by Jill Mansell
And they had been a decidedly unpleasant few weeks at that. Shocked by how much she had missed him, Antonia had initially decided that what she needed to do was diversify in order to put him out of her mind.
She had flirted like mad with a visiting Swiss banker whom she had met at a dull dinner party given by one of Richard’s even duller business associates. The handsome banker had responded at first with pleasing alacrity and her confidence had been boosted no end, but the next day had been a nightmare. Having arranged to meet him for lunch at an intimate restaurant in Castle Combe, she had spent hours getting ready and told Richard a whole string of risky lies in order to get there, only to be stood up by the lily-livered bastard who hadn’t even had the nerve to tell her in person, but had asked the maître d’ instead to make sure she received his note.
He was sorry, he wrote, but he’d had second thoughts. She was a very attractive woman, but he realized now that he loved his wife too much to risk spoiling their future for the sake of a moment’s pleasure.
If that was as long as he was capable of lasting, she thought derisively, she hadn’t missed much.
But the rejection had wounded her pride, and with nothing else to occupy her mind Antonia often found herself thinking about Ross. Finally, after long, empty weeks away from The Grange, she had decided that she simply had to see him again. She would apologize for her behavior on Christmas night. She would remind Ross—as if he could have forgotten!—what he had been missing. And then they would resume their easy, long-standing relationship of mutual enjoyment and understanding.
• • •
Boredom struck Dominic like a mallet. Slightly ashamed of his behavior earlier—though more because he had annoyed Tessa than because he had hurt the ghastly Holly’s feelings—he had cleaned the brushes she had hurled at him and even washed up the row of coffee mugs he’d used during the day.
Then, sitting down and preparing to enjoy a lazy evening in front of the fire with a sketch pad and charcoals, the dreaded boredom had enveloped him for no reason at all. Tessa, he thought darkly, had wished it upon him. He had to get out, go somewhere…do something…and because his soon-to-be ex-wife had taken his mobile in a fit of pique, he was trapped.
• • •
Less than half an hour later, Dominic eased himself onto a stool, propped his crutches against the bar, and ordered himself a celebratory cognac. More proficient with his crutches than even his own wife suspected, the journey to the end of the lane had nevertheless been chilly and somewhat hazardous. But he had correctly assumed that almost anyone would stop and offer a lift to such an obviously incapacitated young man, and almost anyone, in the shape of an ancient retired sheep farmer, had done just that—all the way to the elegantly illuminated front entrance of the Charrington Grange Hotel.
Being disabled, he had discovered, had its advantages after all.
It was also a great conversation-opener. Wherever he went, people asked him how he’d managed to break his leg, and in order to brighten their day he’d invented a variety of wildly original stories.
“How did it happen, then?” asked the man occupying the next barstool, exactly on cue. In his forties, with tired eyes behind steel-framed glasses and a world-weary air, he seemed in particular need of entertainment. Obligingly, Dominic launched into the version involving a light aircraft, a pilot with heart trouble, a crash landing into the Mediterranean, and thirty-six hours of bobbing about in the sea with nothing to eat or drink and only a circling shark’s fin for company.
“I’ve been making up for it ever since,” he concluded, raising his empty glass and hoping that his neighbor, enthralled, would take the hint and buy him another.
“You’ve been making up a lot of things,” remarked the man with a wry smile. “But I’ll get you a drink anyway.”
Unperturbed but mildly curious, Dominic shook his hand. “Dominic Taylor. How did you know I was lying?”
“Richard Seymour-Smith,” replied his neighbor, indicating to the barman that refills were required. “And I’m an accountant, so it was easy.” Glancing at the unoccupied barstool to his left, he added: “I also have a wife who’s a consummate liar. The art of lie detecting, therefore, is a particular interest of mine.”
It didn’t take long after that for Dominic to piece together the whole story. This clever, unassuming man was helplessly in love with his wife and was dealing with her infidelity in the only way he knew how: by closing his eyes and pretending that it didn’t exist. It was easier than forcing a confrontation. He couldn’t risk losing her. He couldn’t imagine a life without Antonia. As far as he was concerned, an unfaithful wife was better than no wife at all.
At the mention of Antonia’s name, it all clicked into place. Dominic couldn’t help admiring the irony of the situation. It took more self-control than he’d known he possessed to keep quiet about his own involvement in the complicated triangle.
When Richard excused himself in order to make a phone call, Dominic decided to explore a little of the hotel. Swinging expertly along on his crutches, he passed through the reception area, winking and grinning at Sylvie Nash who was working the late shift and who, with her Barbie-doll face and figure, was far more his idea of what a receptionist should look like than Hurricane Holly.
Poking his head around the door leading into the crowded restaurant, he smartly withdrew when he spotted Max Monahan at a nearby table. He didn’t need to be kicked out into the snow at this hour of the evening. He was enjoying himself. And he was also intensely interested in discovering the whereabouts of the feckless, shameless Antonia.
• • •
When Ross dived into the pool he thought he was alone. It wasn’t until he surfaced for air that he saw her, sitting in the shadows, silently watching him.
“Antonia.” He spoke guardedly, acknowledging her presence, assuming that this meeting had been engineered.
“Hello, Ross.” It was almost a whisper. “I’ve missed you.” When he didn’t reply, she raised her gaze, realizing that he was waiting for something more. “I came to apologize,” she continued, her voice stronger, her eyes appraising his tanned, miraculously constructed body, and her fingers flexing with longing at her side. “I broke the rules and I’m sorry. But now I’m back.”
“So I see.” Ross couldn’t help admiring her skills. Antonia certainly knew how to make the best of herself. In that topaz-yellow, barely-there bikini, with her hair slicked back and one toe now idly stirring the surface of the water, she was looking good, innocent, and provocative at the same time.
He knew exactly what she wanted, and it wasn’t swimming lessons.
He thought of Tessa, whom he wanted.
Then he thought of Dominic, living in Tessa’s cottage and confronting Ross with a mixture of defiance and disdain, and presumably, since there was only one bedroom, sharing her bed.
When Antonia, sensing that the moment was right, slid noiselessly into the water and swam in hypnotic slow motion toward him, Ross didn’t move away.
Dominic, leaning against the heavy green-glass door so that it swung open just far enough for him to be able to view the proceedings unobserved, allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. It had crossed his mind in the past day or two that he and Ross were, in many ways, really rather alike. But being so close to Tessa brought out the protector in him. Here, now, and under these particular circumstances they were on directly opposing sides. It was with enormous relish that he flung open the glass door and waved one of his crutches in abandoned greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Monahan!” He shielded his eyes in order to see more clearly, then with a somewhat over-exaggerated double take, hobbled to the side of the pool, fixing Antonia with his most disarming smile.
“My word, what a surprise. Mrs. Seymour-Smith, as I live and breathe, taking full advantage of the hotel’s facilities.”
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Antonia, hastily tuggi
ng her bikini top back into place and thanking her lucky stars that the interruption hadn’t come five minutes later.
“Private detective, Mrs. Seymour-Smith, hired by your husband. And I must say, I’m shocked. Why, only this morning Mr. Monahan assured me that he didn’t screw around, and now here you both are in—”
“You’re a what?” shrieked Antonia, but Ross cut in.
“Don’t panic,” he said rapidly, glaring at Dominic’s departing figure and wishing now more than ever that he could flatten him. “It’s all bullshit. He isn’t a private detective. Look, calm down. He’s gone.”
“So am I,” snapped Antonia, wading in undignified haste toward the edge of the pool and hauling herself out. “Your friend has a bizarre sense of humor, and I’m afraid I don’t find any of it amusing.”
“Neither do I,” replied Ross grimly, shooting a dark glance in the direction of the green-glass door through which Dominic had disappeared. “And, for God’s sake, don’t call him my friend. He’s certainly no friend of mine.”
• • •
“Darling, come and sit down. We must have a talk.”
Grace regarded her mother warily, wondering what this was going to be about. Surely she wasn’t going to start on about contraception again? They’d been through all that a year ago.
Mattie, inwardly shaking, patted the settee beside her. However she worded it, Grace was going to receive the greatest shock of her life.
“Sweetheart, there’s something I have to tell you,” she said hurriedly, taking the plunge and gripping Grace’s fingers so tightly that her daughter flinched. “I didn’t imagine that it would ever be necessary, but I realize now that it is, and it’s all my fault. You aren’t going to be very pleased with me, Grace, when I tell you how I found out.”
“Found out what?” Grace was genuinely puzzled now. This was no lecture about sex education. And Mattie was looking positively gray with anxiety.
When her mother put her hand under one of the cushions and pulled out her diary, Grace let out a shriek and made a wild grab for it.
“That’s mine! You have no right to even touch it!”
“Darling, I’ve read it.” Mattie sank back, longing to put her arms around her daughter, but knowing that it was impossible. “I’ve read all of it, which is why I have to talk to you now.”
“It’s private!” snarled Grace, shuddering with fury. “It’s none of your business. You can’t read my private things—”
“But I had to,” intercepted Mattie miserably, “for very special reasons, which I shall explain. Sweetheart, I didn’t want to have to do this, but I do have to tell you something about Ross that will come as a huge shock to you.”
“Go on then.” Grace’s expression was sullen. Presumably her mother was about to launch into a lecture on the dangers of older men. That would be just my luck, she thought to herself with a trace of bitterness.
“All right.” Mattie, her heart thundering against her ribs and her palms sticky with perspiration, closed her eyes. “Darling, Ross Monahan was…is…your father.”
Chapter 15
The sun was shining and the snow had finally melted. Tessa parked the gleaming white Mercedes neatly at the top of the drive and gave the crimson leather upholstery an appreciative pat before jumping out. Opening the trunk, she carefully lifted up the painting, wrapped in brown paper and secured with string.
“For God’s sake, Tessa, are you crazy? Put that down.”
Ross, whose office overlooked the front drive, came toward her. Tessa’s unexpected arrival had cheered him up enormously, quite making up for the fact that the little waitress who normally brought him his coffee was off sick yet again, forcing him to put up with the fiercely black, sugarless poison that Holly always served up.
Taking the large, surprisingly heavy painting from her, he paused for a second to survey her figure, semidisguised beneath the pink-and-gray sweatshirt and paler pink leggings, but still recognizably changed since their last encounter.
“Thanks for the car.” Tessa dropped the keys into his jacket pocket. “It was great.”
“It still is,” protested Ross. “I hope.”
She laughed and to his great relief fell into step beside him. “I didn’t park it in any ditches, if that’s what you mean. I even washed it yesterday.”
“By hand?” Ross was incredulous. There were machines for that kind of job, after all.
“By actual hand,” agreed Tessa, making gentle mockery of his surprise. “And now I’m returning it. The snow’s gone, and yesterday I bought a new bicycle.”
He stopped short at the top of the steps, turning to look at her. “It’s your car,” he said, frowning. “I gave it to you. I told you, I don’t want you riding around on a bicycle. It isn’t safe.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” replied Tessa patiently, “and it’s very good exercise for me. I don’t need your car, Ross. And when I do need one, I’ll buy my own.”
“Of all the stubborn females…” With both hands full, he had to wait for her to hold the door open for him. “And where’s your friend today, anyway? At least he appeared to appreciate the damn car.”
This time Tessa kept her smile to herself. “Dominic? Oh, his wife turned up on my doorstep this morning. She traveled up from Truro in order to have a serious conversation with him.”
“He’s married?” Placing the painting on his desk, he began to undo the string. “Holly didn’t tell me that.”
Tessa grinned, collapsing into his executive chair and running her fingers through her just-washed and still slightly damp hair. “Well, she wouldn’t, would she? And since when did a little obstacle like marriage stop anyone from playing around?”
“Touché. But if they were married to the right partners they wouldn’t need to. If I were happily married,” he added casually, “I wouldn’t dream of sleeping with anyone else.”
“Enough,” protested Tessa, who was enjoying herself. “The thought of you with a halo is more than anyone could cope with. Now shut up and look at your painting.”
Ross, the archetypal man-who-had-everything, gazed at the completed picture in silence for almost a full minute. In order not to detract from the intricate scene, Tessa had finished it with a dove-gray mount and a narrow, completely plain, silver frame. It was exactly what he had wanted, and more. The composition was masterly, the colors perfect, the details wickedly accurate and the touches of humor sublime.
“If you really hate it,” she said finally, “I could always cut off my ear.”
Before she had time to react, Ross had kissed her. The briefest kiss in the world, over practically before it was begun, yet affecting both of them more profoundly than either would ever admit.
“You’re amazing,” he said, gazing once more at the painting and shaking his head in admiration. She was wearing apricot lip gloss, and he could still taste it. “And far prettier than van Gogh. Besides, if you cut off your ear, you’d never be able to wear glasses.”
Tessa nodded thoughtfully, realizing that they were both working hard to pretend the kiss hadn’t happened. “Max might do it for me, when he sees this.”
“Don’t panic. He has a sense of humor.”
“An extremely well-hidden one.” She looked gloomy and Ross, fighting the urge to kiss her again, reached for his checkbook instead.
“You can’t give me that much!” Tessa stared aghast at the check in her hands.
“I’m not giving you anything; I’m paying you a sensible price for a bloody good painting.” With an exaggerated sigh, Ross realized that she was going to start being difficult again. Had there ever in the history of the world been a woman more reluctant to accept money and help than Tessa Duvall?
“But we agreed on the price before I started…”
“And one hundred and fifty pounds is chicken feed, Tess. You need to quadruple your prices i
f you want to attract any serious attention. Cheap paintings are bought by cheap people who just want something to fill in that bare patch of wall over the fireplace. You need to get the real collectors interested. And as soon as they start paying real money for your work, they’ll recommend you to their colleagues in order to protect their investment. You become covetable, your prices spiral, more and more people jump on the bandwagon…and you’re made!”
Tessa laughed. Ross was making it all sound so effortless. “As easy as that?”
“As easy as that.” He snapped his fingers. “You supply the luxury item and as long as it’s well advertised, people will want to buy it. And we are going to make sure,” he added, taking her arm and leading her out of the office, “that you are very well advertised indeed.”
“Where are we going?” asked Tessa, hesitating. “I’m supposed to be back at the cottage, refereeing the fight between Dominic and his wife.”
“Maybe she’ll strangle him,” said Ross equably. “Just let them get on with it. We’re going to have lunch, to celebrate your imminent success.”
• • •
The restaurant he took her to, situated in the center of Bath, was very glamorous indeed. It was all right for Ross, in his made-to-measure charcoal-gray suit and Dior silk tie, but Tessa hesitated. Faded sweatshirts, cotton leggings, and white sneakers weren’t exactly thick on the ground in Zizi’s.
“Don’t start,” commanded Ross when she opened her mouth to object, “or I’ll make you pay the bill. Just relax and enjoy yourself. Remember, we’re celebrating.”
How Cinderella-ish can one girl get? wondered Tessa, obediently sitting and admiring the glitzy emerald-and-gold decor. Tiffany lamps cast pools of jeweled light upon each table, you could bury your toes in the sumptuous mossy carpeting, and the matte-green walls were striped with gold leaf.
“Ever been here before?” asked Ross, not expecting her to say “yes.”
But Tessa nodded. “Mmm, dozens of times. I like the way they’ve done all this, though. Last year’s pink and silver was a bit too Barbara Cartland for me.”