A Secret Worth Keeping?. Robyn Donald

food on the table gives you a purpose—as my mother found out to her detriment. She had me young and didn’t complete her education. It made her vulnerable.’

      He leant forward, his hands dangling over the front of his knees. ‘And I can see why she wouldn’t want that for her daughter. But I doubt she’d want you to give up on your dreams altogether. If we don’t follow our dreams, what’s the point of living?’

      His voice was gentle and it annoyed her. Was he being condescending?

      ‘You don’t know my mum. She has a special bottle of champagne in the fridge for when I make partner.’ And there was no way Miller could imagine disappointing her when she had sacrificed so much for her.

      ‘But it’s still her dream for you, not yours.’

      She flashed him a sharp look but nevertheless felt compelled to answer. To explain herself. ‘My mother has valid points.’

      ‘I don’t doubt she means well, Miller, but are her points really valid?’

      His gentle query made her edgy, because it was the same one that had been taking up her head space since TJ had started subtly hitting on her.

      Feeling slightly desperate, she jumped off the table and faced him. ‘It would have been selfish of me to pursue art when my mother gave up so much for me.’ She glanced in the direction of the sun and wondered about the time. ‘We should probably get back.’

      He cocked his head to the side and made no attempt to move. ‘Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed you so hard in the direction she saw as right. And what about your father? Didn’t he help with the bills?’

      She shook her head. ‘I think he tried to help. For a while. But he lived on a commune, which meant that he didn’t have the means to contribute to the private school my mother chose.’

      ‘Lived?’

      ‘He died when I was twenty.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Don’t be. We weren’t very close and...he died happy. Which I’m glad of now. But—’ She stopped and let out a long breath. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you my life story.’ She never talked about herself like this.

      ‘Because I asked. Why weren’t you close to your dad?’

      Miller snagged her hair behind her ears, memories of her father—fit and happy before the divorce—filling her mind. ‘For years I was angry at him because I blamed him for my world falling apart. He just seemed to give up. He didn’t once try to see me.’ She swallowed past the lump in her throat. ‘He later told me it was too painful.’ And she suspected he hadn’t been able to afford to visit her and had been too proud to lose face. ‘But life is never that simple, and even though it took me a while I see now that it wasn’t all his fault.’

      She’d learned that one person always loved more in a relationship than the other; needed more than the other.

      In this case it had been her father. Her mother’s post-break-up comments had led Miller to believe that her mother had married her father mainly for a sense of security. Constantly disappointed when he could never hold down a job for very long.

      Her parents had never been the greatest role models, and Miller wasn’t sure what she thought about love other than it seemed like a lot of trouble for very little return.

      Her eyes sought out the toddlers, but they had gone. Instead, she watched a young couple strolling hand in hand with their large dog. But she wasn’t thinking about them. She was thinking about the man beside her. Was he living his dreams? And what did he think about love? Did he hope to find someone special one day?

      Miller felt the blood thicken in her veins at the thought. No doubt the woman he chose would be beautiful beyond comprehension and have the same relaxed attitude to life that he did. She could almost see them now—lazing on a yacht in the Mediterranean, gazing adoringly at each other, a half-naked Valentino leaning across her to seal his lips to—

      Miller sucked in air and hoped her face hadn’t transmitted anything of what she’d just been thinking.

      ‘What about you?’ she asked brightly, desperate to get the conversation onto any other topic but herself.

       CHAPTER NINE

      MILLER smiled and gazed around TJ’s large living room. It held twice as many guests as it was intended to house, and absently she thought she felt as if she had just stepped into the pages of The Great Gatsby.

      TJ’s fiftieth birthday celebrations were in full swing and seemingly a roaring success: elegant women and debonair men were conversing and laughing with unbridled joy as if their lives were truly as beautiful as the party they were now attending. Some were already dancing to TJ’s eighties-inspired music, while others had taken their beverages outside and were soaking up the balmy night, absently batting at the annoying insects that darted around as if they were trying to zap someone.

      It was a crowd Valentino fitted right in with—especially dressed as he was now, in an ice-blue shirt that hugged his wide shoulders and showcased his amazing eyes, and tailored pants that hung perfectly from his lean hips.

      ‘You look like you’re at a funeral,’ the man of the moment murmured wryly, his breath warm against her temple.

      Miller sniffed in acknowledgement of his comment. She felt as if she was at a funeral. Ever since they’d returned from the park she had felt edgy and stressed at her sudden attack of blabbermouth. Trying to turn the tables on him had been a dismal failure. As soon as she’d asked about him he’d sprung up from the table as if an ant had crawled into his jeans.

      ‘I’m boring,’ he’d said, which loosely translated to conversation closed.

      It had almost been a race to see who made it back to the car first. But he must have sensed her childish hurt at his rebuff because he’d glanced at her when they were in the car.

      ‘Everything you could possibly want to know about me is on the internet.’

      She’d scoffed. ‘The internet tells me superficial stuff, like how many races you’ve won and how many hearts you’ve broken.’

      He’d seemed to get annoyed at that. ‘As I told Caruthers, if I had slept with as many women as the media proclaim I’d have hardly had enough time to enter a race let alone win one. In fact, I rarely take up with a woman during racing season, and if I do it’s very short lived.’

      Take up? Could he have used a more dissociative term?

      ‘Why? Because you bore easily?’

      ‘There is that. But, no, I usually don’t allow a woman to hang around long enough to bore me. Basically women want more attention than I’m prepared to give them, so if I indulge it’s usually only for a night or two.’

      ‘That’s pretty shallow.’

      He’d shrugged. ‘Not if the woman is after the same thing.’

      ‘And how many are?’

      ‘Not enough, it’s true. Most want more—hence my moratorium on limiting those intimacies during the season.’

      ‘To make sure you don’t have to contend with any broken hearts that might wreck your concentration?’ she’d said churlishly.

      He’d smiled as if he hadn’t heard her censure. ‘Not much can wreck my concentration, Sunshine, but a whiny woman can certainly do damage to a man’s eardrums.’

      ‘No more than your whiny cars,’ she’d shot back pithily. But then she’d grown curious. ‘Don’t you ever want more?’

      ‘Racing gives me everything I need,’ he’d said.

      His unwavering confidence had pushed her to probe further.