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‘Don’t you need time to grieve properly first?’ Or was he just thinking of his own selfish needs? It might have taken a tragedy to bring her back into his life, but he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
‘You really think it will help me to stay here and do nothing but think about what I’ve lost?’
‘I think it might help if you took time off work, yes. You don’t need to stay here, you can stay with me.’
Her eyes widened. Shock? Horror? It certainly wasn’t pleasure. ‘I need to go home. Robert is there.’
Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t argue with that one. ‘What will you do about the house?’
She sighed deeply and gazed around her room. When her eyes rested on his, they were filled with pain. ‘Would you take care of it? Sell it for me.’
Still the besotted fool of six years ago, he found himself nodding. Walk across burning coals? Sure. Sell a much-loved family home and all its contents? Yes, ma’am. ‘Is there anything in particular you want to keep?’
Her eyes clouded as she fought against further tears. ‘I don’t need things to remember them by,’ she replied brokenly. ‘They won’t be coming back. I have to accept that and move on. This isn’t home any more.’
As pain lanced his heart, Nick realised with a terrifying feeling of finality that this might be it. The last time he’d ever see her. Now her family was no longer around to keep their tenuous friendship intact, were they fated to drift out of touch?
‘You’ll still come back, though?’ His words sounded desperate, but he couldn’t stop himself. ‘Or am I destined to be only a name you write on a Christmas card once a year?’
She gave him a wan smile, but didn’t contradict his statement. And why would she? He was, and always would be, a reminder of her old life. One she clearly wanted to forget. She was now a high earning supermodel, moving in a glamorous world filled with show business stars and celebrities. It wasn’t hard to see why she’d want to focus on that instead of the pain and tragedy of her past.
Especially when that reminder came in the form of a dull English accountant who’d once had the stupidity to turn her down.
* * *
The following morning he drove a deathly pale Lizzie to the airport, his mind crammed full of all the reasons why he shouldn’t be putting her on that plane. He loved her. He wanted to help her. No, he needed to help her. But what she needed was to return to America. To her work and to her life there. She didn’t need him.
As they stood in the departure lounge, just outside security, Nick dropped her small holdall on the floor. ‘I guess this is as far as I can go.’
With a glimmer of a smile, she leaned up to kiss his cheek. ‘Thank you, Nick, for being there these last two weeks. I couldn’t have got through it without you.’
With his heart breaking apart, Nick squeezed her tight. ‘I’ll always be there for you. Whatever you need, no matter how big or small, call me. Do you understand?’
She nodded and bent to pick up her bag.
Just before she went through the barrier, he called out to her. ‘And don’t be a stranger, Lizzie.’
She waved and disappeared out of sight.
Chapter One
Lizzie drew the duvet back over her head in a pitiful attempt to block out the sound of the buzzing intercom. Three days ago she’d turned off her mobile phone and pulled the landline out of its socket. Why the heck hadn’t she worked out how to dismantle the intercom? At least it was only the security desk phoning up. Never had she been so grateful to have moved to this eye-wateringly expensive, but highly secure, apartment block. Pulling the duvet tighter round her ears, she waited for the noise to go away.
When at last it was quiet, she hauled herself out of bed. She needed to take another shower. It was fast becoming an obsession. Something even she, in her shock-numbed mind, could see. Despite the number of showers she’d had though, the stench of sex still surrounded her. It filled her nostrils and clung to her mind, stubbornly determined to hang around. A constant reminder of what had happened. What must have happened, even though she couldn’t remember any of it. Shivering with disgust, she turned on the spray, putting it up to maximum heat. If it was hot enough, the steam would surely blast the stench away.
The heat washed over her as she rested against the marble tiles of the shower wall. For three days she’d done nothing, yet she felt drained, physically and emotionally. With a passing interest, she watched the rivulets of water splash over the jut of her hip bones. She had to eat something soon. Even by the too thin modelling standards, she was becoming scrawny. But the thought of food turned her stomach. God, would she ever feel normal again?
Drying herself off, she padded back into her bedroom. She’d bought the apartment two years ago, when she’d made the move from the chaos of New York to the craziness of LA. All part of a determined effort to put the past firmly behind her. It meant not living in the same city where her parents had been killed. Not living in the city where, on every corner, there was a cafe or a shop she’d taken them to. For a short while the excitement of a new city and a new place had helped. Yet it had been a long time since she’d smiled at the plush cream carpet she’d agonised over buying, or grinned at the gigantic sleigh bed that had cost her a small fortune. A long time since any of it had made her happy. And that was before this latest gigantic, sleazy balls-up.
Clothes. She needed to find some clothes and get dressed. How many hours had she spent lying in bed, crying? She couldn’t waste any more time like that. She had to pull herself together. To be strong. Heck, two years ago her family had been all but wiped out on a single, tragic day. This wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her. If she could cope with burying her parents, if she could cope with seeing her brother lying comatose in a nursing home week, after week, after week, she could cope with this.
With those thoughts in mind, she reached for the jeans she’d thrown carelessly over the extravagant cerise velvet chair. About to pull them on, her eyes settled on the crushed newspaper lying on the floor. The same one she’d read three days ago. With a wail of anguish she lunged for it, tearing it into shreds. Leaving the tattered remains on the floor she yanked on her jeans, pulled on the nearest jumper — a baby blue cashmere she’d spilt tea down the moment she’d opened the damn newspaper — and walked down the hall towards the kitchen.
‘Lizzie? Are you in there?’
She froze, the voice achingly familiar. Perhaps she was hallucinating. She hadn’t eaten for days. Her mind must be playing tricks on her.
‘Lizzie, it’s me. If you’re in there, open the damn door.’ There was a pause, and a further knock. ‘Please.’
