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‘No,’ he said. He gave her a reflective look. ‘Although there was a time when I thought I did.’ He paused. ‘But now I see my wife beckoning, so I must go.’
Rhianna put down the sherry glass untouched. Carrie’s father was a shrewd man, she thought, her stomach churning. What had he been trying to say just then? That he’d once seen something—and guessed how she felt…?
No, she thought. Please, no. Let it stay a secret for just a little while longer. Another twenty-four hours and I’ll be gone for good. And no one need ever know—anything.
The initial free-for-all at the Polkernick Arms had some of the overtones of the Montagues versus the Capulets, Rhianna thought detachedly, with the Seymours and Penvarnons on one side of the private bar, and Clan Rawlins on the other. It was to be hoped that the knives in the dining room weren’t that sharp, or there could be mayhem.
She was keeping strictly to the edge of the room, away from the small charmed circle of well-wishers where Carrie stood, her arm through Simon’s.
She hadn’t looked at him, or he at her, while they’d murmured their conventional and meaningless greetings to each other.
Would there ever come a time when she could look at him and see simply Carrie’s husband? Maybe one day—once time and distance had done their work. Or that was all she could hope.
She knew, of course, the exact moment that Diaz arrived, and for a blinding instant she wished with real savagery that she could turn back the clock and wipe out the past months with their burden of lies, secrets and shame.
That she could turn and see him standing in the doorway and be free to walk to him, smiling, and say in her turn, ‘Diaz—it’s been a long time.’ And offer him her hand, or even her cheek. That she could see the silver eyes warm with surprise—and something more…
That it could be a beginning, and not an end.
Except that it was too late for that. Too much had happened.
Now, she could hear the buzz as he worked his way round the room. Knew when he’d paused to shake hands and hold a brief conversation with another guest, even as she herself listened politely to the elderly woman beside her. As she responded gracefully to what the other was saying about her favourite characters in Castle Pride, with Lady Ariadne very clearly not included among them.
Felt her heart quicken and her mouth dry as he reached her.
‘Rhianna,’ he said silkily. ‘You take my breath away. This evening will be a real privilege.’
She watched him looking at her, frankly assimilating the way her dress clung to her breasts and hips. How the sash reduced her waist to a handspan.
‘Allow me to return the compliment,’ she returned crisply. One swift glance had been enough to inform her of his immaculately cut dark suit, the crisp whiteness of his shirt, and the sombre silk magnificence of his crimson tie.
‘I’m sorry I’m a little late. I had some business to attend to.’ He paused. ‘Is there anyone else you wish to speak to? Or may I steal you away now?’
Rhianna shrugged. ‘We’re having a duty dinner,’ she said. ‘It’s hardly an elopement.’
‘Then let’s go,’ he said. ‘Before we’re arrested and charged with criminal damage to a tiara. I saw Mrs Rawlins bristle as I walked in.’ He took her hand and smiled at her companion. ‘Will you excuse us?’
She looked arch. ‘With pleasure,’ she said. ‘And may I say you make a very handsome couple?’
No, Rhianna wanted to scream. You may say nothing of the kind. In fact you aren’t even allowed to think it. And if the ground would open and swallow me, I’d regard it as a blessing.
But the floor remained in its usual robust state as she walked across it to the door, hand in hand with Diaz Penvarnon, acutely aware of the curious stares and whispers following them.
In the foyer, she detached herself coolly and firmly. ‘We really don’t have to do this,’ she said. ‘We can part company here and now and no one will be any the wiser.’
‘So what’s your alternative?’ Diaz asked softly. ‘Mourning your loss over a solitary scampi and chips at the White Hart?’ He shook his head. ‘No way, Rhianna. I asked you to have dinner with me, and the invitation stands—however distasteful you may find it.’
She hesitated, then reluctantly followed him out of the hotel. She glanced around her. ‘I don’t see the Jeep.’
‘It was needed elsewhere,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s a beautiful evening. I thought we’d walk. Will your shoes allow that?’
‘Of course.’ But where on earth could they be going? she asked herself in bewilderment. The hotel, the pub, Rollo’s Café, plus the fish and chip shop in Quay Street constituted Polkernick’s entire claim to gourmet fame, as far as she was aware.
