thoughts—yes, that was an emotion she could allow herself to feel.
Andrew had been her husband and, yes, she had married him willingly, caught up in a rebounding tide of pride, determined to prove that she was fully adult, fully a woman... and a woman capable of being loved by a man who would treat her as a woman and not a stupid child.
She closed her eyes. She had tried her best to be the wife Andrew wanted, to keep the bargain she had made with fate; she had tried to do it, to infuse into their relationship, their marriage, the warmth and sharing which Andrew could not or would not put into it; but nothing she had been able to do had ever really been able to disguise the poverty of the emotional bond between them, and in her worst moments since Andrew's death she had even begun to wonder if this was his way of punishing her, if by leaving her in the manner he had... But then common sense had reasserted itself and she was forced to acknowledge that their marriage had come so far down the list of Andrew's priorities that it would have been the last thing he would have taken into account in making his decision...that she would have been the last thing he would have taken into account?
Oddly, that knowledge, instead of freeing her from the burden of her guilt, only served to increase it. Yes, she had tried, but had she really tried hard enough?
'You can't be serious. You didn't even know the man; why the hell should you want to see him cremated? It's ridiculous... disgusting...'
'Ryan thinks it's the right thing to do.' Deborah stared angrily across their bedroom at Mark.
The violence of his objections to the discovery that she intended to attend Andrew Ryecart's cremation had caught her off guard, and touched a nerve which she herself had not wanted to acknowledge.
She dismissed the thought, reminding herself that she couldn't afford to damage her professionalism with inappropriate feminine behaviour.
'It's a token of respect, that's all,' she told Mark, turning away from him so that he couldn't see her face.
'What? Don't give me that... It's blatant voyeurism and if you really believe anything else... You've changed ever since Ryan gave you this commission.'
'No, I haven't,' she denied. 'If anyone's changed, it's you. What's the matter with you? You're behaving almost as though you'ie jealous.'
'Jealous... who the hell of?' he challenged her.
It had been on the tip of her tongue to say, 'Me', but suddenly, for no real logical reason, her heart started to beat too fast and she found she could not actually say the word.
'I suppose you mean Ryan,' he told her, answering his own question. 'My God, that only underlines what I was just saying. If you really think I could ever be jealous of a creep like that...'
As he studied her downbent head and the way her dark hair swung over her face, concealing her expression from him, Mark knew that he had over-reacted. The bright morning sunshine highlighted the chestnut shine on her hair and the lissom softness of her body.
His own ached abruptly in a sharp spasm of sexual response. He wanted to pick her up and carry her over to their bed, spread the soft, warm femaleness of her underneath him and make love to her with such passion that she would not be able to suppress her sharp cries of pleasure, her body's response to him, her need and desire for him. He wanted, he recognised, her recognition of him as a man... as a source of power and strength. That knowledge shook him, disturbing him, making him reject the sexual message his body was giving him.
What he wanted, a cold black corner of his mind told him, was her acknowledgement of his power over her, her subservience to him.
But no, that could not be true. He was not that kind of man; he never had been; that kind of egotistical need was a male trait he despised. Their relationship was one of mutuality and respect.
Or at least it had been. Deborah seemed to have more respect for Ryan these days than she did for
Andrew had been her husband and, yes, she had married him willingly, caught up in a rebounding tide of pride, determined to prove that she was fully adult, fully a woman... and a woman capable of being loved by a man who would treat her as a woman and not a stupid child.
She closed her eyes. She had tried her best to be the wife Andrew wanted, to keep the bargain she had made with fate; she had tried to do it, to infuse into their relationship, their marriage, the warmth and sharing which Andrew could not or would not put into it; but nothing she had been able to do had ever really been able to disguise the poverty of the emotional bond between them, and in her worst moments since Andrew's death she had even begun to wonder if this was his way of punishing her, if by leaving her in the manner he had... But then common sense had reasserted itself and she was forced to acknowledge that their marriage had come so far down the list of Andrew's priorities that it would have been the last thing he would have taken into account in making his decision...that she would have been the last thing he would have taken into account?
Oddly, that knowledge, instead of freeing her from the burden of her guilt, only served to increase it. Yes, she had tried, but had she really tried hard enough?
'You can't be serious. You didn't even know the man; why the hell should you want to see him cremated? It's ridiculous... disgusting...'
'Ryan thinks it's the right thing to do.' Deborah stared angrily across their bedroom at Mark.
The violence of his objections to the discovery that she intended to attend Andrew Ryecart's cremation had caught her off guard, and touched a nerve which she herself had not wanted to acknowledge.
She dismissed the thought, reminding herself that she couldn't afford to damage her professionalism with inappropriate feminine behaviour.
'It's a token of respect, that's all,' she told Mark, turning away from him so that he couldn't see her face.
'What? Don't give me that... It's blatant voyeurism and if you really believe anything else... You've changed ever since Ryan gave you this commission.'
'No, I haven't,' she denied. 'If anyone's changed, it's you. What's the matter with you? You're behaving almost as though you'ie jealous.'
'Jealous... who the hell of?' he challenged her.
It had been on the tip of her tongue to say, 'Me', but suddenly, for no real logical reason, her heart started to beat too fast and she found she could not actually say the word.
'I suppose you mean Ryan,' he told her, answering his own question. 'My God, that only underlines what I was just saying. If you really think I could ever be jealous of a creep like that...'
As he studied her downbent head and the way her dark hair swung over her face, concealing her expression from him, Mark knew that he had over-reacted. The bright morning sunshine highlighted the chestnut shine on her hair and the lissom softness of her body.
His own ached abruptly in a sharp spasm of sexual response. He wanted to pick her up and carry her over to their bed, spread the soft, warm femaleness of her underneath him and make love to her with such passion that she would not be able to suppress her sharp cries of pleasure, her body's response to him, her need and desire for him. He wanted, he recognised, her recognition of him as a man... as a source of power and strength. That knowledge shook him, disturbing him, making him reject the sexual message his body was giving him.
What he wanted, a cold black corner of his mind told him, was her acknowledgement of his power over her, her subservience to him.
But no, that could not be true. He was not that kind of man; he never had been; that kind of egotistical need was a male trait he despised. Their relationship was one of mutuality and respect.
Or at least it had been. Deborah seemed to have more respect for Ryan these days than she did for
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