Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed
Шрифт:
Lydia winced. It didn’t feel like an opportunity. It felt—
She didn’t know what it felt like. There was something about seeing Wendy Bennington slumped in that doorway that had affected her deeply—and in a way she found difficult to understand. Instead of driving back to Hammersmith she’d rung Izzy and begged a bed for the night.
But why? Her sister was absolutely right when she said she’d seen and experienced so much worse.
In her nine years as a journalist she’d witnessed many terrible things. Not just death and injury, but mindless violence and examples of sadistic cruelty that defied description. Some days it was difficult to maintain any kind of belief in the innate goodness of human nature, but she’d trained herself to cope with it. She was inured against it all.
Almost.
Certainly detached. Lydia picked up her wineglass and sipped. It was as if a steel screen came down and kept her objective. It was the only way it was possible to do her job. She imagined it was similar to the way a surgeon worked. You could care, really deeply, but not so much that it prevented you from thinking clearly.
She looked across at Izzy, patiently waiting, her hands cradled around her wineglass. The only time in her life when she’d felt completely out of control was when she’d found Izzy unconscious. There would never, could never, be any event more terrible than finding her sister had taken an overdose.
She hadn’t felt detached then. That night she’d experienced emotions she hadn’t known she was capable of feeling. She’d believed Izzy would die and fear had ripped through her like lightning in a night sky. There’d been the sense of being utterly alone and desperately frightened. Not even the unexpected death of her parents had inspired such an extreme reaction.
The only thing that had kept her functioning, on any level, was the passionate hatred she felt for Steven Daly—the man responsible. Bitter anger had uncurled like a serpent within her. It had driven her. Had demanded retribution.
Looking at Izzy now, little more than two years on, it could almost have been a dream. She looked so young—and hopeful. Time was a great healer.
‘Well?’ Izzy prompted.
Lydia forced a smile. ‘I think it was the house,’ she said at last, trying to put words on thoughts she couldn’t quite catch hold of. ‘You’ve never seen anything like it. She lives in a cottage that time’s all but forgotten. All alone in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Perhaps she likes solitude? Some people do.’
‘It’s not that…It’s…’ Lydia frowned. ‘The cottage smells of damp and cat urine…and then there are all these frozen meals for one in the freezer. It’s so incredibly…sad. There’s no other word for it—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, no!’
‘What?’
‘I’d forgotten about the cat.’ Lydia put down her wineglass. ‘She’s got a cat.’
‘It’s not your problem, Liddy.’
‘But who’s going to feed it?’
‘Probably the irritating Nick Regan. It really isn’t your problem,’ Izzy repeated, taking in her sister’s expression. ‘If not him, there’ll be a neighbour.’
‘You think?’
‘There’s bound to be.’
Lydia relaxed. Of course there was. Wendy Bennington went abroad for long stretches of time. There were bound to be structures in place to take care of her pet. Lydia picked up her knife and fork. ‘You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s just…’
Izzy smiled. ‘You really like this Wendy Bennington, don’t you?’
‘I hardly know her.’ Lydia cut a bite-sized piece off her crab cake. ‘We’ve spoken on the phone half a dozen times, no more. I’d never met her face to face.’ Until today—when she’d been confused and frightened. Nothing like the woman she’d been expecting. The image of her slumped in her bedroom doorway hovered at the front of Lydia’s mind.
‘But you like her. I can tell you do.’
Lydia paused, fork halfway to her mouth. Did that explain it? She certainly admired Wendy. Had been flattered and very excited at the prospect of writing her biography.
Izzy seemed to follow her thoughts. ‘There’s no reason to think you won’t still write the biography. Give it a few days and see how serious her stroke was. You might be surprised.’
‘I might,’ she conceded.
‘Perhaps that Nick Regan will phone you.’
Lydia pulled a face. ‘I’d be surprised at that. He didn’t like me at all.’
‘Why?’
‘No idea.’ Lydia thought for a moment. ‘It didn’t help that he found me standing on a flat roof, trying to get into the cottage through an upstairs window, but—’ she looked up as Izzy gave a sudden spurt of laughter ‘—I don’t think it was that.’
‘I can’t think why. Most people would think it odd.’
Lydia shook her head, a reluctant twinkle in her eyes. ‘It probably didn’t help,’ she conceded, cutting another mouthful off her crab cake, ‘but he really didn’t like me. At all. You know, eyes across a crowded room, instantaneous dislike. No mistaking it.’
‘Is he handsome?’ Izzy sat back.
‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘It’s never irrelevant.’
Lydia ignored her.
‘Well, is he?’
‘No.’ Even without looking up she could feel Izzy smile. She put down her fork. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Which means he is.’
‘It does not!’
And then Izzy laughed again. ‘He is, though. I searched for his name on the Internet while you were having your shower. He’s gorgeous. A bit like…what’s the name of that actor in…Oh, stuff it, I can’t remember. Regency thing. You used to have him as your screensaver.’
‘The actor from Pride and Prejudice? Nick Regan looks nothing like him!’ Lydia protested.
‘Not exactly, but a bit. He’s got the same brooding, intense expression. At least, this Nick Regan does. He’s an inventor. I think.’ She waved her hand as though it didn’t matter in the slightest. ‘Basically, he is Drakes, if you get what I mean. He owns the company and came up with the idea of the electrical component in the first place. Worth millions.’
Lydia frowned. ‘He can’t be. That’s Nicolas…’ Regan-Phillips. She closed her eyes. Damn it! It couldn’t be.