LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘We can get a ferry from here?’

      ‘We’ll go on Le Shuttle.’

      He gave another odd smile. ‘Don’t like sailing either?’

      ‘No,’ she replied stonily.

      ‘How did you manage before it was built?’

      ‘With difficulty. My car’s over there.’

      Glancing at the gleaming red sports car, he gave a silent whistle, looked at her with new interest. He’d assumed she’d have a sedate hatchback.

      ‘You bought it for me,’ she stated shortly as she opened the boot for him to put his belongings inside. After the birth of their son.

      ‘Generous of me.’

      ‘Yes.’ Climbing behind the wheel, she watched without amusement as he folded his considerable length in beside her. His head brushed the roof.

      ‘There’s a lever on your right to lower the seat.’ She had a moment’s compunction that on the long drive to the south of France he was going to be extremely uncomfortable, then dismissed it. She hadn’t asked for this. But it was something she had to do, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

      There was sexual awareness as there had been that first time they’d met, but no feeling of excitement or warmth. Just despair. And pain. And perhaps fear. She was probably still in shock. And when she came out of it? The panic returning, she slowed, whispered, ‘I can’t do this.’

      ‘Yes, you can,’ he argued with flat insistence. ‘It’s my life, Gellis.’

      ‘I know.’ But it was hers too. And, seemingly without any choice in the matter, she drove the short distance to her parents’ house.

      She tried to imagine it from his point of view. Tried to imagine having no memory. And couldn’t. And if Nathalie hadn’t come to see her after she’d received that note... But she had come, and so the matter was academic. He’d cheated. Deliberately lied. And if he had been the same man she’d loved... But he wasn’t. He was a grim-faced stranger. Hard and tough. Dangerous. But they both needed to find out the truth, didn’t they?

      She didn’t park directly outside the house but a few doors along, and, glancing at him worriedly, said quietly, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. You’ll stay here?’

      He nodded.

      ‘Give me your word.’

      He looked at her, his eyes hard and direct. ‘You have it.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Feeling sick and shaky, disbelieving, she climbed out, and he watched her walk across the road. Watched the hypnotic sway of the long, loosely woven plait that hung to her waist. The seductive movement of her hips. An exceptionally beautiful woman. Tall and slender, graceful. The sort of woman people looked at twice because she was—different. With a long neck, narrow hands and feet, she walked as though she was special. Someone he’d presumably loved.

      And yet, when he looked into her face, he saw only bitterness, pain. A gentle girl, he suspected, who’d had to learn toughness the hard way. Because of him? What the hell had he done to make her look so distressed?

      Shifting slightly, trying to find room for his long legs, he gave a grim smile. He should have bought her a bigger car. Driving to France in this sardine can was going to be a real test of endurance. Well, he’d suffered worse and survived. And, at the end of it, would he finally remember?

      She was back in just over an hour. Hair tied loosely back now, still damp from her shower, it hung like a brown, shiny curtain. Dressed in thick black cords and a white sweater, a black leather jacket slung round her shoulders, she carefully looked both ways before crossing the road. And he felt—attracted.

      After putting her small suitcase in the boot, she climbed behind the wheel and handed him a map. ‘Just in case,’ she explained.

      He nodded, glanced at the house, saw the curtain twitch and a woman with short dark hair peek out.

      ‘Who’s that?’

      Glancing across, she murmured, ‘My mother.’ ‘She lives with you?’

      She shook her head. Switching on the ignition, she checked her mirrors then pulled away.

      ‘Did I ever meet her?’

      ‘Yes, and my father.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘They liked you.’

      Turning his head, he stared at her profile. ‘For four months there has been no one to ask questions of. I’m sorry if you think me—’

      ‘No,’ she broke in, distressed. ‘But please try to see it from my point of view. I find this very hard. Ask what you need to.’

      ‘Thank you. Was I ever here?’

      ‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly.

      ‘They didn’t mind us living together?’

      Hesitating only briefly, she shook her head.

      Still watching her, he asked, ‘Were you in love with me, Gellis?’

      A swift, sharp pain in her heart, she gave a bitter smile. ‘Yes.’ So much. More than life.

      ‘But I left you.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘We didn’t have a row? Anything like that?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘And I didn’t tell you I was going to South America?’

      ‘No.’

      He was silent for a moment, and then he asked quietly, ‘Were we happy, Gellis?’

      With another bitter smile, she murmured, ‘I thought so, yes.’ She’d thought it was the love story to end all love stories. And perhaps it had been. But why, then, had he behaved as he had? She had made so many excuses for him in her mind, to her parents—tried to rationalise it, come to terms with it, and didn’t suppose she ever would until she knew the truth. And he must have been an astonishingly good actor, mustn’t he? Because, that last month, never by hint or deed had he ever intimated that he no longer loved her. Or their son. A son he’d delivered...

      

      ‘Gellis?’

      ‘I am going to die,’ she stated confidently. ‘Gellis!’

      ‘If the next pain is as bad as the last, I am going to die.’

      With a splutter of laughter, he climbed onto the bed beside her, held her in his arms. ‘You aren’t allowed to die,’ he said softly.

      Opening her eyes, she stared at him. ‘Non?’ ‘Non.’

      ‘Well, if the ambulance doesn’t get here soon, or the doctor—’ Stiffening, she clutched at him, held her breath.

      ‘Pant.’

      ‘I don’t want to pant,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, boy, I need to push.’

      ‘Non, he denied worriedly.

      ‘Yes. Oh, God. Get some towels.’

      ‘Towels?’

      ‘Yes! Vite! Oh, Sébastien, quickly.’

      Alarmed, he rolled to his feet, sprinted into the other room, grabbed a pile of towels and hurried back. He hovered, gave a ridiculous smile, asked foolishly, ‘What do I do with them?’

      ‘Oh, Sébastien!’ she exclaimed on a weak laugh. ‘Put them under me.’

      ‘Right. Put them under you. Be calm,’ he instructed himself. ‘Be calm.’ Gently raising her, he put several towels beneath her, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and smiled. A bit quirky, a bit lopsided, but a smile. ‘I’m all right now.’

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