True Colours Part 12

Tom wasn't telling her everything and they both knew it. Alex shook her head.

'There is no way Sebastian would go out on his own, without you or one of the lads. And there is no way he wouldn't tell you.'

'He wasn't on his own.' Tom muttered the words, shifting uncomfortably in the bed as he spoke. 'Can you get me a gla.s.s of water love? This place is like an oven.'

Leaning over to the bedside locker, Alex filled the gla.s.s, her face caught in a frown, 'So who else was there?'

Tom sighed, it was all going to come out now, and he was quite sure she wouldn't like it.

Tom had tried to think of a way to explain what had happened that would soften the blow, that would make it easier for her. But in the end he'd given up, had kept his fingers crossed that she would believe him, take his vague explanation about a car accident at face value and move on. Silently, he cursed himself. He should have known she'd find out, that one of the nursing staff would let something slip. And he knew the truth would cut Alex to the core. Whatever about her dashing off to Barcelona pretending that she was following her dream, pretending that everything was perfect, he knew d.a.m.n well something had happened all those years ago, that something had gone wrong between her and Sebastian. And, without a doubt, the truth of what had happened out there on the Long Ridge would open old wounds, sting like salt. It had been a long time ago, but how could he forget her drifting about like love's young dream one minute, starry-eyed, a permanent grin on her face, then, in a heartbeat, she was leaving the country. Putting as much distance between herself and Sebastian as was humanly possible.

Despite Alex's efforts to hide it, whatever had happened, Tom had always reckoned, must have been caused by Sebastian. Watching her pack, folding her good dress with military precision, he'd known d.a.m.n well Alex didn't really want to leave, that she was still mad about Sebastian. He'd tried to ask, to get her to talk about it to tell him the truth, but she had been full of Barcelona and the design course and the miracle that they'd given her a place she'd applied on a whim apparently, not mentioned it because she'd reckoned she had no hope of getting in.

And then they'd offered her a scholarship...

And at that moment, all those years ago, perched on the edge of her bed nestling under the sloping ceiling of her room, the shutters flung back, the tiny window open and letting in the scent of the wild roses climbing around the frame, the sounds of the wood around them, Tom had felt utterly helpless, had had no idea how to get through to his headstrong teenage daughter. And the neat package of grief that he'd sealed away at the back of his mind when he'd lost her mum had begun to open up again, the pain seeping through the wrapping, overwhelming him, swallowing him up, dark and stinking of what might have been. At that exact moment he missed Carmen more than ever, knew for sure that if Carmen was around that they'd get the full story. Carmen would have been able to get to the root of the problem, find out the truth about what had happened between his daughter and Sebastian. She'd only just got the results of her exams for goodness sake, had put off applying to universities, was toying with the idea of taking a year out, of getting a job in interiors, in a shop or a consultancy, to see what she thought of it before she committed to a career. She had plenty of time to decide; she had sat her Leaving Certificate a year early, had been recognised by her teachers as a high-flyer early on. But he hadn't expected her to be flying so soon, flying like a startled pheasant in front of a fox, flying away from him.

And after she left, Alex had never asked about the estate, never asked about the Wingfields, so Tom had taken it that she didn't want to know, that it was easier for her not to know. He had wrestled with the news of the death of Sebastian's parents, eventually deciding that she had enough to cope with, that leaving had been hard enough without having to do it all over again if she returned for their funeral.

Of course she'd had to come home, eventually. He'd been backwards and forwards to Barcelona, taking a few days here, a few days there, trying to keep his destination quiet not that it would have mattered. Sebastian was back in London at university by then, had moved on. But she must have still been sweet on him, because when she had finally stepped across the threshold of the cottage, she had closed the cadmium yellow front door firmly behind her and didn't set foot outside again until it was time to return to Barcelona.

Now, looking at her sitting beside him, her face was set with the same bitter determination he'd seen when they set off for the airport that first time. The same pain. And there wasn't an easy way to explain what had happened. Tom Ryan drew in a deep breath.

'Caroline. It was Caroline's idea to go out. She talked him into it, and I reckon she must have distracted him when he was aiming. He's an excellent shot. There's no way he would have shot wide unless someone b.u.mped into him or something. Look I don't know, I didn't ask. Like I said, what's done's done.'

Caroline. Alex felt like she'd been kicked in the teeth. Her eyes narrowed and she sat up straight, very straight, like she was in a board meeting, like she was negotiating a major deal. Caroline. She should have known.

'It isn't Dad. What's done is most definitely not done. It doesn't end there. It can't do. I spoke to your doctor, you're never going to be able to walk again without a stick. Which means that you won't be able to work.' She p.r.o.nounced each word clearly, taking him with her through her thought process, logically, pragmatically.

'Don't you worry la.s.s I'll be fine. It'll sort itself out. Honestly, it'll all be fine. Lord Kilfenora will look after it, he's been good to us. Very good.' He forced himself to sound light, unworried, like she was creating a fuss where there was none.

The mention of Lord Kilfenora's name seemed to throw Alex off track for a moment, but only for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was low, deadly serious 'Dad, it is not going to sort itself out, and it's not going to go away. If you can't walk, you can't work you certainly can't work on the estate. And if you can't work then you've got nowhere to live. You're effectively homeless because Sebastian Wingfield got slap happy with a shotgun.'

Tom shook his head. She could tell he wasn't listening, was blocking out what she was saying.

'So Lord Kilfenora's going to pay compensation is he? For loss of earnings and to get you settled in alterative accommodation?'

'We haven't discussed anything like that. I just want to get better, then we can deal with the details.'

'The details? I don't think they're details Dad. More like fundamentals.'

'I know, I know, I'll sort it out. I can look after myself you know.'

'Obviously.' The word was loaded with sarcasm. He ignored it, was beginning to feel tired.

'Isn't it time you went to a meeting or something?' It sounded snappier than he'd intended.

'A meeting? Good G.o.d, you're worse than Mum! Do you think if you bury your head in the sand you'll wake up and everything will be all right, your leg will fix itself and everything can get back to normal?'

Tom's face paled at the mention of his beloved Carmen, and for a split second Alex regretted bringing her mother into the conversation. But she had ignored her cancer, had ignored the symptoms, and if she'd been treated earlier, who knows what might have happened...

'You're going to have to leave you know, leave the estate. You can move in with me in Dalkey when they let you out of here, but then we're going to have to have a serious think about what you want to do.'

For a moment Tom looked dumbfounded. 'Leave? Don't be ridiculous girl.'

Alex shook her head. 'You can't work with a serious leg injury Dad, they need a fully fit gamekeeper how many times have you said it's a hard job, that if you weren't fit, you'd never manage it? Well you're not fit now, and they're going to have to find someone who is, and that someone is going to have to live somewhere, aren't they?' Tom Ryan looked shocked, he hadn't thought about the situation from that angle, hadn't actually thought about it at all, his sole focus on his recovery. He pursed his lips as she continued, 'They'll have to pay compensation or we'll have to sue.'

'What?' Tom's reaction was explosive, produced several accusing looks from across the ward.

'Well, what did you expect? Think about it. Loss of earnings and your home. You're looking at tens of thousands. And unless Sebastian Wingfield agrees to pay up, we'll have to go to court.'

'But he could be charged'

'With what?'

'Actual bodily harm, grievous bodily harm, I don't know. It's a legally-held shotgun but it's not for shooting people is it?

Alex raised her eyebrows. Right now, seeing Sebastian Wingfield sentenced to seven years in Mountjoy Prison wasn't such an unattractive prospect.

'And he's getting married girl. We can't ruin all that with a lawsuit.'

'Can't we? We'll just have to see what he says then, won't we?'

TWENTY SIX.

'Thank you so much for the flowers.' Caroline's voice, jarring like an inexperienced violinist tuning up, was dripping with sarcasm. Tearing himself away from the series of doodles he had been creating in the margins of his desk calendar, one hand reaching to ma.s.sage his pounding head, Sebastian adjusted his mobile against his ear and thought fast. Was she ringing because he'd forgotten to send her flowers (why should he have remembered??) or because she didn't like the ones she'd got, a.s.suming them to be from him?

They'd hardly spoken since lunch yesterday, had hardly spoken at all during the meal. A tense affair, the idiot wedding planner gushing about lilies, about organza, about pink champagne, his grandfather appearing blissfully unaware of any tension, smiling at Caroline like she was Helen of Troy, occasionally reaching out to pat her arm which was resting on the table beside him, the Wingfield Sapphire displayed to its maximum advantage.

'Weren't you listening to anything I said yesterday?' Without waiting for him to answer Caroline barrelled on. He was tempted to say 'I heard you loud and clear...' but she didn't give him a chance, 'I very clearly said that I hated yellow, and obviously if I don't like yellow any fool would know that I wouldn't be keen on orange either...' Any fool? Yellow and orange? '...and to be honest, parrot flowers are quite grotesque.'

Parrot flowers? Then the penny dropped; Joss. Joss loved parrot flowers...Joss must have sent them...but how on earth did she know they'd had a row? Sebastian suddenly realised that she had stopped speaking, the silence growing between them like a vacuum.

'Sorry, I missed the bit about the yellow...' it sounded hopeless, even to him, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. Caroline didn't answer but let out a sharp breath like an escape of steam from a piston. Sebastian tried again, 'You know flowers aren't really my thing...'

'I'd noticed.' Her retort was short and piercing. He winced.

'I hope you've done a bit better with the rest.'

The rest? The rest of what? The rest of the flowers? Hardly. Glancing towards the door of his office, willing Joss to come in and rescue him, Sebastian said the only thing he could think of, finding himself using the exact phrase that that fool in Cannes had been spinning out for the past six months: 'Of course darling, everything's under control.'

Perhaps it was the empty tone in his voice that she picked up on, or maybe she found the choice of words as shallow as he had done, but her reply came out in a hiss.

'You've forgotten you don't have a clue what I'm talking about do you?'

There was a pause while Caroline waited for him to react. He didn't; still didn't know what he'd done wrong, what she was talking about.

'How could you?' Caroline's voice was rising, 'So, who sent the flowers? Oh my G.o.d, it was Joss wasn't it? That woman's mad; she's just the type to think I'd like those hideous parrot things. I cannot believe it.' Her last words came out as a screech, gears jamming in an engine room. And she wasn't finished. 'After you were so beastly yesterday, how could you forget my birthday?'

'I...'

'Don't bother making excuses Sebastian Wingfield. You've just been too wrapped up in that b.l.o.o.d.y gamekeeper and his precious daughter to think about me, haven't you? Alex Ryan with her red briefcase and her b.l.o.o.d.y blonde curls. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at her.'

'What? What do you mean the way I look at her, don't be ridiculous...'

'Ridiculous, me? You're the one mooning over the staff, making a complete idiot of yourself, and I'm quite sure that I'm not the only one who's noticed. I won't be made a fool of Sebastian. I will not, do you hear me? You're just going to have to get rid of her and find someone else to do the ballroom.' Caroline paused for breath, continuing with a sneer, 'Ask Joss, she's very efficient. I'm sure she can find another painter and decorator.'

And with that, Caroline slammed down the phone.

Reeling from the vitriol in her voice, astonished, Sebastian clicked his phone off, laying it down carefully beside his desk pad. His PA had sent her flowers and she didn't like the colour. And okay, with everything on his mind, he had forgotten that it was her birthday. Big deal! There were children dying of hunger in Africa, suicide bombers attacking shopping centres in the Middle East, and Caroline was having a fit about the colour of a bunch of flowers.

Straightening the phone, shifting it slightly so that it lay exactly parallel with his desk pad, Sebastian took a deep breath. His world was cracking apart. Spectacularly so. Cracking and breaking like ice, huge sections of it floating away from him, gathering speed as everything that was happening caught hold of them, spinning them out of control in a torrent of secrets and accusations.

Had it started with the accident?

The gut-wrenching horror of seeing Tom lying there hit him full force all over again; his desperate radio call to the house; the whup-whup-whup of the blades of the rescue helicopter pounding the cold air, mirroring the beat of his heart; the race to the hospital; pacing outside the operating theatre, disinfectant catching in his throat, the lights too bright, nameless, faceless people pa.s.sing him like zombies in some awful B movie. And then seeing Tom sitting up in bed, his face drained of colour; fumbling for the right words, not knowing where to start, how to make things right.

'It's all right son, accidents happen.' It's all right son...

And then there was Alex. Walking right back into his life as if she didn't know him, as if they had no connection. The memory of that kiss gave him a physical pain in his gut, sent another chunk of his carefully balanced life spinning into oblivion. He'd had a feeling she might come, if he was honest with himself, knew she would come as soon as she heard Tom was in hospital, but in the whirl of events that had followed, between Caroline's non-stop plans for the wedding, the mess that that idiot had made of the business in Cannes, Jackson's negotiations with New York, he'd pushed it to the back of his mind. He hadn't wanted to see her, was firmly decided on that. She was the one who had left. Left him in bits.

He'd eventually found a way to deal with the loss, the hurt, to build a barrier to protect himself, a shield around his heart that allowed him get on with his life, to focus on the estate and his business. But no matter how strong Sebastian thought he was, he couldn't stop the memories gushing through fissures in his armour every time he heard a particular song on the radio, smelled perfume that was vaguely like hers, heard a blackbird call. And with every fissure that appeared, despite his efforts to repair it, despite the distance of the years, his protective wall had weakened. And then Alex Ryan had walked into his office and the whole lot had started to shift alarmingly, fault lines rippling out in every direction.

Sebastian picked up the fountain pen on his desk, 'with all my love' engraved along its shaft, fed it through his fingers. He'd come into the office early this morning, waking at four, cold, unable to sleep, a nagging ache to the left of his forehead. Caroline, thankfully, had taken herself off to spend the night at her apartment so, instead of tossing and turning, he'd decided to get up, had grabbed a coffee and come straight to the office, frightening the cleaners half to death when they'd arrived with their trolleys laden with mops and brooms and mysterious sprays. And he'd been sitting here ever since, trying to sort it all out in his head, blissfully unaware that he should have been at Caroline's apartment at the Four Seasons Hotel with flowers (pink) and a rock from Weir's. But he'd probably have got that wrong too, gone for emeralds when she wanted diamonds, earrings when she wanted a necklace. They didn't seem to be on the same wavelength at all.

Sebastian groaned half to himself, remembering the feeling of horror as Caroline had revealed the truth about Tom's accident. Like the start of an avalanche, he had heard the laughter in her voice before she came out with it, had felt as if chunks of rock and snow were sliding past him in slow motion as she continued, gathering momentum as they crashed to earth. What on earth had possessed her? He rolled the pen between his fingers again. He only had a few minutes now before Joss would be up with the coffee, before Jackson would be on the phone, before the Minister arrived to talk about this b.l.o.o.d.y shopping centre. Why on earth would Wingfield Holdings be interested in a shopping centre? The pen felt solid in his hand, heavy, comforting, the light from the chandelier catching its fluted surface, dancing, teasing him with memories.

'I've got something for you.'

Eyes sparkling, Alex had glanced at him over her shoulder as she pushed the peeling door of the Mill House open, the sound of the hinges creaking over the rush of the water tumbling beside them, gushing through the wheel, stuck tight after so many years of neglect, weed streaming from its paddles like mermaids' hair. He'd followed her into the darkness, the windows boarded now against the elements, the only light from the hole in the roof, the smell of rotting leaves and damp pervading every crevice. They'd secured the ladder in place, prevented it from falling with an old piece of nylon rope, red and scratchy, and nails that she had found in her dad's tool kit. Sebastian had been surprised he hadn't told her it was his birthday, somehow afraid that slipping another year ahead of her would make him too old for her, would turn her off him. But, as they scrambled up to their dry corner, he saw she'd already pulled the old tartan travelling rug straight, had piled the cushions into a heap, a bottle of Asti Spumante and a pair of gla.s.ses set ready on a battered tin tray, a chocolate cake from the village bakery safe from the mice in its glossy white cardboard box.

Laughing, she'd insisted he sit, let her uncork the bottle with a pop, pour them both a gla.s.s, fizzing and spitting, before she'd produced his gift. Wrapped in shiny silver paper, criss-crossed with a bright blue ribbon, the tag written in her distinctive bubbly hand, 'For when you go back to Uni, so you don't forget me...All my love A', followed by one firm kiss, rich, full of promise, like the one he'd given her, pushing her backwards onto the cushions, their souls soaring as their tongues had met, hungry, eager, connected.

Where had he heard that it only takes a minute to form a friendship, an hour to fall in love, but a lifetime to forget someone? Joss probably, reading from one of her women's magazines as they had waited for a plane or had sat in the back of the car on the way to a meeting. It never ceased to amaze him the rubbish they printed, but that little gem had stuck with him, had penetrated his armour with diamond-like clarity, forming another crack that had deepened and grown without him being conscious of it, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

Sebastian had protected himself over the years by maintaining his distance; people said he was stuck up, unfriendly, but it suited him. Even Caroline had thought he was an emotional cripple for years, had treated him like a rather irksome addition to their family until she'd come to that dinner of course. He'd winced when she told him how much the outfit had cost, but he had to admit she had looked devastating, her heart-shaped face set off by the plunging neckline of her dress, black, something floaty over a tight silk sheath, an emerald green bag flung over her shoulder in a surprising splash of colour. And she'd charmed the Chinese Minister for Trade, had held him in the palm of her hand like a tiny bird, feeding him compliments like crumbs. And Caroline had charmed him, shown him a side of her he'd never seen before, sparkling and funny, her eyes meeting his as the steward poured the champagne, suggestive, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with promise. And at the end of the night, when he'd dropped her off, Caroline had leaned across the car, running a manicured fingernail along his cheek, down the front of his shirt, slipping her hand between his thighs, her lips fluttering over his like a b.u.t.terfly. And the next thing he knew they'd been at that friend of hers wedding and she'd caught the bouquet, and somehow she was trying on his mother's ring for size. Ever since they had started seeing each other, his grandfather had been making comments about him not getting any younger, about it being time he got married, about maintaining the family line...and then it had all just sort of happened Cormac had been delighted of course, had roared down the phone, his parents laughing in the background at the union of the two ancient estates. And Caroline had immediately wrapped his grandfather around her finger, the old man chuckling at her innocent enquiries about the estate, charmed by her ignorance.

Had he got carried away on her family's wave of happiness, swept along by his grandfather's enthusiastic approval of the match? Had he really thought about Caroline as the Lady of Kilfenora, about whether she'd be up to the job? A chasm of worry gaped open inside Sebastian as another chunk of his carefully balanced life broke away. Was he really doing the right thing? Was Caroline the woman for him? And what would Cormac say about his qualms? Pre-wedding jitters or something more serious? Cormac, his best friend. How could he tell him? How could they stay friends if Sebastian broke his sister's heart, made a total fool of her by breaking up with her this close to the wedding?

Because in the exact moment that Caroline had started talking about the accident, and more importantly, hadn't stopped, Sebastian had seen his mistake, realised that she could never live up to the reality of being his wife. She just wasn't right. For him or for Kilfenora.

TWENTY SEVEN.

It took Sebastian a few moments to realise that the light on his desk phone was flashing, a few moments for him to drag his thoughts back to the present, to his office, to the spring sunshine flooding in through the huge windows, to the fact that he had a multi-national business to run. A multi-national business that on top of everything else was being threatened by a rag journalist desperate for the limelight. Sebastian pushed the thought from his head. He'd already discussed the situation with Wingfield Holdings' PR company, was sure that the professionals were briefed, that any negative stories would be stopped at source. No newspaper could afford to lose Wingfield Holdings' combined advertising.

Pressing the intercom b.u.t.ton the receptionist's voice came through loud and clear, as though she was in the same room. Thankfully, she wasn't, couldn't see the colour drain from Sebastian's face as she delivered her message.

'Miss Ryan for you on line one.'

He paused for a moment; he'd been dreading this conversation. 'Put her through.'

'Morning Alex.' It was a plat.i.tude, sounded hollow, like he was talking to his bank manager.

'We need to talk.' Her voice was practical, no nonsense.

'You go first.' Sebastian knew he was in the wrong but couldn't keep the coldness from his voice, a hint of sarcasm.

'Not on the phone. It's too complicated. We need to meet.'

Too complicated? That was for sure.

Sebastian didn't answer for a moment. His mind had suddenly gone blank, like someone has taken a wet cloth and wiped away everything he had planned to say. Was it the sound of Alex's voice that was affecting him, or the sudden prospect of having a real conversation, not a chat about paint colours and wallpaper, but a real conversation about them, about now, about then? He felt like he had slipped sideways into a parallel world; he was still here, sitting in his office, but the points of reference had changed. All of them. It took him a second to think, a second to focus on an answer, but then he knew exactly what to say.

'Okay, I'm in meetings all day, so it will have to be late afternoon. Around 5.30?'

'Fine. Where? This is private not your office.'

'How about Kilfenora? It's the half day, the staff are off so we'll be on our own.'

Sebastian could hear Alex pause, could almost hear the cogs whirring in her brain as she thought about it.

'Okay, 5.30. I'll see you there.'

In her kitchen, Alex put the phone down, running her hand through her hair. She was still in her pyjamas, had hardly slept last night, tossing and turning, her head buzzing with thoughts of what might have happened to her dad, of Caroline's smug, over made-up face as she had revealed the truth.

Caroline. Alex pursed her lips. She could feel herself getting angry again. But this wasn't the time to be getting annoyed about Sebastian's idiot fiancee in some ways she should be thanking her for telling her what really happened. And G.o.d, she hardly had a claim on Sebastian after all these years, but Caroline was one of those types of people who set her nerves on edge, irritation rising the moment she looked at her. With her prefect skin, perfect teeth, perfect hair, how much time did she spend in the bathroom, at the beauticians? She just seemed so vacuous, spent far too much time shopping and no time at all actually doing anything constructive. And like a lot of women who lacked a purpose in life, Alex felt quite distinctly that Caroline didn't like women who did, which included her.

Feeling suddenly shivery, Alex filled the kettle and reached for the coffee pot. The range was pumping warm air into the cosy kitchen, even the terracotta tiles were warm to her bare feet, but lack of sleep and anxiety always made her feel cold, chilled to the core, and this was one morning when she really needed coffee to warm her up and get her brain going. She had ma.s.ses to get through. She was going to go into this meeting well prepared. Sebastian Wingfield had a lot of explaining to do.

Alex could hear the church bell in the village toll six as she headed through the towering eagle-topped gates of Kilfenora House, the bells ringing out across the surrounding fields like a summons. She knew she was late, had had difficulty getting Senor Marquez off the phone, his call followed by the glaziers confirming the arrival of the new windows for the Inst.i.tute and someone wanting to sell her abstract wax models of rock stars for the foyer.

But it was no harm that she was late. Right now she was more than happy to let Sebastian Wingfield stew.

For the first time since Alex had walked into his office and had what she thought was the shock of her life a shock put right into perspective when she had seen that painting, when she had found out about her dad she felt like she was in control, like it was his turn to be on the back foot. And she was composed now, her anger cooled to a dangerous calm. This was going to be methodical, a process that didn't involve emotion, a conversation that wasn't overshadowed by the past, by what had gone before. But, despite her resolve, she still felt cold, still felt the iron claw of dread grip her stomach as she pulled up outside the house.

Sebastian, predictably, had arrived ahead of her, his gleaming 4.2 litre Jaguar XK, midnight blue, abandoned on the gravel in front of the steps, the evening light glinting off its polished chrome like a spent bullet. The evenings were lengthening now, bringing with them the promise of summer; it wouldn't be dark until nine, so at least Alex knew she could strike 'driving home down country lanes in the dark' off her list of problems she had every intention that this meeting was going to be short and to the point.

Pushing her gear stick into park, Alex looked up at the house's austere facade rising above her with a sigh, the two tiny gargoyles carved into the pillars supporting a mock balcony above the front door, grinning at her, laughing a greeting. They were little imps, the stonemason's signature, a dash of humour in the serious businesses of creating a house fit for a Lord. Alex had noticed them first one day when she'd volunteered to help with the bra.s.ses. Putting her bucket of Bra.s.so and cleaning cloths down, she'd suddenly caught a glimpse of the gargoyles, and they'd made her laugh out loud, one of the gargoyles sticking out his little stone tongue at her, mocking the gentry visiting by the front door.

When she asked about him, Marjorie Wingfield, Sebastian's mother had taken her by the arm to show her the second gargoyle, hiding his eyes in his hands, as shy and retiring as the other one was bold. They'd laughed together then, had spent the rest of the afternoon searching for more, finding a tiny frog hidden between the chubby legs of the cherubs supporting the birdbath in the formal garden, a mouse carved over the lintel in the kitchen, a lizard running along the stonework above the double doors between the Palm House and the morning room. And even the Grand Staircase held its secrets, laughing faces peeking from the flourishes and fleur de lys decorating the banisters Alex felt a pang of regret she still couldn't believe Marjorie Wingfield was dead.

Looking out of her car, her eyes wandering over the manicured bay trees guarding the front door, at the spot in the steps worn by generations of feet, at the pots of paint forgotten on the granite ledge of the Palm House window, Alex paused for a moment, her mind half on the house, half on Sebastian.

This was it. Show time.

Automatically reaching for her briefcase, Alex changed her mind, she'd hardly need it; and she didn't want to put him on the defensive by looking like she was going into a business meeting. She felt an alarming wobble in her knees whew, when she'd left her house, she'd thought she was so ready for this meeting, her temper fuelling her focus, but now, now she was here, it just didn't feel so easy.

Leaving her briefcase on the pa.s.senger seat, Alex checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror, removing a stray fleck of mascara from under her eye. She wanted to look good, had dressed carefully smart but casual, a jacket and high-heeled boots, a scarf to soften the look. At least good clothes gave her confidence, it might be power dressing, but she knew that by the end of this evening, there was a good chance she'd need to use every weapon she had. Sebastian could be as stubborn and downright awkward as a donkey when it suited him.