Never Too Late (32 page)

They pulled up outside Kilkea Castle and Stephen was

out of the car and rummaging around in the boot before

Olivia had time to take off her seat belt. Charming, she

thought. He can’t bear to spend two minutes more than

necessary with me. She wondered whether his icy demeanour

would last till bedtime. In her experience, his desire

nearly always overcame whatever sulk he was in.

Stephen actually believed that an energetic sex session

could make it up to Olivia when he’d been rude or sharp

with her. He’d never quite grasped the concept that sex in

itself wasn’t an apology.

As far as Olivia was concerned, you might have decent

lovemaking after the apology, but you never had anything

but one partner tearfully on the verge of breaking down if

you had sex without the ‘I’m sorry, darling, I do love you,

honest.’

Because of that, she’d gone through far too many

staring-up-at-the-ceiling-trying-not-to-cry nights. No, she

decided tranquilly, Stephen would never last the night in a

glamorous four-star hotel without wanting to make full use

of the facilities. Tonight, she thought with a small smile,

she didn’t think she’d be in the mood.

Cousin Fidelma was wedged into the passenger seat of

Evie’s car and no amount of pulling could get her out. The

combination of Fidelma’s unsupple seventeen-stone-plus

body and a wonky right leg that couldn’t bend meant she

was imprisoned by the dashboard of the small car.

‘I should have put you in the taxi with Al and Elizabeth,’

Evie said anxiously, wondering how she was ever going to

lever Fidelma out. It had been difficult enough getting her in. That in itself should have set alarm bells ringing but Fidelma had been adamant about travelling with Evie ‘so

we can catch up on all the gossip’.

They hadn’t caught up on very much because Fidelma,

who was on tablets for the pain in her leg, had dropped off

immediately they drove out of the church car park, leaving

Evie to fume in indignant silence about how Cara and

Rosie had both conveniently jumped ship and gone off in a

rackety old Volvo with the great-aunts, cigarette smoke

and laughter bellowing out the windows as it shuddered

off.

As soon as I get there, Evie thought crossly, I’m having

the biggest glass of champagne I can get my hands on.

Stuck at the back of a convoy of big, expensive cars en

route to the hotel, she got crosser still.

‘Vulgar gas-guzzlers,’ she muttered as a great big tank of

a German car swerved dangerously in front of her to avoid

hitting a poor cyclist. ‘That thing is a threat to the

environment!’

‘I’m sorry, Evie,’ said Fidelma piteously from the depths

of the front seat, bringing her firmly back to reality.

‘No, don’t be,’ said Evie, immediately contrite. ‘We’ll get

you out of there in a trice. Just wait.’

Fidelma’s sweet rounded face relaxed a fraction. Around

seven years older than Andrew Fraser, she somehow looked

years younger thanks to her moon face which didn’t have a

wrinkle in sight.

Only the floral print two-piece and matching turban

squashed on her grey curls gave a hint that Fidelma

wouldn’t see seventy again. But when she spoke, her sweet

little-girl voice made her appear like a child in a grownup’s

body.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said again meekly.

Evie sensed that if it took much longer, Fidelma would

begin to panic. It was time for speedy action. She looked

around the hotel car park blindly. As most people had

arrived before she did, abandoning cars at frantic, haphazard

angles in order to get at the free champagne before it

was all gone, the car park was now empty of any member

of the wedding party. Evie didn’t want to leave Fidelma on

her own but she needed to get some help.

A smooth clicking noise from the car parked nearest to

her caught Evie’s attention.

Sleek, black and very expensive-looking, the car

reminded her briefly of the one Richard Gere had driven

in Pretty Woman, one of Evie’s favourite films. In her

dreams, she’d been the beautiful young Julia Roberts many

times, desperately in love and hoping for the fairy tale.

A low-slung door opened and a man stepped out. He

wasn’t Richard Gere, Evie thought, startled, he was better.

Tall, darker than your average Irishman, and with his shock

of jet black hair sleeked loosely back from a tanned,

strong-boned face, he was devastatingly attractive.

Then he smiled at her, a broad, amused smile that

opened up his bronzed face and displayed a flash of very

white teeth.

For a moment, she could only stare. With those big solid

shoulders and long, long legs, he looked like every romantic,

bodice-ripping hero she’d ever read about, except that he wasn’t quite as lantern-jawed as the he-men oil painted beautifully on the covers of Davina’s Desires or The Jade Princess.

He was real flesh and blood instead of one-dimensional

paint. He wore what was obviously a very continental suit,

something grey with a sheen to it. A buttoned-up shirt but no tie. And he was coming over to her and Fidelma.

Evie gulped and moved closer to her car, instinctively

smoothing down her skirt which had got wrinkled during

the drive. Had her lipstick all gone? Was her hair all right?

Would he notice if she bent down to check how she

looked in the mirror …

‘I think you may need some assistance?’ he said. He

loomed over her, dwarfing her with his size and sheer

presence.

Up close, Evie could see that his eyes were the deepest

blue imaginable with long dark lashes, almost like a girl’s.

They were the only feminine thing about him. Otherwise,

he was all male. All six foot something of handsome,

healthy masculinity.

The heroine of Davina’s Desires would have known

what to say to such a creature, Evie thought blindly,

something provocative or intriguing. She just gawped at

him.

‘Do you need help?’ he asked again.

His voice was rich and dark, like finely aged whiskey

rippling over gravel. Not Irish but she couldn’t put her

finger on the accent. She refocused, aware he was watching

her with the faintest glimmer of a smile. God, he was

waiting for her to answer!

‘Er … well, yes,’ she said blankly. ‘We do have a bit of a

problem.’ With an expressive flick of her eyes, she tried to

let him see what the problem was without actually saying

anything in order to save poor Fidelma’s blushes.

He took in the situation instantly.

‘You know, modern cars don’t have much room in

them,’ added Evie, for Fidelma’s benefit.

‘I agree,’ he said, amusement glinting in his eyes. As if a

man with a state-of-the-art sports car wasn’t quite aware

that Evie’s battered Ford Fiesta was at least ten years old.

‘People were always getting stuck in this model, I

believe,’ he lied gently, as he leaned into the car and took

Fidelma’s arm. ‘I heard they recalled quite a few of them

to the factory.’

Did they?’ she asked with relief.

How kind of him, thought Evie. What a lovely man.

If I support you like this,’ he was saying to Fidelma,

‘then we can get you out.’

For thirty seconds, Evie looked on worriedly as the big

man carefully helped Fidelma to freedom, lifting her not

insubstantial upper body with ease. He chatted comfortingly

to her all the time, nonsense about car companies and

how they forget that modern ladies like a bit of leg room.

Finally, they managed it and Evie’s elderly relative got to

her” feet and grabbed her rescuer’s hands in gratitude.

Thank you so much,’ she tittered. ‘I don’t know what

I’d have done if you hadn’t come along, my dear.’

Evie looked at Fidelma in amazement. She was actually

red in the face, blushing like a shy seventeen year old

under the stranger’s gaze. How astonishing.

‘I’m glad I could help,’ he said, turning to Evie and

taking her hand in his.

To her own shame and amazement, she could feel

herself flush up like a ripe peach. It was the way he was

looking at her, she thought, an undress-you-with-his-eyes

look.

She snatched her hand back.

‘Thank you,’ she said crisply, determined to reassert her dignity. Yes, he’d come to their rescue but now she was finished with him, he needn’t hang around like the conquering

hero whose next question was going to be: ‘Would

you have a drink with me, ladies?’

No way, Jose.

The dark eyebrows rose a fraction at her abruptness and

Evie could imagine them sitting low over his eyes in anger

or rising in amusement at will.

‘I don’t suppose I could buy you ladies a drink to get you

both over your ordeal?’ he asked, directing the question at

Evie.

‘Ooh, yes, we’d love that! Wouldn’t we, Evie?’ squealed

Fidelma girlishly.

Evie shot her relative a quelling glance but it had no

effect. Fidelma was gazing at the man in rapt delight.

‘It might do you good to have a brandy to settle your

nerves after your ordeal,’ he said to her, ‘before you go into

the wedding.’

Fidelma blossomed like a Georgette Heyer heroine

asked to a ball by a previously girl-hating marquis.

‘How do you know we’re going to a wedding?’

demanded Evie suspiciously, for once feeling much more

hard-eyed female private eye than frilly Regency heroine.

‘I’m going to it and I’m sure you ladies are, too, because

you’re both so beautifully dressed,’ he replied in that

cultured, deep voice.

Evie hadn’t known that Fidelma could giggle but she

did.

‘Oh, go away out of that, young man,’ she cooed

girlishly, hitting him a whack on the arm with her handbag.

He

grinned, the combination of white teeth and tanned

skin making him appear positively wolfish. He was

dangerous-looking, Evie decided with an exquisite little

shiver, sophistication and elegance wrapped around a

rogue in Italian wool. She wasn’t sure if her rapidly

increasing pulse was because she liked him or not.

‘Forgive my rudeness,’ he apologised. ‘How can you go

for a drink with someone you don’t know? I’m Max

Stewart.’

‘Fidelma Burke,’ said Fidelma quickly, ‘and this is Evie

Fraser.’

‘Nice to meet you both. May I call you Fidelma or is it

Mrs Burke?’ he inquired.

‘Fidelma will do for me and Evie doesn’t stand on

ceremony either,’ replied Fidelma coquettishly.

Evie looked around to see if a Mr? Stewart was going to

emerge from the black sports car, all gazelle-like limbs,

sleek South of France blonde hair, gold jewellery like cow

chains and wearing something with Dior on the label. That

was the sort of woman a man like Max would be married

to surely.

‘I came on my own,’ he said gravely, as if he’d noticed

her surreptitiously wife-spotting. ‘So I’d love two elegant

ladies on my arm.’

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than

Fidelma was glued to him like a limpet. Evie wondered

what had come over her. It must be those tablets.

‘Evie?’

She’d been about to smile and walk in by herself but

there was something about the way he said her name that

stopped her.

His blue eyes were serious now, as if he really wanted

her to have a drink with him. It was flattering to have this

debonair man looking at her in that warm, frankly admiring

manner. It certainly made a welcome change from

Rosie and Cara’s earlier defection. Here at least was one

person who obviously didn’t think she was boring, grumpy and best left to entertain elderly, drugged-up-to-the eyeballs relatives.

‘Please?’

Sensible, circumspect and outwardly proper, Evie Fraser

found that she couldn’t resist, even though she felt she

should. There was something quite dangerous about Max

Stewart. Dangerous, unpredictable and yet vastly exciting.

Nothing like Simon, she thought, immediately hating

herself for being disloyal.

But he was miles away, detained by some boring meeting

he’d refused to miss because it was: ‘With the directors,

Evie, and I couldn’t let them down, you know that.’ He’d

prefer to let her down by arriving at the wedding after the

ceremony and the meal.

Well, what Simon didn’t know about couldn’t hurt him,

could it? It was only a drink after all. What harm could

there be in that?

‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she found herself saying.

Max took her arm and Evie felt a thrill of excitement

shoot up from her elbow as all the tiny hairs on her arm

stood up straight.

He was so big, he made her feel like a little sprite of a

thing, a tiny, fragile creature instead of a woman constantly

warding off a garage full of spare tyres. God, she wished

somebody could see her now, Evie Fraser being escorted by

this incredible guy.

Inside the hotel, she barely noticed the elegantly vaulted

ceiling, the suits of armour or the rich medieval pennants

hanging from stone walls. All she was aware of was Max