Or because, beneath his glossy patina of success, he was wounded and hurting inside and that made her want to reach out to protect him?
He lifted a strand of hair and wound it slowly around his finger and Tara was reminded of one of those fishermen back home—the way they used to slowly reel in their catch, before leaving the floundering fish gasping for air on the quayside.
‘You still haven’t been shopping,’ he observed.
‘I know.’ She shrugged her bare shoulders. ‘But I haven’t seemed to be able to find the time.’
‘Then make the time, Tara. Better still. Why don’t I schedule an appointment with a personal shopper and drop you off at Bloomingdale’s? That way you won’t be able to wriggle out of it the way you seem to have been doing.’
She blinked. ‘What’s Bloomingdale’s?’
He frowned. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘Lucas, this is a big city and I’m exploring it the best I can! I can’t be expected to know every single name which trips off your tongue.’
‘It just happens to be one of the best department stores in the city, possibly the world,’ he commented drily. ‘And I’ll drop you off there tomorrow morning, on my way to work.’
‘But we might not be able to get an appointment so soon,’ she objected.
His brief smile managed to be both dismissive and entitled. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he drawled as he parted her thighs with insistent fingers. ‘We’ll get one. You haven’t forgotten that you’re cooking dinner for six on Friday, have you?’
‘No, Lucas. I haven’t forgotten. I’ve been racking my brains to come up with a menu for days.’ She swallowed. ‘And you doing that to me isn’t exactly helping me work out what to give them for dessert.’
‘Damn the dessert,’ he growled.
But by the following morning Tara felt sick with nerves at the thought of presenting herself to a professional stylist, horribly aware of the plainness and age of her bra and pants and wishing she could skip the whole ordeal. Because it turned out that Lucas had been right and there were any number of slots available for a man like him at short notice.
Reluctantly, she joined him in the back of his car, which then proceeded to get snarled up in the early-morning traffic. It was stop-start all the way and Tara started to feel even more queasy. ‘It’s very stuffy in here.’
‘I’ll turn up the A/C.’
‘I don’t want any more air-conditioning. I want to get out and walk,’ she croaked.
He shot her a quick glance. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I will be when I’m outside in the fresh air.’
‘Fine. Come on, I’ll walk you there.’
‘Honestly, there’s no need. I can find the store perfectly well on my own and I don’t want you to be late for your meeting.’
‘Tara,’ he said patiently, his voice underpinned with a hint of impatience. ‘It’s pointless objecting. I’m taking you there. End of discussion.’
He tapped the glass and spoke to his driver, then helped Tara out of the car. She saw a glamorous woman blinking at her in bemusement as she stepped onto the sidewalk in her sweatpants and trainers, swamped by a big old anorak she’d brought with her from Dublin. But it was great to be outside, despite the stationary traffic and ever-hooting cars. As Lucas fell into a steady walk beside her, she thought how well he seemed to know the streets and when she remarked on this, he shrugged.
‘I grew up near here.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I think it does.’ She came to a sudden halt and a speed-walking man who was holding a cup of coffee above his head had to swerve to avoid her. ‘I’d like to see where you lived, please.’
Lucas bit back an exasperated retort, but he altered his steps accordingly, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. If it had been any other woman than Tara he would have refused point-blank. He would have delivered a rebuke which suggested that unless she started behaving as he wanted her to behave, their relationship would be over. But it wasn’t any other woman. It was Tara and she was pregnant and therefore he could never completely finish a relationship with her because, one way or another, they would be tied through their child for the rest of their lives. He wondered if she had any idea how much that terrified him or if she’d begun to guess at the self-doubts which flooded through him. Was that why there had been a subtle shift in her mood lately? Why she’d become unpredictable and emotional. Had it just dawned on her that he could never be the man she probably wanted him to be? Why, only yesterday when he’d arrived home, her eyes had been red-rimmed from crying and she’d been unwilling to provide an explanation of what had upset her. It was only later that she’d blurted out about hearing a radio request show playing ‘Danny Boy’, after which she’d been overcome by a wave of temporary homesickness.
Deep down, he knew their situation was untenable in its current form. That in just over six months’ time she would give birth to his child and everything would change. He realised that she wanted reassurance he would be there for her, and in the important ways he would. Providing for her financially was always going to be simple—but giving her the emotional support he suspected she needed was not. Why promise to be the man he could never be? Why bolster her hopes, only to smash them and let her down? Surely it would be kinder to let her know where she stood right from the start.
His footsteps slowed as he reached Upper East Side, his heart clenching as he came to a halt outside an opulent mansion which was edged by elegant railings and neatly trimmed greenery. Outwardly, it seemed that very little had changed. There were still those two old-fashioned-looking streetlights he’d used to stare down on from within the echoing loneliness of his childhood bedroom.
‘This is it,’ he said reluctantly, his gaze lifting upwards to the four-storeyed building.
‘Gosh,’ breathed Tara, loosening her long scarf as she craned her neck to look up at it. ‘It’s massive. You must have rattled around in it like peas inside a tin can.’
He gave a bitter smile. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Furniture and objects can occupy an astonishing amount of space and it’s amazing what you can do with nineteen rooms and an unlimited budget. Especially when someone else is paying for it.’
‘Nineteen rooms?’ she verified incredulously. ‘In New York?’
He nodded. ‘The dining room was modelled on the one at the Palace of Versailles and there’s a hand-painted ballroom with a pure gold ceiling—not to mention a corridor wide enough to ride a bicycle down.’
‘Is that what you used to do?’
‘Only once,’ he said flatly. That had been the first time his ‘father’ had hit him. His nanny—one in a long line of indifferent women in whose care he’d spent most of his time—had spotted the bruise when he was getting ready for bed, readily accepting his explanation that he’d acquired it after falling over. Later he’d discovered that the nanny in question had been sleeping with Diego. He’d overheard an indiscreet maid exclaiming that the woman had been discovered naked with him on the floor of the library, a litter of used condoms beside them. All he could remember about that particular incident had been his mother screaming. And then sobbing as she had dramatically stabbed at her wrists with a blunt blade which had refused to cut.
Tara stared at him. ‘You must have felt very isolated there. My own...’ she ventured hesitantly, before plucking up the courage to say it. To reassure him that her own life hadn’t been all roses around the cottage door. Well, it had—but there had been very sharp thorns on those roses. ‘My own childhood was pretty isolated. In fact, my grandmother—’
‘Look, I really don’t have time for this,’ he said, with an impatient narrowing of his eyes as he glanced at his watch. ‘And I have an imminent meeting. The city tour is over and so is the glimpse into my past. Come on, let’s get you to Bloomingdale’s—it’s only ten minutes�
�� walk away.’
His dismissive attitude hurt. It hurt far more than it should have done, but that was a result of her own stubbornness—not something he had done. Because Lucas was just behaving in the way he’d always behaved. How many times did he need to say it for her to finally get the message that he wasn’t interested in deepening their relationship? He didn’t want to know about her past. What had made her the person she was. What had made her happy and what had given her pain. She was someone he was forced to spend time with because of the baby and someone he liked having sex with, but that was as far as it went.
So put up or shut up, she told herself fiercely as Bloomingdale’s came into view—with all the different flags fluttering in the autumn breeze and a quirkily dressed brunette called Jessica waiting for them. After initial introductions, she gave Tara a thorough once-over before fixing her with a warm smile and turning to Lucas.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Conway. She’s in good hands.’
Lucas gave a brief nod. ‘Thanks. Just do what it takes. I’ll be back tomorrow night in time for dinner, Tara. Okay?’
Tara nodded and thought how crazy the whole situation was. Right up until they’d left the apartment that morning they’d been hungrily exploring each other’s bodies—yet now, in the cold and clear light of day, she was expected to give him a cool farewell, as if she meant nothing to him.
Because she didn’t.
‘Right,’ said Jessica, turning towards Tara as Lucas’s car pulled away from the kerb. ‘Let’s get this fairy dust working.’
It was an experience Tara had never thought could happen to someone like her. Pushing all her troubled thoughts resolutely from her mind, she felt positively Cinderella-like as Jessica led her through all the plush and beautifully lit departments, which were perfumed with all manner of delicious scents. She’d been planning to purchase only a modest wardrobe but it seemed Lucas had forewarned the personal shopper this might be the case because she was overruled in pretty much everything.
‘I’ve never owned a shirt like this before,’ she observed wonderingly, running her fingertips over the delicate fabric. ‘I’ll save it for best.’
‘Ah, but you’ll need more than one,’ responded Jessica, with a smile. ‘Which means you won’t have to.’
In the space of a couple of hours, Tara went from being someone who’d never owned a single silk shirt, to someone who now had several. For the snowy New York winter she snuggled into an oversized metallic anorak, its hood lined with shaggy faux fur, which Jessica told her was fresh off the runway, while for more formal occasions came a mid-length coat in midnight blue, the warmest coat Tara had ever worn. An accompanying cobalt scarf was plucked from a rainbow selection and Jessica’s gaze travelled ruefully to the overly long home-knit, which lay abandoned on a nearby chair like a large and neglected woollen snake. ‘You might want to find that another home,’ she suggested gently.
Tara felt a momentary pang before being persuaded into the first of many dresses—slinky shirtwaisters and soft knits which Jessica said emphasised her slim frame. Next came boots—long boots and ankle boots—plus a pair of trendy shoes with lace inserts to go with a swingy chiffon shirt and boxy denim jacket. There were exquisite embroidered bras and matching thongs, as well as T-shirt bras with more practical pants. And Tara felt momentarily overwhelmed as she acknowledged that it had been Lucas’s murmured appreciation which had made her revel in her own body instead of being ashamed of it. He’d never moaned about the state of her underwear, had he? Not really. He’d always been more concerned in taking it off than complaining about how faded it was.
She blinked away the sudden tears which had sprung to her eyes as she tried on the jeans which were an entirely different breed from the baggy ones which had always been her mainstay. Fashioned from soft and stretchy denim, they hugged her bottom but allowed for future expansion, though there was still no visible sign of a pregnancy bump. She wanted to tell the shopper that in a few months’ time none of these gorgeous outfits would fit—but she could hardly start telling her personal business to a complete stranger, could she?
‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs Conway,’ said Jessica as the session drew to a close.
Tara shook her head—despairing at her instinctive pang of yearning at the thought of being Lucas’s wife. It’s because your own mother was never married, she told herself. Nor her mother before that. You’re just secretly craving the respectability you never had, which made your own childhood such a misery. But things are different these days and nobody cares if a child is born out of wedlock. ‘I’m not Lucas’s wife,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m actually his housekeeper—and I was wondering if you happen to sell aprons here?’
To Jessica’s credit, she didn’t look a bit fazed by what have been an unusual request. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
The morning ended with a rock-star experience at the hair salon, where Tara sipped cinnamon-flavoured latte as large chunks were hacked from her curls. The result was...well, unbelievable, really—and several of the stylists had clustered around the mirror to say so. Her hair looked just as thick as before but it was more...manageable somehow. Little fronds framed her face and, where layers had been chopped into it, the colour seemed more intense and the texture more lustrous. She was aware of heads turning as she left the salon in her brand-new jeans, pale jumper and the boxy denim jacket. And she’d never had that experience before. Of men’s eyes following her as she slid into the back of the chauffeur-driven car which Lucas had ordered for her.
She remembered her grandmother’s disapproval of fancy clothes—understandable given her own monastic upbringing, but a bit tough on a growing teenager who had been forced to wear second-hand outfits, which had only increased the amount of bullying she’d received.
The apartment was quiet and, since Lucas wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, she had a whole day and a night without him. The only time she’d been on her own since she’d arrived here—which meant no distractions as she prepared for her very first dinner party in America. She looked down at the list of people he’d invited—an official from the Irish embassy and his wife, an Italian businessman named Salvatore di Luca and his girlfriend Alicia, and an ‘unnamed guest’ who seemed to have been added since last time she’d looked at it.
She wasn’t going to deny that it was going to be weird serving Lucas and his guests and playing the role of servant, all the while knowing she would be sharing his bed once everyone had gone home. But surely it was better that way.
It had to be. Because if they stopped being lovers... She bit her lip and silently corrected herself. When they stopped being lovers, if the baby drove a wedge between them, or when he tired of her as history dictated he would—then surely it would be less traumatic not to have become used to being his partner in public, and then have that role wrenched away from her. Such a brutal change of circumstance would surely leave her feeling neglected, unloved and unwanted.
And hadn’t she already experienced enough of those feelings to last a lifetime?
Smoothing down her pale cashmere sweater, she went into the kitchen, realising that she needed to get a move on with her planning. Without her stack of cookery books, she was forced to fire up her computer to look up some recipes online, but she scrolled through them uninterestedly.
Until suddenly she had a brilliant idea.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE FIRST THING Lucas heard when he walked through the door was the sound of music. His steps stilled and he paused to listen, even though he was running late. Irish music. Some softly lilting air which managed to be both mournful and uplifting at the same time—in the way of all Irish music. He frowned as he heard a peel of laughter which sounded familiar and then the chink of crystal, followed by more laughter.
With a quick glance at his watch he moved swiftly towards the library, quietly pushing open the door to see his guests
standing with their backs to him, listening to something Tara was saying as she tilted a bottle of champagne into someone’s glass.
He almost did a double-take as for a moment he felt as if the light were playing tricks on him, because the woman in question looked like Tara and sounded like Tara, and yet...
He screwed up his eyes.
And yet...
Surely that wasn’t Tara?
Her hair was scooped on top of her head but for once there wasn’t a riot of frizzy curls tumbling around her face. The sleek red waves were coiled like sleeping serpents—emphasising the slim, pale column of her neck. He swallowed, because her hair wasn’t the only thing which was different. She was wearing a dress. And stockings. And... Again, he frowned. She had on some flirty little apron which made her look... She looked as if she was about to leave for a party where the specified dress code was Sexy French Maid. His groin grew rocky and he realised he didn’t want to focus on her appearance, or the evening was going to become one long endurance test before he could take her to bed.
He realised his guests must have heard him for they were turning to greet him and as he apologised for his lateness he saw a wry look on Brett Henderson’s face—because, as a world-acclaimed movie star and key member of British acting royalty, he wasn’t used to being kept waiting.
But Lucas’s somewhat garbled explanations about late planes and fog on the San Franciscan runway were cut short by a dismissive wave from the Irish Embassy official.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, Lucas—we’ve been fine here.’ Seamus Hennessy beamed, and so did his wife, Erin. ‘We’re hardly missed you at all and Tara’s been looking after us grandly, so she has!’
For the first time since he’d walked in, Tara turned to look at him and gave a shy smile, which contrasted with the sensual allure of her outfit, and Lucas was taken aback by the resultant shiver which rippled its way down his spine as he met her heavy-hooded amber gaze. He found himself wishing he could just dismiss the guests, skip supper and take her straight to bed—yet his need for her unsettled him.
The Argentinian's Baby 0f Scandall (One Night With Consequences) Page 12