lower still. If there was one thing worse than having a parent who didn’t care, it was the world knowing about it.
Why on earth had she told him that much?
It was the headache, she thought miserably. ‘Look, just leave me alone. I’ve had enough of you to last me a lifetime. I hope your conscience doesn’t keep you awake.’
He stared at her for a long moment and it was obvious he wanted to say more. Instead, his mouth tightened. ‘Don’t lock the door. If you collapse, I want to know.’
‘Why? So that you can call the paparazzi and have them take close-ups?’ Feeling worse than she’d ever felt in her life, Polly stalked into the bathroom, slammed the door and defiantly turned the key in the lock.
Damn.
Discovering that tears stung the cut next to her eye, sheground her teeth and held back the emotion, knowing that a crying fit would simply add to her throbbing headache.
‘Miserable man—vile, inhuman machine—’ Venting in front of the mirror, she wet the corner of a towel and gingerly touched her head. ‘Oww.’ Gritting her teeth, she tried to analyse why she felt so let down. She was used to looking out for herself, wasn’t she? She’d always done it. She didn’t
need
Damon Doukakis flying to her rescue.
So why did she feel so let down? Why did it matter that his reasons for dumping his date to come and find her had been self-serving?
Polly stared at her white face in the mirror.
Because, just for a moment, she’d been taken in by those distracting flashes of chemistry. Just for a moment she’d forgotten this was all about his sister and made the mistake of thinking he cared about her a little bit.
That was what you got for dropping your guard.
Trying to ignore the pain, she took her time in the bathroom, wanting to make sure he’d gone before she emerged.
When she finally opened the door, the room was empty.
On the bed was a suitcase, presumably packed with the clothes she’d put on the list.
Fantastic Franco obviously worked fast.
On the table next to the bed were painkillers and a jug of water.
Polly sniffed, determined not to be grateful. Delivering painkillers didn’t make him thoughtful.
She swallowed them and then pulled on the lacy shorts and camisole she wore to bed, trying not to think about the serious-faced Franco packing her clothes. Digging out her BlackBerry from her bag, she checked her e-mails. Having satisfied herself that there was nothing that couldn’t wait until the morning, she settled on top of the bed, pulled out her notebook and started to scribble down thoughts for the followingday’s meeting. Determined to show Gérard that he’d done the right thing appointing them as his agency, she sketched out a few new ideas until drowsiness got the better of her and she flopped back onto the pillows.
His hand locked around a glass of whisky, Damon watched the news report from the hospital. There were stills of Polly being lifted into an ambulance, blood visible on her face, and an interview with the doctor who refused to comment on her patient’s condition. It was enough to drive to most laid-back parent to the nearest telephone.
But the phone remained ominously silent.
What would it take, he wondered, to flush Peter Prince out of his love nest? Clearly more than an injured daughter.
What sort of man saw that his daughter was in hospital and still didn’t call her?
Contemplating that question, Damon drained the whisky. Responsibility towards family flowed through him, as much a part of his being as the blood that was his life force. He could no more abdicate that responsibility than he could stop breathing.
From the moment the police had broken the news about his parents he’d buried his own feelings and focused all his energies on providing for his sister.
Clearly Peter Prince felt no such sense of obligation.
Damon thought back to that day a decade earlier when he’d received the call from the school. He’d walked out of an important meeting to
Why on earth had she told him that much?
It was the headache, she thought miserably. ‘Look, just leave me alone. I’ve had enough of you to last me a lifetime. I hope your conscience doesn’t keep you awake.’
He stared at her for a long moment and it was obvious he wanted to say more. Instead, his mouth tightened. ‘Don’t lock the door. If you collapse, I want to know.’
‘Why? So that you can call the paparazzi and have them take close-ups?’ Feeling worse than she’d ever felt in her life, Polly stalked into the bathroom, slammed the door and defiantly turned the key in the lock.
Damn.
Discovering that tears stung the cut next to her eye, sheground her teeth and held back the emotion, knowing that a crying fit would simply add to her throbbing headache.
‘Miserable man—vile, inhuman machine—’ Venting in front of the mirror, she wet the corner of a towel and gingerly touched her head. ‘Oww.’ Gritting her teeth, she tried to analyse why she felt so let down. She was used to looking out for herself, wasn’t she? She’d always done it. She didn’t
need
Damon Doukakis flying to her rescue.
So why did she feel so let down? Why did it matter that his reasons for dumping his date to come and find her had been self-serving?
Polly stared at her white face in the mirror.
Because, just for a moment, she’d been taken in by those distracting flashes of chemistry. Just for a moment she’d forgotten this was all about his sister and made the mistake of thinking he cared about her a little bit.
That was what you got for dropping your guard.
Trying to ignore the pain, she took her time in the bathroom, wanting to make sure he’d gone before she emerged.
When she finally opened the door, the room was empty.
On the bed was a suitcase, presumably packed with the clothes she’d put on the list.
Fantastic Franco obviously worked fast.
On the table next to the bed were painkillers and a jug of water.
Polly sniffed, determined not to be grateful. Delivering painkillers didn’t make him thoughtful.
She swallowed them and then pulled on the lacy shorts and camisole she wore to bed, trying not to think about the serious-faced Franco packing her clothes. Digging out her BlackBerry from her bag, she checked her e-mails. Having satisfied herself that there was nothing that couldn’t wait until the morning, she settled on top of the bed, pulled out her notebook and started to scribble down thoughts for the followingday’s meeting. Determined to show Gérard that he’d done the right thing appointing them as his agency, she sketched out a few new ideas until drowsiness got the better of her and she flopped back onto the pillows.
His hand locked around a glass of whisky, Damon watched the news report from the hospital. There were stills of Polly being lifted into an ambulance, blood visible on her face, and an interview with the doctor who refused to comment on her patient’s condition. It was enough to drive to most laid-back parent to the nearest telephone.
But the phone remained ominously silent.
What would it take, he wondered, to flush Peter Prince out of his love nest? Clearly more than an injured daughter.
What sort of man saw that his daughter was in hospital and still didn’t call her?
Contemplating that question, Damon drained the whisky. Responsibility towards family flowed through him, as much a part of his being as the blood that was his life force. He could no more abdicate that responsibility than he could stop breathing.
From the moment the police had broken the news about his parents he’d buried his own feelings and focused all his energies on providing for his sister.
Clearly Peter Prince felt no such sense of obligation.
Damon thought back to that day a decade earlier when he’d received the call from the school. He’d walked out of an important meeting to
Similar Books
