by Kim Lawrence
An hour later Lily and Benedict were still sitting in a cubicle in a small coffee shop and she couldn’t remember what they’d talked about. But she had made him laugh, and he had made her feel smart and sexy. He thought she was funny so she was. After the first five minutes she had relaxed and lowered her guard as their conversation moved from literature, to politics, to her favourite ice cream, to her drama school course and the great opportunity that had recently fallen in her lap. It was only later she’d realised that he’d hardly told her a thing about himself, but then it was, oh, so easy to be wise with hindsight.
‘So I’m going to see you on the big screen?’ Elbows on the table, he’d leant forward, his interest seeming genuine and unfeigned. He had ignored all the women who had eyed him up, not even seeming to notice them. It seemed he only had eyes for her and Lily was flattered. If she’d been a cat, she’d have purred.
‘A small part.’
‘I’m not sure actresses are meant to be self-deprecating.’
‘I’m not, just factual. It’s a small part.’
‘But the TV drama, that’s the lead?’
‘I’ve been really lucky.’
‘You could do with a few lessons in self-publicity.’
She looked at him through her lashes and asked huskily, ‘Are you offering?’
His slow smile made her insides melt and her heart race even faster.
Over her third cup of coffee, looking into his electric-blue eyes, Lily made the dizzying discovery that it was potentially addictive having a man look at you with undisguised desire. Especially when the man in question had, for a large part of your life, represented the perfect ideal and you’d spent your life measuring other men against him—inevitably they had fallen short.
Could that be why she’d still not had a single serious relationship?
The possibility drifted into her head and then was gone because he had caught her hand and, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, was massaging the pad of her palm. The light arabesques sent deep tremors through her body. What she was feeling bore no resemblance to any teenage crush. It bore no resemblance to anything she had felt or imagined feeling.
She didn’t even know she’d closed her eyes until he spoke in his deep husky voice.
‘I have a room.’
She didn’t say anything; she couldn’t.
Her voice sounded throaty and deep, unfamiliar to her own ears, when she finally managed a response: ‘Yes.’
* * *
If she’d known what she was saying yes to she wouldn’t have waited even that long. Last night had been more than Lily had ever dreamed!
Her body still thrummed with the sensual aftermath of their lovemaking and her heart felt full. And there was more to come, much more, there were days and nights and... She felt her heart flutter as she thought of a future with Benedict in it, beside her in her bed. Last night was the start of something...it had to be.
Not romanticising, she told the voice of caution in her head. The sex had been incredible but it had gone beyond the physical; nothing that special could be transitory. She had no name for it, but it had been real.
‘What are you waiting for, Lily?’
Lily had never had an answer for Sam’s exasperated lectures about lowering her expectations and being realistic.
As she directed her searching, hungry gaze at his face a series of sensual images superimposed themselves over his sleeping features. The accompanying taste and textures were so real that the effort of separating herself from them brought a fine sheen of perspiration to Lily’s skin.
She shivered even though she was close enough to feel the warmth of his body. She had an answer to Sam’s question now—Benedict was the man she had been waiting for.
Did he realise that he’d been her first? Last night the memory of Lara’s experience had made her hold back. The man her twin had fallen for had said virgins were not his style—a deal breaker, she remembered Lara saying, while she outlined her solution to the problem.
Did other men feel that way...?
Did Benedict?
Would it be a deal breaker...? Could she take the risk?
Did not telling him constitute lying?
In the end the moment had passed, as had the fear her inexperience might be a problem. But she still didn’t know if he’d realised.
She would ask him, she decided, fighting the strong compulsion to wake him, her lips curved in a contemplative smile. Lily lay down with a sigh and, in an effort to distract herself, began to scroll idly through her emails before moving on to read the latest theatre gossip. She discovered, as her fingers idly flicked through the website, that the play she’d seen the previous week had been nominated for an Olivier award and the fans of a soap were demanding they reinstate a recently axed daytime favourite. A celebrity couple were splitting but staying good friends and a—
Her finger froze as she stared at the screen. The images there screamed silently back at her until she felt as though her skull would explode with the building pressure, the anger aimed as much at herself as him.
‘No!’ she whispered, but though the words and images blurred through the tears in her eyes they remained there, visible evidence of her wilful stupidity!
The piece was written in a gushy style that included quotes from friends of a newly engaged couple. There were several photos of the bride-to-be, the shiny rock on her finger and the groom...the groom...looking handsome on a ski slope, snow on his eyelashes...looking elegant and aloof at a red-carpet event...looking dynamic and sombre at an economic conference.
Her chest lifted in a tremulous sigh as she started breathing again and turned her head.
‘Nobody is surprised,’ she’d read.
Well, they were wrong; she’d been. Self-disgust left a rancid, metallic aftertaste in her mouth as she asked herself, Why are you surprised? You saw what you wanted in him, not what was there. He’s a man, and you were an easy lay.
Anger and devastating hurt clawed at Lily’s throat as she struggled to swallow a sob. Hands clenched, her nails gouging deep into the soft skin of her palms, she turned her hard, glittering stare on his sleeping face.
At sixteen she’d seen through him; she’d had more sense then than she did at twenty-two! Even if he had assumed that she was perfectly all right with one-night stands, he was engaged, newly engaged, for God’s sake!
On the brink of waking him, confronting him, Lily pulled back, breathing hard as she struggled to regain some control. Would venting her feelings of outrage, would the satisfaction of confronting him, be worth exposing her own humiliation? It would be tantamount to admitting she was a naïve idiot who believed in soul mates and true love.
Anything, she decided, was better than that!
Shaking from head to toe, she pushed back the covers, freezing like a creature caught in the headlights when he groaned. She waited, heart hammering, until his breathing had settled into a deep regular pattern again before standing up.
Naked, she moved around the room, shooting wary glances at the sleeping figure as she gathered her clothes. She dressed in the bathroom, not daring to put on the light, and slipped like a thief into the early morning. It felt furtive and sordid, but then, she reflected grimly, it was.
It wasn’t until she was on the tube that she realised she had lost one of her earrings.
It wasn’t the only thing she had lost. But what Lily didn’t know then was that she had also gained something...
CHAPTER ONE
FOR THE FIRST two days of her holiday Lily had put on a sundress over her bikini, applied some clear gloss to her lips and a light smudge of eye shadow before walking, sandals in hand, along the white sandy beach. She’d joined the other guests in the dining room, a structure with a roof but no walls. In the evening, guests could eat and listen
to music provided by a talented in-house pianist, while watching the sun go down over the ocean as they sipped exotic-looking, but lethal, cocktails.
Pretty much idyllic with one small but significant negative: Lily had no one to share the experience with. This was not a problem for her, just other people, it seemed. So this morning, she’d decided to have her meals on the patio of her beach-front bungalow.
‘Just ring through if you’d like lunch here too, miss.’
Lily smiled at the maid, Mathilde, who had come to collect her breakfast things. ‘I thought I might explore a little, walk into town maybe, so afternoon tea would be better and I’ll have my dinner here.’
‘Alone?’ The maid looked almost as disapproving as her mother would have.
Lily nodded firmly.
To say you couldn’t move without falling over honeymooners was a slight exaggeration, but the adult-only luxury resort was, unsurprisingly, geared towards loved-up couples. The only other singleton Lily had encountered was a chatty middle-aged travel writer. While it was interesting to know that the island had once belonged to Denmark before they sold it to America, another lecture over dinner tonight did not appeal.
And besides, these days being alone was something of a treat. Until you were a mother, she mused, picking up her towel and setting off along the white sand in the opposite direction to the maid, you could never quite grasp how much your life changed.
Not that she’d change it, she thought, her expression softening into a warm smile as she thought of her daughter. Motherhood might not have been something she’d planned, but Lily could not imagine her life any other way now. She missed Emmy so desperately, it actually felt as though she had a body part missing. But there was a guilty pleasure in spending half an hour on her nails and a couple of hours reading without interruptions.
Still, a new laptop—the third prize in the magazine competition—would have been a more practical option.
‘You can’t pass up a holiday in a tropical paradise!’ Her mother had been outraged by the suggestion.
‘But Emmy...’
‘You think I can’t look after my granddaughter for a week?’
‘Of course you can. But I couldn’t possibly let you...’
Lily felt guilty enough as it was that she relied on her parent so much. Her mother had been incredibly supportive all the way through her difficult pregnancy and then a real sanity saver during those early sleep-deprived months. Lily would never have been able to take on her part-time job if her mum hadn’t been there ready and cheerfully willing to look after Emmy on those two mornings she worked at the local college.
‘What would I do on this island of sea and sand?’
‘That you have to ask shows how much you need this holiday. When was the last time you had a half-hour to call your own, Lily? When did you last spend some time socially with anyone your own age? You need to let your hair down. You might even meet someone...?’
Lily gave an exasperated sigh. She knew exactly where this was going. ‘I know you want to see me married off, Mum, but—’
‘I want to see you happy, Lily. I want to see both my girls happy.’
Lily knew what ‘happy’ meant to her mum, who was fond of saying, ‘There’s someone out there for everyone—a soul mate. I found mine,’ she added. ‘There was never and never will be any other man for me but your father.’
Lily had always struggled to reconcile the misty-eyed romanticism with her childhood memories of angry raised voices, slamming doors and tears. Lily never voiced her thoughts, she felt disloyal for even thinking them, though she sometimes wondered if her mum really felt that way or if it was her way of dealing with being widowed so young. Had she been telling the stories for so long she believed them...?
‘I am happy, Mum.’ Why did no one believe her?
And even if she had been looking for romance, she had no time for it. Juggling her part-time job in the college drama department and the unpaid hours she put in at the hospice—where her mother fundraised so tirelessly—with caring for her two-year-old daughter left no time for anything except falling into bed exhausted at the end of the day.
Lily considered her life rich and fulfilling. Occasionally she thought what if...? But those thoughts were swiftly quashed. She still had ambitions; they just weren’t the same ones she’d had as a final-year drama student. Back then she’d had several small parts in TV dramas under her belt and the lead role in a new costume drama to walk into when she graduated—not bad for the invisible twin.
But her life had changed unexpectedly and she didn’t resent it. Now she wanted more than anything to be a role model for her daughter. Although she’d been an OK actress, she had discovered by accident she was a better than OK teacher. As soon as Emmy was in school she had plans to get the qualifications to enable her to lecture and not just be an assistant. She might never see her own name in lights, but she might be responsible for some other shy, awkward kid—as she’d been—discovering the liberation of becoming someone else on stage.
Lily’s thoughts were not on her future career as she wandered down the deserted beach, her feet sinking into the sand. She was replaying the conversation she’d had via the computer link with her daughter the previous evening. Well, conversation might be overstating it. Emmy had fallen asleep after five minutes on her grandmother’s knee saying loudly that she wanted a dog, a wiggy dog.
‘She means waggy, I think,’ Elizabeth had translated, stroking her granddaughter’s curly head. ‘She grabbed Robert’s poor old Lab by the tail and wouldn’t let go.’
Lily’s eyes misted as the longing to hold her daughter, smell her hair, brought an emotional lump to her throat.
Dropping her towel on the sand, she stared out to sea, the ache in her chest a mixture of pride and loneliness as she waded out into the warm, clear water.
* * *
Returning the painting had been a theatrical stunt. The big reveal had gone down like a lead balloon, but in his defence Ben had tried everything else. Nothing had worked. His grandfather had refused then, as he did now, to give an inch. He still refused to concede that selling off the odd heirloom or parcel of land was not a fiscally sound form of long-term financial planning.
This morning the argument had not gone on long before his grandfather had given his never darken my door again speech and Ben, knowing that if he stayed he’d say something he’d regret, had accepted the invite.
Striding through the corridors of the old house, he’d predictably felt his anger fade, leaving frustration and the realisation that he needed a change of tactics. Governments and financial institutions listened to his analyses, they valued his opinion, but he just had to accept that his grandfather didn’t even think of him as an adult, let alone someone qualified to offer advice.
He’d paused, responding to a text from his PA reminding him he had a meeting in Paris in two hours, when he heard the sound. Glancing through the deep stone-mullioned window at the helicopter he’d arrived in, which was sitting on the south lawn, Ben was tempted to pretend he hadn’t heard it. Then he heard it again—the sound of a child crying.
Curious, he slid his phone back into his pocket and followed the sound of the cries. The search led him to the kitchen, a room that, like the plumbing at Warren Court, would have made a Victorian feel right at home.
The door to the vast room was open, and as he stepped inside the source of the noise, a child held by his grandfather’s harassed-looking housekeeper, Elizabeth Gray, let out an ear-piercing screech, made even louder by the room’s tremendous acoustics.
‘Wow, that’s quite a set of lungs.’ And quite a head of hair. The wild red curls on the toddler’s head opened a memory he’d have preferred to stay locked inside the file marked move on.
And he had moved on; it was ancient history.
‘Benedict!’
; Would Elizabeth’s smile have been so warm and welcoming had she known he’d slept with one of her daughters? The lazy speculation vanished as she advanced towards him holding the screaming child. Horror slid into the vacuum it left.
‘Your grandfather didn’t tell me you were coming...’
‘He didn’t know.’ Ben prided himself on the ability to extricate himself from uncomfortable situations, but for once his ingenuity failed him.
‘Are you staying for...? Never mind—hold her, will you?’
It was not a suggestion or a request, it was a plea, which he hadn’t responded to when he had found his arms filled with crying toddler. A new experience for him... He stood rigid, holding the wriggling, screaming child the same way he would an unexploded bomb—at arm’s length! He’d have felt more comfortable with a bomb; they were more predictable.
Ben had nothing against children, and he understood why people felt the urge to procreate, he just wondered why some did. People like his mother, who had never made any pretence of being maternal. His mother, who had done her level best to forget that she’d had a child after she’d given birth and had done so pretty successfully. She had never made any bones about what came first—her career. And as she’d pointed out, not having a mother coddling him had made him self-reliant.
He recognised similar character traits—some might call them faults—in himself. He was ambitious, ruthlessly focused on his work. Ben had no illusions about his character. Bottom line, he was selfish. That combined with razor-sharp instincts made him successful in his chosen career.
He didn’t need those instincts to tell him he’d have been a terrible parent. It was pretty obvious. Being a good parent required sacrifice and compromise, which he was simply not capable of. His decision not to have children was yet another bone of contention between him and his grandfather, who was fixated on the idea of the family name living on.
‘Is she ill?’ He struggled to hide his unease and eyed the child warily. She might be attractive, but right now, with her crumpled, tear-stained face as red as her hair, she wasn’t.