She didn’t want to remember. But the images were there, burning in her brain. Everything Jack had said. Everything he’d done.For three years she’d fought to keep them at bay. Now the cupboard was open, and the skeletons were crowding upon her.Nothing had ever been the same again after Jack failed to get the job, although she had done her best to persuade herself otherwise.She’d tried to talk to him about it. ‘Jack—I did try—really.’The dark eyes were bottomless wells of indifference. ‘Not hard enough, obviously.’He hardly spent any time in the flat He was out nearly every evening, and when he joined her in bed he reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. Sometimes she even thought she detected the hint of a woman’s scent on his skin. Opium, she thought. Something she never used. And then silently berated herself for being paranoid.What she could not pretend was that Jack still wanted her sexually. Whereas once he’d been unable to keep his hands off her, now he seemed to be doing his best to avoid all physical contact with her.
