‘He doesn’t look like you. Does he take after his father?’ he asked, picking up a tiny, delicate blini topped with smoked salmon. It was a casual enough question, but Megan cursed the emotion his query was stirring within her.
‘As he grows older, he looks more like his father,’ she confessed.
She wanted to tell him about his son, longed to tell him, but she knew she couldn’t. The web of lies she had carefully spun for Luke must remain intact. She would not allow her child to feel the pain of rejection she had been subjected to. He reached out, wrapping his strong, warm hand over hers, squeezing it gently.
‘I’m sorry. It must be hard for you.’
‘No, I’m just being silly,’ she said quickly, fully aware of the heat from his hand that was slowly permeating her body. She felt her heart race at his familiar touch and she stared at his hand, looking at the dark mat of hairs that criss-crossed his hand with intensity. She was so sensitive to him that it frightened her. For once, after so many years, she felt alive again, every nerve in her body tingling with anticipation.
‘My Meg, my poor Meg,’ he crooned softly, stroking his slender fingers across her gently trembling hand. Her response was a soft, almost soundless laugh as she withdrew her hand from his. She was afraid of the sharp tug of attraction he was arousing in her and the intimate use of their childhood name for her.
‘Poor!’ She laughed hollowly. ‘No, Darrow, my days of poverty are over.’
His eyes narrowed as he studied her, his expression hardening to granite.
‘You’re still poor Megan. You always will be till you learn true values.’ He bit out the words, his anger spilling out in the bitter blue-blackness of his eyes.
‘I know this, Darrow. It’s easy to appreciate the finer things in life when you don’t have to worry about the basics. I’ve struggled to achieve what I have now, and believe me there is no dignity in poverty. So don’t preach to me about being poor in spirit till you have experienced it for yourself,’ she threw back at him, hating his condescending attitude.
‘What a change. I never saw you as a material girl,’ he jeered, shocked by the change in her. ‘I thought it odd that you were unable to make it to your mother’s funeral. You’re obviously able to come now. No doubt it was the will that brought you back.’
Megan was about to protest her innocence, but her words died on her lips. She could not reveal the real reason why she had missed the funeral as just then Luke returned.
‘Hello, Luke. Did you win?’ she asked, realising immediately that she did not have his attention.
‘You do everything, don’t you?’ he asked Darrow with obvious enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been talking to Suzie.’ Megan saw the light of admiration glowing in her son’s eyes and sighed inwardly. The last thing she needed was a bad case of hero-worship; the situation was difficult enough as it was.
‘Whatever do you mean, Luke?’ She laughed as he drew up a chair between them and picked up three different canapés, ignoring Megan’s disapproving frown with customary ease. He popped two immediately in his mouth, nodding in approval and swallowing quickly in order to explain.
‘River-rafting, abseiling, canoeing, skiing.’ He paused to pick up another canapé and Megan gave his hand a sharp tap. Luke flashed Darrow a grin, and the easy bond that seemed to have sprung between them pierced Megan’s heart.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked, hardly waiting for Darrow to answer.
‘No not all. Help yourself.’
Luke’s grin broadened at his words; he was clearly delighting in the camaraderie.
‘I’d love to try everything. Do you instruct, Mr…?’
‘Darrow. Everyone calls me Darrow.’
‘Darrow,’ repeated Luke, enjoying the adult approach Darrow was taking with him. Megan twisted the stem of her wine glass, trying to remain indifferent to their close proximity and easy conversation. She watched them both with nervous expectation, a chill spiralling down her spine as she caught the close scrutiny Darrow was subjecting Luke to. His dark eyes were assessing Luke very closely indeed, and a tremor of apprehension vibrated through her body.
‘Luke, fetch me another glass of wine, would you?’ she asked. She had sounded abrupt and for a moment Luke looked confused, though he immediately responded by taking up her empty glass.
‘I guess you two want to talk alone,’ he said, making an exaggerated wink as he looked at Darrow, whose face broke out into a wide smile. Megan felt a warm flush of pink cover her cheeks and her eyes darted quickly from Luke to Darrow as a denial leapt swiftly to her lips.
‘No, not at all.’
For a few moments after Luke had left silence fell between them. Megan glanced up, a wave of nausea seeping over her as she watched Darrow’s eyes follow Luke’s disappearing body. At last he had noticed, seen a trace of himself in the boy, and the thought flooded her with a mixture of feelings—delight and despair.
‘I don’t think he’ll be able to do all the activities,’ he informed her crisply, turning his attention back to her, and Megan immediately tensed. Afraid to look at him, Megan stared down at the table, stroking her fingers restlessly over a drip-mat.
‘We are booked in for over a fortnight. Ample time, I would have thought…’ she began, her voice strangely breathless as she awaited his condemnation of her keeping his son to herself.
‘It wasn’t the time factor I was referring to.’
There was a note of challenge in his voice that drew her gaze back to his, and his expression showed a smooth, worldly wisdom.
‘Then what?’ demanded Megan, suddenly defensive, her nerves tensing at his poker-faced expression which warned her that more was to come.
‘He just doesn’t look well enough,’ he said matter-of-factly, but Megan sensed a criticism in his tone and her own feelings of insecurity immediately surfaced. She so desperately wanted him to be well. It was so very difficult being a one-parent family, trying hard to be both mother and father. She had tried to encourage him towards sporting activities but his enforced rest period had left him a little weaker than usual.
‘Looks can be deceptive,’ she retorted, angry with herself that he was evoking in her such a sense of over-protectiveness.
‘I’m not suggesting he doesn’t try some of the activities out, but—’
‘I think I’m the best judge of what my son is capable of,’ Megan cut in, furious by his lack of natural response to his own son, angered that he could not see himself mirrored in Luke’s frame, waiting to grow into a strong, capable man.
‘Oh, God, you’re not one of those pushy mothers who insist on over-compensating for the lack of a father?’ He grinned, unaware of the depth of pain he was causing her or how near the truth he might have touched.
‘It’s not a case of that. I just think you’re making an incorrect judgement merely because of his looks,’ she countered. The tone of conversation was swiftly changing to one of confrontation but she felt as if she was on a roller-coaster, thundering down a track, out of control.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth should I do that?’ he demanded, and Megan instantly tensed as his dark eyes narrowed on her. Megan felt her face redden as she realised that it was her own sensitivity to the situation that was causing the problem. She was reading far too much into his words.
‘Look, I’m sure that Luke will be sensible enough to make his own choices,’ she said briefly, hoping to draw a close over that line of conversation. She didn’t want to talk about Luke; it was far too dangerous.
Darrow leant across the table, pushing to one side the half-empty platter of food in a gesture of annoyance. He flexed his shoulders as he