Solo

by Jill Mansell

  Antonia couldn’t care less how the balloons stayed up; she just enjoyed the ride. Particularly since she had managed to wangle this flight with Ross.

  Shoving her cold hands into the pockets of her ski jacket, she leaned back against the hood of Richard’s bronze Audi and surveyed the two of them from a distance as they checked the security of the mooring ropes currently holding down the green-and-blue-striped Nizo balloon, whose ownership was shared between Richard and a disappointingly ugly Frenchman named Maurice Bertrand.

  Just watching Ross made Antonia feel better, more alive. In his pale denims and a white padded jacket, with his black hair curling over the collar and his hands resting casually on his lean hips, his desirability took her breath away. She had to get him back.

  “You’re looking well,” she told him an hour later when they were finally airborne. The gas jet roared as Maurice, his face mottled with cold, checked the dumping rope and consulted his compass. Totally wrapped up in the business of flying the balloon, he would pay no attention to whatever Antonia said. “It can’t be easy for you,” she added, keeping her voice low and moving closer to Ross.

  “What can’t be easy?” He wasn’t looking at her. His dark eyes scanned the horizon. Below them, rows of toy-town houses the color of bleached sand curved into the hillside. With the gas jets closed, the silence was incredible. They were floating high above the city and the sensation, thought Antonia, was mind-blowingly erotic.

  “It can’t be easy for you,” she continued patiently. “There’s poor old Tessa, confined to bed and off-limits. Don’t you find it…frustrating?”

  “Not in the least,” replied Ross with irritating cheerfulness. It was a blatant lie, but he’d guessed at once what Antonia was up to and had no intention of playing along with her game. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, any kind of satisfaction…

  “You surprise me.” Antonia blew on her hands in an attempt to warm them and thought how much nicer it would be to slip them beneath Ross’s cashmere sweater. “I’ve never thought of you as the celibate type.”

  “Well, there you go,” he said complacently. “I’m full of surprises.”

  “You certainly were last year.” Glancing over her shoulder at Maurice, Antonia lowered her voice still further. “The last time we went up in this balloon together we joined the quarter-mile-high club. Don’t you remember, darling?”

  He smiled, quite impervious now to her unsubtle methods. “You may have joined it last year. I was a founder member.”

  “And you can’t expect me to believe that you’ve changed,” she murmured, edging closer still. “Ross, it’s not natural! I know it’s not poor Tessa’s fault, but she can’t give you what you need, and since Richard did his back in the other week we haven’t—”

  “If I were you,” interrupted Ross briskly, “I wouldn’t keep calling her ‘poor Tessa.’ She’s fine, the baby is fine, and we’re both very happy. And since I’m not terribly interested in hearing about your disrupted sex life, maybe you could give it a rest. Look.” He pointed below them, to a lone vehicle traversing a winding, tree-lined lane. “There’s Richard in the Land Rover, heading toward Lansdowne.”

  “Oh, who cares about Richard,” declared Antonia moodily. “All he seems to do these days is complain about the amount of money I spend on clothes. If he only knew how much they really cost…”

  “And how frequently you take them off,” he remarked, unable to resist the jibe.

  This trip wasn’t turning out as Antonia had planned. Thoroughly rattled, she turned and glared at him. “Moralizing now? Ross, it really doesn’t suit you.”

  He shrugged, unconcerned.

  “I give it two months. No,” she amended ruthlessly, “six weeks.”

  “Give it as long as you like,” said Ross with undisguised amusement. “Just don’t bother me. Last year was fun, but that’s all changed now. I’m going to marry Tessa.”

  By this time even Maurice had to be listening, but Antonia no longer cared. As her control slipped, her voice rose. The sudden whoosh of the propane gas jets couldn’t disguise her mounting agitation. “Christ, that girl’s clever! Don’t you see what she’s doing to you?”

  “Since I can’t very well shove you out of this basket,” he said, his dark eyes regarding her with bored detachment, “I assume I’m going to find out anyway.”

  “It’s the oldest trick in the book!” screeched Antonia, bursting with the desperate unfairness of it all. “She’s got nothing; you’ve got everything. She deliberately got herself pregnant and then played hard to get. My God, anyone can pull a stunt like that… I could have done it!”

  This was too much. It also bore a dangerous similarity to Max’s own cynical interpretation of events. Ross, close to losing his own temper now, longed to shake Antonia until her teeth rattled. Instead, he gripped the rim of the rough wicker basket so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “You could have done it,” he agreed grimly. “That’s what’s so scary, and I just thank God that I met Tessa in time. Women like you,” he added with deliberate cruelty, “are a walking advertisement for condoms.”

  “And you’re a fucking hypocrite,” Antonia hissed back at him, pale lips narrowing to an ugly line. “Because it won’t be long before you’re buying them wholesale. And you won’t be using them up on Tessa Duvall, either.”

  Chapter 24

  Max, skimming through the Telegraph, only paused to read the article because the novel he was currently working on included an arts scam involving a crooked dealer and a drugs-crazed forger. Such information was always worth knowing and might prove useful. He learned that, every year at the end of March, the Royal Academy invites artists to submit works of quality for possible inclusion in their Summer Exhibition. Every year, roughly twelve thousand paintings are paraded—at dizzying speed—past the lineup of judges, venerable members of the Royal Academy who appraise, reject, and finally select between fifteen hundred and two thousand of those paintings for show at their world-famous exhibition. Those lucky artists whose work is accepted gain tremendous kudos; the prestige, publicity, and general public interest is far-reaching. The plethora of talent scouts, working on behalf of both discerning private buyers and the top galleries in Europe and the States, scrutinize each painting, assessing its artist’s talent and commercial viability. No one wants to miss out on the possibility of discovering another Hockney, Annigoni, or Cook. A successful showing at the Academy’s Summer Exhibition can, quite literally, change an artist’s life.

  • • •

  Ross, picking up the abandoned newspaper at lunchtime and finding it folded open at the appropriate page, read the article with far greater interest. The business of parading the paintings past a row of judges appealed to his sense of humor; it sounded like Miss World minus the swimsuits. Ross didn’t know a thing about the art world, but even he had heard of the Royal Academy. Anyone could submit up to three paintings. The boost to a struggling artist’s career, should his or her work be chosen, could be monumental.

  Swiveling around in his chair, he gazed up at Tessa’s painting, his dark eyes thoughtful. He’d never before experienced the dilemma of being in love with a girl who refused to take their relationship seriously because he had too much money. As far as Tessa was concerned, his wealth and her own lack of it formed an insurmountable barrier between them. Her stubborn ideas drove him to distraction. And he had absolutely no intention of giving his money away, even for Tessa. Spurning his admittedly luxurious lifestyle in order to live in bliss and poverty with a beautiful, obstinate fellow pauper wasn’t his style at all.

  The only sensible solution, therefore, seemed to be to drag Tessa, kicking and screaming no doubt, out into the real world where money counted just as much as love.

  And by great good chance, observed Ross with a smile, the dear old members of the Academy were to commence their judging tomorrow.

  • • •r />
  Holly hadn’t lost faith for a single moment in the powers of Rosa Polonowski, but she was having trouble controlling her impatience.

  Neither would she have dreamed of blaming Tessa for so drastically altering the course of events on their way back from Ascot the other week. A threatened miscarriage was a threatened miscarriage after all.

  But Holly still couldn’t help feeling disappointed that such an idyllic day had ended so uneventfully for Max and herself. The dreamed-of inevitable conclusion to that idyll had been wiped out. Lost. And so far failed to show any signs at all of rematerializing. Ground gained so dramatically had been lost, and she was back just where she started, with Max behaving as if that blissful day—and their miraculous closeness—had never even happened.

  It was all fate, of course. She knew that. What would be would be, and Max was simply taking his time in coming to terms with the realization that there was no escaping their shared destiny. She knew that too. But it was still bloody exasperating having to wait so long for it to finally happen.

  And it didn’t make matters any easier having people like Adam Perry around to stick their clumsy great oars in.

  When Holly had applied for the position of receptionist at The Grange, Ross had informed her that her duties would be challenging and varied, and she had replied cheerfully that she thrived on variety and challenge.

  Somehow, though, she had never envisaged herself crawling around the foyer on all fours in search of a contact lens while its erstwhile owner languished in a chair sipping gin and tonic and making no attempt whatsoever to join in.

  Adam, his arms full of flowers, paused to admire Holly’s delectable bottom as she shuffled backward in response to the other woman’s suggestion that “it” might be nearer the doors. Her curvaceous thighs were clearly outlined by the thin material of her crocus-yellow skirt, and when she leaned forward he caught an enticing glimpse of white stocking tops and pale flesh.

  It did a man a power of good, he thought, to be presented with such a wondrous sight on a gray Tuesday morning. Holly was, quite simply, gorgeous.

  Sensing that someone was standing behind her, Holly glanced over her shoulder and swore quietly. Then, realizing that Adam Perry had been ogling her rear view and wasn’t even attempting to do so with any subtlety, she raised herself onto her knees and glared at him.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped, further irritated by his stupid grin. “I’m busy. And I don’t want your stupid flowers, either.”

  “They aren’t your stupid flowers.” The imperturbable grin widened as she struggled to her feet, allowing him another brief glimpse of stocking top in the process. “So you’re spared the trouble of hurling them into the nearest trash can.”

  Doubly embarrassed now, Holly concentrated on her hair, which had worked free of its restraining combs.

  “What about my contact lens?” demanded the woman in the armchair, tapping long magenta fingernails irritably against the side of her glass.

  “I’m sorry,” said Holly. “It’s lost.” Then she squealed as Adam moved toward her, shifting his cellophane-wrapped bouquet beneath one arm and reaching toward her breasts with his free hand.

  Before she even had time to slap the offending hand away, his huge, rugby player’s fingers had brushed her left nipple. A fraction of a second later, his forefinger and thumb forming an O that exactly matched the shape of Holly’s mouth, he said, “Lucky contact lens.”

  The all-important little circle of plastic was transferred from finder to grateful owner. Holly was forced to swallow her outrage, along with the urge to slap Adam Perry’s horrid smirking face. Gathering her dignity and brushing carpet fibers from her knees, she retreated behind her desk and busied herself with a pile of invoices.

  “No rock, then,” remarked Adam conversationally, leaning across the desk and peering at her trembling hands.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You aren’t engaged to be married to the magnificent Max.”

  “Not yet,” replied Holly icily, praying that Max wouldn’t choose this moment to storm into reception and bawl her out. With a meaningful glance at the bouquet Adam was carrying, she said, “May I help you?”

  “More than you could ever imagine,” replied Adam in mournful tones. “But since you are otherwise engaged—well, nearly—maybe you could point me in Tessa’s direction. The flowers,” he added with insincere apology, “are for her.”

  “Suite twelve. Second floor,” replied Holly, somewhat miffed. She hadn’t imagined for a moment that Adam might be here to see someone else. “But why? You hardly know her.”

  “I met her at Ascot,” he said. “I liked her. I was sorry to hear about what happened. She’s OK now, though?”

  Holly forced herself to relax. She didn’t, after all, even like Adam Perry. And a couple of dozen red roses was so typical of him. No imagination, no subtlety…

  “She’s fine. Bed rest. Shall I phone through and tell her you’re here?”

  “No need.” Shaking his head, he flashed that infuriating grin once more. “You know me, darling. I do like to take people by surprise.”

  • • •

  “How lovely!” exclaimed Tessa, genuinely touched by Adam’s gesture. Despite Holly’s violent reaction, Tessa had taken an instantaneous liking toward the big, sandy-haired man now fitting himself with care into the chair beside her bed.

  “I’m just glad to hear that you and the baby are OK,” said Adam in his easy, forthright manner. “And I know that Ross is taking excellent care of you, but if there is anything you need…”

  “I have more than I need,” she protested, gesturing toward the television and video, the stacks of books, the newly installed bedside fridge. “I’m being spoiled rotten, but thank you for the offer. How are you, anyway?”

  “Madly in love,” he replied soulfully. “Is Holly really going to marry Max?”

  If she has to put him in a straitjacket and push him up the aisle in a wheelbarrow, thought Tessa, but wisely forbore to say so. Instead, choosing her words with care, she shrugged and said, “If everything goes according to plan.”

  “She’s pretty strong-willed. I don’t suppose she’s the kind to change her plans?”

  “Stubborn as a mule,” said Tessa, feeling sorry for him. Knowing that Holly was making the wrong choice didn’t help matters. She and Adam could have been wonderful together, if only she’d give him a chance to prove himself to her. Adam was real, Max a fantasy. One day, probably when it was too late, Holly would realize that.

  “I don’t have any chance at all, then.” He stared down at his hands, the huge fingers interlacing like those of a smoker who knows he mustn’t light up. Then the laughter lines around his eyes deepened as he dredged up a self-mocking smile. “I’m a big boy, Tessa. You can tell me. Cruel to be kind and all that…”

  “You really shouldn’t be asking me,” began Tessa slowly, picking up a pencil and twiddling it between her own fingers in order to distract her mind from what her mouth was about to say. “But sometimes it’s easier to see other people’s mistakes than to recognize one’s own, and I do think she’s making a mistake. At the moment she’s too besotted to think clearly, but eventually…maybe…she’ll realize that Max isn’t what she wants after all. And then…”

  “You really think there might be a chance then?” he said, as eagerly as a small boy.

  “Possibly a slim chance,” she replied in guarded tones. “And I mean very slim, so don’t hold your breath.”

  Adam beamed. For a second she thought he was going to hug her. “Sweetheart, you are an absolute tonic. I knew I could count on you. Between the two of us we’ll bring her to her senses—”

  “A slim chance,” repeated Tessa sternly, but Adam’s irrepressible grin had reasserted itself.

  “Hey, they’re my favorite kind! How about a small side bet now? Thirty-thr
ee to one that I get the girl in the end!”

  Chapter 25

  “You see, I’m holding a small dinner party,” said Holly, trying desperately to make it sound as if she did this all the time. Since Max wasn’t showing any signs of asking her out she had decided to do the sophisticated, Cosmopolitan thing and practice a spot of role reversal. Any man with an ounce of good breeding wouldn’t dream of turning down such an invitation, according to the magazine she’d been furtively reading under cover of the reception desk. “Just a few friends, wonderful food, and some rather special wine I’ve been saving…”

  Max, up to his eyes in work, hadn’t had time to read Cosmopolitan. Without even glancing up, he said, “That’s very nice of you, Holly, but I’m afraid I can’t make it. Sorry.”

  “Why not?” wailed Holly, the careful veneer of sophistication crumbling in an instant. “Bloody hell, Max, I haven’t even told you yet when it is!”

  This time he did look up, his dark-brown eyes surveying her with world-weary amusement while his mind continued to concentrate on the intricacies of the plot he was in the process of formulating.

  “When is it?”

  “Thursday,” said Holly, twisting her fingers into knots behind her back. Then, seeing him hesitate, she blurted out, “Or Friday. Whichever suits you best.”

  “Sorry,” repeated Max, returning his attention to the fluorescent-green screen of his laptop. “I’m afraid I really can’t make it. Pressure of work,” he added, tapping the screen. “I need to put in a bit of overtime.”