Okay, so he was still attracted to her. Yes, he hadn’t had so many cold showers late at night in his life before. And, sure, she was attracted to him—whether she wanted to believe it of herself or not. But that surely wasn’t enough to justify the rising tide of outrage at the thought of her getting out there.
Above all else he was practical, and taking this sizzling sexual attraction one step further would just add further complications to an already complicated situation. In fact he should be urging her to get out there and live a little. He should be heartily agreeing that the very thing they need to do now was plot a clear line forward and get on with it.
Within the next few days he anticipated that Oliver would be told by them, jointly, that he was his father. At that point the domestic bubble which they had built around themselves for a very essential purpose would no longer be required. She was one hundred percent right on that score. Gradually Oliver would come to accept the mundane business of joint custody. It wasn’t ideal, but what in life ever really was?
Except he was finding it hard to accept any of those things.
There was a distinct chill in the air as the picnic was cleared away, and on the drive back Oliver, exhausted, fell into a soft sleep. To curtail any opportunity for Sarah to embark on another lengthy exposé of what she intended to do with her free time, Raoul switched on the radio, and the drive was completed in utter silence save for the background noise of middle-of-the-road music.
Twenty minutes from home, Sarah began chatting nervously. Anything to break the silence that was stretching like a piece of tautly pulled elastic between them.
The day which had commenced so wonderfully had ended on a sour note, and the blame for that rested firmly on her shoulders. But the realisation that she had been sliding inexorably back to a very dangerous place—one which she had stupidly occupied five years ago—had made her see the urgency of making sure that her barriers were up and functioning. She would never have believed it possible that time with Raoul could lower her defences to such an extent, but then he had always had a way of stealing into her heart and soul and just somehow taking over.
There were some things that she wanted to do to the house as soon as contracts had been exchanged. She wanted to do something lovely and fairly colourful to the walls. So she heard herself chattering inanely about paints and wallpaper while Oliver continued to doze in the back and Raoul continued to stare fixedly at the road ahead, only answering when it would have been ridiculously rude not to.
‘Okay,’ Sarah said finally, bored by the sound of her own voice droning on about a subject in which he clearly had next to no interest. ‘I’m sorry if you think I wrecked the day out.’
‘Have I said anything of the sort?’
‘You don’t have to. It’s enough for you to sit there in silence and leave me to do all the talking.’
‘You were talking about paint colours and wallpapers. I can’t even pretend to manufacture an interest in that. I’ve already told you that I’ll get someone in to do it all. Paint. Wallpaper. Furniture. Hell, I’ll even commission someone to buy the art to hang on the walls!’
‘Then it wouldn’t be a home, would it? I mean, Raoul, have you ever really looked around your apartment?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You have the best of everything that money can buy and it still doesn’t feel like a home. It’s like something you’d see in a magazine! The kitchen looks as though it’s never been used, and the sofas look as though they’ve never been sat on. The rugs look as though nothing’s ever been spilled on them. And all that abstract art! I bet you didn’t choose a single painting yourself!’
Anger returned her to territory with which she was familiar. The hard, chiselled profile he offered her was expressionless, which made her even angrier. How could she not get to him when he got to her so easily? It wasn’t fair!
‘I don’t like abstract art,’ she told him nastily. ‘In fact I hate it. I like boring, old-fashioned paintings. I like seeing stuff that I can recognise. I like flowers and scenery. I don’t enjoying looking at angry lines splashed on a canvas. I can’t think of anything worse than some stranger buying art for me because it’s going to appreciate. And, furthermore, I don’t like leather sofas either. They’re cold in winter and hot and sticky in summer. I like warm colours, and soft, squashy chairs you can sink into with a book.’
‘I’m getting the picture.’ Raoul’s mouth was compressed. ‘You don’t want help when it comes to interior design and you hate my apartment.’
Not given to being unkind, Sarah felt a wave of shame and embarrassment wash over her. She would never normally have dreamt of criticising anyone on their choice of décor for their home. Everyone’s taste was different, after all. But the strain of having Raoul around, of enjoying his company and getting a tantalising glimpse of what life could have been had he only wanted and loved her, was finally coming home to roost. For all his moods and failings, and despite his arrogance, his perverse stubbornness and his infuriating ability to be blinkered when it suited him, he was still one hell of a guy—and this time round she was seeing so many more sides to him, having so many more opportunities to tumble straight back into love.
‘And we still have to talk,’ she said eventually, but contented herself with staring through the window.
If she had hoped to spark a response from him then she had been sorely mistaken, she thought sourly. Because he just didn’t care one way or another what opinions she had about him, his apartment, or any other area of his life.
‘Yes. We do.’
In an unprecedented move Raoul had done a complete U-turn. Thinking about her with some other man—pointlessly projecting, in other words—had been a real turnoff, and even more annoying had been the fact that he just hadn’t been able to get his thoughts in order. Cool logic had for once been at odds with an irritating, restless unease which he had found difficult to deal with.
But her little bout of anger and her petulant criticisms had clarified things in his head, strangely enough.
Sarah wasn’t like all the other women he knew, and it went beyond the fact that she had had his child.
It had always been easy for him to slot the other women who had come and gone like ships passing in the night into neat, tidy boxes. They’d filled a very clearly defined role and there were no blurry areas to deal with.
Yes, Sarah had re-entered his life, with a hand grenade in the form of a child, but only now was he accepting that her role in his life was riddled with blurry areas. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because she represented a stage in his life before he had made it big and could do whatever he liked. Or maybe it was just because she was so damned open, honest and vibrant that she demanded him to engage far more than he was naturally inclined to. She didn’t tiptoe around him, and she didn’t make any attempts to edit her personality to please him. The women he had dated in the past had all swooned at their first sight of his apartment, with its rampant displays of wealth. He got the impression that the woman sulking in the seat next to him could have written a book on everything she hated about where he lived, and not only that would gladly have given it to him as a present.
The whole situation between them, in fact, demanded a level of engagement that went way beyond the sort of interaction he was accustomed to having with other women. Picnics? Home cooked meals? Board games? Way beyond.
He pulled up outside her house, where for once there was a parking space available. Oliver was rousing slowly from sleep, rubbing his eyes and curling into Sarah’s arms. Taking the key from her, Raoul unlocked the front door and hesitatingly kissed his son’s dark, curly mop of hair. In return he received a sleepy smile.
‘He’s exhausted,’ Sarah muttered. ‘All that excitement and then the picnic … he’s not accustomed to eating so late. I’ll just give him a quick bath and then I think he’ll be ready for bed.’
She drew in a deep, steadying breath and firmly trod on the temptation to
regret the fact that she had lashed out at him, ruined the atmosphere between them, injected a note of jarring disharmony that made her miserable.
‘Why don’t you pour yourself something to drink?’ she continued, with more command in her voice that she felt. ‘And when I come down, like I said, we’ll discuss … arrangements.’
She was dishevelled. They had both shared the rides with Oliver, but she had done a few of the really big ones on her own. Someone had had to stay with Oliver, and Raoul had generously offered to babysit, seeing it as a handy excuse to get out of what, frankly, had looked like a terrifying experience. He might have felt sorely deprived as a boy at missing out on all those big rides, but as an adult he could think of nothing worse.
Her hair was tousled and her cheeks were pink, and he noticed the top two buttons of her checked shirt had come undone—although she hadn’t yet noticed that.
‘Good idea,’ he murmured blandly, with a shuttered expression that left her feverishly trying to analyse what he was thinking.
Raoul noted the hectic colour that had seeped into her cheeks, and the way her arms tightened nervously around a very drowsy Oliver. Arrangements certainly needed to be made, he thought. Though possibly not quite along the lines she anticipated.
She wanted to deal with the formalities, and there was no doubt that certain things had to be discussed, but he was running with a different agenda.
At long last he had lost that unsettling, disconcerting feeling that had climbed into the pit of his stomach and refused to budge. He liked having an explanation for everything and he had his explanation now. Sarah was still in his head because she was unfinished business. There were loose ends to their relationship, and he looked forward to tying all those loose ends up and moving on.
He smiled at her slowly, in a way that sent a tingle of maddening sensation running from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head.
‘I’ll pour you a drink too,’ he said, his dark eyes arrowing onto her wary face, taking in the fine bone structure, the wide eyes, the full, eminently kissable mouth. ‘And then we can … as you say … begin to talk about moving forward …’
CHAPTER FIVE
SARAH took longer than she had planned. Oliver, for a start, had discovered a new lease of life and demanded his set of toy cars. And Raoul. In that order.
Determined to have a bit of space from wretched Raoul, in which she could clear her head and plan what she was going to say, Sarah had immediately squashed that request and then been forced to compensate for Raoul’s absence by feigning absorption in a game of cars which had involved pushing them around the bed in circles, pretending to stop off at key points to refuel.
Forty minutes later she had finally managed to settle him, after which she’d taken herself off for a bath.
She didn’t hurry. She felt that she needed all the time she could get to arrange her thoughts.
First things first. She would chat, in a civilised and adult fashion, about the impending necessity to talk to Oliver. She foresaw no problem there.
Secondly she would announce her decision to finally break the news to her parents that Raoul was back on the scene. She would reassure him that there would be no need to meet them.
Thirdly, they were no longer in a relationship—although they were friends for Oliver’s sake. Just two people with a common link, who had managed to sort out visiting rights without the interference of lawyers because they were both so mature.
She would be at pains to emphasise how useful it had been doing stuff together, for the sake of his relationship with his son.
Downstairs, Raoul had removed himself to the sitting room, and Sarah saw, on entering, that he had poured himself a glass of wine. Ever since he had been on the scene her fridge had been stocked with fine-quality wines, and her cheap wine glasses had been replaced with proper ones—expensive, very modern glasses that she would never have dreamt of buying herself for fear of breakages.
He patted the space next to him, which wasn’t ideal as far as Sarah was concerned but, given that her only other option was to scuttle to the furthest chair, which would completely ruin the mature approach she was intent on taking, she sat next to him and reached for her drink.
‘I think we can say that was a day well spent,’ Raoul began, angling his body so that he was directly facing her and crossing his legs, his hand on his thigh loosely holding his glass. ‘Despite your rant about the state of my apartment.’
‘Sorry about that.’ She concentrated hard on sipping her wine.
He shrugged and continued to look at her, his brilliant dark eyes giving very little away. ‘Why should you be?’
‘I suppose it was a bit rude,’ Sarah conceded reluctantly. ‘I don’t suppose there are very many people who are critical of you …’
‘I had no idea you were being critical of me. I assumed you were being critical of the décor in my apartment.’
‘That’s what I meant to say.’
‘Because you have to agree that I’ve taken every piece of advice you’ve given and done everything within my power to build connections with Oliver.’
‘You’ve been brilliant,’ Sarah admitted. ‘Have you … have you enjoyed it? I mean, this whole thing must have turned your world on its head …’
She hadn’t actually meant to say that, but it was something they hadn’t previously discussed—not in any depth at all. He had accepted the situation and worked with it, but she couldn’t help but remember how adamant he had been all those years ago that the last thing he wanted was marriage and children.
‘You had your whole life mapped out,’ she continued, staring off into the distance. ‘You were only a few years older than the rest of us, but you always seemed to know just what you wanted to do and where you wanted to be.’
‘Am I sensing some criticism behind that statement?’ Raoul harked back to her annoying little summary of the sort of thing she looked for in a man. ‘Fun-loving’ somehow didn’t quite go hand-in-hand with the picture she was painting of him.
‘Not really …’
He decided not to pursue this line of conversation, which would get neither of them anywhere fast. ‘Good.’ He closed the topic with a slashing smile. ‘And, to get back to your original question, having Oliver has been an eye-opener. I’ve never had to tailor my life to accommodate anyone …’
And had he enjoyed it? He hadn’t asked himself that question, but thinking about it now—yes, he had. He had enjoyed the curious unpredictability, the small rewards as he began making headway, the first accepting smile that had made his efforts all seem worthwhile …
‘If it had been any other kid,’ he conceded roughly, ‘it would have been a mindless chore, but with Oliver …’ He shrugged and let his silence fill in the missing words. ‘And, yes, my life had been disrupted. Disrupted in a major way. But there are times when things don’t go quite according to plan.’
‘Really? I thought that only happened to other people.’ Sarah smiled tightly as she remembered all the plans he had made five years ago—none of which had included her. ‘What other times have there been in your life when things didn’t go according to your plan? In your adult life, I mean? Things don’t go according to plan when you let other people into your life, and you’ve never let anyone into your life.’
Okay, so now she was veering madly away from her timetable, but the simmering, helpless resentment she felt after weeks of feeling herself being sucked in by him all over again was conspiring to build to a head. It was as if her mouth had a will of its own and was determined to say stuff her head was telling it not to.
‘I mean, just look at your apartment!’
‘So we’re back to the fact that you don’t like chrome, leather and marble …’
‘It’s more than that!’ Sarah cried, frustrated at his polite refusal to indulge her in her histrionics. ‘There’s nothing personal anywhere in your apartment …’
‘You haven’t seen all of my apartment,’ Raoul pointed out s
ilkily. ‘Unless you’ve been exploring my bedroom when I haven’t been looking …’
‘No, of course I haven’t!’ But at that thought she flushed, and shakily took another mouthful of wine.
‘Then you shouldn’t generalise. I expected better of you.’
‘Very funny, Raoul. I’m being serious.’
‘And so am I. I’ve enjoyed spending time with Oliver. He’s my son. Everything he does,’ Raoul added, surprising himself with the admission, ‘is a source of fascination.’
‘You’re very good at saying all the right things,’ Sarah muttered, half to herself.
Where had her temper tantrum gone? He was refusing to co-operate and now she was reduced to glowering. It took her a few seconds before she brought her mind to bear on the things that needed discussion.
‘But I’m really glad that everything is going so well with Oliver, because it brings me to one of the things I want to say.’ She cleared her throat and wished that he would stop staring at her like that, with his fabulous eyes half closed and vaguely assessing. ‘Oliver has come to like you very much, and to trust you. When he first met you I really thought that it would be a huge uphill struggle for you two to connect. He had no real experience of an adult male in his life, and you had no experience of what to do around young children.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know …’
Sarah’s lips tightened and she frowned. She had laid out this conversation in her head and she had already deviated once.
‘It’s terrific that you haven’t seen it all as a chore.’
‘If you’re hoping to get on my good side, then I should warn you that you’re going about it the wrong way. Derogatory remarks about where I live, insinuations that I’m too rigid for parenting … anything else you’d like to throw in the mix before you carry on?’
She thought she detected an undercurrent of amusement in his voice, which made her bristle. ‘I think we should both sit down with Oliver and explain the whole situation. I’m not sure if he’ll fully take it in, but he’s very bright, and I’m hoping that he’ll see it as a welcome development. He’s already begun to look forward to your visits.’ She waited. ‘Or, of course, I could tell him on my own.’
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