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She clasped her phone to her chest, trying to make some sense of it all. The whole sordid mess seemed surreal, and what stood out for Lily now was how sorry she was that her parents were still mainly remembered for their drug-taking rather than their artistic talents. Previously she would have felt suffocated by that. Tainted by it. But after her conversation with Tristan last night she saw that her parents had been only human. They’d made mistakes, yes, and paid the ultimate price for those mistakes. But they had tried.
It didn’t mean she had to agree with their lifestyle choices, but nor did it mean she had a right to condemn them either—as many had condemned her. Except the author of the play hadn’t judged them. He’d written a funny, informative and ultimately tragic account of their lives in a beautiful and heartfelt manner. And if she were to play her mother it could be her gift to them. Her gift to herself.
Lily felt short of breath at the surge of emotion that swept through her body.
Tristan. She wanted to talk to him. Share this with him because she knew he would understand.
She was free! And he had believed in her. Had helped her.
Lily sprang off the ottoman and grabbed the first items of clothing she found on the floor.
She wanted to feel Tristan’s arms around her as he held her to him while she told him her news. Or did he already know?
She didn’t care. She wanted to drag him back upstairs and make love with him. Run her fingers over his morning stubble—run her hands over his chest and take him into her hands as he had stopped her from doing last night.
Her body quickened, clearly agreeing with the direction of her thoughts and—
What if he’s been working on your case just so that he can be rid of you?
The ugly thought weaved through her mind like an evil spell but she immediately pushed it aside. No stories any more. Just facing her fears head-on.
‘I couldn’t believe it when Mrs Cole told me you were in the kitchen making a cup of tea. And why are you only half-dressed at nine-thirty? You’re usually up with the birds.’
Tristan turned at the sound of his sister’s voice. He was half-naked because he’d needed to get out of Lily’s bedroom fast and had forgotten his sweater.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, a little more harshly than he’d intended.
‘I have a little thing called a wedding at the local manor house tomorrow. Remember?’
Tristan rubbed his belly. ‘I meant in the kitchen.’
‘You didn’t respond to Oliver’s text last night about meeting him at the polo field at half-eleven, so when Mrs Cole mentioned you were in here I thought I’d remind you. What are you doing in here?’
‘Fixing tea. What does it look like?’
He glanced away from his sister’s too interested gaze and willed the kettle to boil.
‘Who for?’
‘Didn’t you say you had somewhere to be?’
Jordana tilted her head, her eyes narrowed. ‘Why is your hair all over the place? And what’s that mark on your shoul—? Oh, God.’ She clapped her hand over her mouth in a melodramatic show. ‘You’ve got someone stashed upstairs!’
Tristan followed Jordana’s gaze to his right shoulder and saw the imprint of Lily’s fingernails from their lovemaking last night.
He’d woken this morning to find her curved in his arms, his upper arm numb from where she had used it as a pillow all night and a boulder the size of Mount Kilimanjaro lodged in his chest. He’d never woken up having held a woman all night before. In fact he usually tried to find a plausible excuse not to wake up with one at all, and he didn’t mind admitting that having Lily snuggled against him like a warm, sleepy kitten had scared the hell out of him.
As had the feeling of well-being he’d been unable to dislodge alongside the boulder. If he’d thought the first experience with her mind-blowing then last night had been indescribable. She’d been completely abandoned in his arms and he…Suffice it to say it had been the most complete, the most intimate experience he’d ever had with a woman—even more unsettling than making love to her five nights ago.
He’d tried to sneak out of bed, but she’d woken when he was halfway into his jeans. He’d turned when he heard the bedcovers rustling to find her leaning up on one elbow, the linen sheet clutched to her chest and her golden mane spilling over one shoulder.
Her soft smile had slipped when he’d hovered over the idea of just walking out, but he hadn’t been able to. Not after all they’d shared last night. He wasn’t that big a heel. So he’d kissed her. Devoured her. Sucked her tongue into his mouth and very nearly forgotten why he had to get away.
‘So?’ Jordana prompted, bringing his eyes back to hers.
‘None of your business. And keep your voice down.’ The kitchen staff weren’t close, but still he didn’t want them overhearing. He turned back to the boiled kettle and filled the teapot, wishing that he hadn’t sent Mrs Cole off when she’d offered to make the tea for him.
‘I’ll find out. I mean, she has to come downstairs some time…’
