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No! Don’t think about that! Don’t think about having Vanessa in his arms, his bed, how her ardour had inflamed him, how his passion for her had consumed him…
We were so good together—what the hell did she have to walk out on me for? Why did she do it?
He stared blindly in front of him.
There was no answer. None. She had gone, and that was that.
And he simply didn’t know why.
With a sharp inward sigh, of anger and bleakness, he yanked the in-flight magazine from its pocket. He started to flick through it, not caring what was in it, totally uninterested, just wanting anything to distract him.
And then, abruptly, he stopped flicking and just stared.
It was Vanessa.
Her photograph, looking out of the page at him, her beauty so incandescent that he felt scorched by it.
Utterly still, he gazed at the page, taking in every detail of her face in the image. He felt his insides clench, and the cancer clawed at him with its savage, merciless pincers.
What the hell is she doing in a magazine?
He forced his eyes away from her face, flicking rapidly over the page. It was an advert for some designer he’d never heard of.
What is she doing in an advert?
He forced his brain to work.
She must have taken a job as a model. Something must have come up after that publicity shoot she’d done for Leo’s launch of the Levantsky jewels.
Was that why she’d left? She’d been offered a contract and snapped it up—dum
ping him in the process?
The anger stabbed through him again. Why would she have left him just because she’d been offered a modelling contract? Christos, he wouldn’t have objected! She had been perfectly welcome to do whatever amused her during the daytime—he wouldn’t have said no. OK, he wouldn’t have wanted her travelling abroad without him, but apart from that she would have been welcome to start a modelling career if that was what she was keen on. All she’d have had to do was ask him—he’d have gladly said yes.
A surge of bitter ill-usage bit through him. No, she’d had to go and make some kind of dramatic exit, disappear into the night, walk out on him without a word.
Damn her to hell for it!
His eyes went back to the image on the page, taunting him with her beauty—her utterly unobtainable beauty.
And finally something registered, slowly, like a wave welling from far, far away. The words of the script accompanying the photo blurred and swirled and then cleared.
And left him rigid with shock.
Vanessa set down her brush in the paint tray and surveyed her handiwork so far. A faint smile lit her face. She was glad she was capable of it—smiles were as rare as hens’ teeth these days.
But the primrose yellow walls looked bright and cheerful in the afternoon light, even though the room on this side of the house lost the sunlight after lunchtime. She stood for a moment, admiring the transformation of the hitherto dark walls, absently rubbing the small of her back. She knew she’d been somewhat ambitious in attempting to paint walls at this stage, but she also knew it was a case of now or never. With the walls done she could get the new carpet delivered, as well as move the new furniture in. Fortunately, the rest of the house was in good decorative order, and she had been able to move in the moment the sale had gone through.
House-hunting, the buying process, and moving and settling in had all kept her busy over the past weeks, and she was grateful for it. Keeping busy was essential.
And, in so far as she was capable of any positive emotion, she knew she could be pleased with the home she’d bought, and its location. The East Devon seaside town of Teymouth, on the border with Dorset was familiar to her from childhood holidays there with her grandparents, and she liked its old-fashioned look and feel. The marine parade of Regency houses, looking as if they’d stepped out of a Jane Austen novel, overlooked a sandy beach, and the English Channel beyond, and, though she knew that now, in high season, the town was filled with holidaymakers, the small terraced house she’d bought was in a quiet, narrow road, set back from the parade, to the east of the main section of the town. Even so, it was only five minutes’ walk down to the seafront, which also meant that the upper flat of the two into which the house had been divided when she’d bought the freehold was perfect to let out as holiday accommodation.
The owners had sold it with bookings already made, and Vanessa knew she would simply have to ensure the flat was clean and ready to receive visitors. The rent at high season was considerable, and because she had been able to buy the house outright she could use the rent as income, not for paying a mortgage. Although she would need to be prudent with her finances, she knew that, together with the modest but reassuring investments inherited from her grandparents, she could manage on her own.
For one fleeting moment a shadow darkened her eyes. Then, with a determined lift of her chin, she pushed aside the thought that had caused the shadow and started to tidy away the painting things.
By the time she’d cleared them away it was lunchtime, and she went into the kitchen to prepare a salad and a crusty French bread sandwich. It was simple fare, but nutritious and healthy, and all she needed. Fancy gourmet meals were a thing of the past now, and that was that. She poured some fresh orange juice and took her lunch through on a tray to the living room, where a small square dining table in the bow window caught the noonday sunshine. The house had no sea view, but all the houses in the street were painted in pale pastel colours, with tubs of flowers by the front doors and colourful window boxes. It was all very picture-postcard, for the tourist trade, but it made for a very pleasant environment to live in.
