Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

enough times!

      You could lock certain memories away so that they could not torture you with their sweet poignancy—and that was what Triss had forced herself to do during the long months of her pregnancy, when she had felt so isolated and so alone.

      The subject of Cormack had been like a cream cake to a determined dieter—something to be avoided at all costs! She had bided her time and waited, determined to find the optimum time to inform him that he was a father.

      And then she had blown it by leaping so eagerly into his arms today. So what on earth did that say about her? Or him?

      Triss sighed as she plucked Simon out of his high chair and carried him upstairs for his bath, knowing that she was weakening. Knowing that she was allowing her thoughts to wander along normally forbidden paths.

      And one question alone clamoured to be heard.

      Just what had happened to her and Cormack along the way?

      After that first, sun-dappled lunch in Cormack’s favourite restaurant in Malibu, Triss went back to his beachside house with him, knowing that she fully intended to go to bed with him.

      She should have felt intimidated. He was, after all, one of Hollywood’s most eligible men, and he had certainly had more than his fair share of equally eligible girlfriends.

      Not that Triss was in the habit of putting herself down, or anything. Far from it!

      She was aware that the rest of the world rated her looks very highly even if she, along with many other top models, could see only the flaws and imperfections in her face and figure. She knew that mere beauty was fleeting and fame was a fickle mistress, and that because of this her future depended on something which could not be predicted.

      In short, she was hopelessly insecure!

      Many men—worthy, intelligent men—had attempted to seduce her in the past, but she had never been remotely tempted by any of them.

      Up until now.

      Over their simple Californian lunch they had swopped life stories immediately, as if eager to get them out of the way.

      Neither of them had been particularly happy as children, but Cormack’s upbringing had been the harshest by far. He was one of five children, the youngest by a good eleven years, and so, in effect, an only child.

      When Cormack was growing up, his siblings had already left home, leaving them well clear of Joseph Casey, their father, and his long-standing love affair with the bottle.

      When poor health finally took its toll and carried off Cormack’s mother when the boy was just twelve, Joseph Casey found that he was finally beyond the criticism of another adult, and proneeded to take comfort in liquor more than ever before.

      It was a frightening existence for a young boy. Cormack was blamed for everything. When Joseph was sacked from yet another job, it was Cormack’s fault for being such a demanding child. When there was no money for food, Cormack was accused of eating it all. And with the accusations came physical violence, which became worse, not better, as Cormack grew from a boy into a fine figure of a man.

      And it was the violence which finally convinced Cormack that he must break free.

      At sixteen he ran away to Dublin, where he became lead singer with an unknown rock band whose fortunes were to change once the brilliantly acerbic Cormack Casey started penning their songs. In terms of popularity and sales, the band broke every record in Ireland before storming Europe and then, eventually, laying claim to the greatest musical prize of all—the United States.

      Triss listened as Cormack explained all this, in his soft, lyrical Belfast accent, her eyes huge and rapt as she stared at him. ‘Why on earth did you leave the band?’ she questioned. ‘When it was going so well.’

      ‘It’s a young man’s game.’ He smiled. ‘For people who plan to wreck their health! Besides, I get more of a kick out of constructing make-believe characters for the movies. Now...’ His intelligent blue eyes seared into her. ‘Tell me about you.’

      ‘I—’ She looked up at him, her hazel eyes huge and bewildered as she realised that she actually wanted to pour her heart out.

      Men had alternately tried to cajole or drag the story from her over the years, but she had always clammed up in her shame, obstinately determined to tell them nothing. The difference here was that there was something about the soft blueness of Cormack’s eyes which just invited confidence.

      But the habit of a lifetime was hard to break and Triss shook her head.

      ‘Leave it, then,’ he suggested, in a voice so soft and soothing it made Triss want to curl up and purr.

      ‘I—I want to tell you,’ she began hesitantly.

      ‘Then tell, sweetheart.’

      So she told him about growing up as the daughter of a woman so exquisitely lovely that her beauty had tainted her life for ever. A woman who had been unable to accept growing older, who had seen her only daughter as a threat rather than as someone to love.

      ‘She loved my brother,’ said Triss, taking a sip from her iced spritzer. ‘He’s a doctor and he’s married now—to another doctor. They’re both doing very well,’ she added quietly.

      ‘You don’t mention a father in all this.’ Cormack shot her a shrewd look.

      She shrugged. ‘That’s because he wasn’t around when I was growing up. He disappeared one day—quite literally, as it turns out—nobody has seen him for years.’

      ‘What was he like?’

      Triss shrugged her narrow shoulders again. ‘He was a glamorous playboy who just happened to lose all his money, and when that happened he lost my mother too.’

      ‘So how did you survive?’

      Triss shuddered as her mind wandered back down forbidden pathways. ‘Oh, there was never a shortage of suitable “escorts” for a woman who looked like my mother. For suitable, read rich,’ she added, unaware of the cynicism which had briefly hardened her voice. But Cormack heard it, and frowned.

      ‘She lived off men, basically,’ explained Triss, in a forced voice which sounded shaky even to her own ears. ‘She still does. Only as the years go by and her looks diminish, well, her standards drop accordingly. Consequently the men get more and more disgusting. She’s...’ Her voice tailed off in distress, but Cormack did not attempt the false comfort which would have rung so emptily in her ears. ‘She’s living in the South of France at the moment, with a man who made his fortune from manufacturing dog biscuits.’

      She blew her nose noisily and escaped to the powder room. When she came back, Cormack was settling the bill, and she looked at him gratefully.

      ‘OK?’ he queried, and she nodded. ‘We can always have dessert at home, later,’ he added, and to Triss’s fury she found herself blushing.

      Now they were driving back in Cormack’s open-topped Aston Martin, with the sun glinting off the Pacific which dazzled in a sapphire haze beside them. Her long hair floated behind her like a bronze banner which gleamed as shinily as the paintwork of the racing-green car.

      When he drew up outside the dazzling white house, he switched off the engine and turned to look at her, his eyes narrowed, his expression thoughtful as he took in her tense, hunched shoulders, her tightly clasped hands. To Cormack, her whole body language was yelling, Leave me alone!

      ‘Changed your mind, sweetheart?’ he enquired softly.

      ‘About what?’

      ‘Staying with me.’

      ‘Would it matter if I had?’ she asked him boldly.

      He reached out a hand and freed a glossy tendril of hair the colour of cinnamon from where it clung to the full pout of her lips. ‘Of course it would matter,’ he answered softly. ‘But not in the way you might be thinking.’

      ‘You’re