In a daze, Hilary walked back to Roel’s side. Anya was begging him to give a speech at some charity event. Paul joined his wife. Mentioning that they were running late for an appointment, Roel cut the dialogue short and swept Hilary back out to the limousine.
‘Paul was in a weird mood.’ A frown had hardened Roel’s lean, strong face. ‘Why was he so uncomfortable with you?’
‘Oh, you know Paul,’ she muttered weakly.
‘I do. I know him well and he has never learned the art of deception. I sensed a certain disrespect in his attitude towards you,’ Roel admitted. ‘I found that offensive.’
Guilt pierced Hilary deep. She said nothing, saw that in the circumstances there was nothing she could say. Roel was an acute observer and he had noticed his lawyer’s hostility. However, Roel would soon know and understand why Paul Correro had been unable to conceal his scorn. A heady combination of fear and despair overwhelmed Hilary. How could she face telling Roel that their marriage was not a real marriage? How could she possibly face doing that?
Only when the limo came to a halt outside an exclusive beauty salon did Hilary recall that the day before she had booked an appointment there. An appointment to get the pink tips removed from her hair because she had decided that her bi-coloured locks looked a little juvenile. Why not be honest with yourself? a little inner voice asked. She was ditching the pink tips in an effort to achieve a more elegant appearance for Roel. But what was the point now? What was the point when the bottom had just fallen out of her fantasy world?
‘Hilary?’ Roel prompted.
‘Could we just drive round for a minute or two?’ she gabbled without daring to look at him, for she was so confused she could hardly think straight. But she was aware of how reluctant she was to get out of the car and leave him.
The truth hurt. Who had first said that? She had no idea. She only knew that for the past week she had been foolish enough to try and live her dream. She had buried her every scruple and surrendered to the fairy tale of pretending to be Roel’s wife. And she had been incredibly happy, happier than she had ever known she could be because the guy she loved had treated her as though she was the woman he had married. But the point was that she was not what he believed her to be and all the wishing in the world could not change that fact.
Paul Correro had destroyed her pathetic pretences. He had also made her painfully aware that her actions could be judged in a harsh and self-serving light. But she had never intended to hurt or worry anyone. Even less would she have wished to cause the smallest harm to the guy she adored! However, just remembering how Paul Correro had looked at her brought Hilary out in a cold sweat. The cosy fantasy that had featured only Roel and her had been invaded and she had been plunged into terrible confusion.
‘Do you want to skip this appointment?’ Roel questioned with an edge of impatience.
He was so decisive. He could answer the average question before she had finished asking it. How would he feel about her when he realised that she had encouraged him to live a lie with her? Would he, as Paul Correro had implied, despise her for her behaviour? She was unbearably hurt by that idea but minute by minute an awareness that her masquerade had gone too far was bearing down on her. Perhaps her masquerade had gone too far the very instant she had lain in Roel’s bed and allowed their relationship to become intimate.
‘What—?’
‘It’s OK…I’ve made my mind up and I’m going to get my hair done!’ Hilary proclaimed with a forced laugh as she turned to look at him.
Brilliant dark golden eyes telegraphed a mixture of impatience and wonderment over the strange way that her brain seemed to work when compared with his. Getting out of the car wasn’t made any easier by the fact that he looked absolutely devastatingly gorgeous. In a sudden movement she skimmed across the seat and kissed him with bitter-sweet fervour.
‘It’s been such a wonderful few days…’ she mumbled unsteadily, snatching up her bag and hurtling out of the limo before she could embarrass herself and him any further.
In the hairdressing salon she felt as though a glass wall separated her from the buzz of familiar activity. Dully she recognised that she was in shock. She also finally understood what her mind was so reluctant to confront and accept: it was time for her to bow back out of Roel’s life again. She needed to leave quickly as well. What would be the point of returning to the castello to tell Roel what she had done? That would only plunge them both into an unpleasant confrontation and how was that likely to profit either of them?
She decided that it would be wiser to fly straight back home to London instead. Fortunately, she had kept her passport in her bag and once her hair was done she could head for the airport at Lugano. She had only brought a few clothes with her to Switzerland and what she was leaving behind would not be missed. She would leave a letter of explanation for Roel in the limousine. Wouldn’t that be the most sensible choice? When he appreciated the truth of what she had done, he would be astonished and furious and probably consider himself very well rid of her. Any good opinion he had had of her would be utterly destroyed.
Her tight throat convulsed on the tears she was struggling to hold back. How on earth had things gone so very wrong? She had set out only to help Roel and had somehow got sucked in so deep that she had closed her eyes and ears to the promptings of her own conscience. She had allowed herself to get carried away with her own fantasy. Only now when she was forced to wonder how Roel would judge her behaviou
r did she appreciate that she had crossed the boundary line of what was honest and acceptable. That acknowledgement hit her very hard for Hilary never hid from her own mistakes. But on her terms the toughest punishment of all had to be the hard reality that she would never, ever see Roel again…
‘Haven’t you taken your break yet?’ Sally Witherspoon asked Hilary.
Hilary set a pile of freshly laundered faded towels on the shelf behind the washbasins. ‘I’m not hungry—’
‘Well, you ought to be.’ Her senior stylist’s homely face was concerned. ‘You can’t work the hours you’re working on an empty stomach. You look so tired.’
‘Stop worrying about me. I’m fine.’ Her silvery blonde head bent, Hilary got on with topping up the shampoo bottles as if her life depended on it. And in a sense her life did depend on activity because, the busier she kept herself, the less opportunity she had to brood. She knew that she had shadows under her eyes and that she was looking less than her best. She wasn’t sleeping well and her appetite had vanished. She was horribly unhappy but she despised self-pity and was doing her utmost to behave normally and regain her spirits.
What was done was done. It was two weeks since she had flown back from Switzerland. For seven days Roel had been the centre of her world and now he wasn’t there any more and he never would be again and she had to learn to live with that. But what she also needed to accept was that what she had shared with Roel had been unreal and false and that was the hardest lesson of all for her to bear.
‘Your eleven o’clock appointment’s here…’ Sally hissed. ‘He’s a right good-looking bloke too…aren’t you the lucky one?’
Hilary lifted her head. Roel was poised in the centre of the room. Her hand jerked the giant bottle of shampoo she was holding and the liquid began to pour down the sink instead of into the dispenser.
She was so shattered by the sight of him standing there that she gasped out loud. Her grey eyes locked to him with helplessly hungry intensity and she felt dizzy. Sheathed in a dark blue designer suit that outlined every lean, powerful line of his magnificent stature, his proud dark head at an angle, Roel was subjecting his surroundings to a keen scrutiny. He swung back, entrapping her mesmerised gaze. His dark-as-night eyes flared brilliant gold and glittered over her and he strolled fluid as a big cat towards her.
‘Are you my eleven o’clock appointment?’ she whispered.
Roel nodded in confirmation and subjected her rigid figure to a raking appraisal that drummed hot pink up into her cheeks. Clad in a white tee shirt and black cropped combat pants that hung low on her hips teamed with three-inch-high stiletto boots, Hilary discovered that she was suddenly alarmingly conscious of her every flaw. That sardonic inspection made her feverishly aware of her own body and of his deeply intimate acquaintance with it. Yet he had never looked at her before in quite that way. She realised that there was something different about him but did not know what it was. All she grasped was that she felt shamed.