The mind, she had decided a long, long time ago, was something that could be controlled through will alone. And Triss was an expert on the subject—she had certainly practised it enough times!
You could lock certain memories away so that they could not torture you with their sweet poignancy—and that was what Triss had forced herself to do during the long months of her pregnancy, when she had felt so isolated and so alone.
The subject of Cormack had been like a cream cake to a determined dieter—something to be avoided at all costs! She had bided her time and waited, determined to find the optimum time to inform him that he was a father.
And then she had blown it by leaping so eagerly into his arms today. So what on earth did that say about her? Or him?
Triss sighed as she plucked Simon out of his high chair and carried him upstairs for his bath, knowing that she was weakening. Knowing that she was allowing her thoughts to wander along normally forbidden paths.
And one question alone clamoured to be heard.
Just what had happened to her and Cormack along the way?
After that first, sun-dappled lunch in Cormack’s favourite restaurant in Malibu, Triss went back to his beachside house with him, knowing that she fully intended to go to bed with him.
She should have felt intimidated. He was, after all, one of Hollywood’s most eligible men, and he had certainly had more than his fair share of equally eligible girlfriends.
Not that Triss was in the habit of putting herself down, or anything. Far from it!
She was aware that the rest of the world rated her looks very highly even if she, along with many other top models, could see only the flaws and imperfections in her face and figure. She knew that mere beauty was fleeting and fame was a fickle mistress, and that because of this her future depended on something which could not be predicted.
In short, she was hopelessly insecure!
Many men—worthy, intelligent men—had attempted to seduce her in the past, but she had never been remotely tempted by any of them.
Up until now.
Over their simple Californian lunch they had swopped life stories immediately, as if eager to get them out of the way.
Neither of them had been particularly happy as children, but Cormack’s upbringing had been the harshest by far. He was one of five children, the youngest by a good eleven years, and so, in effect, an only child.
When Cormack was growing up, his siblings had already left home, leaving them well clear of Joseph Casey, their father, and his long-standing love affair with the bottle.
When poor health finally took its toll and carried off Cormack’s mother when the boy was just twelve, Joseph Casey found that he was finally beyond the criticism of another adult, and proneeded to take comfort in liquor more than ever before.
It was a frightening existence for a young boy. Cormack was blamed for everything. When Joseph was sacked from yet another job, it was Cormack’s fault for being such a demanding child. When there was no money for food, Cormack was accused of eating it all. And with the accusations came physical violence, which became worse, not better, as Cormack grew from a boy into a fine figure of a man.
And it was the violence which finally convinced Cormack that he must break free.
At sixteen he ran away to Dublin, where he became lead singer with an unknown rock band whose fortunes were to change once the brilliantly acerbic Cormack Casey started penning their songs. In terms of popularity and sales, the band broke every record in Ireland before storming Europe and then, eventually, laying claim to the greatest musical prize of all—the United States.
Triss listened as Cormack explained all this, in his soft, lyrical Belfast accent, her eyes huge and rapt as she stared at him. ‘Why on earth did you leave the band?’ she questioned. ‘When it was going so well.’
‘It’s a young man’s game.’ He smiled. ‘For people who plan to wreck their health! Besides, I get more of a kick out of constructing make-believe characters for the movies. Now...’ His intelligent blue eyes seared into her. ‘Tell me about you.’
‘I—’ She looked up at him, her hazel eyes huge and bewildered as she realised that she actually wanted to pour her heart out.
Men had alternately tried to cajole or drag the story from her over the years, but she had always clammed up in her shame, obstinately determined to tell them nothing. The difference here was that there was something about the soft blueness of Cormack’s eyes which just invited confidence.
But the habit of a lifetime was hard to break and Triss shook her head.
‘Leave it, then,’ he suggested, in a voice so soft and soothing it made Triss want to curl up and purr.
‘I—I want to tell you,’ she began hesitantly.
‘Then tell, sweetheart.’
So she told him about growing up as the daughter of a woman so exquisitely lovely that her beauty had tainted her life for ever. A woman who had been unable to accept growing older, who had seen her only daughter as a threat rather than as someone to love.
‘She loved my brother,’ said Triss, taking a sip from her iced spritzer. ‘He’s a doctor and he’s married now—to another doctor. They’re both doing very well,’ she added quietly.
‘You don’t mention a father in all this.’ Cormack shot her a shrewd look.
She shrugged. ‘That’s because he wasn’t around when I was growing up. He disappeared one day—quite literally, as it turns out—nobody has seen him for years.’
‘What was he like?’
Triss shrugged her narrow shoulders again. ‘He was a glamorous playboy who just happened to lose all his money, and when that happened he lost my mother too.’
‘So how did you survive?’
Triss shuddered as her mind wandered back down forbidden pathways. ‘Oh, there was never a shortage of suitable “escorts” for a woman who looked like my mother. For suitable, read rich,’ she added, unaware of the cynicism which had briefly hardened her voice. But Cormack heard it, and frowned.
‘She lived off men, basically,’ explained Triss, in a forced voice which sounded shaky even to her own ears. ‘She still does. Only as the years go by and her looks diminish, well, her standards drop accordingly. Consequently the men get more and more disgusting. She’s...’ Her voice tailed off in distress, but Cormack did not attempt the false comfort which would have rung so emptily in her ears. ‘She’s living in the South of France at the moment, with a man who made his fortune from manufacturing dog biscuits.’
She blew her nose noisily and escaped to the powder room. When she came back, Cormack was settling the bill, and she looked at him gratefully.
‘OK?’ he queried, and she nodded. ‘We can always have dessert at home, later,’ he added, and to Triss’s fury she found herself blushing.
Now they were driving back in Cormack’s open-topped Aston Martin, with the sun glinting off the Pacific which dazzled in a sapphire haze beside them. Her long hair floated behind her like a bronze banner which gleamed as shinily as the paintwork of the racing-green car.
When he drew up outside the dazzling white house, he switched off the engine and turned to look at her, his eyes narrowed, his expression thoughtful as he took in her tense, hunched shoulders, her tightly clasped hands. To Cormack, her whole body language was yelling, Leave me alone!
‘Changed your mind, sweetheart?’ he enquired softly.
‘About what?’
‘Staying with me.’
‘Would it matter if I had?’ she asked him boldly.
He reached out a hand and freed a glossy tendril of hair the colour of cinnamon from where it clung to the full pout of her lips. ‘Of course it would matter,’ he answered softly. ‘But not in the way you might be thinking.’
‘You’re a mind-reader, are you now, Mr Casey?’
He smiled, and if was the most irresistibly roguish smile that Triss had ever seen. ‘I don’t need to be,’ he said simply. ‘They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, don’t they? And you
rs are telling me everything I need to know right now, sweetheart.’
‘Which is?’
‘That you want me as much as I want you—’
Triss clapped her palms against her flaming cheeks. ‘Cormack!’ she protested. ‘Don’t!‘
‘Don’t what? Don’t speak the truth?’ he mused. ‘But why ever not? Why stifle emotion with convention?’
Intrigued, she asked, ‘And is that what I’m doing?’
‘Sure it is. You want me to take you to bed, but now you’re having second thoughts—thinking that we haven’t known each other for very long. Or not knowing whether my intentions are...’
‘Honourable?’ she supplied, midway between laughter and indignation.
Humour danced in the bright blue eyes. ‘Well, of course, I can’t promise you marriage at this stage—’
‘That wasn’t what I meant!’ she raged, wondering if she was not protesting a little too much.
‘No? Then what did you mean?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ she snapped, aware that she was sounding more and more petulant, but annoyingly unable to stop herself. ‘Since you seem to be the self-appointed expert.’
‘Oh, I am,’ he murmured. ‘I am indeed.’ And all conversation ceased when he leaned forward and kissed her.
Triss had never believed the fictional kisses of books and films, which could have a woman swooning helplessly in a man’s arms after just one touch of lip upon lip, but now she became the most fervent convert.
It was magic—like no other kiss she had ever had. So much so that she almost found herself wondering whether Cormack had slipped some powerful aphrodisiac into her drink at luchtime—except that instinct told her he would have neither the need nor the inclination to do something as crass as that.
She felt giddy with the joy and the promise of that kiss—it felt as though little bubbles of happiness were exploding and fizzing around her veins. She felt abandonment wash over her like a tidal wave, and she began to moan against his mouth—and heard his own answering moan, which was tinged with more than a little desperation.
And when the kiss was finally over, and they had managed to tear their lips apart in order to drag some air into their tortured lungs, Triss found that his hand was beneath her thin white dress and nesting proprietorially at the top of her naked thigh, stroking it beautifully.
And somehow her own hands had slipped luxuriatingly beneath the silk of his shirt and were splayed with equal possession over the velvety smoothness of his back.
His eyes looked as black as coal shipped directly from hell, and through his ragged breath he said something which must have been in Gaelic, for it was like no language she had heard before.
With what seemed a monumental effort, he took his hand away from the soft, silky skin of her inner thigh and levered himself as far away from her as possible—which was not easy, given the rather cramped intimacy of the Aston Martin.
‘That wasn’t fair,’ he said, more to himself than to her. ‘Shall I take you home now?’
It was like being woken up in the middle of the most delicious dream, and Triss stared at him with a look of exasperation on her face. ‘No!’ she responded, so indignantly that Cormack was unable to stop himself from smiling. ‘I thought we were going to bed together.’
‘Are you a virgin?’ he demanded suddenly, his Irish accent sounding very distinctive.
She wondered how he had guessed. Had she kissed like an amateur? It did not occur to her to deny it. ‘Y-yes,’ she answered tentatively.
He smiled again, only this time it was like the sun coming out on Midsummer Day—bright and blinding—making every other smile seem hopelessly insignificant.
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently, his eyes never leaving her face as he did so. ‘Do you know something, Triss?’ he murmured. ‘I’ve never been a man for prayers, but I think you just answered mine in any case! Now, quick and decide. Am I taking you back home, or are you staying here? Either way I’m having breakfast with you tomorrow. And lunch. Supper too. So what do you say?’
Triss was hooked.
‘Sounds like I’m staying,’ she whispered, and let him lead her into his house.
First, for propriety’s sake, he took her into a state-of-the-art kitchen where he made her scented jasmine tea. Then into his white bedroom—bare save for a simple futon on which he slept. The floorboards were made of pale, honey-coloured wood which gave off the softest sheen. White muslin covered the futon, and it billowed gauzily in the gentle breeze which blew in through the open window.
There was not even a single painting on any of the stark white walls, for art would have detracted from the living art which was right outside—a picture window filled with all the different blues thrown up by the sea and the sky.
‘Now come here,’ he whispered softly.
He took for ever to undress her, so by the time she lay naked in his arms all her shyness had flown and she was as eager for him as he was for her—indeed, of the two of them, he seemed capable of showing the most restraint.
And when it was over she cried because he had made it just perfect. He kissed her tears away and asked her to move in with him, and naturally she said yes.
Triss was due a long holiday, and so she took it straight away, and Cormack postponed his new film script so that they could spend some time together.
For the first few months it was the relationship she had always dreamed of. And more.
They had time and money on their hands, but most of all they had each other. They were living in a fairy-tale bubble which kept the rest of the world out, and Triss found herself wondering just how long it could last.
The bubble burst when Cormack reluctantly told her in bed one morning that he really did have to go into the studio to discuss his screenplay of a novel by an up-and-coming writer.
As he spoke, Triss felt enormously grateful for the acting skills which her modelling career had instilled in her.
She put on her brightest smile, then let her mouth drift slowly down his chest to the indentation of his belly, and he gave that helpless groan of surrender she so loved to hear.
For a while Triss played the dutiful housewife, aware that most of her day seemed to be spent waiting for Cormack to turn up. She had never been much of a cook, and she wasn’t really inclined to learn. Why bother cooking something for Cormack which would invariably be spoiled because he never seemed to get home when he said he would?
When he did get home, he wanted to take her out—to restaurants and parties and films—which at first Triss enjoyed. But then she began to grow jealous of the attention which other people—especially women—gave him.
She found that she wanted to stay in their love-nest—to go back to the early days when they had only needed each other—safe from the temptations and distractions of the outside world.
But Cormack became restless with this stay-at-home life, particularly after one of the increasingly frequent visits from Brad Parfitt. Brad was his powerful and rather ruthless agent, who seemed afraid that the threat of domesticity would make Cormack’s creativity shrivel up and die.
‘I need to go out, sweetheart!’ Cormack told her passionately. ‘I need to see other people and the world. I’m a writer, Triss—and I need something to write about!’
She realised that she was now in a subservient role to Cormack. He refused to let her contribute to the household expenses while she was not working, so, in effect, she was living off him—and in that respect was she any different from her mother?
And then her agent began to call again, saying that people would not wait for ever to book her, that her face might not always be flavour of the month and that she really ought to start working again—capitalise on her assets while they were still in demand. Which meant travelling again.
Cormack didn’t like it one bit.
‘Why the hell can’t you model here?’ he demanded. ‘In Hollywood?’
‘Because I’m an international mo
del,’ answered Triss, unconsciously quoting her agent, word for word. ‘And my looks are too European to appeal to Americans.’
He shot her a disbelieving look. ‘And you believe that?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Why not let me ask around, find you something?’
‘No!’ Her response was swift and definite. ‘I want to be independent, Cormack.’
‘Then so be it.’ He shrugged, but his voice carried a trace of unmistakable disquiet.
So Triss flew first to Paris, then to Rome. And it was in London that she saw the first of the newspaper items, tucked discreetly into the corner of the country’s biggest gossip column. A picture showed Cormack with his arm resting lightly around the shoulders of a reed-thin girl with hair the colour of pale corn and a wistful smile as she gazed up at him, which gave her face a kind of dreamy look.
They had a fierce row about it on the phone that night, in which Triss interrogated him and he told her that the woman was an actress who would be staring in his film, and that she meant nothing to him. And also that, hey, he’d thought that their relationship was based on trust.
‘Oh, it is, Cormack!’ she sobbed. ‘You know it is!’
‘Then what the hell is this all about, sweetheart?’
‘It’s just that I miss you! And I want to be there.’
‘Then be here,’ he told her simply. ‘Catch the next plane out.’
‘I can’t. You know I can’t—this job is going to last another week.’
His Irish accent sounded matter-of-fact. ‘Then if you can’t or won’t change the situation you must accept it, Triss.’ A distant babble of voices hummed like bees on a summer’s day in the background.
‘What’s that noise?’ demanded Triss, hating herself for doing it.
‘Just some people. Brad. Louie. Nick. Jenna. We’re going out to catch that new film.’ His voice lowered. ‘I miss you, sweetheart.’
‘I miss you too,’ she gulped.
But the seeds of suspicion were sown in a mind which provided fertile growing conditions for more suspicion as each day passed. The times when they were together took on—for Triss, anyway—the sensation of standing on quicksand.
Kiss and Tell Page 8
