was being ridiculous, she told herself sternly, reaching into her pocket for her key. They’d spent whole days in bed before he’d gone away and gone for hours without speaking a word, lost in each other’s bodies or just lying with their limbs entwined, reading. It wasn’t a sign that something was wrong. If anything, surely it was the opposite?
She slid the key into the lock and opened the door.
The house was silent, but the atmosphere was different now Kit was home. There was a charge to it. An electricity, which both excited and unnerved her. Going into the sleek granite and steel kitchen, she remembered what she’d said to Jasper about wanting a home. The flowers she’d bought in
such a surge of optimism and excitement stood in the centre of the black granite worktop, a splash of colour against the masculine monochrome.
She put the kettle on.
For the last five months this had been her home, around the time she’d spent in Romania filming the stupid vampire movie, but now Kit was back it suddenly seemed to be his house again, a place where she was the guest. Even her flowers looked wrong—as out of place as her low-rent white sliced bread in his designer bread bin and her instant coffee in his tasteful Conran Shop mugs.
Dispiritedly she spooned fragrant, freshly ground Fairtrade coffee into the coffee maker, hoping she’d got that right at least. Taking down a tray, she set it with mugs, and milk in a little grey jug, but then wondered if that was trying too hard? After a moment’s indecision she took them off again. Pouring the coffee straight into the mugs, she picked them up and went to find Kit.
He was upstairs, in the room at the front of the house that he used as a study. Outside the half-open door she hesitated, then knocked awkwardly.
‘Yes?’
‘I made you some coffee.’
‘Thank you.’ From inside the room his voice was an amused drawl. ‘Do I have to come out to collect it, or are you going to bring it in?’
‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ she muttered, pushing the door open and going in.
The surface of the desk in front of him was covered in piles of letters, and the waste-paper bin was full of envelopes. Sophie felt a fresh wave of lust and love and shyness as she looked at him. The cuts over his cheekbones were still raw-looking, the bruising beneath his eyes still dark, making him look inexpressibly battered and weary.
‘Hmm … that’s a good point,’ he murmured wryly, trailinghis fingers up the back of her bare leg beneath the skirt of her little flowered dress as she bent to put the mug on the desk. ‘You are very disturbing.’
Desire leapt inside her, inflaming flesh that already burned. She doused it down. Turning round, she leaned her bottom on the edge of the desk and looked at him over the rim of her mug, determined to attempt a form of communication that didn’t end in orgasm for once.
‘So, is there anything interesting in all that?’
Picking up his coffee, Kit shrugged, his expression closed. ‘Not much. Bank statements and share reports. Some more information about the Alnburgh estate.’ He stopped and took a mouthful of coffee. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up a letter from one of the piles and held it out to her. ‘And this.’
Scanning down the first few formal lines, Sophie frowned in confusion.
‘What is it?’
‘A letter from Ralph’s solicitors in Hawksworth. They received this letter to forward on to me.’
He slid a folded piece of paper out from the pile and tossed it onto the desk beside her. Something in the abruptness of his movements told her that it was significant, though his face was as inscrutable as ever, his eyes opaque.
Warily Sophie picked up the thick pale blue paper and unfolded it. The script on it was even and sloping—the hand of a person who was used to writing letters rather than sending texts or emails, Sophie thought vaguely as she began to read.
My Dear Kit—
I know this letter will come as a surprise, and after all this time am not foolish enough to believe it will be a pleasant one, however I must put aside my selfish trepidation and confront things I should have dealt with a long time ago.
Sophie’s heart had started to beat very hard. She glanced up at Kit, her mouth open to say something, but his head was half turned away from her as he continued working his way through the pile of post, not inviting comment. She carried on reading.
I’m sorry—that’s the first thing I want to say, although those words are too little, too late. There is so much more I need to add to them. There are things I’d like to explain for my own selfish reasons, in the hope you might understand and perhaps even forgive, and other things I need to tell you that are very much in your interest. Things that will affect you now, and will go on affecting your family far into the future.
A pulse of adrenaline hit Sophie’s bloodstream as she read that bit. She carried on, skimming faster now, impatient to find out what it all meant.
The last thing I want to do is pressure you for any kind of response, so on the basis that you have my address at the top of this letter and the warmest and most sincere of invitations to come here at any time to suit you, I will leave you to make your own decision.
Know, though, how much it would mean to me to see you.
Your hopeful mother Juliet Fitzroy
Slowly Sophie put down the letter, her head spinning.
‘So your mother wants you to go and see her?’ she said, admittedly rather stupidly.
Kit tossed another envelope into the bin. ‘So it would appear, Mr Holmes.’
‘Will you go?’ With shaking fingers Sophie scrabbled to
unfold the paper again, to see where exactly Juliet Fitzroy lived. ‘Imlil,’ she said in a puzzled voice, then read the line below on the address. ‘Blimey—Morocco?’
‘Exactly.’ Kit sounded offhand to the point of boredom as the contents of the envelope followed it into the bin. ‘It’s not exactly a few stops on the District line, and I can’t think what she could say that would make the trip worthwhile.’
Sophie tapped a finger against her closed lips, her thoughts racing ahead. Morocco. Heat and sand and … harem pants. Probably. In truth she didn’t know an awful lot about Morocco beyond the fact that she’d always liked the sound of it and that, right now, it seemed like a very favourable alternative to Chelsea, and the oppressive atmosphere that seemed to be stifling them both in the quiet, immaculate house.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco,’ she said, with a hint of wistfulness. ‘I wonder how she ended up living there? And why she’s chosen to get in touch now, after all this time?’
‘I assume because she knows her little secret will have been uncovered by Ralph’s death.’ Kit was writing something on the bottom of a letter from the bank. ‘Perhaps she wants to introduce me to my real father—although that’s assuming she knows who he is. There could be thousands of possible
