stood up, putting his papers back in his attaché case. Lizzie saw a glimpse of sketches, strong pencil lines that didn’t look like the usual architectural blueprints, but they were slipped out of sight before she could guess what they were.
Clutching her handbag, she followed Cormac into the queue. They’d already been assigned seats and the airline attendants were cloyingly deferential as they led Cormac to two sumptuous reclining seats in soft grey leather.
Lizzie followed behind, feeling out of place and yet helplessly giddy at the blatant luxury. The feelings intensified when they sat down and an attendant offered them champagne and a crystal bowl full of strawberries.
Lizzie took the flute awkwardly, rotated the fragile crystal stem between her slick fingers. ‘Some service.’
‘First class,’ Cormac dismissed, and pushed his glass away, untouched.
Lizzie took a cautious sip. She hadn’t had champagne in years, not since before her parents had died, and then only a sip or two on Hogmanay or birthdays. Now the bubbles tickled her throat and her nose, made her feel a bit dizzy.
Or was it just the total unreality of the situation, sitting in first class, sipping champagne with Cormac Douglas?
Cormac was staring broodingly out of the window, the bare, brown fields and leafless trees stark against a slate-grey sky. Lizzie put her champagne flute down and glanced around at the other first-class passengers settling themselves.
A polished woman in designer denim shot her a look of pure envy and, startled, Lizzie realised the woman must think she and Cormac were a couple.
Lovers.
She glanced back at her boss, still lost in his own thoughts. His face was in profile and she could see the strong, clean line of his jaw. She was close enough even to see the glint of gold stubble on his chin, the way his close-cropped brown hair was streaked by the sun.
She turned away abruptly.
Soon the rest of the passengers were settled and the plane began to taxi towards the runway. Lizzie leaned back in her seat, her nerves beginning a sudden, frantic flutter in her middle.
Cormac saw her fingers curl around the armrest and raised one eyebrow. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘A bit,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘I’ve never flown before.’
‘But you had a passport.’
‘I went to Paris by train once.’ As an escort for Dani’s fifth form field trip, but she let Cormac think what he liked.
Apparently he didn’t think much for he raised his eyebrows and murmured, ‘I see.’
Soon the plane was lifting into a steely sky and Lizzie felt her stomach dip. Once the craft levelled out, she felt more relaxed and her fingers loosened on the armrest.
Above the clouds, the sky was a deep, clear purple, a cloak of twilight, smooth and soft. Lizzie let out a little sigh.
The attendant came to take drink orders and she asked for an orange juice. Cormac asked for the same.
Once the attendant had moved on, he turned to her, eyes suddenly flinty and cold. His mouth was set and a furrow was in the middle of his forehead. ‘We need to talk.’
Lizzie set her orange juice down. ‘Okay.’
‘Your role in this weekend’s meetings is…important.’
Lizzie raised her eyebrows, bemused. Shorthand and shuffling papers was important? ‘I understand,’ she began carefully, feeling he required some response, ‘that you want to put forth an impeccable—’
‘Do you know anything about the Hassells?’ he demanded, cutting her off, and Lizzie shrugged.
‘Only what you’ve told me. They own an island in the Dutch Antilles, and they finally want to build a resort there.’
His mouth thinned and he reached down to extract a newspaper clipping from his attaché case. ‘Read that.’
Lizzie took the clipping with cautious curiosity. The Hassells: A Family, A Dynasty the headline read. The article described the family, a Dutch dynasty that had lived on Sint Rimbert for over a hundred years. She read about Jan Hassell, his wife, Hilda, and their three sons, all entrepreneurs in various cities across the globe.
The family was focused on developing the local economy, keeping the island eco-friendly and retaining ‘the family values the Hassells have cherished for a century’. The write-up was glowing indeed, and she looked up to see Cormac scowling at her.
‘Now do you understand?’
She didn’t. ‘They seem like a nice family,’ she said as she handed back the clipping. Not the type of people to care about whether a secretary wore designer clothes, either, although she bit her tongue to stop herself from voicing that thought aloud.
‘Family values,’ Cormac said, glancing down at the article. His voice was a sneer.
His face was dark, as if a storm had gathered in his thoughts. Lizzie struggled for something to say to lighten the mood. ‘They’re clearly not in it just for the money,’ she ventured. The article had described the Hassells’ decision to build a resort—‘a way of sharing the beauty of our island with the world.’A bit saccharine, perhaps, but a pretty sentiment nonetheless.
‘Everyone’s in it for the money,’ Cormac said flatly. He glanced over at her, his expression now alarmingly neutral. ‘The Hassells want an architect with family values, as well,’ he continued. ‘They’ve invited three architects to this weekend—the short-list—including me. As far as I can tell, they want everyone sitting round playing Happy Families and singing campfire songs.’
Lizzie stared at him, wondering what was coming next. Cormac Douglas was about as far from family values as a man could get.
‘They invited you to Sint Rimbert,’ she repeated hesitantly, trying to make sense of what he was telling her. ‘So whatever they think about family values…’
‘They invited me,’ Cormac interjected, ‘because I told them I was newly married and looking forward to having a family.’
Lizzie’s mouth dropped open. ‘But…that’s not true…’
‘It is,’ he replied with a faint feral smile, ‘for the purposes of this weekend.’
Lizzie blinked. Her stomach dipped, dropped. She wanted to make sense of what Cormac was saying, yet she had the odd feeling that if she put two and two together she’d get about twenty. Cormac was gazing at her steadily, coldly, his expression like a vice on her mind. Her soul.
‘So…how…?’ She shook her head, licked her lips. Her mouth was dry and she took a sip of orange juice. It felt like acid coating her throat. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she finally asked, and her voice came out in little more than a scratchy whisper.
‘I’m telling you,’ Cormac replied with icy precision, ‘that this weekend you’re not my secretary. You’re my wife.’
