Page 54 of Until You (Forgive Me)

“I beg to differ. Explain how you’re going to do that without leaving the house?”

Isabella bit her tongue. He was right, and she couldn’t ask Scarlett to go out and get her one, just to prove a point.

“That would be kind of you, thank you,” she said.

“See, that wasn’t too hard,” Christian said, and she could almost see the smirk on his face.

“Don’t push it,” Isabella said.

“I’ll speak to you later. I have a phone to order. And Isabella?” Christian said.

“Yes?”

“Try to stay out of mischief. I know what you and my sister are like when you get together.”

“Goodbye, Christian,” Isabella said, trying not to laugh as she disconnected.

She had to admit he wasn’t wrong. She and Scarlett had been little terrors growing up, but it had all been aimed at winding him up.

Scarlett entered the room, a grin on her face. Maybe some things never change, she thought as she looked, not at the tea but at the two very large glasses of wine her friend was carrying.

Chapter Twenty-five

Isabella

Their taxi driver kept his promise. Isabella had been staying with Scarlett for several days undetected. The press had been unable to track her down, which was fuelling the media frenzy, with the stories being released becoming more and more outrageous. Isabella woke up to slamming doors and angry voices, assuming it was another typical day in London. Scarlett groaned on the bed next to her, throwing an arm over her face as if to block out the noise and light. Catching up after seven years face-to-face had involved a few long and boozy sessions. There was no awkwardness or pretence. She’d missed her friend more than she realised.

Scarlett’s flat was a one-bedroom in Notting Hill. Beautiful but compact. It suited her friend perfectly. But as besties who’d spent much of their lives sharing a bed, when it came to calling it a night, they’d fallen asleep next to each other rather than pulling out the sofa bed.

“What the hell?” Scarlett said as someone began hammering on her front door.

Isabella rolled over and snatched the hoodie Scarlett had loaned her off the floor. Pulling it on over her leggings, she made her way towards the incessant noise.

“Hold on,” she said, undoing the chain and opening the door.

“Oh, you’re not Scarlett,” an elderly voice said.

“Er, no. I’m her friend. Scarlett is...” Isabella never finished as Scarlett appeared dishevelled and hungover behind her.

“Mrs Craven,” Scarlett said, squinting at the woman on the doorstep.

“Is this your doing? All these press outside. I could barely get in through the front door. I had to prod one bugger with my umbrella when he tried to follow me in.” Isabella tried hard to smother the giggle that threatened at the old woman’s words. Mrs Craven was about five feet two inches, with snowy white hair and immaculate makeup. No hair or nail out of place. Her words, however, seem to have woken Scarlett up with a start.

“Oh damn. I’m sorry, Mrs Craven. This is my friend, Isabella,” Scarlett said, leaving them both on the doorstep and peering cautiously through the closed curtain and down onto the street below. “That lying taxi driver...”

Isabella looked at Mrs Craven awkwardly, only to notice the old woman squinting at her.

“Ah, you’re the missing heiress who’s all over the paper,” she said, before adding. “It wasn’t a taxi driver. It was old Bernie, in number three. He saw you come in a couple of nights ago and was gossiping with the other neighbours. It’s not the sordid love affair he originally thought... He’s always reading the gossip rags and finally put two and two together. You can never get a decent conversation out of him.”

Scarlett had returned to the door. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Craven. Thank you for the heads up. I’ll sort this out. Hopefully, once we’ve gone, the press will leave,” Scarlett said, her face a little pasty.

“Oh, it doesn’t really bother me, love, but it’s not the safest building to keep them out.” She turned to Isabella. “Good luck to you, my dear.”

With that, she turned and left them, leaving Scarlett to close the door and lean back against it.

“I’ll call Christian. He may be right. His penthouse is at least in a secure building. No one will get in there, not with the doorman and Christian’s added security.”

Isabella groaned. This was what she’d been trying to avoid. She was less worried about the press and more worried about her heart. How could she protect herself if she was living under the same roof as him? She needed to stay away from Christian Dupree, not add fuel to the fire they’d ignited in Thailand. Her only other option was to go back to her stepmother... which was a hard no. If that was the case, she was out of options.

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