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If only, thought Ginny as she turned away, with a word of thanks and a forced smile.
As she emerged from the shop and caught sight of the timbered façade of the Rose and Crown directly opposite, rising anger fought her initial sense of defeat.
There he was, she thought, fiercely. The man who’d appeared from nowhere, been given everything yet seemed to value none of it.
She was turning to go back to the café when her eye was caught by a splash of colour and she saw a figure in a familiar quilted jacket the colour of violets emerge almost furtively through the archway which led to the hotel entrance, pulling her fur-trimmed hood forward as if to shield her face as well as cover her blonde hair.
Ginny stood, her breathing as laboured as if she’d been punched in the chest, watching Cilla, head bent, pick her way carefully down the slushy pavement towards the turning for the car park, and disappear from view.
No. The word echoed in Ginny’s head with such force that for a terrible moment she thought she’d shouted it out loud. But no passers-by turned to stare, so she stayed where she was under the shelter of Mrs Betts’ awning, trying to pull herself together.
Telling herself there had to be a dozen innocent reasons for Cilla to visit the Rose and Crown, but unable to think of one. It was just the village local, and her sister’s preference was for upmarket country pubs with interesting menus and an expensive wine list.
The kind of places Jonathan took her to...
She swallowed, remembering the dinner party. Andre Duchard leaning towards her sister, dark gaze intent, murmuring heaven knows what. And Cilla smiling, lapping up the attention. Maybe thinking she had him eating out of the palm of her hand. And all the time, oblivious to Jonathan’s irritation and resentment.
But surely—surely—it had stopped there. It must have done, she argued to herself. Because Cilla couldn’t possibly have arranged to meet Andre secretly—could she?
Did she have some hare-brained idea that she could persuade him somehow to arrange for her to use Barrowdean House for the wedding after all?
Persuade him somehow...
Ginny felt sick under the force of the emotions churning inside her—the predominant one, she told herself, being anger.
Didn’t Cilla see that if Jonathan, already jealous, even suspected she’d been slipping off to meet Andre Duchard on the quiet, there would be no wedding? She must be crazy to take such a risk.
So, whatever was going on had to stop right there before Cilla made an irretrievable ruin of her life.
She’s still my little sister, she thought, swallowing. And I have to look after her.
Almost before she realised what she was doing, she’d crossed the road and walked into hotel reception. There was no one at the desk but one glance at the board where the keys hung told her that only Room 3 was missing.
Unseen and unheard, she went up the stairs two at a time. The room she wanted was at the end of the corridor, and a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hung from the door handle.
No prizes for guessing why, Ginny thought savagely, clenching her fist and rapping loudly on the wooden panels. Oh, Cilla, you fool...
And with that, the door was flung open and Andre Duchard confronted her. Apart from a towel knotted round his waist and a scowl, he was wearing nothing. And the scowl intensified as he looked down at her.
‘You,’ he ground out. ‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’ His hair was wet and tangled and his shoulders, torso and long muscular legs also gleamed with the sheen of water. Stubble darkened his chin.
Aware that there was altogether too much of him on show, Ginny, pulses hammering, elected for safety and looked him in the eye. She said with stinging emphasis, ‘I want you to leave my sister alone. Non-negotiable.’
‘Your sister?’ he repeated. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Oh, don’t pretend.’ Looking past him, Ginny could see the tumbled bed in the light of the shaded lamp on the night table. Her throat tightened uncontrollably, making her voice husky. ‘She was here this afternoon. At the hotel. I saw her leaving.’
‘And from that you deduce—quoi?’ He seized her wrist with one hand, drawing her forward into the room, and slammed the door with the other. Shutting them in together.
She wrenched free. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Her voice quivered.
‘I think it is called conversation,’ he said. ‘In private.’ The dark gaze pinned her like a butterfly to a cork. ‘So you think she has been with me, and we are lovers?’
Ginny swallowed, trying to control the flurry of her breathing. The room, not large at the best of times, seemed to be humming with anger, which closed round her oppressively, making her want to step back, away from him.
