The fact was he never wanted to be in that position again. He’d grown up with nothing. Put into care at the age of six when his mother had shown more interest in getting her next fix than feeding her own son. He’d spent his childhood acting out, angry at the world, at her, for being alone, unwanted and unloved. There had been the promise that his mother would get better, that she would have him back, until finally she’d died of an overdose when he was nine. No, he’d been destined for a troubled childhood of foster homes and he’d soon realised that if he ever wanted to gain control over his life he needed to take charge of his own destiny and that meant becoming financially independent.
He’d thrown himself into his studies, working hard to ensure he could stand alone, and on that journey he’d met Elena. A foster child like him, they’d been homed together at thirteen and grown close, their family history so similar it had given them a bond that no one could take away.
He’d sworn he’d take her with him, he’d look out for her; she too would escape the bad hand they’d been dealt. She’d loved him and he had loved her too, in so much as he could. Though over time it had become more like friendship—to him at any rate—only he hadn’t realised it quickly enough.
The day she’d asked him to marry her he’d known it. He’d known it and couldn’t bear the pain of telling her. And then she’d produced the pregnancy test, a shock to them both, and he’d known he could never tell her.
He’d set aside his own feelings to do right by her, as he’d always promised, and they’d married, they’d had Lily, and he had worked harder than ever. Longer hours, more trips away. Part avoidance. Part habit. But their relationship had suffered; she’d wanted more of him, more family time, more couple time, more love.
The night of the accident he’d been working late—another failed promise to come home in time for dinner. She’d left the food on the table, taken Lily in the buggy and headed out to the park. It was how he’d found the house when he’d returned home from the hospital, a sleeping Lily in his arms. Quiet. Dark. Cold.
He threw back the whisky, needing its burn to neutralise the churn in his gut.
Elena had been lonely. He’d made her lonely. She’d loved him and he’d repaid her with...what?
No, he didn’t deserve another’s love. Save for Lily’s. He’d take that and give her back his all. She was his priority. The only one he needed to be concerned with.
So why did he want more time with Sophia? Why would he want to get mixed up in something that could only complicate things?
He clenched the whisky glass tighter in his hand and stared out unseeing at the impressive London skyline. The view that made the hotel penthouse one of the best in London was wasted on him right now. And just what would Ms Lambert say to that?
He conjured her up in his mind’s eye—the appeal of her creamy, freckled skin, her over-bright blue eyes and that mass of red hair he could only imagine splayed out upon his pillow...and felt the heat of attraction he hadn’t exper
ienced in so long burning away the chill, the emptiness...and in Elena’s city of all places. Their city.
His throat closed over, his hand pulsing around the whisky glass as guilt swelled just as quickly, forcing hatred on its tail. Because he did hate London. It had been their home and she had died there. But it wasn’t hate that had engulfed him the second he’d laid eyes on the fascinating hotel manager. No, it had been far more potent and far more disturbing than that.
It was also the reason he couldn’t sleep. And drinking alone in his penthouse wasn’t improving his mood. He should have gone to the gym rather than hit the bottle, but two whiskies in and exercise was out.
Perhaps the hotel bar would be preferable. The in-house pianist was talented and at least the gentle hum of people might distract him from the inner workings of his brain that seemed determined to flip-flop between the pain of the past and the potentially disruptive Ms Lambert.
* * *
Eleven o’clock. So much for leaving just after Andrew had bade her goodnight.
Instead, she’d lost herself in the enigma that was Mr McGregor—Jack.
Married to his childhood sweetheart, father to one girl and an orphan who’d come from nothing and made billions. It was the perfect fairy tale and the tabloids had capitalised on it, not holding back on the personal details they divulged either, worst of which was his mother’s demise in a drug den, and that his father was unknown.
Her heart ached for him even as she read on. It seemed he fared better these days. No salacious gossip pertaining to his private life, no pictures of his daughter, no rumoured love interests since the passing of his wife. It was all business-or charity-related news and her admiration of him swelled.
Just what would it be like to sit across a table from this man and learn what made him tick, what made him the man he was today, to achieve all he had, to continue to achieve when he’d lost the closest person to him. His wife. The odd picture existed of them together at events. She had been beautiful, a statuesque blonde to his tall, dark good looks. But now she was gone, taken from their daughter before she’d had a chance to see her grow.
Sophia’s eyes burned with unshed tears and she rubbed at them, refusing to submit. It didn’t help to cry. She’d learned that over the years. It didn’t change anything; it didn’t bring anyone back.
She took a breath and let it shudder out of her. Tired. She was just tired. Time to go home and pour a nice glass of red and a stupidly hot bath. No more distracting herself with Tall, Dark and Handsome and his own personal tragedy. She had enough tragedy of her own to bear.
She pushed out of her chair and finally shut down her computer. Shouldering her handbag and hooking her coat over her arm, she headed out. At least it was late so maybe sleep would be forthcoming for a change and the nightmares non-existent.
She was halfway across the foyer when her eyes were drawn in the direction of the bar, to one lone figure in particular. Even from this distance she knew it was Jack.
He was leaning back in one of the plush armchairs, drink in hand, one leg crossed over the other, his ankle resting upon his knee. He’d lost the suit jacket and tie, his shirt now unbuttoned at the collar and framing his broad shoulders, his posture the only relaxed thing about him because his eyes told another story. Trained on the pianist playing in the corner of the soft-lit room, they were intense, inward, thoughtful, a frown creasing his brow as he stroked his forefinger across his lips.
She should move but her feet felt glued to the floor. And then he stilled, the finger pausing over his lips as his eyes shifted and connected directly with her own. Her belly came alive, tiny little flutters erupting all the way to her throat.
She tried for a smile, swallowing back the nerves and whatever else her body was in the mood to feel. She gave a nod which was meant as a silent goodnight, but instead of leaving she headed for him. What possessed her she didn’t know, but the second his lips curved upwards her body gained a will of its own.
He stood as she neared. ‘Sophia, it’s good to see you again.’