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But all it took was for the image of Sam lying in that hospital bed to come into her head and the knowledge that the next time he might not be so lucky...that the next time, he might end up with a criminal record that could blight his entire life before it had started...and she knew it didn’t matter. She’d have done it anyway.
Ezio’s voice made her start, which was ridiculous, because she really hadn’t forgotten he was there. He didn’t have a forgettable bone in his perfect body.
She turned her head slowly, delaying the moment their eyes made contact. He’d dominate an auditorium, let alone the plush, air-conditioned interior of a luxury limo. Maybe the air-conditioning wasn’t working, or maybe it was her own air-conditioning...because, even though she felt hot, she was shivering.
Her green eyes had a bruised, almost blank quality. She looked so young...much younger than her years.
‘You have something against those flowers?’ Concern roughened his voice.
She looked from his face to the drooping flowers she had picked up in her white-knuckled hands, as if she couldn’t even remember picking them up.
‘Or are they a substitute for who you really want to strangle? I think the technical term for that hold is a death grip.’
Ezio watched as she released the choke-hold on the ribbon-tied posy and put them down on the seat between them. The flowers looked almost as sad and wilted as she did. Her heart-shaped face made him think of a flower, her graceful neck the stem that held it up.
He rejected the image. Tilda was tough and resilient. He had always admired the fact that she always rose to a challenge, she kept her head and did not respond emotionally—it was one of the reasons that he had stopped looking for a replacement.
His long-term PA Angela’s departure had been sudden after she’d fallen ill, but she had been the one who’d recommended her assistant, asking him to give her a chance. ‘She’ll shine,’she’dsaid.
Ezio hadn’t imagined the scared creature whose main skill had seemed to be the perfection of the art of fading into the background shining, not even in a quiet way, but he’d humoured Angela. Typically, she’d felt guilty for leaving him in the lurch, and he had never anticipated the situation would become permanent. But it turned out that Matilda Raven had only been quiet because she’d been learning and, before he realised it, she had made herself an invaluable asset.
He remembered the first time she had stood up to him. He could see her now, standing there looking at him and saying quite calmly, ‘I think that’s a really bad idea.’
To say he’d been astonished was an understatement.
He had tried to remember the last time anyone had told himanyidea he’d had was bad...and couldn’t. He’d complained about boot-lickers but then, when he’d encountered someone who wasn’t inclined to polish his ego, his first reaction had been to annihilate her verbally...and then he’d remembered someone, probably him, saying that if ideas were not open to challenge there was no progress.
So, instead of yelling, he’d sat on the edge of his desk and thrown out his challenge.
‘So, tell me,whydo you think this is a bad idea?’
She had, calmly and concisely, and when he’d asked her what she would have done she’d told him that too. A lot of those suggestions had been unworkable but there’d been a kernel of possibility in several.
That was the day their relationship had changed and, while he’d missed Angela, he’d got over it. But he’d missed Tilda’s presence in his office more than he would have imagined. She was here in his life now, though, still provoking and challenging him.
For six months.
The glass partition between the front and passenger seat suddenly slid down.
‘Phillip.’ Sam nodded at the driver. ‘He says we’re here.’
‘The clue is the sign and the planes,’ Ezio retorted drily.
‘I’ve never flown before, you know—well, I have, but I was small, and I know only because there are photos, and Tilda tells me I threw up all over Mum on the plane and it stank.’
‘Well, I sincerely hope that you do not throw up on this flight.’
‘I’ve been reading about jet propulsion and—’
‘I hope you haven’t been making a nuisance of yourself, Sam?’ Tilda was worried.
‘Of course not. Phillip was interested.’
‘Phillipwas a captive audience, and he is polite. I had the foresight to pack the parachutes.’
Tilda tensed and half-closed her eyes.
Sam could get defensive at even the slightest hint of mockery—probably because he had suffered merciless teasing at school over the years, despite his often dry sense of humour.
