Face the Wind and Fly by Jenny Harper Read Free Book Online Page A

hadn’t noticed. Once she would have thought it impossible to get into a bed with Andrew Courtenay to read . Once he would have considered bringing a book into bed insulting. Ninian’s cryptic comments swirled back into her head. Sophie Maneater. If you’re not there for him he’s going to—
    She dropped the briefcase. Andrew didn’t even look up at the thud, just tutted at some small irritation in the text and turned a page. Kate peeled her clothes off. Andrew turned another page. Kate glanced down at her naked body, realising that she had never examined it critically. So long as it functioned well, she was comfortable with it. Now she squinted down at it objectively. She was slim and fit, her skin was still taut, there were no unsightly love handles – but Andrew was still reading. Had she stopped being desirable? The duvet cover was cream with a blue fleur-de-lys pattern. Like the decor, it had aged. It was functional, but hardly sexy. Perhaps she should buy some new bed linen, and maybe some silk lingerie? She slipped into bed and gently removed the book from his hands.
    ‘What—?’
    ‘Cuddle?’
    ‘I thought you were going to read.’
    ‘I am. I will. But not till you’ve given me some attention.’
    He took his glasses off and rolled towards her. His hand started to stroke her breast obediently and she felt desire quicken. It was ... comfortable. Nice. She was annoyed at this because she wanted fireworks.
    ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered afterwards, as he always did.
    Habit can be reassuring, but it can also be worrying. Andrew’s breathing deepened and he started to snore gently. Sophie Maneater. The tiny question mark Ninian had planted inside Kate glowed briefly, then curled in on itself and went to sleep.
    She extracted her briefing papers from her bag and started to read. Soon she was absorbed in a report on new developments in nacelle construction.

Chapter Six
    When Ibsen and Lynn were married they lived in a small new-build in Summerfield, close to the primary school, where she was a teacher. Lynn kept it pin neat yet homely – his ex wife had a knack for homemaking.
    They’d still be together if Violet hadn’t died.
    Ibsen lay with his arm round Melanie McGillivray’s slumbering form and despite its seductive softness was filled only with sadness at the memory of what had happened.
    Would he never get over it? Waking that morning, going into Violet’s little room, ready to pick her up, finding her—
    Bugger it!
    He blinked as his eyes welled up. It had been five years now. In those terrible hours and days after their baby died in her cot, he and Lynn had pulled together as a team, but over time grief had taken them down different routes and being together only reminded them all the more of what they had made, and lost.
    Melanie stirred and Ibsen extricated his arm and slid out of bed. He had maybe another half hour before she’d wake and the day would start. He padded noiselessly across to the window of the small cottage where he now lived – alone, except for Wellington and the occasional company of whoever he happened to be dating – and glanced out of the window, set deep in the thick stone wall. From here he could just see Forgie House, the modest mansion that had been built by some minor member of the Scottish royal family in the seventeenth-century. The house was simple and absolutely symmetrical, almost like a child’s drawing. Its main door was set on the first floor and was accessed by a curved staircase leading up to it on either side, which added a touch of elegance. As he watched, the sun rose above the nearby trees and splashed onto the walls. Ibsen smiled. The building was harled – faced with small pebbles mixed with lime – and painted ochre, so that in the sun it looked like a fat satsuma sitting in the verdant green of the lawns.
    He pulled on his jeans and a tee shirt and went through to the kitchen. Wellington leapt to his feet, tail flapping, and looked up