To hell with it. Maybe he’d shut the topic down—declare a ban and order a blanket of silence on it.
It’s not curiosity. They care.
The voice that echoed through him sounded suspiciously like Eliza’s. He stopped and braced his hands on his knees, drew in several deep breaths.
I’ve helped you more than harmed you.
He shot upright and surged forward again, his legs eating up the distance between the house and co-op buildings. He veered to his left and vaulted the fence, making for a copse at the top of the hill. He didn’t want to see anyone. He didn’t want to speak to anyone.
She’d lied to him and the size of the lie made his chest constrict until he could barely breathe—as if a giant hand had reached out and wrapped about his middle and was trying to break him. He couldn’t ignore the pain. He just did his best to breathe through it.
When he reached the top of the hill, he was breathing hard and cramping all over. He threw himself down onto a fallen log and rested his head in his hands.
I love you.
His head jerked up, pain knifing behind his eyes. What kind of love lied so...completely? He’d started to believe...
He was a fool!
When he’d found Rhoda with his father, it’d horrified him. But Eliza’s duplicity devastated him to a whole new level that he didn’t understand. She hadn’t just lied about what she’d done. She’d lied about who she was.
And yet, even now, he wanted to believe in her. What kind of fool did that make him?
‘What the hell?’ He shot to his feet only to see Naomi—one of the co-op’s artists—marching up the hill towards him.
She stopped about twenty feet away when she realised he’d seen her. Keen eyes scanned his face and then she moved the last few paces towards him. ‘I saw you trekking up here and I came after you.’
‘Why?’ He didn’t mean to sound unfriendly, but he couldn’t help it. Did everyone at the co-op know he’d been played for a fool too? Had they all read the newspapers this morning, seen that his former PA was now engaged to King Tariq? Had they joined the dots of a complicated deception, just as he had?
‘There’s something I think you should see.’
He set off back down the hill. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘I wouldn’t have troubled you if I didn’t think it was important.’
He halted and glared at her.
She didn’t betray by one flicker of an eyelash what she was thinking. ‘I wouldn’t have troubled you if I didn’t think you might...regret not seeing this.’
He huffed back a growl of pure frustration. ‘Fine!’
Without another word, Naomi led him down the hill and into the main co-op building...up the stairs to the mezzanine level. She didn’t try to engage him in conversation, evidently sensing his current aversion for idle chitchat. Not that it’d take a rocket scientist to work that one out.
She led him out to the artist’s workspace and gestured to a painting awaiting framing. There was no denying the identity of the artist.
Eliza.
His hands clenched. Olivia Grace Gilmour.
The picture was of the hall’s kitchen garden. It was bright, vibrant and pulsing with energy.
‘She’s donated this to the co-op. She’s requested that the proceeds be split between the co-op and the Tyrell Foundation charity.’
He turned to stare at her. ‘When did she organise that?’
‘Earlier in the week.’ She glanced back at the painting. ‘It’s a handsome gift.’
His mind whirled.
‘She’s promised us a new painting every year for the next five years. It’ll put this place on the map.’
Why? Why would she do such a thing?
Balm to a guilty conscience?
But... That didn’t ring true. She hadn’t known earlier in the week that this situation would explode in her face.
He recalled her jubilation—her elation—at painting again. He closed his eyes. Gratitude—she wanted to thank them...wanted to share that jubilation and joy with them.
It was part of who she was.
He rolled his shoulders. As well as being a liar.
His heart started to thump against the walls of his chest. How different would he be feeling today if she had told him the truth last night?
But she hadn’t...
‘The painting I really wanted to show you is over here.’ Naomi halted in front of a large easel covered in a dust cloth. She hesitated. ‘I hope I’m doing the right thing...’
And then she pulled the cover free. Everything inside of him froze.
It was a picture of him.
Olivia had painted him.
And the impact of the image had him rocking back on his heels. In the painting he held Jemima against his chest, but the baby had turned to stare up at him—wonder alive in her eyes. While he... He gulped. In that painting he looked alive and animated and full of plans for the future.
And yet the picture was deceptive, its mood shifting and changing as he moved in front of it. At certain angles the lines of his shoulders reflected a restless energy rather than relaxation. The lines of his mouth that appeared at first glance soft took on an edge that looked almost...carnal. He ran a hand across his chest to try to ease the tightness there.
In the painting he wore one of his white business shirts, and it should look starched and professional. Instead it hugged the outline of every muscle he possessed and a fleeting impression of intense sexuality sizzled across his eyes...gone again in a flash...and then there again.
She’d made him look raw and vital and beautiful. And complicated, protective and desirable. All at the same time. He sure as hell didn’t look boring.
His heart beat hard. He was missing something. The painting was trying to tell him something. But what? He moved a few paces to his right and then his left. He moved in closer and then eased back out, never once taking his eyes from it.
‘She’s left instructions for this to be delivered to you on your birthday next month.’
She’d promised him a painting.
And she’d kept her word.
And that was when he saw it. From a certain angle Jemima’s eyes looked like Eliza’s eyes—Olivia’s eyes.
Blood drummed in his ears. Was that baby Jemima at all...or a child she’d imagined having with him?
Did Olivia look at him—view him—with the same sense of wonder that the baby did?
The only thing I lied about was my name.
The truth of those words felt like a physical lessening of all the tension inside him—a letting go of anger and pain and the bitterness of disappointed hopes.
What right did he have to judge her so harshly, to be so fiercely angry with her, when he hadn’t made her a single promise? He hadn’t given her any assurances. He hadn’t hinted at how much she’d started to mean to him. Why not? Because he’d hidden the truth from himself. He hadn’t been honest with her, so how could he blame her for keeping her sister’s secret? He’d given her no incentive to do otherwise!
He turned and left the studio at a run, clattering down the stairs and heading for the hall. Had George already left with her? He crossed his fingers and hoped his interfering sister and bossy housekeeper had insisted she needed to eat first, had delayed her with surreptitious questions. He put his head down and ran faster.
He was breathing hard when he approached the back door. Relief, when her voice drifted outside to him, made him sag while he tried to catch his breath.
‘Look, none of this is Seb’s fault, and you aren’t to give him a hard time about it.’
She was defending him? He shook his head.
‘He’s an idiot if he lets you go.’
That was Katie and he could picture the outrage on her face.
‘You’ve helped me and J
emima so much.’
‘And so has he. Please, Katie, he’s not to blame for this. It’s my fault. I lied to him, and hurt him.’
‘Ah, but lass, you didn’t mean to.’
‘It doesn’t change the fact that I did, though. I don’t blame him for not forgiving me. I don’t think I’ll be able to forgive myself.’
OK, enough. He refused to let her suffer a moment longer. She had helped him—more than he’d ever had the right to expect. She’d given him everything that she had to offer and he had no intention of throwing it back in her face.
‘You will come to the party, won’t you?’
He faltered, one step from the door. What party?
‘I mean, you’re the one who’s organised it. And he won’t still be angry with you by then. He’ll have got over it.’
‘Oh, Katie, it’s really not the kind of surprise I was aiming for when I suggested we throw him a surprise party.’
She was giving him a party?
He surged into the kitchen. They all turned to look at him, but he only had eyes for Eliza.
Her mouth dropped open. She snapped it shut and then chafed her arms. ‘I’m sorry, I meant to be gone before you got back.’
She wasn’t going anywhere, but he didn’t want an audience for all the things he wanted to say to her. Reaching forward, he seized her hand and pulled her out of the door and all the way into the walled kitchen garden.
He could identify each and every plant she’d painted.
‘Seb, what do you think you’re doing? I think we’ve yelled at each other enough and—’
He spun her around, seized her face in his hands and kissed her. He wanted to be gentle, but he felt too much like the picture she’d painted of him—restless, primal and filled with need.
Her lips yielded beneath his, a moan dragging from her throat, her hands clutching fistfuls of his shirt to keep her upright.
He lifted his head to stare down into her dazed eyes. She unclenched her hands from his shirt, smoothed out the material and ran her tongue over her swollen bottom lip. ‘I...’ Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. ‘I couldn’t read that kiss at all.’
Because she was afraid. Just as he’d been too afraid to see the truth earlier.
* * *
Liv stared up at Seb and her heart pounded so loudly that for a moment she couldn’t hear anything else. A wild hope tried to spring free, but she roped it back down. He might not be as furious with her as he had been an hour ago, but it didn’t mean...well, it didn’t mean he ever wanted to see her again after today.
She shook her head. ‘You don’t like me any more. You hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you.’ He stared down at her with those grey eyes that seemed to pulse with an inner light. ‘I just saw the painting you’ve donated to the co-op.’
‘Ah.’ She clasped her hands together and tried to ignore the burning in her chest. That’d explain why his anger had abated. It explained why he didn’t want to part from her on such unpleasant terms. ‘It was the least I could do. Naomi, Dirk and Helen have helped me so much. It’s just a small thank-you.’
The light in his gaze smouldered and sparked, and she tried not to read too much into it. Her paintings had often filled viewers with an enthusiasm that searched for immediate release. That was all this was now. Plus, Seb was the kind of man who always took the time to thank others, to let them know when a gesture was appreciated.
Beneath all of that he’d still be wrestling with his anger. Not that she blamed him.
‘I also saw the picture you painted for my birthday.’
‘Oh!’ Wow. OK. She took a step back and lifted her chin. She didn’t ask him if he liked it. ‘Did you see anything in that painting?’
His eyes darkened. ‘I saw the truth.’
‘What truth?’ She wanted her voice to come out strong and unflinching, but it didn’t. It came out the exact opposite. She wanted to turn and run away, but his eyes held her captive.
‘I saw that you loved me.’
A lump lodged in her throat. ‘I’ve already told you that.’
‘I was humbled when I finally let myself see how you saw me.’
Very slowly, she nodded. ‘Good.’ It was better than nothing, and probably more than she deserved.
‘I realised, despite all of the other confusions going on, you never hid your real self from me.’
Everything inside her stilled. She felt as if the smallest breeze might knock her over. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t do anything except stare at him.
‘I realised it didn’t matter if your name was Eliza or Olivia or Rumpelstiltskin.’
That was the moment when she finally started to hope...and when she recognised at least a part of what emotion lay in those smoky eyes of his. She took a step towards him. ‘You...you don’t hate me.’
A smile hooked up one side of the mouth that had become so dear to her. ‘I’ve already told you that.’
Her pulse kicked up a notch as she continued to read his eyes. ‘You like me.’
‘Olivia Grace Gilmour.’ He took her face in his hands and his touch was like water to a thirsty plant. ‘I love you.’
He loved her?
He loved her!
She pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him with everything she had—with every crazy emotion roiling through her body.
When he lifted his head, long minutes later, his eyes were dark and ravenous. He traced a finger down the vee of her shirt, sparking a path of fire that arrowed to her centre. ‘I hope you don’t have plans for the rest of the day.’
‘Oh, I have plans all right.’ She tossed her head. ‘But they all include you.’
For a moment she thought he was going to sweep her up in his arms then and there and stride up to his room. She burned at the thought.
Instead he towed her across to a garden bench and pulled her down onto his lap. ‘I want to apologise for my anger earlier.’
She smoothed her hand down his cheek, relishing the scrape of his stubble against her palm. ‘You were entitled to your anger, Seb. I don’t blame you for it.’
‘I refused to listen to reason, I refused to trust you and—’
‘Oh, but—’
He pressed his fingers to her lips. ‘Let me finish.’
She pressed a kiss to his fingers before nodding. His eyes darkened, but he didn’t kiss her. She understood why. He wanted to explain and she needed to hear what he had to say, to understand. Before their relationship moved to the next level, they had to make sure that there were no more barriers or misunderstandings—that the air was clear and the path at their feet unobstructed.
‘You’ve heard the stories about my parents. You know what Rhoda did.’
Her heart ached for him. She’d give him so much love it’d make up for the pain of his past.
‘So you’ll understand what I mean when I tell you that my default position whenever receiving unpleasant news is set to disaster mode.’
She thought about that. It made sense. ‘You immediately leap to the worst-case scenario?’
His lips twisted. ‘Where my parents are concerned that attitude usually saves time, heartache and money. With them I’ve learned not to expect or hope for any extenuating circumstances.’
How old was he when he’d learned that lesson—twelve? Ten? Even younger? She pressed a hand to his cheek. ‘I’m sorry.’
He covered her hand with his own. ‘It’s not your fault, sweetheart.’
Her toes curled at the endearment. He was a wonderful man with a huge heart. He only deserved the best life had to offer. ‘So this morning when you saw the newspaper headlines you immediately leapt to the conclusion that...’ Her heart squeezed tight. ‘That I’d taken you for a ride, taken complete advantage of you, and that I’d lied about everything.’ She pulled in a breath. ‘You
must’ve thought I didn’t have an honest bone in my body.’
‘I couldn’t think straight.’ His eyes throbbed with remembered pain and confusion, and she wished she could wipe it away. ‘I lashed out at you, too afraid to believe anything you said.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
He lifted his head. ‘And then I saw the picture you’d painted of me and I realised you’d never meant to hurt me.’
He traced a finger across her cheek making her blood leap. ‘In that moment I understood that your sister had put you in an untenable position.’
‘She didn’t mean to.’
‘And that I’d put you in an untenable position too. Not informing the authorities of Jemima’s situation could’ve backfired badly...and yet you chose to trust me and to help me—to help Jemima—because that’s the kind of person you are. You have a heart of gold, Olivia Grace Gilmour, and I love you.’
Her chest filled until she thought it would burst.
‘If I’d told you that sooner, you’d have told me the truth.’
She dragged in a breath and blinked hard. ‘I love you, Seb. But I do understand if you want to take things slow.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t want slow. I just want you.’
She had to pinch herself.
He grinned down at her and she had a feeling he felt as light and free as she did.
A smile burst to life inside her. And then she pulled his head down for a kiss that sealed every silent promise their hearts had just made to each other.
EPILOGUE
One year and five weeks later...
A FAMILIAR HEAT radiated through Sebastian when Olivia came up behind him and slid her arms about his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. For a moment they both silently watched the revels taking place in front of them.
‘Surely this is your favourite party?’ she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. ‘Though...it has to be said...we did have a rather fine party for our wedding.’
They’d married five months ago. ‘We did,’ he agreed. ‘And this too is a very fine party.’
A Baby in His In-Tray Page 17