“Leave the bloody magazines. Come and sit with a decrepitold man.”
Her lips twitched as she pulled a chair closer to him. “If you ever become a decrepit old man, I’d really like tosee that.”
“I’m a lot less likely to become decrepit with you around to keep me entertained.” The old man took her hand in his. “You have transformed all of us, even my son. You might think him a misery-guts, but it’s not a patch on his usual self. He usually comes to the island for three days, blows through the house like angry tornado and flies away.” The words were critical, but there was a layer of affection below the surface.
“Would you believe,” The old man continued, his voice suddenly softened, “my son used to be a delightful child? Affectionate, and loving to everyone. And always happy, joking and playful. Now I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh.”
Last night. He’d laughed last night.You want a café where people can eat in their underwear?His easy grin when she’d found him trying to clean the floor. Was he different because of her?
A bubble of joy floated through her and burst on her lips in a helpless, unstoppable smile. Oh, she wanted to think more about this. As soon as she could, she would slip away for a bit of alone time.
George walked towards his father’s study—to say goodbye but also because Millie, no doubt, was there. She’d been kept a prisoner in his father’s study all morning, and when she came out, he couldn’t get her alone for housekeepers or nurses; everyone and their dog wanted to talk toher today.
Until last night, he’d done an exemplary job of knowing where she was so he could avoid her. But things stood differently today.
The thought stopped him.
He paused in the gallery, his hand on the polished bannister overlooking the hall downstairs. The afternoon postal delivery came, and Mrs B hurried to take the letters and packages from the mailman. George watched her sort through letters and place several envelopes in the tray on the hall table before hurrying away to whatever chores she had.
How did things stand between him and Millie now?
He’d held her hand on their walk home and never wanted to let go. And he’d gone to sleep thinking of her, wanting her in bedwith him.
But now it was the day after the night before.
Millie lived here, in his father’s house. He lived in London. His flat in Chelsea was his, alone, no girlfriend ever moved in. In fact, no girlfriend ever stayed two nights in a row. Two nights meant bringing a change of clothes, expecting space and—no, he never allowed thatto happen.
Millie was different. She could hardly travel to London for dinner and a movie, spend the night, then travel back the next day. Where would she live if hedated her?
The big antique clock at the end of the gallery struck the half hour; there was barely forty-five minutes before Evans brought the cart round to take him to the ferry. George had never found it harder to leave. He moved towards his father’s study. The sooner he left, the sooner he could put the Brussels job to bed. Then, he could… what?
The tantalizing image floated through his head. Arriving from the airport on a rainy night, walking into his London flat to find Millie waiting for him by the fireplace, wearing that same flimsy ensemble she had on last night, with her nipples pushing through the thin cotton…
George stopped outside his father’s door; he could hardly go into the room looking like this. He bent down, bracing his hands on his knees. Waiting for his body to settle down, he tried thinking of sheep and chickens and insects. But wildlife had acquired new associations after Millie’s talk about nature last night. Which reminded him, he needed to deal withBeatrice.
His body’s reaction was…
Incredible.
Only yesterday he’d been thinking about dating her again, but today, her name cooled his ardour better than any chickens. He stood up. Allwas good.
It wasn’t fair to let Beatrice wait in anticipation of their date on Friday night only to break up with her then. And he had to break up with her. Whatever happened or didn’t happen last night, things had changed. In his heart, a new page had been turned, and it didn’t have Beatrice in it. He had to do the right thing, not out of guilt this time, but because something made him want to be a better person.
He walked back towards his room, dialling as he went.
“Aren’t I the lucky one?” Beatrice answered on the first ring.
“Hello, Bea,” then he corrected himself. “Beatrice.”
“Two calls in twenty-four hours and a date in two days? Can’t you live without me?” she purred.
“No. I mean that’s not why I’mcalling.”
“Oh?”
“About Friday. I’m sorry, Bea—atrice.”
“Why do you keep saying my full name?”
