Maiden melteth.’
Tory clenched her teeth at this attempt at humour and confined herself to a glare. It seemed wiser than protesting, especially when she could recall staring overlong at the American.
Of course it hadn’t lasted, the impact of his looks. The moment he had talked—or patronised might be closer to the mark—she had recovered rapidly.
‘Well, who’s to blame you?’ Simon ran on. ‘He has at least one irresistible quality: he’s rich. As in hugely, obscenely, embarrassingly—’
‘Shut up, Simon,’ she cut in, exasperated. ‘Even if I was interested in his money, which I’m not, he definitely isn’t my type.’
‘If you say so.’ He was clearly unconvinced. ‘Probably as well. Rumour has it that he’s still carrying a torch for his wife.’
‘Wife?’ she echoed. ‘He’s married?’
‘Was,’ he corrected. ‘Wife died in a car accident a few years ago. Collided with a tanker lorry. Seemingly, she was pregnant at the time.’
The details struck a chord with Tory, and her stomach hit the floor. She shook her head in denial. No, it couldn’t be.
Or could it?
Lucas could shorten to Luc. He was American. He did work in the media, albeit a quite different area.
‘Was he ever a foreign correspondent?’
She willed Simon to ridicule the idea.
Instead he looked at her in surprise. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, my sources tell me he worked for Reuters in the Middle East for several years before marrying into money. I can’t remember the name of the family but they’ve Fleet Street connections.’
The Wainwrights. Tory knew it, though she could scarcely believe it. He’d been married to Jessica Wainwright. Tory knew this because she’d almost married into the same family.
How had she not recognised him immediately? She’d seen a photograph. It had pride of place on the grand piano—Jessica radiant in white marrying her handsome war reporter. Of course, it had been taken more than a decade earlier.
‘Do you know him from some place, then?’ Simon didn’t hide his curiosity.
Tory shook her head. Telling Simon would be like telling the world.
‘I remember reading about him in a magazine.’ She hoped to kill the subject dead.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, watching her pick up her handbag and jacket.
‘Lunch,’ she snapped back.
‘It’s not noon yet,’ he pointed out, suddenly the model employee.
‘It’s either that or stay and murder you,’ Tory retorted darkly.
‘In that case,’ Simon did his best to look contrite, ‘bon appetit!’
It deflated some of Tory’s anger, but she still departed, needing fresh air and her own company. She made for the back staircase, expecting to meet no one on it. Most people used the lift.
Taking the stairs two at a time, she cannoned right into a motionless figure on the landing, bounced back off and, with a quick, ‘Sorry,’ would have kept on moving if a hand hadn’t detained her. She looked up to find Lucas Ryecart staring down at her. Two meetings in half an hour was too much!
The American, however, didn’t seem to think so. His face creased into a smile, transforming hard lines into undeniable charm. ‘We meet again…Tory, isn’t it?’
‘I—I…yes.’ Tory was reduced to monosyllables once more.
‘Is everything all right?’ He noted her agitation. He could hardly miss it. She must resemble a nervous rabbit caught in headlights.
She gathered her wits together, fast. ‘Yes. Fine. I’m just going to the…dentist,’ she lied unnecessarily. She could have easily said she was going to do some research.
‘Well, at least it’s not me,’ he drawled in response.
Tory blinked. ‘What’s not?’
‘Giving you that mildly terrified look,’ he explained and slanted her a slow, amused smile.
Tory’s brain went to mush again. ‘I…no.’
‘Check-up, filling or extraction?’
‘Extraction.’
Tory decided an extraction might account for her flaky behaviour.
‘I’ll be back later,’ she added, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl.
‘Don’t bother,’ Lucas Ryecart dismissed. ‘I’m sure Colin won’t mind if you take the rest of the day off.’
He said this as Colin Mathieson appeared on the stairwell, holding up a file. ‘Sorry I was so long, but it took some finding.’
‘Good…Colin, Tory has to go to the dentist.’ The American made a show of consulting him. ‘Do you think we could manage without her this afternoon?’
Colin recognised the question for what it was—a token gesture. Lucas Ryecart called the shots now.
‘Certainly, if she’s under the weather,’ Colin conceded, but he wasn’t happy about it.
There were deadlines to be met and Alex was seldom around these days to meet them. Colin was well aware Tory and Simon were taking up the slack.
‘I’ll come in tomorrow,’ she assured him quietly.
He gave her a grateful smile.
‘Tory is a real workaholic,’ he claimed, catching the frown settling between Lucas Ryecart’s dark brows.
‘Well, better than the other variety, I guess.’ The American’s eyes rested on Tory. He had a very direct, intense way of looking at a person.
Tory felt herself blush again. Could he possibly know why they were covering for Alex?
‘I have to go.’ She didn’t wait for permission but took to her heels, flying down the stairs to exit Eastwich’s impressive glass façade.
Having no dental appointment, she went straight back to her flat to hide out. It was on the ground floor of a large Victorian house on the outskirts of Norwich. She’d decided to rent rather than buy, as any career move would dictate a physical move. Maybe it would be sooner rather than later now Lucas Ryecart had descended on Eastwich.
Tory took out an album of old photographs and found one from five years ago. She felt relief, sure she’d changed almost out of recognition, her face thinner, her hair shorter, and her make-up considerably more sophisticated. She was no longer that dreamy-eyed girl who’d thought herself in love with Charlie Wainwright.
Coupled with a different name—Charlie had always preferred Victoria or Vicki to the Tory friends had called her—it was not surprising Lucas Ryecart had failed to make the connection. Chances were that all he’d seen of her was a snapshot, leaving the vaguest of memories, and all he’d heard was about a girl called Vicki who was at college with Charlie. Nobody special. A nice ordinary girl.
She could imagine Charlie’s elegant mother using those exact words. Then, afterwards, Vicki had probably undergone a personality change from ordinary to common, and from nice to not very nice at all. What else, when the girl had broken her son’s heart?
It was what Charlie had claimed at the time. Forget the fact that it had been his decision to end the engagement.
She took out another photograph, this one of Charlie’s handsome, boyish face. She didn’t know why she kept it. If she’d ever loved him, she certainly didn’t now. It had all gone. Not even pain left.
Life had moved on. Charlie had the family he’d wanted and she had her career.