Page 94 of Masquerade

“We smashed what wewere creating.” Kate’s heart wept at the double betrayal, father and son. Disillusion, he’d said, which added guilt to his grief. She hadn’t understood the forces shaping his suspicion.

“That’s a cop-out. You made me confront the fact we weren’t creating anything. I was a complete shite, pontificating about absolute truth, when I wasn’t telling you about how Dad’s death changed me.” He set his cup down.

“How did it change you?” Kate had been focused on Selina’s betrayal.

“I adored him. And admired him. And didn’t recognise him in the man who’d been scammed by a sweet-talking con woman.” Impatiently, he pushed back on the sofa.

“You were scammed. Why couldn’t it happen to him?”

“I was humiliated.” His voice cracked. “ Expecting a knife in the back became my default position. If you don’t trust anyone, you can’t be disillusioned. I imagined he was humiliated.” He’d borne this pain alone.

“You hate yourself for doubting him.” She identified the source of his pain.

“I finally worked out Ihatedmyself for being powerless to help either of us.”Past tense. He’d faced his demons. “Why didn’t you tell me Kate?”

“I chickened out a few times.” When she’d let doubt about him hold her silent. “I planned to tell you that day.” Finding her balance, she set her feet on the floor.

“I guessed that’s why you had the book with you. What did I do to make you distrust me?” Resignation leaked through his words.

She stretched a hand towards him, then let it drop back into her lap. “I didn’t trust myself.”I said the words aloud, and the world didn’t end. “I need to tell you a story.” Her voice wobbled. “Please?”

“Maybe you can sit with me while you do?” He patted the sofa beside him. “It’s warmer here.”

“Marginally.” But she scampered across to the sofa. He seemed lighter now he’d told her about his dad, daring her to hope he’d accept her apology if nothing else. Then she couldn’t find the words to start.

“You said once your father didn’t approve.” He gave her a verbal nudge.

“When I was eleven, Dad gave one of my stories to a friend. A literary critic. They discussed it at a dinner party.” The image of clowns with open mouths rose like a spectre, and she focused on Liam’s steady breathing to dispel it. “Needless to say, they found it wanting.”

“You were a child for feck’s sake.”

“It wasn’t the quality of the writing they objected to”—she winced—“but the content.”

“I can’t believe you were writing anything other than prim, proper, marvellously inventive—did you write sex at that age?” His teasing baritone was draining the old wound of its poison.

“My first attempt was a happily-ever-after story. Not very sophisticated. Not much conflict. Two people meeting and falling in love.” She sipped her coffee, using the liquid to lubricate the ugly words. “Dad said he didn’t raise a daughter to write trash. Mum said I’d grow out of it. In time, I’d write real literature.”

“But you grew into it.”

“I did. Ours was a complicated household. Mum and Dad lived a happily-ever-after story I didn’t want to repeat. But equally, I didn’t want to embarrass them or spoil their image. So, I read and wrote in secret. I didn’t challenge Dad. I just didn’t discuss it.” Kate hadn’t seen him move, but Liam seemed to be closer to her on the sofa, his scent embracing her.

“Prejudice is a killer,” he murmured, yet he’d shown none from their first conversation in the library. “You heard Helen and Amira talking about Nora Roberts.”

“I did.”

“My fault.The Searchwas in my briefcase when we got back from Montveau. I dumped it into the file—a private joke. The file should also have been private. But I’m sorry you had—have—to put up with that rubbish.”

“Every time I won a prize or an editor asked to see my work, I imagined myself telling everyone I was a romance writer. Then I didn’t place in the next competition, and editor after editor rejected me. I told myself I’d wait until I was published before I told everyone—anyone.” She’d been hiding the whole time.

“Go on.” His thigh rested against hers, the warmth reinforcing the encouragement in his words.

“Anyway. Fast forward to Andrew. He knew about my writing.” She’d stupidly let him refer to it as a hobby. “I won an international writing competition and got a request from an editor. I’d just received the news when he got home. I blurted it out without thinking.”

“Excitement does that.” He caressed her knee, the heavy slide of his hand backwards and forwards relegating Andrew to the villain’s role in an old scene.

“Naivety does that,” she replied, clinging to her wits.

“It’s not naive to think your lover will support your dream.” He moved his hand from her knee to link with her fingers, as if holding hands was a natural step in the conversation.

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