Terms Of Their Costa Rican Temptation

‘Then what the hell was all that about the other night? Interrogating Skye about her feelings for me.’

He was surprised to find the ghost of a smile playing at the edges of his brother’s mouth.

‘At first I thought your relationship was just a marriage of convenience. And I wanted to ruin it because I didn’t want you repeating the same mistakes our father made.’ Benoit was pierced by his brother’s fierce gaze. ‘I didn’t want you to sacrifice everything for this damn family company. I wanted to free you from it. Benoit, you’ve given everything and more for it, but it will never give you what you need and it will never make up for what we lost. And when I realised that she loves you—well, I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to push her away too.’

Benoit felt sick, a nausea that mounted as he scanned over the events of the past. Xander and Camilla, her evil machinations that had severed their connections more easily than his pleas to his mother had done. Meeting Skye, and the times that they had shared, the hurt in her eyes as he had thrown the ring on the bed, the shock on her face as he’d turned to leave. Had he really thought that becoming CEO was worth all she had to offer him?

Finally, he looked at his brother and deeply regretted the years they’d been apart, regretted how he’d let the hurt and betrayal overwhelm him to the point where he’d lost his closest friend. And he’d worn that loneliness around him like a cloak, as if that would protect him from what was worse...love. And the deepest, greatest pain that love could bring.

A pent-up breath escaped his lungs. ‘I had no idea about Camilla. I can’t even begin to imagine...lying about pregnancy like that. It’s unspeakable.’ He watched as Xander shrugged it off, but could only imagine the pain that his brother must have felt when he’d realised how Camilla had lied. ‘For so long,’ Benoit said, finally ready to admit his failing, ‘it was easier to blame you, to be furious with you, than to admit the truth.’

‘What truth?’

‘The guilt I felt because of our mother. For allowing her to leave that night. I saw her. I knew what she was doing. I...begged to go with her. I would have left you,’ he admitted, shaking his head and unable to look his brother in the eye.

‘And, had it been me, I might have done the same,’ he heard his brother say as he felt his hand on his shoulder. ‘Benoit, our parents made their own decisions and were solely responsible for them. I think that we’ve spent too long focused on the past and not enough focused on the future. Because you need to get your head on straight if you’re going to go after the woman you so clearly love.’

Benoit shook his head. ‘I can’t...’ He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Everything ached. ‘It’s too much.’

Xander reached for the bottle hanging loosely in Benoit’s hands and took a long mouthful. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet,’ his brother said. Benoit threw a frown his way in query. ‘That the pain of losing someone is absolutely nothing compared to hurting someone you love.’

Skye looked out across the stubble of the harvested fields behind the little cottage that Anaïs had taken her to, letting out a jagged breath that caught on the edges of the pain that had speared her chest since leaving Benoit.

She’d done as he’d requested, collected her things and packed a bag—but, as her hand had reached for the door knob, she’d realised that she didn’t want to go back to England to see her sisters.

Not until she’d worked out her true feelings. Because there had been a horrible kernel of truth to what Benoit had said that night. So she’d tracked down Anaïs, who had somehow understood the garbled words Skye had managed to form around the lump in her throat and the ache in her chest. The older woman had simply smiled, patted her hand and led her to a car. Skye smiled through the hurt at the memory of Anaïs dismissing her driver, and soon understood the panic in the chauffeur’s eyes as she recalled the dangerous driving that had brought the two women to this gorgeous little country cottage.

Anaïs had ensured that the cottage was stocked with enough food and supplies for as long as Skye needed it, and left only once Skye had assured her that she would be okay. It was a lie. She knew it. Anaïs knew it. But they both tacitly agreed to believe it for the moment.

The cottage was surrounded by fields which, aside from the beautiful garden, were the only thing to be seen for miles around. Which was a good thing, because Skye had done nothing but cry for the first two days. She cried for herself, for Benoit, for what they might have had.

She hadn’t answered her sisters’ calls, texts or emails. How ironic it was that they had begun to worry about her now. She’d called each of them two days ago, explaining a little about what had happened, a little of what she had managed to work through and a lot about how much she loved them, saying that she just needed some time and space. She’d promised to be in touch soon.

All the while, Benoit’s words rang like accusations in her mind and she knew that he was right. That she had to let her sisters go, to stop focusing on them and live her life. She wondered now at the person who had found her strength with him in Costa Rica. The taste of it had been addictive and truly life-enhancing. But she knew that she needed to find that within herself, rather than borrowing it from Benoit. And that would take time.

When the sun dipped below the horizon Skye had taken to lighting the wood-burner in the small living room of the cottage. She knew it was a luxury—the summer’s warmth was still enough to keep the cool nights mild—but each night she looked for the heat from the flames to draw out the cold ache she felt in her heart.

She had been reading the journals that Summer had typed up. This morning a new section had appeared in her inbox, a note reassuring her that her sisters loved her and were there if she needed them. And Skye was beginning to wonder if it might be about time for her to lean on them for a change. It wasn’t easy and it wouldn’t seem natural, but it was right.

At first, she’d thought she’d find it painful to read about Catherine and her Benoit. And it was. She’d cried with Catherine over the loss of Benoit Chalendar. At how, once Catherine’s father had discovered the affair, he’d forced her to let him go. Benoit’s family had been no way near a match for a peer of the realm. Skye had found some kind of solidarity with Catherine’s feelings of hurt and anguish as they’d echoed her own. And felt the determination ring within her own breast as Catherine had forged a way forward, to the Middle East with her uncle, determined to put the pain behind her. The Middle East, where Star was now searching for the second part of the puzzle—the key to the hidden room.

And yesterday she’d called her mother. Skye knew instinctively that she wasn’t yet ready to confront her feelings about her father, the pain was too raw. But her mother...they needed to talk. Skye hated that this was over the phone, but the need to speak to her had become urgent, an almost physical need, so that when her mother asked her if she was okay, the simple relief had her crying nonsensically down the phone for about fifteen minutes, while her beautiful, kind, generous mother poured equally nonsensical words of comfort and love back until Skye’s sobs subsided.

Even now, a lump formed in her throat, thinking of the pure

unconditional love of that moment and the sadness not only of what she had missed out on as a child by trying to fit in halfway with her father and halfway with her mother, which had made her feel like an outsider in both homes, but of what she was surely to miss out on in the future, even if they did manage to find the jewels.

Mariam Soames had offered to get on a plane and they had both laughed, knowing that neither had the money and that Mariam wasn’t well enough to go anywhere. So instead her mother had promised Skye that she had a cup of camomile tea, a large blanket, a comfy chair and was ready for her to start at the very beginning.

And although Skye’s story had started at Elias Soames’ funeral, jumped to Costa Rica and back to her own childhood, touched on the overheard conversation between her father and his wife, about Skye’s wildness and about her university education, moved on to Benoit and Anaïs, Catherine and her Benoit, and finished at Skye’s little hideout in France, Mariam Soames was there for every single minute of it, offering comfort, kindness, understanding and sympathy. Not once did she ask why Skye hadn’t told her any of this before, or chastise her for secrets and hurts kept hidden. Until Skye had worked herself up to the worst hurt, the worst confession—that she’d been keeping her mother at a distance because she’d been ashamed of her.

The second of silence from her mother was the longest moment of her entire life.

‘My love, in my eyes it is the responsibility of a child to form their identity against that of their parents. I did it with Elias. And you did it with me. It doesn’t make me shameful, or you boring.’

‘And Elias?’ Skye half joked.

‘Well, he was always a nasty piece of work,’ replied her mother sadly. ‘Skye, I know that my...lifestyle was difficult on you. Difficult for our neighbours and your teachers and the parents of your friends. I am sorry for that—I’m not apologising for my choices, because I stand by every one of them. But I am sorry for the hurt and confusion it caused you. I don’t like speaking for your father, because it has been a very long time since I knew him well enough to do so, but...his character is simply not as strong as yours, mine, and most especially his wife’s. He does love you, Skye. He was just never that in touch with his emotions to be able to show it so well.’