Fairytale Come Alive (6 page)

Fiona’s death had caused Sally confusion and distress, both of which she worked through with the spirit and zest for life that she’d inherited from her mother.

Fiona’s death had caused Jason immense pain which had not abated in the slightest in over a year.

The drive home had been filled with Sally’s chatter which was lucky even as it was annoying.

Now they were home and Prentice had no earthly clue what to do with Isabella Evangelista.

What he did know was that there was only one thing more hateful than having this woman in the home he’d built for Fiona and that one thing was the fact that Fiona no longer shared that home with him.

Sally, however, knew exactly what to do.

“I’m
starving,
” she cried, dancing into the great room, holding Isabella’s hand and dragging her along. “Daddy, make us toad in the hole,” she demanded.

“I want takeaway,” Jason muttered as he slouched through the room, threw the post on the kitchen counter then headed toward the open-backed stairway that led to the second floor.

“We had takeaway last night,” Sally whined, “and the night before.”

She wasn’t wrong.

It had been takeaway the night before that too.

Fiona had done the cooking and the shopping. Since she was no longer there and the only things Prentice could cook that didn’t taste crap were cheese on toast, beans on toast and toad in the hole, takeaway was a staple for the Cameron family.

“It’s takeaway, lass, I’ve got things to do,” Prentice murmured, hitting the kitchen that opened to the great room, separated by a long, wide, v-shaped counter with stools and on its other side, floor to cathedral ceiling windows that faced the sea.

He picked up the post.

“I’ll cook,” Isabella offered and Prentice’s head snapped up.

Earlier, he’d been incorrect. It was more hateful having Isabella in Fiona’s kitchen cooking than it was simply having Isabella in Fiona’s house. Or, more to the point, cooking better than Fiona in Fiona’s kitchen.

Fiona was a damn fine cook however, if memory served, Isabella was an excellent one. Her cooking was a delicious mixture of home-cooking and gourmet. When she’d been there twenty years ago, both summers, she did it often for him, his family, their friends and she’d cooked and served fabulous tasting meals like it was second nature.

Sally’s head tilted back excitedly to look at her new idol.

“You cook
and
wear high heels?” she asked as if this was an act akin to negotiating world peace
with
global socialized healthcare thrown in.

“We don’t have any food in the house,” Prentice cut in and Isabella’s eyes moved to him.

“I’ll go to the store.”

Sally jumped up and down. “Can I go to the store with Bel… I mean, Mrs. Evangahlala? Can I, can I, can I?”

“I said takeaway,” Prentice replied.

“Daddeeeeeee!” Sally whined.

“Takeaway,” Prentice repeated and Sally’s face fell.

Fucking,
bloody
, hell.

He gave in.

He couldn’t help it. He hated it when Sally’s face fell.

However, he needed time to adjust to the idea. He also needed time with Jason to see how his son was faring with movie star glamorous Isabella Evangelista in the house.

“Perhaps Mrs. Evangelista will cook for us tomorrow night,” he suggested.

Sally jumped up and down, clapping and whirling toward Isabella.

“Will you? Will you, will you, will you?”

Isabella smiled down at his daughter and said softly, “Of course, sweetheart.”

Sally stopped jumping and clapping and stared in bright-eyed, happy wonder at Isabella.

At the same time Prentice felt like someone had hit him in the gut with a sledgehammer.

Then he felt his temper flare.

This woman was not going to turn her considerable charm on his children then walk out of their lives without a second thought.

He started to move around the kitchen counter saying, “Isabella, I’ll show you to your room.”

“I’ll go too!” Sally announced, grasping Isabella’s hand.

“No, baby, you go put your books in your room,” Prentice ordered.

“Daddy,” Sally whined.

“Now, Sally. I need a word with Isabella.”

Sally sighed with aggrieved exaggeration and then stomped to the stairs.

Prentice headed to the back hall that led to the backstairs that led to the guest suite that was removed from the family areas. It was a suite he’d designed because Fiona said guests needed privacy and when she’d been alive, with her many friends and huge family, it had been occupied frequently.

Since her funeral, it had never been occupied.

Isabella followed.

When she walked into the room, she looked around and Prentice closed the door.

Then she turned to Prentice.

“You have a beautiful home,” she said softly.

Prentice ignored the compliment.

“There are sheets in the wardrobe in the bedroom. Towels in the cupboard in the bathroom. This room,” he indicated the small but welcoming and cozy (Fiona had made it the latter two) sitting room, “has its own phone line, broadband and television so you can have privacy.”

“Thank you.”

Prentice decided it was best if he made his wishes very clear and he didn’t delay.

“I expect you to be in here as often as possible when you’re in my house.”

He could swear he saw her body lock.

“Sorry?” she asked, again with that odd, soft voice.

“I think you heard me,” he replied.

“Prentice –” she started but stopped when he shook his head.

“I’m sure you’re aware that my children lost their mother a year ago. Sally’s obviously looking for anyone to fill that feminine gap and it isn’t going to be you.”

Her face didn’t lose any of its composure as her eyes stayed unwavering on his.

“Prentice –” she started again but he kept talking.

“This is a holiday for you but it’s their life.”

“I wouldn’t do –”

Prentice cut her off and his tone was biting. “Wouldn’t you?”

She looked to the floor immediately and stated, “I deserved that.”

Christ, she was a piece of work.

His temper, already at the surface, boiled over.

“You’ve said that already but you didn’t mean it when you said it to Debs and you don’t mean it now.”

Her eyes shot back to his and she opened her mouth but he didn’t let her speak.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing this time but I reckon you know I’m no’ playing it. What you need to know is, you aren’t playing it with my children.”

“I’m not playing a game,” she returned coolly.

“That’s good then,” he replied but it was impossible to miss the way he said it meant he didn’t believe one word out of her mouth.

And Isabella didn’t miss it.

She leaned forward slightly. “I lost my mother when I was young too. I would never
play games
with any children, especially not yours.”

“I’ve no idea what a woman like you does for fun,” Prentice shot back. “I just want you to understand whatever fun you intend to have, it will no’ involve my family.”

She crossed her arms and hugged her elbows, whispering, “I don’t deserve
this
.”

Prentice was silent.

She held his gaze.

Then, as if unable to stop herself, she asked, “What kind of woman do you think I am?”

She shouldn’t have asked it. She knew it and so did he.

He should have let it go.

He didn’t let it go.

Instead, he answered, “The kind of woman who’d play with a man’s heart without a second thought then leave her best friend in a hospital bed for months without lowering herself for that first goddamned visit.”

Prentice watched with detached fascination as her composure slipped for a split second, exposing pain, before she regained it.

Her face softened slightly. “Perhaps I should explain.”

“I don’t want an explanation,” he returned and he didn’t, he was twenty years and a dead wife away from explanations. “I want to know we understand each other.”

Isabella was silent for a moment.

Then she whispered, “Sally likes me.”

“Sally likes everyone.”

Isabella pressed her lips together for a brief moment and he could swear it was an effort to hide her genuine reaction. This was an effort that worked; she gave not that first thing away.

Then she nodded.

“Of course, Prentice,” she gave in quietly. “I’ll stay in these rooms.”

“Except when you cook Sally dinner tomorrow night.
That’s
one promise you’re going to keep.”

He didn’t wait for her to agree.

He left.

And he put her out of his mind while he called for takeaway.

To Sally’s dismay and Prentice’s relief, Isabella didn’t join them for dinner.

* * * * *

Fiona

Fiona knew she should not hang out in the guest suite but she did mainly because she’d been there when Prentice had told Isabella off and since she couldn’t verbally crow, she wanted to ethereally crow.

She shouldn’t have.

If she hadn’t, she would have missed what Isabella Austin Evangelista did.

See, Prentice brought up her bags and she thanked him graciously while he completely ignored her (this had made Fiona smile).

Then Isabella had taken off her suit jacket and Fiona had been supremely happy she hadn’t done it in front of Prentice for the shirt underneath might have had a high neck but it also had no sleeves and it was sexy as all hell.

Then she made the bed and carefully unpacked as if all her precious belongings should be placed in a high security vault, not the lowly (but beautiful) guest suite that Prentice had designed for their home.

She’d placed four leather bound volumes next to the bed, arranging them amongst her plethora of expensive night creams and eye creams and even (Fiona narrowed her eyes to get a look at the tiny, squirty bottle)
aromatherapy
(for God’s sake,
aromatherapy?
).

She’d showered which Fiona absented herself for and spent some time with her wee ones.

By the time she came back, Isabella had changed into a nightgown that Fiona was really, really,
really
glad Prentice didn’t see because he wasn’t just an ass man he was very visual and he liked sexy underwear and sexy nighties and that was the sexiest one Fiona had ever seen.

She was writing in her journal but closed it after carefully putting a velvet ribbon in the page and setting it just so on top of the others.

Then she went to the luggage she’d stored tidily in the wardrobe.

She dragged out and opened the biggest bag and got down beside it. Sitting with her legs folded under her, she pulled out the lining and dug in the side, a secret compartment she’d obviously made herself.

Then she unveiled a silver double frame that was folded in on itself.

Fiona floated over her while she opened it then floated back several feet when she saw what was in it.

On one side was a photo of Isabella and Prentice together, he was swinging her up in his arms, she had her arms around his neck, her head thrown back, his head was tilted to look down at her and they were both laughing. On the other side was just a photo of Prentice, close up, much younger and, as ever, deliciously handsome.

He was looking at the camera in a way that was familiar to Fiona. It was because his face was soft and warm and infinitely loving.

It was then Isabella Austin Evangelista did the thing Fiona wished she’d never, never,
never
seen her do.

After touching Prentice’s face lovingly with just the tip of one finger, she opened the frames, slowly sliding out the photos. Then she tossed the frame back in the bag and replaced the bag in the wardrobe.

Then she walked to the bathroom.

Standing over the toilet, while Fiona stared in horror, she ripped up the photos and tossed them in.

But she wasn’t done.

Pulling a very thin, delicate, gold chain from her neck, it was freed from the bodice of her nightgown and Fiona saw it held a diamond engagement ring.

Tears falling completely silently down her beautiful face, Isabella Austin Evangelista tossed the engagement ring Prentice gave her twenty years ago in the toilet. A ring Fiona knew because of the photos, and the tears, had been hanging around her neck for every one of those twenty years.

Isabella stared in the toilet for what seemed like forever.

And Fiona stared at Isabella as the tears rolled down Isabella’s face, her neck, down her chest, wetting her gown.