AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He let out a slow sigh. “I did.”
“And are you glad?”
“Am I glad?” His brow furrowed. “It serves me well. But I did not attend university for enjoyment; I studied as a means to an end.”
“Right. To run your father’s company.”
His laugh was a humourless tone in the cavernous hallway. “No. To avoid running my father’s company.”
It fascinated her. She knew that he’d taken over as chairman of Vivas Industries straight out of college, and that it was still one of the companies that was controlled under the umbrella of his own corporation. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand?” She prompted, her interest undisguised.
“No,” he agreed quietly, his dark eyes probing her face gently. “I would say you don’t.” He shook his head, as if to physically shift the conversation. “I am sure you’ll enjoy whichever degree you choose.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes drawn to his face. She had never anticipated having such an easy conversation with him. Up close, he was so much more fascinating than from a distance. When they’d danced at the wedding, she’d been too nervous to properly appreciate the details. The light smattering of freckles across the tanned bridge of his nose; the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. She fumbled her fingers in front of her.
“What kind of sandwich would you like?” She asked, as she stepped ahead of him into the kitchen.
He shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Whatever you suggest, Carrie.”
Was she imagining the teasing note to his voice? Blood pounded through her seventeen year old body, as every dream and fantasy she’d conjured since meeting Gael came back to haunt her. She spun away from him to hide the betraying flush in her face. “Umm,” she whispered, her breath snatched in her throat. “I think we have some ham somewhere.”
“Ham will be fine,” Gael responded quietly, his manner so beautifully intriguing that Carrie thought she might have died and gone to heaven.
Under his watchful gaze, she spread butter and mayonnaise onto rye bread, then layered some ham in the middle. Her eyes flicked to his and then dropped back to the sandwich; her temperature soared and her stomach clenched in almost-painful awareness. She moved the knife through the bread, her fingers shaking a little as she placed the two triangles onto a delicate Royal Albert plate and handed it to the man who was technically her stepbrother.
“Gracias,” he said with the hint of a smile. The single Spanish word was like lemon and olives on a summer’s day. She let the sound of it flick over her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
“How is your mother?”
Again, Carrie wondered if she was imagining that slightly scathing tone to his voice. It made her pause for a moment, but she would do anything rather than cut short this delicious slice of time – this moment when Gael Vivas was hers. When he was actually interested in talking to her.
Carrie shifted her shoulders, her fingers toying with the lid of the butter. “She’s … fine.”
Gael nodded, and his dark eyes glowed as though they were comprehending so much more than she was saying. “I suppose you do not see her or my father often.”
“No,” she agreed. “They were away during the last term break.”
His brows knitted together thoughtfully. “And what did you do, Carrie Beauchamp?”
How intriguing her surname sounded, coming from his lips. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest. “I holidayed with a girlfriend and her family.” She was amazed at the way she had injected the sentence with a degree of easy going normality. The carefully phrased statement hid the nights of agonised hurt that her mother had yet again chosen not to see her. That her mother’s life swirled on far away from hers.
And despite the way she’d managed to sound unconcerned, she knew that Gael understood. That the slight deepening of his brow and lowering of his lips were because he disapproved of the fact she’d been left to spend her term break away from her only family.
She had to tread carefully. An ally was not something she had ever had before. She wasn’t sure she knew what she’d do if someone actually supported her in her very worst fear in life: that her mother didn’t love her enough.
She swallowed past a sudden knot of pain and replaced the lid of butter onto the plastic base. “Anyway,” her voice was overbright, “Most of my friends would love to get as much time to themselves as I have. I mean, I’m one of the lucky ones. To get the freedom I have.”
“Are you
?” His sardonic disbelief was obvious.
She spun away and placed the ingredients back into the fridge. When she turned back to Gael, her mother framed into shot behind him. She was, as always, picture perfect.
Alexandra Beauchamp had reverted to her first surname after husband number two, and had kept it ever since. She told people it was to save the confusion over having a different moniker to her daughter, but Carrie knew better. It had more to do with the title that went along with the surname than the name itself.
Carrie couldn’t help the small sound of admiration that escaped her softly parted lips at the sight of her mother. Jeans that clung to her long, slender legs like a second skin, parted at the middle to expose just a hint of perfectly tanned midriff beneath the floaty peasant top she wore. Her blonde hair was long and worn flowing over her shoulders, and her skin boasted a caramel tan courtesy of a recent trip to Italy.
“Gael, darling, how wonderful,” she remarked in her clipped, aristocratic tone. “Why am I not surprised to find you loitering about the fridge, Carrie?”
