True Colours Page 18

  Laughing, she’d insisted he sit, let her uncork the bottle with a pop, pour them both a glass, fizzing and spitting, before she’d produced his gift. Wrapped in shiny silver paper, criss-crossed with a bright blue ribbon, the tag written in her distinctive bubbly hand, ‘For when you go back to Uni, so you don’t forget me…All my love A’, followed by one firm kiss, rich, full of promise, like the one he’d given her, pushing her backwards onto the cushions, their souls soaring as their tongues had met, hungry, eager, connected.

  Where had he heard that it only takes a minute to form a friendship, an hour to fall in love, but a lifetime to forget someone? Joss probably, reading from one of her women’s magazines as they had waited for a plane or had sat in the back of the car on the way to a meeting. It never ceased to amaze him the rubbish they printed, but that little gem had stuck with him, had penetrated his armour with diamond-like clarity, forming another crack that had deepened and grown without him being conscious of it, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

  Sebastian had protected himself over the years by maintaining his distance; people said he was stuck up, unfriendly, but it suited him. Even Caroline had thought he was an emotional cripple for years, had treated him like a rather irksome addition to their family – until she’d come to that dinner of course. He’d winced when she told him how much the outfit had cost, but he had to admit she had looked devastating, her heart-shaped face set off by the plunging neckline of her dress, black, something floaty over a tight silk sheath, an emerald green bag flung over her shoulder in a surprising splash of colour. And she’d charmed the Chinese Minister for Trade, had held him in the palm of her hand like a tiny bird, feeding him compliments like crumbs. And Caroline had charmed him, shown him a side of her he’d never seen before, sparkling and funny, her eyes meeting his as the steward poured the champagne, suggestive, brimming with promise. And at the end of the night, when he’d dropped her off, Caroline had leaned across the car, running a manicured fingernail along his cheek, down the front of his shirt, slipping her hand between his thighs, her lips fluttering over his like a butterfly. And the next thing he knew they’d been at that friend of hers wedding and she’d caught the bouquet, and somehow she was trying on his mother’s ring for size. Ever since they had started seeing each other, his grandfather had been making comments about him not getting any younger, about it being time he got married, about maintaining the family line…and then it had all just sort of happened

  Cormac had been delighted of course, had roared down the phone, his parents laughing in the background at the union of the two ancient estates. And Caroline had immediately wrapped his grandfather around her finger, the old man chuckling at her innocent enquiries about the estate, charmed by her ignorance.

  Had he got carried away on her family’s wave of happiness, swept along by his grandfather’s enthusiastic approval of the match? Had he really thought about Caroline as the Lady of Kilfenora, about whether she’d be up to the job? A chasm of worry gaped open inside Sebastian as another chunk of his carefully balanced life broke away. Was he really doing the right thing? Was Caroline the woman for him? And what would Cormac say about his qualms? Pre-wedding jitters or something more serious? Cormac, his best friend. How could he tell him? How could they stay friends if Sebastian broke his sister’s heart, made a total fool of her by breaking up with her this close to the wedding?

  Because in the exact moment that Caroline had started talking about the accident, and more importantly, hadn’t stopped, Sebastian had seen his mistake, realised that she could never live up to the reality of being his wife. She just wasn’t right. For him or for Kilfenora.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  It took Sebastian a few moments to realise that the light on his desk phone was flashing, a few moments for him to drag his thoughts back to the present, to his office, to the spring sunshine flooding in through the huge windows, to the fact that he had a multi-national business to run. A multi-national business that on top of everything else was being threatened by a rag journalist desperate for the limelight. Sebastian pushed the thought from his head. He’d already discussed the situation with Wingfield Holdings’ PR company, was sure that the professionals were briefed, that any negative stories would be stopped at source. No newspaper could afford to lose Wingfield Holdings’ combined advertising.

  Pressing the intercom button the receptionist’s voice came through loud and clear, as though she was in the same room. Thankfully, she wasn’t, couldn’t see the colour drain from Sebastian’s face as she delivered her message.

  ‘Miss Ryan for you on line one.’

  He paused for a moment; he’d been dreading this conversation. ‘Put her through.’

  ‘Morning Alex.’ It was a platitude, sounded hollow, like he was talking to his bank manager.

  ‘We need to talk.’ Her voice was practical, no nonsense.

  ‘You go first.’ Sebastian knew he was in the wrong but couldn’t keep the coldness from his voice, a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘Not on the phone. It’s too complicated. We need to meet.’

  Too complicated? That was for sure.

  Sebastian didn’t answer for a moment. His mind had suddenly gone blank, like someone has taken a wet cloth and wiped away everything he had planned to say. Was it the sound of Alex’s voice that was affecting him, or the sudden prospect of having a real conversation, not a chat about paint colours and wallpaper, but a real conversation about them, about now, about then? He felt like he had slipped sideways into a parallel world; he was still here, sitting in his office, but the points of reference had changed. All of them. It took him a second to think, a second to focus on an answer, but then he knew exactly what to say.

  ‘Okay, I’m in meetings all day, so it will have to be late afternoon. Around 5.30?’

  ‘Fine. Where? This is private – not your office.’

  ‘How about Kilfenora? It’s the half day, the staff are off so we’ll be on our own.’

  Sebastian could hear Alex pause, could almost hear the cogs whirring in her brain as she thought about it.

  ‘Okay, 5.30. I’ll see you there.’

  In her kitchen, Alex put the phone down, running her hand through her hair. She was still in her pyjamas, had hardly slept last night, tossing and turning, her head buzzing with thoughts of what might have happened to her dad, of Caroline’s smug, over made-up face as she had revealed the truth.

  Caroline. Alex pursed her lips. She could feel herself getting angry again. But this wasn’t the time to be getting annoyed about Sebastian’s idiot fiancée – in some ways she should be thanking her for telling her what really happened. And God, she hardly had a claim on Sebastian after all these years, but Caroline was one of those types of people who set her nerves on edge, irritation rising the moment she looked at her. With her prefect skin, perfect teeth, perfect hair, how much time did she spend in the bathroom, at the beauticians? She just seemed so vacuous, spent far too much time shopping and no time at all actually doing anything constructive. And like a lot of women who lacked a purpose in life, Alex felt quite distinctly that Caroline didn’t like women who did, which included her.

  Feeling suddenly shivery, Alex filled the kettle and reached for the coffee pot. The range was pumping warm air into the cosy kitchen, even the terracotta tiles were warm to her bare feet, but lack of sleep and anxiety always made her feel cold, chilled to the core, and this was one morning when she really needed coffee to warm her up and get her brain going. She had masses to get through. She was going to go into this meeting well prepared. Sebastian Wingfield had a lot of explaining to do.

  Alex could hear the church bell in the village toll six as she headed through the towering eagle-topped gates of Kilfenora House, the bells ringing out across the surrounding fields like a summons. She knew she was late, had had difficulty getting Senor Marquez off the phone, his call followed by the glaziers confirming the arrival of the new windows for the Institute and someone wanting to sell her abstract wax models of rock st
ars for the foyer.

  But it was no harm that she was late. Right now she was more than happy to let Sebastian Wingfield stew.

  For the first time since Alex had walked into his office and had what she thought was the shock of her life – a shock put right into perspective when she had seen that painting, when she had found out about her dad – she felt like she was in control, like it was his turn to be on the back foot. And she was composed now, her anger cooled to a dangerous calm. This was going to be methodical, a process that didn’t involve emotion, a conversation that wasn’t overshadowed by the past, by what had gone before. But, despite her resolve, she still felt cold, still felt the iron claw of dread grip her stomach as she pulled up outside the house.

  Sebastian, predictably, had arrived ahead of her, his gleaming 4.2 litre Jaguar XK, midnight blue, abandoned on the gravel in front of the steps, the evening light glinting off its polished chrome like a spent bullet. The evenings were lengthening now, bringing with them the promise of summer; it wouldn’t be dark until nine, so at least Alex knew she could strike ‘driving home down country lanes in the dark’ off her list of problems – she had every intention that this meeting was going to be short and to the point.

  Pushing her gear stick into park, Alex looked up at the house’s austere façade rising above her with a sigh, the two tiny gargoyles carved into the pillars supporting a mock balcony above the front door, grinning at her, laughing a greeting. They were little imps, the stonemason’s signature, a dash of humour in the serious businesses of creating a house fit for a Lord. Alex had noticed them first one day when she’d volunteered to help with the brasses. Putting her bucket of Brasso and cleaning cloths down, she’d suddenly caught a glimpse of the gargoyles, and they’d made her laugh out loud, one of the gargoyles sticking out his little stone tongue at her, mocking the gentry visiting by the front door.

  When she asked about him, Marjorie Wingfield, Sebastian’s mother had taken her by the arm to show her the second gargoyle, hiding his eyes in his hands, as shy and retiring as the other one was bold. They’d laughed together then, had spent the rest of the afternoon searching for more, finding a tiny frog hidden between the chubby legs of the cherubs supporting the birdbath in the formal garden, a mouse carved over the lintel in the kitchen, a lizard running along the stonework above the double doors between the Palm House and the morning room. And even the Grand Staircase held its secrets, laughing faces peeking from the flourishes and fleur de lys decorating the banisters – Alex felt a pang of regret – she still couldn’t believe Marjorie Wingfield was dead.

  Looking out of her car, her eyes wandering over the manicured bay trees guarding the front door, at the spot in the steps worn by generations of feet, at the pots of paint forgotten on the granite ledge of the Palm House window, Alex paused for a moment, her mind half on the house, half on Sebastian.

  This was it. Show time.

  Automatically reaching for her briefcase, Alex changed her mind, she’d hardly need it; and she didn’t want to put him on the defensive by looking like she was going into a business meeting. She felt an alarming wobble in her knees – whew, when she’d left her house, she’d thought she was so ready for this meeting, her temper fuelling her focus, but now, now she was here, it just didn’t feel so easy.

  Leaving her briefcase on the passenger seat, Alex checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror, removing a stray fleck of mascara from under her eye. She wanted to look good, had dressed carefully – smart but casual, a jacket and high-heeled boots, a scarf to soften the look. At least good clothes gave her confidence, it might be power dressing, but she knew that by the end of this evening, there was a good chance she’d need to use every weapon she had. Sebastian could be as stubborn and downright awkward as a donkey when it suited him.

  Closing her car door softly, not wanting to announce her arrival until she had taken a deep breath, had gathered her thoughts, Alex began to walk towards the front door. But Sebastian must have been watching for her – the heavy door opened as soon as she put her foot on the bottom step, and as Alex looked up from her contemplation of her tan leather boots, she found him looking down on her, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands in his pockets, an automatic smile flicking across his face. He looked good, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, tie hanging loose, day-old stubble shadowing his jaw, reminding her for a sickening moment of the Diet Coke man. Alex bit her lip, trying to ignore the kick in her stomach, the rush of blood to her cheeks.

  Standing back, Sebastian held the huge oak-panelled door wide open.

  ‘The fire’s lit in the kitchen.’ Alex nodded curtly, following him inside, catching a snatch of his aftershave as she passed. This was impossible. She tried to focus on the task: at least they weren’t going to have to talk in the study. The kitchen was safe ground, neutral territory.

  The hall was cold, dark, a hint of damp hanging in the air. Her heels echoed on the tiles as Alex followed Sebastian to the back of the house, the broad reach of his shoulders, square, solid, the bright white of his shirt almost glowing in the darkness. For a moment, Alex caught herself studying his rear view, the ripple of the muscles in his back under his shirt, the movement of his hips as he ambled easily past the rise of the huge staircase, past the doors to the dining room, the smoking room, the billiard room, the blue parlour, skipped down the steep steps to the narrow passage leading to the basement kitchen.

  But Sebastian’s rear view didn’t occupy her for long. With every footstep memories slammed through her head – him chasing her up the stairs, both of them giggling in the billiard room, hiding from his father; his mother’s infectious laughter filling the hall as she brought a huge basket of freshly-cut flowers through the kitchen into the hall. Pushing the memories away Alex tried to focus on the reason she was here. It didn’t matter about the past. What mattered was her dad. His face, pale and drawn came back to her – what mattered was his health and his future. What mattered was getting the Wingfields to take responsibility.

  Ahead of her Sebastian opened the kitchen door and Alex was dazzled for a moment. The lights were on, incongruous 1970s fluorescent tubes, bright after the darkness of the passage. But the huge room was warm and inviting, filled with the rich scents of a chicken roasting, of lemon and herbs. Obviously conscious of the glare, Sebastian reached for the light switch as they entered, knocking off the tubes, leaving on only the soft lights over the range and the counter tops.

  In front of the range Dodo had crashed out, her back to its warm forest green enamel, her paws twitching on the terracotta tiles. She lifted her head as Alex came in, took a look, and apparently satisfied that it wasn’t a stranger, flopped back down again, her stubby tail hitting the range in a rhythmic welcome. Alex’s mouth twitched with a smile. Some things never changed. Her earliest memories of Kilfenora were of dogs steaming in front of the range, of her dad stumping into the kitchen, his wax jacket smeared with mud.

  Then Alex cast her eye around the room. And stopped dead.

  The long pine refectory table was just as she remembered it, scrubbed clean, the huge fruit bowl his mother had brought back from Italy, set at the near end. But it was set for two.

  And today was her day for jumping to conclusions –without passing go or collecting £200.

  Two? What on earth was Sebastian up to? Alex could feel her anger rising – this was supposed to be a private conversation, she had thought she had made that very clear. This was her one chance to thrash out a deal that would keep her dad comfortable in his enforced retirement, and he’d gone and invited Caroline to dinner!

  For a moment Alex couldn’t believe it. She had said quite clearly on the phone that this was private, and if her experience of complex negotiations was anything to go by, they wouldn’t reach a settlement in five minutes, so what the hell did he think he was up to? Did Sebastian think she’d settle for an apology?

  Perhaps Caroline’s arrival had been timed to break up their meeting, to stop him from having t
o make any major commitments. Spinning around, the demand for an explanation already forming on her lips, Alex realised Sebastian was standing beside the open fridge door, a bottle of white wine in his hand, completely relaxed, like nothing was wrong. Before she could speak, he waved the bottle in her direction.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Alex looked at his in disbelief. ‘A drink?’ She couldn’t resist a hint of sarcasm, ‘Why not? Let’s make it a party. When’s Caroline joining us?’ she indicated the table, leaving her hand hovering in an open gesture, a gesture that screamed, to her at least, ‘explain your definition of a private meeting.’

  But it didn’t seem to register with Sebastian.

  ‘Caroline?’ Kicking the door of the fridge closed, he picked up two heavy crystal glasses from the counter, juggling with them and the bottle, making for the table. She didn’t move to help him, just stood there, her face incredulous waiting for an answer.

  He glanced at her as he opened the bottle, ‘I thought you wanted this between you and me?’

  ‘Exactly. So why ask her?’

  Pouring the wine, Sebastian kept his eyes on the glass, ‘I didn’t. The estate isn’t any of her business. Yet.’

  Might never be – the words suddenly arrived in his head, ping-ponging madly backwards and forwards. Shaking them away, focusing on the wine, Sebastian handed Alex a glass, fighting to keep his face serious. She looked good tonight – her hair tamed into a professional pony tail, her caramel eyes and tan set off by a printed silk scarf tied stylishly at the neck of a cream silk blouse, her beige tweed hacking jacket, tailored at the waist. High-heeled boots and narrow brown jeans. Simple, very Continental and very sexy. He took a sip of his wine, then lifted his glass.