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The interior of the car smelled of leather and Marcus, and Lucy leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, breathing as slowly and carefully as she could.
‘Our flight leaves at six—which means you’ve just about got time to pack if I drive you back to your flat now.’
‘What? What flight? Where are we going?’ Her eyes snapped open and she lurched forward in her seat.
‘To see Beatrice, of course,’ Marcus told her patiently. ‘Remember? You’re going to advise her about organising a party for George’s fiftieth.’
‘Your sister lives in Chelsea!’ Lucy protested dizzily.
‘Most of the time, yes. But she and George also have a villa in Majorca, and that’s where she is right now. She thought it would be a good idea if you flew out to see her while she’s there, so that she can discuss George’s party with you while he isn’t around. She doesn’t want him to guess what’s going on.’
Silently Lucy digested what he was saying to her. It was not particularly unusual for clients to fly her out to all manner of places, in order to consult her or to get her opinion of their chosen venue for their event, but Marcus had said very clearly ‘our flight’, which meant…
‘You’re going to Majorca as well?’ she demanded.
‘I have some family business I need to discuss with Beatrice, so she suggested we might as well travel out together,’ Marcus told her calmly. ‘We’ll be staying for a couple of days, so you’ll need to pack a few things.’
‘And I’ll have to get changed. I can’t travel to Palma wearing armour,’ Lucy protested.
‘Armour?’
Lucy could feel herself going red at she recognised her slip-up.
‘It’s what I call my business suit,’ she mumbled.
She could feel Marcus looking at her, but his only comment was a very dry, ‘Mmm.’
Marcus turned into Sloane Square and then cut through a couple of narrow back streets before finally bringing the Bentley to a halt in a conveniently empty parking space right outside the block of flats where she lived.
‘I’ll come up with you.’
It was a statement, not a question or an offer.
Wasn’t Marcus going to say anything about last night? She had been dreading seeing him all day, worrying about what he would say and how she could respond.
She had told herself that the worst-case scenario would be if he had simply guessed the truth and challenged her with it. She had even rehearsed the scene mentally inside her head to prepare herself.
Marcus would say: You’re in love with me, aren’t you?
Lucy: What? Certainly not. What on earth makes you think that I could be?
Marcus—in that horrid dry voice he could use to such dramatic effect: Last night?
Lucy—breezily, looking amused and nonchalant: Oh, that! Good heavens, no. I just fancied a shag, that’s all.
But evidently that wasn’t going to be how it happened.
Leaving Marcus to follow her, Lucy hurried past the concierge with a quick ‘hello’ and then up the stairs. Her flat was on the first floor, and tiny, but at least she owned it outright and it wasn’t a drain on her finances—unlike the much grander flat Nick had insisted on them renting during their marriage.
She unlocked the door and walked into the small hallway. The enclosed and windowless space had been made larger and brighter by the addition of two non-matching mirrors she had ‘borrowed’ from the attics at home. A small table, also rescued from attic oblivion, which she had painted cream just like the walls, stood under one of the mirrors. On it Lucy had arranged not flowers, since she believed that every living thing needed natural light and proper fresh air, but instead her precious Jo Malone scented candles and a collection of glass candlesticks. Would Marcus notice the tasteful effect of the arrangement as he followed her into the hallway?
Beyond the hallway lay a tiny sitting room, furnished and decorated in various shades of cream, and pin-neat.
‘Before I do anything else I’m going to make myself a cup of coffee,’ Lucy told Marcus. ‘Would you like a cup?’
‘No, thanks. We don’t have very much time, you know,’ he reminded her.
‘You’re the one who’s organised this, not me, and I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had my caffeine fix,’ Lucy informed him stubbornly, heading for the kitchen.
‘Fine! Where do you keep your passport, Lucy?’
‘In the bureau behind the sofa,’ Lucy told him from the kitchen.
Marcus opened the bureau and saw passports immediately. Two of them were bundled together inside a rubber band. He snapped off the band and opened the top one, and then wished that he hadn’t. It was the passport Lucy had had when she had been married, and the photograph inside it showed a bright-eyed, happy-looking young woman. Her current passport, though—the one she had obtained after her divorce, when she had reverted to her maiden name—showed a thinner-faced young woman whose eyes held stark pain and despair. What on earth had she seen in Nick Blayne? How could she have loved him? Was it really ‘loved’?
‘Did you find the passport?’ Lucy asked as she walked past him with her coffee and pushed open her bedroom door. Lifting a small case from beneath the bed onto it, she began methodically opening drawers and placing what she thought she would need on her bed.
‘Look—while you’re doing that, why don’t I pack your toiletries for you?’
Having Marcus safely out of the way and out of her line of vision, instead of standing there watching her and making her think about last night, was a very good idea, Lucy acknowledged. So she nodded her head and handed him the bag she used for such necessities, exhaling slowly when he had disappeared into her small bathroom.
Determinedly Lucy started to fold the things she had put on the bed, and place them into the flat packs she always used for travelling.
‘Lucy, what about your pills?’ Marcus called out from the bathroom.
Her pills! Thank heavens he had reminded her. She had learned the hard way never to go anywhere without her sun allergy pills.
‘In the cabinet,’ she called back. ‘Second shelf down, right-hand side.’
She heard him opening the cabinet door as she placed the flat packs in her case, and then he called out again, ‘I can’t find them.’
Putting down the pack she was holding, Lucy walked into the bathroom, holding her breath when she was forced to squeeze past him to reach the cabinet.
‘They’re right here,’ she told him, taking the allergy tablets from the shelf.
‘Those aren’t contraceptive pills,’ Marcus objected.
Contraceptive pills?
‘No. I don’t take contraceptive pills. I don’t need to. I’ve never needed to. Nick always used a condom. It was something he was obsessive about. He told me that he never had and never would have sex without wearing one.’
This wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss with Marcus in any way, shape or form, Lucy recognised. But she couldn’t help wondering if the fact that Marcus had felt so good inside her last night had been because he had been inside her skin to skin, and she had loved the intimacy of knowing that.
As Lucy hurried back into the bedroom Marcus frowned. Last night, with unprecedented recklessness, the last thing on his mind had been the need for any kind of contraceptive or health precaution. He had to admit that hearing Lucy’s ex-husband had insisted on wearing a condom was very good news.
He watched her whilst she finished her packing. He could feel his body tightening, and a very specific ache gripping it. He wanted her.
He was supposed to be focusing on getting her to want him, not allowing himself to want her.
‘Ready?’ he demanded tersely.
Lucy gave an unsmiling nod of assent.
CHAPTER FIVE
PALMA airport was always busy, and today was no exception. Lucy struggled to dodge the mounds of luggage and keep up with Marcus who, despite having their luggage to deal with, still somehow or other managed to have a positively
