True Colours Part 3

Obviously amused by her confusion, he pushed her door closed and opened the front pa.s.senger door, climbing in. 'I'll see you at eight.'

The cab pulled away leaving her standing there, aghast.

He was coming back at eight, and she hadn't said no.

SEVEN.

By 6.30 pm, St Vincent's was manic, the two-hour evening visiting period at the huge university hospital the busiest of the day. And, to top off her marvellous day, Alex couldn't find a parking s.p.a.ce. To make matters worse, every time she rounded a corner on her circuit of the car park, her mind yo-yoed back to the moment when she had turned to see exactly who was sitting behind that huge desk. To that moment of mind-numbing shock when she had found out who was running Venture Capital Ireland. Cringing, her shoulders bunching with tension, humiliation curled her stomach so tight she felt like she was dying inside.

Sebastian Wingfield.

How could she have been so STUPID? Ever since Marina had mentioned opening an office in Dublin, ever since the contract with the Spanish Cultural Inst.i.tute had been confirmed, the dread that they might meet had been at the back of her mind. She had known his family had business interests all over the city, that he might be on the board of directors of any number of companies, but somehow she'd been sure he would have followed his dream and become the architect he'd trained to be. Never in a million years had she imagined that he might be the managing director of a venture capital company, a company that bought and sold failing businesses, moving in and turning them around for huge profits. She kicked herself again how many first-year university students did she know who had followed their dreams, who had held onto their schoolboy ethics when they got out into the real world? What a fool. She could have looked him up of course, years ago, could have Googled Wingfield or Kilfenora and found out exactly what he was doing now. Should have done. But that would have meant coming face to face with him again, even if it was only on the computer screen, and she knew she couldn't have faced that, couldn't bear to see those blue eyes one more time. It was easier to pretend that he didn't exist than to dwell on what might have been.

Pulling around yet another corner, faced with the lines of parked cars forming solid rows like brick walls on either side of her, she suddenly felt like she was trapped in a tunnel. A long dark tunnel, the past behind her there was no going back there the future lying ahead, a pinp.r.i.c.k of light at the end And the only way out was blocked by Sebastian, his face thunderous, arms crossed tight across his chest, eyes shooting white-hot shafts of accusation right into her heart.

In fact, she hadn't been able to shake his image from her head all day but the picture that had haunted her before, the ephemeral spectre of him running ahead of her through the forest, his red Coca-Cola t-s.h.i.+rt like a warning light flas.h.i.+ng between the trees, laughing, calling to her over his shoulder, had changed. Now, the face was real, flesh and blood, and she could visualise the creases around his cold blue eyes, the tension in his jaw, almost felt like she could reach out and stroke that scar on his chin, cradle his face in her hands like she used to. If he didn't spit at her first.

She'd spent most of the afternoon on the site of the new Spanish Cultural Inst.i.tute, gripping her notepad and hard hat, trying to stop her mind reliving their entire encounter. Shown around the raw concrete structure by a site manager who had been so wrapped up in his steel girders and shuttering that, thankfully, he'd hardly noticed the blank look in her eyes, her unusual silence. And then, with her heart pounding like a battlefield tattoo, she'd gone to the wholesalers, spending what was left of the day trying to match Venture Capital Ireland's corporate logo to paint samples and bold monotone prints. Whatever else was going on, she was going to make d.a.m.n sure Sebastian Wingfield, with his fabulous aftershave and red hot...her mind strayed to his kiss, to the feel of his hand in her hair, to the feel of his body, hard, against hers...to his red hot temper... was going to be blown away by the transformation Impromptu Design brought to his company headquarters.

So now, after the day from h.e.l.l, exhausted, and with a headache pounding behind her eyes, she was...o...b..ting St Vincent's Hospital car park like a rocket in a comic book, her frustration at the whole day fuelled by not being able to find a s.p.a.ce manifesting into an anger that she was sure was whoos.h.i.+ng out behind her in a trail of sparks that would have left Denis the Menace in awe.

How could she have been so stupid? How could she have gone into that office without doing her homework? And how could he have kissed her like that? After everything, after all this time...and how could she let herself be kissed? What had she been thinking? That he'd forgiven her? That he'd got over her abandoning him all those years ago and didn't hold a grudge? She s.h.i.+vered she knew him better than that. He was the one who had gone on and on that whole summer about some guy who'd fouled him on the rugby pitch he hadn't let that one drop, had spent hours mulling over how he was going to get his revenge on what had he called him? Knuckles Murphy?

Crawling along yet another line of parked cars, something else hit Alex, something hard and sharp and sudden. Hadn't Jocelyn Blake said something about wedding invitations? Was he getting married? With the shock of their whole encounter, their conversation was only coming back to her now, and despite everything that had happened, despite the fact that she knew it was totally irrational, the thought of him with someone else, the thought of him making his vows to someone else felt like pins being stuck into her.

For a moment she thought she was going to cry, her eyes burning with the salt of unshed tears, fear and shock and anger replaced by despair as quickly and easily as she had slipped out of his life.

Easily? It had been easy to book the ticket, but to actually go, to know she'd never see him again, that hadn't been so easy. And all those years ago, had she really thought about the future, really understood how she would feel if she knew he was with someone else? Over the years she'd wondered what he was doing, who he was dating, but seeing him again, being faced with it in the flesh, was like a slap in the face. And it stung like h.e.l.l.

Suddenly the white tail lights of a car reversing flashed ahead of her. At last a s.p.a.ce. Her sigh was deep, audible. Relief. Plain and simple. At least one thing was finally going right.

Inside the hospital, zigzagging through the crowds in the corridors, conscious that the two-hour visiting time was slipping rapidly away, Alex paused before she pushed open the door to her father's brightly lit ward. Overhead fluorescents trapped the occupants in a bubble of timelessness, of steel tubing and marbled white linoleum tiles. With the sea green curtains partially pulled on either side of his bed to give him some degree of privacy, she could just see her dad lying back, eyes closed, earphones firmly plugged into his ears, one finger tapping the s.h.i.+ny black case of the iPod she had given him.

He looked tired, so different. And, yet again, it gave her a jolt like an electric shock. He had aged ten years since the accident, suddenly looked so vulnerable. And it didn't suit him he was a military man, normally fit and tanned, a career soldier since he was seventeen. He'd never had a day's illness until he'd caught a stray bullet in the Congo, his blue UN beret not enough to protect him against a teenager high on home brew and testosterone. Invalided out of the army, reluctantly taking his pension, he'd looked for another job, had tried a few, but adjusting to civilian life was harder than any of them had expected. Driving her mother mad at home reorganising the kitchen, then the shed, he had been up a ladder painting the ceiling of their tiny living room the day she collapsed, the pain in her breast she had so cunningly hidden finally becoming too much for her. And it had been during her first stay in hospital that he'd b.u.mped into an old army buddy and discovered that the gamekeeper at Kilfenora was retiring, that Lord Kilfenora, whose army issue boots he had once had been in charge of polis.h.i.+ng, was looking for someone reliable to take over on the estate.

But that was almost eighteen years ago and now Tom Ryan's grizzled hair was definitely a shade greyer than it had been, his weather-beaten face, which normally glowed with health, pale. Too pale. New lines etched by pain.

Taking a deep breath, trying to still the emotions that whirled together like they were being mixed by a determined three-year-old with a sharp stick, Alex pushed the door open.

As if he sensed her presence, Tom opened one eye, closing it again and holding up his hand before she could speak. Then, after a minute, a contented smile breaking out on his face, he pulled out the earphones and opened both his eyes, the familiar sparkle back, if only for a moment.

'My G.o.d girl, that was great. "Bohemian Rhapsody". This iPod thing is only marvellous. I took your mum to see Queen in Slane you know. G.o.d I'll never forget it.'

Alex laughed, her tension dissipating like an early morning mist. How many times had she heard about that concert?

'Told you it was worth a bit of perseverance. Modern technology's not completely evil you know.' His grin was wry she knew he didn't believe her, 'Sorry I'm late.'

Pulling up a regulation grey plastic chair beside her father's bed, Alex collapsed into it and, lowering her voice, said conspiratorially, 'I couldn't get any grapes I'm afraid, but I brought...'

His eyes alight with mischief, her father pulled the bag closer to him. His smile told her he knew exactly what she'd brought. 'Fish and chips. With extra salt and vinegar.'

Ever since she'd been a little girl, fish and chips had been their favourite meal. Whenever he was home on leave, on a Friday night they'd pile into the car, which for years had been an enormous Volvo estate, a grill in the back to keep the dogs from romping into the front seat, and headed for Burdock's in O'Connell Street, the best fish and chipper in Dublin city.

'Well done la.s.s. The food's like cardboard in this b.l.o.o.d.y place.'

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, 'Maybe that will teach you to be more careful.'

He returned her school-marmish tone with a withering look.

'Don't go on, I do my thing, you do yours; haven't you got anything else to worry about?'

Alex raised one eyebrow, if only he knew! Good G.o.d she had plenty to worry about, but right now, this minute, he was her main concern, and his slapdash approach to safety was one of her hobby horses.

'I can't believe you said that. How can I not worry about you when you won't wear a seatbelt in that heap of a Land Rover, or a hard hat when you're felling trees. And G.o.d forbid you actually used ear protectors.'

He held up his hands, his face, slightly lopsided, lined like the bark of the oaks and elms he tended, 'all right, all right, don't nag, I...'

'You're what?' Alex cut in, 'You're fine? You'll never have an accident? Or you know his Lords.h.i.+p will look after you?' she found it impossible to hide the scepticism in her voice. 'He's not G.o.d you know Dad, he can't protect you when you're out on the estate. That's why they brought in the Health and Safety at Work Act you know, for people like you, and him. For employers who don't give a d.a.m.n about their employees...'

His eyebrows rose at the bitterness in her tone. 'He's grand la.s.s, he treats everyone equal. No favouritism and that's how I like it.'

'I don't think safety equipment is cla.s.sed as favouritism Dad. G.o.d, the estate would be shut down tomorrow if anyone knew the risks he expects you to take. Look at you now. You didn't end up in here from sitting behind a desk did you?'

Tom Ryan tried to shrug but failed, the dressings around his shoulder limiting his movement. 'I told you, it was my own fault, just one of those things.'

She looked at him hard, 'Mmm.'

He hadn't told her anything, had been ridiculously evasive every time she brought up how the accident had actually happened, how he had ended up with a deep flesh wound to his shoulder and serious injury to his knee, so serious in fact that there had been talk of amputation. But he was a proud man, and she was sure he'd tell her the details when he was ready.

His hand inside the carrier bag, tearing open the paper, Tom pulled out a chip and popped it into his mouth, grinning. 'So tell me about your day love, what have you been up to?'

For a second Alex was lost for words. Her day. Her nightmare more likely. How could she explain that she's just bowled right into Sebastian Wingfield? How could she? Whatever about her father being evasive, she'd been fairly economical with the truth all those years ago, had shrugged off his questions about their relations.h.i.+p so that he would think her wildly enthusiastic about the move to Spain, about starting her dream degree, in Barcelona of all places. It had taken all of her energy to persuade him not to tell Sebastian, to pretend he didn't know where she'd gone, that she wanted a clean break...

Now she smiled knowingly like everything was under control, like her life was just perfect.

'Busy, you know how it is. The Inst.i.tute's going to be fabulous. Lots of courtyards and water features to keep everyone relaxed. And we've almost settled on the colour scheme. It'll be very modern. Senor Marquez wants to use Miroesque murals throughout the public s.p.a.ces, so I'm getting designs drawn up and looking for an artist; and he wants lots of sculpture.'

Tom nodded sagely, secretly delighted that she seemed to be settling into working in Dublin so easily. She had spent so many years away that he'd often wondered if she was afraid to come back. Spain was a bigger market he knew, but all through the Celtic Tiger economic explosion, when Dublin had become a thriving European capital, he had been secretly hoping she'd come back home and grow her business in Ireland. With the economic collapse he'd almost given up hope, but now here she was.

At the end of the day he was delighted with her success, but he missed her, found the house soulless without her pencils and pens and paints scattered around the place, her t-s.h.i.+rts drying on the radiators, makeup scattered all over the tiny bathroom and he missed their chats in the evening in front of the fire, catching up on the day's news. Studying in Barcelona had been a wonderful opportunity, a chance to get to know her mother's people as much as to follow her dream, but he'd known as soon as she had told him that it would pull them apart, that she was flying the nest. She'd been so excited, so thrilled, that he wouldn't have put a damper on it for anything in the world. But he'd never forget that night: coming in late and finding the house unexpectedly quiet, no pop music playing from her bedroom, no TV blaring from the living room; finding her in the kitchen, her hands idle in the cold was.h.i.+ng up water, staring dreamily out the kitchen window. She'd turned when she'd heard him open the door, her face breaking into a smile, 'Guess what?'...

'So what did the doctor say? When are they letting you out?'

'Next week he reckons.'

'Then plenty of bed rest?'

Tom grimaced, 'So he says...'

'Definitely plenty of bed rest Dad. You don't have a car accident and almost lose your leg on the same day and then go running off around the woods like nothing has happened.'

'That's right Tom, you should listen to her you know. I don't want you turning up back in here, a week after we kick you out. We don't have a revolving door policy here not enough beds.'

Alex turned, recognising the doctor's broad Cork accent. He had appeared behind her, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, his white coat undone. In his early forties, he could have pa.s.sed for a Hollywood movie star but for his thick-rimmed gla.s.ses. As it was, she thought he bore more than a pa.s.sing resemblance to Clark Kent, kept expecting him to rip off his white coat and leap out the window.

He'd certainly pulled some superhero stunts to get Tom Ryan fixed up from what she'd been able to glean, after whatever had happened to land him in an ambulance roaring through the streets of Dublin to St Vincent's. At this stage, she'd given up asking for the details of the accident, had put two and two together and reckoned she wasn't far wrong in a.s.suming he'd finally crashed his Land Rover. So now, instead of worrying about what had happened, she was focusing on his recovery, on working out what on earth they were going to do when he came out of hospital.

The doctor's voice interrupted her thoughts, 'I'm just in, but I'll be along later Tom, to have a proper look at you. How're you feeling today?'

'Better thanks, still a bit sore all right, but that's to be expected.'

The doctor nodded, 'The old man said you were a tough old bird. Most people would be climbing the walls by now. You'll have to expect a bit of discomfort with that amount of shrapnel but we'll have a chat about your pain relief when I come back around.' He threw Alex a disarming grin, 'You'll have to keep an eye on him, chain him to a chair when he gets home.'

She laughed, 'You've obviously got his measure.'

'Not so sure about that, but I got a tip-off from a very reliable source...' tapping his nose with his forefinger, he nodded to her and backed out of the ward, a glint in his eye.

Smiling her goodbyes, Alex turned back to her father with a frown. 'What does he mean shrapnel?'

Tom shrugged. 'Just the accident I guess; figure of speech. His dad's ex Irish army. Served in the Congo as well. He knows the score.'

'So he's had plenty of experience of stubborn old military goats has he?' Alex tried to hide her grin.

'Reckon he has girl, I reckon he has.' Tom Ryan shrugged again, would have blessed himself if she hadn't been eyeing him suspiciously. Thank G.o.d she didn't know the truth.

EIGHT.

'What do you mean you met a guy in a cab and he's taking you to dinner?' Tiffany's New York accent was always harsher when she was shrieking. She shrieked a lot Caroline had known what was coming next, had been holding her rose gold BlackBerry Bold at arm's length as Tiffany replied. Now, she brought it back to her mouth so she could speak.

'Exactly what I said. I can't say no now can I? That would be too rude. And I don't know how to get in touch with him anyway.'

Standing in her dressing room, the tiny beads on her La Perla push-up bra sparkling under the spotlights like tiny sugar crystals, Caroline reached up to drag another dress along the rail in the gla.s.s-fronted wardrobe, her mind back on the problem of what to wear tonight, only half-focused on her conversation with Tiffany.

'But he could be anyone...'

Caroline cut in, 'Don't be ridiculous, he's in the Royal Navy for goodness sake, he was going to the Emba.s.sy.' Perhaps it was the disbelief in her friend's voice that riled her, or the fact that actually, maybe, she was right, but Caroline found herself snapping...'And we're going to dinner, not to bed. It'll be in a public place.'

Caroline knew she sounded tart but she couldn't help it. Tiffany hadn't a clue about men. No sooner had they graduated from the Sorbonne than she'd ended up in Boston, in a mausoleum of a house making cupcakes for church socials, convinced her life was perfect with her university professor husband, Bart. Bart! What sort of a name was that?

'I do hope you're not going to bed. Does he know about Sebastian, does he know you're engaged?'

'Of course!'

'Caroline...' Tiffany's tone was warning. 'Did you tell him?'

'I'm wearing a rock Tiffany, the Wingfield Sapphire, you can't exactly miss it.' Unless you're wearing gloves, Caroline paused, wincing, waiting for Tiffany to put two and two together. Thankfully she didn't.

'Good, just so you've got it straight from the start.'

'Of course everything's straight. Honestly Tiff... as if...'

'I'm calling you later. About nine your time. Leave your phone on. Where are you going for dinner?'

'I've no idea yet.'

'What if Sebastian sees you? Or one of his friends. It's Dublin, Caroline, not Paris. You'll be seen. Those Irish don't understand about...about, well, affairs, the way the French do.'

'What do you mean the way the French do?' Caroline tried to sound affronted, 'I'm not having an affair. And it's not a French thing anyway. You Americans aren't much better, think of Bill and Monica.'

'Exactly! Look at Bill and Monica, look what happened there.'

Caroline let out a snort. She wasn't in the mood for a row with her oldest school chum right now.

'Look, I'm not hiding anything. He could be selling me insurance.'

'Hmm, I bet it'll look just like he's selling you insurance. When did your insurance agent last take you out to dinner?'

'Oh, I don't know...look, I've got to go. Don't fuss. It'll all be fine. Love you darling, I really must fly...'

Caroline clicked off her phone and looked at it for a moment, deep in thought.

Tiffany had a point. How could she have dinner on her own with a man when half the city knew she was engaged to Sebastian Wingfield? And what if someone saw them? Dublin was a ridiculously small city everyone knew everyone else. Tiffany was right what was acceptable, normal in fact in Paris, just didn't wash here. Biting her lip, Caroline leaned back against the marble vanity unit, the chill stone cutting into the fine mesh of her low-cut panties.

All she needed was to be photographed coming out of a restaurant like one of those actresses caught out and about with their leading man, or worse, one of those tarty women who followed footballers around. Tiffany was right. She couldn't be seen out with him in a public place.

So what should she do?

She could cancel leave a note with the hotel reception desk, say she had been called away. Would that work? She was sure it would, but deep inside she felt a bitter twist of disappointment. She was looking forward to dinner, looking forward to discovering more about the mysterious and, let's face it, incredibly s.e.xy Peter. Once Sebastian didn't find out, there was really no problem. What the eye didn't see and all that...The key was keeping it all discreet. And they were only going out to dinner it wasn't as if she was going to cancel the wedding on the basis of one liaison dangereuse that might or might not happen. It was just a bit of fun. And if anything did...Caroline drew in a sharp breath. She could feel something happening low down in her stomach that made her want to plunge her hand into her panties and writhe against the basin, oh good G.o.d....if it did, AND IT MIGHT NOT...then it would be one last fling before she tied the knot. Voila, c'est tout.

It was entirely possible that he'd turn out to be very boring and that would be it. Unlikely but possible. She looked at the phone, still in her hand, pouting.

She could ask him up.

Caroline shook her head, amazed that she'd even considered the idea. If anyone found out she'd had a strange man in her apartment?...And what if he did turn out to be dangerous? Caroline felt a smile flicker at the corner of her mouth There was no if in that question, she knew d.a.m.n well he was dangerous...she felt a thrill of excitement deep inside, oh G.o.d. They needed to go somewhere private...and in a private car...but there was no way Peter would fit into her tiny BMW Z9 sports car...and where could they go?

Then she had it. She flicked the keys on her BlackBerry, dialled the Four Seasons Hotel.