by Jill Mansell
• • •
“The best day ever.” Holly sighed. She and Tessa were at last alone together in the ladies’ restroom. “Tess, can you believe the difference in Max?”
Tessa, pushing a comb through her windswept hair, said, “You mean he’s sawn off his horns?”
“I mean he’s actually being nice to me,” said Holly with pride. Puckering her lips, she leaned toward the mirror and applied a generous layer of bright-scarlet lipstick. “More than nice. He told Adam where to get off, didn’t he? When he said we were going to be married I almost fainted.”
“Don’t get too carried away,” warned Tessa gently. “He only said that to get you out of an awkward situation.”
But Holly, spraying scent down her cleavage and in a wild circle around her head, was undeterred. “Ah,” she countered triumphantly, “he only thinks he said it to get me out of an awkward situation. Deep down, he means it. He just doesn’t know it yet!”
• • •
They were halfway home when Tessa was seized by the first wave of pain. Real pain this time, clawing at her stomach and taking her so much by surprise that she cried out.
“Sorry,” said Ross, assuming that he had accidentally stuck his elbow into her ribs. Then he saw that her hands were clutching her stomach, and that her eyes were closed. “Tess, what’s wrong?” he said urgently, but she shook her head.
“I don’t know. It hurts…”
“Jesus! Max, we’ve got to get Tessa to a hospital. Tell the pilot to land. Where the hell are we, anyway?”
Holly, biting her lip, put her arm around Tessa. Max, swiveling round in the front seat, saw the pain etched into her face. She was deathly pale and trembling, shocked by the suddenness of the onslaught and no doubt worried sick by the thought of what it might mean.
But as the pilot pointed out, there was no point in making an unscheduled landing. They were twenty minutes from Bath, and they could land in the grounds of the Royal United Hospital. All Tessa could do until then was grit her teeth and hang on. And pray that the pain didn’t get any worse.
The remainder of the journey was in sad contrast with their joyous mood of earlier. Ross held Tessa in his arms, his murmured reassurances punctuating an otherwise tense silence. Holly, who never bit her nails, chewed them down to the quick. Max stared out of the window, scanning the black landscape dotted with lights and despising himself for wondering whether—in the long run—a miscarriage now might not be a blessing in disguise.
When they finally landed in the center of a cricket pitch adjacent to the hospital, Ross lifted Tessa gently down from her seat. Max and Holly, at Tessa’s request, were to return to the hotel, where Ross could contact them as soon as there was anything to report.
“Don’t worry,” said Tessa, attempting to reassure them. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“I know it will.” Holly kissed her, smiling with a confidence she didn’t feel.
“I’ll phone,” said Ross briefly and turned toward the hospital, carrying Tessa.
“Your jacket will be ruined,” she said weakly. “I can feel it. I’m so sorry.”
“My God,” he replied, gazing down at her and willing everything to be all right—for he too could feel the sticky warmth of lost blood against his arm—“you’ve said some stupid things in your time, Tessa Duvall…”
Chapter 22
“You’d think we were expecting Elizabeth Taylor,” grumbled Sylvie as she handed over to Holly at the end of her shift. “I’ve never seen Ross in such a bossy mood—and that’s saying something! Your friend Tessa must be hot stuff.”
“She’s pretty fragile stuff at the moment,” said Holly, glancing at the list Sylvie was leaving her and seeing that as usual she was being stuck with all the ultra-boring tasks Sylvie never seemed to have time to get around to doing. “And she didn’t want to stay here, but Ross insisted. She has to have complete bed rest, and there’s no way she could do that at home. Ross and I ganged up on her and made her see that this was the only sensible solution.”
“Mmm,” sighed Sylvie. “I must say, I wouldn’t kick up too much of a fuss. I can think of worse things than lazing around in bed and being waited on hand, foot, and finger by Ross Monahan.” Tessa couldn’t. By the end of her first day at The Grange, she realized that she was in danger of being driven completely crazy. If she hadn’t been so acutely aware of the need to stay in bed, she would have run away. And, most frustrating of all, she couldn’t even scream at Ross because he was doing it all for her.
There were flowers everywhere, great bowls of carnations in a dozen shades of pink, overpoweringly scented white roses, and tall vases of blue iris.
There were jugs of fresh orange juice, baskets of fruit, piles of glossy magazines, virgin pads of thick drawing paper, boxes of pencils—3H to 5B—and colored inks.
There was a huge color television. There also was a telephone, as well as a little button beside the bed that she only needed to press in order to summon assistance from downstairs.
And downstairs there was a chef who, at the drop of a hat, would prepare for her whatever light but nutritious meal might take her fancy.
It was all very luxurious, and extremely nice.
But there was also Ross, and she wondered why on earth he’d thought she would ever need the little bedside button, because he was always there. Hovering. Asking her how she was feeling. Pouring her yet another glass of unwanted orange juice. Squashing her feet every time he sat down on the end of her bed. And getting on Tessa’s nerves to a serious degree.
The hotel, presumably, was managing to muddle through without him, although she had only his word for that. Now, in his faded denims and pale-pink sweatshirt, he was lounging in a chair beside her with his long legs stretched out before him, seemingly happy to spend the rest of the evening doing nothing more businesslike than the crossword.
This, she decided, was even worse than being in the hospital, where there had at least been the distraction of bustling nurses, fellow patients, and a gregarious Irish cleaner by the name of Fidelma O’Feharty, who had made no secret of her admiration for Ross.
Being the subject of his undivided attention, however, was downright exhausting. Ross was watching over her more closely than any kidnapper. And Tessa, who hated any kind of fuss, simply wanted to be left alone.
• • •
“I’ll have a word with him,” said Holly bravely the following morning. Ross, having been forced downstairs to keep a long-standing appointment, had left Holly in charge of the patient. He was, he assured her, only a button-press away. “But you do have to rest,” she added, “and he’s only trying to help.”
“Extremely trying,” murmured Tessa with a wry smile.
“But if he doesn’t take any notice of me—and he doesn’t normally—you’ll just have to lie back and suffer his unwanted attentions like a lady. And be grateful,” Holly added seriously, “that at least the baby is all right.”
“I know, I know. I am grateful,” said Tessa, tipping her fruit juice—pineapple, today—into the nearest flower vase. “And Ross has been wonderful. It was so reassuring having him there at the hospital during those first few days. I don’t know how I would have coped without him.” She paused, pushing her hair away from her face and staring pensively at her bare toes. “But that’s half the trouble, don’t you see? He’s making himself indispensable, and I’m beginning to rely on him. I mean really rely on him, and it scares me.”
• • •
“Well?” demanded Ross, bursting into the room an hour later. “What the bloody hell have you been telling that bitch downstairs?”
Tessa’s heart sank as he hurled his jacket in the direction of the nearest chair, ripped off his tie, and landed with a furious thud on the end of the bed. She managed to move her feet away just in time. “I only—”
“You told her that I was
suffocating you,” he interjected icily. It was just as well, thought Tessa, that Holly hadn’t chosen a career in the diplomatic corps. Not wanting a full-scale argument—she was, after all, supposed to be keeping her blood pressure down—she reached out and touched Ross’s arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. But you’re doing everything for me, and I’m used to looking after myself. It seems weird, that’s all.”
Ross relaxed slightly, his expression softening. “Right now,” he said, “you need looking after. OK, maybe I’ve been going over the top a bit, but I’ve never done this kind of thing before. And I do like looking after you,” he added with a crooked smile.
“I like it too,” said Tessa weakly. All of a sudden the tensions and fears and muddled emotions of the past ten days appeared to be catching up with her. She thought she might burst into tears. Her defenses were crashing down around her, no longer under her own control. She didn’t have the energy to concoct excuses and was too exhausted to lie. “I like it,” she repeated slowly, her vision blurring as tears welled up in her eyes. “And that’s why I’m afraid.”
Ross, touched beyond words by her admission and by her vulnerability, moved toward her. He drew Tessa into his arms just as the first tear slid down her cheek. And, exerting superhuman control, he confined his kisses to her forehead and temple. Only when she had finally stopped crying did he lift her face to his and brush his mouth lightly against her parted lips. And when he felt Tessa responding, her fingers splaying against his shoulders and her body shifting slightly in order to fit more closely against his own, he felt as if he had won a great battle. That indescribable magic was still there, as he had known it would be, and now at last he had succeeded in proving to Tessa that it still existed. And that it was too precious and too important to ignore.
“I’ve never done that before,” he said, minutes later. Tessa was still curled up beside him, but in deference to her blood pressure—and his own—she was sipping a glass of grapefruit juice and he had poured himself a small scotch.
She glanced up at him in disbelief. “Done what?”
“Kissed someone. Like that.” He paused, then grinned. “Knowing that my intentions were entirely honorable.”
Tessa patted his hand. “You poor thing. All that effort and no end result. Here you are, in bed with a celibate. Life’s really a bitch, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be flippant,” said Ross, hurt. “It’s not like that at all.”
“Novelty value, then.” Tessa forced a wan smile, knowing it to be the truth. “Don’t worry, it’ll soon wear off.”
“Why can’t you take me seriously?” he demanded, putting down his tumbler of scotch and forcing her to meet his gaze. “It’s not novelty value at all.” He paused for a moment, his dark eyes quite serious, his heart racing. “Nothing’s changed. I still love you. And I still want you to marry me.”
This time, Tessa didn’t laugh. This time it wasn’t so funny. She was beginning to feel that the harder she struggled to retain her independence, the more determined Ross became to take it from her. And right now she didn’t know whether she had the strength of will to keep fighting for it.
She was no longer even sure that what she had been doing was right. How many girls, after all, would reject a man like Ross? He radiated charm, was devastatingly attractive and a spectacular lover. He was successful. And wealthy. And he could make her laugh.
And the more Tessa tried to tell herself that such a relationship couldn’t possibly last because he was also by nature capricious, easily bored, and a notorious womanizer, the more effort he put into disproving it. He had been unfailingly kind and patient with her, had behaved like a model father-to-be, and, as far as she was aware, was showing absolutely no interest at all in other women.
Very soon she would have no grounds for reasonable argument left.
“You know,” said Ross slowly, “this habit of yours of not replying when I ask you to marry me isn’t exactly doing a great deal for my morale.”
“Ah.” Tessa smiled up at him. “But it’s doing wonders for mine.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “Can’t we just see how things go for a while?”
“Is that a yes,” demanded Ross impatiently, “or a no?”
“It’s a let’s-just-see-how-things-go-for-a-while,” Tessa replied in soothing tones.
He raised his eyes to the ceiling in an attitude of despair. “Ever thought of becoming a politician?”
• • •
Ross had been intending to take Tessa’s lunch tray upstairs to her himself, but Holly had intercepted him at the foot of the staircase. She was putting a call from Florida through to his office and it couldn’t wait.
“Here,” said Ross, pushing the loaded tray into Grace’s hands as she sidled past him. More withdrawn than ever, she hadn’t even thanked him for the flowers he had delivered to her doorstep. Her pale face wore a permanently haunted expression, and she still looked decidedly unwell. “Can you take this up to Tessa? She’s in suite twelve.”
As if Grace didn’t know.
“Come in,” called Tessa when Grace tapped on the door. “Oh, wonderful! How kind of you. Here, let me just clear this mess out of the way…”
Disarmed by Tessa’s smile and by her energetic attempts to gather together the untidy pile of sketches spread around her on the bed, Grace overcame her shyness.
“You shouldn’t be doing that.” Placing the tray on the bedside table, she took over, picking up the sketches and pausing to admire one of Holly. “It looks just like her.”
Tessa lay back against the pillows and admired the girl’s slenderness. She’d found herself becoming increasingly envious, recently, of people with waists.
“If you’ve got ten minutes to spare, I could do you. Now that I’m in exile up here, I’m running out of subjects. Are you dreadfully busy downstairs?”
They were, but Grace couldn’t resist the unexpected invitation. Helplessly obsessed with Ross Monahan, she was also wildly curious to discover as much as possible about those close to him. And if Tessa wasn’t close, she didn’t know who was.
“Your lunch…” she began, but Tessa dismissed the hesitant protest with a careless wave of her pencil. “Cold salmon and green salad. I can’t afford to get much fatter; I look like a Buddha as it is.”
Grace didn’t think she looked like a Buddha. The room was warm, and Tessa was sitting on the bed rather than in it, her legs stretched out in front of her. She wore a long white T-shirt, and her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders. The sunny room was filled with flowers; Tessa’s eyes were friendly and her smile warm as she gestured to Grace to sit down. Grace, who had wondered whether she might hate this girl—Tessa had, after all, experienced in reality what she had fantasized over for months—was completely won over.
“Mr. Monahan was going to bring you your lunch,” she said, seating herself nervously on the edge of the squashy chair. “But he had to take a phone call.”
“Thank goodness,” exclaimed Tessa, only half joking. “I’ve sketched him at least half a dozen times in the past two days. You make a nice change. Could you turn your head slightly to the left? That’s perfect.”
In her new position, Grace was able to see the pile of earlier sketches. Reaching across, she pushed aside the top two and picked up the third. Ross, his mocking, mesmerizing, thickly lashed dark eyes alight with amusement, regarded her with an affection that she herself had never experienced. Grace felt her heart hammering in her chest. It wasn’t easy to breathe normally. Unable to remain silent, she said, “He’s handsome.”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” said Tessa, pulling a wry face and concentrating on Grace’s cheekbones. “No, don’t tense up. Sit back and relax.”
Mesmerized by the likeness of Ross, Grace said, “My father was very handsome too.”
“Was?” queried Tessa
gently. “What happened to him?”
A faint, sorrowful smile touched the corners of Grace’s mouth. “He’s dead.”
“Mine too.” Tessa, working to capture the sad, sweet smile, spoke in matter-of-fact tones now, anxious not to provoke an outburst of tears. “You can keep that if you want,” she added, seeing that the girl was still clutching the charcoal sketch of Ross. “You could pin it up in the coffee room and throw darts at it whenever he gets too bossy.”
“For Christ’s sake,” said Ross, bursting into the room five minutes later and casting an icy glare in Grace’s direction. “The restaurant’s bursting at the seams with customers waiting to be served. What the hell do you think you’re doing up here?”
“Don’t get uppity,” said Tessa, putting the finishing touches to her sketch. “And don’t shout at Grace, because it’s my fault. I asked her to stay.”
“I’ll shout at whomever I like,” he retaliated, but with less irritation now. “It’s my hotel.”
“I’d better go,” said Grace hurriedly. Her face was pink, her fingers agitated. Tessa winked at her and handed over the completed sketch.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let him take it out on you.”
“Thank you.” Grace gazed at the portrait, skillfully executed and capturing her likeness with astonishing accuracy. Rising to her feet, she glanced nervously at Ross and then once more at Tessa’s swollen stomach. As a child she had always longed for a brother or sister. Now, bizarrely, she was getting one.
“Come on, come on,” sighed Ross, not bothering to conceal his impatience.
She had always wanted a father too. “Sorry, Mr. Monahan,” whispered Grace.
“Thanks for sitting for me,” called out Tessa.
Ross frowned. “You shouldn’t encourage her,” he said when Grace had closed the door behind her. “She’s always taking time off. There’s something odd about that girl. I don’t trust her at all.”
Chapter 23
They had been lucky; the weather conditions were perfect. A pale sun lit up an even paler sky, and a mist hung low over the ground. The dozen or so hot-air balloons in various stages of inflation littered the field behind The Grange, their gaudy fairground colors at odds with the deadly serious expressions of those whose task it was to get the fickle creatures airborne. Tanks of liquid propane gas were checked, sandbags hauled into position, crown ropes tested, and potential wind speeds anxiously calculated. For those who were prepared to pay for the privilege, traveling in a hot-air balloon was nothing more than fun—expensive but exhilarating. Those who owned them worked hard to keep it that way.