by Maggie Cox
When it was time to leave, and they had said their goodbyes to all, he led Freya out to the car park. Oliver Beaumarche was waiting in the driving seat of his BMW to take Freya back to his house for drinks, then out to dinner. Nash was going to follow in his own car and join them. He wished that they were going straight back to his apartment instead, but his need to talk privately to Freya would have to wait now until they could be alone…as frustrating as that might be.
As members of the press spilled out of the home behind them, continuing to call out to her and take pictures as she stood obligingly by the passenger seat of the car, Freya glanced up at Nash with shining eyes. ‘I loved the kids,’ she told him unreservedly. ‘I’d love to go back and visit soon. Can you arrange it?’
‘No problem.’
‘I think you’re wonderful to do the work you do here,’ she whispered, for his ears alone.
Nash tipped up her chin, knowing that the picture the two of them made would no doubt feature highly in the following morning’s papers. And, though he couldn’t help wishing that the intimate moment could have been more private, nonetheless he was elated just to be able to touch her. ‘I think you’re pretty wonderful too, Ms Carpenter,’ he teased, then planted a soft kiss on her surprised mouth. ‘You’ve made their day coming here.’
She smiled. ‘Not as much as they’ve made mine.’
‘That’s enough for today, folks.’ Nash addressed the small crowd round the car as he briefly turned to open the passenger door for Freya. ‘Ms Carpenter has another appointment to go to, and I think you’ve all had plenty of pictures to be going on with.’
‘Thanks, Freya! Good luck!’ somebody shouted out, just before she turned and got into the car.
The car park miraculously started to clear. Seconds later, after a brief exchange with Oliver Beaumarche, who’d waited patiently for the melee to finish, Nash was about to say goodbye to Freya when a tall, skinny boy with a shock of raven hair and piercing blue eyes hailed him from across the other side of the car park. Nash glanced round, smiling in genuine pleasure as the youth approached.
‘Hey, Mark! How are you doing? I didn’t see you inside.’
‘No. I should’ve been at school today, but I’ve been to an interview for sixth-form college. Why d’you think I’m dressed like this?’
Nash’s gaze took in the slightly shiny grey trousers, dull white shirt and ill-matched brown flecked tie beneath the habitual grey fleece that was the only jacket he had ever seen Mark wear, and his heart squeezed tight.
‘Maybe I thought you had a hot date?’ he teased, a twinkle in his smiling blue eyes.
‘Fat chance!’ Visibly reddening around the jaw, Mark grimaced. ‘Is that Freya Carpenter in there?’ He stooped down with awe in his voice to gaze at the glamorous woman in the back seat of the Mercedes.
‘Why don’t you say hello to her, Mark?’ Nash smiled.
Hearing the invitation, Freya held out her hand to the youngster. ‘Hello, Mark. I’m very pleased to meet you.’
‘Wow!’ Shaking her hand and turning to glance up at Nash at the same time, Mark went even redder in the face. ‘She’s gorgeous!’
‘You won’t get an argument from me,’ Nash replied without hesitation, his own gaze moving to focus on a pair of exotic caramel eyes that could all but make a man’s heart jump straight out of his chest with one beguiling look.
Mark dipped his head a little towards Freya. ‘Nice to meet you too, miss.’ He let go of her hand and straightened again.
‘Can I talk to you for a second?’ he asked Nash, his expression uncertain.
‘Do you mind?’ Encompassing both Freya and her uncle with his glance, Nash put his hand beneath Mark’s elbow. ‘Why don’t you get going? I’ll meet you back at the house…I know the address.’
‘Take your time,’ Freya said easily. ‘We’ll see you soon.’ She pulled the passenger door shut with a brief flicker of concern in her eyes, then sat back in her seat as Oliver drove the car out of the car park.
Leading the boy to where his own Mercedes was parked, Nash let go of his elbow and folded his arms across his chest.
‘What’s up?’
‘I saw my mum yesterday…in the hospital.’
Mark’s mother was a registered substance abuser and an alcoholic who’d spent time in Holloway Prison for stabbing her abusive boyfriend. Feeling his heart start to race at what the boy might be going to tell him, Nash squeezed Mark’s bony shoulder beneath the shabby grey fleece.
‘What’s she doing in the hospital?’ he probed gently.
‘She’s been using again, hasn’t she?’ Anger darkening his brilliant blue gaze, Mark dipped his head in a bid to control his temper.
In an instant Nash saw himself reflected in the boy’s condemning wounded eyes. Because rewind to twenty years or so and the boy standing in front of him could have been him. Hurt, angry, and feeling betrayed by the very people who were supposed to look out for him. Nash recognised the crushing, bruising emotions only too well. His own father had deserted him by dying and his mother…his mother should have protected him better, he realised with a shock. Why had she prolonged both his and her own agony by living with man after man who’d abused and mistreated her and her son? Wouldn’t it have been better if she’d struggled on alone until Nash was of an age when he could have gone out to work and helped her himself? Why had she sent him to England, to an aunt he’d never even met before, to make his own way?
Slowly, he eased out a breath. She’d sent him to his father’s sister in Essex because her thug of a boyfriend had almost stabbed him to death with a knife. The wound in his side seemed to throb and burn as he reluctantly allowed the memory to linger for a moment. But…in the final analysis…by sending him away his mother had perhaps done the best she could think of to protect her son.
‘Is she getting help?’ Nash asked the boy now, his fingers curling even more firmly into his shoulder.
‘She’s got a new social worker assigned to her case. Won’t make any difference, though, will it? She’ll still go back to drinking and using and there’ll be another low-life waiting in the wings to take her back home… Same old story.’
‘But it can be a different story for you, Mark.’ Letting his hand drop away, Nash narrowed his blue eyes as he studied the pale, haunted face of the young teenager. ‘You get into sixth-form college and then maybe even go on to university—the sky will be the limit for a bright boy like you. I’ve seen your grades, remember? I know what you’re capable of. And any time you doubt that, or just want to talk about stuff, ring me. Here.’ Taking one of his business cards from his wallet, Nash handed it to Mark. ‘You want to know the best way to help your mum?’ he continued. ‘Do it by excelling in whatever you do. Be the best you can be and she’ll be the proudest woman on earth.’
‘Suppose so.’ Appearing pleased, but embarrassed, Mark nodded his head at Nash’s car. ‘I’ll do it too, if it means I get to drive a Merc of my own one day.’
‘Want to go for a spin now?’ Nash asked him, feeling certain that Freya and Oliver would understand if he was a little later than expected getting to the house.
‘You kidding? Oh, man, that would be cool!’
‘We’ve got to clear it with the powers that be first.’ Ruffling Mark’s thick black hair, Nash slammed the car door shut and walked alongside the teenager back inside the children’s home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FREYA had been wondering about the boy Mark she’d met so briefly before she’d left the children’s home. Apart from his poor clothing, there had been a wounded look about him that had touched her heart. Noticing the way Nash had regarded him, with such interest and concern, had helped Freya see the indisputable goodness in the man she loved. Many people who had been hurt as badly as he had during their childhood instinctively wanted to retreat from the world somehow, and protect themselves from any reminders of the too shattering memories. But Nash had not behaved like that. He’d actively sought to use his succe
ss in helping others who’d had a less fortunate start in life…like he had had. She wondered if Mark realised what a potentially amazing friend he had in the older man.
Their dinner with Oliver at an end, Freya could hardly wait to be alone with Nash at the apartment. His gaze had scarcely left hers all evening, and a quiet but powerful anticipation was building inexorably through her at the thought that they might make love again. Her body yearned to feel his touch. Her skin was already hot and achy, as though she were incubating a fever at the mere idea.
When no press cars followed them from the restaurant, she felt like an elated escape artist who had pulled off a stunt previously thought impossible. At the apartment, after hanging his jacket on the chrome stand inside the door, Nash briefly excused himself to go and use the bathroom. Back at the restaurant a waiter had accidentally spilled red wine on his spotless white shirt, and he wanted to change out of it and put on a fresh one.
While she waited impatiently for him to return Freya wandered into the kitchen, then the living room, restlessly inspecting the immaculate, artistically designed rooms with an air that was definitely distracted. Selecting a Mozart CD to play on the state-of-the-art music system, she sat on the couch and shut her eyes to more fully concentrate on the music. They flew open again in surprise when the telephone rang. Hurrying to turn down the volume, she was just about to reach for the receiver when the answer-machine clicked into action. There was Nash’s voice, telling the caller he wasn’t at home and to please leave a message and he would get back to them.
A woman’s voice, smooth and rich as opulent velvet, came on the line.
‘Nash, darling… I’m so disappointed that you’re not there! It’s late in the evening, I know, but please ring me when you get this message. I miss you and love you lots, my angel. Speak soon.’
Freya had straight away identified the accent that filled the room as Swedish, and as the affectionate—she dared not think passionate—words echoed mockingly round her stunned brain—she levered herself off of the couch and found herself at the window that framed the twinkling London nightscape to such spectacular effect.
Nash was seeing someone else! Someone who spoke as if they were on the most intimate of terms! An acquaintance or even a close friend would hardly sign off their message with ‘I miss you and love you lots, my angel’…would they? He’d lied to her.
Ice water seemed to seep into her veins as the terrible realisation sank in. It was just like a sickening replay of the horrible moment when she’d discovered that her new husband didn’t love her at all and had only married her because of her fame and wealth. She and James had been at yet another tedious party and—his speech impaired by too much alcohol—he’d slurred the confession mockingly to a friend of his just as Freya had walked back into the room after visiting the cloakroom. But this was far worse than that repugnant memory.
Devastated tears slid down the softly smooth contours of her face and she cupped her hands across the bridge of her nose as though she were praying, catching them as they fell. How could Nash do that to her? How could he have made love to her—and he would have made love to her again tonight, she was certain—knowing that he was possibly in love with someone else? Was her judgement so impaired she could so easily be deceived by a man again? No wonder he’d sometimes seemed to keep Freya at a distance! No wonder he’d been so secretive about his past! He obviously had a hell of a lot to hide besides his background!
‘Did I hear the phone ring?’ he asked, strolling through the living room door just then, his hands adjusting the cuffs on his fresh white shirt.
Turning to face him, that chiselled arresting visage of his and tousled blond hair catching her on the raw, Freya strove to compose herself. ‘As a matter of fact, you did. The woman who called left you a message. You’ll find it on the machine.’
‘Okay. I’m sure it wasn’t important. I’ll listen to it later.’ His smile was relaxed and intimate, as if nothing could possibly be amiss, and as he started to walk towards Freya she could no longer control the turbulent emotion that was coursing through her at the idea he was seeing someone else.
‘Oh, I would listen to the message now, if I were you, Nash,’ she commented sarcastically. ‘It sounded pretty important to me. The woman was practically desolate that you weren’t in. And, by the way…she finished off by saying how much she loved and missed you! Who is she? Somebody you’ve been having an affair with, obviously!’
‘What?’
Stopping in his tracks, Nash tried to assimilate the sensation of driving head-on into a rockface at high speed. ‘Of course I’m not having a damn affair!’
He was suddenly aware of the acute distress written all over Freya’s lovely face, and saw that she’d been crying. His heart started to beat faster than an express train at the idea she believed he’d been seeing someone else all along.
‘Then am I to deduce that it’s quite normal that you receive phone calls late at night from some sultry woman telling you that she loves you?’
‘Are you saying that she had a foreign accent?’ Nash dropped his hands either side of his straight, lean hips and slowly moved his head from side to side in disbelief.
‘Yes, she had an accent!’ Freya burst out furiously. ‘A Swedish accent, if I’m not mistaken! Why don’t I play the tape and check to see if I’m right?’
Two things had hit Nash, like a force ten gale sweeping him nearly off his feet. Firstly, Freya had mistakenly thought his mother was some woman he was having an affair with…and secondly she was jealous! And if she was jealous then that must mean she cared about him…really cared. He hadn’t left it too late to tell her that he loved her! If she knew how crazy he was about her then she wouldn’t expect him to just walk out of her life now that she was on the brink of getting her film career back again. It was a revelation, and Nash’s chest crowded with the kind of warmth that kindled forest fires.
‘You don’t need to do that.’ He sighed. ‘You’re right…the woman in question does have a Swedish accent. Her name is Inga Johannsson and she’s my mother.’ The corners of his mouth dragged up into a smile and he tunnelled his fingers restlessly through his inevitably mussed blond hair, hardly able to contain the sense of elation that was pouring through his bloodstream. ‘That message you heard was from her. She was ringing from her home in Sweden.’
‘Your mother?’ He heard the doubt in her tone and for a few moments wrestled with the strongest urge to cross the room and go to her. He’d show her in no uncertain terms that she was the only woman he loved and wanted to be with, then he’d take her to bed and demonstrate it some more for the rest of the night.
‘Why does your mother live in Sweden?’
‘Because that’s where she’s from. Stockholm, to be precise. And until I was fourteen years old I lived there too.’
‘And what about your father? Was he Swedish too?’
‘No…British.’
Nash’s heart swelled anew with the longing to go to her. He loved Freya. He had absolutely no doubts about that now. The thought of losing her made him experience the kind of dread he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. She had become such an integral part of him that nothing in his life would make any sense any more if she weren’t in it.
‘Oh, Nash!’ She ran into his arms then, burying her face in his chest as her arms twined tightly round his neck. ‘I’m sorry I accused you of having an affair, but I was in pieces when I heard that message! Do you forgive me?’
Making her look at him, Nash gazed down into her passionate dark eyes with a slow, devastating smile.
‘Yes, baby…I do forgive you. But you’ll have to be very, very nice to me to make sure I don’t hold any grudges.’
Freya’s cheeks dimpled. ‘How nice?’
‘Come to bed and I’ll show you.’
Taking her by the hand, Nash led her through the silent, spacious hall of the apartment to his bedroom. Outside the temperatures had dropped dramatically, and the sleeting rain that had be
en falling had long since turned to snow. After turning on a nearby lamp, the first thing Nash did was to close the blinds at the window and shut out the night completely. Then he returned to Freya and slipped her pink suit jacket from her shoulders. Laying it aside on a chair, he tipped up her chin so that he could see every contour and feature of the lovely face that was accentuated by the soft lamp-lit glow.
‘I won’t ever lie to you,’ he asserted, and Freya sensed her heart stall, hardly daring to breathe. ‘But don’t expect me to go over every sordid little detail of my former life with you either. You already know some of the story, and for now that’s enough. Right now I want us to focus on a different, far happier scenario…our own story.’
She loved him. Her heart grieved for every ounce of pain and anguish he had ever suffered, but she understood enough of his character to know that it wouldn’t benefit either of them for him to identify too freely or too frequently with the hurt he had endured. He had his own way of dealing with his demons and she had to respect that. All he needed to know was that it was Freya’s heartfelt wish that they would meet any future challenges or hurt that came their way together.
How could I have lived alone all this time, Nash was thinking as he studied the beautiful face before him, and never realised how lonely I was until Freya came along? I never knew the thing that was missing in my life—the thing that could connect me back more fully to the human race—was her.
He hadn’t told her yet how much he loved her. But he would. First he would take her to bed and demonstrate to her with every drop of passion and feeling he had in him how much he cared.
‘Whatever you’ve endured, Nash,’ Freya told him now, lightly pushing back a tarnished gold lock of hair from his forehead, ‘you’ve obviously overcome to achieve what you’ve achieved. Look how much you’ve helped me restore my belief in myself…you should be proud.’
