couldn’t drag the others away from this place without confessing that Ben had been right about Diego.
Tapas and heavy beat music. Lisa demanded champagne. She would have asked for something strong enough to dull the piercing ache that stabbed through her heart—whisky, maybe—but she knew Ben wouldn’t oblige. Convent educated by nuns strict enough to make your eyes water, treated like a vaguely annoying house guest by a father who had never taken much interest in her when she was home, Ben still tended to regard her as a delicate flower in need of perpetual care and attention.
‘Yes, let’s let our hair down,’ Sophie put in when she noticed Ben’s eyes gravitate to the soft drinks dispenser. ‘It is our last night.’
Lisa drained her glass in two long thirsty swallows and sneaked a refill when Ben wasn’t looking. He was peering at his watch.
Already ten minutes after the appointed time. Diego wouldn’t be coming. Lisa was psyching herself up to tell them why, admit that Ben had been right about her Spanish waiter, drinking her second glass like water to dull the pain when Ben, watching her put the empty glass down on the tiny table, grinned at her. ‘Dance, Lise?’
She wanted to dance about as much as she wanted to sit in a barrel of hot tar but anything had to be better than sitting here, getting tipsy, wanting to cry and doing her best not to, wanting to get her hands on Diego and strangle him after asking him how he could be so cruel.
She took Ben’s hands and got to her feet. The floor dipped and heaved so, instead of dancing opposite him like the other couples, she clung on to his shoulders and was grateful when he clamped his hands around her waist to steady her. He raised his voice above the level of the thumping music and lectured, ‘Squiffy, Lise? That will teach you not to drink a glass of champagne in five seconds flat.’
Two glasses, did he but know it! A hysterical giggle, halfway to a sob, caught in her throat. About to bury her head on his wide shoulder and confess everything, she saw Diego arrive. He said something to his glamorous new girlfriend who gave him a conspiratorial wink before sashaying off to the bar.
How dared he? How could he? Lisa knew she was about to be horribly sick. But she mustn’t! Her fingers dug into Ben’s shoulders. The pain in her gut was unbearable. Think about something else.
Revenge.
Show him! Show him that she wasn’t a silly little girl with the smell of the schoolroom still lingering around her; that she wasn’t the type to cry for a month because she’d been conned by an expert.
He was now standing a scant three feet away, his beautiful eyes lightly hooded as he watched her. What was his intention? How did such guys operate? Would he tap her on the shoulder, wish her a pleasant flight tomorrow, then join his new prey at the bar?
Or would he simply ignore her?
Well, he wouldn’t ignore this—without giving herself time to think—her misery was too great to allow coherent thought—she lifted her hands, pulled Ben’s head down and kissed him as if she were auditioning for a part in a blue movie.
And while Ben was trying to recover, his face brick-red, she looked into Diego’s suddenly ferocious black eyes and lashed out, ‘Go away! You’re cramping my style!’ and watched him turn abruptly on his heel, his mouth hard, his shoulders rigid, as he walked over to his new woman. Lisa thrust her knuckles into her mouth and bit them. She wanted to run after him, take it all back, beg him to make everything all right again.
But she knew she couldn’t. The fairy tale romance was over, the ecstatic days when two hearts had seemed to beat as one had turned into a sordid nightmare.
She turned to Ben, her face white. ‘Take me home. He won’t be coming. I can explain. But not now. Take me home!’
CHAPTER TWO
SOMEONE was watching her. Lisa could actually and physically feel the dark power of unknown eyes on her. Nothing like the vaguely patronising glances she had endured all evening from the great and the good who were here in this glamorous setting to support and, far more importantly, be seen to support a fashionable charity.
She could feel the intensity of that look as it bored between her silk-clad shoulder blades. Feel the watchful, coldly cutting contempt.
It was unsettling, eerie.
A cold shiver flickered through her.
It was all in her imagination. It had to be!
Annoyed with herself, with the weariness that was making her prey to fanciful imagery, she did her best to dismiss it. She was overtired, that was all. It was obviously time to make tracks.
In her capacity as Sub for the Social Editor, as well as her own recently acquired title of Fashion Editor, she had noted the names and titles of those with the highest profiles and details of what the women were wearing. Neil, her snapper, had the shots. She’d dig him out from wherever he’d sloped off to and tell him to call it a day.
She was so tired her legs were having difficulty bearing her slight weight. If things at Lifestyle went on the way they were she’d find herself subbing for every department and working right round the clock eight days a week. Experienced editors were leaving in droves. Rats deserting the sinking ship, as her father said every time a letter of resignation landed on his desk.
The noise of high society at play had given her a pounding headache and she couldn’t wait to get back to the peace and quiet of her flat. Trouble was, she was a round peg in a square hole and knew it. Perhaps that was responsible for the manic sensation of despising eyes following her every movement. She was transposing her own inner feelings on to a non-existent entity.
Of course no one was watching her, despising her! Why on earth would they?
Slender in her understated black sheath dress, she straightened her wilting spine and headed for the lavish buffet. Found Neil, as she’d thought she would, scoffing canapés as if he hadn’t eaten for a fortnight.
‘I’m off,’ she said, shaking her head at his offer of wine. ‘We’ve got all we need.’ Though whether the tumbling circulation figures would be boosted by the feature in next month’s issue was highly debatable.
Neil’s brown eyes roamed her pale face. ‘You look bushed. You should find yourself a proper job!’ He abandoned the food in favour of a glass of red wine. ‘Hang on a sec and I’ll give you a lift home. I take it I’m invited to your engagement bash tomorrow night?’
‘Of course. The more the merrier.’ Lisa smiled then, her first genuine smile of the evening. A comforting warmth flooded through her, swamping out the unsettling sensation of being watched.
Dear Ben. She’d do her best to make him a good wife. No grand passion for either of them and that, they’d decided, was actually a bonus. There would be no ephemeral highs or debilitating lows in their relationship. They had discussed it, accepted it—embraced it, even. A safe marriage, a secure one, affection and respect on both sides was all either of them wanted. She didn’t know about Ben but she guessed he was too pragmatic to harbour strong emotions; and as for her, well, the events of five years ago had put her right off the concept of passionate love. She would never again feel so deeply about anyone as she once had for the Spaniard. Which was a blessing. The stronger the emotions, the greater the hurt.
Unnervingly, the feeling of being watched came back again with a vengeance.
