Читать книгу Modern Romance August 2019 Books 1-4 - Ким Лоренс, Heidi Rice - Страница 22

THE FIRST THING Lucas heard when he walked through the door was the sound of music. His steps stilled and he paused to listen, even though he was running late. Irish music. Some softly lilting air which managed to be both mournful and uplifting at the same time—in the way of all Irish music. He frowned as he heard a peel of laughter which sounded familiar and then the chink of crystal, followed by more laughter.

With a quick glance at his watch he moved swiftly towards the library, quietly pushing open the door to see his guests standing with their backs to him, listening to something Tara was saying as she tilted a bottle of champagne into someone’s glass.

He almost did a double-take as for a moment he felt as if the light were playing tricks on him, because the woman in question looked like Tara and sounded like Tara, and yet...

He screwed up his eyes.

And yet...

Surely that wasn’t Tara?

Her hair was scooped on top of her head but for once there wasn’t a riot of frizzy curls tumbling around her face. The sleek red waves were coiled like sleeping serpents—emphasising the slim, pale column of her neck. He swallowed, because her hair wasn’t the only thing which was different. She was wearing a dress. And stockings. And... Again, he frowned. She had on some flirty little apron which made her look... She looked as if she was about to leave for a party where the specified dress code was Sexy French Maid. His groin grew rocky and he realised he didn’t want to focus on her appearance, or the evening was going to become one long endurance test before he could take her to bed.

He realised his guests must have heard him for they were turning to greet him and as he apologised for his lateness he saw a wry look on Brett Henderson’s face—because, as a world-acclaimed movie star and key member of British acting royalty, he wasn’t used to being kept waiting.

But Lucas’s somewhat garbled explanations about late planes and fog on the San Franciscan runway were cut short by a dismissive wave from the Irish Embassy official.

‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, Lucas—we’ve been fine here.’ Seamus Hennessy beamed, and so did his wife, Erin. ‘We’re hardly missed you at all and Tara’s been looking after us grandly, so she has!’

For the first time since he’d walked in, Tara turned to look at him and gave a shy smile, which contrasted with the sensual allure of her outfit, and Lucas was taken aback by the resultant shiver which rippled its way down his spine as he met her heavy-hooded amber gaze. He found himself wishing he could just dismiss the guests, skip supper and take her straight to bed—yet his need for her unsettled him.

‘Do you all have drinks?’ he questioned pleasantly. ‘Good. Tara? I wonder if I could have a quick word in the kitchen.’

He didn’t say anything as they left the library and neither did he comment as they passed the dining room, even though he could see she must have gone to a lot of trouble to lay the table for dinner. Unlit candles protruded from centrepiece swathes of fragrant greenery mixed with cherry-coloured roses, and all the crystal and silver was gleaming beneath the diamond shards of the overhead chandelier. He waited until they were in the kitchen and completely out of earshot before he turned on her and the feelings which had been growing inside him now erupted.

‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘You don’t look like you!’

Faint colour stained her cheeks as she glanced down at her outfit before looking up again to meet his accusing gaze. ‘You mean you don’t like it?’

‘I told you to buy yourself some new clothes,’ he ground out. ‘Not to look like the personification of every man’s fantasy maid.’

She screwed up her face. ‘It’s an apron, Lucas!’ she said crossly. ‘And perhaps you ought to make your mind up about where you really stand! You were always criticising my old uniform for being too frumpy and now you’re complaining that this one is too sexy!’

Confused, he shook his head. ‘It’s the way you wear it,’ he said slowly.

‘Or rather, the way you perceive it—which is your problem, not mine. Make up your mind what it is you want because I haven’t got the time or the appetite for this. And now, if you’ll excuse me—’ she lifted her chin in as haughty a gesture as he’d ever seen her use ‘—I really do need to get on with serving dinner.’

He wanted to reach out and stay her with a hungry kiss but something stopped him and it wasn’t just pride. It was anger. And jealousy—and he didn’t do jealousy or possession.

But the true and very bitter fact seemed to be that he did.

He forced himself to snap out of his foul mood and, since he often hosted dinners without a woman by his side, it shouldn’t have been a problem. Seamus and Erin were easy company and Salvatore di Luca’s latest squeeze worked for the United Nations and had some very illuminating things to say about the current political situation in Europe, which usually would have interested him. But for once he found his attention wandering and the biggest fly in the ointment was Brett Henderson flirting like crazy with Tara. And she wasn’t exactly discouraging him, was she? Did she really have to simper like that as she told him how much she’d enjoyed the film in which he’d played a shape-shifting wizard?

Lucas was forced to watch as the mellifluous Englishman returned the love-fest by purring all kinds of compliments about his housekeeper’s home-made lasagne.

‘A really lovely woman in a nearby Italian store taught me how to make fresh pasta!’ she was telling him proudly.

‘What, here? In cynical old New York City?’ joked Seamus.

‘Tara has a particular naïve charm all of her own,’ said Lucas coolly, and he couldn’t miss the look of fury she directed at him as she brought out the tiramisu.

Eventually they all went home and Lucas tried to ignore the sound of Brett asking Tara for her email address. And it wasn’t until Seamus and Erin had extracted a promise that the housekeeper would attend a ceilidh at the embassy that they finally took their leave.

The apartment seemed very big and very quiet as Lucas walked back into the library and found Tara clearing away glasses. ‘Did you give Brett your email address?’ he demanded.

‘And if I did? Is that such a crime?’ She straightened up to look at him and he had never seen such a look of quiet fury in her eyes. ‘Unless you think...’ She shook her head as if in disbelief. ‘Unless you really think that I would encourage one man in a romantic fashion, when I’m in a physical relationship with another?’

Physical relationship. He didn’t like the sound of that, but he supposed he couldn’t doubt its accuracy. ‘You were sending out all kinds of mixed messages tonight.’

‘That’s all in your head,’ she retorted, bending towards the table once more. ‘I was being friendly, that’s all.’

‘Leave that,’ he said as she resumed putting crystal glasses onto a tray with such force he was surprised they didn’t shatter.

‘I’d rather do it now than in the morning.’

‘I don’t care—’

‘No,’ she interrupted suddenly and this time when she straightened up, the quiet fury in her eyes had been replaced with something stronger—something which blazed like fire. ‘You couldn’t have made that more plain if you’d tried! But maybe I’m fed up with the Lucas Conway approach to staff management! You taught me to cook something other than pie so I would be worthy of catering for your fancy guests and I ticked that off the list, didn’t I? Then you decided to dress me up like one of those paper dolls you find in a child’s magazine—and I went along with that, too. Heaven forbid that I should look like some screwball! But you’re still not satisfied, are you, Lucas? And nothing ever will satisfy you, because basically you don’t know yourself and you have no desire to learn about yourself, because you’re a coward.’

The room went very silent. ‘Excuse me?’ he questioned, his words like ice. ‘Did you just call me a coward?’

‘You heard exactly what I said.’

Tara met his stony gaze and couldn’t quite believe she’d done it but she couldn’t back out now, no matter what the repercussions might be. Because she loved him and she wanted him to stop running away from his past—even if that meant the end of what the two of them shared. And even if it was, would that really be such a great loss? You couldn’t really share anything with a man with no emotions, could you? A man who resolutely refused to allow himself to feel stuff.

‘You can’t live properly until you reconcile yourself with your past—and I don’t think I can carry on like this until you do,’ she breathed. ‘Maybe you don’t have any living blood relatives, but isn’t that something which warrants a little investigation? Don’t you want to know why your mother sold you? To find out who your real father is and whether either of them are alive? To discover whether she had any more children and if you have any brothers or sisters?’ Her face suddenly crumpled. ‘I know that when I—’

‘No!’ Furiously, he cut across her—the slicing wave of his hand a gesture of finality. ‘I’m done with confessionals and I certainly don’t want to waste any more of my evening listening to you, while you start unburdening your soul. To be honest, I’m tired, and I’m bored. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that I never wanted that kind of relationship and unless you can accept that, then I agree—we have no kind of future. So perhaps you might like to think about that. And now, if you’ll excuse me—I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Tara’s heart was pounding with shock as he turned and walked out of the library without another word. She could hear his footsteps going upstairs, along the corridor towards the master bedroom, and just for a moment she actually considered following him, until she drew herself up short.

Was she completely insane? He might as well have taken out a full-page ad in The Washington Post, saying, Leave me alone. He’d told her he’d see her in the morning, and he’d done it with that cold and condemning look in his eyes. That wasn’t the action of a man who wanted to cuddle and make up—that was a man who had been pushed to his limits. He was angry with her—but not nearly as angry as she was with herself. How long was she planning to hang around and get treated like someone who didn’t really matter? Because she did matter. Not just for her baby’s sake, but for her own.

She crept along to the second bedroom, uncomfortably aware that this was only the second night they’d spent apart since they’d resumed their sexual relationship—and she thought how big and lonely the bed seemed without him. Predictably, sleep was a long time in coming and when it did, dawn was just beginning to edge into the sky because she hadn’t bothered to close the drapes.

When she awoke, the apartment was completely silent and, quickly, she got out of bed, wandering from room to room looking for Lucas, knowing with a sinking sense of certainty that she wasn’t going to see him. The lingering aroma of coffee and some juiced halves of orange were the only signs of his presence. He must have had breakfast and then left. She looked around to see if there was a note, but of course there wasn’t. And a huge pang of stupid longing swept over her as she tried to imagine what it would be like if he was the kind of man who left little messages dotted around the place. Affectionate words or cartoons, scribbled onto Post-it notes and stuck to the front of the refrigerator or left lying on a pillow. But those things only happened in films. or between real-life couples who genuinely loved one another. He’d only ever left her a note once before—when he’d brought forward his New York trip after they’d slept together and he’d told her he’d give her a good reference!

Back then he couldn’t wait to get away from her and she wouldn’t be here now if that night hadn’t produced a child. Lucas would have moved on. And so would she. She’d have found herself a job as housekeeper to someone else and would now be throwing herself enthusiastically into her new role. Perhaps the discovery that she could enjoy sex might have provided some hope for the future—making her wonder if one day she’d be able to enjoy dating men who were more suitable than Lucas Conway.

Her stomach turned over at the thought of being held in any other arms than his. It made her feel violently sick to think of any lover other than Lucas and the longer she allowed this situation to continue, the harder it was going to be to ever give him up. Because that time would come, most definitely—as surely as the sun rose over Manhattan each morning. They’d already had their first serious row and they’d both said some pretty wounding things. Maybe she should be grateful for his honesty. At least he wasn’t encouraging her to build fanciful daydreams and maybe it was time she stopped trying to pretend that this relationship of theirs was going anywhere. Surely it would be better—for both of them—if they re-established the boundaries and negotiated a different kind of future. She swallowed, knowing that the only way to do that was to put distance between them.

For her to go home to Ireland. Back to where she belonged.

She cleared up the debris from the dinner party, then went into the en-suite wet room and stood beneath the cascading shower, trying to enjoy the moment, but the luxury products were wasted on her. She took extra time washing and drying her hair and even more time selecting what to wear. Which clothes to take and which to leave behind. She stared a little wistfully at the chiffon skirt and lace insert shoes; the silky dresses and impossibly fine cashmere sweaters. She loved those clothes—loved the way they made her feel—but they had no place in the life she was about to resume. So she took the shiny anorak, the jeans, the darker of the sweaters, the warmest dresses-as well as all of the underwear. Then she called a cab and checked she had money and her passport. It was only as she was leaving that she realised she couldn’t just go—not without saying something. So she went slowly into the library where she picked up a pen and, with a heavy heart, began to write.

* * *

Lucas stared down at the note and a flare of something which felt close to pain clenched at his heart. But it wasn’t pain, he told himself furiously. It was disappointment. Yes, that was it. Disappointment that Tara Fitzpatrick had just done a runner like some thief in the night. And after everything he’d done for her...

He tugged his cell-phone from his pocket and jabbed his finger against her number. It rang for so long that he thought it was going to voicemail, but then she picked it up and he heard that sweetly soft Irish brogue.

‘Hello?’

‘You’re at the airport, I assume?’ he clipped out.

‘I am. I’ve managed to get the last seat on a flight which is leaving for Dublin in...’ there was a rustle as, presumably, she lifted her arm to look at her watch ‘...twenty minutes’ time.’

‘So you’re running out on me,’ he said coldly. ‘Without even bothering to tell me you were going. Now who’s the coward, Tara?’

‘No, Lucas,’ she corrected. ‘The cowardly thing to have done would be not to have picked up this call.’

He could feel control slipping away from him and he didn’t like it, because hadn’t his legendary control allowed him to make his world manageable? Hadn’t taking command enabled him to rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes of his upbringing and forge himself a successful life? ‘Why didn’t you at least wait around until I was back from my meeting when we could have discussed this calmly, like grown-ups?’ he demanded.

He heard a fractured sound, as if she was having difficulty slowing down her suddenly rapid breathing. But when she spoke she sounded calm and distant. Very distant. He frowned. And not like Tara at all.

‘You once left me a note when you couldn’t face having an important conversation with me. Do you remember that, Lucas? Well, it’s my turn now—and I’m doing it for exactly the same reasons. I didn’t want a protracted goodbye, nor to have to offer explanations, or listen to any more accusations. I don’t want bitter words to rattle around in my brain and imprint themselves on my memory, when we need to keep this civilised. So I’ll be in touch when I’m settled and you can see as much or as little of our baby as you want. That’s all.’ She drew in a deep breath before letting it out in a husky sigh. ‘Don’t you understand? I’m setting you free, Lucas.’

Something swelled up inside him like a growing wave—something dark and unwanted. How dared she offer him his freedom, when it was not hers to give? Did she consider him as some kind of puppet whose strings she could tug whenever the mood took her—just because she carried a part of him deep inside her? The dark feeling grew but deliberately he quashed it, because he needed to think clearly—his mind unobstructed by neither anger nor regret. Because maybe she was right. Maybe it was better this way. Better she left when things were tolerably amicable between them. Time and space would do the rest and once the dust had settled on their impetuous affair, they would be able to work out some kind of long-term plan. He would be good to her. That was a given. He would provide her with the finest home money could buy and all the childcare she needed. And he would...

He swallowed, wondering why his throat felt as if it had been lined with barbed wire which had been left out in the rain. Even if fatherhood was an unknown and an unwanted concept—that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to step up to the plate and be dutiful, did it? To be there for his child as his own father had never been there for him.

And if he found that impossible?

Why wouldn’t he find it impossible, when he had no real template for family life? And wouldn’t it then follow that he was probably going to let her and the baby down, somewhere along the line?

He swallowed as Tara’s accusations came back to ring with silent reproach in his ears.

‘Don’t you want to know why your mother sold you? To find out who your real father is and whether either of them are alive? To discover whether she had any more children?’

His mouth hardened. No, he didn’t want to know any of those things. Why should he? In an ideal world he would have gone back to the life he’d had before. The one with no surprises. No analysis. No whip-slim woman challenging him with those sleepy amber eyes. But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing ever was.

He cleared his throat. ‘Just let me know when you get back to Dalkey,’ he said coolly. ‘And please keep me up to speed with your plans. I will return to Ireland in time for the birth.’