So Now You're Back

‘Ouch, another direct hit.’

The teasing comment made her sense-of-humour failure complete.

‘OK, I’m off.’ She picked up the contract to shove it back in her briefcase and slammed the lid with a satisfying crash. ‘I don’t have time for this crap.’

‘Hey.’ He took her wrist. ‘I was kidding. No need to get your knickers in a knot.’

‘Don’t touch me.’ She yanked her hand away. Forced herself to breathe, before she smashed her fist into his face and broke his bloody nose a second time.

She wanted to shout at him that their past—and the cruel way he’d treated her—wasn’t a joke, could never be a joke, not to her. But that would give him much more importance than he deserved.

‘No touching, I promise.’ He held his hands up. ‘Just hear me out. All I’m asking is two weeks of your time. I know we don’t have a relationship any more, but we do have shit we haven’t been able to deal with because you have consistently refused to communicate with me directly.’

‘I refused to speak to you because I didn’t want to speak to you. And it doesn’t matter if there’s shit we haven’t dealt with, because I never plan to speak to you again.’

‘What about if the shit has to do with Lizzie?’

The level question stopped her in her tracks. But only for a second. This had nothing to do with Lizzie’s shit, and she had proof. ‘Don’t try to bring our daughter into this, when you’re the one who wants to expose her to the glare of publicity in some grubby tell-all biography just to pocket a few extra quid.’

His jaw tensed, as if he were surprised by the hit. But after a pregnant pause, he spoke again. ‘There’ll be no book if you give me these two weeks. And once I get the goods on this guy, the piece is going to be huge. Vanity Fair is already gagging to publish it …’

‘You’re not listening to me, Luke.’ Some things never changed, it seemed. ‘Read my lips. I don’t care about your article.’ And she certainly didn’t want to have to spend two weeks with him—the past twenty minutes had been trying enough. ‘Or bloody Vanity Fair.’

‘That’s because you’re not looking at the bigger picture here. If this article gets the traction I’m hoping for in the US, it could be great publicity for you. You’re trying to break that market, right?’

‘How did you know that?’ Good God, had he been checking up on her?

‘Because it’s your obvious next step,’ he said, without even breaking stride.

‘How could rehashing our disastrous relationship for the purposes of exposing some charlatan possibly be good publicity for me?’

‘We won’t have to rehash it—what Monroe offers are basically glorified holidays, there’s no real counselling involved. But I’ll go into the background of our relationship in the piece, that’s the angle I’m planning on.’

Her jaw literally dropped at that. She was astonished she couldn’t hear it thudding against the floor. ‘You are actually insane.’

‘It’s a great angle. I’m telling you, it might even get you a spot on Oprah.’

‘Oprah went off air years ago.’ Which showed how much attention he paid to daytime TV.

He hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, but she still does specials. Like the interview with Lance Armstrong. Your story could qualify.’

‘Why the hell would Oprah bother with a story like mine?’ she asked, not even sure why she was humouring him. Maybe it was sick fascination. It was almost as if he were dangling over the precipice of an alternative reality.

‘Oprah’s all about the feel-good feminist angle,’ he said, convincing her that he wasn’t dangling any longer, he’d dropped right off the cliff. ‘That’s what her viewers lap up. You fit the bill perfectly. The woman who worked her way back from adversity and stuck it to the guy who did her wrong. That’d be me, by the way,’ he added, without even a hint of irony. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, you’re the superhero in this scenario.’

‘Uh-huh? And what superhero am I, exactly? The Incredible Dumped Woman?’

Sod humouring him. His mental health issues weren’t her concern. ‘What the hell makes you think my success has anything at all to do with you?’ She stood, determined not to let him see how mad he could still make her.

Bugger the bloody book. She’d just have to get Jamie to issue an injunction or something once it was written. Knowing Luke’s inability to finish anything he started, she had probably blown the threat entirely out of proportion anyway. ‘And don’t worry, I have never sold myself short. You’re the one who did that.’ She swept out of the booth, ready to make a dramatic exit, when strong fingers clamped on to her wrist, halting her in mid-sweep.

‘Sit down.’

She twisted her wrist, but his grip remained firm this time.

‘Let go of me right this instant.’

‘I’ll let go when you sit down. We’re not finished talking here. You want to cause a scene that’ll end up in Paris Match, be my guest. This happens to be a popular hangout for the paps.’

Whaaat?

She darted a glance round the restaurant, the blood rushing up her neck. The place was busy but no longer packed. But as she scanned the booths to see if there were any obvious candidates about to draw a telephoto lens on her, she caught sight of the self-satisfied smirk on Luke’s lips and realised how ridiculous she was being. She was a celebrity in the UK, not France. She narrowed her eyes at Luke, hoping to eviscerate him with a single glance. ‘Paps, my bum.’

‘Sit down,’ he repeated.

She lifted her wrist, but he still wouldn’t let go. She didn’t much like the tingles shooting up her arm from the strength in those calloused fingers.

‘I’ll sit down when you let go,’ she said.

His fingers released, and she toyed with the idea of striding out despite their bargain. She owed him nothing, certainly not honesty or integrity.

‘This isn’t a negotiation, Hal. It’s a choice. I’ll sign your contract and lose the book deal with no money changing hands, but you’ll have to come with me for two weeks to Tennessee first and pose as my plus-one.’

‘That’s Sophie’s choice and you know it,’ she cried, not caring if every paparazzi in Paris overheard them now. ‘What difference is there in having my past idiocy exposed in Vanity Fair and probably syndicated round the globe to getting it rehashed for public consumption in your book? I’ll take my chances, thank you, with an injunction once you’ve actually written the thing. Knowing your bullshit to productivity ratio, you probably won’t even finish it.’

‘There’s no reason why I have to name you in the article. If that’s what you’re scared of, I can keep your identity secret.’

‘Really?’ She sat down—which helpfully disguised the renewed tremor in her legs.

‘Yes, really,’ he said without hesitation, more serious than a heart attack. It was a new look for him. One she was fairly sure she didn’t like any more than all his others.

‘But what if someone guesses my identity?’ Not that she was actually considering his preposterous ultimatum. But theoretically speaking. ‘We’ve got the same last name.’

‘Yeah, I know, funny that, seeing as how I don’t remember us ever getting married.’ Before she could come up with some cutting remark about how eternally grateful she was to have dodged that bullet at least, he continued in the same patient tone. ‘Don’t worry, no one will guess it’s you. Not if I don’t want them to.’ He watched her, in the focused, intent, all-consuming way that had excited her so much as a teenager, when she’d been desperate for his attention. ‘That said, the piece won’t be nearly as strong, and you’ll lose out on all the great publicity you could get from it. So you can make the final decision about whether you want to remain anonymous once you’ve read it,’ he said. ‘Just in case you change your mind.’

She so would not. Did he seriously think the power of his prose would be enough to eradicate the fact that he’d blackmailed her into this?

‘I’m willing to bet you do.’ His lips curved in an assured smile. Good God, the man’s vanity was as phenomenal as his ego.

‘Would you be prepared to put all that in writing?’ she clarified. Even though she still wasn’t seriously considering his devil’s bargain. But where was the harm in exploring all her options?

‘You won’t accept my word?’

‘I wouldn’t accept your word if it was tattooed across your arse.’

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich and not remotely insulted. ‘I’d rather see it tattooed across your arse.’ The buzz of something rich and hot in her belly, and the answering hum deep in her abdomen, felt suspiciously familiar. But it wasn’t excitement, she decided. Or certainly not sexual excitement. More like the buzz you got from besting a worthy opponent in battle. Not that Luke had ever been remotely worthy of her. But apparently the thought of besting him could still give her a cheap thrill.

‘But if you insist,’ he added, ‘get your solicitor to draw something up and I’ll sign it.’ He reached across the table, offering his hand. ‘Shall we shake on it for now?’

She looked at his outstretched palm, her usual common sense returning. Could she bear two whole weeks stuck in his company? Even if it meant the end of the threat against her and her children?

But as his hand hung there, suspended over the table, the buzz peaked, and a strange calm came over her. And she knew, against all the odds, she actually wanted to take his devil’s bargain.

Because she owed it to the girl she’d been.

And because, despite all her protestations to herself, and Jamie, this thirty-minute meeting had proved one galling fact: she hadn’t gotten over Luke’s desertion the way she’d wanted to believe.

She’d shut down all those years ago, once all the tears and heartache had drained her dry. And she’d forced herself to rise above the pain and the grief and eventually the anger, because she’d had to, not just to survive and to heal, but so she could handle letting her daughter have the daddy she adored back in her life.

But by never talking to Luke, never seeing him or communicating with him, he’d got off scot-free. He’d never had to explain what he’d done, or why he’d done it. He’d never even had to apologise. And maybe she needed that, to finally get the closure that had alluded her.

She clocked the confident gleam in his gaze, daring her to take him on. The way he’d done so many years ago.

She’d taken the challenge then and lost, catastrophically. But she was older, smarter and a lot richer now. And, best of all, she was totally over him.

Hell yeah, she could survive being stuck with him for two whole weeks. She might even enjoy it. Rubbing his nose in all his shortcomings. In fact, two weeks wouldn’t be nearly long enough for that.

‘OK, Luke, you’ve got a deal.’

His fingers trapped hers, the calluses on the ridge of his palm rough to the touch. The memory flash blindsided her: those same calluses caressing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh on the lazy Sunday morning before he’d left for his first proper assignment—the last time they’d made love. When he’d used all the skills they’d learned together to make her come until she screamed, and woke the baby up. The frisson of heat, the shock of memory settled in her breasts, making her nipples tighten against the smooth silk of her bra.

Then his thumb brushed under the red mark on her wrist and, to her horror, the hum in her abdomen pulsed hot.

‘What happened here?’ he asked. ‘It looks nasty.’

Small burns were a hazard of her job; she’d incurred this one a few days ago during a guest spot on BBC One’s Breakfast Kitchen while whipping a tray of florentines out of the oven. The sore spot tingled as his thumb slid close to the inflamed skin.

She yanked her hand free and rubbed her wrist discreetly on her skirt.

‘It’ll heal,’ she said. And so, finally, will the wounds you inflicted on me.

She walked out of the restaurant without another word. But as she hailed a cab to take her back to the station for her noon train, her breasts continued to throb in time with the timpani drum of her pulse.

And it occurred to her there was one key element of their relationship she hadn’t factored into her decision to accept his proposal.

And perhaps she should have.

‘Elle est très belle,’ Jean-François commented wistfully as the café’s door swung shut in Halle’s wake.

‘Oui, très belle,’ Luke replied, not at all wistfully.

And très pissed off with me, still, even after more than a decade and a half.

Enough to piss him right off in return.

She’d offered him money. As if he were some cap-doffing toady whose silence she could buy with a few bob. As if his life story had no import whatsoever compared to hers.

Not that he was actually writing his life story. But that was hardly the point.

Who did she think she was? Did she actually believe just because she could rustle up the perfect soufflé in ten minutes and mould a working carousel cake topper out of marzipan she was better than him?

‘Ça c’est bien?’ Jean-François indicated the untouched plate of pastries. ‘Votre reunion importante?’

Not exactly. His important meeting had come close to being a complete bust.

‘Yeah, très bien.’ He stuffed a miniature chasson aux pommes into his mouth to sweeten the sarcasm.

So much for his cunning plan. Because what had seemed perfect twenty minutes ago wasn’t looking quite so perfect any more.

Perhaps he should have figured out the extent of Halle’s hatred. Given that her temper tantrum had lasted sixteen years.

Then again, what he had really underestimated was his own reaction.

He thought he’d come to terms with all the choices he’d made, good and bad, all those years ago. But seeing her again, in the flesh, instead of on TV or in some papped snapshot in a magazine, had proved what a whopper that was. Because despite the gloss and the glamour and the Carolina Whatever-her-name-was designer suit, all he’d been able to see for a moment was the girl he had once fallen arse-over-tit in lust with.

The lush curve of her hips in the fitted skirt, the peaks of her full so-sensitive breasts beneath the silk blouse, the rich honey-blonde hair, which looked soft and tactile despite the ruthless updo, and even the sparkling intelligence behind the brittle contempt in her golden brown eyes.

He’d been reeling from that shock when she’d delivered another sucker punch to the gut. That not only wasn’t his infatuation with her as dead as it should be, but he wasn’t as sorted about the rest of it, either. All the stuff he’d had years of therapy to overcome.

Because if he was, how could the misplaced pride and the defensive anger that had screwed him up so royally as a kid have popped out of hiding like a demented jack-in-the-box as soon as she’d slapped him with that insulting offer?

Jean-François left him to finish his lukewarm espresso and full plate of pastries on his own—and reconsider his plan.

Getting Halle to come to Tennessee with him had seemed like a no-brainer when he’d thought of the idea a month ago.

Having Halle in tow at Monroe’s resort would not only mean he could finally force her to talk to him about Lizzie, but the resulting article—which he planned to be a clever exposé of exactly why Monroe’s eccentric methods didn’t work—had the potential to be huge.

The guy had come from nowhere to end up with endorsements from a host of Hollywood A-listers within a year. And was causing a storm with his bestseller, The Extreme Path to Love and Reconciliation. Getting the goods on the celebrity charlatan could even win him an award, if he pitched it right.

He stirred another sugar into his coffee, topped up the cup from the fresh pot the waiter had deposited on the table and took a fortifying sip. But the sugar-loaded caffeine hit did nothing to disguise the unpleasant taste of apprehension beginning to clog his throat.

Unfortunately, after his first merry meeting with the new, improved ball-busting Halle, he couldn’t help wondering about the advisability of getting stuck for two whole weeks in the Tennessee wilderness with a woman who had looked at him—when she actually bothered to meet his gaze—as if she wanted to stuff his reproductive organs through an industrial-grade mincer.

Chapter 4

‘I can’t believe it. You got Mr Perfecto to babysit us both? That is so humiliating.’

Trey Carson sawed the tuna sandwiches he was making for Aldo’s packed lunch in half while attempting to tune out the argument raging in the hall. He wasn’t having much success, given that he had become the subject of Lizzie Best’s latest spat with her mother—and her shrill angry tone could slice through lead.

He heard the muffled conciliatory tones of her mother’s reply, and even though he couldn’t make out the words, he had to give his employer points for patience. Halle Best never raised her voice to her children. Especially Lizzie. He often wondered if she had a secret stash of weed in the house to keep her so calm in the face of so much provocation. His own mother would have given him a backhander if he’d dared to speak to her the way Lizzie spoke to her mum. Before she got sick that was …

He cut the sandwiches into quarters.

‘Like I care that you’re going on some stupid book tour.’ Lizzie’s lead-slicing tone echoed round the large open-plan basement kitchen again. ‘So what else is new?’

Trey reached for the cling film and hastily wrapped the sandwiches, keen to get Aldo out of the line of fire before Lizzie stomped into the kitchen ready to take her frustration out on her little brother. He wasn’t in the mood to play referee this morning. Especially now he’d become Public Enemy Number One because his employer had asked him to move in for two weeks while she was away on a book tour in the US.

Keeping his cool around Lizzie for the past three months had been hard enough. Living in the same house with her for a fortnight threatened to up the stakes a lot more. Forget losing his cool, if he wasn’t careful he could end up throttling her. And he couldn’t do that. Killing his employer’s daughter would not look good on his CV. Plus, he’d probably lose his job.

And he needed this job. It paid well, came with good benefits, took his mind off his mum, and he got a kick out of looking after Aldo. The kid was smart and funny and affectionate—and they understood each other. Because Trey knew what it was like to grow up without a dad around and to get labelled a ‘problem’ by grown-ups who didn’t know shit about your life.

The poor kid had been in therapy for his anger management issues when Trey had gotten the job—the eighth au pair Halle had hired in as many months. But all Trey had seen was a confused and scared ten-year-old boy who needed a mate—and a chance to run off all his nervous energy instead of sitting around talking himself into a coma. They’d had a few scary moments when he’d started. Aldo could throw the mother of all tantrums when he set his mind to it. The sort of thing that required an exorcist rather than a time out. But once Trey had discovered the handy trick of simply ignoring them, Aldo’s Damien routine had become less and less frequent.

But while he liked hanging out with Aldo, Aldo’s older sister was a whole other matter. She’d been on his case from day one. And this wasn’t the first time he’d heard her bad-mouthing him to her mum. And calling him Mr Perfecto.

He’d been unfailingly civil and polite back, or as polite as it was possible to be when someone took great pleasure in needling you, but after three months of watching Lizzie fly off the handle over nothing, not to mention witnessing her never-ending strops and mood swings, the urge to kick back was becoming harder and harder to resist.

‘Aren’t you going to cut the crusts off?’ Aldo said, reminding Trey he didn’t have time to consider Lizzie Best’s personality disorder. If they didn’t get a move on, they were liable to become the target of it.

‘You know I hate them,’ Aldo added, apparently more concerned about an excess of fibre in his diet than the oestrogen apocalypse going on outside the kitchen door.

‘You’ll just have to deal.’ Trey shoved the cling-filmed sandwiches into Aldo’s backpack on top of the crisps and juice box he’d raided from the larder.

‘But I’ll puke if I have to eat them.’ Aldo was nothing if not persistent.

‘Don’t be so moist. You think John Terry gets his crusts cut off?’ The Chelsea deity was Trey’s go-to guy whenever Aldo went into serious pester mode. He used the hallowed Terry trump only in cases of emergency. But when Lizzie stomped into the room and climbed onto the stool next to her brother’s at the breakfast bar, sporting a face like a thundercloud, that wild puff of sunshine hair falling out of its haphazard ponytail, Trey decided this situation definitely qualified.

‘I hate her. This whole set-up is so full of shit.’ Lizzie thumped her toe against the counter.

Trey zipped the backpack, knowing better than to pick up the conversational gauntlet.

‘What’s Mum done?’ Aldo piped up, apparently unaware of the feral glint in Lizzie’s eyes that said she was likely to gut the next poor bastard who opened their mouth.

‘Shut up, you little turd. Like you care.’

‘I’m not a turd. You are.’

‘Come on, guys, give it a rest.’ Trey steeled himself to pull them apart, but instead of thumping Aldo, or having a go at him, Lizzie stared at the countertop.

‘I can’t believe she still doesn’t trust me. At all.’

She didn’t sound sulky. She sounded genuinely hurt—as only an eighteen-year-old drama queen could, but her distress arrowed under Trey’s usually reliable sense of self-preservation.

‘You OK?’ he asked.

Her gaze met his and he noticed the sheen of moisture turning the bold blue of her irises a shade darker. The colour matched the Tottenham away strip from last season now, instead of the bluebells he remembered from a rainy camping holiday in Wiltshire with his mum.

Lizzie stared blankly at him, as if she were surprised to see him there. She had amazing eyes. He’d always thought so, even though he pretended not to notice stuff like that. But there was no avoiding noticing this time. Her gaze captivated him, the stormy blue changing shade with her emotions, the lashes long and elegant even with all the gunk she put on them.

She blinked and the spell broke, the sulky irritation returning. ‘Excuse me, are you confusing me with someone you actually give a toss about?’

Trey mentally kicked himself. Seemed he was as clueless as Aldo when it came to keeping his mouth shut.

He slung the backpack to Aldo. ‘Why don’t you give your mum a break?’ And stop acting like a two-year-old. ‘She’s a busy woman and she’s on her own.’

The intriguing tilt at the corners of Lizzie’s round eyes went all squinty.

‘I know how busy she is. Or she wouldn’t be pissing off on a US book tour. And she’s hardly on her own. She has a whole army of minions.’ Her gaze raked over him, making it crystal his rank in Halle Best’s minion army was no higher than foot soldier.

‘Yeah, well …’ He shrugged, swallowing the urge to snap back. ‘This minion’s got work to do.’ He rubbed Aldo’s crown. The boy giggled, reminding him why he was never going to let the Drama Queen’s snooty barbs hit home. Or notice how amazing her eyes were, ever again. ‘Let’s get you to school, Beast Boy.’

Aldo clambered off his stool and bid Lizzie a wary goodbye. But as they headed for the back door together, Trey could feel her arresting gaze boring two eye-sized holes into the base of his skull.

And the skin on his neck heated accordingly.

‘Thanks for nada, Mr Perfecto,’ Lizzie whispered.

How come he was always right there, watching, and judging, and making her feel like even more of a loser?