‘I can’t believe you left the sexy laird,’ Cesca whispered against Lucy’s shoulder, clearly remembering their conversation. ‘I hope he’s not too angry at me.’
‘He’s not angry at you at all.’ Not a lie, but not the truth either. But she wasn’t quite ready to share that story with them. Yet.
She’d tell her sisters about it after she told them about her mum. And maybe it would even be a relief to share her pain, the same way it was a relief to finally share the truth about that cold, wet day all those years ago.
The day they all lost a mother and somehow Lucy took on the role herself.
30
That I have shot mine arrow o’er the
house and hurt my brother
– Hamlet
The office was like a ghost town – not a big surprise, since it was a Saturday. When he’d walked through the frosted-glass doors that led to MacLeish Holdings, Lachlan had been greeted by sleeping computers and dim security lights. The movement sensors detected him as he made his way to the oak doors leading to his office, causing the lights to flash above him as he moved, like a strange upside-down homage to Saturday Night Fever. Not that he intended on dancing.
He put his Styrofoam mug of coffee on his desk, flicking on his computer as he leaned forward on his elbows, his palms cradling his stubbled jaw. It had seemed like a good idea to come here – anything to avoid his memory-laden apartment – but now it just felt sad.
Maybe he should have gone for a run instead. Or called Grant and seen if he wanted a pre-gala drink or two. What was it that normal people did on Saturdays anyway? For the past few weeks, he’d spent most of his time talking with Lucy. Or looking at Lucy. Or sleeping with Lucy.
Dammit, he didn’t need to think about that right now.
He pulled his emails up, quickly deleting the ones that meant nothing, flagging those he wanted to read. Some were easy wins – forwarded to the appropriate department, or to Grant to set up meetings. The others would wait until Monday. Nobody was hanging around at the weekend just to hear from him.
Then he saw the email from Alistair. Your Official Invitation to the MacLeish Gathering. When he clicked on it, the email opened, revealing a photograph of Glencarraig, the lodge nestled in its highland surroundings, the loch as perfectly clear as he remembered it. And of course there was the MacLeish tartan, forming a border around the invitation.
Lachlan MacLeish,
Laird of Glencarraig. Plus one.
His first thought was to forward it to Lucy, but why the hell would she care?
She’d gone, and he’d pushed her away with every piece of strength he had. All those words, said in the heat of the moment, came back to him with a force that made him wince.
If you walk out that door now, don’t bother coming back. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut to erase the memory.
The fact he called the dress payment for services rendered. Christ, what a dick he was. No wonder she walked away. He’d all but bundled her out of the door himself. The pain of it was like a blunt spoon digging at his heart. He’d lost her and it was all his own damn fault.
The urge to call her was almost impossible to ignore. Only the need to curl up and lick his wounds stopped him from grabbing his phone and hitting her number.
Shaking his head, he turned off the screen. There was little point in doing any work when he could barely concentrate for more than five minutes at a time. It was almost four in the afternoon – only another three hours to kill before he needed to get ready for the gala.
He was pretty sure they were going to be the longest three hours of his life.
Lachlan stood at the entrance to the hotel, smoothing his dinner jacket as he waited for the people in front of him to make their way up the red carpet. Camera flashes were coming from both sides, as photographers and reporters in the press area shouted out directions and questions, and the guests stopped to pose in front of the sponsors’ banners.
‘Mr MacLeish, we’re so pleased you could join us tonight.’ The host walked forward to shake his hand. ‘I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your generosity.’
‘It was a cause close to my father’s heart,’ he murmured, watching as a beautiful couple walked past him, the man placing his palm in the small of the woman’s back. She was wearing a backless dress – a cream silk that rippled to the ground. His heart lurched as he remembered the torn dress hanging in his closet at home.
‘Mr MacLeish, will you be sitting at a table with your brother tonight?’
Lachlan turned, recognising the society reporter from the Post. ‘I don’t think so, no.’ His smile was wide and completely false. ‘MacLeish Holdings have their own table at the gala. I wouldn’t want to appear cheap.’
‘And who’s accompanying you tonight?’ The reporter looked around expectantly.
‘I’m here alone.’