he’d lavished time and money on, but which only served to remind him of the emptiness at the heart of his life.
He poured Scotch into a glass, sank into the comfort of a soft leather armchair and stared out across the river. He wasn’t seeing the boats, didn’t notice the lights that were coming on as dusk settled over the city, blurring the familiar skyline. All he could see was Francesca Lang. Not sombre in black with her hair coiled up off her neck, but the way she’d looked the first time he’d set eyes on her.
He sipped the whisky, but its heat didn’t warm him. There was nothing in the world that could warm him other than the arms of a woman who was forbidden him in every code he lived by. A woman who today had looked at him as if he was something that had crawled out from under a stone. He’d anticipated a frosty reception, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of animosity. Every single word she’d uttered had felt like a blow. He’d been taking them from her all afternoon and he felt bruised to the bone.
He abandoned the whisky—there was no help for what ailed him in a bottle—got up and walked restlessly across to the window, seeking distraction. Finding none.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, closed his eyes. Running the endless loop of memory that was all he had of her.
If he’d had any idea what was coming he’d have been on his guard, but the moment Francesca had appeared in the doorway of that restaurant she’d stolen his wits as well as what passed for his heart, blind-siding him, so that he’d been exposed, vulnerable, and Steve—clever Steve—had instantly picked up the signals and positively revelled in the fact that, for the first time in his life, he had something that his half-brother wanted, something he could never have.
He hadn’t blamed him for that. He had just wanted to be somewhere else, a million miles from the restaurant, but there had been no escape. There had been an entire evening to get through first and all he could do was pull down the mental shutters, shake Steve’s hand, brush Francesca’s cheek with his lips as he welcomed her into the family, congratulated her. It had been a quiet torture then and the slow drip of it had never left him.
His mind, stuck in an endless re-run that he couldn’t escape—didn’t want to escape—continued to play that moment over and over every time he stopped concentrating on something else. Every time he closed his eyes.
The peachy softness of her cheek. A subtle scent that hadn’t come from any bottle but was a fusion of her hair, the warmth of her body, her clothes, the fresh air she’d brought in with her, all enhanced by a touch of something exotic and rich. He’d had three years to analyse it, reduce it to its constituent parts.
All he had been able to do was wish them well, be glad that Steve had finally found what he’d always been searching for. Someone who loved him. Someone who would always be there. A family of his own.
And live with it.
Attempt to carry on a normal conversation.
‘Where are you planning to live?’ he’d asked. ‘Steve’s flat isn’t big enough for two, let alone a baby.’ It was like prodding himself with a hot needle.
‘We’re looking around for just the right place…’ Then, with a casual shrug, Steve added, ‘Fran and I looked at the Elton Street house yesterday.’
His heart missed a beat as he forced himself to turn to Francesca, include her in the conversation. ‘Did you like it?’
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
‘Fran fell head over heels in love with it,’ Steve said emphatically. ‘I’d like to come and see you tomorrow. Talk about it.’
He ignored the opening his brother had left him.
Maybe he was the one avoiding eye contact. Avoiding a repeat of that moment when, with one look, the entire world seemed to slide into place and lock with an almost audible click; the kick-in-the-stomach pain that went with the loss of something precious.
He forced himself to look directly at her.
‘You would like to live there?’ he asked.
For a moment something shimmered between them as, very quietly, she said, ‘It felt like home.’
He dragged himself back from the edge. From stepping off. From saying, Come with me and I will give you everything your heart desires. The house, my heart, my life…
‘Then I’m sure Steve will find a way to give it to you.’
‘It depends on the price. Unlike you, brother, I don’t have unlimited means at my disposal.’
‘No one has unlimited means.’ But he’d got the picture. The reason for the invitation to dinner. The last time he’d had a call from his half-brother—make that every time he’d had a call from him—it had been to ‘borrow’ money, on the last occasion to ask for start-up funds for his latest business venture. He’d assumed tonight was going to be more of the same, but clearly it wasn’t to help with some half-baked business plan he wanted this time.
‘Have you set a wedding date?’ he asked, evading a direct answer and Steve didn’t push. He clearly didn’t want Francesca to know that he was asking for help with finance. But then why would he push? In the past all he’d had to do was lay out his desires and wait for guilt to do the rest.
‘Wedding? Who said anything about getting married?’
‘Isn’t that the obvious next step?’ He looked at Steve. A youthful marriage was the one mistake he hadn’t been called to bail him out of, but anything was possible. ‘Unless there’s some good reason why you shouldn’t?’ He managed a grin of sorts. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me?’
Steve grinned right back. ‘Relax, Guy. I don’t have a secret wife or three tucked away. Fran’s the only woman I’ve ever wanted to settle down with.’
‘Then what’s your problem?’ If Francesca Lang had been his, nothing on earth would have stopped him from swearing his undying love in front of as many witnesses as he could cram into one room. Making that public vow to love and honour and keep her, in sickness and in health, for as long as they both should live… ‘If you’re setting up home together, having a baby…’
It was like poking a sore tooth. Something he knew he’d regret, but he couldn’t stop himself.
‘For heaven’s sake, listen to yourself. Marriage is meaningless in this day and age. An anachronism. Outdated. Just a way of keeping lawyers fat when it all goes wrong.’
He glanced at Francesca to see how she was taking that ‘when’, but she was looking down at her plate.
With no clue as to her feelings, he shrugged and said, ‘I believe you’ll find that even in the twenty-first century it offers some benefits.’ What they were, beyond the special bond that swearing till-death-us-do-part vows to one another, he couldn’t immediately summon to mind. But then that would be enough for him.
‘The chance to dress up and have a party? I don’t think we need to go to church first, do you?’ Then, ‘Look, you know the kind of nasty divorce Dad went through with my mother. Fran’s been through much the same thing with her parents.’ Steve leaned across and took her hand, grasping it in his, emphasising their relationship. ‘We’re
