8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams
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and now, in the theatre foyer, as they collected their coats from the cloakroom her pretty tear-moistened eyes kept avoiding his inquiring gaze; she was clearly embarrassed by displaying such emotion in public.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ She was lying. Especially since she looked as if she was about to burst into tears all over again.
‘Liar.’ Waiting until she’d finished dabbing at her eyes with his handkerchief, Adrian helped her on with her long tweed coat, her perfume stirring the air around him, immediately casting a spell he was helpless to resist. Not that the woman needed any artificial help in creating her magic. He was simply mesmerised by her.
‘How could anyone not be moved by what we’ve just seen and heard? It’s such a tragic story. Poor Mimi.’ Sniffing helplessly, Liadan glanced up at Adrian, at his extraordinarily compelling features and dashing appearance in his dark grey suit, white shirt, burgundy tie and long black coat that showed off his wonderful wide shoulders to perfection. She felt like Cinderella meeting the handsome prince at the ball for the first time, knowing that these precious stolen moments together would soon be relegated to painful posterity when the clock struck midnight, and she had to finally flee back to her old life without him.
‘Don’t forget poor Rudolph.’ For once, Adrian’s smile was unguarded and warm and Liadan wanted to capture the specialness of that moment and keep it close to her heart for ever. ‘Even though he should never have driven her away in the first place with his jealousy.’
‘Mr Jacobsen! Who’s your lady friend? How about a smile for our readers?’
They both turned at the demanding male voice and were temporarily blinded by the flash of a powerful camera. Immediately Adrian’s arm swept protectively around Liadan’s waist and she sensed every muscle in his body turn to iron.
‘Leave us alone,’ he said with a scowl, pushing past the impertinent photographer with ill-disguised resentment.
‘What’s your name, love? How long have you and Alexander been seeing each other?’
For a moment Liadan was surprised by the use of Adrian’s writing name, then she realised that that was the name that most of the public knew him by these days. Adrian Jacobs, war correspondent, had been replaced by Alexander Jacobsen, best-selling author of dark psychological thrillers.
‘Say nothing,’ Adrian warned her in a low voice as he steered her deliberately towards the heavy double doors of the exit. He needn’t have worried. Liadan was just as keen as he was to guard her privacy. The sooner they were in the car and on their way home, the better, as far as she was concerned.
‘Did you know that you’re a dead ringer for Alexander’s old flame Nicole Wilson, love?’
Beside her, Adrian froze. Liadan froze right along with him. Was that why he had hired her as his housekeeper—because she looked like the girlfriend he had lost in such tragic circumstances? The idea sent shock waves hurtling through her system like water rapids. Worse still…was that why he now professed to want to marry her?
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
Unable to contain his fury, Adrian turned on the hapless photographer, his hands possessively tightening around Liadan’s waist as if he expected her to suddenly bolt. The photographer, a middle-aged man with sandy-coloured hair thinning on top, and wearing glasses, smirked defiantly.
‘Come on, Alexander. It can’t have escaped your notice that she looks like Nicole? Still carrying a torch for the lovely Miss Wilson, are we?’
‘You print those despicable lies and you’ll never work again in the newspaper business…you understand?’
‘Is that a threat, Mr Jacobsen?’
‘No! It isn’t a threat!’ Breaking free of Adrian’s hold, Liadan stepped forward, her heart pumping wildly against her ribs—not just because she was furious, but because there was suddenly a small crowd of curious onlookers gathering around them in the plush theatre foyer, gawking. However she felt about Adrian’s reasons for wanting her, she still didn’t want him to be hurt any more than he was already. ‘Don’t you think he’s been through enough without you making his life even more difficult? Aren’t there more newsworthy stories that you could chase about real issues that affect real people, instead of making things up purely to sell your sleazy tabloid?’
Liadan didn’t know whether she’d imagined it, but the photographer seemed to go slightly red in the face, as though she’d inadvertently hit on something raw.
‘Liadan.’ Quietly but firmly insistent, Adrian reached for her hand and pulled her away. ‘Let’s go home, huh?’
‘Wait a minute.’ Her blue eyes focusing solely on the man in front of her with his cassette recorder and camera, she took a deep breath to try and calm her racing heartbeat. ‘Don’t print this nonsense…please. I’m appealing to the better nature that I’m sure you have underneath that hard-bitten façade. You don’t have to trade on people’s unhappiness to make a living, do you? We’ve just had the most wonderful evening at the opera. Please don’t spoil it for us by tarnishing the experience for ever.’
‘Let’s go home,’ Adrian said again, and this time Liadan allowed him to lead her through the thick double doors out into the street. When they glanced back, there was no sign that the photographer had made any attempt to follow them.
‘Liadan?’
‘I’m very tired, Adrian. We’ll talk tomorrow if you want to.’
‘No. This can’t wait until tomorrow. There are things that need to be said.’
Pausing to rub her hand across her eyes, Liadan took her hand off the curved balustrade of the staircase, feeling so emotionally drained that she hardly knew her own name.
‘Come into the study.’
There was no fire because they’d gone out for the evening, so the room was definitely on the chilly side. Glad that she hadn’t yet removed her warm coat, Liadan stuck her hands into the pockets and, with a dull ache in the centre of her chest, watched Adrian stride across to the drinks cabinet and pour them both a brandy.
‘Thank you.’ She accepted the drink dispassionately, not even desiring it. What she did desire was beyond all possibility of happening. She knew that now.
Adrian was still trying to come to terms with the fact that, yet again, Liadan had put his needs first. There had been no reason for her to jump to his defence with that photographer under the circumstances—even though he felt the utmost admiration of her courage for doing so. He’d made love to her with unrestrained passion but had firmly and deliberately kept other, perhaps more important, emotions under rigid control. Then, to make matters worse, he’d made a proposal of marriage that had sounded about as appealing as an invitation to the North Pole for a summer holiday. Taking a suddenly urgent sip of the fine French brandy in his glass, Adrian welcomed the raw heat that swirled into his stomach, then, taking a deep breath, he turned to regard the woman who stood so forlornly beside the piano.
‘You don’t look like Nicole. Your hair colour and build are similar, perhaps, but that’s all.’
‘I think what you’re trying to say is that I’m not a substitute for her?’
Leaving her brandy untouched, Liadan carefully placed the small glass on top of the piano. Her mouth curved into a tight, unhappy smile, and she shrugged, praying hard that her current feelings of despondency and heartache would not prevent her from walking away with her head held high. She was going to have to be very brave and very stoic to leave this place and the man she’d given her heart to, but leave it she must. It might be mere coincidence that she vaguely resembled Adrian’s lost love Nicole, but even so…Liadan knew that he still loved the woman and perhaps always would. Being second best was not something she was willing to accept, she realised. No matter how much she loved this man.
For a while she’d been second best