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The change in lifestyle would be absolute. Terrifying, surely, for her mother?
Maxine’s eyes had flashed. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘It’s time—way beyond time—that I faced the truth about what has happened.’
Talia still couldn’t believe the change in her mother, but she was abjectly grateful for it—and to Maria, who was giving them a way forward. It would be hard work, but right now—a choking sob tried to rise in her throat, but she pushed it back with determination—anything that blocked her mind from going where it kept trying to go was to be clung to with all her might.
Exhausting herself by running a café—waiting on tables, keeping it clean, doing everything except the cooking, which Maria’s nephew was going to be doing—surely would leave her no time to think of Luke?
Please, God...
* * *
Luke flipped open the locks of his suitcase, intent on extracting a clean T-shirt to sleep in. Beyond the soundproofed windows in this most prestigious hotel in Hong Kong the glittering skyline of the city was like jewels glistening against the night. It was a city with millions of inhabitants, but he had never felt more alone in his life.
Emptiness gaped all around him.
Being on his own had become a way of life for him. He’d spent ten years focussed on making money and hunting down his enemy. There had been neither the time nor the inclination for relationships. His affairs—if they could even be called that—had been fleeting...strangers who met and parted again, never finding anything to keep them together. For what woman would want to attach herself to a man as driven as he had been? As he had had to be in order to achieve what he had promised his parents he would do in their name?
But now that was all over. He was free—finally, blessedly free—to find someone to share his life with.
And I found her! I found her and wanted her and offered her everything I thought would make her want me too—
The cry came from deep within but he cut it off. There was no use listening to it. No use staring around this anonymous hotel bedroom and wanting, with a longing that was a physical pain in his gut, the one person who would make it the most wonderful place in the world for him.
She didn’t want you. She left you.
He would force himself to stop wanting her. After all, she wasn’t exactly the woman of his dreams, was she?
He knew what he was doing—that his mind was seeking ways to dull the pain by finding fault with Talia. But he forced himself to think of all the things that were wrong with her, to think about whose daughter she was, about what that had turned her into.
Do you really want to have a woman like that in your life? A hothouse flower unable to survive without the shelter of a man to provide her with the luxuries of life, to look after her and cosset her? A woman who’s only ever played at life? Who’s never had to hold down a job, earn a living, work for what she has? Who’s never had to take any responsibility? A show pony living off her father’s wealth? Who panicked and collapsed when she was faced with losing her luxury lifestyle?
The questions seared in his head but he would not answer them. Dared not.
All he wanted now was a shower, a shave, and then to drink himself to oblivion from the bar in the room. Alcohol and sleep would silence the torment in his head. Because he was sure nothing else could.
He frowned. What the—?
On top of his neatly folded clothes was a large, stiff art folder. He stared angrily. Why on earth had that been packed? Talia’s tasteless amateur daubs were the last thing he wanted to see!
Roughly, he yanked the portfolio out, flinging it onto the desk beside the suitcase stand. But he’d been careless in his aim, and as he fetched a clean white T-shirt the toilet bag in his hand caught the corner of the portfolio. It clattered to the floor, its contents spilling out. With an oath, he stooped to scoop it all up, glad the sheets had fallen face-down. All except one, which he had to reach for.
He straightened, holding the sketch in his hands. Staring. Frowning.
Shock went through him.
This was no amateur daub. Nor was it anything remotely like any of the interiors he’d seen at the Grantham Land properties.
This was good! The vision was immediate, impactful. The wide space of the hotel’s atrium was just the way it had been b
efore the storm, but brought back to life in startling relief. He went on staring, taking it all in.
The deep cobalt-blue-tiled floor and the emerald-green walls made one vast fresco, bringing the lush rainforest indoors, splashed with the vivid colours of tropical flowers, of birds darting through the foliage with rainbow plumage. The huge arched opening to the terrace framed the gardens leading out to the sea, as azure as the tiling was cobalt, blending the interior with the exterior, making it one seamless whole.
And in his mind’s eye it was instantly real—he could see it, feel it. Feel just what a newly arrived guest would experience on entering the hotel. It would stop them in their tracks. There was no question this design had the total wow factor.
Mesmerised, he turned over the other sheets one by one, discovering what she had done for the restaurant, the bar, the bedrooms. All had been designed to have that same vivid, vibrant impact.
He spread them out on the desk, gazing down at them. Then he realised there was a transparent folder amongst them. Frowning again, he unfastened it to study its contents. There was an envelope of fabric swatches, each labelled carefully, and another envelope of downloaded illustrations from potential furniture, flooring, and fabric suppliers. And there, too, were multiple, neatly set out sheets—costings, prices, delivery schedules, names and contact details for suppliers and shippers, even notes about import licences and customs duties.
