Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown
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sudden inexplicable sense of relief rushes through me, but I still want to know what I’m supposed to have done wrong.
‘James, you can’t just storm in here making accusations and then waltz right out again. I know it must be hard getting divorced but …’ I reach out to grab his arm and catch the back of his sweatshirt instead. He stops and turns towards me, a look of utter contempt on his face.
‘You have no idea! Now get your thieving hands off me.’ I stare at him, the tears stinging my cheeks. Thieving! The word is like a knife stabbing into my stomach. ‘Just like your father.’ I reel backwards in shock. I grab hold of the hall table as if it’s an emergency buoy. James reaches out and touches my arm and I’m sure I spot a brief flicker of concern dart through his eyes, but it evaporates before I can be sure.
‘But I thought you understood …’ My voice is low, a whisper almost.
‘Why, because I kept your little secret? Like a fool.’ He looks away, snatching his hand back.
‘So what is it exactly that I’m supposed to have stolen, James?’ My voice sounds cold now, masking the churn of emotions that are swirling around inside me. He reaches for the lock on the front door and pulls it open. He turns to face me.
‘Malikov. Ring any bells?’ My hand flies to my throat. Oh God. The necklace. He knows. Malikov must have gone back on his request for privacy and told him.
‘James, please. I can explain,’ I say, the words barely audible.
‘Georgie, you know the rules,’ he adds, suddenly sounding all businesslike and distant. My body is trembling, with fear of his anger and of losing everything I’ve worked so hard for.
‘I know,’ I murmur, hanging my head in shame.
‘Whaat? Did you think you’d just keep all of the commission for yourself and I wouldn’t find out?’ There’s a silence as I drag myself up to speed. So this isn’t about the necklace, after all.
‘God, is that what this is all about? James, I’m sorry, I meant to tell you that Malikov had bought more bags,’ I say, desperate for him to see that he’s got it all wrong. Hoping I can salvage something. Make it good between us again.
‘So why didn’t you then? He was my customer originally, what happened to us sharing the sales commission?’ Silence follows.
‘I tried to …’ I pause, suddenly feeling hot and uncomfortable. I contemplate telling him everything. I search his eyes. They’re full of rage, mixed with disgust, and I have my answer. I know that I can’t risk it. ‘Before we went for that drink, remember? And you said you didn’t want to talk about work and with everything going on …’ As the words come out I know they sound lame and I feel like a pathetic idiot. I should have made damn sure I remembered so he could have claimed his half of the commission. I hate myself.
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