The Secret Love-Child. Miranda Lee

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ worry,’ she went on briskly. ‘I won’t be nervous. And, yes, I’m sure my mother will want you to come to the house beforehand. I’ll jot down the address and phone number for you.’ She pulled out a pen from her bag, plus a spare business card from her hairdresser, and wrote her parents’ details on the back.

      ‘What say you arrive on the day at two?’ she suggested as she handed it over to him, then stood up.

      He put down his coffee, stared at the card, then stood up also.

      ‘Is this your regular hairdresser?’ he asked.

      The question startled her. ‘Yes, why?’

      ‘Did they do your hair today?’

      ‘No. I did it myself. I only go to a hairdresser when I want a cut. I like to do it myself.’ Aside from the money it cost, she wasn’t fond of the way some hair-dressers had difficulty following instructions.

      ‘So you’ll be doing your hair on your wedding day?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Not like that, I hope,’ he said as he slipped the card into his shirt pocket.

      Isabel bristled. ‘What’s wrong with it like this?’

      ‘It’s far too severe. If you’re going to have it up, you need something a little softer, with some pieces hanging around your face. Here. Like this.’

      Before she could step away, or object, he was by her side, his fingers tugging at her hair and touching her cheeks, her ears, her neck.

      It was one thing to keep her cool whilst she was just thinking about him, quite another with his hands on her. His fingertips were like brands on her skin, leaving heated imprints in her flesh and sending quivery ripples down her spine.

      ‘Your hair seems quite straight,’ he was saying as he stroked several strands down in front her ears. ‘Do you have a curling wand?’

      ‘No,’ she choked out, knowing she should step back from him but totally unable to. She kept staring at the V of bare skin in his open-necked shirt and wondering what he would look like, naked.

      ‘I suggest you buy one, then. They’re cheap enough.’

      Her eyes lifted to find he was studying not her hair so much, but her mouth. For one long, horribly exciting moment, Isabel thought he was going to kiss her. She sucked in sharply, her lips falling apart as a shot of excitement zinged through her veins. But he didn’t kiss her, and she realised with a degree of self-disgust that she’d just been hoping he would.

      But what if he had? came the appalling thought. What if he had?

      Just the thought of risking or ruining what she had with Luke made her feel sick.

      ‘I must go,’ she said, and bent to pick up her bag, the action forcing his hands to drop away from her face. By the time she’d straightened he’d stepped back a little. But she had to get out of there. And quickly.

      ‘If I don’t hear from you,’ she added brusquely, ‘then I will expect you to show up at my parents’ home at two precisely, a fortnight from today. Please don’t be late.’

      ‘I am never late for appointments,’ he returned.

      ‘Good. Till then, then?’

      He nodded and she swept past him, her bag brushing against him as she did so. She didn’t apologise, or look down. She kept going, not drawing breath till she was in her car and on the road home.

      Relief was her first emotion once his place was well out of sight. Then anger. At herself; at the Rafe Saint Vincents of this world; and at fate. Why couldn’t Les have recommended a photographer like himself, a happily married middle-aged conservative bloke with three kids and a paunch?

      When a glance in the rear-vision mirror reminded her she had bits of hair all over the place, courtesy of her Lord and Master, she pulled over to the kerb and pulled the pins out of her French roll, shaking her head till her hair fell down around her face like a curtain.

      ‘Maybe you’d like me to wear it like this!’ she stormed as she accelerated away again. ‘Lucky for me it isn’t longer, or you’d be suggesting I do a Lady Godiva act at my wedding. I could be the first bride ever to be photographed in the nude!’

      She ranted and raved about him for a while, then at the traffic when it took her nearly twice as long to get home as it had to drive into the city. She was feeling more than a little stressed by the time she turned into her parents’ street, her agitation temporarily giving way to surprise when she spotted Luke’s blue car parked outside the house. She slid her navy car in behind it, frowning at Luke who was still sitting behind the wheel. When she climbed out, so did he, throwing her an odd look at her hair as he did so.

      She felt herself colouring with guilt, which really annoyed her. She’d done nothing to be guilty about.

      ‘Luke!’ she exclaimed, trying not to sound as flustered as she was feeling. ‘What on earth are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you. Why didn’t you call me?’

      ‘I tried your mobile phone a while back,’ he said. ‘But you didn’t answer.’

      ‘What? Oh, I must have left the blasted thing behind at the studio. I took it out to ring Mum and tell her how long I’d be.’

      Isabel wanted to scream. How could she have been so stupid as to leave it behind? Now she’d have to go back for it. And she’d have to see that man again, before the wedding.

      ‘Oh, too bad,’ she muttered, slamming the car door. ‘It can stay there till tomorrow. I’m not going back now.’

      She could feel Luke’s puzzled eyes on her and knew she wasn’t acting like her usual calm self. She shook her head and threw him a pained look. ‘You’ve no idea the dreadful day I’ve had. The photographer I booked for the wedding’s had an accident and he made an appointment for me to meet this other man who’s not really suitable at all. Brilliant, but one of those avant-garde types who wants to do everything in black and white. I pointed out that I wouldn’t have selected a wine-red gown for my maid of honour if I’d wanted all the shots done in black and white, but would he listen to me? No! He even told me how he wanted me to wear my hair. As if I don’t know what suits me best. I’ve never met such an insufferably opinionated man.’

      Isabel knew she was babbling but she couldn’t seem to stop.

      ‘Still, what can you expect from someone who fancies himself an artiste. You know the type. Struts around like he’s God’s gift to women. And he wears this earring in the shape of a phantom’s head, of all things. What a show pony! Goodness knows what our photographs are going to turn out like, but it’s simply too late to get someone else decent. His name’s Rafe—did I tell you? Rafe Saint Vincent. It wouldn’t be his real name, of course. Just a career move. Nobody is born with a name like Rafe Saint Vincent. Talk about pretentious!’

      Isabel finally ran out of steam, only to realise that Luke was not only staring at her as if she’d lost her mind, but that he wasn’t looking his usual self, either.

      Always well-groomed, Luke was the sort of man who kept ‘tall, dark and handsome’ СКАЧАТЬ