Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(130)

‘I think she doesn’t,’ I whisper back.

‘I think she’ll come around,’ he consoles, and kisses me on the nose.

For some weird reason, his words touch me. I look into his eyes and he looks back and we are both so lost in each other’s gaze that we don’t hear his mother come back into the room.

She clears her throat and both of us turn to look at her. Her face is white and she seems shocked by something.

Even Jake notices. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ he asks, standing up and going to her. He puts his arm around her narrow shoulders, making her appear smaller and quite fragile.

She shakes her head and smiles weakly. ‘Someone walking over my grave.’

I stand, too, but I am conscious that she doesn’t want me near her. The truth is that she can barely bring herself to look at me.

‘Come on, lunch is ready,’ she says briskly.

‘Would you like some help?’ I ask, knowing what the answer will be.

‘Absolutely not. Everything is done.’

So Jake and I take our seats at a dark wood dining table. The room faces her beautiful back garden full of flowers and fruit trees. His mother then disappears from the room and returns with a trolley.

‘Be careful, the plates are hot,’ she warns, setting our plates of a lamb chop, peas, carrots and potatoes in front of us. She places a basket of bread rolls and a gravy boat in the middle of the table and sits herself.

‘May it do you good,’ she says.

‘May we all be together at the same time next year,’ Jake says.

An expression of alarm crosses her face.

‘Bon appétit,’ I say.

Jake picks up his knife and fork.

His mother turns toward me. There is something in her eyes. For a second I think it is envy, the normal envy a mother feels for her son’s chosen mate, and then I realize it is not envy. It is fear. She finds me terrifying. I am still staring at her in shock when her eyes slide away. She busies herself with tearing at a piece of bread, which she then lays down on the plate.

I turn to look at Jake. He has missed it all. He is cutting into a piece of meat. He catches my eyes as he carries it to his lips.

‘What?’ he asks

‘Nothing.’

I look down at my plate. She wants to rub me out. Like a pencil mark that has been made in error. She cannot know who or what I really am, but some instinct is driving her. Telling her I am not to be trusted. Not to be taken into her family.

The meal is a disaster. Both his mother and I hardly eat. As soon as Jake puts his knife and fork down, his mother turns to him. ‘I need more ice. Will you get a bag from the freezer, Jake?’

‘Sure.’ Jake gets up and makes for the kitchen.

‘Can you get it from the big freezer in the shed?’ she says.

‘Would you also like me to walk back very slowly?’ he asks with a grin.

‘That would be nice,’ his mother replies, but there is no mischief in her voice. Only worry and trepidation.

As soon as the door closes she says, ‘I’ve always preferred sketches to paintings. Paintings are closed, finished things that hide layers of lies. Sketches are the bones of what will be. They are more honest. They haven’t learned to lie. What do you prefer?’


‘If we are truly talking about sketches and paintings, then I prefer paintings. I know the finished product is a series of accidents, but I appreciate that the grand design of life allows accidents to become beautiful.’

She frowns. ‘I want to have grandchildren. I want them to think of me as the old woman who wears shawls and silly hats and reads tea leaves. Are you the woman to give me that?’

I swallow. ‘Look, Jake and I have just met. It’s too early. It’s not on the cards.’

‘What do you want from my son, then?’

I shift uncomfortably. ‘Did you ask this of all women he brought home?’

‘He has never brought a woman home before.’

My mouth drops open.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘I don’t want anything from your son. We’re just in a relationship.’

‘Liar,’ she says very softly.

‘What did you just call me?’

‘You heard. You are a dangerously manipulative woman, Miss Hart. And I am here to tell you that I will never allow you to break this family, or my son for that matter.’





EIGHTEEN


As we fly into Las Vegas airport, I look out of my cabin window, and the sparkling city appears almost magically from the miles of desert surrounding it. The heat outside the airport hits me like a wall. We walk quickly toward a gleaming purple SUV, which is waiting outside for us. It is wonderfully cool inside.

‘Purple?’ I ask with a laugh.

‘It’s the Hard Rock touch,’ Jake says.

We are in Las Vegas for the weekend, because I have never been, and when I told Jake that, he said, ‘Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve been on the Strip.’

The journey to the Strip is only about fifteen minutes. I gaze at the infamous street with wide eyes. It is an over the top, glamorous fantasy playground, almost like a giant Hollywood movie set with its miniatures of the Sphinx, pyramids, the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower. I even take a photo of the M & M store to show my mother.