Page 103 of From London, With Love

“Once Teddy knew about Winnie, he called me and was completely freaked out. Not about Winnie herself—he was thrilled to find out he had a daughter after the initial surprise—but about the scandal that could be brought to light. Our family is often in the media given our status in society and wealth, and he couldn’t afford the bad press in his position with the Army, nor did he want his baby daughter to be the centre of a scandal.”

“As soon as he explained the situation, I knew I had to do something,anything, to help my family. That’s when I came up with the playboy-image ploy. I figured if I could capture the media’s attention with pictures of different women on my arm every week and feed themjustenough tidbits for their imaginations to run wild with gossip, I’d be able to take the brunt oftheir focus. That way, Winnie’s past would never be found out.”

“So all of those pictures in magazines and online articles were, what, fake? Or had you been datingthatmany women?”

“Yes Lara, they were fake.”

“You didn’t date a single one?”

“No, they were all amateur models who were more than happy to pose for some candid pictures with me in exchange for an introduction with Lisette Manuel.”

“Woah, sidebar—you know Lisette Manuel?”

“She’s an old family friend; we spent holidays together in the countryside as children.”

“And you really didn’t date a single one of thosebeautifulmodels?” She cocks an eyebrow.

“No, I really didn’t. Besides a slightly awkward but brief period seeing the daughter of my parents’ friend that I ended not long after meeting you, my last relationship was a whirlwind two-month summer romance when I was in my mid-20s.”

“Before Winnie.” I struggle to make the words out from beneath her breath, apparently a thought unintentionally spoken aloud.?Her eyes have widened slightly, resembling a deer in headlights.

“But isn’t Winnie, like, four now? Why continue with the ruse? Especially given everything you’ve said to me tonight. About me, about us.” She ducks her head as she speaks the last words, avoiding my gaze in favour of her rings.

“Oh, love.” My palm finds the juncture of her cheek and jaw. It’s subconscious at this point; something within me has an almost innate desire to touch her. “I stopped feeding the media staged images the second I began having feelings for you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you thinking any less of me. Fromthat moment, you’ve been the only woman on my mind and in my arms.”

“It’s easy for you to say that, but how can I be sure you’re telling the truth? I want you to prove it.”

I blink, slightly dumfounded. “Prove it? Okay, just give me a moment.” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scroll and tap ferociously on the screen, searching for proof. “Here.” I flash the screen toward her so she can see the image.

“Uh I’m sorry, what is this proving?”

“Look there,” I say, pointing to the top of the image. “Look at the date—March 16th. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that was only a few days before we first met.” I look down at her, those deep blue eyes boring into mine with an intensity that’s almost too much to bear. There’s understanding there too; she’s coming around.

“That’s correct.” Something unseen by me suddenly catches her attention, her eyes cast downward. But it’s not enough to hide the ghost of a smile floating across her lips.

“This was the last picture I had orchestrated. Once I met you, this incredible, beautiful, powerhouse of a woman, no one else mattered. There’s not a woman out there who could hold a candle to you, Lara.”

She lets out a wet laugh, looking up at me with tears brimming again.

“How do you manage to make the cheesiest things sound so un-cheesy?”

“It’s the sexy British accent,” I respondwith a wink.

Lara

I’m failing to reconcile the man in front of me—the man saying the sort of things younger me could only dream of—with the man I’ve seen plastered all over magazine covers and across various social media outlets.

How could someone with a reputation like his possibly mean everything he’s saying?

“But the news articles?—”

“Were fabricated. By me.”

“All of them?”

He gives me a warm smile. “All of them.”

I’m aware I’m making him repeat himself, but Carter is nothing if not patient. I have no doubt he’d repeat himself until the cows come home.

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