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‘Come on, darlin’, let’s give them a show.’
The glint of amusement in his black eyes told her he knew exactly what he was doing, but Lizzie couldn’t argue with him. Not in front of the waiting press. So instead of shoving his hands off and slapping him hard round the face, she turned to the cameras and prepared to do her job.
‘Elizabeth, over here!’ Reporters from all the major news channels were there, waving frantically at her. Lizzie gave them a beaming smile.
‘Love your dress!’ someone from the crowd yelled and again Lizzie smiled in the direction of the voice. It was a routine she’d perfected over the years. Walk slowly, smile, keep your head high and your shoulders back. Never let them know what you’re thinking.
‘I’ve got quite a fondness for that dress too,’ Hank whispered in her ear as they made their way towards the entrance. ‘I’ll like it even more when it’s lying on the floor of my bedroom.’
‘The only bedroom floor it’s going to be lying on is mine.’
He laughed darkly. ‘Works for me.’
* * *
Nick settled down in front of the sixty inch plasma screen television he’d just had installed in his London flat. If he was lucky, he would catch the last fifteen minutes of the Chelsea match. Balancing his microwave meal for one on his lap — he’d lost interest in cooking for himself — he flicked through the channels to find the boys in blue. Hell, they were losing again. Obviously his crappy life was now overflowing onto the team he supported. When had Chelsea ever had such a bad start to a season? And when had he ever felt so damned miserable? He couldn’t blame work, because at least that area of his life was going well. He kept some hellish hours, but the ever-increasing workload was the sign of a thriving practice. No, it was the part of his life outside work that was shitty. He found it hard enough to summon up the will to go out, the thought of dating again made his insides shrivel. At this rate, he was going to be a sad, lonely old bachelor. Fast forward thirty years, and he couldn’t see much about his life changing. Except maybe Chelsea having a better season.
The match ended and the late night news began. Nick watched it idly as he finished his meal. He really should get himself off to bed, but he was too tired to contemplate moving from the sofa. The image of a silver-clad goddess on a red carpet flashed across the screen, snapping him out of his exhaustion. Fumbling around for the remote control, he zapped up the volume.
‘English model Elizabeth Donovue, resplendent in silver, was just one of the big names greeted by thousands of cheers as she attended the hundredth anniversary party of the Astella fashion house in New York,’ the entertainment correspondent reported.
Mesmerised, Nick stared at the screen. How had he forgotten how beautiful she was? How much her smile lit up everything around her? She looked stunning . . . and happy. And on the arm of that bloody Hank. She wasn’t sitting at home with a flat beer and a microwave meal. No, she was being squeezed by a hunky man, lapping up the attention of the world’s media and having the time of her life. His chest felt painfully tight, and for one wild moment he thought he was having a heart attack. God, what he wouldn’t do to hear her voice. To reassure himself he was still part of her life.
Automatically he began to dial her number, then caught himself. What was he now, a raving masochist? Even if she answered her phone, which he doubted she’d hear above the noise of the party she was obviously attending, what on earth could he possibly say to her?
‘Nick?’
His phone echoed with the sound of her surprised voice, barely audible above a background noise of chatter and raucous laughter. He swore, crudely and succinctly. He hadn’t cancelled the bloody call fast enough. ‘Err, hi.’
‘It’s lovely to hear from you. Is everything okay?’
He could hear the worry in her voice and thumped his fist against his forehead. What the heck was he going to say now?
‘Nick?’ She was raising her voice, obviously trying to listen over the background din. ‘I can’t hear you very well. You’ll have to speak up.’
So now he’d have to shout the words he hadn’t yet worked out how to say. Closing his eyes, he went with the truth. ‘I’ve just seen you on the news, attending the Astella party which I guess is what I can hear in the background. I . . .’ He sighed and lay back against the sofa, rubbing at his eyes. ‘I just wanted to tell you how great you looked.’ There was a pause, probably as she worked out what to say to his lame words.
‘Thank you.’
‘Hank didn’t look too bad, either.’ And he should keep his bloody mouth shut. Now she was going to think he was jealous. Bad enough that he was, that his heart felt pulverised at the sight of them together, but letting her know that was embarrassing her as much as it was him. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
Another pause. ‘It’s okay. There isn’t anything going on between Hank and me, you know. It’s just hype to boost interest in the perfume.’
This was too hard. The pain of losing her still too raw. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘What about you, Nick? Have you swept any women off their feet recently?’
A laugh tore out of him. ‘You’ve seen my style. Sweeping hardly describes it.’
‘That didn’t answer my question.’
Nick laughed again, only this time it carried the edge of insanity. As if he could possibly contemplate seeing another woman now. Lizzie had absolutely no idea. Hardly surprising, as he’d never had the balls to tell her how he felt. Perhaps if he’d gone down on his knees and pleaded with her? Told her how much he loved her? He grimaced. A fat lot of difference that would have made. He wasn’t her type. Apparently, he was too nice. ‘No, there haven’t been any women.’
‘Does that include Sally?’
Part of him wanted to lie, to make it seem as if he’d put her behind him and was getting on with his life. But Lizzie was still, he hoped, his friend, and friends deserved honesty. ‘It includes Sally.’
Once again a silence settled between them. Dimly he heard Hank in the background. ‘Come on, sugar. Get off the phone, we’re here to party.’
