Catherine O'Connor - Sweet Lies

‘My mother—’ she began simply, but he cut in, embarrassed by his own insensitivity.

‘I forgot, I’m sorry, Megan,’ he reassured her, for a fleeting moment looking like the young man she had known, so that the ice around her heart melted a little, warmed by his sympathy. He pushed his thick dark hair from his face, revealing an attractive touch of grey to his temples, a sad reminder that time had indeed travelled on, forcing an unbridgeable chasm between them.

She remembered that hair, falling gently between her eager fingers, soft and warm, and a faint tint of colour rose to her face at the memory which sprang so easily to mind. She promptly tried to dismiss it, struggling to return her thoughts to more neutral ground. She smiled briefly as their eyes met and held with the strong tie of the past. She dropped her head, turning away, knowing that he had seen the misting of her eyes in memory of what might have been. They had been so young, so in love…

The years they had been apart seemed to vanish as Megan’s mind drifted back to those heady, magical days when everything had seemed so perfect.

Darrow, despite everyone else’s doubts, had kept in touch with Megan the whole time he was at university, but the separation caused by his year in America had proved his love for her was not strong enough. He had found someone else and abandoned her—not that she would ever have let him know that. Her pride wouldn’t have let her. She had played him at his own game. She had exaggerated her friendship with Karl, the attractive German hitch-hiker who had been taking a walking holiday in the Yorkshire dales and had stayed for the rest of the summer, doing casual work at the local boat-yard.

‘Megan,’ he said huskily, moving closer, taking full advantage of her momentary lapse. A shudder of anguish tore through her body and she raised her hands before her, to prevent him from touching her. Megan knew her barriers would never be strong enough to cope with his touch.

She was already too vulnerable, weakened by the flood of emotions that were sweeping over her. It had been such a difficult year. Luke had been stricken by a general malaise that had baffled doctors for a time before their diagnosis of glandular fever. Then there had been her mother’s sudden death, and now her return home, after all those years of being away.

‘Don’t,’ she ordered, but her voice was weak and it sounded more like a desperate plea, whispered in hope. ‘Darrow, my mother’s death…coming back here…’ Her voice trailed off as his strong fingers curled around her wrists, drawing her hands down. His impetuous action caught her off guard, and the impact of the sudden warm touch on her skin riveted her to the spot.

‘Why not? Why have you come back?’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘You knew I was here. Didn’t you…?’ His tone had taken on a steely edge and his grip had intensified, forcing an immediate denial from Megan. Her eyes darted to his, searching his face for compassion but finding none, and his question troubled her; what did he think she had come back for? She struggled fruitlessly against his stubborn strength.

‘No, you’re wrong; I had no idea,’ Megan protested, alarmed by the thunderous clouds that swirled in the darkest depths of his eyes. She tried to pull away but her actions were futile; he was far too strong for her and her reaction only served to fuel his temper.

‘Then why now?’ he derided with a cruel sneer, the contempt etched clearly on his ruthless face, pulling her closer till their bodies almost touched. Megan tensed every fibre of her body as the haunting aroma of his aftershave teased her nostrils, flooding her with agonising memories.

‘I’ve told you—I’m here to sort out my mother’s estate,’ protested Megan, confronting his anger with complete candour, and she saw the flickering realisation in his eyes as he released her, his anger suddenly appeased. For a split-second she had seen the cool mask of indifference fall away and she stepped back in confusion.

‘Of course. I’m so sorry about your mother.’ His voice was now smooth and good-tempered, as if his outburst had never happened, which increased Megan’s confusion still further.

‘Don’t be,’ Megan replied quickly, as eager as him to put the strange incident behind her. ‘We never really got on, were never that close,’ she confessed, without a trace of remorse. She had come to accept their differences a long time ago.

It had been partly her mother’s fault that she had had to leave Rannaleigh; they would have never agreed about the situation. She had always been far too conventional for her mother, a disappointment in so many ways, yet they had kept in contact, grown closer over the years. Her mother, who had doted on her grandson, had made numerous visits to London, but Megan had never felt comfortable with the idea of going back to Rannaleigh, and by then her mother had understood her reasons and supported them. It was one of the few things they had come to agree on. Megan’s mother had respected her daughter’s independence. It had been the one thing they had in common besides their love for Luke.

Darrow remained silent, his expression fathomless, his dark eyes brooding.

‘I couldn’t make the funeral,’ she explained painfully, filling in the silence that only seemed to increase the tension between them. ‘But I’ve come now,’ she added lightly, her features impassive, displaying none of her inner hurt. But he caught the note of tension in her voice and his lips parted into an understanding smile. Megan dropped her own gaze, unable to bear the compassion in the shining eyes.

‘She was a strong individual, your mother,’ he said graciously. ‘Unfortunately she expected the same from everyone else,’ he concluded, a grimness entering his tone, and Megan knew he was remembering the painful scenes between herself and her mother which he had been an unwilling spectator to.

She felt her cheeks grow hot as a vivid flash of those adolescent arguments flashed through her mind. Yet, despite everything, in the end her mother had been right. Darrow was not to be trusted. Megan had been forced to admit it. They had been too young to be truly in love and when Darrow’s love had been tested he had failed her so spectacularly that she still remembered the twist of the knife searing her heart.

‘Are you planning on staying?’ His eyes narrowed on her face and she wondered where his source of annoyance was coming from. Surely she was the injured party, not him, and she felt a justifiable anger niggle inside her, deep down in the hidden well of emotions that she knew would belong forever to her first love.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered truthfully. Until that moment she had thought of it only as a passing visit; now her heart seemed to be aching to stay. ‘I don’t think so.’

She desperately scanned his face, but found nothing to encourage her to change her mind. She swallowed the painful lump that caught in her throat at the realisation that she had hoped to find some trace of affection. ‘There’s nothing for me here. There never was,’ she added, a trace of bitterness entering her tone, and her eyes met his in silent confirmation.

‘Wasn’t there?’ he snapped tautly. His anger was now well under control, but Megan could see the signs of its brittleness. His eyes had darkened into swirling inky pools of molten fierceness that betrayed his growing fury.

‘It was all such a long time ago, Darrow.’ She looked away as she shook her head, hating the sense of betrayal that was resurfacing after all this time. ‘I have to go. Excuse me.’ She flicked an anxious glance towards the door, suddenly agitated.

‘Wait,’ he ordered, his arm outstretched to prevent her moving. ‘I want to talk to you.’ His look was hard and demanding, his tone honed with the sharp steel edge of command.