the shiny corridor, the heels of her sandals echoing like cannon fire in her ears as she frantically sought out the exit, her heart beating fit to burst.
‘Where shall we eat tonight, darling?’ Amelie Duvall finished putting the final careful touches to her make-up, took a brief inventory of her appearance in her classic ‘little black dress’ in one of the two mirrored wardrobes that banked the big scroll bed, then reached inside her black sequinned purse for some perfume. Spraying it liberally behind her ears, her knees, then behind her wrists, she returned the bottle to her purse then threw it onto the bed.
‘Macsen? I asked you a question. Were you even listening?’ Barefooted, the French girl padded out into the living room, coming to an abrupt halt when she saw Mac seated on the sofa, hunched over a glass of what she immediately guessed to be brandy. He’d removed his tie, his hair was dishevelled—as if he’d been ceaselessly running his fingers through it—and the expression on his stunningly handsome face was nothing short of grim.
‘But you are not even ready to go out.’ Amelie could not mask her disappointment. She loved the opportunity to dress up and go out to dinner with her handsome escort—knew without doubt that they made an eye-catching pair, her own dark beauty a perfect foil for his blond Viking good looks. Whatever had brought on this dark mood of his Amelie saw it as her mission to shake him out of it.
‘I don’t feel like going out to dinner tonight.’ Mac finally looked up at her, his gaze cursory—without pleasure—as if all his senses were deadened to her svelte Gallic beauty, then, tipping back his glass, drank down the remaining contents in one deep draught.
‘But you said on the phone—’
‘Forget what I said!’ Rising to his feet, he restlessly paced the room then went to stare out of the panoramic window at the lights of London winking all around him in the darkened sky.
‘Darling, what is the matter? Did something bad happen at work? A deal fell through, perhaps? Please put it behind you, chéri, tomorrow is another day. You will do better then.’
Sensing her moving behind him, Mac was unaccountably enraged. All of a sudden her expensive French perfume was too cloying—oppressive almost—and he wanted to tell her to just leave him the hell alone. But he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t resort to anger when what he needed to do was just come clean. Be honest. Stop this charade now before another relationship went to hell in a handbasket. It was bad enough that he was going to call the whole thing off. Since the moment he’d seen Tara today—even before she’d told him about the baby, his son—he knew in his heart he didn’t want to marry Amelie. Couldn’t marry her.
‘Look…I know we talked about the possibility of us getting married, but all things considered—I honestly don’t think it would work.’
‘You mean your wife would not agree to the divorce?’
It was typical of Amelie that she would immediately lay the blame for his decision on someone else.
Sighing, Mac continued to stare out of the window. He thought about the baby—the son he’d never known—about Tara willing to face a pregnancy she thought he wanted no part of, then losing the child in the most horrendous way… His stomach knotted painfully with sickness and regret. ‘My decision has nothing to do with that. I’d do anything to prevent you feeling hurt and disappointed, Amelie, but it’s better that we end things now than go through with a marriage that would be a complete fiction. I’m sure if you’re absolutely honest with yourself you don’t really want to marry me either.’ Slowly he turned away from the window to face her.
Her pretty elfin face with her wide doe-like brown eyes stared back at him as if he’d suddenly been inflicted with some desperate malady. ‘Of course I want to marry you. Are you crazy? I love you!’
‘Do you?’
She had the grace to colour a little. Mac responded with a sardonic little smile.
‘You love my money, chérie. You love what I can buy for you; clothes, jewellery, perfume…’ His nostrils flared a little, a memory coming out of nowhere that almost floored him. Tara’s scent—a subtle, flowery, honeysuckle and vanilla whisper that had driven him almost mindless with need. He had sensed it today, even as he told her he wanted a divorce, and hadn’t been able to ignore it. His body had hardened almost instantly. ‘This proposed marriage of ours wouldn’t really suit either of us. You are too young and too pretty to tie yourself down to one man and I…well, up until now my work has been my life. I don’t deny it’s important but now I’m ready for a family. I want to have children. I’m not interested in dining out at the best restaurants every night or flying out to New York or Paris on a whim just so that my girlfriend can shop. I want a home life. A proper home life.’
The French girl sniffed, prettily, with elegance—the way she did everything else. ‘You make me sound so shallow, Macsen. I am deeply hurt you do not want to marry me. I would give you babies—lots of them.’ But even as she said the words there was a discernible stiffening of her slender, gamine frame that spoke volumes to Mac. She detested the idea. He hadn’t brought up the subject before but now he knew without doubt he was doing the right thing by bringing the relationship to an end.
‘I understand you better than you think I do.’ He smiled again, pulling her into his arms, but the kiss he bestowed at the corner of her perfectly made-up mouth was nothing short of paternal. ‘Don’t worry, chérie. I won’t let you leave empty-handed. I will give you more than enough to tide you over until your next wealthy suitor comes along…’
CHAPTER TWO
‘TARA? What are you doing sitting here with all the lights out?’
Blinking at the sudden brightness that flooded the living room, Tara guiltily uncurled her legs from beneath her on the couch and pasted an automatic smile across her face. The slightest slip of the controlled mask she’d so carefully constructed to prevent Beth knowing how she really felt inside and her aunt would pounce on her weakness like a lion on a raw steak, demanding to know what she could do to put things right. Her help would be well-meaning, of course, but ultimately useless. This was one situation her ever-practical aunt definitely wouldn’t be able to fix.
‘I drifted off,’ she lied in answer to the older woman’s question. ‘I locked up downstairs, fixed dinner, then came in here to relax.’
‘Did you see Mac?’ Her aunt threw her keys down on the little antique table just inside the door and stood, arms akimbo, in that brisk, no-nonsense, ‘I’m in charge’ way she had that reminded Tara of one of those TV cops about to conduct an interrogation.
‘I saw him,’ she replied carefully, tucking some stray blonde strands behind her ear. ‘Why did you tell him where to find me?’
‘Because he was charming and polite and concerned, and because in my opinion it’s about time you two got some dialogue going—even if most of the blame lies squarely at his feet.’ Beth Delaney, tall, slim, fiftysomething redhead with Irish temper to match, slipped off the tailored navy jacket of her suit and arranged it carefully on the back of a polished Edwardian chair.
‘I haven’t heard from him in five years, Beth, so I think you must have misinterpreted the “concerned” part. And as for dialogue, don’t you think it’s a little late for that?’
‘It’s never too late to talk, my darling. Your situation is just too ridiculous for words. Married but not married…in the usual cohabiting sense, of course. The pair of you need to
