Seymour found her voice first. ‘But that’s quite impossible,’ she declared. ‘It’s awfully good of you, of course, Diaz, but you’re Carrie’s cousin. She’s being married from your house. You can’t possibly miss the family dinner.’
‘If you recall, it was by no means certain that I was even coming to the wedding.’ Diaz’s tone was dry. ‘And I doubt I’ll be here for the ceremony even now. But the occasion will still go ahead without me.’ He paused. ‘And I believe Rhianna was a late entry to the guest list too,’ he added gently. ‘Which would seem to make us an ideal pairing.’
‘Except that it’s totally absurd,’ Moira Seymour said angrily. ‘You can’t possibly want…’ She paused, as if realising her next comment might be infelicitous. ‘I mean, I can’t allow you to sacrifice yourself like this, my dear Diaz. Miss Carlow—Rhianna—wouldn’t expect it.’
‘Please don’t regard me as some kind of victim.’ He sounded amused. ‘Perhaps you don’t realise there isn’t a man in England who wouldn’t jump at the chance of dinner à deux with television’s top fantasy woman.’
Isn’t there? thought Rhianna. Isn’t there? Because I can think of one standing only a few feet away right now. So why are you doing this? Why?
‘Besides, just think of the moral victory you’ll score over Margaret Rawlins,’ he went on. ‘Arming for a battle and finding it’s been cancelled. All the Brownie points for good behaviour to our side, and only at the cost of two new place-cards.’
He turned to Rhianna. ‘I know you must be disappointed at missing out, but comfort yourself with the knowledge that you’ve headed off yet another difficulty at this happy time, and can bask in the bridegroom’s undying gratitude.’
He allowed an instant’s silence for her to digest this, then smiled at her charmingly. ‘So, are you prepared to make this sacrifice, Rhianna—for Simon’s sake, if nothing else?’
She met his gaze, hard and metallic, like silver. Read its challenge, which held no charm at all.
‘Put like that,’ she said coldly and clearly, ‘how can I possibly refuse?’
His smile widened. ‘Oh, I’m sure we can both think of a number of ways,’ he said softly.
He turned to Moira Seymour, whose expression was still set in stone. ‘I suggest Rhianna goes with you to the hotel for a token appearance at the pre-dinner drinks, which will thrill the Castle Pride fans, and then I’ll whisk her away before the management start counting heads. Agreed?’
‘I suppose so.’ It was Carrie who spoke, her tone reluctant. She walked over to Rhianna and slid an arm through hers. ‘Although it’s the last thing I’d planned—to have two of my favourite people missing.’ She frowned fiercely. ‘But it’s a solution to a problem that should never have arisen, and I shall tell Simon so.’
‘Well, don’t be too fierce.’ Diaz smiled at her. ‘Or he might change his mind and not turn up on Saturday.’
She relaxed, grinning back at him. ‘Never in this world,’ she said.
While Rhianna, her own face expressionless, drank some lemonade and felt it turn to pure acid in her throat.
THE dinner that followed was not the easiest Rhianna had ever sat through, although the watercress soup, the ducklings with kumquats, and the crème brûlée which rounded off the meal were all flawless.
At another time she’d have been irritated by Moira Seymour’s faintly fretful monologue about the wedding, and the problems arising from it, all attributable to Margaret Rawlins, a subject from which she refused to be diverted despite her husband and daughter’s best efforts.
But Rhianna was simply thankful not to be required either to contribute or even to listen.
On the other hand, she realised tautly, an absorbing conversation on some neutral topic might have proved a distraction from the presence of Diaz, equally silent, on the other side of the table.
When coffee had been drunk he excused himself, pausing briefly beside Rhianna’s chair on his way to the door. His brief smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Until tomorrow evening, then. At the hotel.’
She made herself look back at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course. Until then.’
And only she was aware that the hand replacing her cup on its saucer was not entirely steady.
‘You didn’t eat much at dinner,’ Carrie commented critically, as the pair of them walked on the headland later, enjoying the cool, moonlit stillness. ‘But be warned—you’re not allowed to be ill—not just before my big day.’
‘I think I’m just a little tense,’ Rhianna admitted, trying to inject some lightness into her tone. ‘Thinking more about tomorrow night’s meal instead.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Carrie consoled her. ‘In fact, though I hate to admit it, you’ll probably be far better off elsewhere.’ She grimaced. ‘This family dinner promises to be tricky in the extreme, accompanied by a strong whiff of burning martyrs. And after all,’ she added, ‘it’s not the first time Diaz has taken you out to dinner à deux.’
Rhianna stared at her, her throat tightening. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your birthday treat,’ Carrie prompted. ‘You can’t have forgotten the high note of your early teens? I’ve never been so jealous in my life.’
‘No,’ Rhianna said quietly after a pause. ‘I—hadn’t forgotten.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘I might walk down to the cove before I turn in. I love seeing the moon on the water. Want to come?’
‘Not in these heels,’ Carrie demurred. ‘And you take care, too,’ she added severely. ‘I’m not having you hobbling into church with a broken ankle either.’
‘All right, Granny,’ Rhianna said meekly, and dodged, laughing.
A broken ankle would heal, she thought as she made her way down the track. But what do you do about a breaking heart? And how do you prevent the ache of all the lonely years ahead of you?
Shoes in hand, she walked down the beach until she reached a particular flat rock, and sat down, looking at the sea, smooth as glass in the moonlight.
Nothing to be seen this time. No movement in the water. No dark head, sleek and glossy as a seal’s, breaking its surface in the glitter of the late afternoon sun of that long-ago day.
Although she’d been too immersed in her own unhappiness to notice anything around her. Or not immediately, anyway.
Her thirteenth birthday, she’d been thinking with desolation. And no one had remembered. She’d received no presents. Not even a card. And Aunt Kezia hadn’t even wished her Many happy returns of the day. While Carrie, who would at least have sung ‘Happy Birthday’, was away on a school field trip.
She’d waited in vain all day for something—anything.
