isn’t the point——’
‘I agree,’ he bit out tightly. ‘It isn’t.’ He held her gaze with steady intensity.
Her cheeks coloured with embarrassment as she avoided that gaze. To have emotionally broken down in the presence of a man she no longer knew seemed to her the height of embarrassment, to be verbally made aware of it, no matter how well intentioned, was unacceptable to her at this moment. ‘I’ve kept you long enough,’ she dismissed flatly.
Lucas looked at her searchingly for several long minutes before nodding abruptly. ‘I’ll leave you to rest. Mrs Harvey will be here at seven-thirty in the morning; she’ll get your breakfast for you whenever you care to get up. Take your time, there’s no rush.’
‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘You won’t be,’ he assured her arrogantly. ‘Camilla stays with me for weeks at a time when she’s working in London.’
‘It isn’t the same,’ Chelsea mumbled, wishing he could see and understand that. Or maybe he did, and just ignored the fact. And she didn’t have the strength to pursue it after her bout of crying, just wanting to fall into bed.
Lucas seemed to guess her plight, going to the door. ‘If you need me during the night I’m just across the hall from here. Don’t hesitate,’ he added sternly. ‘You won’t be disturbing me, I’m a very light sleeper,’ he told her before he left.
And after already crying all over him once tonight she had no intention of disturbing his sleep, not for any reason. She had coped with her grief in her own way so far, and she didn’t intend to change that.
Which made the fact that she had broken down in front of Lucas in the way she had all the more surprising. She hadn’t cried once since the nightmare began, not when she found her mother, and not when they told her she was dead either. She couldn’t think what had prompted her to collapse in front of Lucas of all people; he wasn’t exactly an emotional man himself. Whatever the reason for her breakdown she didn’t intend letting it happen again.
The harsh November rain was still falling against the window when she woke the next morning, completely disorientated until she remembered she was in Lucas’s apartment, in his spare bedroom. And with that realisation came the renewed pain of her mother’s death.
She had drunk the brandy Lucas gave her the night before, had miraculously fallen asleep almost immediately she got into bed. The clock on the bedside table told her it was nine-thirty; she had almost slept the clock round!
Lucas had no doubt already left for the plush office Camilla had told her he had somewhere in town, and the invaluable Mrs Harvey would be in the apartment. Chelsea fleetingly wondered what he had told his housekeeper about her, the truth would be preferable as far as she was concerned. Although what little she had learnt about Lucas the evening before she doubted he felt he had to explain his actions, or those of his guests, to a mere employee.
It wasn’t until she threw back the bedclothes to go through to the bathroom that she gasped her dismay. She was wearing a black silk pyjama jacket that hadn’t been there when she fell into bed the evening before! And it could only belong to one person, Lucas! It was much too big for her slender frame, hung precariously off one shoulder, the sleeves turned back to accommodate her shorter arms, the length of it reaching almost down to her knees. And it smelt vaguely of the elusive aftershave Lucas had worn the evening before.
She had been sleepwalking in the nude!
There could be no other explanation for her to wake up in Lucas’s pyjama jacket. She had often walked in her sleep when she was a child, but much less so now that she was older, and it hadn’t really mattered that she did when there was just her mother and herself at home.
That the trauma of the last few days had brought on one of the rare occasions when it happened she had no doubt. And she blushed with embarrassment at the thought of Lucas having to cover her nakedness with his own pyjama jacket before guiding her back to bed. Whatever must he think of her! More to the point, how was she supposed to face him again after this? He might, as he said, have seen plenty of other women unclothed, but the circumstances of him seeing her made her writhe with embarrassment.
And uninvited came the question, had he liked what he had unwittingly seen?
It was a provocative thought, and one that she regretted as soon as it came into her mind. It put their relationship on too personal a level, and it was going to be difficult enough to maintain the tenuous link they had now without any added complications, such as her possibly rekindling the attraction she had once felt for him.
Nevertheless, the colour in her cheeks refused to recede as she showered and dressed, and she could only hope that Lucas had indeed left for the day; she had no idea what sort of hours lawyers kept in England.
A glance out of her bedroom window showed her that the central heating in the apartment was deceiving, that it was still very cold and wet, so she put on fitted blue trousers and a designer blouse in a beautiful rust colour. The wealth and publicity of her father’s career may have helped to destroy her parents’ marriage, it had also given Chelsea a taste for beautiful clothing that had always been indulged. She had been limited as to the amount of clothing she could bring with her on this trip, had had little inclination for packing, but at home she had a wardrobe full of designer-label clothing. A spoilt brat, she thought with a grimace. Oh well, she was what she was.
Her long hair was still slightly damp from her shower, but she knew from experience that the silvery fine hair would soon dry; its long silver length made a startling contrast to the rust colour of her blouse. Her eyes were still shadowed by grief, but at least the sleep seemed to have given her back some of her usual confidence, the ability to cope, and she knew that during the weeks and months that were to follow she would need every ounce of that confidence.
She made her bed before leaving her room, the door to Lucas’s bedroom firmly closed, the lounge empty, the only sounds to be heard coming from the kitchen. Bracing her thin shoulders in expectation Chelsea entered the room.
A middle-aged woman looked up from the vegetables she was peeling to put into the huge roasting pot on the table in front of her, the woman’s expression becoming as wary as Chelsea’s own.
‘Good morning,’ Chelsea greeted lightly.
‘Miss Stevens,’ the woman acknowledged abruptly.
‘Chelsea, please,’ she returned smoothly.
‘Miss Chelsea,’ the woman nodded abruptly, tall and thin, her short curled hair a very light brown colour, beginning to grey at her temples.
‘No, I meant——’
‘Can I get you some breakfast now?’ Mrs Harvey turned to wipe her hands on the towel, a pristine white pinafore covering her severely styled blue dress. ‘Mr McAdams had his meal some time ago.’
There was no rebuke in the words for her own tardiness, just a statement of fact. ‘Lucas is here?’ she asked half in anticipation, half in dread, the memory of that sensuous black silk against her flesh, and its reason for being there, still too new for her to be able to look forward to seeing him again.
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘He always leaves at precisely eight-fifteen,’ her voice was flat as she stated her employee’s movements.
Chelsea mentally concluded that Lucas lived his life in altogether
