artistic genius, good looks and charisma, he told everyone who would listen. This was his link with immortality. What could be more important than a child? At Patrick’s insistence, and to his friends’ further amazement —
they had assumed he would think it far too bourgeois — he and Thea were married at once. The wedding was funded by a timely win on the Derby. Fascinated and inspired by his new wife’s condition, he resumed painting with a vengeance, insisting that she sit for him whilst he captured her voluptuous nakedness in oils. The paintings, among the best he’d ever done, sold easily through a West London gallery. Gradually the creditors were paid off. And if Patrick was still seeing other women, for once in his life he exercised discretion. For Thea, the months before the birth were some of the happiest she had ever known.
Janey, when she arrived, was a monumental disappointment to both of them. Squashed and ugly, not only did she bear no resemblance whatsoever to either parent, she was entirely the wrong sex.
With all his visions of Madonna and child shattered and the reality of fatherhood failing abysmally to live up to fond expectations, Patrick promptly reverted to type. The painting ground to an abrupt halt, the gambling and womanizing escalated to new and dizzy heights, and in order to escape both the noisy wails of his daughter and the silent tears of his wife, he spent less and less time at home.
Maxine, born twenty-two months later as a result of a last-ditch attempt at reconciliation, failed to do the trick. Another daughter, another shattering disappointment. Knowing that it was hopeless to go on trying and by this time so miserable that it was hardly even a wrench, Thea packed her things, gathered up the two girls and left.
Not wanting to stay in London, she moved to Cornwall in order to start a new and happier life. From now on, she vowed, she would learn by her mistakes and Patrick’s example. Being a doormat was no fun; selfishness ruled. Never again would she let herself be emotionally intimidated by a man. She was going to make damn sure she kept her self-respect and enjoyed the rest of her life.
For twenty-five years she had kept her promise to herself. Bringing up two young daughters single-handed wasn’t easy, but she’d managed. And whilst it would have been easy to let herself go, she deliberately didn’t allow this to happen.
Janey and Maxine learned to fend for themselves from an early age, which Thea felt was all to the good and the only sensible way to ensure that they would grow up with a sense of independence. She wanted them to realize that the only person one could truly rely on was oneself.
She had been divorced, now, for over twenty years and never been tempted to remarry.
Patrick had disappeared to America, leaving her with nothing but his surname, and although alimony would have been nice, it wasn’t something she’d ever expected from him. Managing on her own and struggling to balance her meagre finances had become a matter of pride.
And, on the surface, she was content with her modest lifestyle. Now that her children were grown up, the struggle had eased. Her home was small but comfortable. The studio where she created and sold her sculptures was rented. She made just enough money, as a rule, to enjoy herself, and when business was slow there was always Philip, happy to help out in whichever way he could. Not a wealthy man himself, he was nevertheless heartbreakingly willing to dig into his own pockets when the need arose. He really was a very nice man, as devoted to Thea as she had once been to Patrick. Sadly for him, she was unable to prevent herself treating him as badly as Patrick had once treated her.
But Oliver Cassidy was in a different league altogether. After years of struggling and making do, Thea was ready to be spoiled by a man who wasn’t afraid to wave his wallet. And although she’d only just met him, she knew instinctively that here was a man who wasn’t afraid of anything at all.
It had been a dazzling evening. Arriving in the Rolls less than five minutes after Janey had left, Oliver had picked her up and taken her to the five-star Grand Rock Hotel where he was staying. The hotel restaurant, one of the best in Cornwall, was as impressive as she had hoped.
And her dinner companion, Thea decided as she sipped her cognac, had definitely exceeded all expectations.
‘How long are you staying down here?’ she asked, having already learned that he lived in Bristol.
Oliver Cassidy shrugged, adjusting snowy shirt cuffs. ‘A week, maybe two. I’ve been looking at properties in the area, thinking of moving down here.’
Better and better, thought Thea happily, admiring his discreet gold cufflinks and breathing in the scent of Penhaligon cologne. ‘Well, I’m pretty familiar with the area. Perhaps I could help you there.’ Pausing, she broke into a smile. ‘Helping other people to spend their money is a great hobby of mine.’
As far as Oliver Cassidy was concerned, her bluntness made a refreshing change. Over the years he had become something of an expert on the subject of gold-digging females and what he’d discovered was that, to a woman, they would tear out their own professionally manicured fingernails rather than admit that his money held any interest for them or that it could make any difference to their attraction towards him. It was all so tiresome, so bloody predictable.
Thea Vaughan, on the other hand, was making no secret whatsoever of her interest in both him and his money, and he found her honesty quite disarming. He wanted to get to know this charming, teasing woman; she interested him more than anyone else had done for years. He also, quite urgently, wanted to take her up to his suite and make love to her. Ever the perfect English gentleman, however, he felt he should allow her to finish her cognac first.
It wasn’t difficult to read his mind. Thea was looking forward to the hours ahead just as much as he was. Beneath the immaculate, dark blue suit and white shirt she could only too easily imagine the contours of his body. Oliver Kennedy — no, Cassidy — had the erect stance of a guardsman and he’d kept himself in remarkably good shape. His chest was broad, his stomach flat and he sported an impressive tan. Going to bed with him, she thought as her fingers idly caressed the stem of her brandy glass, would be fun.
But there was no hurry. No hurry at all.
‘Go on then,’ she said with a provocative smile. ‘I’ve told you all about my miserable marriage. Now it’s your turn.’
‘Which particular miserable marriage did you have in mind?’ Oliver, after puffing meditatively on his cigar, leaned back in his chair and signalled for the waiter to replenish their drinks. If she could wait, so could he. ‘there are three to choose from.’
‘All of them,’ said Thea cheerfully. ‘In chronological order. And I want to hear the gory details ...’
Since picking wives had never been one of his strong points, there were plenty of those, too. Over the next half hour he regaled her with hair-raising tales of his three scheming, volatile wives. If Thea suspected that he was bending the facts in order to present himself in a blameless light, she didn’t voice such thoughts aloud. And it was riveting stuff anyway, better than any soap opera, According to Oliver – trusting, innocent Oliver – he had been bamboozled in turn into matrimony by Liza, Milly and Fay. All three, it appeared, had been blonde, beautiful and absolute hell to live with. They made Macbeth’s witches look cute.
