Sweet Deception (9 page)

“Sorry to disappoint.” It was meant to be a joke, but her lips tightened.

She glanced over at Richard. “I think that's my cue to leave.”

“Petra—” he started, but she was already walking towards the door.

“Don't go on my account,” I couldn't resist calling after her. She turned to glare at me, and then she was gone.

Richard disappeared after her. I shook my head, confused about what the hell had just happened.

“Not my problem,” I muttered under my breath, and headed to the freezer, like I'd originally intended.

A moment later Richard reappeared. Clearly whatever had gone on, he hadn't been able to smooth Petra's ruffled feathers.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, and opened up the tub of Pralines & Cream. “So what was all that about?” I said, helping myself to a large spoonful.

He frowned, as though I was being dense. “What do you think? Petra wasn't exactly pleased when she heard that I had a woman other than her coming to stay with me. I told
her she had nothing to worry about, and then she turns up to find you parading around my flat half-naked. It didn't exactly reassure her.”

“Are you serious?” I laughed. “She thinks something's going on between us? That's ridiculous!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Of course it is! I mean, you're not exactly my type.”

“Oh?” He cocked his head to one side. “And what makes you think that you're mine?”

It took me a second to work out what he meant. Then I flushed as I realised exactly what I'd said—that the only reason we weren't sleeping together was because I didn't want to. Like I was some kind of femme fatale who could have any guy she wanted. “I didn't mean it like that . . . I just, well—”

“I know what you meant, Charlotte.” Thankfully Richard abruptly cut my jabbering off. “I was just teasing you. Now,” his voice was crisp, his attention clearly moving elsewhere, “I should really get on with some work. So if you don't need anything else—”

“I'll be fine.”

He left the room without another word. Once he'd gone, I looked down at the tub of ice cream in my hands. My appetite seemed to have deserted me. I put the Häagen-Dazs back in the freezer, and headed upstairs.

*  *  *

I managed to keep myself occupied for the rest of the day. I was still quite tired, so I dozed a lot, and the times I was awake, I mostly read—Lindsay had remembered to pack the thriller that I was halfway through. I pretty much managed to avoid seeing Richard. I was able to make it up and down the stairs by myself, so I just went to the kitchen to fix myself drinks, or get soup or ice cream when I fancied it—I was still sticking to soft foods because of my throat. Richard was holed up in his study, but he popped his head out whenever he heard me moving around, just to make sure I was all right. Other than that we kept pretty much to ourselves.

I went to bed early that night, and managed to sleep all the way through, so when I finally woke the next morning, I was surprised to see that it was after ten. I stretched in the comfy bed. The soreness and grogginess seemed to have almost gone now, and I felt like my old self.

I decided to skip breakfast and head straight to the shower. Given that my presence had already caused an argument between Richard and Petra, I thought the sooner I got out of here the better. I'd already messed up enough of his life.

Lindsay had packed my least outrageous outfit: jeans and a V-neck grey jumper. I'd just finished getting dressed, when I heard a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I said.

It was Richard, dressed more casually than usual in jeans, too, and a T-shirt, with a mug of what smelt like coffee in his hands.

“I heard you up, and I thought you could do with this,” he said, handing the hot drink to me.

I took a sip. It was milky and sweet, just the way I liked it. I was quite surprised he'd remembered.

“Thanks. That's perfect.” I sat down on the edge of the bed. The first burst of energy I'd felt that morning had faded slightly, and I was feeling a little unsteady on my feet. Maybe skipping breakfast wasn't the best idea.

Richard continued to stand, his hands resting lightly on his hips, as he regarded me with concern. “So, how are you feeling this morning?”

“Pretty much back to normal, thanks.” I felt almost touched by his concern. Perhaps he wasn't as bad as I'd been making out, after all.

“Good. I'm glad to hear it,” he said. Then the sympathetic expression dropped from his face, and his eyes hardened. “Because after that little stunt you pulled the other night, we need to have a serious talk.”

From where I sat on the bed, I eyed Richard warily. “What do you mean? A serious talk about what?”

“About what the hell's going on with you.”

“Oh God, you're not serious, are you?” Before he could answer, I scrambled off the bed, and began to stuff my belongings into my bag. “Look, I'm grateful for you coming to the hospital and looking after me, but I really don't need a lecture.”

“Fair enough.” He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. “That's entirely up to you. By all means, leave. But”—his voice took on a darker tone—“as long as you understand that the moment you step out of that door, I will be straight on the phone to your parents.”

I was in the middle of lacing up my trainers, but hearing that, I stopped what I was doing, and looked up at him, and laughed. “Seriously? That's your big threat? You're going to
tell my parents on me? What do you think I am—eight years old?” I finished with my shoes and grabbed my bag. “By all means, call my parents. Be my guest. Because I really couldn't care less.”

With that, I made for the door.

“Fair enough.” Richard's voice floated after me. “I'll call your parents. I'll speak to your father—your very sick father, who is still recovering from a heart attack. And tell him that his younger daughter drank so much that she needed her stomach pumped. That she nearly died.”

At that, I stopped in my tracks, and turned back to face him. “You wouldn't dare.”

He arched an eyebrow. “And why's that?”

“Because you care about my parents. You wouldn't put my dad through that. You wouldn't risk worrying him and cause him to have another heart attack.”

“And what should I do instead? Wait for his younger daughter to drink herself to death? How do you think he'd feel then?”

“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “Don't be so melodramatic. I can take care of myself.”

“Really? Because it didn't seem like it the other night.”

He really wasn't about to let this go. “Okay. What do you want me to say?” I shifted my bag from one shoulder to the other. “I made a mistake. I went too far. But it's not going to happen again—”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” Even to my ears that sounded childish, so I searched for something to add. “I've learnt my lesson. I'll be more careful next time. It was just a . . .”

“Just a what?” Richard prompted, after I stopped. He was studying me closely, and I could see he was genuinely interested.

“It was just a very bad day.”

“What—attending your parents' wedding anniversary?”

I looked away, unable to fully explain, not even to myself. “There was other stuff, too.”

Richard regarded me for a long moment, and I could tell he was weighing up whether he was prepared to let it go. “I'm sorry, Charlotte,” he said eventually, “but I'm worried about you, and about what you're doing to yourself. So I can't let you walk away from me today without trying to get a few things sorted out.”

I could see his resolve. I felt a knot of anxiety beginning to form in my stomach. This was the last thing I needed—Richard Davenport trying to take charge of my life.

“Seriously? What business is it of yours what I get up to?”

“I'm making it my business,” he said quietly. “Because of your brother.”

That drew me up short.

“Kit?” I managed, once I'd recovered from my surprise. “What's this got to do with him?”

Richard pushed off from the wall then, and started to pace the room. “When we were up there on the mountain, and he'd been injured, he knew that his chances of survival weren't great. He asked me then to look after you all—his family. And I promised that I would. That I'd take care of you all.”

This was the first I'd heard of it. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Richard stopped pacing then, and turned to me. “I'm not about to let your brother down. And I'm not about to let your parents down, either. They've always been good to me, and I can't stand by and watch them lose another child. It was hard enough for them the first time.” He took a step towards me, so I could see the pain in his eyes. “To lose their eldest child, their only son. It took everything they had in them to get through that, to find some way to live again. How do you think they'd cope if they lost you as well? It would destroy them.”

I dropped my eyes to the floor then, unable to hold his gaze any longer. I knew what he was saying was true. We'd all struggled with our grief after Kit died. My mother had tried to hide her pain by throwing herself into work, but the anguish of losing her only son was always there, casting a shadow over everything. And then there was my father. He was by nature a happy, contented man, but he'd never been quite the same since that awful day eight years ago. The
doctor had said his heart attack may have been brought on by the stress of my brother's death.

I loved my parents. I might have my differences with them, but that didn't mean I wanted to hurt them—not the way they'd hurt over Kit. I couldn't bear for them to worry about me. If something I did caused my father to have another heart attack and die, I could never forgive myself.

I hesitated for a moment. Then I let my bag slip from my shoulder, and I walked over to sit on the bed.

“So—what is it you want me to do? In return for you not informing on me to my parents.”

There was an occasional chair opposite the bed. Richard sat down, too, and leant forwards, resting his muscular arms on his legs. “I want you to come and work for me for the next three months.”

“You what?” I spluttered.

“I want you to give up working at the Nick, and try having a normal job for a while. A job that requires you to get up early, go into an office and work from nine to five. A job that requires you to be responsible. And a job that takes you away from the culture of drinking, drugs and sleeping around, which unfortunately seems to have become a huge part of your life.”

I glared at him. I hated being told what to do. Plus, I liked my life. It worked for me. “So basically you don't want me to have any fun for three whole months?”

I saw the corner of his mouth twitch a little when I said that, and then he appeared serious again. “I wouldn't put it like that exactly. I just want you to have some time away from your self-destructive lifestyle. I think it would do you some good.”

I stared at him for a long moment. Frankly, I couldn't think of anything worse than having to work at his uptight company, among a whole load of Richard clones and brown-nosers. But I knew him well enough to sense when he was serious about something, and I could tell he meant it about this.

And the alternative was that he'd call my parents, and I couldn't have that.

“All right,” I said finally. It was only three months, after all—and then I could go back to doing whatever I liked. “I'll do it.”

“Good.” His voice was brusque, as though he'd known that I was going to cave in all along. “And I want you to see a therapist, too.”

“A what?” My voice was a shriek.

“You heard me.” His eyes were deadly serious.

“Oh, no.” I shook my head to make my point. “There is no way I'm going to see a shrink. The job I'll do. But no therapy of any kind.”

“Then we don't have a deal.” He took out his iPhone, and held it up for me. “If that's your final word, I'll call your parents now.”

I just stared at him. He had me over a barrel and he knew it. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” He held my gaze, unflinching, for a second. But then he must have seen how distressed I truly was at the prospect of going into therapy, because his face softened. “Come on, Charlotte. You must know yourself that something isn't right. The way you act—it's like you're on a path to self-destruct. You never used to be like this. You used to be sweet and responsible—”

“Yes, because I was a child! Has it ever occurred to you that I just grew up?” I spread my arms. “That this is just me.”

“I don't believe that. I think there's something going on with you to make you behave this way—some underlying problem. I thought it might be because of Kit's death—”

“It's not,” I said flatly.

I could tell he didn't believe me. “Well, whatever's going on, it needs to stop. And I think seeing a therapist will help. At least I hope it will.” He stopped, clearly waiting for me to object. When I didn't, he went on, “Just one hour a week. That's all I ask of you. For the duration of the time you work for me.”

He paused then, letting his demands sink in. He must have known that this was pretty much my worst nightmare—a boring office job and weekly therapy for the next three months. I didn't know how I was going to get through
it. I wanted to say no, to leave right now, but unfortunately the alternative was so much worse—I didn't want my dad to know about what was going on. I just couldn't put that on him right now.

“So, what's it to be?” Richard said eventually, obviously knowing my inner debate was nearly at an end.

Put like that, it wasn't even a choice. “Fine!” I spat the word out. “You win. I'll do whatever you want for the next three months. As long as you keep what happened the other night to yourself.”