Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

EIGHT

      LOLA woke next morning with swollen, gritty eyes and a dull ache where her heart used to be.

      Now what? she asked herself as she picked up her wristwatch to discover that it was almost ten o’clock.

      She showered and dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen where she made herself some real coffee in a vain attempt to cheer herself up. She poured herself a steaming mugful and sat at the table, gazing out at a forlorn-looking garden, the rain, which was pelting down, plastering daffodils to the sodden grass.

      It was at times like this that she wished she had a normal job. With normal hours. So that for eight hours a day at least she could immerse herself in some mind-numbing tasks which might enable her to forget the conniving Geraint Howell-Williams.

      But it was a futile hope. She now had six empty days looming ahead of her before she was due to fly again. Six days which stretched before her like a prison sentence. Except that while a prisoner would be dreaming of freedom she was doing her utmost not to dream of Geraint.

      Which appalled her.

      How could she give a second thought to a man who had so heartlessly seduced her? Who had taken her virginity without a qualm, motivated by an emotion as base as revenge?

      He was a man she must now learn to hate, to ruthlessly erase from her heart and her mind—certainly not a man to dream of longingly.

      Lola shuddered as she remembered her shock at discovering a tiny bruise on one aching breast in the shower this morning. Had that dark flowering been produced by the sweet way he had suckled her?

      What if she really was pregnant? It was extremely unlikely, true, but stranger things had happened.

      And why didn’t the thought of a baby produce stark horror—instead of a kind of wistful yearning?

      The sharp ring of the doorbell had Lola pushing her coffee-mug away and then frantically running over to the mirror to check her appearance.

      Ghastly!

      Her red eyes made her look as though she was about to audition for the leading role in Dracula and her usually healthy, glowing skin was as white as paper. Well, that was just too bad! She hoped that Geraint recognised that he was the person responsible for making her look like a ghoul—perhaps it might make him feel an uncomfortable pang of guilt!

      She pulled the front door open, her belligerent expression dying immediately when she saw that it was not Geraint who stood there but Triss Alexander, and, what was more, that the leggy ex-model was carrying her sleeping baby, cradled tightly against her shoulder.

      ‘Hi,’ Triss said tentatively, her enormous eyes sweeping over Lola’s pinched expression. ‘How are you?’

      There was no point in lying when her face must have given her away. ‘Awful!’ said Lola, then wound a strand of hair around her finger. ‘I’m sorry I asked about your partner yesterday,’ she said quietly. ‘It must have seemed pointed and prying.’

      Triss shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter—honestly. It’s a perfectly natural question to ask—I just happen to be very touchy about the subject, that’s all.’

      ‘Would you like some coffee?’ asked Lola.

      ‘Oh, I’d love some! But if I’m intruding. . .’ Triss peered questioningly over Lola’s shoulders.

      ‘No, you’re not intruding. Come in. What shall we do with Simon?’

      ‘How about if we take some cushions into the kitchen?’ suggested Triss. ‘Then we can make him a makeshift bed up and he won’t disturb us while we’re drinking our coffee.’

      Lola grabbed an armful of cushions from the sitting room and then the three of them trooped into the kitchen, where Triss handed Simon over to Lola while she crouched down to create a little nest for him.

      Lola stroked Simon’s dark, downy head with a gentle finger and thought of Geraint, and had to will herself not to cry as she handed him back to his mother, who snuggled him down and covered him with a blanket.

      ‘He’s so good,’ Lola cooed. ‘He hasn’t stirred once.’

      Triss laughed. ‘That’s because he kept me awake most of the right—he’s teething. Believe me, he’s not quite the angel he sometimes appears!’

      Lola poured her some coffee and the two women sat down at the breakfast bar.

      ‘Geraint not here?’ enquired Triss as she took a sip.

      Lola’s cup never reached her mouth; it was banged down on the saucer and then her mouth started to wobble and to her absolute horror she began to cry.

      Triss was on her feet immediately. She put a comforting arm around Lola’s shaking shoulders and squeezed her. ‘Please don’t cry, Lola,’ she begged. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help. It’s Geraint, isn’t it?’

      ‘Y-yes!’ sobbed Lola as she scrubbed at her eyes with a crumpled-up piece of kitchen roll.

      ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

      Lola shook her head distractedly, forcing herself to take deep breaths in an attempt to regain her composure. How could she tell anyone what had really happened? How could she reveal that she had been bedded by Geraint solely because he had been angry about the treatment meted out to his sister? Whilst she had been harbouring the sad little delusion that he actually cared for her!

      ‘I c-can’t tell you,’ she stumblingly explained. ‘It’s just too. . . too. . .’ ‘Humiliating’ was the word she was groping for, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it.

      ‘Shh,’ soothed Triss, as gently as if she had been talking to Simon, and she began to stroke Lola’s arm in a rhythmical way which was oddly comforting. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, in her low, husky voice. ‘You don’t need to explain anything to me. But if you need an objective ear, or a shoulder to cry on, then I’m always here to listen.’

      Her beautiful mouth turned down at the corners and her huge eyes glittered furiously. ‘Believe me when I tell you that I am very experienced in dealing with men—especially wayward ones! I’ve had tons of practice with Simon’s father, for example,’ she finished on a grim note.

      ‘Wh-who is Simon’s father?’ queried Lola tentatively. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’

      Triss’s mouth tensed as she shrugged her slim shoulders in a nonchalant gesture which didn’t quite come off. ‘Can you keep it to yourself?’

      Lola nodded. ‘Cross my heart.’

      ‘It’s Cormack Casey,’ said Triss. ‘He’s the father.’

      ‘Cormack Casey?’ queried Lola incredulously. ‘The Irish scriptwriter?’

      ‘Yes. Mr Hollywood himself,’ said Triss bitterly. She gripped Lola’s forearm so hard that Lola had to force herself not to wince. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you, Lola? Please? Apart from Geraint, of course—it’s obvious you would tell him—but I don’t want anyone else to know.’

      ‘Of course I won’t tell anyone,’ Lola said. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell that smug Welsh swine anything she thought! ‘It was very good of you to come by,’ she said politely, and then a thought occurred to her. ‘Was it just to see me?’

      Triss shot her an understanding look, as though she was quite used to having her motives questioned—one of the banes of being beautiful was that other women always assumed that you were after their men. ‘Well, I certainly didn’t come to see Geraint, if that’s what you’re wondering!’ She sighed. ‘I was under the impression that he was rather keen on you—’

      ‘Oh, no!’ Lola told her quickly. ‘He’s just a consummate actor, that’s all.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ asked Triss, quietly.

      ‘I’m