Nowadays she preferred to ignore any bad press or unfair comparisons with her parents’ hedonistic lifestyles, and just live her life according to her own expectations rather than other people’s. It worked better, to a certain extent, although she knew she’d never truly be able to outrun the shadow of who her parents had been.
Hanny Forsberg, her mother, had arrived in England poor and beautiful and on Page Three before she had found a place to live, and Johnny Wild, her father, had been a rough Norfolk lad with a raw musical talent and a hunger for success and women in equal measure.
Both had thrived on their fame and the attention it engendered, and after Lily was born they had just added her to their lifestyle—palming her off on whichever one wasn’t working and treating her like a fashion accessory long before it had become hip to do so.
The camera flashes and constant attention had scared her as a child, and even now Lily hated that she always felt as if she was living under the sullied banner of her parents’ combined notoriety. But none of that had been enough to put her off when her own creativity and natural talent had led her down the acting career path. Lily just tried as best she could to take roles that didn’t immediately provoke comparisons between herself and her parents—though as to that she could play a cross-dressing homosexual male and probably still be compared to her mother!
Sighing heavily, and wishing that one of her directors was going to call ‘cut’ on a day from hell, Lily turned to stare out at the passing landscape she hadn’t seen for so long.
Unfortunately the rows of shop fronts and Victorian terraces soon made her head throb, and she was forced to close her eyes and listen to the sound of Tristan texting on his smartphone instead. A thousand questions were winging through her mind—none of which, she knew, Tristan would feel inclined to answer.
For a moment she contemplated pulling the script she had promised to read from her bag, but that would no doubt make the headache worse so she left it there.
No great hardship, since she didn’t want to read it anyway. She had no interest in starring in a theatrical production about her parents, no matter how talented the writer-director was.
She’d nearly scoffed out loud at the notion.
As if she’d feed the gossipmongers and provoke more annoying comparisons to her mother by actually playing her in a drama. Lord, she’d never hear the end of it. The only reason she was pretending to consider the idea was a favour to a friend.
Her mouth twisted as she imagined the look on Tristan’s face if he knew about the role. No doubt he’d think her perfect to play a lost, drug-addled model craving love and attention from a man who had probably put the word playboy in the dictionary.
In fact it was ironic, really, that the only man Lily had ever thought herself to be in love with was almost as big a playboy as her father! Not that she’d fully comprehended Tristan’s reputation as a seventeen-year-old. Back then she’d known only that women fell for him like pebbles tossed into a pond, but she hadn’t given it much thought.
Now she was almost glad that he’d rejected her gauche overtures, because if he hadn’t she’d surely have become just another notch on his bedpost. And if she was anything like her mother that would have meant she’d have fallen for him all the harder.
Lily removed her cap and rubbed her forehead, glancing briefly at Tristan, slashing his red pen through a document he was reading. If she tried to interrupt him now to discuss her house arrest he’d no doubt bite her head off. Still…
‘I take it you won’t be put out if I don’t feel up to making conversation right now?’ she queried innocuously, smiling brightly when he looked at her as if she had two heads. ‘Thought not,’ she mumbled.
Suddenly she was feeling drained, and not up to fighting with him anyway, so it was a good thing he’d ignored her taunt. A taunt she shouldn’t have made in the first place. Never prod a sleeping tiger…wasn’t that the adage? Especially when you were in the same cage as him!
Lily leaned back against the plush leather headrest and closed her eyes. The manly scent from Tristan’s jacket imbued her with a delicious and oddly peaceful lassitude, and she tried to pretend none of this was happening.
Cheeky minx! She knew he didn’t want to talk. He couldn’t have made it any plainer. He slashed another line through the report he was reading and realised he’d marked up the wrong section. Damn her.
She sighed, and he wondered if she knew the effect she was having on his concentration, but when he glanced up it was to find she’d fallen asleep.
She looked so fragile, swamped in his jacket, her blonde hair spilling over the dark fabric like a silvery web.
He knew when he got it back it would smell like something from his late mother’s garden, and made a mental note to have his housekeeper immediately launder it. Then he realised the direction of his thoughts and frowned.
He was supposed to be focused on work. Not contemplating Lily and her hurt expression when he’d cut off her attempts to explain her situation earlier.
He didn’t want to get caught up in her lies, and he had taken the view that the less she said the better for both of them. She had a way of getting under his skin, and for an insanely brief moment back in the bar, when her eyes had teared up, he’d wanted to reach out and tell her that everything would be all right. Which was ridiculous.
It wasn’t his job to fix her situation. His job—if you could call it that—was to keep her out of trouble until Jordana’s wedding and find out any relevant information that might lead to her—or someone else’s—arrest.
It was not to make friends with her, or to make empty promises. And it certainly wasn’t to kiss her as he had wanted to do. He shook his head. Maybe he really had taken leave of his senses getting involved with this. Stuart, the friend and colleague who had helped him find the loophole in the law that had placed her into his custody, had seemed to think so.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Chief?’ he’d asked, after the deal had been sealed.
‘When have you ever needed to ask me that?’
His friend had raised an eyebrow at his surly tone and Tristan had known what was coming.
‘Never. But if she’s guilty and people question your involvement it could ruin your legal career. Not to mention drag your family name through the mud again.’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ he’d said. But he didn’t. Not really.
What he did know was that he was still as strongly attracted to her as he had been six years ago. Not that he was going to do anything about it. He would never get involved with a drug-user.
His mother had been one—although not a recreational user, like Lily and her ilk. His mother had taken a plethora of prescription meds for everything from dieting to depression, but the effect was the same: personality changes, mood swings, and eventually death when she had driven her car into a tree.
She had never been an easy woman to love. A shop girl with her eye on the big prize, she had married his father for his title and, from what Tristan could tell, had spent most of their life together complaining on the one hand that he worked too hard and on the other that the Abbey was too old for her tastes. His father had done his best, but in the end it hadn’t been enough, and she’d left after a blazing row Tristan still wished he hadn’t overheard. His father had been gutted, and for a while lost to his children, and Tristan had vowed then that he would never fall that deeply under a woman’s spell.
He expelled a harsh breath. He was thirty-two years old and in the prime of his life. He had an international law firm and a property portfolio that spanned four continents, good friends and enough money to last several lifetimes—even with the amount he gave away to charity. His personal life had become