‘I so agree,’ she said. ‘I love my world and only leave it for specific reasons. I’m not missing anything where I am.’
‘You’ve created your perfect life,’ he said.
Her smile faltered.
He wanted to know why. ‘But even when our lives are as near-perfect as we can make them,’ he said, ‘sometimes when you get home, there are moments when you feel… lonely.’
It was a guess. An educated one. And judging by the way her beautiful face crumpled, a painfully accurate one.
The tension slid from her features. She blinked twice and dropped her gaze. She looked, he thought, like a fallen butterfly — wings rumpled, colours dulled — and he had the strangest urge to rescue her.
He reached out and touched her hand. He wasn’t sure which of them was more shocked.
She looked up with wide, startled eyes — utterly vulnerable. In that moment, any thought of using her fell away. He’d wanted to divert the conversation. Now he almost wished he hadn’t. This was worse.
‘Lucy,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I can see I’ve said something that upset you.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Not at all. It’s just that…’ She trailed off and looked around the room, blinking hard.
‘How about we get some fresh air?’ he suggested. ‘It looks like a beautiful night for a walk along the waterfront.’
She gave him a quick, grateful smile. ‘Yes, please.’
Chapter Six
For once, the notorious Wellington wind had died down. The evening was almost sultry in its warmth and stillness. There was no moon yet; water and sky were a single dark sheet. Clouds obscured the stars, trapping the heat and muffling sound, wrapping the waterfront in a heavy, soft-edged hush.
Lucy couldn’t seem to string a logical thought together. She couldn’t believe he’d seen through her. She’d chosen to live a life surrounded by friends, family and customers, while keeping the centre of her life protected, like an impregnable castle where she could be safe. But inevitably it came at a cost. Almost no one guessed how the nights felt — how the quiet in her apartment sometimes seemed to go on forever. The fact he’d understood that had thrown her. And now, as she walked beside him, all she was aware of were her senses, humming.
It felt natural — inevitable, really — to slip her hand through Oliver’s arm as they left the restaurant and walked along the quayside. He smelled so good she wanted to lean in and breathe him in properly. She edged closer, her fingertips skimming the fine silk of his jacket. She pretended she was adjusting her grip as she surreptitiously stroked the fabric.
He didn’t speak, but his arm tightened, just slightly, as if he were drawing her closer and didn’t want to make a big deal of it.
There were few people about. Early summer hadn’t yet turned the waterfront into a magnet for late-night crowds, and the earlier buzz of cafés, restaurants and theatres had faded behind them as they turned away from the bright cluster of the city and followed the curve of the harbour.
‘This way,’ Oliver said at one point, steering her away from the main promenade towards a narrower stretch of wharf. The water was black on either side now, lapping quietly at the piles.
Only when they reached the end did she realise they were heading towards a small development of pale, low-slung buildings at the very tip of the wharf — exclusive apartments she recognised from when they’d first been in the news.
Of course.
He stopped at a glass door and held it open. ‘Come up for a drink?’
She hesitated for all of half a second. It wasn’t as if she’d been dragged here. Her hand was on his arm. Her body had decided long before her brain caught up.
‘A drink would be great,’ she said lightly, and stepped inside.
She whistled under her breath as she walked into the apartment.
Floor-to-ceiling glass ran the length of the room, with the inky water almost directly beneath them. To the left, the curve of the city glittered across the harbour. To the right, the marina lay quiet, punctuated by the lazy clink of halyards against masts.
‘Nice digs,’ she said, dropping her bag onto a low leather sofa and turning slowly to take it all in.
It was exactly her kind of place. Beautiful lines. Quality finishes. Space to breathe. But something was off. After a moment, she realised what it was.
It lacked anything personal. No photographs. No piles of books. No stray shoes. It could have been a very high-end show home.
‘It’s convenient,’ he said, with the unconscious indifference of the very wealthy, apparently unaware quite how fabulous the place was. ‘Drink?’
