Jay’s own eyes lifted slowly to her face.
“A whole world outside and it could only ever be them.” Her mind was preoccupied, the words coming from some hidden part of her brain in almost a whisper, but in the periphery of her vision and attention, just for a moment, she thought that Jay had stilled.
De Vere’s
Pet was hovering.
Dominic’s eyes were on the bubbling pot of berry syrup under his spoon, but the waves of tension emanating from his sister were stronger than the lingering scent of anise. “Everything all right?”
“Yes.”
Her feet shuffled. Side to side. A few steps forward. Stop. Side to side.
The syrup turned, thickening to the correct consistency in the space of a single stir, and he pulled it from the stove. Nearby, Aaron was dipping truffles into melted dark chocolate and decorating them with sugar flowers.
“Aaron?” Lizzie stuck her head apologetically through the door. “Phone. It’s your grandmother.”
Aaron’s glance immediately went guiltily to Dominic.
“Take it,” Dominic said, taking the chocolate from him. “I’ll finish these.”
When Aaron hesitated, he inclined his head pointedly toward the door. “Go. You’re more than earning your keep.”
Guilt faded into a flush of pleasure, and Aaron stripped off his gloves and went to answer the phone.
“How are you with flowers?” Dominic asked without looking at Pet.
His sister’s feet stopped shifting about.
“As a person landed with the name Petunia, I ought to have an affinity.” She grabbed a pair of gloves and took the bowl of sugar flowers he proffered. “Just plop one on top?”
“I’d prefer ‘neatly place.’” He rapidly dipped one truffle after another. “But essentially, yes.”
As Pet placed a Cosmos on each truffle, she did so with painstaking care. There was nothing pointed or sarcastic about her measured movements.
He finished the last tray of truffles and went to transfer a completed batch of croissants from the pastry ovens to the racks. The hot, buttery smell was a reminder he’d had to skip lunch to reshoot a scene for Operation Cake, and he apparently had plans to burn out his stomach lining in Sylvie’s booze basement this evening.
“Croissant?” he asked over his shoulder, nudging a couple onto a plate.
“Free food? Yes, please.” Pet had a little blooming garden of Cosmos around her.
Dominic set the croissants on the bench in the side alcove. Sitting down for the first time all day, he hooked one boot into the leg of the stool and silently watched his sister finish her work.
Everything she did, she did with the delicacy and attention to detail of her silhouette portraits. As a baby, she’d been endearingly wobbly, tripping over her own knees, knocking over toys. As an adult, she was . . .
In many respects, a stranger.
The fault for that, now, rested largely on his shoulders.
“Have you spoken to Lorraine lately?” He wasn’t particularly interested in the answer to that question, and her sideways glance spoke volumes.
“I speak to Lorraine as infrequently as I can manage.” She pressed the last Cosmos into place. “I can’t stand her.”
Stated placidly.
“You probably ought to keep up at least a minimal connection with her.”
Pet set down the bowl in her hands and turned to face him. “Why?”
Actually, he couldn’t think of a single reason why, other than a token nod to the adage that “family is family.”
But as he’d never believed in maintaining a toxic relationship simply because of a few common threads of DNA . . .
“Because otherwise I’m currently lacking in the family stakes?” Pet inquired. “Mum’s gone. Gerald’s gone, and not who I once thought he was. In more ways than one. I might have a bio dad out there somewhere, but that seems irrelevant as I have no idea who he is, and if he knows who I am, he’s never bothered to drop a text to say hi. My sister’s about as pleasant to have around as a dodgy mole.” She took a deep breath. It shook. “And my brother wishes I’d just go away.”
There was a sharp, sour taste in Dominic’s mouth. He pushed away the plate of untouched croissants. “Pet . . .”
She stood still, staring at him, and he wanted to get up.
He wanted to make this right.
He was unable to move.
Pet bit her lip so hard she left an imprint in her lipstick. When she turned, the words caught in his throat tore free.
“I don’t want you to go away, Pet,” he said roughly, and her head turned a little toward him.
“No?” Her voice was very low.
“No.”
Her eyes searched his. Finally, she came toward him. Momentarily, he thought she was going to hug him, and his hand unfurled from a tight fist. She reached out and took a croissant from the plate.
“I’ll be in Vivienne’s office. I have a line to follow on Prince Patrick.” Her fingers plucked at the pastry. With a tiny spark of animation, she shot him a little smile. “I like Sylvie a lot, and when this contract is over, I have grand plans for drinks at hers, but she’s still going down.”
With a faint curl of his own mouth, he said, “Team De Vere?”
This time, her smile reached her eyes. Tentative and shadowed, but legit. “Team De Vere.”
A cold, heavy weight twisted in his chest. He watched as Pet started to walk away, hesitated, came back.
Her hand closed over the other croissant, and she clutched both to her chest like a squirrel jealously hoarding nuts.
His brows rose.
Her chin, likewise. “This half of Team De Vere is an emotional eater, okay?”
The Dark Forest
9:30 p.m.
Sylvie was sitting at the head table in her—to quote Mariana—booze dungeon when Dominic’s tall form appeared through the trees.
Through curls and swirls of rising purple smoke, she surreptitiously studied his face. He looked deeply tired, beyond the simple exhaustion of a long day and several reshoots on set that had culminated in the elimination of Charlene.
Their Black Widow had taken the decision very well. She hadn’t forgotten to thank the rest of the contestants and the crew for making the experience so memorable.
The whole crew. By name. While smiling gently and looking directly at each face for a full three seconds.
Not unsettling at all.
Dominic reached out to gently touch a tree trunk, his long fingers playing over the embedded lights like piano keys. In the flickering shadows, he turned, boot soles a soft rasp on the stone floor. “Impressive.”
Carefully, Sylvie set a gold-toned cauldron over a burner. “That sounded sincere.”
“I feel like I’m in Disneyland Paris.” His footsteps echoed amidst the quiet bubbling and hissing. His hands came down to rest on the table. “Not a bakery.”
Not coming across as a compliment.
Without pausing in her movements, she opened a beaker of elderflower syrup and poured the contents into the cauldron.
“But I agree,” he murmured in that dark, satiny voice. “Any comparison between Sugar Fair and the Starlight Circus is an insult.” He was examining every smallest detail. “It’s not my taste any more than De Vere’s is yours.”