True Colours (27 page)

THIRTY ONE

Despite wishing the ground would open up and swallow her, or, if she was lucky, that she might get whisked away by aliens, Alex had to admit that the food smelled fantastic. And, as Sebastian lifted the glistening golden roast from the oven in a cloud of delicious scented steam, her stomach growled audibly. She blushed, putting her hand to her belly, but the unladylike sound had broken the tension.

Sebastian half-turned to look at her, throwing one of his more disarming grins over his shoulder.

‘
There’s no way you can go home with that empty stomach and leave me to eat all this on my own.’

Rolling her eyes, pulling an ‘okay if you insist, but I don’t want to be here’ sort of face, Alex reluctantly pulled out the kitchen chair nearest to her, the sound of its legs scraping on the tiles louder than she had expected. This wasn’t what she had envisioned for tonight at all.

‘
Hey, don’t get comfortable yet. There’s more white in the fridge, make yourself useful.’

Sebastian’s tone was playful, scolding, and Alex had to smile as she pushed the chair back under the table again and headed for the fridge.

‘
What did your last slave die of?’

Being here in the kitchen, just the two of them, Alex suddenly felt like they were taking up exactly where they had left off all those years ago, joshing each other like she’d never gone away, and the words slipped out before she thought about them. Oh my God, what had she said? Hiding her head in the fridge, waiting for a caustic reply, I shot him actually, or he’s a tough old ox, tried to shoot him you know, but made a mess of it, Alex almost missed Sebastian’s actual response, muttered into the steam of the chicken he was attacking with a carving knife,

‘
Broken heart. Sad but true.’

Alex winced. A broken heart? What the hell could she say to that? She bit her lip, knowing there was no answer that could make that one right, no answer she could give right now, right here, that would explain everything that had happened. Light-hearted or not. No matter how much she wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, to whisper – I’m so sorry, I couldn’t help it – she knew she had to keep quiet.

Alex died inside all over again, the gnarled hand of despair grasping her empty stomach and twisting. Just like the night she’d left, the night she’d arrived in Barcelona and sobbed into her pillow her own heart shattered, torn in two by the two people she loved most in the world.

Now tears welled up into her eyes. Alex brushed them away, reaching for the bottle of wine, rattling it nosily against the fridge door, pretending she hadn’t heard. Then, talking into the fridge, pretending she was reading the label, buying time so she could get a grip on herself, Alex said,

‘
This is very good white. Where’s it from?’

Sebastian didn’t answer for a moment, then, as she turned, his eyes met hers, ‘Bordeaux.’

‘
Oh.’ The word might have been short but its message was long enough to fill a book. This was one of those nights when everything she said would be wrong, she just knew it. Alex tried again, said the first thing that came into her head – she needed to move this conversation on, get out of the place she was in or, she knew, she’d find herself trapped, and that sure as hell wouldn’t help her dad. ‘Corkscrew?’

‘
Usual place, beside the sink. Nothing’s been moved in this house for a hundred years.’

Alex breathed a sigh of relief – the house…she should have thought of it before…the house was safer ground for them both, much safer.

‘
Glad to hear it. I’m sure this old place would get really miffed if anyone started moving stuff about. It’s like a wonderful old grand dame isn’t it, a benevolent matriarch?’

Sebastian laughed out loud, ‘It is; and costs as much to run.’

Moments later, sitting opposite him, a steaming plate in front of her, Alex could see that the delicious smells coming from the oven had been a good indication of what was inside, that Sebastian was rather a good cook. She tried to stifle the thought, knowing deep down that admitting a glimmer of admiration for him in any shape could have her backtracking right to where they had left off all those years ago, opening the floodgates to goodness knows what. Shaking out her linen napkin, smoothing it over her knees, Alex listened as he chatted about the food, about free-range chickens, about the best way to roast parsnips. And, despite her misgivings, her efforts to resist, for a moment Alex found herself relaxing again, for a moment forgetting that she needed to stay aloof and focused, forgetting that she had a deal to negotiate.

‘
So, what do you think?’ Sebastian reached for the bottle and leaned over to top up Alex’s glass.

‘
Fantastic. You’re right; I was starving.’ Alex smiled, teasing, her eyes meeting his across the table. ‘But I didn’t think men could cook.’

‘
Ah,’ he filled his own glass, his face breaking into a shy grin, ‘I’m multi-talented. Run a multi-million euro business, cook, and I even paint. No flies on me.’

Paint.

The word hit Alex like a kick in the gut, hauled her out of the familiarity of the warm kitchen and plunged her straight back to the moment she had entered Sebastian’s bedroom, to the exact moment she had realised with chilling clarity that the nude stretched across the wall above his bed was a painting of her.

It wasn’t a moment she was going to forget in a hurry; neither, come to that, was she likely to forget Caroline’s description of her as an overweight tart. Alex put her fork down with a clatter – all thoughts of the wonderful meal, of how good Sebastian looked sitting across the table from her, his blue eyes dancing with mischief, of how much she’d missed him, of how much she had longed to sit just like this during those first few years in Spain – banished with one word. And she could feel her blood rising.

‘
I’d noticed.’

Sebastian looked up, surprised at the sudden ice in her tone. ‘What?’ almost comically, he searched behind him, trying to see what it was that had displeased her so.

‘
I’d noticed that you can paint.’ Alex’s voice was low, the words pronounced clearly, carrying with them the weight of much more than an observation. It took a moment for Sebastian to register what she meant, then he blushed faintly.

‘
Thank you. I…’

‘
It wasn’t a compliment.’

‘
What?’

Alex was glaring now; her words came spitting at him from across the table, ‘How could you?’

‘
How could I what?’ utterly confused, it was Sebastian’s turn to put down his knife and fork, ‘What did I do?’

‘
You painted me naked.’

Dumbfounded, he looked straight at her, her words hitting home like a stream of arrows, each one stinging more than the last, ‘But you’re beautiful naked.’

Alex opened her mouth, shut it; then tried again, ‘That’s not the point. You painted me…painted me…’ how could she say it, ‘having an orgasm’, Alex blushed scarlet, not prepared to go there right now, ‘and then you hung it over your bed.’

‘
I thought you’d like it.’ Sebastian sounded devastated, like a little boy who had been sent to the naughty step for daubing his mother’s bedroom wall with green marker pen, trying to recreate her favourite corner of the garden.

Accelerating around the last bend of the drive, Caroline sent a shower of gravel into the air as she skidded to a stop neatly beside Sebastian’s Jaguar. Jocelyn had been right – he was here – and now she had the advantage of surprise.

A smile played across her lips as checking her lipstick in her rear-view mirror, taking off her sunglasses and running her fingers through her hair, Caroline adjusted the top of the slinky wrap dress she was wearing, bright white against her tan, pulling her neat breasts up in her padded satin bra to ensure her cleavage was displayed to its maximum advantage. Sebastian obviously needed a reminder of the benefits of marriage…and tonight he was going to have the ride of his life…Reaching into the passenger seat footwell she grabbed the neck of a bottle of Bollinger. Sebastian might not like champagne, but he loved Champagne Bellinis and there was a case of peach juice in the larder left over from her last visit. After a few of those he’d be very amenable to her plans.

Climbing out of the car, humming to herself, Caroline glanced at the silver VW Golf parked a few yards away and smoothed her dress, her head spinning with thoughts of the evening ahead. If Sebastian wanted this to work, there was only one way to go, and that was her way. He’d got a lot of making up to do after the fiasco with those flowers this morning, to say nothing of his behaviour over the past few weeks, but at least now he knew it was her birthday, and what’s more, had had the day to think about how much he had upset her. So Caroline was quite sure he would be suitably reticent; and tonight she was going to show him exactly what he would be missing if he didn’t come around to her way of thinking.

Stepping carefully across the gravel to preserve her custom-made envy green suede Jimmy Choos, Caroline tripped up the broad stone steps to the front door and raised her hand to ring the bell.

The bell.

Searching the broad oak frame on both sides of the panelled door Caroline screwed up her face – where the hell was the bell? She’d always come here with Sebastian and the door had been opened by one of the staff before they were even out of the car. But there had to be a bell – how did strangers get in? Or the postman with a parcel? What about election canvassers or the woman with the census? Caroline looked again, running a manicured finger along the frame in case it was cunningly concealed, then took a step back, looking for a chain or a handle, or something. Anything. This bloody house was a disaster – fancy there being no bell! Utterly thrown for a moment, she turned around on the top step, working out what to do next.

Was there a back door? Caroline thought of the patio doors in the blue parlour; but they would be locked. She was sure there was a door into the kitchen but that was miles around the back of the house and getting there would mean trekking along the muddy paths of the kitchen garden, and she certainly wasn’t going to do that in these shoes. And if Sebastian was in the ballroom, or just about anywhere else in the house for that matter, he wasn’t going to hear her tapping on the patio doors like a complete idiot. Caroline shivered as the chill hand of a breeze headed around the corner of the house and straight up the ankle-length skirt of her dress. She hadn’t bothered with stockings, had only just had her St Tropez done, and the g-string she was wearing didn’t offer a lot of protection.

Maybe she could get in through the Palm House? Tripping down the steps, Caroline headed for the double doors leading into the extravaganza of foliage and fountains, tiled pools and exotic plants. But the ornate silver handle was chill to her touch. And stuck fast. Locked. Nom de Dieu. This was RIDICULOUS!

There was only one thing for it: she’d have to phone the house. It would mean giving up the element of surprise, but at least she wouldn’t be left standing in the drive like a gypsy, freezing to death. But (of course) she’d left her phone in the car, which meant another trip across the gravel.

Caroline took a deep breath, trying to control her temper. She needed a cigarette. Badly. After all the effort she’d gone to she was hardly going to go home now, so telephoning really was the only option – there was certainly no way anyone would hear her banging on the door of this mausoleum of a house unless she used a battering ram.

Fighting to keep her temper, Caroline turned to head back to her car when she caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eye. More than a flash of red. More like a beacon, its light radiating from the passenger seat of the silver Golf parked in front of her.

Unable to believe what she was seeing, her anger rising, Caroline tip-toed towards the car to get a better look. Oh my God. She’d thought she was mistaken, but no, there, on the front seat of the car lay a red leather briefcase. Under different circumstances, and obviously if she needed a briefcase, Caroline would have been very interested in a case like that herself; the patent crocodile leather soft, beautifully hand stitched, and quite the most gorgeous colour. And, more importantly, quite unmistakable. There was only one person she knew who owned a briefcase like that, and that was Alex Ryan. Bloody Alex Ryan. What the hell was she doing here at this time of the evening? And what the hell was Sebastian doing here with her?

Whatever about forgiving him for the flowers, for all those cancelled dinners, there was NO WAY Caroline could forgive him for squirreling himself down here with bloody Alex Ryan of all people – ON HER BIRTHDAY! Last year Sebastian had whisked her off to the Ritz in Paris for the weekend, had produced a pair of diamond earrings as they’d sat down to a romantic candlelit dinner on the Seine. And this year he’d totally forgotten, his secretary the only one who had remembered to send her flowers. Horrible, disgusting, utterly grotesque flowers. It just wasn’t on.

Caroline’s legendary temper began to flare, igniting like a forest fire. WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON?

All care for her Jimmy Choos gone, Caroline thrust the bottle of Bollinger under her arm and peered into the car to get a proper look through the windscreen. There was no doubt about it, it was Alex Ryan’s. She tried the car door. Locked. Damn.

Hauling open her own car door, Caroline reached inside for her BlackBerry. It was time she sorted this out, and found out exactly what was going on. She flicked the call button, putting the phone to her ear.