Right then Trinity had never felt so cheap in her life. He obviously couldn’t bear to look at her a moment longer. She’d felt herself closing inwards, aghast that she’d let herself fall into a dream of feeling special so easily. She should have known better. Cruz De Carrillo took beautiful, sophisticated and intelligent women to his bed. He didn’t have sordid fumbles with staff in his library.
The divide between them had yawned open like a huge dark chasm. Her naivety had slapped her across the face.
Without saying another word, she’d fled from the room.
Trinity forcibly pushed the memory back down deep, where it belonged. Her stop came into view and she got up and waited for the bus to come to a halt.
As she walked back to the huge and ostentatious house by Regent’s Park she spied Mrs Jordan in the distance with the double buggy.
Her heart lifted and she half ran, half walked to meet them. The boys jumped up and down in their seats with arms outstretched when they spotted her. She hugged each of them close, revelling in their unique babyish smell, which was already changing as they grew more quickly than she knew how to keep up with them.
Something fierce gripped her inside as she held them tight. She was the only mother they’d ever really known, and she would not abandon them for anything.
When she stood up, Mrs Jordan looked at her with concern. ‘Are you all right, dear? You look very pale.’
Trinity forced a brittle smile. She couldn’t really answer—because what could she say? That Cruz was going to come the next day and turn their world upside down? That lovely Mrs Jordan might be out of a job? That Trinity would be consigned to a scrap heap somewhere?
The boys would be upset and bewildered, facing a whole new world...
A sob made its way up her throat, but she forced it down and said the only thing she could. ‘We need to talk.’
* * *
The following day, at midday on the dot, the doorbell rang. Trinity looked nervously at Mrs Jordan, who was as pale as she had been yesterday. They each held a twin in their arms, and Matty and Sancho were unusually quiet, as if sensing the tension in the air. Trinity had hated worrying the older woman, but it wouldn’t have been fair not to warn her about what Cruz had said...
Mrs Jordan went to open the door, and even though Trinity had steeled herself she still wasn’t prepared to see Cruz’s broad, tall frame filling the doorway, a sleek black chauffeur-driven car just visible in the background. He wore a three-piece suit and an overcoat against the English spring chill. He looked vital and intimidating and gorgeous.
He stepped inside and the boys curled into Trinity and Mrs Jordan. They were always shy around their uncle, whom Matty called ‘the big man’.
‘Mr De Carrillo, how nice to see you,’ Mrs Jordan said, ever the diplomat.
Cruz looked away from Trinity to the older woman. There was only the slightest softening on his face. ‘You too, Mrs Jordan.’
They exchanged pleasantries, and Mrs Jordan asked if he wanted tea or coffee before bustling off to the kitchen with Sancho. Trinity noticed that he’d looked at his nephews warily.
Then he looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘I presume we can talk alone?’
She wanted to say no, and run with the boys and Mrs Jordan somewhere safe. But she couldn’t.
She nodded jerkily and said, ‘Just let me get the boys set up for lunch and then I’ll be with you.’
Cruz just inclined his head slightly, but he said sotto voce, as she passed him to follow Mrs Jordan to the kitchen, ‘Don’t make me wait, Trinity.’
Once they were out of earshot, Matty said in an awestruck voice. ‘Tha’s the big man!’
Trinity replied as butterflies jumped around her belly. ‘Yes, sweetie. He’s your uncle, remember...?’
‘Unk-el...’ Matty repeated carefully, as if testing out the word.
Trinity delayed as much as she dared, making sure the boys were strapped securely into their high chairs, but then she had to leave.
Mrs Jordan handed her a tray containing the tea and coffee, and looked at her expressively. ‘I’m sure he’ll do what’s right for the boys and you, dear. Don’t worry.’
Trinity felt shame curl through her as she walked to the drawing room with the tray. She’d been too cowardly to tell Mrs Jordan the truth of Cruz’s opinion of her. The woman believed that he only wanted custody of his nephews because he was their last remaining blood relative.
Stopping at the door for a second, she took a breath and wondered if she should have worn something smarter than jeans and a plain long-sleeved jumper. But it was too late. She balanced the tray on her raised knee, then opened the door and went in. Her heart thumped as she saw Cruz, with his overcoat off, standing at the main window that looked out over the opulent gardens at the back of the house.
She avoided looking at him and went over to where a low table sat between two couches. She put the tray down and glanced up. ‘Coffee, wasn’t it?’