‘Come on, Jem. You’re all dressed up. You can’t bail now.’
Jemima eyed Laurence without reacting. He was right. In the suite of this fine London hotel, in a vintage gown she’d fallen in love with years ago, she knew she couldn’t let Laurence down. Even when all she wanted to do was curl up on the huge bed and stare at the wall.
Just as she’d been doing for five weeks.
Five weeks?
It felt like five years.
When Cam had died, someone had told her that time healed all wounds, and she’d clung to that as a child. She’d truly believed that she might feel less pain as time went on. And in some ways, she had. She thought of her brother every day, she wondered what his life would have been like if he’d lived, but she didn’t cry like she used to. Now, she thought of him with a smile, remembering all the ways he’d made her laugh.
Would it be like that with Cesare? Would she one day be able to disentangle this pervasive sense of hurt from all the lovely memories she had? Would she be able to cherry-pick her way through their time together and see only the parts she wished to recall?
‘He’s not going to be here,’ Laurence chided gently. ‘I spoke to his secretary a week ago and she was adamant he couldn’t make it. You’re not going to run into him at the party.’
Jemima’s eyes shifted to Laurence’s. She’d been selective in what she’d told him about her time with Cesare. ‘A fling,’ was how she’d described it. ‘Just a fun way to pass some time.’ It had taken every scrap of energy she had to present a brave face to Laurence, but she was glad she’d done it.
She didn’t want him bearing even a hint of guilt over this—he deserved none, but she knew he’d feel it regardless.
‘I don’t care if he is,’ she lied haltingly.
‘Sure you don’t.’ Laurence’s laugh was sympathetic. ‘Come on. Come for an hour. Drink some champagne. Dance. Be happy, please.’
Her heart turned over in her chest. ‘Am I really so bad?’
‘You’re miserable,’ he said earnestly, so handsome in his tuxedo. He lifted a hand and brushed her cheek. ‘This is our triumph. I want you there with me. It wouldn’t feel right without you.’
She smiled, but her chest was hollow because the celebration was, for Jemima at least, tainted by the knowledge she was privy to.
Cesare had, of course, been right. Two weeks after she’d returned from Isola Giada, Laurence had called, out of breath with excitement, to say one of the Silicon Valley tech companies in which he’d invested twelve months earlier had just gone viral—its worth had trebled.
She had no idea how Cesare had foreseen that, but he had. He’d known that night at dinner, and he’d known four weeks later when she’d gone to him and begged him to follow through with the purchase.
He’d used her, and the worst of it was he’d told her as much. Not in so many words, but again and again he’d talked about his desire to win, to succeed at all costs, and she hadn’t seen that as a warning—she hadn’t heeded it at all.
Even knowing that, she couldn’t shake her grief. Because it didn’t change a damn thing.
She loved him.
One deed didn’t define a person.
Besides, she felt an overarching sadness for him. A sadness that he wouldn’t see how much he had to offer. He should have asked her out on a date and she’d have said yes.
Except he hadn’t wanted to date her. He hadn’t wanted anything other than sex, she reminded herself firmly.
‘One hour,’ Laurence promised, putting a hand on Jemima’s back and gently propelling her to the door.
She swallowed, wishing she could tell him she really would prefer to stay on her own, as she had been for five long weeks.
But Laurence was right. This would be good for her, and at some point she had to stop being a hermit and get back into the swing of things.
‘He definitely won’t be there?’
Laurence stopped walking, his expression showing more sympathy, so she tried to paste a bright smile to her face.
‘What did that bastard do to you?’
‘Nothing,’ she muttered, shaking her head. She’d styled her hair into a chignon, but her fringe fell over one eye. ‘It would just be kind of awkward, that’s all.’