Cold.
If his heart was a diamond, maybe he could have given her that. But the warm, beating flesh required more, something that was beyond him. That she had once thought was beyond her…
‘Please, Ivo. Don’t do this…’
It took a supreme act of will to force up her chin, look him directly in the face, find the strength to break free, for both of them.
‘No,’ she repeated, this time with more certainty. And, taking a step back, she brushed the necklace away, taking him by surprise so that it flew from his hand, skidded across the floor.
This wasn’t about desire. Not for him. It wasn’t even as basic as lust. This was all about control.
‘No more.’
She took another step away, then turned and, abandoning her make-up, she picked up her bag, holding him at arm’s length when, instinctively, he made a move to take it from her.
Only then, when she was sure he would keep his distance, did she turn, walk away on legs that felt as if they were treading on an underfilled airbed. On feet that didn’t seem to be one hundred per cent in contact with the ground.
Every part of her hurt. It was worse than that first day on the mountains when she’d thought she’d die if she had to force her feet to push the pedal one more time.
That had been purely physical pain. Muscle, sinew, bone.
This cut to the heart. If she’d ever doubted how much she loved him, every step taking her away from him hammered the message home. But love, true love, involved sacrifice. Ivo had taken her on trust, had accepted without question everything she’d told him about her life before they’d met. Before she became ‘Belle Davenport’. She’d done two utterly selfish things in her life-abandoned her sister and married Ivo Grenville. It was time to confront the past, find the courage to put both of those things right.
Her rucksack was where she’d left it, battered, grubby, out of place in the perfection of the Regency hall. They were a match, she thought, as she picked it up, slung it over her shoulder. She’d always been out of place here. A stranger in her own life.
The door had been propped open by the florists who were ferrying in boxes of flowers. Grateful that she wouldn’t have to find the strength to open it, she walked down the steps and out into the street.
On her own again and very much ‘scared witless…’ but certain, as she hadn’t been for a very long time, of the rightness of what she was doing.
Belle’s flat-small, slightly shabby-welcomed her as the great house in Belgravia never had. Unable to believe her good fortune, she’d bought it the moment she’d signed her first contract following one of those chance-in-a- million breaks. Her fairy-godmother had come in the unlikely guise of a breakfast show host who, when her brief appearance manning the phones on the telethon he was presenting had lit up the switchboard, had run with it and, playing up to the public’s response, had offered her a guest appearance on his show. Not quite knowing what to do with her, he’d suggested she do a weather spot.
For some reason her flustered embarrassment at her very shaky grasp of geography had touched the viewers’ hearts.
One of the gossip magazines had run a feature on her and within weeks she’d had an agent and a serious contract to go out and talk to people in the street, in their offices, in their homes, asking their opinions on anything from the price of bread to the latest health fad.
Even now she didn’t understand how it had happened but, from a situation where she and her bank did their best to ignore each other, suddenly she was being invited into the manager’s office for a chat over a cup of coffee. They hadn’t been able to do enough for her, especially once she’d demonstrated that investing in bricks and mortar-securing herself a home against the time when the sympathy wore thin-had been her first priority.
Against all the odds, she’d gradually moved from her spot as light relief to the centre of the breakfast television sofa, picking up the long-term security of a multi-millionaire husband on the way.
But she’d kept her flat.
She hadn’t needed Ivo-financial genius that he was-to advise her to let it rather than sell it when they’d married. She would never part with it. It wasn’t just that it was a good investment, that it had been her first, her only proper home; it represented, at some fundamental level, a different, truthful kind of security.
After her last tenant had left she’d made the excuse that it needed refurbishing and taken it off the agency books. Almost as if she’d been preparing for this moment.
Shivering, she dumped her bags in the hall, switched on the heating. Looked around. Touched one of the walls for reassurance. The stones in her wedding ring caught the light, flashed back at her, and she stood there for a moment, lost in the memory of the moment when Ivo had placed it on her finger. Then it had been the sun that had caught the stones in the antique ring as he’d pledged to keep her safe, protect her.
He had. He’d done everything he’d promised. But it wasn’t enough. And she slipped the ring from her finger.
Then, in a frenzy of activity, she made the bed, unpacked her things. Stuffed everything into the washing machine.
Ivo was wrong. She wasn’t tired. Her body clock was all over the place and she was buzzing. Once she’d showered, she sorted herself out a pair of trousers, a shirt, a sweater from the jumbled mess in her bag, made a cup of tea and switched on her computer.
Her first priority was to send emails to Claire and Simone to let them know that she was home safely. Update them.
…I’ve moved into my old flat. It needs redecorating, but that’s okay. It’ll be something to keep me busy in the long winter evenings.
She added a little wry smiley.
I hope you both had uneventful trips home since I suspect life is about to get a little bumpy for all of us. Take care. Love, Belle.
She hit ‘send’. Sat back. Remembered Simone’s face as she’d warned her against doing anything hasty. Telling her that Ivo could help…
No. This was something she had to do herself. And, brushing aside the ache, she began to search the ’net for information on how she could find her sister.
The good news was that new legislation meant that not only mothers could register to contact children given up for adoption, but family too.
The bad news was that Daisy had to make the first move.
Unless she’d signed up to find her birth family-and, for the life of her, Belle couldn’t imagine why she would want to-there would be no connection.
The tempting little voice whispered in her ear. He would have contacts…
She shut it out, filled in the online form with all the details she had. If that produced no results, there were agencies that specialised in helping to trace adopted family members.
She’d give it a week before she went down that route. Right now, she had a more pressing concern. She had to call her hairdresser and grovel.
‘Eeuw…’ George, her stylist, a man who understood a hair emergency when he saw it, picked up a dry blonde strand to examine its split ends and shuddered. ‘I knew it was going to be bad but really, Belle, this is shocking. What have you being doing to it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I suppose that would explain it. I hope you haven’t got any plans for the rest of the day. It’s going to need a conditioning treatment, colour-’
‘I want you to cut it,’ Belle said, before he could get into his stride.
‘Well, obviously. These ends will have to go.’
‘No. Cut it. Short. And let’s lose the platinum blonde, um? Go for something nearer my real colour.’
‘Oh, right. And can you remember what that is?’ he asked, arching a brow at her in the mirror.
