She was in Milan when her mother kindly sent her the article with the accompanying photograph. It showed Cormack out sailing in the company of a group from the studio, with a tiny brunette peeping adoringly at him from underneath a thick, glossy fringe, and Triss experienced an extra- ordinary feeling which could almost have been described as relief.
Because, in a way, she had been freed from the prison of loving a man as much as she loved Cormack. Now she could stop hoping and stop trusting because, in the end, it turned out that he was just the same as every other man.
Triss had only her own experiences to base her life on. She had grown up in a world where money ruled, where infidelity was as normal as apple pie and where promises were made to be broken.
She went back to Malibu and packed her bags, then left Cormack a letter saying that she had made a mistake. And she returned to London.
He tried to contact her, but she refused to take his calls and ignored his letters. But she was unable to ignore him when he turned up on her doorstep one day, straight off the early-morning flight.
The change in him was frightening. He seemed so distant, so remote. Like a stranger—only worse than a stranger. And his eyes were as coldly sharp as razor-blades. What was more, he made no attempt to touch her. Perhaps, if he had, the whole scenario might have been different. But there again, what was the point of continuing their relationship if the overpowering sexual attraction between them was the only thing which sustained it?
His voice was tinged with ice as he said, quite calmly, ‘Do you intend to continue this elaborate charade of hysterical behaviour, Triss, or are you willing to sit down and discuss the situation like an adult?’
And, naturally, the insult with which he had begun his question evoked a similarly insulting response in Triss.
‘Get out of my flat, you no-good philanderer!’ she snapped, and was shocked and mortified when he turned around without another word and did exactly that.
She missed him so much that it was as if half of her had gone with him, and she sent him a tentative letter, saying that perhaps one day they could be friends.
She received a cold little note by return of post saying that no, they couldn’t—because one of the pre-requisites of friendship was the existence of trust.
And that Triss had not yet learned the meaning of trust...
WHILE she waited for Cormack to return Triss bathed Simon, who was showing absolutely no sign of tiredness. She played peep-bo with him, and his delighted little chuckles rang out around the sumptuous art-deco bathroom.
He was an absolutely gorgeous baby, she thought, with a surge of fierce maternal pride, as she bundled him up in a big fluffy towel. And Lola had said that he had been as good as gold with her and Geraint.
Triss found herself wondering what Simon himself thought of Cormack. Did he have any inkling at all that the tall, dark Irishman was, in fact, his father? Were babies born with the instinctive equipment to detect their birth patents?
She let Simon lie on the floor and kick his chubby little legs. Then she dressed him in his Disney pyjamas and settled him down in his cot, putting on the teddy-bear mobile which played nursery rhymes—which Triss always sang along to, even though she had not been born with the most tuneful voice in the world!
Then she fed him, savouring those blissful moments of having him clamped to her breast and glugging contentedly. She was still breastfeeding first thing in the morning and last thing at night, and Simon seemed to be accepting this now, although it had been difficult at first.
She hadn’t wanted to wean him quite so early, but a look at her bank statement last month had convinced her that she could no longer afford the luxury of continuing to play the role of full-time mummy.
She had spent most of her savings on this house, which was her investment for Simon’s future. The rest she had been living off. She had not worked since discovering that she was carrying Cormack’s baby. She had been too plagued by morning sickness even to consider working at the beginning, and then, when the pregnancy had firmly established itself, she had done everything in her power to look after herself.
She had been mentally and physically exhausted after her run-ins with Cormack, and so she had quite deliberately nurtured her baby in the womb, taking as much rest as she could.
It was almost seven by the time Simon’s eyelids drooped and he fell fast asleep, his thumb firmly in his mouth. Triss crept out of the room feeling gritty and sticky and uncomfortable, her cheeks reddening as she remembered the reason why.
Well, she would wash every trace of Cormack Casey from her body, and maybe after that she might feel able to confront him with some degree of calmness this evening.
She showered and washed her hair, then dressed in a pair of black leggings and slouch-socks. She put a huge black sweater over the top then looked at herself critically in the mirror.
Hell, but she looked pale! And her shorn hair made her eyes look unnaturally huge in her face. In fact, she was about as far removed from the woman Cormack had fallen for as it was possible to be. And feminine pride meant that this fact rankled more than a little—especially to someone whose whole career had been based on looking beautiful.
Should she wear some make-up? Perhaps rub a little blusher into those deadly white cheeks?
She decided against it. If she made herself up, it might look as though she had seduction in mind—when really all she wanted to do was talk to him, establish some kind of practical framework whereby Cormack could have some contact with his son while he was growing up.
In the end she compromised and put on a pair of large, beautifully worked silver earrings, which Cormack had bought for her in a shop in Greenwich, where they had once spent a blissful weekend. They were studded with small polished ovals of amber and, while they were not the most precious things she owned, they were certainly her favourite—though she didn’t stop to examine too closely her motives for wearing them now.
She checked on Simon, then went downstairs. She was just deliberating on whether or not she ought to concoct some kind of supper—even though she did not have the slightest bit of appetite—when the telephone rang. She snatched the receiver up as though it were a lifeline.
‘Hello?’
‘Triss?’
Her first disappointed thought was that it was not Cormack. Triss recognised the voice immediately—it was Martha, her sister-in-law and dearest friend. A qualified obstetrician, she had cared for Triss throughout her pregnancy, and had delivered Simon with great emotion.
‘Martha!’ Triss exclaimed, and then said immediately, ‘Cormack has rung you, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he has.’ For once Martha sounded cross. Very cross. ‘Oh, Triss—how could you?’
‘How could I what?’
‘Don’t play the innocent with me, young lady! You know darned well what I’m talking about! He was furious to discover that Simon’s existence had been kept a secret from him. Triss, you told me—’
Triss found herself flushing guiltily. ‘Yes, I know...’
But Martha would not be deflected; Triss had never heard her beloved sister-in-law sound quite so angry. ‘You told me that Cormack had said he never wanted to see you again. You told me that he wanted nothing to do with your pregnancy, nor with your child! And now he informs me that he knew nothing of your pregnancy. Absolutely nothing.’ She exhaled an exasperated breath. ‘When I think of all the times I wanted to contact