by Liz Fielding
‘Guy? Are you all right?’
‘What?’ He started, looked at her.
‘Can I get you something?’
‘Oh, no. I really do have to go, but help yourself. Take your time…’
‘We’ve already had this argument, Guy,’ she said. ‘I’m taking you to the airport, so if you have to go, let’s do it.’
‘Fran…’ She’d loved the way he always called her Francesca. Her whole name. Soft and low. Suddenly she was reduced to Fran.
‘Don’t! Please, Guy. Don’t… Don’t say a word.’ Please don’t say that you’re sorry. ‘It happened. Let’s just forget it.’ For a moment their eyes locked and she knew he was as shocked, as overcome, as she was. And undoubtedly hating himself for betraying Steve’s memory. ‘Please.’
‘If that’s what you want.’ Then, rising to his feet, ‘Let’s go.’
Which more or less put a stop to any attempt at communication, beyond the banal. The heavy traffic. The chance of rain. It was worse than silence, Fran thought. She wanted to say so much. Couldn’t say any of it. He’d married her out of duty. Guilt. Because it was the last wish of a brother he felt he’d let down. He hadn’t counted on getting some sex-starved female flinging herself at him at the first opportunity.
And when he’d pulled up in the drop zone at the airport and she’d climbed out so that she could take his place in the driving seat while he took his bag from the boot, all she could say was, ‘You will take care of yourself, Guy? Don’t do anything stupid, will you?’
He glanced at her sideways. ‘It’s a bit late for that, wouldn’t you say?’
‘That’s not—’
‘I know.’ He dragged his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m sorry.’
She shook her head. ‘Guy, about Toby…’
‘He’s your son. Nothing can happen without your agreement. When I said—’
‘I was going to say that he’ll miss you,’ she said. I’ll miss you. ‘Don’t let what happened… Just don’t stay away because of that.’
‘I’ll miss him too,’ he said. But not making any promises. ‘If you have any problems, need anything, just call my office or go and see Tom. He’ll look after you.’
‘Who’ll look after you, Guy?’
‘Me? I don’t need anyone to take care of me.’
‘No, I mean it. It’s dangerous out there. Do you really have to go?’
He reached out as if to touch her cheek, then, as if remembering what had happened the last time he’d done that, he thought better of it and curled his fingers tight against his palm before picking up his bag. But her cheek remembered his touch and her body responded to the memory.
‘If you need to get a message to me the office will know how to get hold of me.’
‘Your sensational secretary?’
‘The very same.’ Then, before she could reply, he walked away and, as the automatic doors swished open, disappeared into the mêlée of the departure hall.
‘Guy!’ she called desperately. But too late. The doors had already closed behind him and as she made a move to follow she saw a traffic warden looking pointedly at the car.
‘You can’t leave that there, miss. It’ll be towed away.’
‘But…’ But what? ‘No. I’m just going.’
It was probably just as well. What would she have said to him anyway? I love you?
Not under these circumstances. After today he wouldn’t want to hear her say it under any circumstances.
CHAPTER NINE
FRAN felt as if she was grieving all over again.
She’d pulled into the garage and finally given way to the dammed-up tears she hadn’t been able to shed for Steven in a mind-clearing storm of guilt and loss. And when it was over she finally understood it all. That their marriage of convenience had been entirely for his expedience, not hers.
Not cheap. But then this wasn’t about money. It was about control. Toby was all the family he had. His heir. The boy who carried the family name. Marriage was the simplest and most effective way of stopping her from becoming involved with someone else, giving him some other man’s name.
Which answered any question she had about what was in the letter Steven had written to him. He had been a less than perfect partner, a less than perfect anything, except father. Relaxed to the point of being comatose on most things, he had been uncharacteristically firm in his insistence that Dymoke be added to Toby’s name.
Too late she saw that all that stuff about inheritance tax had been so much wool being pulled over her eyes. Guy had bought the house to keep her in place, and while she was still reeling from shock, still confused enough not to be able to think things through clearly, he’d rushed her through the marriage ceremony.
There had been nothing altruistic about any of it. He was even converting the top floor of the house into an apartment for himself. Moving himself into their lives…
And the sex? Had that been planned too?
She shook her head, trying to clear it…
She hadn’t been thinking straight. The wedding had upset her and then she’d realised that his apartment wasn’t the sterile environment that he’d led her to believe, lacking the emotional warmth of a home, but a carefully, lovingly prepared setting for the woman he’d hoped would share it with him. Her presence had been so strong in the room that she’d almost felt her…
At that moment she’d been hurting so much that she’d have said, done, almost anything to wound him. But then he’d looked at her…
He’d never taken a woman like that. Without thought, control, consideration of the consequences.
Never before had he experienced that kind of no-holds-barred response. It had made him feel invincible. Made him shake with need…
But the fact that she’d been an eager and willing partner, matching his own need with a breathless urgency and heat that had swept away any thought of restraint, excused nothing. He had taken on himself a duty of care. She’d been distraught, upset, vulnerable, but when she’d looked up at him all of that had been blown away. She had looked at him as if… As if…
He cut off the pitiful tricks of his subconscious. There was no excuse. What did it matter how she’d looked at him? He’d not only betrayed her, but everything he stood for.
Bad enough to lose it so completely, but he’d left her without a word of apology, of explanation. But what else could he have done? Tell her truth? Tell her that he loved her?
She’d made it plain enough she didn’t want to hear his pitiful apologies. All she’d wanted was to get him out of her life.
He had thought he’d known what it was to be alone. He hadn’t begun to imagine the emptiness…
‘Fran?’
It seemed like hours later when Matty’s voice broke through the pain and she gathered herself, looked at her watch. She didn’t know what time Guy’s flight left. He’d probably already taken off. Been glad to go.
She wished she hadn’t let him leave that way, had let him say what was on his mind no matter how painful the words might have been. She should have had the courage to confront him, confront her own weakness.
But regret was just a waste of time.
She had to think of the future, grasp the chance to make something of the business Steven had left her. Make something of herself. If Guy saw that she was not just some pathetic female who needed a man to look after her he might, one day, look at her like that again…
‘Fran, what’s happened? Where’s Guy?’
‘He’s gone,’ she said.
‘But he’ll be coming back?’
‘Yes, he’ll be coming back.’ And she climbed out of the car and held out her hand with the tell-tale ring still fastened immovably to her finger.
‘Oh, my dear. What have you done?’
She told her exactly what she’d done. And why. All of it. The whole truth, and when she’d finished Matty just hugged her. There was nothing else she could do or say.
Not that she had time to dwell on what had hap
pened. She had the business to keep her occupied. And the weekly calls from the ‘sensational’ Catherine who, no doubt, had instructions to check that she had everything she needed—just in case the credit cards weren’t enough—and that the builders were getting on with the job. To ensure that she hadn’t taken his money and disappeared with her son… His heir…
And, as the weeks lengthened into months, to despatch gifts for Christmas for all of them. Even Connie was not forgotten, squealing with delight as she unwrapped the handbag that had been gift-wrapped and delivered by a top-people’s store.
He’d sent her a book. A biography of the woman she’d once told him that she admired, aspired to be like. It was an obvious choice, top of the bestseller list, and she tried not to fool herself into believing he’d picked it out himself.
And, as winter retreated and the first daffodils began to appear, Catherine’s calls had the added comfort of reassuring her that he was safe in the terrifying country that seemed to have swallowed him up so completely he might have disappeared off the face of the earth.
It was nearly Easter when, sitting glued to the early-evening news, watching pictures of riots, the reports of civil unrest that seemed worse with every passing week, she heard the doorbell rang. She left it for Connie to answer, only looking up when the sitting room door opened.
A tall fair-haired woman hesitated on the threshold. ‘Your housekeeper said it was all right to come through…’ And when she still didn’t speak, ‘I can’t believe we haven’t met already. I feel as if I know you so well.’
‘Catherine?’ She recognised the voice, but the reality did not match the picture in her imagination. Tall, blonde… And old enough to be her mother.
‘Can I come in?’
Realising that she was staring open-mouthed, she scrambled to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, taking the proffered hand. ‘I was miles away…’
‘Watching the news. It’s not good, is it?’
Fran’s heart gave a wild leap of fear. ‘Is that why you’ve come? To tell me—’
‘No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I’ve just come to bring you something. Well, for your little boy. I just thought that perhaps you should have the opportunity to veto it first. Is he around? Toby?’
‘No, he’s downstairs with Matty.’
‘In that case I’ll go and fetch it from the car.’
She returned a few moments later with a cardboard box that she placed on the floor and when she opened it the small silky brown and white head of a spaniel puppy appeared. Then a body wriggled free of the blanket and he looked up at her and whined to be lifted out.
She was lost for words. Guy might have left Catherine to pick out Christmas gifts, but this could only have come direct from him. Proof that he was thinking of her… She caught herself. Thinking of Toby.
‘I made the woman at the kennels promise she’d take him back if you didn’t want him. Men have these great ideas…’
‘When? When did Guy ask you to do this?’
‘Oh, months ago. In fact, I think he called from the airport… It was supposed to have been Toby’s Christmas present, but since he was so particular it had to wait until the right spaniel produced the right pup.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘You know Guy. He’s never satisfied with less than perfection.’
‘No?’ Her heart lurched uncomfortably. ‘No,’ she agreed.
‘The puppy had to be from a private breeder he’d chosen. And it had to be brown and white. And male.’
‘Yes. He’d want that.’ And when Catherine lifted her eyebrows. ‘Steven had a puppy like this when he was a boy.’
‘Oh, I see. I wondered…’ Then, when she didn’t—couldn’t—say anything, ‘Unfortunately, the mummy dog wasn’t on the same schedule as Santa. Anyway, the breeder is happy to take him back if this is a less than thrilling surprise,’ Catherine said, clearly assuming that her shocked reaction was horror at this unexpected arrival. ‘Men have these great ideas, bless them, but they don’t have to deal with the puddles. Or the walks. I speak from experience here…’
‘No. He’s perfect,’ Fran said, kneeling down to rub the pup’s head with her fingertips. ‘Hello, Harry Two.’ Then, when he whined to be picked up, ‘Oh, no. You’re not mine. Toby gets first cuddle.’ And she tucked him carefully back in the basket with the blanket around him before turning to Catherine. ‘Want to see a little boy’s face light up?’
Half an hour later, looking on at boy and puppy lost in mutual admiration, Catherine said, ‘This is so what Guy needs. A family to come home to. All he’s done the past few years is fieldwork but it’s a young man’s game. Have the builders actually started work on the alterations yet?’
‘No, not yet,’ Fran said. ‘The architect is having to sort out the retrospective planning permission for the extension, which is slowing everything down.’
Thank goodness.
‘But the interior designer came to see you? About the redecoration of your bedroom?’
‘Oh, yes. God bless him,’ Fran said.
‘He’s that good?’
‘Oh, he’s great, but it isn’t that. The sweet man nearly wet himself with excitement when he saw a hideous frog I’d brought home from the warehouse to prop open the garage door. Made an offer for the lot on the spot. And then bought a truckload of equally unattractive lamps when he came to the warehouse to collect them. I thought I was going to have to pay someone to take them away when I moved out of Steven’s offices.’
‘How’s the business going? I saw that Christmas piece in the Courier last November, featuring your fabulous silk wrappers,’ she said. ‘Great PR, by the way. I did all my gift shopping with one phone call.’
‘I was lucky. I sent the editor a wrapper and she came to see me, make sure I was for real, and she fell in love with them. She’s doing a feature on me next week. You know the kind of thing. Plucky-mother-runs-business-from-her-attic… Happily, it coincides with the arrival of the new summer-weight wrappers and some totally gorgeous matching pyjamas. I couldn’t afford that kind of advertising.’
‘I was going to ask if you had anything new. It always seems to be someone’s birthday…’
‘I went out to China in January and talked to the cooperative who make this stuff—’
‘On your own?’
Who else was there? She’d been scared witless, but she’d had to do it. As Guy had said, there were things you couldn’t send anyone else to do. And she’d been welcomed so warmly. Treated with such respect…
‘I needed to go myself.’
‘Yes, but surely in your—’
‘Did you mention any of this to Guy? About the company, I mean?’
‘It’s not my business, Fran. I’m just a messenger.’
Which was a tactful way of saying that he never asked about her, Fran thought. Didn’t want to know.
‘Do you want me to tell him?’ Catherine prompted.
‘Oh, no,’ she said. Then laughed as if it wasn’t important. As if she didn’t want to astound him with her brilliance when he finally got home. ‘He’s got more than enough to worry about, I should think.’
‘In that case I imagine you’d rather I didn’t mention that you’re expecting a baby.’
Guy wiped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve, booted up the laptop and downloaded his report via the satellite uplink. Checked to see if there were any messages from the office. The one from Tom Palmer with an attachment leapt out at him. It was as if he’d been holding his breath, waiting for it. But it wasn’t the formal application for an annulment he’d been anticipating for months.
It was an article about Francesca in the Courier. About the success of her fledgling mail order business. As he read it he found himself hearing her voice as he read her words. Filled with joy as he looked at her adored face, delighted with her success.
The camera had caught her as she’d swirled around in a loose silk wrapper, throwing her head back, laughing, looking wonderful.
>
She’d put back the weight she’d lost. Her hair was a deeper colour. She looked exactly as she had that moment he’d first…
No.
He rose to his feet, fighting for breath.
Not exactly the way she had looked then. On that occasion her pregnancy hadn’t shown. This time, although disguised by the loose wrap, he could see that it was well advanced. He didn’t need to guess how well advanced. He knew exactly how many months, days, hours it was since he’d held her, given her the child she was carrying.
Every day since he’d left her he’d had to fight the urge to go back. Punishing himself. But his feelings no longer mattered. He had to get back. Had to be there for her. With her. Giving her his emotional as well as his financial support. He refused to listen to the voice in his head warning him that she wouldn’t want him. She needed him and he would take whatever she hurled at him by way of accusation, anger, abuse. And this time nothing would stop him from telling her the way he felt about her, the entire truth from beginning to end. Tell her and keep telling her until she believed him.
‘Fran, are you watching the news?’
It was late and, deep in thought, she’d picked up the phone on automatic. ‘Oh, Matty… No, I’m trying to decide whether we need to expand our range of goods.’ The lightly quilted wrappers had been joined by a summer-weight companion—pyjamas, jewel-rich scarves and some little silk embroidered boxes which she knew were going to be a huge hit. ‘I’ve been offered some rather special scented candles to match our colour range and I’ve really got to maximise the cost-return on this catalogue—’
‘Shut up, Fran! It’s Guy, he’s on the television…’ She didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, dropping the phone as she reached for the remote, flicking desperately through the channels until she found one of the rolling news channels.
‘…concerns for the missing geologist’s whereabouts have grown since he left camp planning to travel to the capital last week and failed to arrive. Isolated rebel groups who have recently moved into the area have seized foreign nationals hostage in the past, using them to force concessions from the government. Neither the Foreign Office nor Mr Dymoke’s company would comment on whether any such demands—’
