Sweet Deception (8 page)

I tried to sit up in bed, attempting to be as quiet as
possible, so as not to disturb him. But the movement must have somehow dislodged my IV, because an alarm sounded. Richard's eyes flew open.

“You're awake.” He didn't appear at all disoriented. Instead he was up and out of his chair straight away, long limbs stretching, as he came over to stand by my bed. The expression on his face was one of concern rather than disapproval. “How're you feeling? Is there anything you need?”

I wasn't entirely sure what time it was, but I sensed he'd been here all night. His jeans and jumper looked crumpled, and his usually clean-shaven face was darkened by a five o'clock shadow. It was almost enough to make me forget about my predicament—it was the first time in years that I'd seen him looking anything less than perfect.

“Am okay,” I managed. My voice was little more than a croak. My throat felt sore and scratchy, and it hurt to talk.

“You might want to give your voice a rest for a bit.” He gave a wry smile. “I hear having your stomach pumped is a bitch.”

I frowned, taking in what he'd just said. “Thought they'd stopped that.”

“What?” He arched an eyebrow. “Shoving a tube down patients' throats? Yes, nowadays they have less barbaric ways of dealing with alcohol poisoning—putting an IV in and rehydrating patients usually works. But in your case they made an exception. Because you'd consumed so much alcohol
they were worried you might die.”

His voice was deceptively light. I dropped my eyes to where my hands were resting on the white sheets of the bed. It was bad enough that I'd managed to drink so much that I'd landed myself in hospital, but now I had to face the fact that I was worse than the normal idiots they got in here. To say I felt ashamed was an understatement.

I would have asked him some basic questions—like
Where am I?
and
What am I doing here?
But I'd kind of figured the answers out for myself: I'd collapsed; an ambulance had been called; my stomach had been pumped; and at some point Richard had arrived and had me spirited to a private room in whatever hospital I was in. That was all fairly self-evident. However, there was one thing I couldn't figure out.

“What're you doing here?”

“Lindsay called. She panicked after you collapsed. She didn't want to worry your parents, so I guess I was the next in line.” He must have seen the question in my eyes because he shook his head. “And no, I haven't told your mum and dad what's been going on. The doctors were pretty certain you'd be fine, so I decided not to worry them. Enough of us were already having a sleepless night over you.”

I didn't know why he'd bothered coming if he was just going to try to make me feel bad. I was already feeling sore and embarrassed. Unfortunately, my voice wasn't up to any arguments right now.

“Home?” I said instead, hoping he'd pick up on my pidgin English.

“Tomorrow. And I'll be taking you back to my place for the night.”

The horror I felt must have been obvious from my face, because he held up his hand. “No arguments. The doctors think it would be best for you to have someone watch over you for the first twenty-four hours after you're discharged, and there's no one else who can do it apart from me.”

“Lindsay?” There was a tinge of desperation in my voice. The thought of Richard and I being confined in one place for any length of time wasn't a good one. I wasn't sure I could take his judgemental attitude for that long.

“Lindsay doesn't have time to play nursemaid. She has an interview tomorrow.”

This was news to me. I wondered why she hadn't mentioned it, but Richard was already speaking before I could process the thought. “I, meanwhile, have arranged to work from home. So, I'm afraid you're stuck with me.” He folded his arms, in a gesture that said,
Deal with it
.

I felt suitably contrite. He'd obviously rearranged his schedule—his very busy schedule—to accommodate me. I hadn't meant for my stupid behaviour to cause everyone else such problems. I managed a sheepish smile. “Thank you.”

He gave a brisk nod of acknowledgement. “Good. That's more like it.”

Right then, a pretty young nurse bustled in. “Ah, you're awake at last,” she said brightly, in a pretty Irish lilt. She walked over to deal with my beeping IV. “That's good. Now, let me get this sorted out for you . . .”

As she began to examine the IV pump, Richard turned to me. “Look, I'm going to push off now, if that's all right with you? I just wanted to be here when you woke up. But now
I
need to get some rest.” He inclined his head back to the easy chair. “That contraption wasn't meant for sleeping.”

He hesitated for just a moment, and then dropped a quick kiss on my forehead.

“I'll be back tomorrow,” he told me. Then, after thanking the nurse, he left.

“There. All done,” the nurse said, as she finished fixing my IV. She turned to me and beamed. “You're a lucky girl, aren't you? Your boyfriend's a sweetheart.”

“Not boyfriend.” I probably should have been resting my voice, but that was the last thing I wanted people thinking.

“Oh, really?” The nurse's eyes brightened with interest. “In that case, is he single? He's one of the good ones, I warrant. He was here all night, making sure you were all right. I could do with a man like that in my life.”

I wasn't in the mood to hear about Richard's virtues. So I clutched at my throat, and pulled a sad face, as though I was in too much pain to reply. Then I closed my eyes and feigned sleep.

*  *  *

“So you're alive, then?” Lindsay's loud voice jolted me out of my doze. I opened my eyes to find her standing in the door of my hospital room, looking distinctly unimpressed—with me, I imagined. Frankly, the feeling was mutual.

“Yeah. I hung on long enough to scream at you for calling Richard,” I threw back at her, although my croaky voice unfortunately made my retort sound less sharp. “Seriously, Lindsay . . .”

My friend rolled her eyes and walked over to perch on the end of my hospital bed. “I think the words you're looking for are, ‘Thank you, Lindsay, for making sure I didn't choke on my own vomit and die a horrible, premature death.' ”

I grunted. “After spending tomorrow with Richard, I'll probably wish I had carked it.”

Lindsay usually found my dark humour amusing, but this time she reached out and slapped my shin, hard.

“Ouch!” I wrinkled my nose. “What the hell was that for?”

“Don't even joke about dying.” Lindsay spoke through gritted teeth. “You have no idea how scared I was last night.”

The anger in her voice drew me up short. I didn't know what to say. Lindsay wasn't the type to sound so serious.

“Oh, come on, Linny.” I used a pet-name she hated to try
to lighten the moment. “Don't be so melodramatic. I'm fine. No permanent damage—I promise.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe not to you. But I lost years off my life last night worrying about your silly, drunken arse. So don't you ever pull a stunt like that again. Because next time I might not be around to look after you.”

“Next time I'll make sure I'm with someone who lets me sleep it off instead of calling an ambulance.” I knew I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn't resist the dig. So I'd had a few too many drinks? Where was the harm? I felt like everyone was making a big deal about nothing.

Lindsay's lips pursed, and she looked like she wanted to contradict me, but then seemed to think better of it. “Fair enough, you ungrateful cow. I came here to cheer you up, not give you a hard time. So let's talk about something else.”

I eyed the duffel bag she'd brought with her, which was now on the floor by her feet. “What's in there?”

“Change of clothes, pyjamas, magazines, toothbrush . . . Why? What were you hoping for? A bottle of vodka?”

I managed a grin. “That's right. Hair of the dog.”

Lindsay started to laugh then, and I joined in, but unfortunately the motion hurt my throat and stomach more than I'd anticipated.

“Ow!” I stopped abruptly, my hand coming up to clasp the base of my neck, as though that might help ease the pain. “Remind me not to do that again. It hurts like hell.”

“Good.” My friend smiled sweetly at me. “It serves you right.”

*  *  *

Lindsay stayed for another hour. After she left, I spent the rest of the day napping. Richard was as good as his word, and turned up at ten the following morning to collect me, looking far more refreshed than the previous day. It took until midday for me to finally be discharged, which meant I got to listen to him conduct business for his advertising firm in my room for two hours, while I flicked through the gossip magazines that Lindsay had brought into me.

Once I'd finally been discharged, Richard helped me out to his car. At least this time I got to sit in the passenger seat as he drove us back to his place. Fortunately, with my throat the way it was, there was no opportunity to chat. Instead, I got to listen to him continue talking business on his hands-free phone, as I stared out the window.

Ten minutes later, we reached Canary Wharf, the business district where he lived. He owned a penthouse in one of the luxury blocks located on the river. We pulled into the underground car park of his apartment complex. At this time of the day, it was pretty full. Most of the people who owned flats here worked in the area, and were in London only from Monday to Friday, driving back to the country at weekends. The vehicles reflected the wealthy status of their owners,
and I reckoned there wasn't one under a hundred grand.

We caught the lift up to his apartment. I'd been there a couple of times before, and it was just as I remembered—more like a show flat than a place to live. Like most of the flats in these modern developments, the centrepiece was an open-plan living space. It reflected his personality perfectly, looking modern and neat to the point of compulsiveness. The décor had a distinctly masculine feel, with clean lines, a neutral colour scheme and dark wood furniture. There were no pictures around, and no personal effects.

“Cosy.” I held my hand to my throat as I spoke, trying to stop it hurting. “Needs a woman's touch.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Having seen the state of your room the other day, it certainly doesn't need yours.”

I wasn't feeling up to a retort, so I pulled a face.

After that, Richard took me on a quick refresher tour. He showed me how to operate his flat-screen TV and gave me a rundown of the gadgets in his state-of-the-art kitchen, telling me to help myself to anything I wanted. The fridge was packed with fruit and vegetables—not a ready-meal in sight.

“You shop?” I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Order online.”

“Thought you ate out all the time?”

“I like to cook, too.” Before I could ask more, he said, “I'll show you where you're sleeping.”

I followed him upstairs to the spare room. It had its own en suite bathroom, complete with Molton Brown toiletries and a spare bathrobe. While he went to put my bag in the walk-in wardrobe, I sat on the bed, sinking into the plump mattress. I stroked my hand over the soft duvet. The linen was virgin white, and either hadn't been used before or had been professionally cleaned. It might be austere, like a hotel room, but it was also extremely comfortable.

“So have you got everything you need?” As Richard came back into the room, I sprang to my feet. I'd got so caught up in my surroundings that I'd almost forgotten he was there.

“Yeah . . . I think I'm all set.”

There was a silence. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, and studied the floor. I hated to admit it, but it was quite nice to be somewhere with a well-stocked fridge and someone to look after me, rather than in the mess that was our flat. While it might be a bit impersonal here, it certainly had everything you could want. I knew I ought to thank Richard, but it was hard to bring myself to do it. It was galling to have to admit that I'd needed him.

Luckily I was saved from thanking him by the sound of the intercom. Richard frowned. It was clear that he hadn't been expecting anyone.

“I better see who that is.”

While he went to answer the door, I decided to get ready
for bed. Lindsay had packed my overnight bag, and she'd put in my favourite pyjamas—a pair of red shorts with white hearts on them, and a white tank top with matching red trim. They were old but comfy. Just as I pulled them on, I heard my stomach rumbling. I hadn't been able to eat much over the past day, sticking mainly to soft foods, but I remembered seeing some Häagen-Dazs in Richard's freezer. That would do me fine.

I eased my way back down the stairs. The door to the living area was pulled to, but I didn't give much thought to it as I walked in—until I saw Petra and Richard standing in the middle of the room, glaring at each other, clearly in the middle of a fight. Hearing me, they turned, startled. I was equally shocked. I stood still, gawping at them for a moment, before recovering.

“Sorry. I just came down to get something to eat.” I pointed at the fridge, just in case they hadn't got the point.

Richard ran a hand through his hair. “Sure. Of course.” But his eyes were on Petra, who was in turn staring at me—and she didn't look happy.

Her gaze ran over me, and I was suddenly aware of how short my shorts were, and the way the tank top emphasised my boobs. It probably would have been a good idea to wear that towelling robe down.

She looked at me with undisguised hostility. “Well, you certainly appear to have recovered quickly.” It was clear she
didn't think this was a good thing. I wondered what her problem was—while I was certain my dress code violated her sense of decorum, I wasn't sure it warranted this much venom. “Richard made it sound like you were at death's door.”