella had been frank and open, even when what she’d had to say showed her in a poor light, and in his opinion none of these were the traits of a scheming arch manipulator. On the contrary, he valued and admired every trait she’d exhibited so far. And she certainly sounded genuine enough in her loathing of her and Cora’s ex. Besides, he’d always thought there was something a bit off about the man. Brad had been too smooth, too charming, and the glint in his eye hadn’t seemed entirely trustworthy.

It therefore looked as if he’d got everything about Stella wrong, he thought, his gut tightening with guilt and more than a little self-reproach as he reached the brow of the hill. For the first time in years he suspected he’d made an error of judgement. A bad one. A grossly unfair one.

Which meant he owed her an apology.

*

Standing at her bedroom window that looked over the fields that lay beneath a fine smattering of snow, Stella watched the figure striding up the sheep-and-rock-dotted hill in the fading light and wondered if it would be too much to hope he carried on walking and didn’t come back. If he did then she could wipe the last hour from her head. OK, so she’d never know whether she’d convinced Jack to change his mind about her, but on the upside she’d never have to think about how she’d actually swayed towards him right there at the end, the insane desire no doubt written all over her face.

How could she have done that? she wondered. The memory of just how ready for a kiss she’d been flew into her head an

d a fresh wave of mortification and bewilderment washed over her. After everything that had happened recently, after everything she’d been through, how on earth could she actually have wanted to kiss him? Or any man? What was wrong with her? And what had ever made her think Jack might comply? He despised her. He would never want to kiss her, even if he did think her mouth was pretty.

Since his disappearance over the brow of the hill was unlikely, though, the best she could hope for was that he hadn’t recognised how much she’d wanted him in that moment, because otherwise she was in for a very awkward evening.

And not just because of the uncontrolled way her body seemed to respond to his. As she revisited their confrontation it occurred to her that in amongst all those outrageous accusations he’d raised some pretty uncomfortable questions. Such as, how could she have missed what was going on with Ben/Brad? How could she not have realised that all was not as it had seemed? Her work depended on her being able to read people and interpret signs, and she’d always considered herself more perceptive than most. Was she so desperate for a happy stable relationship that she’d wilfully ignored the signs and been blind to what was there to be seen?

She didn’t like to admit it but it was perfectly possible, because, come to think of it, Ben/Brad had behaved suspiciously on the odd occasion. He’d cancelled on her more than once, and always at the last minute. Then there was the constant checking of his watch and his phone. When she’d asked him about it he’d told her he was just busy and had to keep his ‘finger on the pulse’ and she’d blithely believed him. He was a high-end estate agent – at least that was what he’d told her he did for a living – and so it made sense that he couldn’t make it some Saturdays because he had viewings.

That he’d never invited her to his place, though, should have rung bells. They’d dated for three months and she hadn’t been to his flat once. He’d always come to hers. He’d said he liked to escape London but in reality he must have been keeping her away. Keeping her a secret.

So maybe the evidence had been there all along. Maybe she’d simply blocked out what she hadn’t wanted to admit. She was good at doing that. It had been the main way she’d survived her narcissistic parents’ constant rowing and excruciating making up and it was what got her through the more traumatic trials she attended for work. And if that was the case then perhaps some of what had happened had been her fault, which wasn’t an entirely palatable scenario.

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