isn’t a negotiation, Hal. It’s a choice. I’ll sign your contract and lose the book deal with no money changing hands, but you’ll have to come with me for two weeks to Tennessee first and pose as my plus-one.’
‘That’s Sophie’s choice and you know it,’ she cried, not caring if every paparazzi in Paris overheard them now. ‘What difference is there in having my past idiocy exposed in Vanity Fair and probably syndicated round the globe to getting it rehashed for public consumption in your book? I’ll take my chances, thank you, with an injunction once you’ve actually written the thing. Knowing your bullshit to productivity ratio, you probably won’t even finish it.’
‘There’s no reason why I have to name you in the article. If that’s what you’re scared of, I can keep your identity secret.’
‘Really?’ She sat down—which helpfully disguised the renewed tremor in her legs.
‘Yes, really,’ he said without hesitation, more serious than a heart attack. It was a new look for him. One she was fairly sure she didn’t like any more than all his others.
‘But what if someone guesses my identity?’ Not that she was actually considering his preposterous ultimatum. But theoretically speaking. ‘We’ve got the same last name.’
‘Yeah, I know, funny that, seeing as how I don’t remember us ever getting married.’ Before she could come up with some cutting remark about how eternally grateful she was to have dodged that bullet at least, he continued in the same patient tone. ‘Don’t worry, no one will guess it’s you. Not if I don’t want them to.’ He watched her, in the focused, intent, all-consuming way that had excited her so much as a teenager, when she’d been desperate for his attention. ‘That said, the piece won’t be nearly as strong, and you’ll lose out on all the great publicity you could get from it. So you can make the final decision about whether you want to remain anonymous once you’ve read it,’ he said. ‘Just in case you change your mind.’
She so would not. Did he seriously think the power of his prose would be enough to eradicate the fact that he’d blackmailed her into this?
‘I’m willing to bet you do.’ His lips curved in an assured smile. Good God, the man’s vanity was as phenomenal as his ego.
‘Would you be prepared to put all that in writing?’ she clarified. Even though she still wasn’t seriously considering his devil’s bargain. But where was the harm in exploring all her options?
‘You won’t accept my word?’
‘I wouldn’t accept your word if it was tattooed across your arse.’
He chuckled, the sound deep and rich and not remotely insulted. ‘I’d rather see it tattooed across your arse.’ The buzz of something rich and hot in her belly, and the answering hum deep in her abdomen, felt suspiciously familiar. But it wasn’t excitement, she decided. Or certainly not sexual excitement. More like the buzz you got from besting a worthy opponent in battle. Not that Luke had ever been remotely worthy of her. But apparently the thought of besting him could still give her a cheap thrill.
‘But if you insist,’ he added, ‘get your solicitor to draw something up and I’ll sign it.’ He reached across the table, offering his hand. ‘Shall we shake on it for now?’
She looked at his outstretched palm, her usual common sense returning. Could she bear two whole weeks stuck in his company? Even if it meant the end of the threat against her and her children?
But as his hand hung there, suspended over the table, the buzz peaked, and a strange calm came over her. And she knew, against all the odds, she actually wanted to take his devil’s bargain.
Because she owed it to the girl she’d been.
And because, despite all her protestations to herself, and Jamie, this thirty-minute meeting had proved one galling fact: she hadn’t gotten over Luke’s desertion the way she’d wanted to believe.
She’d shut down all those years ago, once all the tears and heartache had drained her dry. And she’d forced herself to rise above the pain and the grief and eventually the anger, because she’d had to, not just to survive and to heal, but so she could handle letting her daughter have the daddy she adored back in her life.
But by never talking to Luke, never seeing him or communicating with him, he’d got off scot-free. He’d never had to explain what he’d done, or why he’d done it. He’d never even had to apologise. And maybe she needed that, to finally get the closure that had alluded her.
She clocked the confident gleam in his gaze, daring her to take him on. The way he’d done so many years ago.
She’d taken the challenge then and lost, catastrophically. But she was older, smarter and a lot richer now. And, best of all, she was totally over him.
Hell yeah, she could survive being stuck with him for two whole weeks. She might even enjoy it. Rubbing his nose in all his shortcomings. In fact, two weeks wouldn’t be nearly long enough for that.
‘OK, Luke, you’ve got a deal.’
His fingers trapped hers, the calluses on the ridge of his palm rough to the touch. The memory flash blindsided her: those same calluses caressing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh on the lazy Sunday morning before he’d left for his first proper assignment—the last time they’d made love. When he’d used all the skills they’d learned together to make her come until she screamed, and woke the baby up. The frisson of heat, the shock of memory settled in her breasts, making her nipples tighten against the smooth silk of her bra.
Then his thumb brushed under the red mark on her wrist and, to her horror, the hum in her abdomen pulsed hot.
‘What happened here?’ he asked. ‘It looks nasty.’
Small burns were a hazard of her job; she’d incurred this one a few days ago during a guest spot on BBC One’s Breakfast Kitchen while whipping a tray of florentines out of the oven. The sore spot tingled as his thumb slid close to the inflamed skin.
She yanked her hand free and rubbed her wrist discreetly on her skirt.
‘It’ll heal,’ she said. And so, finally, will the wounds you inflicted on me.
She walked out of the restaurant without another word. But as she hailed a cab to take her back to the station for her noon train, her breasts continued to throb in time with the timpani drum of her pulse.
And it occurred to her there was one key element of their relationship she hadn’t factored into her decision to accept his proposal.
And perhaps she should have.
‘Elle est très belle,’ Jean-François commented wistfully as the café’s door swung shut in Halle’s wake.
‘Oui, très belle,’ Luke replied, not at all wistfully.
And très pissed off with me, still, even after more than a decade and a half.
Enough to piss him right off in return.
She’d offered him money. As if he were some cap-doffing toady whose silence she could buy with a few bob. As if his life story had no import whatsoever compared to
