Ultimate Heroes Collection

by Various Authors

  Lois’s mum’s boyfriend had attacked her? That explained why Lois had been so adamant that she couldn’t ring her mother. Sophie sat on the edge of Lois’s bed and put her arm around her. ‘Do you have a brother or a sister? An aunt you could talk to?’

  ‘Nobody. My dad’s family never wanted to know us, my mum’s an only child and so am I.’

  ‘Best friend?’ Sophie suggested.

  Lois shook her head. ‘I feel so dirty. I scrubbed myself in that shower. Several times. And I still don’t feel clean.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Sophie reminded her.

  ‘And my mum wouldn’t believe me. He’s probably told her I gave him the come-on, wearing short skirts and flaunting myself at him. She’ll just think I’m trying to split them up because I don’t like him.’

  With good reason, Sophie thought bitterly. But she understood exactly how Lois felt. She’d been there. Had tried to tell the truth, and hadn’t been believed.

  ‘He’s a lot younger than her. He’s only ten years older than me. She’ll blame me, say I was trying to take him from her.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t,’ Sophie soothed. When Lois was calm again, Sophie looked at her chart. ‘Last night, I was worried in case the bruising on your back was linked to kidney damage. The good news is, there aren’t any traces of blood in your urine, so I’m pretty sure that everything’s fine. The bruises should go down in a few days. If you want to go home, I can sign your discharge form—though you need to come back here and have your stitches removed by Charlie rather than go to your GP.’ She knew that removal of the sutures was almost as crucial as placing them in the first place. If they were taken out badly, the scars would be worse. She sighed. ‘I’d be a lot happier if you were going to stay with someone else.’ If she let Lois go back to her own place, what was to stop the man who’d raped her from trying it again?

  ‘There isn’t anywhere.’

  ‘Will you let me talk to the police?’

  Lois shook her head. ‘I can’t testify. I can’t.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Sophie said gently. ‘But they can find you a safe place to stay. And they’ll help you get your locks changed, that sort of thing.’

  Lois’s eyes looked haunted. ‘In case he comes back?’

  ‘They can do something. Get a court order to make him keep away from you. I don’t know a lot about the law, but I’m pretty sure your mum doesn’t have to be involved.’

  Lois sucked in a breath. ‘I.’

  ‘Let them help you,’ Sophie said. ‘And you need counselling. I’ll find the number for you.’

  And maybe, she thought, it’s time I called that number myself.

  To her relief, Charlie wasn’t on duty. And when she got home there was no message on her answering-machine. No note pushed through her door.

  She ought to ring him and explain. It was the least she could do. But when she got his answering-machine message again, she cut the connection. This wasn’t the sort of conversation she wanted to have with a machine. She needed to have it with Charlie himself. She sighed, then dialled another number. A call she should have made a long, long time ago.

  The longer Charlie walked on the Heath, the more his worries surfaced. He’d assumed that Sophie’s silence stemmed from embarrassment. Had he read it wrong? Was it really because she wasn’t interested and he didn’t mean that much to her? Was Seb right, and Charlie was just hopeless when it came to women, letting them walk all over him?

  He’d certainly been wrong about Julia.

  Maybe he was wrong about Sophie, too.

  He checked his answering-machine when he got home. Two messages: one from Vicky—who’d clearly talked to Seb—and an earlier one where someone had obviously dialled a wrong number and hadn’t hung up in time. No point in wondering if it had been Sophie. There was no message.

  And she didn’t call him later in the day either. Or that evening. Nothing but silence.

  Facing her on Monday morning was tough. His body urged him to pull her into his arms and kiss away all the barriers between them. His mind knew better. So he simply nodded coolly at her, as if she were just another colleague at the Hampstead General. ‘Morning, Dr Harrison.’

  ‘Morning,’ she replied, equally coolly.

  The prickle of tension at the back of Charlie’s neck turned to a burn as he realised what she’d just said. She hadn’t even used his name. And her face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Not a bloody thing. His stomach clenched as he realised that the doubts he’d had yesterday were more than justified. He’d been kidding himself, Saturday night really hadn’t meant anything to her. She didn’t care for him at all.

  What an idiot he was. He’d sworn to himself that he’d never make the same mistake again. Never let himself be used, the way Julia had used him. And what had he just done? Lived up to his stereotype. Baron Charlie: ‘fraightfully naice’ but terribly dim.

  Julia had used him to get herself the lifestyle she wanted. She’d wanted to be Baroness Radley, invited to all the best parties, with a name that would open any door. She’d just forgotten to inform him of the fact that she was in love with someone else. That she’d even been sleeping with that someone else up to the week before she’d planned to marry Charlie. Had he not found it out for himself in the cruellest possible circumstances, Charlie would never have believed it. He’d have been mug enough to marry Julia. And then he’d have had to plunge the family into debt to escape from the sham marriage.

  His brother’s words echoed in his head. There’s looking after, and there’s being taken advantage of. You’re such a soft touch …

  He’d been so sure that Sophie was different. But she wasn’t. OK, so she wasn’t a gold-digger, but she’d wanted something specific from him, too. She’d been upset on Saturday night—and he knew she’d been telling the truth about that. But, now he thought about it, maybe she’d thawed out towards him a bit too quickly. She hated upper-class men because she’d been hurt by them. She’d pigeonholed him along with the rest of them. On Saturday night she’d been prepared to make love with him. And now the agenda was obvious: upper-class twit hurts her, different upper-class twit heals her, all’s right with her world.

  ‘And you,’ Charlie said savagely to himself as he closed his office door behind him, ‘are most definitely an upper-class twit.’

  From now on, things would be strictly professional between them. He’d definitely learned his lesson: twice bitten, always shy. The damned title would just have to pass to Seb or—since Seb probably wouldn’t ever settle down and have kids—to another branch of the family. Because Charlie wasn’t going to get married or have kids to saddle with it. Ever.

  So much for caring. So much for wanting to make her feel better. She’d cried over him, she’d poured her heart out. And he hadn’t even asked her how she was! OK, so she’d left without a word yesterday morning. But surely he was bright enough to realise that she’d just panicked?

  Sophie’s lip curled. No, she’d read it all wrong. All that had been between them had been sexual attraction. He’d realised that she was attracted to him. He’d been using her to scratch an itch—and she’d been stupid enough to let him do it.

  It was like that postcard her friend Sandy had sent her from San Francisco, about what men said and what they really meant.

  ‘I’m hungry.’ Translation: I’m hungry.

  ‘I’m tired.’ Translation: I’m tired.

  ‘Your dress looks nice.’ Translation: I’d like to have sex with you.

  ‘Do you want to dance?’ Translation: I’d like to have sex with you.

  ‘Would you have dinner with me?’ Translation: I’d like to have sex with you.

  She’d been amused by it at the time. But now it wasn’t funny any more. It was too close to the bone. What had Charlie said? ‘No strings … I’ll just give you some space to be you.’ Translation: I’d like to have sex with you.

  How close she’d been to being really suckered.

  She just ho
ped that nobody in the department would ever find out that she’d spent Saturday night in Charlie’s bed. If they did, her life really wouldn’t be worth living.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FOR the first time in her entire career, Sophie didn’t stay late after her shift or arrive early that week. She wanted to minimise the chances of having to see Charlie. They maintained a veneer of civility, but whenever she caught his eye in Theatre his gaze was ice-cold. It was obvious that he despised her. Whatever he’d said to her on Saturday night, he’d had time to think about it—and he’d obviously come to exactly the same conclusion as Sophie’s tutor, all those years ago.

  Well, she didn’t care what he thought, she decided on Tuesday night when she knocked on the office door at the exact time for her appointment.

  ‘Miss Harrison? I’m Melanie Bridges. Do come in.’

  Melanie looked like everybody’s favourite aunt. In her late forties, Sophie guessed. She had a kind face, and Sophie knew that anything she told Melanie wouldn’t go any further. She was completely trustworthy.

  Just what Lois needed.

  And just what Sophie herself needed.

  After they’d dealt with the paperwork and Melanie had given her a glass of water, it was crunch time.

  Time to face up to her demons.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Melanie prompted softly.

  And Sophie began. She told Melanie everything she’d told Charlie. All her old feelings flooded back, the overpowering fear as they’d held her down and she’d realised how helpless she’d been. The shame at what had been happening. The disgust. The self-loathing. The nagging doubt that maybe, just maybe, it had been her fault. The way her tutor just hadn’t believed her. And there was that itchy, tight feeling all over her skin, as if mud and slime had caked all over her and was glued fast and would never come off again.

  Melanie sat there, not judging, just listening and handing Sophie a tissue when she needed one or topping up her glass of water after Sophie had tried unsuccessfully to swallow her emotions with her drink. A bitter pill that was too big, too difficult to swallow.

  ‘And I’m the first person you’ve told?’ Melanie asked, when Sophie had finished.

  Sophie shook her head. ‘Second.’ In some respects, it was easier to talk about it for the second time. ‘I don’t want to bury it anymore, pretend it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Which is good. If you hide it, it’ll just grow in the dark and that’ll make it harder to deal with,’ Melanie said. ‘What we’re going to do over the next few sessions is talk about how you’re feeling, and work out between us how to help you cope with it. But the important thing you need to realise is that you weren’t to blame for someone else’s actions.’

  Maybe. But there was one thing she was definitely to blame for. Running out on Charlie on Sunday morning. ‘I want to deal with this,’ Sophie said. ‘I want to move past it. So I can get on with my life, have a proper relationship again.’

  It was going to take time, but she was going to get over it properly. And maybe she’d even surprise her mum by dating someone and bringing him home to meet the family.

  She squashed the name that came into her mind. No chance. She and Charlie Radley were history. History.

  ‘I’ve got an unexpected cancellation tomorrow evening,’ Melanie said. ‘It’s up to you if you’d like the slot. You might want to wait a week before you see me again.’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘No. I want the rest of my life to start as soon as possible.’

  If only it could have been with Charlie.

  But on Thursday morning she walked into the staffroom to be greeted with teasing smiles.

  ‘Good morning, Baroness,’ Sammy said.

  ‘You kept that quiet, Soph. I thought you didn’t even like the man.’ Abby whistled. ‘Well, I should’ve guessed you were protesting a bit too much.’

  Sophie frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Guy rolled his eyes. ‘Stop playing the innocent. You and Charlie.’

  ‘What?’ Oh, God. They’d found out about Saturday night. But how? She hadn’t told them. Surely Charlie hadn’t. Surely he hadn’t … ‘There’s nothing between me and Charlie,’ she said, folding her arms.

  ‘Nice try, Baroness,’ Sammy said with a grin. ‘But we’ve seen the pictures.’

  ‘Pictures?’ This had to be one of those weird realistic dreams, the sort where you were absolutely convinced everything was really happening because you were dreaming about people you knew. There weren’t any pictures of her and Charlie … were there?

  Without comment, Abby threw a magazine to her.

  Acting on pure reflex, Sophie caught it.

  ‘Page seven,’ Abby said.

  Ice trickled down Sophie’s spine. This was a gossip magazine. There had to be some mistake.

  It could only have taken seconds for her to flick to the page, but it felt as if everything was moving in slow motion.

  And then she saw it.

  A headline. CHARLIE IS HER DARLING!

  A picture of Charlie helping her out of the taxi. He had his arm around her. He’d been comforting her—but it didn’t look like that. It looked as if they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

  Another picture, of the two of them going inside his flat.

  And a picture of her, the morning after, letting herself out of his flat. Hair all over the place, because she hadn’t been able to find her clip. Clothes rumpled, dark circles under her eyes. She looked as if she’d spent the entire night having sex with her secret lover.

  She looked like a slut.

  Horrified, she glanced through the text. It was all wild speculation about how long they’d been together and whether R. C. Radley, Baron Weston, would find true love this time with a workmate—surgeon Sophie Harrison.

  And there was even a picture of her outside her own flat.

  A photographer had been spying on her. Following her. And she hadn’t had a clue.

  Anger at the invasion of her privacy was mingled with fear. If she was that unobservant, anyone could follow her. She wasn’t safe any more. Maybe she should start carrying one of those alarms that let off a deafening shriek at the pull of a cord—and keep it in her hand whenever she walked home.

  ‘We’ve had four journalists on the phone already this morning,’ Guy said quietly. ‘We said you weren’t in yet, and they asked for Charlie. He wasn’t in either.’

  ‘But … that’s nothing to do with me!’ Sophie stared at her colleagues—her friends—absolutely horrified. They thought she had spent the night at Charlie’s flat? ‘This isn’t …’ She couldn’t get the words out; she could barely breathe, and her palms were sweating. ‘This isn’t what you think. It’s …’ Oh, no. She couldn’t explain this. Not without going into things she’d wanted left private. ‘It’s not. It’s just not.’

  ‘Hey, we’re all entitled to a fling,’ Sammy said with a grin.

  ‘I have not had a fling with him!’ With shaking hands, Sophie flicked back to the cover of the magazine. Worse and worse. It was Celebrity Life. The magazine her mum always read. Which meant Sophie had a lot of explaining to do—and fast, before Fran saw it.

  ‘Oh, God. I have to make a phone call,’ she said, and rushed out of the room, not caring if they thought she was going to ring Charlie. She needed to talk to her mum. Now.

  As soon as she was outside, she switched on her mobile phone and dialled her mum’s number. Please, let Fran have her phone switched on. Please, please, please. She kept walking, ignoring the curious glances of people who passed her. They’d probably seen the pictures. They were probably thinking the worst. Oh, hell. She was going to have to have her hair cut short, dye it black and wear dark glasses for the rest of her life. And forget about her career—she could even hear a flushing sound as her plans all went down the toilet.

  To her relief, her mother answered. ‘Hello, love.’

  Obviously her mother had recognised the number on the screen of her mobile phone as
she’d answered it. ‘Mum. Oh, thank God you’re there.’

  ‘Are you all right, Soph?’

  ‘No. There’s been a huge … Look, please, just don’t buy Celebrity Life this week.’

  ‘The issue with your picture in, you mean?’

  She’d seen it already? Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

  ‘The neighbours have been asking me about that.’

  Fran’s voice was even, but Sophie knew her mother well. She could hear the hurt that Fran was trying to disguise. ‘Mum, it’s not true.’

  ‘That you’re going out with a baron? It’s your life, Sophie. You’re an adult. It’s up to you who you sleep with.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep with him!’ Actually, she had slept with him. Just not in that sense. ‘I didn’t have sex with him,’ she amended. ‘Mum, it’s not what it looks like. I swear.’

  ‘I just wish you’d given us some warning, that’s all. It’s a bit embarrassing when people ask you if your daughter’s going to have a posh wedding and what do they call her when she’s a baroness.’

  ‘Mum, just tell everyone it’s a huge mistake and the papers have made it up.’

  ‘Sophie, there are pictures of you.’

  ‘I know. I’ve just seen them.’ And she was still carrying the wretched magazine. Sophie gulped miserably. ‘Mum, it’s such a mess. What am I going to do?’

  ‘What does he say about it?’

  ‘Who?’

  Fran sighed. ‘Baron Radley, of course.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ She hadn’t faced him yet. ‘I … I’m going to have to talk to him. Mum, can I come round tonight? I don’t want to talk about this on the phone.’

  ‘You mean, in case someone’s tapping it?’

  Sophie hadn’t thought of that. Could people tap your mobile phone? She cringed. Oh, the gossip magazines would have a field day with this if someone did tap her phone. ‘Mum, I’ll see you tonight. I’ll tell you everything then.’ Everything. Including things she should have told her parents years ago. ‘But if anyone asks you, just tell them it’s not true. Please?’