One Night with Morelli. KIM LAWRENCE
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a signed note that included the words get rid of it.
Eve had never told her mum she had found the note while searching for her birth certificate, and she’d never let on she knew the identity of her father. Instead she had carefully folded it and put it back in the box that held her birth certificate.
‘Having a baby at your age…’ She sensed rather than saw Hannah’s look of warning. ‘Not that you’re old, obviously.’
Her mother managed a wan smile at the retrieval. ‘Always the soul of tact, Evie.’
Eve watched as Hannah and her mum exchanged a look. She didn’t resent the rapport that her mum and her friend had but, though she rarely acknowledged it, there were occasions when she did envy it. Eve was her daughter but Hannah was a kindred spirit.
‘I just meant…’ She paused and thought, What did you mean? ‘Couldn’t it be dangerous…for you, and the baby?’ But not for Charlie Latimer. Eve felt the anger and resentment she had always felt towards the man deepen so that they lay like an icy block behind her breastbone.
‘Loads of women in their forties have babies these days, Evie.’ Hannah proceeded to tick off a list of well-known celebrities Sarah’s age and older who had given birth recently.
‘And I’ll have a lot more support than I did last time around; your father has been marvellous, Hannah.’
Too little too late, Eve thought, before the guilt kicked in; it always did when she thought about all the things her mum had given up to be a single parent. She finally deserved some happiness but was she likely to find it with Charlie Latimer…?
Eve clenched her jaw. No, her mum deserved more—she deserved better after all the sacrifices she had made.
Wanting to give her mum the things she deserved had been behind Eve’s choice to reject the prestigious university scholarship she’d been offered and instead start her own firm. It hadn’t been easy. All the banks had turned the inexperienced eighteen-year-old away and in the end it had been a charitable trust set up to promote youth enterprise that had been convinced by her business plan and the rest, as they said, was history. Nowadays she was held up as one of the trust’s success stories, and regularly mentored young aspiring entrepreneurs and helped raise funds.
It had been a year ago that Eve had been able to go to her mother and triumphantly tell her she didn’t need to work for Charles Latimer, and that she, Eve, was able to support her while she did what she wanted: a university course, open her own restaurant…anything.
Good plan with one problem. It turned out her mum was already doing what she wanted: she wanted to waste her talents, to slave away for a man like Charles Latimer. Eve had been angry, hurt and frustrated. She knew that a distance had formed between them since that day. She had let it form.
Sarah’s green eyes filled again as she scanned her daughter’s face and asked anxiously, ‘You’re all right with this, aren’t you, Eve?’
‘I’m really happy for you, Mum,’ she said quietly, thinking, If that man hurts you I’ll make him wish he had never been born.
Maybe she was a better actress than she thought, or maybe her mum just wanted to believe the lie, but either way Sarah visibly relaxed.
THOUGH THE LAWN had been rigged out with a positive village of canvas to house the reception, the ceremony itself was being held in the timbered great hall of Brent Manor, Charles’s country estate. The guests, entertained by a string quartet, were seated in semi-circular rows around a central aisle and the dramatic staircase was lit up to give everyone a good view of the bridal party as they made their big entrance.
The warm-up act was followed by a well-known soprano, who belted out a couple of numbers that reduced some people to tears. For Draco it felt like a visit to the cinema when the trailers went on for so long you forgot what you’d actually come to see.
Finally the wedding march started, but his sigh of relief earned him a poke in the ribs from his daughter, so he dutifully turned his head to watch the slow progression of the wedding party down the staircase. His interest was initially directed towards the tall bridesmaid who was the new wife of his friend Kamel.
Draco studied her as she walked past the row where he sat. Beautiful, he thought as his attention drifted for a moment to the second bridesmaid, who up to this point had been blocked from his view by the statuesque blonde.
He experienced a jolt of shock closely followed by an even stronger jolt of lust as he identified the slender creature as this morning’s green-eyed Eve! While he did not believe in fate or karma or even coincidence, Draco did believe in not wasting opportunities.
She made Draco think of the Degas he had purchased several years ago: the big-eyed delicate-featured dancer in it possessed the same ethereal quality. Not that there was anything balletic about this woman’s hunched shoulders and the expression in her wide-spaced eyes was less dreamy and more abject misery. As his glance lingered he realised that there was nothing joyous in any aspect of her body language, including the smile painted onto her face.
As she drew level with him he could almost feel the tension rolling off her in waves. In the hollow at the base of her white throat—she had quite beautiful collarbones, he mused—a pulse throbbed. It wasn’t just tension rolling off her, he realised; it was a level of misery you would have expected to see at a funeral, not a wedding!
At the precise moment she drew level with him Draco got a glimpse of something else you didn’t expect to see at a wedding! It happened so quickly that if he hadn’t been staring at her he’d have missed it, and she handled the dilemma rather well. Without skipping a beat or looking to left or right she grabbed the bodice of her dress before it slithered all the way down to her waist so it was a bit of a blur, but he got a glimpse of a white lacy strapless bra through which he saw the faint pink outline of nipples and a birthmark shaped like a moon high on the left side of her ribcage.
As the service went on he found himself staring, not at the bride and groom, but at Eve… Was that really her name or a marketing tool? He was curious about her misery but a lot more interested in seeing that birthmark again… The white lace was pretty but in his head she was wearing pink tartan silk. He had felt instant attractions to women before but never one as consuming as that he felt when he looked at this woman.
His eyes didn’t leave her all the way through the ceremony. Then, as the procession led by the jubilant happy couple returned down the aisle, she was briefly hidden from sight by the bride and groom. Draco, who had struggled to leave his cynicism behind, had time to think, I give them a couple of months, before he saw her come into view once more. Unlike the new Princess of Surana, who was smiling at every familiar face she saw, his bridesmaid was staring fixedly ahead. She radiated a sultry sexiness that he could almost taste.
She had actually walked right past him, when she suddenly turned her head. Their collision of eyes had such an impact that for a split second he stopped breathing and she stopped walking. The air whistled through his flared nostrils as he exhaled slowly, and watched the colour wash over her skin.
His wink brought a flash of anger to her dark-framed emerald eyes but did not lessen the tension in the muscles around his mouth and eyes… The hunger he was feeling was no laughing matter.
* * *
Once she’d accepted it was really happening, Eve just wanted it to be over. For the most part she managed to blank out the actual ceremony. There had been that wardrobe malfunction but she was pretty confident that no one had noticed. The eyes that hadn’t been on the bride had been on the beautiful Princess of Surana, but just to be on the safe side straight afterwards she had slipped away below stairs—no guests here, just the caterers who had not made use of the big old-fashioned pantry—to stuff a few more tissues in her bra. Going braless in this dress had not been an option so she had to grin and bear the discomfort it caused her shoulder. Well, it was better than baring her