Altered Images

by Maxine Barry

  Lorcan smiled mysteriously and got out of the car. He walked round and opened the door for her, helping her out.

  ‘Your father,’ he said softly, pulling her to her feet, ‘will have other things to worry about.’

  ‘Oh?’ Frederica asked curiously. ‘Like what, for instance?’

  ‘Like whether or not he’ll have to sell off another painting in order to pay for his daughter’s wedding,’ Lorcan said. ‘Not that he will. I thought we’d go for something quiet and simple. At the church here of course,’ he added, turning to look at Cross Keys parish church tower, nestling in a dell of red horse-chestnut trees. ‘A few guests—no more than thirty or so, I should think,’ he carried on, his voice soft and thoughtful. ‘I’ve got a friend who’d design and make your wedding dress . . .’

  Frederica leaned weakly against the Aston Martin.

  ‘And for a honeymoon . . . Tahiti? Step in Gaugin’s foot-steps?’ He turned, smiling at the stunned look on her face. ‘Well, after all this, you didn’t think I was going to let you get away from me, did you?’ he asked, his voice not quite teasing, not quite threatening. But nearly.

  Frederica felt her heart thump. He was so damned arrogant. So damned sure of himself. So out of her league . . . Except that now, he wasn’t out of her league at all.

  ‘Tahiti sounds nice,’ she mused. ‘But since we Delacroixs are temporarily impoverished, I think we can forget tradition, and you can pay for the wedding.’

  Lorcan grinned. ‘Done.’

  ‘I think I have been,’ Frederica said drolly, but she was already reaching up for him.

  Obediently, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

  He was still kissing her when Donna and James Delacroix, alerted by the sound of the car, stepped outside on to the porch.

  ‘Well!’ Donna said, for once speechless.

  Frederica looked across at her parents and sighed. ‘Poor old Dad, she’ll kill him when he tells her he’s sold “The Old Mill and Swans”,’ she said wistfully.

  Lorcan put his arm around her, and together they turned to walk to the house. ‘Well,’ Lorcan drawled, ‘you could always paint him another copy.’

  Frederica stopped dead in her tracks, her head snapping around to look up at him.

  ‘What?’ she squeaked.

  Lorcan looked down at her dark velvety eyes, freckled nose, and a mouth gone slack with shock.

  He burst into laughter.

  ‘Oh Frederica,’ he crowed, ‘you should see your face!’