‘PARIS?’ Oliver queried almost disbelievingly. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing? I thought it was a drunk!’
Drunk? Yes, oh, how she wished. Allowing her tired body to slump, she just stared at him, too shocked to care that he had eventually come, then winced and held her hand across her left eye.
‘Are you ill?’ Reaching her, allowing the glow from the porch-light to spill across her, he hesitantly touched her arm, then exclaimed, ‘Dear God, Paris, you look terrible.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered weakly. ‘And what on earth are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you, of course! Where on earth have you been? I ring the agency, you aren’t there! You never answer your damned phone, your front door…’
‘I’ve been busy…’
‘I can see that,’ he grated angrily. ‘For God’s sake, woman…’ Breaking off, he removed her keys from her hand, put one arm round her and helped her up towards her front door.
‘Don’t put the light on,’ she whispered urgently.
He made a little sound in the back of his throat, carefully negotiated the dark hall, and helped her into the room on the left, the lounge. Easing her down into the armchair, he returned to put the hall light on, so that at least he could see what he was doing, and then moved back to stand in front of her, stare down at her wan face. ‘What on earth have you been doing to yourself?’ With a frown, he stepped closer, bent to tilt up her chin, refused to allow her to shrug away, and stared down into her tired face. ‘Oh, Paris…’
Blanking it out, blanking everything out, keeping her eyes closed, and, so long as she didn’t look at him, notice his appearance, the way he was dressed, his expression, she thought she might cope. Just. No, no she didn’t, she didn’t think she could cope at all. His finger burned, and she wanted to rest her head against that strong chest, be held, comforted…
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked gently, a gentleness that was nearly her undoing. She’d managed to push him to the back of her mind, persuade herself that she wouldn’t see him any more, wouldn’t be affected by him any more, and now here he was, unsettling her all over again. And her head hurt so much, a pain that was beginning to frighten her. Each day it seemed worse.
‘Headache,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s nothing. There’s some pain-killers in the bathroom cabinet.’
He went to get them, returned moments later and handed her a glass with the two tablets dissolving in a small amount of water. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed gratefully.
Slumped in the chair, too exhausted to move, in too much pain to move, she slowly drank the gritty mixture. She was aware of Oliver returning, but it took too much effort to try and open her eyes.
‘You don’t have any milk,’ he exclaimed, sounding almost as despairing as she felt. ‘Don’t have any anything! The fridge is empty, the cupboards…’
‘I haven’t had time to do any shopping.’
‘You have to eat, dammit! Is there anywhere open this time of night?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said uninterestedly, ‘the garage, maybe.’
‘I’ll go and see.’
‘You don’t need…’ she began, and then didn’t bother. Oliver would obviously do what Oliver wanted to do. She heard the front door open and close, heard his steps on the path, and, the empty glass still held loosely in her hands, she gave in to the pain and tiredness that washed over her.
Minutes later, he was back, a bottle held in his large hands. ‘Some people were just going in a few doors down, I borrowed some from them.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed listlessly, and momentarily wondered at the astonishment they must have felt at seeing the famous Oliver Darke on the borrow for milk. ‘Thank you.’ Unable to continue, because even the slight movement of her mouth in order to speak made the pain worse, she was so very grateful when he put the bottle down, carefully lifted her and carried her into her bedroom. Easing off her coat and shoes, he laid her down, pulled the duvet across her, and said quietly, ‘I’ll go and make your tea, and then I’m going to call the doctor.’
‘There’s no need…’
‘There’s every need.’
Whether she blacked out or just went to sleep, she didn’t know, but the next thing she knew, a tall, greyhaired man was just putting his stethoscope into his black bag, his examination obviously finished. When he saw she was awake, he smiled at her, patted her hand in a fatherly fashion, got out a pen light, perched on the edge of the bed and shone it carefully into each eye. He then touched his fingers gently to each socket, her temples, the back of her neck, and sat back.
She explained haltingly about the pain behind her eyes, the tiredness, and then, somehow he had got out of her all the extra work she had been doing, about not having the time or the energy to eat properly, and he gave her a look of reproof.
‘Not very clever, Miss Colby.’
‘No.’ But unavoidable.
‘Been worrying?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted. She didn’t admit to being late, to not coming on that month. Another worry, but it might be related to the pressure she’d been under, mightn’t it? Yes. It didn’t necessarily mean that she was pregnant. Shoving the thought away where she kept shoving it, she waited.
He nodded, put his torch away, and got to his feet. ‘Nothing radically wrong,’ he assured her; ‘it’s called stress. Stop worrying, eat properly, get a decent night’s sleep, and you’ll be fine. Don’t do it, and you won’t,’ he warned. ‘The body can only take so much abuse, and then it rebels. I’ll leave you some tablets, but if the pain persists, get Oliver to ring me.’
Opening her mouth to tell him that Oliver would not be there to ring, she didn’t get the chance as with a last smile, he went quietly out. She heard the low mumble of voices outside her door, and then, a few minutes later, Oliver came in carrying a glass of water and a bottle of tablets. He perched on the side of the bed where the doctor had sat, stared at her, and then said quietly, reprovingly, ‘You frightened me half to death.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you should be. Here, you’re to take two of these.’ Shaking a couple into his palm, he handed them to her, then the glass of water. Putting a gentle hand behind her neck, he raised her, and, when she’d obediently swallowed them, he lowered her carefully back to the pillows. ‘Go to sleep.’ He sounded incredibly tired. Looked tired, she finally registered, and tanned. ‘Sleep.’
‘Oh, but…’ she began worriedly.
Tucking the quilt more warmly round her, he repeated flatly, ‘Sleep.’ Walking quietly out, he shut the door.
Closing her eyes, she allowed a lone tear to trickle unheeded down her cheek. Oh, Oliver.
She hadn’t expected to sleep, but she must have done, because, when she woke, grey light was filtering through the drawn curtains, and the pain, blessedly, was reduced to a dull ache. And then she remembered that Oliver had been here—was still here, she discovered as the bedroom door slowly opened. He glanced in, saw she was awake, and, his voice as empty as the night before, asked, ‘How do you feel?’
‘Much better,’ she whispered. ‘What time is it?’
‘Half-eight.’
‘Oh, Oliver, you didn’t need to have come back so early.’
‘I didn’t, I haven’t been away. I slept in your spare room. Cup of tea?’
‘Please,’ she agreed helplessly. Slept here? All night? And why? Because he’d been worried about her? Felt responsible? That was crazy. Before she had a chance to nag at the question further, he returned carrying one of her best bone-china cups.
‘Always tastes better in fine china,’ he commented as he put it carefully on the bedside table. ‘Need help to sit up?’ Without waiting for her to answer, he slid his arm behind her, eased her up and stacked the pillows behind her head. ‘Better?’
His smile was distant, mechanical almost, his behaviour unemotionally thoughtful.
Reaching out to take the cup, needing something to take her mind off him, she frowned at her sweater-clad arm. ‘I’m still dressed.’
‘Yes. I didn’t think you would want me to…’ Breaking off, he shrugged. His eyes on her downcast face, he continued quietly, ‘I couldn’t get back any sooner. I’ve been away.’
‘It doesn’t matter…’
‘Yes, Paris, it does.’
Did it? Why? All that had happened she could lay at her own door. Not wanting a discussion on it, on anything, she murmured huskily, ‘Thank you for—well, all you’ve done.’
‘You really think I would have left you to cope on your own? Ill? In pain? Yes, I can see that you do…’
‘No!’ she exclaimed, then winced. ‘No,’ she repeated more quietly.
‘Because I wouldn’t do less for a dog?’
Glancing up, she sighed, gave a faint shake of her head. ‘Go away, Oliver. Please.’
‘Not yet.’ Still watching her, he asked quietly, ‘Just how much debt are you in, Paris?’
Startled, her eyes wide, she denied without thinking, ‘I’m not!’
‘No? Then why the need to work yourself half to death?’
‘I haven’t…Didn’t…’ Sighing, she asked, ‘Who said I was in debt? William?’
‘No. He wondered if you were, was worried at the amount of work you’ve been taking on, but didn’t like to pry.’
‘And you don’t have the same scruples?’
‘Obviously not,’ he said with a bitter twist to his mouth. ‘I saw your phone bill. And before you accuse me of rummaging in your private papers, it slid off the hall table, and when I picked it up…Dear God, Paris, it looks like the national debt! Dozens of phone calls to the States…Even I don’t spend that long on transatlantic calls! Nor have people reverse the charges! Who were you ringing, for God’s sake? The President?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she reprove weakly, ‘I don’t know the President. Don’t know anyone in the States except…’
‘Except?’ he prompted.
‘Nothing.’
Still watching her, he eventually asked, ‘Your sister?’ When she didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him, he continued, ‘William said she’d been staying here while you were in Portugal. She ran up the telephone bill?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ she mumbled.
‘Isn’t it? Don’t you think your accusations made it my business?’
Her eyes determinedly lowered, she shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about Athena! And certainly didn’t want a discussion on on what had happened in Portugal! ‘I need to get up, shower, wash my hair…’
He sighed. ‘Very well,’ he finally agreed, ‘if you really feel up to it. What would you like for breakfast?’
Feeling defenceless and vulnerable, she just stared at him.
He stared back, then gave a small smile, a faint trace of the old Oliver, the Oliver she kept desperately telling herself she wasn’t in love with. Couldn’t possibly be in love with. ‘I sent Henry out early, as soon as the shops were open, to buy provisions. He sends his love. And, before you accuse me of-even more high-handedness, I also rang William, told him you wouldn’t be in for a week.’
‘But I have to go in!’
He shook his head. ‘Breakfast. Egg and bacon? Cereal?’
‘Oliver,’ she protested, ‘I’m very grateful for what you’ve done, but you can’t take over my life like this!’
‘I already have. Go and have your shower.’ Getting to his feet, he began to walk out.
‘I don’t even know why you’re bothering with me!’
‘Don’t you?’ he turned to ask.
‘No. I’m no one special! Not worth…’
‘Expending an argument on? Well, I’d certainly go along with that.’ Closing the door firmly behind him, she heard him walk along to the kitchen. Slumping weakly, she sighed. God, what a mess. And he’d looked so—distant. As though he’d been hurt. But not by her. Surely not by her. Her frown deeper, and feeling far weaker than she would have liked, couldn’t actually believe, amazed at the effort it took to just shower and wash her hair, she dressed in black cords and a warm, pale blue sweater. Her energy levels almost depleted, she left her hair wet, just rubbed at it half-heartedly with a towel, then walked slowly along to the kitchen, horrified to find that she needed the support of the wall.
The radio was playing softly, a weak sun was exploring the pot-plant on the windowsill, and Oliver was fitting the teacosy over the teapot. A domestic little scene that was enacted every morning all over the country. Except that most people didn’t have a famous actor playing the role of housekeeper. She wished she knew why she did. Wished she felt strong enough to cope with him, strong enough to deny the feelings. The feelings that washed over her in a wave, left her weak, tearful.
He turned, gave her a long, unsmiling look, removed a plate from the oven and put it on the table.
‘I can’t eat all that!’ she protested when she saw the extent of his cooking skills Egg, bacon, fried bread, tomato, and a sausage.
‘Try.’
Sitting weakly down, more than glad to do so, she stared at it, then at him.
‘Try,’ he persuaded softly. Placing a freshly brewed cup of tea before her, he added, ‘I’ll leave you to eat it in peace.’
To her very great surprise, she managed to eat most of it, then, pushing her plate aside, she nursed her cup before her, pondered what to do. Her brain felt woolly, muzzy, unfocused, and, as she continued to stare into her tea, she discovered that she didn’t have a single constructive thought in her head. Only the knowledge that she needed to have one. She didn’t feel ill any more, just weak. The pain behind her eyes was still there, but dull now, only a reminder.
‘Finished?’
Startled, because she hadn’t heard him come in, she nodded, pulled herself together. ‘Yes, thank you. It was nice.’
‘Good. Go on into the lounge, you’ll be more comfortable.’
Opening her mouth, she closed it helplessly. It was easier to do as he said. Collapsing into the armchair, the armchair she had slumped in the night before, she stared rather blankly around her, then picked up one of the magazines Athena had left, and just stared at the cover. This was silly.
Oliver came in, looked at her, a rather bleak light in his eyes that she didn’t see, and walked over to the bureau. He stared down at the framed photograph that stood there, then picked it up.
Watching him from the corner of her eyes, she stiffened defensively.
There was a brooding expression on his strong face as he stared down at the picture. ‘That’s Chris Lowery, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. My brother-in-law.’
‘With your sister.’
‘Yes.’
‘Pretty girl,’ he commented almost dismissively.
‘Yes.’
‘And whom I’d never seen in my life until we met in Portugal.’ Replacing the photograph, he turned to face her.
He didn’t look as though he was lying. His face was honest, open…no, it wasn’t, it was grim, but not dishonest. He’s an actor, Paris, looks are his stock in trade. Yes, but…‘Athena doesn’t lie,’ she said quietly, despairingly.
‘Doesn’t she?’
‘No.’ But she did, sometimes. When it was expedient, when she wanted to get out of doing something. But why lie in this instance? About Oliver? There was no point. ‘Why would she lie?’ she asked in perplexity.
‘I have no idea.’
Still staring at him, she suddenly remembered something he had said. It just popped into her mind all by itself, shoved Athena and her behaviour to one side. ‘I sometimes yearn.’ That’s what he’d said. Yearn for what? Something he hadn’t got? And why say it, then? Probably he hadn’t meant to say that at all. Probably he’d…
‘Why are you frowning?’ he asked quietly.
Blinking, she shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Are you all right?’ he asked carefully.
‘What?’
‘Are you all right?’ he repeated.
Her bewilderment deeper, she said, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do. Don’t be obtuse; I’m asking if everything is all right.’
Suddenly realising what he meant, she flushed, felt a moment of panic, then steadied. ‘Oh. Yes.’ It wasn’t necessarily a lie, she might be all right. Probably was.
‘Sure?’
‘Yes,’ she said firmly, determinedly. How could she tell him anything else? Well, no, actually I’m a couple of weeks late, but don’t worry about it, it’s not your problem. I shan’t tell the story to the newspapers. ‘OLIVER DARKE HAS LOVE CHILD! MOTHER DESTITUTE!’ ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘I’m fine.’ And if she wasn’t? Then what? Don’t think about it. Worry about it if, and when, it happens. ‘Post.’
‘What?’
‘The post. I just heard the letter-box.’
With a look of weary resignation, he went out to get it. For the past few weeks, she’d dreaded the postman coming, dreaded what he would bring, but now, now she was grateful for the diversion, to get off a subject that had nowhere to go.
‘Bills,’ he commented flatly as he tossed them on to the coffee-table in front of her. The American Express envelope was on top, and pain suddenly stabbed behind her eye.
‘Aren’t you going to open them?’
‘No. I’ll do it later. When I feel stronger, more able to cope.’
He bent, reached for the top envelope.
‘Oliver! No! Don’t open it!’ she retorted furiously.
‘Too late,’ he drawled softly as he began to unfold it.
‘Why can’t you mind your own damned business? It has nothing to do with you!’ Her worried, almost frightened, eyes fixed on his face, she whispered, ‘How much?’
He glanced up, stared at her, handed it across.
‘Oh, God.’
‘Harrods, Fortnum and Mason, American Airlines… Expensive tastes, your sister,’ he commented as he bent to pick up the other two envelopes.
‘They aren’t all Athena’s…’
‘Aren’t they? Funny, I could have sworn the dates were those of when you were in Portugal.’
Biting her lip, she stared down at the horrific total.
‘Electricity bill,’ he continued smoothly, ‘quite reasonable, in the circumstances. And your petrol account from the local garage. Two amounts prior to your departure for Portugal, and seven after.’ He handed them to her. ‘What else has your dear sister run up for you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.
Staring down at her, at her white face, he suddenly swore. Stalking out, he picked up the phone in the hall, angrily punched out a number.
‘What are you doing?’ she called after him.
‘Ringing Henry.’
‘Henry?’ she queried, perplexed.
‘I need my cheque-book.’
Cheque-book? ‘No!’ she suddenly shouted. Scrambling out of the chair, she hurried into the hall, was hit by a wave of dizziness, and leaned weakly against the wall. ‘No,’ she breathed.
He finished talking to Henry, ordering Henry, replaced the receiver, scooped her up as though she were a child, and dumped her back in the armchair. ‘Stay!’
‘I’m not a dog! And you are not to pay my bills!’
‘You can pay me back when you’re solvent.’
‘No!’
‘Don’t pay me back, then! I don’t give a…’ Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward, placed both hands on the arms of her chair, spoke quietly, enunciated clearly, bit out each word as though it were an enemy. ‘I am paying these bills. Now, how much more do you need?’
‘Nothing,’ she muttered with a little glare that was unbelievably hard to maintain.
‘How much?’
‘Nothing!’ she shouted. ‘I can manage by myself!’
‘How? By working yourself to death? Don’t be so damned stubborn! How much? I can easily afford it.’
‘That isn’t the point!’
‘Isn’t it? What is? That we’re ex-lovers?’
‘Don’t,’ she gritted. Fighting the pain, the hurt, the shame, she muttered, ‘We weren’t lovers.’
‘No, we weren’t, were we?’
Ashamed, hurting, remembering her behaviour, wondering why he sounded so bitter when she was the one who’d been…And he was too close, unnervingly close, his mouth barely six inches from her own; she could almost feel the warmth of his skin, his breath mingling with hers. Shaken, feeling trapped, claustrophobic, she taunted agitatedly, ‘Makes you feel good, does it? To help out the masses? Distribute largesse to the poor? I’m not a charity case!’ If he’d looked hurt, angry, disgusted, it might have been easier but he didn’t, his expression didn’t change at all. Ashamed, she blurted, ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’ Her eyes searching his, she exclaimed tiredly, ‘Oh, Oliver, don’t you see? I can’t take your money, borrow more. I just can’t!’
‘Then have it as a gift.’
‘No.’
‘Paris,’ he said patiently, ‘with or without your consent, I am paying these bills.’
Closing her eyes in defeat, she slumped back. ‘Why? Why are you doing this? You don’t owe me anything!’ Or was it guilt? Is that why he was here? Because he felt guilty? Searching his eyes, seeing the determination there, she gave in. ‘I’ll pay you back.’
He nodded, straightened, gave her a look she didn’t understand at all, and began to walk out. ‘I’ll go and wash up.’
Oh, God. ‘You don’t need to do the damned washing-up!’
‘Have a lady that “does”, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll do the washing-up.’
Like talking to a bloody brick wall. ‘I don’t have any rubber gloves!’ she shouted peevishly, then caught her breath on a sob.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang, and she heard Oliver walk along to answer it. A few minutes later he came into the lounge carrying a bouquet of flowers. ‘From William and the girls at the agency.’
‘How do you know?’ she demanded, aggrieved.
‘I read the card,’ he informed her blandly.
‘Stick your oar into everything, do you?’
‘Yes. Excuse me, there’s the bell again. We are busy this morning, aren’t we?’
Gritting her teeth together, she slumped tiredly, gave a despairing snort of laughter, and stared at the flowers. Hearing the front door close, she glanced up and stared at Henry as he walked in. He, too, was carrying flowers.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked kindly.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Making an effort, another one, she managed a smile. ‘Thank you for doing the shopping and everything…’
‘Everything?’ he teased.
‘You know what I mean, and thank you for the flowers,’ she murmured as he laid them in her lap. ‘They’re lovely.’ Then she spoilt it all by adding waspishly, ‘You’d better ask Oliver if I have any vases.’
He laughed and carried both lots of flowers out to the kitchen. Moments later he returned, his face unnaturally solemn. ‘Oliver says you have two which he thinks will be suitable. He also says that if you get any more and you wish to use the crystal vase, to make sure you put a bit of bleach into the water, or else the glass will stain. It won’t hurt the flowers.’
‘Oh, good.’ Fighting the inevitable, she stared at him, felt her lips twitch, and gave in. ‘Oh, Henry.’
‘That’s better,’ he praised. ‘Been feeling wretched?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘Now, where are these bills that have to be paid? I can be writing them out while Oliver arranges your flowers. And don’t be embarrassed,’ he added gently, ‘we all have troubles in our lives. Just have to help each other out a bit, don’t we?’
Her eyes filling up, her throat blocking, she searched for a hanky. ‘Yes,’ she agreed thickly. ‘I don’t deserve…’
‘Yes, you do,’ he said positively. Picking up the bills from the coffee-table, he retreated to her small desk with the briefcase he was carrying, and sat to begin filling in the cheques.
Blowing her nose hard, she watched him, then switched her gaze to Oliver as he came in carrying both vases, which he then arranged to his satisfaction. One on the end of the mantelpiece, and one on the bureau. The photograph was firmly relegated to the bookshelf—where it had been originally, before Athena came to stay.
‘Fairy godmothers come in different guises, don’t they?’ she observed huskily.
Oliver turned, and his grim expression finally relaxed. ‘Yes, they do. Feeling better? Like a cup of tea?’
Not knowing what else to do, she nodded.
When he returned, with tea for them all, all nicely laid out on a tray, with tray-cloth, she managed another smile. ‘Your mother brought you up properly, I see. Did she like the scarf?’
He nodded, his face unnaturally solemn. ‘Yes. She also said,’ he added with humorous self-mockery, ‘what a good job I didn’t buy her the green one.’
Her smile wider, appreciative, the sparkle back in her eyes, their differences for the moment forgotten, she asked, ‘Did you give it to your sister?’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t dare. I’ll give it to Henry for Christmas, brighten him up a bit.’ Walking across to him, he bent to sign the cheques.
Watching him, so very aware of him, of his masculinity, his strength, the way he moved, looked, she only half-listened as he began to rifle quickly through the papers Henry had brought in the briefcase. He sounded authoritative, businesslike, a different Oliver, but then, she knew so very little about him, what his life was like away from the film world.
He glanced at her, smiled. ‘Sorry about this—some things I need to go through.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said softly, embarrassed to have been caught staring.
Minutes later, with a few last instructions to Henry, he turned back to her. ‘I have to go out for a bit, a voiceover to redo; Henry will stay to keep you company, get you some lunch…’
‘Oh, I don’t need…’ she began.
‘Yes, you do. Don’t argue.’
When he’d gone, and she’d eaten the lunch that had been cooked for her, he rang to speak to Henry.
‘You’re looking thoughtful,’ she murmured when he returned to the lounge. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Mm? Oh, no, no more than usual.’
‘What does that mean?’
He gave her a faint smile and, not answering her directly, he said quietly, ‘I’m glad you and Oliver have sorted out your differences.’
She opened her mouth to tell him that they hadn’t sorted out anything, but he continued before she could do so, ‘He’s been having a rough time of it lately.’
Diverted, she frowned. ‘Has he? In what way?’
‘Oh, filming to finish, travel,’ he mumbled vaguely. ‘Then another bitch accusing him of seducing and then dumping her. Threatening to go to the Press.’
With a little jolt, her throat dry, she stared at him in shock. ‘Another?’ Dear God, not Athena, surely not Athena. Surely her sister’s words had only been that—words, not real threats.
‘Yes. Don’t look at me like that,’ he reproved. ‘It isn’t true!’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Of course it isn’t!’ he denied angrily.
‘Never?’ she asked quietly. ‘Even that article in the papers last year? About a girl…’
‘Lies!’ he snapped. ‘Half-truths! Innuendo! Oliver is scrupulously honest in his dealings with people. He has to be, he’s a public figure—and at the least provocation,’ he continued disgustedly, ‘all sorts of dirt gets thrown at him. Death threats…’
‘Death threats?’ she whispered in horror.
‘Yes. Rubbished by reporters…’
‘Then why doesn’t he sue? That girl, if it wasn’t true; he didn’t ever deny it…’
‘To what point?’ he demanded. ‘Make more of a meal of it than there was? His friends, the studio, know he doesn’t behave like that, and that’s all that matters to him. And he tries so damned hard to protect his reputation, the reputation of his friends. He has to!’ he added insistently as though she might be about to deny it. ‘And I have never known him to be less than admirable.’
‘Are you saying that he never has affairs with women?’
‘No, I’m saying that he’s always discreet, always careful.’
‘And the women don’t normally kiss and tell?’
‘Never kiss and tell. Would you?’
‘No, but then we aren’t talking about me.’
‘But we might have been, mightn’t we?’ he asked gently.
Shocked, she just stared at him. Did he know?
Turning away as though he did indeed know and wanted to spare her feelings, he stared from the window, sighed. ‘You’ve never seen him as he really is,’ he continued quietly, his back to her, ‘not as I and a few friends know him, the real Oliver. This past year, he’s had a really punishing schedule—filming, public appearances, charity work, trying not to let people down, and he’s tired, needs a long break. I know people think that being a film star is wonderful, a piece of cake, and in some respects it is. What they don’t understand, know about, are the long hours, the endless retakes, the constant travelling, living out of suitcases…’
Yes, she did; her schedule had been pretty punishing of late, and at least his paid better.
‘…getting up at the crack of dawn, working a twelve-, fourteen-hour day. Sometimes more. And then there are his business interests. I know he’s been irritable, shorttempered, impatient, and I know he regrets the tone he’s used to you on occasion, but he’s only human, Paris.’ Turning back to face her, he entreated, ‘Only a man. People expect so much from him, expect him to have a never-ending store of energy, goodwill. He’s a generous friend, a benevolent employer. He hates lies, and he hates sham, which is possibly a contradiction in terms,’ he murmured humorously, ‘seeing as he makes his living doing just that, but the man you see on the screen isn’t the real Oliver Darke. That’s just illusion.’
‘Yes.’ Searching his thin face, she asked quietly, ‘Did you know he had an affair with my sister?’
Looking slightly bewildered, he echoed, ‘Your sister? Athena? The one who came out to Espinho?’
‘Yes.’
His frown deepening, he shook his head. ‘When?’
‘A couple of years ago.’
Pursing his lips, he stared at her, then shook his head. ‘Never. And I would have known,’ he added, ‘I’ve been with him five years, and I’ve never seen him with her.’
‘Doesn’t mean they didn’t have one though, does it? Brief and electric,’ she added a trifle bitterly, because the same could be said of her own—fling, couldn’t it?
‘Then all I can say is that it must have been bloody brief! Did you accuse him of it? Is that why he’s been so bad-tempered lately?’
‘Yes. No. I mean, I don’t know if that’s why he’s been so bad-tempered. I shouldn’t have thought so.’
‘Shouldn’t you?’ he asked with an odd smile. ‘And did he admit it?’
‘No.’
‘Then take my word for it, he didn’t,’ he said positively. ‘He wouldn’t lie to you, Paris.’
‘Wouldn’t he?’
‘No.’ Changing the subject, he asked, ‘Right, what needs doing? Housework?’
‘No,’ she denied, ‘don’t be silly.’ Forcing confused thoughts aside, she gave him a helpless look.
‘Washing?’
She shook her head, and a little smile flickered in her eyes. ‘I don’t in the least understand why you’re being so kind to me, you know.’
‘Don’t you? Because we like you perhaps?’
Yes, but why do you like me? she wanted to ask. But she couldn’t do that, could she? Because that would sound like fishing. It was all very odd and disturbing. Unless they’d somehow discovered that she might be pregnant…No, surely not. Or had the doctor noticed something and told Oliver? No, that was ridiculous… ‘What?’ she asked with a frown. ‘Sorry, Henry, I didn’t hear what you said.’
‘I said,’ he smiled, ‘that if you don’t wish me to do anything for you, shall we have a game of Scrabble?’
‘Scrabble?’
He nodded, reached for the board game that was tucked on top of the bookshelf, dragged the coffee-table in front of her, and set it out. ‘I haven’t played this for years.’
Neither had she. She kept it because it was a game her father had enjoyed. With a bewildered little shake of her head, she chose her chips and arranged them on their tray.
‘George’s film was accepted, did you hear?’ he asked when they’d become thoroughly absorbed in the game.
‘Yes, William told me. Good news. When does it go out?’
‘Scheduled for the spring, I think—and that’s not a proper word.’
‘Yes, it is. Xylem. It’s the woody part of a plant.’ Brightening, she grinned at him, pointed to the dictionary that rested beside him on the floor.
He looked it up and gave her a thoughtful look. ‘Not nearly so daft as you make out, are you?’
‘I’ve never made out I was daft!’
‘Have…’ Cocking his head, he smiled. ‘That sounds like Oliver, so I will hand you over into his care, and I will see you tomorrow.’
‘I’m not a parcel!’
He grinned, and walked out. She heard the brief murmur of voices in the hall, heard the front door close, and even though she kept her attention firmly fixed on the board game she knew when he came to stand in the doorway to watch her. And all that nervous tension she thought she had managed to conquer came flooding back.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine. Much better.’
‘Good. Henry look after you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Fumbling all the pieces back into the box, folding up the board game, she crammed on the lid, jumped up to return it to the bookcase.
‘Paris?’ he asked quietly, and, when she gave him a wary glance, he added thoughtfully, ‘How much of a fool am I being?’
‘Yes.’
Not understanding, and not having anything to do with her hands now that she didn’t have the board game to fiddle with, she turned on the television, absently pressed buttons, channel-hopped. ‘I wouldn’t have said you were a fool at all,’ she murmured.
‘No, neither would I, until recently.’
When he said nothing further, she turned to look at him, her face wary, and then a little nerve jumped in her throat, as he ordered softly, ‘Come here.’
She swallowed hard, shook her head, and so he moved to her, gently rested his hands on her shoulders, and, his eyes never once leaving hers, asked quietly, ‘Did you say anything to Athena, about me?’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘No,’ he echoed thoughtfully.
Her body still, poised for flight, she asked huskily, ‘What did you say to her?’
‘It’s not important,’ he said in the same soft voice, ‘and keep still.’
‘No. Look, I don’t want…’
‘Didn’t tell her I’d be useful?’
‘Useful? No. And, Oliver, please don’t…’
‘But you did tell her I’d be there?’
‘No!’
‘Didn’t tell her anything?’
‘No!’
‘No. We’ve given each other a lot of grief, haven’t we?’
Surprised, she drew in a quivery breath, nodded. ‘And ever since I met you,’ she murmured equally quietly, ‘nothing, nothing has gone right.’
He gave a faint smile. ‘Poor Paris.’
‘Don’t mock me, Oliver. It hurts, all this—hassle.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
Searching his eyes that remained so steady on her own, she asked, ‘Did you want an affair with me? Is that what it was all about?’ And, remembering her earlier thoughts when they’d been shopping in Espinho, added bleakly, ‘Was I—chosen?’
He looked surprised, then shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘I genuinely don’t know what it was I wanted then. I liked you, you amused me—aroused me—but an affair? I don’t know.’ Looking thoughtful for a moment, he explained, ‘Because important relationships in the past have—soured, I’m generally cautious of any sort of commitment until I’m sure. Until I know the person better.’
‘And you didn’t really trust me, did you?’
‘I didn’t know you, Paris. And you didn’t trust me, either, did you?’
‘No,’ she admitted honestly.
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. There were still so many things unanswered. Gently removing herself from his hold, because to be so close, to have him look at her so searchingly was undermining all her determination, her resistance, she turned, glanced at the television, then stiffened in surprise. ‘That’s you,’ she accused stupidly.
‘Yes.’
Not only did she have him in her flat, but on the television as well! And she didn’t want him there at all!