‘Never.’ He was reaching into the pocket of superbly cut grey trousers as Thomas flipped the cap off the orange juice bottle.
‘So what brings you here tonight?’ Magenta swallowed, wondering why she was dallying with such trivia when all she wanted to do was grab him by the pristine cloth of his shirt and demand that he tell her what had happened between them—except she was afraid of finding out.
Dragging her gaze from the glass that was being filled, she lifted her velvety-brown eyes to his. A little frisson of awareness shivered through her when she noticed him assessing the slender lines of her body, saw his lips move in a calculated smile.
‘Who knows?’ he murmured, deeply aware. ‘Fate?’
For a moment, from the way he was looking at her and from the husky note he had infused into that beautiful voice of his, the years seemed to fall away and she was nineteen again. Free-spirited. Giddy with hope. Flighty. That was what she remembered someone calling her in those days. Yet, whatever faults or failings she might have possessed, she knew now that she had been desperately, terrifyingly besotted with the man before her.
‘So what is this?’ On that rather derogatory note he jerked his chin towards where she stood on the service side of the bar. ‘A bit of pin money between assignments? Or didn’t the modelling world quite live up to everything you were hoping for?’ He tossed a note down on the counter to cover the cost of the drinks.
Of course. Her modelling career. Or lack of it, she thought wryly. Because it had never really taken off.
‘Not everything works out the way we plan,’ she responded quietly, absently aware of her younger colleague picking up the note before moving away to the till. Thomas was used to customers chatting her up, even if this particular customer had more wow factor than all the others put together.
‘Really? So what happened to Rushford? The miracle-maker?’
The deeply intoned words burned with something corrosive, and she wasn’t sure whether it was that or the sound of the name that made her suddenly shiver.
‘Didn’t he live up to your expectations either? And there I was, under the impression you were really going places with that guy.’
With Marcus Rushford? Magenta wanted to laugh out loud. Instead she was suddenly despairing at how her mind could have let her forget Andreas and yet retained a nightmarish memory of the slick-talking managing agent who had been promoting her for a while.
Confusion swirled around her and she had to take a deep breath to stem the almost physical pain that trying to remember produced.
‘Well, as I said...’ She gave a little shrug and felt a surge of panic when she realised she had completely forgotten what it was she had been going to say. It still happened sometimes. Times like now, when she felt hot and flummoxed and abnormally stressed. ‘Not...’ Mercifully the words flooded back, even though she stumbled over them in attempting to get them out. ‘Not...everything goes to plan.’
‘Evidently not.’ He glanced towards where Thomas was waiting behind the middle-aged man who clearly paid their wages, who was sorting out some problem with the cash machine.
Magenta wished he would hurry up. It was purgatory standing there talking to a man who so clearly resented her when her screaming senses were taunting her with the knowledge of how his skin had felt beneath her fingers and how he had shown her pleasure such as her untutored body had never known. If it had been untutored, she thought. As far as she knew she could have been as free with her favours as her mother had led her to believe. She had no recollection of those lost months of her life, but her torpid brain had always rejected that thought as repugnant and totally alien to her.
‘So what happened to the career? Did Rushford fail to deliver on his promises? Or is that just a rumour? Like the way he cut loose because he couldn’t face the responsibility of fatherhood?’
The fact that this man knew she had been expecting a baby sent Magenta’s thoughts spinning in a vortex of confusion. Her hand went to her forehead. Noticing the way it trembled, she brought it quickly down again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding anything but. ‘Is that still a sore point?’
His sarcasm dug deep, but she was too busy trying to stay upright to ask him why he believed Theo was Marcus Rushford’s child.
Gripping the edge of the bar with both hands for support, and dragging in lungfuls of much-needed air, she murmured, ‘I’d prefer not to discuss my son, if it’s...all the same to you.’ Had he detected that awkwardness—that lack of fluency in her speech which it had taken her a long time to overcome? ‘Not here. Not over a bar.’