by Lucy King
‘There were two other birth certificates in the same file. Both boys. All of you born at around the same time on the same day.’
It took a second or two for the implication of what she was saying to sink in, but when it did the ground beneath his feet tilted violently. His vision blurred and he could hardly breathe. He felt as if he was about to pass out. ‘I have brothers?’
‘It would appear so. The evidence would suggest you’re triplets.’
‘Where are they? Are they alive?’
‘Impossible to know at this stage.’
‘Find them,’ he said, his voice thick and his throat clogging. ‘Whatever you have to do, however much you have to pay, find them.’
‘We will.’
Finn ended the call and as the phone slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor, the calm front he’d presented to Alex shattered. Every bit of him started shaking. His heart was beating too fast. His stomach was roiling. He was going to throw up.
Blindly, he got to his feet and made it to the terrace doors, which he threw open, and gulped in some much needed air while the information he’d just been given went round and round in his thoughts.
He’d been born in South America. He’d spent time in an orphanage. He had parents, brothers, was one of a set of triplets. Identical? Non-identical? What had happened to the other two? Where were they and why had they been separated?
The ping of an incoming message on his phone pierced the fog swirling around in his head and he stumbled back to where he’d been sitting. With trembling fingers he bent down to pick the device up and then collapsed into the chair before his legs gave way. Somehow he managed to unlock it. Somehow he found the right app, tapped the email and, his heart thundering so fast and hard it hurt, opened the attachment.
It contained three birth certificates plus translations. All identical, save the times of birth and the names. Mateo. Diego. Juan. His parents, his brothers, his family.
But which was his? Who was he and where were the others? Above all, why? Why the adoption? Why the separation? And who’d known? Had Jim and Alice been aware he was one of three? Surely not. Surely they couldn’t have been so cruel as to keep that from him. Yet no one had ever mentioned Argentina. He even had a hotel there. In Buenos Aires. Jim had been at the opening six years ago and he’d never said a thing.
Having scoured the details and committed them to memory, Finn dropped the phone again, then rubbed his hands across his face and leaned forwards, his elbows resting on his knees, his head buried in his hands. How the hell was he going to deal with this? He’d assumed that with information would come clarity, but he was wrong. That assumption had been based on the most simple of explanations, yet the news Alex had just delivered threw up an explanation that was anything but simple.
Instead of being answered and filed away for cool, calm analysis, the questions were multiplying, ricocheting around his head faster and more chaotically and he couldn’t sort any of them out. It was all too huge, too overwhelming.
As was the pain now beginning to slice through him as the shock-induced numbness faded. Thirty-one years he’d lost. Thirty-one years that he could potentially have known his siblings, his brothers. He could have had an entire other life. Would it have been better? Worse? It didn’t matter. He’d been denied the choice because of Jim and Alice’s silence, and the sense of betrayal that he assumed had abated now flayed him all over again, ripping open old wounds and stabbing at them afresh.
He’d thought he had it all under control, but he didn’t. He had nothing under control. The pain powering through him was like a living thing, writhing around in his belly and thundering along his veins, leaving every inch of him raw and exposed and bleeding.
‘Are you all right?’
At the sound of Georgie’s voice, filled with concern, coming from far, far away, Finn froze. He hadn’t heard the door open. He hadn’t noticed the shadows lengthening across the floor. She couldn’t see him like this, he thought frantically, a cold sweat breaking out all over his skin—weak, vulnerable and suffering, a man on the brink of collapse. He couldn’t let her help. He couldn’t allow her to push and prod as she was wont to do. It would drive him over the edge.
‘Get out,’ he said, his voice hoarse and cracked.
‘What’s happened?’ she said, walking into the room and dropping to her knees beside the chair in which he was sitting, crowding his space and his thoughts, too close, too dangerous.
‘I said, get out.’
‘I know. But you’re white as a sheet and shaking. I’m worried about you.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Talk to me.’
‘It has nothing to do with you,’ he said sharply, desperately, seeing her flinch, which only added to his torment.
‘Try.’
His strength was failing. His control was unravelling. He didn’t have much time. ‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘All right,’ he said harshly, his resistance crumbling beneath the need to get her out of his space before he completely lost it. ‘How’s this? Last November I discovered that I was adopted at the age of six months and that my entire life has been a lie. Fifteen minutes ago I learned that not only was I born in Argentina and left in an orphanage, but that I also have two brothers. We’re triplets. As you may be able to understand, it’s quite a lot to take in. I need some time and space to process it. So I’d appreciate it if you would respect that and leave me the hell alone.’
Wow.
Just wow.
For the briefest of moments all Georgie could do was stare at Finn as the frustration and torment rolled off him in waves and engulfed her, the shock of what he’d told her and how brutally he’d delivered it rendering her immobile. She could barely process it. He’d been adopted? He’d just found out he had a family he’d known nothing about? No wonder he was in such a spin.
When she’d seen the man she was in love with hunched over like that, clearly hurting, clearly in pain, her heart had twisted, and even though she hadn’t known what was troubling him, she’d just felt a clamouring urge to race over and give him a hug. All she wanted to do was help. Genuinely.
But he didn’t want it, she realised, the breath catching in her throat as her chest tightened. He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want anything from her, as was clear not only from his words but also from the way he was jerking to his feet, turning away from her and stalking over to the window, a blunt, brutal dismissal that sliced her in two.
To think she’d been worried about him, she thought, her eyes stinging and hurt scything through her as she pushed herself to her feet and took a shaky step back. That all the time she’d spent showering and dressing while the minutes ticked slowly by she’d been wondering whether he was all right. What a waste of time and effort that had been.
He didn’t want her and he certainly didn’t need her. He probably never had. He was wholly self-contained. And as for the idea that they might be embarking on something resembling a proper relationship, what had she been thinking?
There may be lust but there was certainly no trust. Not on his side anyway. He must have been carrying the burden of his adoption for months, and the discovery of it, the uncertainty surrounding his identity, must have been cataclysmic. And he hadn’t said a word. She’d told him virtually everything there was to know about her, warts and all, and he’d revealed practically nothing.
Every time he’d asked her something about herself she’d spouted like a fountain. She’d told him things, this morning in particular, that she’d never told anyone, things that she’d only just begun to acknowledge. Yet when the tables were turned and she dared to ask him anything even remotely personal he deflected it. She knew next to nothing about his upbringing or his parents or how he felt about any of it. How had she let that happen?
And why had he never told her that he was adopted? He’d told her that he didn’
t like secrets, but he’d been harbouring a massive one of his own, and on top of everything else that made him a hypocrite. So who else knew? Was she the only one who didn’t? Why hadn’t he wanted to talk about it with her? What was wrong with her? Was it the state of her mental health? Was that why he’d told her he wanted to know everything about her when they’d been talking this morning? She’d seen his interest as a sign their relationship was shifting to another, more intimate level but perhaps he’d just been looking out for Josh by trying to find out how stable she really was?
They had no relationship and no connection, she realised as she stalked into the bedroom, blinking rapidly to ease the prickling in her eyes, and she’d been a fool to even begin to think otherwise. Everything she’d stupidly imagined they’d shared was entirely one-sided. Even this weekend, which had meant so much to her, would now be nothing more than a permanently tarnished memory.
She’d been falling for an illusion, a man who didn’t exist, a man she’d conjured up out of her own imagination because that was what she needed. She’d been delusional, which wasn’t a word she used lightly, and worse, naive. What would someone like Finn with his gorgeous looks and confidence and billions in the bank ever see in a woman like her anyway? How could her judgement still be so off?
Well, no more, she thought grimly, grabbing her suitcase and depositing it on the bed. Enough of the imbalance. Enough of being the pathetic, soppy drip she turned into around him. If she didn’t want to end up being even more hurt, perhaps even irreparably so, she could afford neither.
Nor was she having her recently rediscovered confidence and self-esteem knocked by Finn and his stick-his-head-in-the-sand attitude. She had to protect herself, although how she was going to do that now that they were civilly partnered and therefore stuck with each other and living in close proximity she had no idea. But she’d think of something. She’d have to.
In the meantime there was no way she was hanging around like a punchbag for all the emotions he must be feeling and clearly couldn’t handle. She was packing up and going back to London. Back to her son, who, unlike Finn, did need her. And then Finn would have all the space and time to think that he wanted.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FINN STOOD AT the window and stared blankly onto the streets of Paris stretching out far below, the silence telling him that Georgie had finally done what he’d needed her to do and in the nick of time. Treachery, hurt and sadness had wound their tendrils along every vein and around every cell, and he felt shattered, broken, as though he was being pummelled to within an inch of his life.
He had to calm down, he told himself desperately, forcing himself to take a deep, shuddering breath and loosen his white-knuckled fists. He had to stop. For the sake of his blood pressure and the woman he’d sent away, who was no doubt cursing him with every breath she took. He couldn’t go on like this, snapping and snarling in a way he thought he’d long since buried. He’d hated that man. He wouldn’t allow himself to regress again.
As he battled to control the pandemonium churning him up inside, he thought too how he hated the way he’d responded to Georgie’s offer of help. How savagely he’d lashed out at her. At the memory of the way in which he’d spoken to her, he inwardly cringed. She’d done nothing to deserve such treatment. All she’d wanted was to help.
And maybe, despite his assertions to the contrary, he needed it. Because he didn’t hold much hope of sorting the turmoil out on his own. He didn’t exactly have a great track record on that front. He’d bottled up how he’d felt about his mother’s death. He’d pushed aside his father’s diagnosis initially with alcohol and sex and, subsequently, work. He’d responded to the discovery of his adoption by being unpleasantly short and rude to anyone who had the misfortune of finding themselves in his vicinity.
What he hadn’t done was talk about it. Any of it. To anyone. He didn’t do talking. He never had done. His father had been the stoical, stiff-upper-lip type, unable to show emotion. Even when Finn’s mother had died, he’d hidden his grief behind a wall of impenetrability. As a result, when it came to feelings, Finn had always been self-reliant, a master of internalisation, choosing to box up what he felt so as not to have to deal with the inevitable messy fallout.
Only this morning—God, was it only this morning?—he’d considered perhaps asking Georgie for tips, and if ever there was an occasion to do so, this was it. Who better to talk to? She knew what it was like to stumble around blindly, looking for answers. She knew him. And, more to the point, for some unfathomable reason he wanted her to know. They were a team. In this thing, whatever it was, together.
He was under no illusion that it would be easy. It would probably be hell on earth, even assuming that Georgie was receptive to the idea, which was doubtful, given how he’d dismissed her. But it was worth a shot. He had to do something that made sense. And at the very least he owed her an apology.
Finally finding a path through the chaos, Finn spun round and strode out of the sitting room and into the bedroom, only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Georgie packing a suitcase.
‘What are you doing?’ he said, his brows snapping together in a deep frown.
She didn’t look at him, just carried on folding the stunning green dress she’d worn last night and which he’d peeled off her what felt like a lifetime ago.
‘What does it look like?’ she said, her voice utterly devoid of the warmth and concern with which she’d asked him what was wrong back there in the sitting room.
‘You’re packing.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘You wanted space. You wanted time. I plan to give you both.’
What? ‘I meant I needed a couple of minutes,’ he said. ‘Ten. Maybe fifteen. I didn’t mean for you to leave.’
‘Well, there seems little point in hanging around.’
At the realisation that she actually meant it he felt a sharp stab of something to the chest, and for a moment he thought, well, of course she was. Leaving was what people who he cared about or who were supposed to care about him did, after all. But he shoved it aside in order to focus because this was one occasion at least in which he did have the power to take control. ‘Don’t go.’
‘Give me one good reason not to.’
‘You were right. I think I probably should talk to someone.’
She flung her hairbrush into the case, then whirled round to scoop up her make-up that was scattered on the dressing table. ‘So find a therapist,’ she said, dumping it in there too.
‘But you’re here.’
‘Right.’
‘Please. I’m sorry for lashing out,’ he said, his jaw clenching as he recalled how he’d spoken to her. ‘I didn’t handle things well.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘It isn’t.’
She shrugged. ‘You’d had a shock.’
That was an understatement. ‘Nevertheless, it’s no excuse,’ he said gruffly. ‘I really am sorry.’
‘Apology accepted. Now, if you wouldn’t mind...’
‘Please, Georgie.’
She must have heard the note of torment in his voice because she stopped what she was doing, finally, and gave a great sigh. ‘OK, fine,’ she said, abruptly sitting on the bed and looking at him, her eyes wary and her expression cool. ‘God knows you’ve had to listen to me prattle on enough.’ Prattle? he thought with a frown. She did not prattle. ‘So if you want to talk I’ll listen.’
With a rush of relief, Finn stalked into the room and leaned against the edge of the dressing table she’d just cleared. He rubbed his hands over his face and then shoved them into the pockets of his jeans. He cleared his throat and braced himself.
‘So it turns out that I find it hard to process big things,’ he began, inwardly wincing at how pathetic he sounded. ‘Especially big emotional things. I have a tendency to lock things down.’
&
nbsp; ‘That’s understandable. Although probably not very healthy.’
‘No.’ It wasn’t healthy at all. God only knew the damage he’d caused his nervous system recently. It also smacked of hypocrisy because it had just occurred to him that by withholding the truth from her and obfuscating he’d been behaving like Jim and Alice, which did not sit well.
‘Have you always done it?’
He gave a short nod. ‘Ever since my mother—Alice—died.’
‘That’s a long time.’
‘Yes.’ Too long, with hindsight. ‘I bottled up how I felt about that for years. I was only ten. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. Jim—my father—or, rather, my adopted father—did the best he could but he wasn’t one for emoting either.’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘You didn’t talk to anyone? A counsellor? A teacher?’
He shook his head. ‘No one. Not until the lid of the pressure cooker flew off when I was a teenager.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Nothing all that dramatic. I got into a couple of fights when I was sixteen. Spent a night in jail for being drunk and disorderly.’
‘And then you had therapy?’
‘Of a kind. The officer in charge that night asked what I was thought I was doing and it all came out. She gave me some good advice. The incident turned out to be a huge wake-up call. However, it turns out that internalising things is a hard habit to break.’
‘We all have our ways of coping.’
Yes, well, unlike hers, his weren’t working out so well. ‘Jim’s diagnosis was something else I didn’t talk about,’ he said, forcing himself to keep going because she needed to know everything in order to be able to help.
‘Did no one ask?’
‘Not many knew. I told the people who did that everything was fine.’
‘So how did you find out you were adopted?’
‘I was going through Jim’s papers after he died. The certificate was in a box that had been stored in the attic of his house.’