Cinderella's Desert Baby Bombshell by Lynne Graham, Louise Fuller

CHAPTER EIGHT

ROLLINGONTOHISSIDE, Arlo stared across the room at the open bathroom door. Frankie was in the shower, and over the sound of the running water he could hear her singing. He couldn’t make out the words of the song, but people only sang in the shower when they were happy and that was what mattered.

His shoulders tensed. Although after his performance yesterday she might be forgiven for not believing that.

Gazing unseeingly across the room, he thought about the things that he’d told Frankie out in the heather on the cliffs.

It shouldn’t have happened. Ordinarily it wouldn’t have. She was by no means the first woman to ask him about his parents, and he’d never had any trouble deflecting questions. But yesterday he hadn’t been able to stop himself talking. And not just talking. It had been practically a full-blown confession. He had talked about everything.

Except Harriet.

But why would he mention his ex-wife?

It all seemed so long ago now.

He’d met her at university, just weeks after losing his father, when he had been desperate with grief. It shamed him to admit it now, but she had been a shoulder to cry on.

Except, of course, he hadn’t cried.

Maybe if he had he might not have married her.

But he’d been young, and the impulsive flamboyance of marrying someone he barely knew had seemed like both the right way to honour his parents’ love and a chance to give Johnny some kind of normality and stability.

But his marriage had been over before it had started, its only purpose seemingly to confirm what he’d already known. That love required a blind, unquestioning faith he’d lost.

His stomach tensed. Maybe it was no bad thing to remind himself of that—especially after last night. He wasn’t made of stone or ice. Even if they hadn’t been sleeping together, he cared about Frankie, and her story had broken his heart.

Not that there was any real risk to his heart. This was only about sex. Anything else was just a completely understandable impulse to look after someone who needed help.

He stared at the indentation in the pillow, where Frankie’s head had been. Last night, after she’d fallen asleep, he’d looked up her family’s accident on the internet, and the photos he’d found had left him feeling nauseous. There had been wreckage everywhere. A wing had been torn off and the plane looked as if it had been twisted like a wet cloth.

His chest tightened. Those pictures would stay with him for a long time. But not as long as that look on her face when she’d told him about the crash.

She had seemed so small and young and lost.

A dull ache spread out slowly inside him like spilt wine. He knew how that felt. Even now he could still remember it: the months spent watching his mother shrink in on herself, and then the years after her death, when his father had stopped being the huge, exuberant bear-like man of his childhood and became instead a child...a lonely, angry child who locked himself away with his pain.

But he was lucky. He’d had Johnny, and his family had always been there when he’d let them.

Speaking of family...

He shifted up the bed and, opening his bedside cabinet, pulled out an envelope. Inside was an invitation to his cousin Davey’s tenth wedding anniversary party. And a request for him to say a few words.

He wasn’t planning on going. He’d already hinted as much, pleading work, and by rights he wouldn’t have even been in England if there hadn’t been that problem with the plane, so...

He felt a stab of guilt. Davey wouldn’t make a fuss about it, but he knew his cousin would be disappointed. But not surprised. And that made him feel even more guilty. Not that he was going to do anything about it. Much as he loved his family, he didn’t do the big family events. They were just so full of an energy and emotion he couldn’t handle.

Davey would understand. He’d call him and let him know...

The shower had stopped and, tossing the invitation to the top of the cabinet, he rolled on his back as Frankie wandered into the bedroom and instantly he forgot all about his cousin and the party.

Her hair was tied into some kind of bun thing, and she had a towel tied over her breasts so that her shoulders were bare. Staring over at her pale, damp skin, he felt his fingers itch to tug the towel loose.

‘Nice shower?’ he said softly.

She nodded. ‘The best. Honestly, the water here is amazing. It’s so hot and it’s literally never-ending.’

Smiling, he reached for her hand and pulled her towards the bed. ‘We use hydropower.’

‘You mean like waves?’

‘Sort of,’ he said, pulling her onto his lap. ‘There are caves under the island. When the sea floods them, we use three Archimedes screws to capture the energy of the flow, like a kind of reverse positive displacement... What? What is it?’

Frankie was staring at him, her expression soft, almost hazy.

‘Nothing. I just—’

She steadied herself against his shoulders and he felt his body harden as her fingers splayed over his skin.

‘Is there anything you don’t know?’ she asked.

Lots of things, he thought. Like how she could look so beautiful with shadows under her eyes.

Or how she had walked away from that crash alive.

Pushing that thought away, he looked into her eyes. ‘Plenty, but if the subject interests me enough I make it my business to find out everything there is to know.’

‘I see.’ She shifted against him in a way that made his hands clamp around her waist. ‘So what kind of subjects currently interest you?’

‘Well, just lately I’ve grown very interested in social media.’

He watched as she let her hair down, shaking it loose so that it tumbled over her shoulders.

‘Anything else?’

‘Billiards.’

‘Really?’

This time as she shifted the towel flared around her hips and a tingle of heat tightened his muscles as he caught a glimpse of red-gold curls.

‘Anything else?’ she asked again, softly.

‘Foxes.’ He sucked in a breath as she leaned forward and ran a finger down the dark line of hair bisecting his abdomen. ‘Female foxes in particular.’

The small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth made a complex mix of heat and tension spike inside him.

‘And how do you plan on finding out about female foxes?’ she asked.

He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll start with a thorough and exhaustive examination of any previous research.’ As her hand slid beneath the bedclothes, his hands tightened around the edges of the towel. ‘Although I’m guessing that sounds a little academic and dry.’

‘Maybe a little academic...’ Raising her hips, she tugged the towel loose and let it fall down her body. Their eyes met and he moved his hands up her back, caressing the indentation of her waist as she lifted her hips and then lowered herself onto him. ‘But definitely not dry.’

He sucked in a sharp breath. She was warm, slick, tight. ‘That’s good,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘That’s so good.’

‘Then what will you do?’ she whispered.

She was shivering as if she was cold, but her skin felt hot and smooth, like sun-baked sand.

‘I’ll go out into the field...do some hands-on research of my own.’

He cupped her breasts, his thumbs grazing her nipples so that she arched forward, her mouth forming a long, slow amorphous syllable. He felt his control snap. Reaching up, he brought her face down to his and kissed her fiercely, his groan of pleasure mingling with hers as he rolled her beneath him and surrendered to the impossible need building inside them.

Later, tucked against his warm body, Frankie lay with her head against Arlo’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

She was still trying to catch her breath.

Each time it happened she kept expecting it to be different. For the spell to be broken, the magic to have gone. But each time was the same.

Not the same, she corrected herself. That made it sound boring, and in bed, as in life, Arlo was adventurous and passionate and tireless.

He felt so good. Big and warm and strong, so that even in the eye of the storm, when his hard body was driving into hers, she could sense the solid core of him. And afterwards, in his arms, she felt so calm, so safe.

Closing her eyes, she turned her face into the hollow beneath his shoulder, breathing in his scent. She could feel body softening against his. Except it wasn’t just her body that was softening. The last few days had turned everything she’d thought to be true on its head, so that it was hard to believe she had once found him horrible and rude and arrogant.

And it wasn’t just the sex. Yesterday, he had been kind to her, and gentle—tender, almost—and it was making her feel tender towards him. Particularly after what he’d told her about his parents.

And it was okay to feel that way, she thought defensively. There was no need to overthink it. It wasn’t as if she was in love with him or anything.

‘What are you thinking?’

She blinked. Arlo was looking down at her, his eyes resting on her face. Hoping very much that he couldn’t read her thoughts, she said quickly, ‘Just about how beautiful it looks outside.’

His hand touched her hip bone and he ran his finger lightly along the curve of her bottom. ‘Not as beautiful as you.’

Her eyes met his. ‘So, do you have anything planned for today?’ She wriggled away from his hand, laughing. ‘Aside from that.’

‘No, nothing. I’m entirely at your disposal.’

She breathed out shakily. In one way it was a relief to feel that stab of hunger, to be reminded that this was all about sex. But it was starting to scare her how much she needed him.

And it was a need. A requirement like air or water.

She couldn’t imagine life without him. Only at some point she was not only going to have to imagine it, but experience it for real.

She couldn’t stay here for ever. Her life was in London and that wasn’t going to change, however good the sex or however momentarily kind Arlo was, and there was no point in imagining anything more permanent.

‘Let me see what time it is,’ she said, needing to move away from the heat of his body, or at least to prove that she could.

Leaning past him, she grabbed his watch.

‘Oh, sorry.’ She reached down for the card that she’d knocked to the floor. Unthinkingly, she glanced at it. It was an invitation to a wedding anniversary party.

‘Who’s Davey and Serena?’

‘My cousin and his wife. It’s their tenth wedding anniversary.’

Arlo’s voice was clipped and, glancing up, she saw that the easy intimacy of moments earlier had faded. Now he looked guarded, wary.

‘That’s wonderful. And they’re having a party.’ She gave him a small stiff smile. ‘Don’t worry—I’m not angling for a plus-one. I’ll be long gone by—’ She broke off, her eyes widening as she read the date. ‘But it’s today.’ Looking up, she frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Why didn’t you say something?’

‘Why would I? I’m not attending.’

Even without the sudden coolness in his voice she would have sensed that as far as Arlo was concerned this particular topic of conversation was over.

‘But why? It’s a special occasion.’ Her stomach clenched. ‘It’s not anything to do with me, is it?’

He frowned. ‘I’m sorry to break this to you, Frankie, but very little in my life is anything to do with you.’ His eyes were hard now. ‘We’re not overthinking this. That’s what we agreed, remember?’

Frankie stared at him, mute with shock, feeling a chill slide over her skin at the starkness of his words. ‘I remember.’

‘Good.’ He rolled off the bed and stalked past her naked. ‘And, just so we’re clear, I’m not going to be running my social diary past you any time soon.’

‘I’m not expecting you to. I just thought it had to be me...the reason you aren’t going. I mean, what other reason could there be?’ she persisted. ‘It’s not as if you’re doing anything else...and it’s your cousin’s anniversary party.’

Pulling on his trousers, he shook his head. ‘My reasons are my business, and this conversation is over.’

She held her breath, hanging on to her temper. ‘Why are you being like this? I was just trying to be nice.’ Turning, fists clenching, she took a step towards him. ‘What is the matter? I don’t understand—’

‘Then let me make it plain.’ There was no emotion in his voice. ‘What I do, where I go or don’t go, is nothing to do with you. And that goes for my family too.’

She stared at him, her anger fading, giving way to a savage, wrenching pain that made tears choke up in her throat.

‘You’re right. It isn’t my business. Nor is it my family. I think I just forgot that for a moment.’ She balled her hands, trying to contain all the chaos and emotion inside her. ‘I was thinking about my family and how I’d give anything just to see them again—’

The room swam.

‘Frankie—’

She held up a defensive hand. ‘It’s fine. I don’t need you to comfort me. I can deal with it on my own.’

‘Please—Please!’ He took a step closer. ‘Please don’t cry. I never want to make you cry.’

Her eyes burned as he caught her, his hands gripping her shoulders.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t know why I said it. It’s not even true, and now I’ve upset you—’

She breathed out shakily. His misery was palpable—as was his remorse. ‘Not everything is about you, Arlo. I’m upset because I lost my family. And, yes, you made me think about them. But I’ve spent the last two years not being able to do that, so that’s a good thing.’

And it was true. She didn’t feel trapped or alone with her loss anymore; in fact, she actually felt more, not less, in control.

‘I don’t mind getting upset, but I do mind you talking to me like that. I don’t deserve that—’

‘No, you don’t.’ He pulled her against him, his thumbs tightening around her wrists. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

The features of his face were so familiar, but his expression wasn’t. He looked troubled, young, unsure of himself.

‘It’s just the idea of a party... I’m not like you. I’m not a people person.’

Wasn’t he? She stared at him in confusion. Arlo seemed to have good relationships with everyone at the Hall, and Johnny adored him.

‘But they’re your family.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, and I love them. It’s just being with all of them all together is hard for me.’ He hesitated. ‘But you’re right. It’s a special occasion. I should be there. I need to be there.’ Looking down at her, he clasped her face, stroking her hair. ‘And I’d like you to be there with me.’

Her heart bumped. ‘Arlo, you don’t need to... That wasn’t why—’

‘I know it wasn’t. And I don’t need you there—I want you there.’

‘Are you being serious?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Of course.’ His hand found hers. ‘Please, Frankie. I really do want you to come with me. Davey’s home, Stanhope Park, is an amazing place. There’s a pool, and horses, and Davey’s organised a clay pigeon shoot for the morning after.’

She bit her lip. ‘It all sounds lovely, but I don’t have anything to wear to a party.’

‘Wear what you wore the other night,’ he said softly. ‘I promise not to strip it off you this time.’

Their eyes met and her fingers twitched as his words sent a current of heat from his hand to hers, so that she was suddenly vibrating inside.

Why not go? It would be fun to dress up and dance. And, despite having recovered his composure, Arlo clearly found this kind of event hard. Her eyes snagged on a puckered scar on his chest. He had helped her so much...maybe it was time for her to help him.

She screwed up her face. ‘You’re sure your cousin won’t mind? Me just turning up?’

‘I’ll call him, but he won’t mind. Davey’s not like that. He’s a good man. Kind. Loyal. A little bit cautious.’ He smiled one of those almost-smiles that made her world tilt off its axis. ‘But then he’s spent years being the son and heir.’

She pinched her lip, feeling suddenly nervous. ‘So what do I call him?’

‘His full title is Viscount Fairfax, but in person he’s just Davey.’ He rubbed at the worry lines between her eyebrows. ‘Look...straight up, the house is a bit full-on. But they’re very normal people who do very normal things, like have lunch with their family.’

Frankie nodded. It would be all right. In London she met all kinds of people all the time for her work. But then she hadn’t ever cared what they thought. Arlo was different. She didn’t want to let him down.

She didn’t want to let her own family down either.

A knot was forming in her stomach. That she should have survived was the cruellest cut of all. So many times she had wondered why she alone had been spared, and she was still no closer to knowing the answer... All she knew was that she had to make her life count and make them proud.

His dark gaze roamed her face. ‘You don’t believe me?’

Glancing up, she tried to smile, tried to hide the conflicting emotions swirling inside her.

‘I do. I just don’t want to mess up,’ she said slowly.

‘I wouldn’t worry about that.’

‘But you’re not me,’ she said slowly. ‘You don’t have anything to prove.’

He hesitated, and she wondered if, like her, he was hearing an echo of that moment out on the hillside above the Hall. Only that had been teasing, rhetorical... They both knew Arlo had nothing to prove. Whereas she...

‘Everyone has something to prove,’ Arlo said quietly. ‘Look at Davey. He owns a twenty-thousand-acre estate, but he didn’t earn the money to buy it.’ His hand touched her cheek. ‘He inherited it from his father, along with his title. That was the easy part. Now he has to run it well enough so that it will be there for his son to inherit. He wants to do the best he can.’

‘I want that too.’ She could hear the emotion in her voice but didn’t try to stop it. ‘After the accident, I made a promise I’d do everything I could to make my family proud of me.’

‘I’m sure they were proud, Frankie...’ Frowning, he tried to cup her chin.

But, batting his hand away, she shook her head. ‘Proud of what? The fact that I spent all my time on my phone? Messed up my exams? Dropped out of university? It’s not exactly most parents’ outcome of choice for their child.’

‘Did they say that?’

She made herself look at him. He was watching her calmly. ‘Of course not. They weren’t like that. They weren’t like me.’

They were like Arlo. High achievers. Top of everything they tried.

‘My dad was a paediatrician. My mum was a barrister. Harry was a junior doctor and Amelie was a solicitor. But they weren’t trophy-hunters they were good people...’

Better than good. They’d been decent, dependable, far more deserving of life.

Suddenly she was unbearably conscious of her guilt.

His brows drew together. ‘You’re a good person, Frankie. And I don’t believe for one moment that your family would want you thinking like this.’

The vehemence in his voice made her breath catch in her throat, but it was his hands, with their firm, unwavering grip, that steadied her. She felt a lightness inside her that seemed momentarily to reframe the choices she’d made.

He didn’t have to do this, she thought. Take time to reassure her. Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek, her lips soft and warm against his skin. ‘You’re a good person too,’ she said slowly.

As he let his head rest against hers she felt her heart contract. Since losing her family, the idea of getting close to someone, caring about them, had been too terrifying to contemplate. She couldn’t risk it happening again. To love and then lose someone again was beyond her. That was why she kept people at arm’s length, built emotional barriers between herself and the world.

Until Arlo. Seeing him so vulnerable had made something crack open inside her. But she had to keep things straight in her head. Maybe one day she would be able to love and be loved, but not here, not now, not with him.

This could only ever be temporary, and these feelings of tenderness were just the result of her loneliness and her desire to belong somewhere.

And besides, Arlo didn’t even believe in love.

He let his head rest against hers. ‘You’ll have fun, okay? I promise. Now, get dressed and pack whatever you think you’ll need. I’ve just got a couple of calls to make.’

‘I got Robertto bring the car round,’ Arlo said, turning to Frankie as they walked downstairs. ‘But I thought I’d drive myself.’

Glancing discreetly at his watch, he felt a ripple of astonishment as he saw the time. Incredibly, it had taken an hour and a half for Frankie to pack, but he’d waited patiently, sensing that to rush her would be counterproductive.

She had been nervous before, but now she seemed excited and he was the one feeling jittery.

No, not jittery so much as conflicted.

He wanted to go, for Frankie’s sake, but he was still dreading it. Partly that was because he’d never been as extroverted as Johnny and his parents, and he found spending time with his family en masse hard. But mostly the reason he didn’t want to go was because celebrating Davey and Serena’s tenth anniversary would remind him of his own failed marriage.

His stomach clenched. It was so unbelievably petty and shameful that he could barely admit it to himself, much less Frankie. Only she’d said that thing about her own family and he’d had to pull himself together.

She shook her head. ‘I still can’t believe I know someone who has a chauffeur.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s not that big a deal. It’s just a useful option if I need to take my hands off the wheel.’

Watching her bite into her lip, he felt his insides clench.

‘You have a one-track mind,’ he said softly.

Her blue eyes locked with his, wide and teasing. ‘So do you.’

‘You carry on looking at me like that and I’m going to have to put you in the boot,’ he warned.

She laughed. ‘Empty threats, Milburn. The Land Rover doesn’t have a boot.’

‘We’re not going in the Land Rover, Fox,’ he said, holding open the front door.

Turning, she clamped her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my goodness. Is that a Rolls-Royce?’

The note of excitement in her voice was strangely satisfying, and he let his gaze follow hers to where the huge golden convertible crouched like a lion in the drive.

‘So this is the car Robert drives.’ She giggled. ‘I couldn’t imagine you being driven around in state in your Land Rover. But this makes more sense.’

Reaching out, she slid her fingers over the silver figurine crouching on the bonnet and he felt almost light-headed. It was dizzyingly easy to imagine those same small, delicate hands caressing his body.

‘Does she have a name?’ she asked.

‘She does.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The Spirit of Ecstasy.’

Her eyes met his, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Are we here?’ Only a little while later, Frankie was glancing out of her window. Up ahead, a pair of huge wrought-iron gates rose up between the high brick walls edging the road.

He nodded. ‘This is it. Stanhope Park.’ Leaning over, he punched a number into the keypad set into the wall and waited as the gates swung open.

As the big car swept up the driveway Frankie suddenly sat up straighter, her cheeks flushed with excitement and awe. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said five minutes later, as he pulled up in front of the beautiful house.

Switching the engine off, he looked over at her. ‘Okay?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded, and then she froze, her blue eyes widening with panic. ‘But what have you told them? About us?’ She stumbled over the word. ‘I mean, about who I am...what I am to you?’

He stared at her in silence, his heart beating against his ribs, stunned by her question and by his own idiocy. It was the first question everyone would ask, only up until now he hadn’t thought to classify their relationship. It hadn’t seemed necessary. In fact, naming what he and Frankie shared felt wrong, for some reason.

But this was going to be hard enough as it was. He didn’t need to complicate matters by questioning what was, in essence, just a fling. He should follow his own advice and not overthink things.

‘I think it’ll make things simpler if we stick as close to the truth as possible. Why don’t we just say we met through Johnny and you’re up from London for a couple of days?’

She didn’t say anything for a moment, and then she nodded slowly. ‘That would work.’

‘Good,’ he said brusquely as the front door opened and a trio of Labradors came cantering out, followed by a tall blond man. ‘Now, come and meet Davey.’

Arlo had been right about his cousin, she thought, as Davey led them into the house. He seemed like a really nice, normal man. But, despite what Arlo had said earlier, it was difficult not to be intimidated by Stanhope Park.

It was as big as a hotel, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that Davey was wearing a Tattersall check shirt, moleskin jeans, and tan-coloured brogues she would have felt as if she’d slipped through a looking glass into the seventeenth century.

Lavish gilding, Rococo tapestries and jewel-bright festoon curtains were perfectly offset by a neutral colour palette of French grey, buff, and pale green. In fact, everything was perfect, she thought, gazing round their vast bedroom.

‘I’ll leave you to get settled in.’ Davey smiled at Frankie. ‘Lunch is at two.’

Lunch. She walked slowly the length of the room, trailing her fingers over the smooth velvet and polished wood, then walked back to where Arlo was watching her calmly.

‘So...?’ He tilted his head back questioningly.

‘It’s a little intimidating.’ She met his gaze. ‘Should I change for lunch?’ She looked down at her jeans and sweater.

He shook his head. ‘But, speaking of clothes, I have something for you.’ Taking her hand, he led her past the gloriously over the top canopied bed and into the dressing room. ‘I hope you like it.’

Frankie stared past him, open-mouthed, at a curaçao-blue silk dress. Except that dress was too basic a word for the confection hanging from the rail. Thin, fragile straps, a flowing skirt... Turning the dress, she felt her pulse accelerate. And a devastating neckline cut low to reveal the length of her back.

‘Where...? How did you...?’ she stammered.

‘Bond Street. I had them courier it up.’ His eyes were fixed on her face, examining her reaction. ‘I took a punt at your measurements, so I hope it fits.’

‘Oh, Arlo.’ She breathed out shakily. ‘It’s lovely...but I can’t accept this.’

‘Of course you can. I invited you, remember? And after I spoke to Serena I realised the party was going to be bigger and grander than I thought.’

‘Grander!’Her head was spinning. ‘You mean, like crowns and things?’

Shaking his head, he brushed her hair back around her ear. ‘No, it’s just that the guest list is a bit of a roll-call of the great and the good. They like to dress up and I want you to feel at home.’

There was no dress on earth that could do that, she thought dully.

‘Who are they?’ she heard herself say.

‘There’s my other cousins, Jack and Arthur. Jack runs a very successful hedge fund and his wife Charlotte co-owns an art gallery in Knightsbridge. Arthur owns an estate over the border in Scotland, and his wife Jemma is a model. Then there’s Tom—he set up a literacy charity...’

She felt hot and shivery, as if she had a fever. Maybe she did have one. It would certainly explain why she wasn’t thinking straight...why she had agreed to this. What had she been thinking? It was hard enough to pretend to herself that she was good enough. She couldn’t possibly spend an evening trying to convince people like Arlo’s friends and family.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this.’

‘Do what?’ Arlo looked straight into her eyes. He sounded confused.

‘Be here. In this house. With these people.’ Her hands were tingling now, and she felt a rush of panic, cold and swirling and unstoppable, like the waves rising up over the causeway. ‘I thought I could, but I don’t fit in here. I don’t own an estate. I’m not a lady.’

‘So what? I’m not a lord...’ The confusion in his eyes had darkened his irises almost to black.

‘But you’re related to one. And you own an island.’ Her heart was crashing in her ears. ‘You’ve walked to the South Pole alone. Everyone at this party will have done something amazing, won’t they?’

‘And so have you.’ His hands caught her wrists. ‘Look, Frankie, I get that you’re still grieving, but you have got to stop this. You’ve got to let go.’

Her heart squeezed. ‘Of what?’

‘This need you feel to be worthy of life.’ He was looking at her, his face implacable. ‘Look, I understand. You see it all the time in the military. Survivor’s guilt. A belief that you did something wrong by surviving. That being alive makes you guilty.’

In a tiny voice, she said, ‘But I am guilty.’

‘Of what? Surviving something that was completely random?’

‘Not just surviving.’ She drew a breath, trying to maintain control. ‘It’s my fault they’re dead.’

Heart hammering,Arlo stared at her in silence. Her voice sounded as if it was sticking in her throat. She looked frightened, angry, helpless.

It was like seeing himself at thirteen.

Pushing that thought away, he shook his head. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Frankie. It was an accident.’

She pulled away from him, her anger rearing up like a riderless horse. ‘How would you know? You weren’t there?’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But there was an inquest. People must have looked into what happened—’

‘Other people who weren’t there either.’ The skin was taut across her cheekbones. ‘They don’t know what happened. What I did.’ Her face contracted.

‘Then tell me.’ He looked at her, waiting. ‘Tell me what you did.’

The anger that had flared up so fiercely flickered and died. ‘I made my dad fly that night. He was tired, and he said it was too late, but I made a huge fuss about getting home because I wanted to go to some stupid party. I knew he didn’t want to fly, but I made him—’

The despair in her eyes made his skin sting. This was more than just grief, and the crash had robbed her of more than just her family. It had taken away her trust. Not just that childlike faith shared by everyone that nothing bad could happen to good people, but faith in herself, in the person she’d thought she was.

Shaking his head, he kept his voice gentle but firm. ‘Your dad was the pilot, Frankie. And he decided to fly. It was his decision. Not your mum’s. Not yours. His.’

‘So what are you saying? That it was his fault?’

The anger was back and he caught her wrists again.

‘It was nobody’s fault. Including yours. But you want it to be. Because your guilt is a way of holding on to the people you’ve lost.’ She stared up at him mutely and, loosening his grip, he reached up and stroked her cheek. ‘Or you think it is. But you end up losing them anyway, because you can’t bear thinking about them, talking about them.’

She took a small shuddering breath and, watching her press her hand against her mouth, he felt his throat constrict. But he carried on relentlessly.

‘And I know that’s not what you want. But if you want to remember them you have to accept that what happened wasn’t some sort of cosmic quid pro quo. They didn’t die so you could live. You have to accept that and forgive yourself for not dying.’

Her small, white upturned face was like one of the anemones that grew beneath the walls of his kitchen garden.

‘I don’t know how,’ she whispered.

‘But I do, sweetheart. Trust me.’ His fingers tightened around hers. ‘You do trust me, don’t you, Frankie?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I do.’

‘Then you’ve taken the first step.’

Her face dissolved into tears and, wordlessly, Arlo pulled her against his body, his own eyes burning, his whole being focused on the aim of making the infinite expanse of her grief measurable.

Stroking her hair, he talked soothingly, and finally she breathed out shakily.

‘I’m sorry. I always seem to be crying all over you.’

‘You need to cry.’ Lifting her chin, he kissed her softly on the lips. ‘And I have plenty of shirts.’

She folded her body against his trustingly and he tensed inside. He had asked her to trust him, but why? He didn’t want her trust. He didn’t need that burden. He knew he should move, only his hand kept caressing her hair, and he could feel her soft warmth taking him to a place where cynicism and loneliness didn’t play any part.

But even if that place existed it was not for him, and he lifted his hand as she tilted her head back to look at him.

‘You’d better go and change, then, before we go down to lunch,’ she said, her fingers lightly touching the front of his shirt. ‘I seem to have covered this one in mascara.’

‘Are you sure you want to stay?’

The shaky smile that accompanied her nod was something he couldn’t bear to look at, and he pulled her closer.

‘You’re not responsible for what happened. No one is. Life is cruel and random, but you’re not alone. I meant what I said. I’m here.’

Not for ever, of course. But that was a given. They both knew what this was, and how it would end. And it would end...