Page 29

Perhaps the combined force of their stares communicated something silent to her, or perhaps it was just a coincidence that she turned in their direction at that moment, surprise showing on her beautiful features, her lips parting to a perfect ‘o’ then falling into a small grimace.

She was still a distance away. Tia’s heart was pounding in a strange rhythm, too fast and not fast enough, and it was heavy in her chest. Even though she could hear its grim tattoo loudly in her ears, she doubted Hamish could hear it: she wasn’t even sure he remembered she existed. His fixation on Cressida was absolute.

She cleared her throat softly, as the blonde started to walk in their direction, roses in hand. “Hamish,” Tia said, urgently, needing him to come back to himself. But then, when he barely moved, she sighed. “Shall I go and wait somewhere else?”

Because surely this was a private moment, between two former lovers and now siblings-in-law?

He seemed to wake from a dream, turning to face her slowly, his eyes unrecognisable, his features locked in a mask of determination.

“You are my wife,” he reminded her and to Tia’s surprise—and somewhere inside of her, relief—he reached down and laced their fingers together, holding her hand as though it were something they did all the time. But it wasn’t, and that simple touch of palm to palm, finger to finger, made the breath in her lungs rush out of her, and she was conscious of every single cell in her body. Of the way the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, the way the breeze lifted her hair slightly, the way the fabric of her shirt felt against her skin. “Your place is by my side.”

And even though the words rang with his trademark confidence, his easy command, she felt them almost as a plea. The heartbroken man who’d left here years ago was asking her to stay with him, to help make this easier, and so she resolved that she would: all weekend, and for as long as he needed.

The crunching gravel broke through the bubble of the moment. Cressida was close, her eyes locked to Hamish and then briefly flicking to Tia, a frown flickering across her face like a cloud briefly covering the sun, and then her attention was all on Hamish. “You weren’t expected for another hour,” she said, voice every bit as lovely as one would expect. She spoke in cultured British tones, but there was nothing pretentious in the accent. “Your parents would have wanted to be out here, to meet you.”

“Instead they sent you?” Tia noted Hamish didn’t explain their earliness—the fact they’d been cleared to leave a half hour earlier than planned, then made up time on the flight across. His question was direct, but all things considered, could Tia blame him?

Cressida’s face blanched, hurt showing on her features.

“I’ve…been helping your mother,” she said, the words obviously wounded. “Your father thought…”

Hamish’s hand gripped hers like a vice. She felt it as though he’d cursed loudly; she could only imagine how he must feel.

Cressida’s gaze dropped to the beautiful, abundant bunch of roses she held, a melancholy smile on her face. “Albertines,” she explained. “Your mother’s favourite.”

“I’m aware.”

Cressida’s eyes flew to Hamish’s face. She looked hurt. Wounded, and surprised.

Did she have any right to feel any of those things? What had she expected upon Hamish’s return? The past to simply be forgotten, the betrayal and resulting humiliation in the press to be ignored? Tia suspected she had a far less forgiving nature than Hamish—she’d have metaphorically burned the place down behind herself, tempted to give the kind of tell-all interviews to put everyone to shame—but that didn’t mean Hamish didn’t want to do those things. It didn’t mean he wasn’t feeling that betrayal freshly now. She squeezed his hand back, trying to silently offer support.

But he glanced down at her, and maybe he thought she’d been reminding him she was there. Asking to be introduced? Because a moment later his deep, rich voice spoke the lie they’d agreed to tell when they’d signed their prenuptial agreement.

“Cressida, this is my wife, Tia Stallone.” She’d kept her name. It had felt too strange to change it, particularly as it was associated with her business. Besides, she thought the whole idea of giving up one half of oneself to another person on marriage was archaic. Their child, they’d agreed, would go by Hamish’s name, given his family’s lineage, and at that point, Tia suspected she might start using the surname—at least when dealing with matters pertaining to their son or daughter. But until then, she was holding onto as much of herself as she could.

“Stallone,” Cressida murmured, eyes flicking to Tia and this time lingering there, sweeping over her from head to foot, so Tia was glad she’d had over a decade of practice with this. Of presenting herself with the kind of outward cool most people found unnerving, a bland smile steady on her face, features relaxed and uncommunicative, outfit immaculate despite having come off a long flight.

She’d changed before landing—out of the more comfortable designer jeans and cashmere sweater she’d worn for the flight and into tailored black pants, a silky oyster-coloured camisole with lace detailing at the top, and a neat black blazer that she was now regretting—it was warmer than she’d expected this afternoon. Her heels brought her almost level with Hamish.

“Do I know you?” Cressida asked, frowning.

Tia’s smile tightened. “I don’t think so.”

“Your name is familiar.”

“Tia runs an estate agency. You might have heard of it.” Something in the way he said that made Tia’s stomach twist. There was pride, but was there also a hint of boasting? Was it possible he’d selected her, specifically, to marry because of her success? Because some women might find it intimidating?

“Yes,” Cressida said, eyes widening with what Tia perceived to be surprise. “That’s it. My parents bought their place in Spain through your agency.”

“Maria is one of my top agents,” Tia said, with a nod, referring to the colleague who would have effected the transaction.

Cressida’s attention drifted back to Hamish. “I didn’t know you were married.”

His smile was icy and Tia shivered. “We resisted the urge to announce it via the UK tabloids.”

Cressida looked hurt and Tia felt a pang of sympathy for her. She smothered it quickly. Cressida Ashcombe (traitor) deserved what she got. Not for falling in love with someone else. Tia supposed that could happen, though how, when your fiancé was Hamish? But the infidelity, the lying, the risking public exposure—that was unforgivable. Hamish had deserved so much better. She squeezed his hand again, as a show of support, and he squeezed it back. A silent communication, just like Kate and Roman, but different because this was built out of understanding and compassion, not love.

“I should get these into water,” Cressida said, voice slightly unsteady. The realisation that the other woman might be about to cry had Tia’s chest tightening in an unwelcome rush of sympathy. “I’ll tell your parents you’re here.” She glanced at Tia once more. “It’s… nice to meet you, Tia.”