His Mistress For A Week. Melanie Milburne
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is her mother?’
His hands were gripping the steering wheel as if he wanted to strangle it or the subject of their conversation. ‘Sunning herself on some beach in Mexico with a drug lord, probably.’
Clem chewed at her lower lip. This was sounding all too familiar, like her experience of growing up with a mother who’d changed partners faster than other people changed their mind. Some of the men were nice—like the one whose parents owned the cottage outside of Nice. But others were the very opposite of nice. They were nasty. Nasty men who exploited her naïve and trusting mother, encouraging her addictive tendencies without measuring the consequences for her children. Partying, drinking and child-rearing did not mix. Which was why Clem was so determined to keep Jamie from going down that path. ‘What about the authorities? Like Social Services and so on? Have you contacted them to take care of her?’
‘Harriet’s been in foster care in the past,’ he said. ‘It didn’t go well. She’s been through several caseworkers as the system is overloaded and underfunded. I thought I’d do the right thing by her and get her into a good school to improve her chances of a future. But did I get any thanks for offering to foot the bill? No.’
‘You have to talk to teenagers,’ Clem said. ‘You can’t just issue them with ultimatums or plans set in stone. It’s all about negotiation.’
He gave her another withering look. ‘Like you’re doing so brilliantly with your brother?’
Clem felt a blush steal over her cheeks. So? She was a crap stand-in parent. She knew that. Didn’t need to be reminded of it. ‘Teenage boys are hard work. They need a good male role-model. I’m doing my best but I’m well aware it’s not enough. Nowhere near enough.’
‘Where’s his father?’
Clem knew if she didn’t tell him he would make it his business to find out—if he hadn’t already. ‘In jail.’
‘For?’
‘Armed robbery.’
‘Nice.’
‘Yep.’ She blew out a jaded breath. ‘Real Father of the Year material.’
A small silence passed.
‘Where’s yours?’ Alistair said.
‘Dead.’
She felt his gaze swing her way but she kept staring straight ahead. ‘How long ago did he die?’ he asked.
‘Fifteen years.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Clem gave a grating laugh. ‘Don’t be.’ I just hope he stays ‘dead.’
‘Did he have much to do with you while you were growing up?’
‘No, he was the epitome of the absent father. Even when he was with us he wasn’t with us, if you get my drift.’
He turned the car for the parking area at Heathrow. ‘Unfortunately, I do.’
* * *
Alistair handed over his keys to the valet-parking attendant and then took Clem’s bag. ‘What have you got in here? It weighs more than the damn hire car.’
Defiance sparked and swirled in her brown eyes. ‘I’m not a toothbrush and a clean pair of knickers type. I need...stuff.’
He began to roll the bag but one of the wheels was wonky. He crouched down and fiddled with it but it came off in his hand. He swore under his breath and straightened. ‘We need to get you a new bag.’
Something flashed in her gaze. Pride...or was it panic? ‘What for? It’ll do. I’m not going to unpack my luggage in the middle of the airport. Anyway, I can’t afford a new bag.’
‘My treat.’
Her cheeks went a deep shade of pink. ‘I’m not a charity case. No pun intended.’
She was kind of cute when she was worked up about something. Like a cornered kitten hissing and spitting at a potential threat. Something about her sense of pride impressed him. She thought she could outsmart him but he had her covered. More than covered. ‘I promise not to spend too much. Come on. The luggage shop is through here.’
Once they were inside the shop, Alistair waited for her to choose a bag but she stood there with a mutinous scowl on her face. ‘If you don’t choose then I’ll have to do it for you,’ he said. ‘Do you have a preference for colour?’
‘I told you, I don’t want a new bag.’
He pointed to the Louis Vuitton display. ‘What about this one?’
‘No. That’s ridiculously expensive. I couldn’t possibly—’
‘We’ll take this one,’ he said to the hovering attendant.
Alistair carried the bag to a space outside where Clem could repack. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Do you need any help?’
‘No. Thank. You.’ Her response was as stiff as her body when she crouched down to see to the task. She tugged at the zip but because the bag was bulging so much the zip wouldn’t budge.
‘You sure you don’t need a hand?’
‘I’ve. Got. It.’
She’d got it all right. The zip suddenly gave way and an explosion of clothes tumbled out of the bag. She began to scoop them up like someone trying to gather up a load of spilled oranges. There were tops, and scarves and bras and knickers and shoes. How many pairs of shoes did one woman need?
‘I think you might’ve left some space in that back corner.’ Alistair fought back a smile. ‘For an earring.’
She gave him a look that would have soured milk. ‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’
But then she started scrabbling through her clothes as if she was searching for something. Her forehead puckered in a frown, her teeth worrying her lower lip. She dug deeper into the pile of clothes, tossing things this way and that, her air of desperation apparent in the way her movements got more and more jerky and her top lip began to bead with perspiration.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Nothing.’ The word came out on a shaky breath, and she scrabbled about some more, but the clothes were in such a mess by now it was hard to see what was there and what wasn’t.
Alistair could feel the panic building in her. It was a palpable energy pulsating in the air. He bent down beside her and picked up a blue-and-white-striped mug that was covered by a black T-shirt. ‘I’ve heard of people packing everything but the kitchen sink, but this I’ve never seen before.’ He gave her a teasing glance. ‘They do have crockery and cutlery in France, you know.’
Her mouth was buttoned down so tightly her lips were outlined in white. ‘It’s my favourite mug.’ She snatched it out of his hand and clutched it close to her heaving chest. ‘I don’t go anywhere without it.’
Alistair watched as she put her things in the new bag. Gone was the disordered panic. In its place was meticulous care and precision. He had never seen a bag packed so well. It was like a work of art, colour and fabric coordinated. Amazing. Finally she wrapped the mug in a sweater and carefully placed it in the middle of the bag as if she was tucking in a baby. It wasn’t as if the mug was priceless porcelain. It was a common chain-store one so old it was losing some of its stripes.
What significance did it have for her? Had someone she loved given it to her? Her mother? It seemed a pretty cheap present to give your only daughter, but that didn’t surprise him, knowing what he knew of her mother. Her father? She hadn’t sounded all that fond of her father. Her brother? ‘Who gave you the mug?’
‘No one.’ She closed the bag like she was closing the subject. ‘I just like it, that’s all.’
Alistair studied her flushed features. Defiance or embarrassment?