Forbidden Surrender

This trip to England wasn’t exactly a holiday to Sara, more of a convalescence. Six months ago her mother and stepfather had been killed in a car accident, and besides leaving her orphaned it had also left her with two broken legs, utterly ruining the modelling career that had just been starting to take off the ground.

It had taken six months for the scars to heal, both the emotional and physical ones, and on her final dismissal from the doctor she had arranged this trip to visit her English relatives, finding herself to be a very rich young woman on the death of her stepfather, Richard Hamille. They had been a close family, Sara being adopted by Richard when he had married her mother, and to suddenly find herself alone was very bewildering.

Her Aunt Susan had instantly taken her to her heart, she and Uncle Arthur having no children of their own. Sara felt at home with them, felt at home with England, and in a way she would be sad to leave when the time came. Still, that wouldn’t be for another couple of weeks yet.

‘Who was that man?’ her aunt frowned. ‘The one I saw you talking to?’

Sara shrugged as they fell into step together, making their way back to the busy city centre. ‘I have no idea,’ she answered her aunt.

Her eyes widened. ‘You didn’t know him?’

Sara shook her head. ‘No.’

‘But I saw him kiss you!’ Her aunt sounded scandalised.

Sara grinned. ‘I think he was trying to pick me up. It wasn’t a very good approach, though—he pretended that he thought I was someone else.’ She shook her head. ‘Not very original!’

‘Who did he think you were?’

She shrugged. ‘Someone called Marie. I wouldn’t have minded, but he seemed so insistent. Oh well,’ she dismissed, ‘he’ll have to chalk this one down to a no go.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ her aunt agreed vaguely. ‘Now, where were we? Oh yes, if we turn here we should be near the underground. Shall we go home and have a cup of tea? I’m dying for a cup.’

Sara grinned at her, her face alight with mischief, her features strikingly beautiful, the eyes wide and a deep dark brown, heavily fringed by long black lashes, the nose short, the mouth wide and smiling, her teeth very white against her golden skin. Her body was tall and supple, long-legged, and very slender. Her looks were invaluable in her profession, and she hoped to return to modelling when she went back to the States.

‘You and your tea!’ she chided. After only two days she was well aware of her aunt’s weakness for the brew, the other woman seeming to drink gallons of the stuff. Sara preferred coffee herself, but she readily agreed with the idea of going home for refreshment; the visit to Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament had tired her out.

Uncle Arthur came in soon after they did, a short stocky man, going a little thin on top, his sparse brown hair going slightly grey now.

‘I have a surprise for you, love,’ he beamed at Sara as they ate their dinner. ‘I’ve invited Eddie round tonight, my nephew by my sister Jean. I thought you would like a bit of young company for a change.’

Sara masked her irritation. Her aunt and uncle had been so kind to her, and it was ungrateful of her not to appreciate this extra act of kindness. They had no way of knowing of her recent disillusionment, of the way Barry had let her down when she needed him the most, had walked out on her when the accident had temporarily robbed her of the ability to walk into a room with him and make one of his grand entrances. Barry was an up-and-coming actor, had appeared in several television serials, and he ranked his worth much higher than any television producer had yet had the foresight to do. Sara had been dating him a couple of months before the accident, not realising that her main attraction had been her undeniable beauty and her original way of dressing. Barry had replaced her within a day of the accident, having no time for her bereavement or her own injuries.

So at the moment she wasn’t particularly keen on men. ‘That will be nice,’ she gave a bright smile.

‘I hope so,’ her uncle nodded, settling back in his armchair. ‘He’s a good lad, works in a garage.’

‘He doesn’t work in a garage, Arthur,’ his wife chided. ‘He owns one, dear,’ she told Sara. ‘And he lets other people do the work.’