Modern Romance August 2019 Books 1-4. Heidi Rice
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more practical pants. And Tara felt momentarily overwhelmed as she acknowledged that it had been Lucas’s murmured appreciation which had made her revel in her own body instead of being ashamed of it. He’d never moaned about the state of her underwear, had he? Not really. He’d always been more concerned in taking it off than complaining about how faded it was.
She blinked away the sudden tears which had sprung to her eyes as she tried on the jeans which were an entirely different breed from the baggy ones which had always been her mainstay. Fashioned from soft and stretchy denim, they hugged her bottom but allowed for future expansion, though there was still no visible sign of a pregnancy bump. She wanted to tell the shopper that in a few months’ time none of these gorgeous outfits would fit—but she could hardly start telling her personal business to a complete stranger, could she?
‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs Conway,’ said Jessica as the session drew to a close.
Tara shook her head—despairing at her instinctive pang of yearning at the thought of being Lucas’s wife. It’s because your own mother was never married, she told herself. Nor her mother before that. You’re just secretly craving the respectability you never had, which made your own childhood such a misery. But things are different these days and nobody cares if a child is born out of wedlock. ‘I’m not Lucas’s wife,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m actually his housekeeper—and I was wondering if you happen to sell aprons here?’
To Jessica’s credit, she didn’t look a bit fazed by what have been an unusual request. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
The morning ended with a rock-star experience at the hair salon, where Tara sipped cinnamon-flavoured latte as large chunks were hacked from her curls. The result was...well, unbelievable, really—and several of the stylists had clustered around the mirror to say so. Her hair looked just as thick as before but it was more...manageable somehow. Little fronds framed her face and, where layers had been chopped into it, the colour seemed more intense and the texture more lustrous. She was aware of heads turning as she left the salon in her brand-new jeans, pale jumper and the boxy denim jacket. And she’d never had that experience before. Of men’s eyes following her as she slid into the back of the chauffeur-driven car which Lucas had ordered for her.
She remembered her grandmother’s disapproval of fancy clothes—understandable given her own monastic upbringing, but a bit tough on a growing teenager who had been forced to wear second-hand outfits, which had only increased the amount of bullying she’d received.
The apartment was quiet and, since Lucas wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, she had a whole day and a night without him. The only time she’d been on her own since she’d arrived here—which meant no distractions as she prepared for her very first dinner party in America. She looked down at the list of people he’d invited—an official from the Irish embassy and his wife, an Italian businessman named Salvatore di Luca and his girlfriend Alicia, and an ‘unnamed guest’ who seemed to have been added since last time she’d looked at it.
She wasn’t going to deny that it was going to be weird serving Lucas and his guests and playing the role of servant, all the while knowing she would be sharing his bed once everyone had gone home. But surely it was better that way.
It had to be. Because if they stopped being lovers... She bit her lip and silently corrected herself. When they stopped being lovers, if the baby drove a wedge between them, or when he tired of her as history dictated he would—then surely it would be less traumatic not to have become used to being his partner in public, and then have that role wrenched away from her. Such a brutal change of circumstance would surely leave her feeling neglected, unloved and unwanted.
And hadn’t she already experienced enough of those feelings to last a lifetime?
Smoothing down her pale cashmere sweater, she went into the kitchen, realising that she needed to get a move on with her planning. Without her stack of cookery books, she was forced to fire up her computer to look up some recipes online, but she scrolled through them uninterestedly.
Until suddenly she had a brilliant idea.
THE FIRST THING Lucas heard when he walked through the door was the sound of music. His steps stilled and he paused to listen, even though he was running late. Irish music. Some softly lilting air which managed to be both mournful and uplifting at the same time—in the way of all Irish music. He frowned as he heard a peel of laughter which sounded familiar and then the chink of crystal, followed by more laughter.
With a quick glance at his watch he moved swiftly towards the library, quietly pushing open the door to see his guests standing with their backs to him, listening to something Tara was saying as she tilted a bottle of champagne into someone’s glass.
He almost did a double-take as for a moment he felt as if the light were playing tricks on him, because the woman in question looked like Tara and sounded like Tara, and yet...
He screwed up his eyes.
And yet...
Surely that wasn’t Tara?
Her hair was scooped on top of her head but for once there wasn’t a riot of frizzy curls tumbling around her face. The sleek red waves were coiled like sleeping serpents—emphasising the slim, pale column of her neck. He swallowed, because her hair wasn’t the only thing which was different. She was wearing a dress. And stockings. And... Again, he frowned. She had on some flirty little apron which made her look... She looked as if she was about to leave for a party where the specified dress code was Sexy French Maid. His groin grew rocky and he realised he didn’t want to focus on her appearance, or the evening was going to become one long endurance test before he could take her to bed.
He realised his guests must have heard him for they were turning to greet him and as he apologised for his lateness he saw a wry look on Brett Henderson’s face—because, as a world-acclaimed movie star and key member of British acting royalty, he wasn’t used to being kept waiting.
But Lucas’s somewhat garbled explanations about late planes and fog on the San Franciscan runway were cut short by a dismissive wave from the Irish Embassy official.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, Lucas—we’ve been fine here.’ Seamus Hennessy beamed, and so did his wife, Erin. ‘We’re hardly missed you at all and Tara’s been looking after us grandly, so she has!’
For the first time since he’d walked in, Tara turned to look at him and gave a shy smile, which contrasted with the sensual allure of her outfit, and Lucas was taken aback by the resultant shiver which rippled its way down his spine as he met her heavy-hooded amber gaze. He found himself wishing he could just dismiss the guests, skip supper and take her straight to bed—yet his need for her unsettled him.
‘Do you all have drinks?’ he questioned pleasantly. ‘Good. Tara? I wonder if I could have a quick word in the kitchen.’
He didn’t say anything as they left the library and neither did he comment as they passed the dining room, even though he could see she must have gone to a lot of trouble to lay the table for dinner. Unlit candles protruded from centrepiece swathes of fragrant greenery mixed with cherry-coloured roses, and all the crystal and silver was gleaming beneath the diamond shards of the overhead chandelier. He waited until they were in the kitchen and completely out of earshot before he turned on her and the feelings which had been growing inside him now erupted.
‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘You don’t look like you!’
Faint colour stained her cheeks as she glanced down at her outfit before looking up again to meet his accusing gaze. ‘You mean you don’t like it?’
‘I told you to buy yourself some new clothes,’ he ground out. ‘Not to look like the personification of every man’s fantasy maid.’
She screwed up her