It was a cold, distant mask that she had seen. The knowledge kept her working on automatic as they stepped out of the vaguely antiseptic anonymity of the hospital into the fresh, clean beauty of the early morning. An uninterested face and indifferent eyes.
A pale gold and mother-of-pearl dawn was banishing the last of the night sky and somewhere close by in one of the trees surrounding the car park a missel thrust was singing its heart out to the new day. The summer morning was balmy, promising a hot day, and after the wildly emotional content of the last hours the beauty was almost too much for Robyn’s fragile equilibrium.
He didn’t care about her, he had never cared about her or else he couldn’t have dismissed her so quickly from his heart. Heart? He didn’t have a heart, she told herself savagely, the memory of the cold indifference in his face cutting her in two and making her chest ache before she warned herself not to dwell on it, not now. She had the twins to see to, chores to do, a household to run. Thinking could come later, much later.
Once in the car she was vitally conscious of the big male frame next to her, her feelings so sensitised that every tiny movement of the muscled body brought her nerves quivering in response. She had noticed, in the lightning glance they’d exchanged, that his normally immaculate hair had been rumpled and that he had a healthy growth of stubble darkening his face. It had made him look twice as sexy and ten times more dangerous, and now she couldn’t get the image out of her mind even though she kept her gaze very firmly on the windscreen.
Once the Mercedes drew up outside her house Robyn turned her head and looked at him, keeping her feelings under wraps as she said formally, ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee while I get my things together?’
‘I’ll wait here. You aren’t going to be long, are you?’
‘No, of course not.’ And as he made a movement to open his door she said curtly, ‘I’m quite capable of opening my own door, thank you,’ and slid out of the car before he could respond.
She inserted the key into the front door with a hand that trembled, willing herself not to give way, and then the door was open and she almost fell into the quiet, still room beyond, shutting the door and then leaning against it before slowly sliding onto the floor as the tears came.
She had to get control, she had to. Oh, please, God, let me get control. I have to get through the next hour or so with some dignity; it’s all I’ve got left.
Whether the prayer worked or not she didn’t know, but somehow she felt able to get up off the floor and drag herself upstairs into the bathroom where she again washed her face, combed her hair and tidied it into a French pleat, before quickly changing her clothes and donning a light summer top and old jeans. That done she flung a few necessities into an overnight bag and quickly ran downstairs again, scribbling a note to Drew along with a list of instructions and her telephone number at Cass’s which she placed on her friend’s desk. Drew had her own key for use when Robyn wasn’t around, so that was no problem.
She was out in the street again within fifteen minutes and already the city was stirring although it was still only just gone five o’clock.
Clay leant across and opened her door for her as she reached the Mercedes and she slid into the passenger seat without looking at him, her face stiff. Okay, so she loved him more than life itself but she was blowed if she was going to beg and plead for a kind word like a whipped puppy, the rat.
The rat glanced at her. ‘Cass’s?’ he asked succinctly.
Robyn kept her gaze directed in front and nodded tightly. ‘Thank you,’ she said grimly.
It was probably the worst, the most miserable few minutes of her entire life but eventually it was over and the Mercedes was outside Cass’s brightly painted little house. Robyn’s mouth was dry, her heart pounding much too fast and her tortured senses at breaking point. She breathed deeply and then, as Clay cut the engine, said abruptly, ‘Thank you for the lift. Goodbye, Clay.’ He hadn’t wanted to come in for a few minutes at her house and no power on earth was going to get him through the door of Cass’s house as far as she was concerned. ‘I’ll send Beryl out immediately; I presume you don’t mind taking her home?’
There was a moment’s pause before he said, his voice cool and faintly quizzical. ‘Not at all. I’ll wait here, then.’
Yes, you damn well will. She glanced at him then, just one swift look as she said, ‘She’ll be out directly.’ And then she opened her door, gathered up the overnight bag and was out on the pavement.
He was going to let her go; it was really going to finish as badly as this. Robyn still couldn’t quite take it in even as she marched up the path and opened the door with the key Guy had given her at the hospital. As it swung open there was a split second where she almost turned round for one last look at Clay, but she mastered the desire immediately.
If he looked at her, if there was just a minute softening of that formidable hardness in his face, she might disgrace herself and run to the car and beg him to forgive all the things she had said. Implore him to take her on any terms he cared to dictate.
But she had spoken the truth. And she loved him too much to pretend. And life with Clay on his terms would be one big pretence.
She pulled the door shut behind her, took a hard pull of air, painted a bright smile on her face and walked quietly into the lounge to tell Beryl she was an aunty again.
CHAPTER NINE
SIX days later Robyn was seated at her desk at seven in the evening eating a sandwich—which was masquerading as dinner—while she read through some draft copies of a batch of press releases Fiona had written earlier in the day. They were good, they were very good, Robyn decided with some satisfaction. Fiona was going to work out just fine.
When the telephone at her elbow rang she picked it up and said crisply, ‘Brett PR. How can I help you?’ She had been all on edge the couple of days she had spent at Cass’s looking after the twins thinking Clay might ring. And then once her parents had arrived on Friday morning just an hour before their eldest daughter had returned home with their latest grandchild, and she had come to her own house, she had been even more jittery. But he hadn’t rung. She knew now he wasn’t going to. She was old history as far as Clay was concerned.
‘Is that Miss Brett speaking?’
The female voice was American and Robyn frowned in surprise before she answered yes, ‘Yes, it is. Can I help you?’
‘I really don’t know, Miss Brett, but I had to call. This is Margo Bower, Clay’s aunt. I don’t know if he has mentioned me at all?’
For a moment Robyn could only stare at the receiver, utterly dumbfounded, and then she managed to collect herself and say carefully, ‘Yes, Mrs Bower, he has.’
‘Oh, good; at least you were aware of my existence, then.’ There was a split second pause and then Clay’s aunt continued, ‘You are probably wondering why on earth I’ve rung you and I would be the first to admit it’s most presumptuous, but I wondered if I could call round and see you for a few moments, Miss Brett.’
‘Call round?’ Robyn hoped she didn’t sound as taken aback as she felt.