Maggie Cox - British Bachelors - Rich and Powerful - What His Money Can't Hide / His Temporary Mistress / Trouble on Her Doorstep

What would it be like to be the mother of this enigmatic man’s child? she wondered. Would he adore his son or daughter as much as Layla undoubtedly knew she would? There was still so much about Drake that she didn’t know—places that he’d warned her to stay away from … It had crossed her mind more than once today that the nightmare he’d had last night probably involved some disturbing memories from his past. What were they? He’d told her yesterday that he hadn’t known much joy in the house where he’d grown up, only sorrow. If only she could persuade him to share some of the experiences that haunted him it might help dispel the hold they had on him.

Stopping in front of a jolting ‘warts and all’ self-portrait of the artist whose work they were viewing, Layla stared back into bottomless blue eyes that seemed so full of pain and regret and desires left unfulfilled and expelled a helpless sigh of commiseration.

Turning his head to study her, Drake was immediately concerned. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘He looks like such a tormented soul, bless him.’

‘By all accounts he was. A latter-day Van Gogh who was plagued by depression and eventually took his own life. But at least while he lived he did what he loved.’

‘I suppose we should thank God for small mercies. Do you still love what you do, Drake?’

‘Of course.’

There was no hesitation in his answer, and Layla was pleased that at least there was one area of his life where unhappiness and a sense of isolation didn’t dog him as she was beginning to guess it often did. ‘Did you ever do any drawing or painting as a child?’ she asked conversationally.

A shadow immediately stole across his face. ‘Only when I was at school.’

‘And did you enjoy it?’

A corner of his mouth quirked, nudging an engaging dimple in the side of his cheek and dispelling the shadow she’d glimpsed. ‘I did. Turns out that I had a bit of a talent for it … I guess it was the precursor of my love of designing houses—which is why I chose architecture as a career. I suppose, as well, I always believed that our homes should be beautiful, and if I designed them I could make them as beautiful as I wanted.’

‘That’s a lovely intention. You never drew or dabbled with paints at home?’

‘No.’

It was a flat no, without any suggestion or possibility of further elucidation, Layla realised.

‘Didn’t you want to?’ she ventured.

Her companion stayed worryingly silent.

‘Clearly this must be another one of those places that I’m not supposed to go, then?’ She couldn’t prevent the note of exasperation that crept into her voice.

He lifted a dark eyebrow and lightly shook his head. ‘My home-life was hardly conducive to having the freedom to draw or experiment with paint or colour. That’s all I’ll tell you for the time being. Perhaps we can talk about this later? Right now I think we should just enjoy the art, don’t you? After all, it’s what we came for.’

Although Drake’s response might not be as warm as she could wish, it did stir a faint hope in her that at last he was coming round to the idea of discussing his past with her.

For some reason all of a sudden she couldn’t abide the thought of the all-important pill burning a hole in her pocket. What was she thinking of, delaying taking it? She wasn’t an immature teenager, for goodness’ sake! She was a fully-grown woman and the situation called for her to be sensible and realistic.

What on earth had possessed her to become so entranced by the crazy notion of having Drake’s baby? They weren’t in a committed relationship. She worked in a low-paid job in a café, and Drake had an important commission to help regenerate their underachieving impoverished town and help set it on its feet again. The last thing he or she needed was to be faced with the prospect of having a baby. Add to this the fact that they’d only known each other for the shortest time, and this sizzling sexual heat they had for each other would likely burn itself out very soon, and it simply confirmed that her decision to take the damn pill was absolutely the right one. Anything else was simply delusional … perhaps dangerously so.

Yet it didn’t help the ache in Layla’s heart whenever she so much as glanced at Drake to become any less intense.

Glancing round, she saw the sign for the ladies’ room at the far end of the gallery and, abruptly freeing her hand from his clasp, murmured, ‘Excuse me, but I need to go to the Ladies. I won’t be long.’

‘Layla?’ His grey eyes glinted with such concern that it made her insides execute a cartwheel.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘When you get back we’ll go upstairs to the restaurant and get some coffee. After we’ve seen everything we want to see here I’d like to take you shopping, to buy a new blouse to replace the one I ripped.’

‘There’s no need.’ Scalding heat poured into her cheeks at the memory of just how he had managed to rip her blouse, and as if he’d read her mind Drake’s grey eyes twinkled in amusement.

‘Yes, there is,’ he argued with a husky catch in his voice. ‘I want my shirt back.’

She knew he was trying to make amends for his curt tone earlier, and while it warmed her to think that he cared about her feelings, and about replacing the blouse he’d torn in the heat of passion last night, she couldn’t deny that she suddenly felt unspeakably desolate at the idea that other than sexually he probably wasn’t going to let her get anywhere near the wounded man she guessed hid behind the self-contained façade of wealth and success he projected after all. She was feeling less and less sure he really would discuss his past with her.

‘Okay. We’ll have coffee, see the rest of the exhibition, then go shopping.’ Turning away, she headed briskly towards the end of the gallery without checking even once to see if his mercurial haunting gaze followed her progress …

By the time she emerged from the ladies’ room Layla had sat in the toilet cubicle breaking her heart for at least ten minutes. Then, when she’d calmed down sufficiently to realise the utter futility of her behaviour, she’d stepped out in front of the bank of unforgiving bathroom mirrors to find her eye make-up tellingly smudged and her face as white as a ghost’s. After re-applying her make-up and spritzing the inside of her wrists with the last of her perfume—a precious leftover luxury from her time working in London—she’d finally swallowed the contraception down with at least half a bottle of water, tossed back her hair, lifted her chin and returned to the gallery to find Drake.

She spied him sitting on one of the long wooden benches interspersed here and there in front of the displayed paintings. With his hands loosely linked across his knees and his neck bent because he was staring down at the floor, it wasn’t hard to deduce that he wasn’t meditating on the stunning art. No, once again he was lost in a compelling world of his own.

‘Drake?’

‘You’re back.’

Layla was dumbfounded by the relief and delight in his eyes. Giving her a smile more precious to her right then than all the world’s diamonds, he stood up and gathered her into his arms. Transfixed, she felt as if the priceless art along with every single soul in the gallery simply disappeared. All she could focus on right then were the carved masculine lips that slowly but surely moved towards hers to greet her with an all too brief but hungry kiss. The velvet touch of his mouth and the delicious sensation of his strong arms urging her against him were a powerful antidote to the distressing doubt and fear that had accompanied her to the ladies’ room.