Red-Hot Lover

Clara turned on her high heels before he could start another argument and walked up the gilded steps to the swing doors of the Ritz.

Inside, the hushed pink and marble shimmered and the soft carpeted reception area glowed under crystal chandeliers. Handsome young men in smart frockcoats swished around attending to wealthy guests.

‘Very well.’ Jared strode in behind her with a face like thunder. ‘You get your way. So where is it? This wedding reception? The Marie Antoinette Suite?’

‘No, the restaurant.’

‘Then let’s get it over with.’ He took her hand in a firm grip and strode off down the pink carpet past the Palm Court. People stared. It was at moments like this, when they were in the middle of a blazing row, that Clara wished they weren’t so famous.

But as they entered the restaurant her tense face relaxed into a radiant smile. A wedding breakfast fit for a princess, she thought, staring at the top table which ran along the French doors. White lace and satin decorated it; sapphire taffeta bows gleamed along the edges. Silver flatware, an assortment of crystal glasses and bouquets of the most exquisite pale pink orchids completed the look of luxurious celebration.

For a little ragamuffin from St Winifred’s—with no parents, family or real chance in life—Susan O’Malley had done well. Susie had not realised when she first met Gareth that his grandfather, Owain Llewellyn, was rich. Gareth’s family was so used to money that they were almost aristocratic in their habits: unpretentious, homely and down to earth. Imagine Susie’s shock when she’d realised she’d been courting for a year with a Llewellyn of Llewellyn and Sons, Builders—a firm currently valued at over fourteen million pounds and entirely in private hands.

‘Looks wonderful, doesn’t it?’

‘Wonderful.’ He strode without another word to inspect the table. Clara followed him. He was reading the place settings. As he reached the far end of the table he caught his breath, staring. ‘We’re sitting here! Did you organise the place settings? Did you put me—?’

‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘Then who did?’

‘Well, I imagine it was the groom’s mother. She organised the whole thing.’

‘Why was she allowed to?’

Clara’s eyes rounded in amazement and he flushed angrily.

‘I can’t sit here!’

‘Jared, for heaven’s sake stop behaving like this! It’s only a wedding reception. You won’t have to stay longer than an hour or two. Who are you sitting next to, anyway? Let me see the—’

‘Owain Llewellyn Senior,’ he snapped, and turned on his heel, mystifying her as he walked out of the open French doors into the private gardens beyond.

Clara counted to ten. Keep your cool, she told herself, and picked up the place card. Studying it as though convinced she might find some clue on it, she eventually replaced it, baffled. Then she followed Jared out into the gardens.

He stood with his back to her. Sunlight blazed over his dark hair and made it seem to shine blue-black. A balustrade ran along the white steps which led to the lawns. Grecian urns were bathed lazily in the warmth of the summer afternoon.

‘Darling—’ she walked up behind him ‘—why don’t you want to sit next to Owain Llewellyn Senior? Do you know Mr Llewellyn?’

Silence.

She tried again. ‘Is there some kind of business intrigue going on that I don’t know about? Something that’s happened between you and the Llewellyns that makes social interaction difficult?’ Jared bought and sold companies as part of his work. Failing businesses were turned into dynamic successes with a wave of the Blackheath hand. Because of this, he frequently had to build new factories or redesign existing buildings to accommodate the leap in productivity and employment.

‘You know I always use Wright-McArd for all my construction work in the UK. Why would I engage another building firm?’

‘Especially a Welsh firm?’

‘It’s got nothing to do with their Welshness. You don’t seriously think I’d do business on a basis of personal background or family history?’

‘I didn’t mention family history.’

He tensed, aware he had given himself away.

‘Do you know anything about their family history, Jared?’

‘What is this—the Spanish Inquisition?’ He turned away, his voice thick. ‘I couldn’t be less interested in the Llewellyns or their family history.’

‘Then why don’t you want to sit next to Owain Llewellyn?’ She knew she was pressing on some kind of old wound but she wasn’t going to let him keep his secret hidden for ever. Not when it was so obviously painful for him. To say nothing of the trouble it was causing everyone today. Jared had a tendency to cope alone with difficult emotions. Normally she let him carry on while she waited for the moment he decided to turn to her and share them. But today they simply didn’t have time for that approach. ‘Let’s examine exactly who Owain Llewellyn is, shall we?’

‘Let’s not,’ he muttered, but she carried on regardless.

‘The head of the firm. Gareth’s grandfather. Just an old man in his early sixties with very little about him that could possibly worry—’

‘Stop harping on about him. I’m not interested in the man. Why are you?’

She was obviously getting warmer. ‘The Llewellyn offices are in Cardiff, aren’t they? I’m sure I remember Susie mentioning something about it. Offices in London, Cardiff—’

‘I don’t want to discuss the geographical details of Llewellyn’s damned offices!’

‘And a house in the countryside. A house by the sea, Susie said, somewhere on the south coast, somewhere Gareth always wanted to visit but wasn’t allowed to because…’ She paused with a thoughtful frown. ‘Now why was that? He couldn’t visit the house because his family said—’

‘Look!’ He turned on her without warning. ‘I just don’t want to be here, all right? Is that so hard to understand? Must you hunt for clues that don’t exist? Stop trying to find a logical reason because there isn’t one! I hate weddings! I always have; I always will. End of story. Now leave me alone’.

A bird hopped onto the balustrade, trilled sweetly and regarded them both with beady eyes.

Clara was very still. Jared was determined not to be questioned and that meant she was on the right track. But what lay at the end of the trail? Now that she’d started picking at the Llewellyn subject she was beginning to realise that all his behaviour—from the moment Susie had met Gareth right up until today—could be attributed to the presence of a Welsh family called the Llewellyns. Why hadn’t she picked up on that before? If she had, there might have been a chance of helping him cope with whatever he was going through in that battened-down hatch of a heart. As it was, she had left it too late. The breakfast was due to start at any minute. And Jared was getting worse, not better. Although she hated giving up, she knew it was the only wise course of action. There was only one thing she could do. Let him leave.

‘Okay…’ She admitted defeat with forgiving tenderness. ‘I understand. If you really want to leave, then…’ she shrugged ‘…leave.’

He did a double-take, staring. He took a step towards her. His eyes were haunted. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Darling, I don’t want to see you suffer like this. You obviously can’t bear to be here. I’ve tried everything I can to make the day enjoyable for you, but even I’ve run out of ideas. If you want to go—go.’

He reached for her, pulled her tenderly into his arms and buried his hot face in her neck. ‘I can’t believe you mean it. You’re the most wonderful woman in the world.’

She laughed softly and stroked his dark hair. ‘I know, I know! But hurry up, darling. People are arriving. In fact the dining room looks crowded from here.’

‘Forgive me,’ he muttered deeply and raised his head, love in his eyes as he stared down at her. ‘I’ve behaved so badly today. But if you only knew what a strain it’s been for me. The last few months, weeks, days…’

‘You’ve been hiding your real feelings from me all along, haven’t you? Darling, you mustn’t do that. It upsets me and doesn’t help you.’

‘I promise not to do it any more. Starting from now…’ His mouth closed over hers in a slow, gentle kiss. Clara gave herself wholeheartedly to his loving embrace, letting her head fall back so that her hat dropped softly to the ground. They both ignored it. Her mouth opened beneath Jared’s and the kiss took fire.

‘We’ll go straight home and straight to bed!’ he muttered roughly, and she tensed.

‘Darling, I’m not leaving. I didn’t mean to sound as though I was. I just said that you could go if you wanted.’

His romantic expression slowly hardened. ‘What are you talking about? We’re both going. You can’t stay alone. Are you crazy? Either we both stay or we both leave, and you just said—’

‘But I’ll be home soon. I promise. I’ll leave just as soon as the bride’s had her first dance with the groom.’

‘No! I’m not leaving you here on your own!’

‘But why ever not? What harm—?’

‘I just don’t want to know that you’re here with—’ He broke off.

His face was chalk-white.

He was staring at the doorway.

Clara turned her tousled blonde head to follow his stare. A very tall old man stood there, the sun on his well-groomed silver hair and elegant grey morning suit. He had great dignity and noble bearing.

‘Forgive the intrusion.’ His voice had a deep Welsh lilt. ‘But I heard voices, see, and thought I ought to warn you. Everybody’s sitting down now. The breakfast’s about to be served. Thought I’d let you know, so you could come in without a grand entrance.’

The summer breeze lifted strands of black hair from Jared’s forehead as he stared. He was utterly silent. Unmoving. The only clue to his feelings were the chaotic kaleidoscopic lights of his eyes.

‘You must be young Jared Blackheath.’ The old man stepped forward. ‘I’m Owain Llewellyn. Do you remember me?’

Jared released Clara with a swift movement that nearly caught her off balance. ‘How do you do?’ He strode to Llewellyn, extended his hand, shook the old man’s and towered over him like a giant, saying briskly, ‘Pleased to meet you. This is my girlfriend, Clara Maye. Clara!’

‘Hello!’ Clara called shyly, bending to pick up her hat and dust it off while Owain Llewellyn continued to shake Jared’s hand with admiration and respect.

‘So pleased to meet you,’ the old man was saying, a gruff note in his voice as he looked earnestly at Jared. ‘So very pleased at last to—’

‘Yes, of course.’ Jared wrenched his hand away as though burnt, raked long fingers through his hair and looked as though he wanted to be a million miles away.

‘How do you do?’ Clara rescued him by walking over to shake the old man’s hand instead. ‘We were just snatching a private moment before the celebrations began.’

‘Oh, the celebrations could go on for a very long time.’ The bony fingers clasped hers but his old grey eyes were fixed on Jared as he spoke. ‘And how lovely that they should begin like this, two young people, so much in love, ready to move into their first home, a home they—’

‘I think we should go in,’ Jared cut in thickly. His hand curled around Clara’s waist and drew her against him as though she were an amulet to ward off danger. ‘Thank you for coming to get us, Mr Llewellyn. I can see the bride sitting down now. It’s time we took our places…’

Jared steered them into the dining room without giving the old man a chance to reply. Clara could hardly interfere. It was too late for Jared to leave now, too late for another argument, and they had no choice but to take their places at the top table. Owain Llewellyn was close behind them, sadness in his austere face. As he sat down beside Jared, Clara saw Jared’s fist clench on the white tablecloth. She wished she knew why he felt this way.

The wedding breakfast commenced. Jared spoke to Clara continuously throughout the meal. She couldn’t believe he’d done it, but he had actually turned his back on poor old Mr Llewellyn, forcing him to eat in isolation at the end of the table. She felt sorry for him. But she also felt a great deal of empathy for Jared. His eyes were still so haunted, and lines of strain were now etched at his mouth as he struggled to keep his feelings hidden from all these people, most of whom were strangers, staring at him because of his fame. He ate almost nothing. He drank far too much champagne. When the meal was over and the speeches began, he turned a whiter shade of pale and Clara frowned at him, not understanding why he should be alarmed by them.

Gareth’s father stood up with the microphone. His deep voice boomed around the room. He was quick, witty and entertaining. Even Jared laughed at one or two jokes. Then the best man stood up and told how Susie had first met Gareth—mistaking him for a dropout because he was asleep on a park bench in torn jeans, having lost his keys and wallet after a wild party.

‘Gareth was so used to women chasing him for his money,’ said the best man, to ripples of laughter, ‘that he decided to let Susie carry on believing he was a penniless drop-out. Imagine her shock when she discovered a year later that he was really the heir to the Llewellyn millions!’

Jared fidgeted restlessly. The best man had finished his speech and Jared’s fingers began scrunching and unscrunching his napkin with nervous tension.

‘And now,’ said the best man, ‘Owain Llewellyn, Gareth’s grandfather, would like to say a few words.’

The old man got to his feet. Jared was ashen. Clara suddenly realised what was going to happen. She suddenly remembered Susie saying, ‘An old house by the sea…’

‘As you know,’ said Owain, ‘the Llewellyns are Welshmen, born and bred. Our headquarters are now in London, and many of us live here, but we still have Welsh headquarters, in Cardiff. As many of you know, my old partner, Daffyd, retired last month, which leaves the Cardiff offices without a managing director. There’s only one real choice for the post, I’m sure you’ll all agree—my grandson, Gareth.’

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