Naked Truths (53 page)

Rowena went back into her office. It was a light airy room covered with canvases of stunning landmarks around the world. She was thinking hard: maybe she could even put the pregnancy in; the Russian henchmen drama had already added a useful twist.

She sat down at her laptop and opened the document. The first page came up.

‘
Close Comforts
, by Valentina Black.'

Rowena smiled and started typing.

Oblivious to the fact that she lived only a couple of doors down from her literary heroine, Caro was getting severely panicky. The traffic was awful, and they had come to yet another standstill. Benedict had phoned ahead on the hands-free to let the hospital know they were coming, but she was starting to think they might not make it in time. Another crippling contraction gripped her body, and she let out an animal groan.

Benedict turned round in alarm. ‘Not long now.'

‘I really think the baby's coming!' she gasped.

Benedict's jaw set decisively. ‘Right, that's it.'

Indicating left, he pulled out into the empty bus lane. A barrage of angry hoots sounded from other drivers. Putting his foot down, Benedict flew past the queues of stationary traffic.

‘We're almost there,' he told her. ‘Hang on.'

Suddenly, there was a flash of blue lights behind them. Benedict looked into the rear-view mirror and cursed as he slowed to pull over.

Moments later, a uniformed police officer with a
Magnum, P.I
. moustache knocked on the window. ‘You've just broken the law, sir,' he said pompously.

‘My wife's in labour,' Benedict said, as calmly as he could. ‘I need to get her to Chelsea and Westminster.'

The officer peered into the back seat, where Caro was sweating and pale-faced. ‘Aargh,' she moaned, slightly louder than was strictly necessary.

The officer shouted to his partner. ‘All right Colin, put the siren on. We've got a woman about to give birth here.'

The police escort safely delivered Caro and Benedict into the waiting arms of the medical team. A short while later, at 6.31 p.m., the midwife safely delivered Rosanna Sophia Clementine Towey into the world. The little girl weighed a healthy eight pounds and six ounces, and both mother and daughter were healthy and happy.

By the time Amelia had arrived with Milo, Caro was sitting up in bed sipping a celebratory glass of champagne. Benedict was next to her, cradling his newborn daughter as though she was made of glass.

‘Mummy!' Milo ran over and jumped on Caro.

‘Ouch, careful, darling,' she said. ‘Mummy's got a bit of a sore tummy.'

‘Where's your bump gone?'

‘She's there. Milo, say hello to Rosanna. She's your new sister.'

They all watched as Milo peered into the blanket.

‘Hello, Rosanna,' he said cheerfully, patting her on the head.

Benedict gently stopped him. ‘Be careful, Milo, she's only little. You'll have to look after her from now on.'

Milo clambered up on the bed beside Caro. ‘Is Errol Flynn coming to see Rosie-anna?'

‘I don't think they'll let dogs in here, darling,' Caro told him.

Milo digested the information, frowning. ‘I miss him. When are we going back?'

Caro thought of Churchminster, of the winding country lanes and glorious walks, of evening G and Ts in the sun-dappled garden at Fairoaks. Her heart filled up with yearning.

She and Benedict looked at each other. As the business was going so well, they'd discussed staying on another year at the mews. Benedict raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Caro kissed the top of Milo's head. ‘Not just yet, darling, we've got lots more adventures to have in London, and we can visit Errol Flynn soon.'

Milo shrugged cheerfully and started playing with the racing car he'd brought with him.

‘Thank you,' mouthed Benedict.

Caro smiled, she knew how important his work was to him. As long as they were all together, she was happy.

HARRIET LACED UP
her trainers and stood up to look in the mirror. She was definitely a bit trimmer. Admittedly, it was easier to go running in the summer months, but this year, Harriet was determined to carry on once the evenings drew in again. Maybe she would even get a personal trainer with rock-hard thighs and a wonderful bedside manner, someone who fancied her even when she was beetroot-faced and doing star jumps. Harriet smiled wistfully as she adjusted the bobbles on the back of her trainer socks. She could always dream.

She headed for the local park. She'd planned to do five laps tonight, her furthest distance yet. After the busy days at
Soirée
, running cleared Harriet's mind and gave her time to think. Over the last week she had decided to do a painting course, join the Samaritans and replace the Max Factor mascara that had been languishing in the bottom of her make-up bag for years. The only thing that was still missing was a boyfriend. Harriet hated herself for sounding so desperate, but she really did want someone to share her life with. Most of all, she wanted the chance to get good at sex!

Harriet picked up her stride. Another one of the downsides of being single was that it did get rather lonely, especially at weekends. Everyone was always off doing ‘couply' things, like visiting one set of parents or going on romantic walks along the Thames. Harriet had spent last Sunday in front of the television watching
Ugly Betty
re-runs. A rather alarming thought had struck her halfway through – was that how she'd been viewed when she first joined
Soirée
? She was so deep in thought as she rounded the corner by a large rhododendron bush that she didn't hear the warning shout.

‘Watch out!'

Before Harriet knew it, she was sprawled flat on her back on the path.

‘I say! Are you all right?' said a deep voice. Harriet blinked. Standing over her was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. Tall and capable-looking, he had puppy-dog eyes and curly brown hair that curled in little bits round his neck. If Harriet had still been standing, she would have swooned right back over again.

The man pulled her up. He was wearing a running kit as well, that showed off an impressive pair of thighs.

‘My f-fault . . .' she stuttered. ‘I wasn't looking where I was going, as usual.'

He smiled. ‘You
were
going at quite a pace! You must be jolly fit.'

Harriet blushed. He really was dashing. ‘I normally get a stitch after five minutes.'

‘Well, you look fit enough to me.' The man stuck out a hand. ‘I'm Bruce.'

Before she had the chance to take it, another runner came sprinting round the corner and ran straight into Harriet, sending her flying into the rhododendron bush. The runner jogged on the spot, glanced at the Casio watch on his wrist, and cried, ‘Sorry, can't stop! Trying to beat my PB!'

Bruce shook an angry fist after him. ‘You scoundrel!' He turned back to the bush, where Harriet was trying to struggle out. ‘Hold on, you've got your hair caught.' Carefully he extracted a frizzy curl and pulled her up again. Harriet winced: she was sure she'd twisted her knee. ‘You're having quite a time of it! What's your name, by the way?'

‘Harriet,' she gasped.

She tried to put weight on her leg, but it gave way, and Bruce quickly reached out and caught her.

‘I say, Harriet,' he murmured, looking into her eyes. ‘This is awfully forward, considering we've only just met, but would you do me the honour of having dinner with me?'

At this both of Harriet's knees went weak, and this time it was entirely pleasurable.

‘Oh, Bruce,' she gasped. ‘I'd love to!'

Six months later, off the island of La Gomera, the Canaries

Catherine stretched out on her lounger, savouring the heat of the sun. The stillness of the afternoon was only broken by the gentle hum of the motor, and the ‘tap tap' of buoys bobbing against the side of the yacht. Endless blue sky filled the horizon, sending an occasional breeze brushing over her body. Soon they would be docking again.

A shadow fell across her. Catherine put a hand up to shield her eyes. A young, good-looking man in pristine white shorts and T-shirt smiled easily at her, revealing milk-white teeth. ‘Can I get you anything, Miss Connor?'

‘A fresh juice would be great. And, Diego, I've told you, call me Catherine.'

Diego bowed fluidly and slipped away.

Catherine lay back and looked out to sea. This cruise, a treat to herself after finishing the book, had been a perfect idea. She couldn't believe how stunning it was. High above the deep blue waters of the Atlantic, the isolated island of La Gomera reared proudly upwards, magnificent with its soaring mountains and densely forested peaks. Beneath the dramatic valleys and plunging ravines, whitewashed villages with terracotta red roofs nestled amongst olive groves, vineyards and banana groves. It was wild, rugged and undeniably romantic.

Catherine sighed and sank back into her thoughts. It was a few moments before she was aware Diego was back, one glass of chilled orange juice in the centre of a silver tray.

This time, though, he looked concerned. ‘Miss Connor . . . I mean, Catherine,' he corrected himself in heavily accented English. ‘Forgive me, are you all right? I hear you sigh . . .'

Catherine laughed at his worried expression. ‘Diego, I'm fine! Who couldn't be happy in a place like this?'

Diego looked wise. ‘But perhaps even better to have someone to share it with?'

Catherine took a sip of juice. ‘Maybe.'

He bowed again, ‘Captain says we are arriving soon.'

Ten minutes later, they had moored in a secluded bay, nestled between two rocky outcrops. The little restaurant where they were going to have lunch stood a few hundred feet back from the waterfront. Barefoot, Catherine made her way down the gangplank on to the sun-warmed wooden jetty, flip-flops in one hand and camera in the other.

If her old work colleagues had seen her now, they wouldn't have recognized her. Gone were the ball-breaking power suits, to be replaced by a vest and pair of faded cut-off denim shorts, which showed off her long brown legs. Her hair, longer and streaked blonde round the hairline, was pulled back in a casual ponytail. Catherine looked around at her surroundings, savouring the moment. Every part of her felt renewed and rested, and yet . . .

The sun was in her eyes, so Catherine didn't see the figure at the end of the jetty until she was just feet away. Disbelieving, she stopped in her tracks and pulled off her sunglasses. Standing close enough to reach out and touch, in shorts and white linen shirt, a pair of Ray-Bans tucked in his chest pocket, was John Milton.

Catherine finally found the power of speech. ‘What on earth are you doing here?' she gasped.

John grinned, green eyes almost luminous against the backdrop of his tan.

‘Let's just say you have a very efficient ex-PA.'

He took a step forward, his face full of emotion.

‘I've given you six months, Catherine, I can't stay away any longer.'

He lifted his strong hand to caress her face and suddenly nothing else mattered.

‘Catherine, I—'

‘Sssh,' she said tenderly, and reached up on tiptoe to kiss him.

THE END

It goes without saying I am forever in gratitude to my brilliant editor, Sarah Turner at Transworld, and my fab agent, Amanda Preston. Beyond that I'd like to thank Fran Babb and Kate Mulloy for letting me poke around their enchanting mews house, also Emma Fowler for her own experience of mews life – who'd have imagined the things that get picked up on baby monitors? Sounding boards Joe Towns and Kay Ribeiro for their counsel and creativity (the lift sex scene will make it in there soon, Kay, I promise), along with Kay's fellow
Heat
colleague, reviews editor Karen Edwards, for her support and kind words. Another thank you to my Cotswold tour guide Julian Linley and his faithful sidekick Buster. Also Sam Haddad for coming up with the name for this book, Sally Marsh from the Prince's Trust, and Dr Barnaby Wright, curator at the Courtauld Gallery in London, for his expertise and eloquence. A big show of gratitude to fashionistas Ellie Crompton and Bronagh Meere, and my mum, Aunty Barbie and Aunty Pam for making sure I know my gardenias from my gladioli. My dad in a million Neil, who is probably responsible for 90% of my book sales in East Anglia. Finally, Lucie Barboni and Kate Aslett for guiding me through the adventures of pregnancy. Oh, and I can't forget bookseller maestro Jeff Towns, for without his flat-pack assembly skills, I wouldn't have been able to write this thing in the first place.

Jo Carnegie writes features for
Heat
, amongst other publications, and has interviewed stars from George Clooney, Justin Timberlake and Will Smith to Posh and Becks and Jordan.
Naked Truths
follows her début,
Country Pursuits.
She lives in London and Cardiff.

For more information on Jo Carnegie see her website at
www.churchminster.co.uk

COUNTRY PURSUITS