The Scandal Behind the Wedding

by Bella Frances

  He swallowed. And again. Breathed in through his nose. Out. Calm.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell. She was on a business trip and hooked up with that guy Hermida. Went off-radar for almost a month. Next thing we see her tagged in a photo in Argentina, looking like death. Maya messaged her and got a two-word response: I’m fine. That’s it. But we know she’s not fine. That was a week ago. And no-one’s heard anything since.’

  Which made it the same day that he’d got married. The same day that Frankie had messaged him to give him her usual blast of derision. Then the softer text message later. That was concerning in itself.

  ‘I’ve kept Mum out of it—you know how she panics.’

  That much was true. He’d never forget the look on her face when she’d seen her number one son getting a life-saving blood transfusion. That image would live with him always. He’d done that. Was solely responsible. Anyone else would have talked it through—or not...maybe decided on no communication at all. But a full-blown physical attack? He still felt the shame and disgust.

  ‘By the way—I hear congratulations are in order.’

  ‘Congratulations? You heard wrong.’ The crack of his voice was like a whiplash. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  He clicked off the phone. Tossed it down onto the sofa. Turned at a sound at the door. Georgia. Questions and hurt in her eyes...ghostly pale.

  ‘Are you—? Is everything all right?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  She stood at the door—he stood at the window. He stared at her, at the phone he’d thrown down, feeling the giant come-down begin for real.

  ‘You don’t seem fine.’

  He could feel himself wavering. Georgia could be his rock, his support. He could tell her what was up and she would listen and share and offer insight. She would come and wind her lissom body into his, holding on to him and imbuing him with her warmth and care...

  And she would lead him to a place he’d sworn he’d never go again—trusting a woman. Nothing good would come of it. So he’d better snap himself out of that nice, cosy little scene.

  ‘Danny?’

  The care in her voice was syrup-thick.

  ‘Look, it’s nothing I want to talk about. I have calls to make, but they don’t concern you.’

  He looked up sharply, his eyes following his voice, already wincing and recoiling at his own callousness. He’d expected to see her walk away, unprepared to put up with those harsh words. But she was standing there, Joan of Arc in a green bikini, unflinching, unmoving. Steady.

  ‘I know you well enough now to know that something pretty major is bothering you. Is it the Sheikh? Has something gone wrong with the contract?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with the contract. It’s...it’s something else.’

  He could cave. He could so easily let her into his life. She was shimmering with strength and kindness and part of him longed to share this with her. She’d never let him down yet, and even when he had been an idiot before she’d handled herself—and him—so well. She’d helped him navigate through one of the biggest moments of his life. She was amazing...perfect. But he had so much to lose. So little to win.

  Risky. It was too risky. She was drawing him like a siren onto rocks that he knew were treacherous. He had to cut her loose, keep her back, keep his distance. Give himself time to figure this out. He needed to focus on Frankie for now. Later he’d sit down and give this whole thing some thought. Maybe it could work? Maybe... But now wasn’t the time to start making decisions.

  ‘Georgia, I appreciate that you’re trying to be helpful but I don’t want your help. And I don’t need it. Thanks.’

  She nodded. Slightly. Still holding it together.

  ‘I understand.’

  No sulk, no drama. Just dignity. She smiled...softly and sadly. As if she was throwing a white rose on the coffin of an old friend. And then she turned and walked away. The quiet flip-flop of her feet faded. The space contracted to fit only him again.

  He stood for a second. It was all he could spare.

  Frankie was in trouble.

  He grabbed up his phone again. He would start with the simplest thing first. He dialled her number.

  It went straight to voicemail.

  He moved to his laptop. Fired it up, entered his password, opened up all the social media tabs, every email account, searched for her. He found the photo that Mark had told him about. His beautiful sister’s short dark hair was in its usual curtains round her face, but the hollows and shadows and the gloom in her eyes told him she was in pain.

  If anyone has hurt her...he thought, trying to call Rocco Hermida to mind. The arrogant Argentinian had come to the stables years ago, toured around the stud ponies like some exotic Prince of Darkness. He’d only been a couple of years older than him but had acted as if he was in a whole different league. Had Frankie fallen for it—for him? He racked his brains. Maybe. It was round about that time when he’d noticed that she was actually a girl.

  He messaged her in every format he knew. He searched for Hermida online, to see what he could find out. Apart from a constant stream of models, actresses and It Girls, he was into mergers and acquisitions. And polo. At all levels—breeding, playing and financing.

  He called the contacts he had in the polo world. He made notes, and lists, came at it from every angle. He began to close in on where she was...what they’d done. He was almost ready to phone Mark back.

  He looked down at his hands—steady. He swallowed—no acid. He called up a mental image—Maya...with Mark. Nothing. Nothing. He felt self-satisfaction. He nodded.

  And then he heard a noise. Georgia.

  ‘Hey.’

  It was dark. She was dressed. She was carrying two glasses of wine. She looked like a goddess in jeans.

  ‘You’ve been sitting here for ages. I thought you might want a little sustenance.’

  She put one glass down and moved back. He noticed that lamps were lit all through the house. He looked through the plate-glass walls that pretty much made up half of the hard fabric of the building, could see past the TV lounge and the dining area through to the kitchen. He could smell food.

  ‘Have you been cooking? You’re an angel.’

  He reached for her glass. Took it out of her hands, placed it next to his and pulled her down onto his lap. Kissed her long and slow. Told her with his mouth how much he admired her, how much he wanted her, how much he adored her. She snaked herself round him and rubbed herself against him in that cat-like way she had, almost purring.

  They were going to make love again.

  It had been hours since they’d done it last. Hours while he’d sorted out his head, sorted out this mess and begun to see that there was a good chance of this enforced contact with Mark having some kind of positive outcome.

  He pulled her hair out of its ponytail, eased it down and smoothed it through his hands, loving the soft weight, the sweet scent. Maybe it was her presence that had made such a difference to the way he was coping with this. He was able to think about his brother without the intense physical reaction that had plagued him for years. Even after all that therapy it was only in the past week that he’d actually been able to hold the images in his mind without feeling his control slip.

  He kissed her. He was able to focus on the here, the now, on the beautiful woman in his arms, without letting his mind be tainted with the shame of what he’d done—or nearly done. He was actually as close a
s he could ever imagine to mastering this.

  But what if he felt that rage again for someone else—for Georgia?

  He really, really needed to start puzzling out what he was going to do about her. Having her in his lap...in his life—it was too precious just to give it up without a proper analysis.

  He kissed her smooth brow, her chin, her nose, her lips. He fed his hand up under her top. Watched her arch her back and stretch her neck in response. Every move she made fuelled him further. He wanted to roll her onto her back, but this room was all hard edges. He lost himself in her kisses. She was so easy to share moments with, so accepting. But still he owed her an apology.

  ‘Georgia... Earlier...’

  She sat back on his lap, held his head between her hands. Smiled and shook her head.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does. I need to explain. The call—it was from home. From Mark. It freaked me out a bit. But it’s sorted now. I think. This whole thing with my brother has taken up so much of my life. I’ve told you bits of it, but I should—’

  She put her finger over his lips, hushed him. Followed it with her lips. Kissed him deeply. As deeply as he could remember. Soul-deep. He felt the air shift. Found succour.

  She pulled back, pressing little kisses. She rubbed her nose gently on his. One more long, deep kiss. Then back she sat.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Really it doesn’t. Because I’m going home. I’m not going to bother you, try to coax you...’

  He jerked back, grabbed her wrists.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re going home?’

  She glanced back over her shoulder and he saw that as well as the beautiful, architecturally designed villa, with its glass, mahogany and private views of the Gulf, there were three pieces of matching luggage and a handbag—all stacked up beside one another.

  She swung her head back and looked at his face. Her eyes were as dark and fathomless as serpentine jade.

  ‘Danny. It’s time for me to go. I can’t seem to help you. You think I’m just a mother hen, clucking round you. You hate me fussing—hate exploring your emotions. You’re... We’re just... I don’t know—made differently.’

  He watched her lips move but he wasn’t really hearing her.

  ‘So what’s going on here? You’ve opened a bottle of wine and packed your bags? You think we’re going to kiss goodbye and then you’ll jump a cab? What have I to do? Watch TV and eat pasta? Is that it?’

  She stood up, stepped back. Her face cast a shadow he’d never seen before.

  ‘And that’s the other reason I’m going. Your temper. I don’t deserve it. No one does. But me least of all—because all I’ve done is play my part in this, and played it well.’

  He stood up. Faced her. The white lights of a car—a cab?—beamed through the night, rivalling the glow of the lamps and the blaring computer and TV screens. Cut in through his home and severed what was left of his peace.

  ‘Don’t be crazy. You can’t just walk out now, swinging your handbag and rolling your damn suitcases. We’ve got stuff to talk about.’

  His head hurt. Days and nights with so little sleep. The stress and tension of his business, his brother. His sister doing a vanishing act. And now this.

  ‘Talking won’t change the facts now. It’s well past time I was gone.’

  ‘No. Not yet. You’re not going in that cab. Call the driver. Tell him you made a mistake.’

  ‘No.’

  He felt his jaw ache.

  ‘Danny, this was never for ever. This was what it was. We both knew that. And I see more and more every day that we’re not good for each other. You can’t handle someone like me.’

  His jaw felt wired. He knew what he needed.

  ‘What the hell do you mean, someone like you?’

  She put her hands on her hips. ‘Someone who’s not going to fall into line and do what they’re told! Someone who wants to talk through problems and find solutions—someone who won’t put up with you snarling at people when things don’t go to plan. And as for the plans! You think every single thing fits into a box. And if it doesn’t you blast it—until it bends into shape or melts out of sight.’

  He could feel his eyebrows somewhere up near his hairline. He could feel his mouth hanging open. No one spoke to him like this. No one. With the exception of his sister, maybe. But she was deep in some Argentinian township with her own problems. And he still hadn’t phoned Mark back. He had to get on with that—had to get this nonsense knocked on the head.

  Georgia was going nowhere—not at this time of night and not on these terms. She was out of her mind if she thought that.

  ‘Georgia. We entered into a partnership—a contract. As far as I’m concerned it’s not over until we both say so. And...’ he checked his watch ‘...eleven p.m. on a Friday is not close of contract time. Not by my watch.’

  ‘My cab is waiting and your sauce is burning.’

  Now he shook his head. ‘My sauce is burning?’

  ‘Yes. You’re doing your blasting thing at me, trying to get me in line, and now your sauce is burning!’

  His ‘blasting thing’?

  She looked more magnificent than mutinous. He stepped aside to let her pass. She marched—marched and stomped—through to the kitchen. He went out into the night. The air was as hot as he could remember. He shoved a bundle of notes to the cab driver and sent him off. Turned to go back up to the house.

  She was standing there. And if he’d thought he’d seen all her regal looks he’d never seen this one. Every inch of her posture was pulled tight and perfect. Head high, neck long, shoulders back. Poised as if she was about to command a fleet. Her suitcases were the only thing out of alignment—she’d actually started rolling them to the door.

  ‘Get me another cab. I’ve got an hour to get to the airport.’

  ‘I’ve told you—not tonight.’

  ‘And I told you I’m going. I’m not going to listen to you any more.’

  ‘Georgia, whether or not we’d had a fight earlier, I still wouldn’t be letting you head off to the airport at this time of night on your own. It’s just not happening. Deal with it.’

  ‘A fight? You couldn’t call that a fight, Danny—it was just another one-sided blast from you to whoever was in your path.’

  She didn’t even seem angry about it—she just seemed acknowledging.

  ‘It happened to be me. And the longer I hang around, the more blasts I’ll be expected to suffer.’ She sighed. ‘So I am going to go. I’ve booked a flight. It’s for the best.’

  All he could do was look at her.

  ‘We both knew this moment was going to come at the end of this week. Whether we were in London or here or wherever. It’s what we agreed.’

  He couldn’t accept it. He knew he must, but he could not accept it. Wasn’t quite ready to.

  ‘In the morning... I’ll take you myself in the morning.’

  She sighed again. ‘Morning means another night together. It means more of what bonds us. And that’s not going to help.’ She shook her head. ‘We should never have been intimate so quickly. It’s clouded everything.’

  Georgia Anne Blue. The hottest woman he had ever met. He couldn’t imagine being anything other than intimate with her—it clouded nothing.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve paid for a ticket.’

  ‘Georgia, you’re a freaking millionaire. You can afford another.’

  She looked at him then, and then down at her
feet. He should have seen this one coming.

  ‘You’re not going to keep the money, are you? You’re going to make some noble gesture and give it back—or give it to charity. That would be so you, Georgia.’

  He shook his head. He should have known. While he’d spent his life working for the next big break, the next badge to show how far he’d come, it was all surface—all show. She wanted to go back to a pub in London and the warmth and love of her tiny family. His family? He couldn’t get further away from them if he tried. Even his sister. Even the one person who’d made an effort to keep the bridges intact between them for all these years. She was on another continent, in trouble, and he was the last to know.

  ‘I’ll clear my sister’s debts and give you the rest back. I don’t want... I can’t tell Babs what I’ve done. What we’ve done. I’ll make something up about the sixty thousand. It’s great that I can help her out with that at least. I’ve thought about it. I can say I got a big bonus—that the kindergarten parents can be crazy generous at times. I don’t know...something like that.’

  ‘And us? What are you going to tell her about us?’

  He saw a wobble then. She couldn’t look at him.

  She grabbed the strap of her handbag tighter, reached down for the handle of another piece of her luggage. ‘She won’t ask much if she thinks I’m upset. But I’ll tell her part of the truth. That it didn’t work out.’

  He noticed her fingers: paper-pale, slender, and bare of rings.

  ‘It was never supposed to.’

  He said the words. Felt them fall—guillotines through the air. Hope severed. Completely.

  ‘I’ll get the car.’

  She nodded.

  * * *

  Silence. Sometimes settled, sometimes awkward, sometimes easy. Before, with Danny, it had felt like two people quietly sharing the same air. This time—this silence as they drove along the highway, past the familiar sights that only a few days ago she had been desperate never to see again—it was breathless...as if the air was too thin to share.