Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

nature of their relationship. And disadvantaged because she was about to hear what she suspected would be a kind of true confession and she wasn’t even wearing any clothes!

      She ran her fingers through the tangled mess of dark curls which fell over her shoulders and, thankfully, a few stray locks fell to conceal her breasts. ‘Is this something you could tell me in one sentence, Geraint?’

      He gave a weary shake of his head. ‘No.’

      ‘Then I need to put some clothes on first.’

      ‘Yes, of course. Here.’ He bent to retrieve her stockings and panties and bra, and held them out to her in a crumpled array of different silks and lace, but Lola shook her head hurriedly and it took all her determination not to recoil from them.

      She wanted something clean and fresh to wear, something which did not remind her of the four hours she had just spent in bed with Geraint Howell-Williams.

      ‘I meant my jeans,’ she said. ‘And I ought to shower—’

      ‘No!’ His response rang out decisively around the room.

      ‘No?’ Had he actually said no? Lola raised her eyebrows at him coldly. ‘I know I’ve just been to bed with you, but I’m not quite your chattel yet, Geraint!’

      ‘Don’t be so damned stupid!’ he snapped.

      ‘Then don’t you be so damned cavalier! Telling me I can’t shower, indeed—and in my own house!’ she added, on a puff of derision. ‘Wait here, and I’ll be back.’

      ‘How long will you be?’

      ‘However long it takes,’ she answered coolly, without a backward glance.

      She marched straight along the corridor to her bedroom, where the pale, subtle greens and peaches of the walls and drapes for once failed to soothe her.

      She did not take long; she could not bear to prolong the agony of waiting any longer than was necessary. Something in his expression had warned her that she was about to face an unpalatable truth.

      So she showered quickly and felt a million times better afterwards for having done so, even though she hadn’t washed her wild, unruly hair. Then she threw on a pair of black denims and a thick black woollen jumper, brushed her hair quickly and clipped it back from her face on both sides.

      She stole a swift glance in the mirror, thinking how pale her face looked against the background of the black clothes she wore. Had she subconsciously dressed in mourning? she wondered wryly.

      When she went back into the room, Geraint was standing where she had left him, as if someone had cast a spell and turned him to stone.

      She took a deep breath and asked him the question she had been rehearsing over and over in the shower. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re married, Geraint?’

      ‘Married?’ He looked taken aback, and then he laughed—but it was a short, humourless laugh. If it hadn’t been a contradictory description, then Lola might have said it was an angry laugh. But there was no such thing, surely?

      ‘No, I’m not married,’ he told her tersely, and went over to the table on which he had placed the tray, poured two cups of tea, and handed her one.

      Lola shook her head. ‘I don’t want it.’

      ‘I think you should drink it,’ he said.

      Lola’s eyes glittered. ‘I don’t want it,’ she repeated stubbornly.

      He looked into her eyes for a moment, then nodded, took his tea over to the window-seat and sat down, although Lola noticed that his own cup went untouched.

      ‘How do you know all about this house?’ she asked him quietly, having remembered other things, too. ‘The paintings and the vase and now the china storeroom. Did you know Peter Featherstone?’

      ‘I knew of him,’ he answered. ‘And I had met him on several occasions.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘He was my sister’s lover,’ he explained starkly.

      Confused, Lola searched in her mind for the name he had surely mentioned at the restaurant in Rome. The woman he clearly adored, who had looked after him when their parents had died. Who had sacrificed her place at university in order to support him. ‘Catrin?’ she ventured hesitantly.

      He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘That’s right. Catrin had an affair with Peter Featherstone for almost fifteen years.’

      Fifteen years? Lola blanched. ‘What kind of affair?’

      He shrugged. ‘Like any other long-term relationship, I guess. She’s a successful businesswoman in her own right—she travels extensively, as did Peter. She has a flat in London—which Peter bought for her.’

      ‘But Catrin wanted more, did she?’

      His mouth tightened with anger. ‘Why shouldn’t she want more? This house was the major part of his inheritance. They had shared a life together for nearly fifteen years!’

      ‘And why did they never marry?’

      ‘Peter didn’t want to. No reason—or at least he gave no reason to Catrin. He said that they were happy as they were, so why change? He used to give her that line—“if something’s not broken why mend it?”’

      ‘Did she love him?’

      ‘Very much,’ he answered reluctantly.

      ‘And did he love her?’

      He froze, his features starkly defined and vaguely threatening, and at that moment Lola thought that he looked like the devil incarnate. ‘She thought he loved her,’ he responded quietly. ‘In fact, she was certain of it.’

      ‘Then why leave me the house?’ she wondered aloud.

      His mouth hardened into a grim line. ‘Exactly.’

      Lola stared at him, at the cold, forbidding expression on his face, and indignation slowly began to blaze away inside her. Who did he think he was—implying that she was at fault? ‘I think you have some explaining to do, Geraint.’

      ‘Such as?’

      She stared at him, at where he sat on the other side of the room, and an air of disquiet seemed to descend on her. He seemed so distant now; almost a stranger. Had they really shared kisses and giggles and intimacies all that time in bed together?

      She was afraid to answer his question, afraid to put into words her most basic fears, in case they turned out not to be fantasy. But if she did not confront her fears—what then?

      ‘You living next door,’ she said slowly. ‘That isn’t just coincidence, is it?’

      He held her gaze steadily. ‘No. Dominic is my oldest friend. We meet up as often as our schedules allow.’ His eyes glittered. ‘He rarely uses this house, and when I explained the situation to him—’

      ‘And just how did you explain the situation to him?’ she cut in brutally.

      He did not flinch under her accusing stare. ‘I didn’t lie, if that’s what you’re implying. I told him that I was interested in meeting the woman who I felt had done my sister out of something I considered to be rightfully hers.’

      ‘And he agreed, did he, to what some men might have considered a rather bizarre request?’

      ‘Not Dominic.’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘He didn’t consider the request bizarre at all—why should he? He understood my concern.’

      The first arrow had pierced her heart, and she braced herself to withstand a whole quiverful of them. ‘And our meeting—that night we met at the tennis club—was that engineered too?’ Say no, she prayed silently. Please say no.

      For the first time, he looked uncomfortable, but again he did not attempt to avoid her gaze. ‘I went there