Page 99 of The Love Letter
Simon had driven off at top speed, then, realising he was far too upset to drive without being a hazard, he pulled over and switched the engine off while he calmed down.
‘Damn it!’ He banged the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. It was the first time in his adult life he could ever remember completely losing control. Joanna was his oldest friend. He’d not even given her a chance to explain – he’d condemned her before she’d even opened her mouth.
The question was, why?
Had Ian Simpson’s visit unsettled him? Or was it – as Joanna had suggested – because he was becoming far fonder of Zoe Harrison than he should be? ‘Damn,’ he breathed, trying to analyse his feelings. Surely it wasn’t love? How could it be? He’d only known her for a couple of weeks, and most of that time he’d spent at a distance. Yet there was something about her that touched him, a vulnerability that made him want to protect her. And not, he finally admitted to himself, in a purely professional sense.
He realised this would explain his irrational dislike of her royal lover. The man was decent enough, had always been polite to him, yet he felt animosity towards him. He was surprised that the intelligent and warm Zoe could find herself in love with him. However . . . he was a ‘prince’. Simon supposed that made up for rather a lot.
He groaned as he remembered his final words to Joanna. He’d completely breached the rules when he’d told her about Marcus being paid to find out what she knew.
She’s a nice person . . .
Ian’s drunken words from Friday night suddenly came floating back to him.
What if . . . ?
‘Oh shit!’ Simon slammed his fist down on the steering wheel as the whole scenario came into sharp focus. He’d presumed Ian had been talking about Joanna when he’d mentioned a ‘she’. But he himself had tapped the phone and placed bugs around the house in Welbeck Street. He’dknownthey were listening in . . .
What if it had been Zoe Ian had been talking about? He’d alluded to making some income on the side recently, and Joanna certainly wasn’t a press target – someone newspapers would spend a fortune to get the gossip on.
But Zoewas . . .
As Simon started the engine, he realised he’d got it completely wrong.
He arrived at Welbeck Street to find a posse of photographers, camera crews and journalists camped outside on the doorstep. Fighting his way through them and ignoring their shouts and questions, he let himself inside. Slamming the door, he fastened every lock and bolt it had to offer.
‘Zoe? Zoe?’ he called.
There was no reply. Maybe she hadn’t made it back yet from Hampshire, although he’d been told she had when he’d called in en route. Checking the sitting room, he saw the long lens of a camera through a crack in the old damask curtains and ran to pull them tighter. He walked into the dining room, the study and then the kitchen, calling her name. Upstairs, he checked the main bedroom, Jamie’s room, the guest room and bathroom.
‘Zoe? It’s Simon! Where are you?’ he called again, now with a mounting sense of urgency.
He ran up the stairs to the two small attic rooms and saw his own was empty. He pushed open the door to the room across the narrow landing. It was filled with discarded furniture and some of Jamie’s baby toys. And there, huddled on the floor in a corner, between an old wardrobe and an armchair, and hugging an ancient teddy bear to her, was Zoe, her face raw with tears, hair swept back harshly in a ponytail. Wearing an ancient sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, she looked not much older than her son.
‘Oh Simon! Thank God you’re here, thank God.’ She reached out to him and Simon knelt down next to her. She laid her head against his chest and sobbed.
There was little he could do but close his arms around her, willing himself to ignore how wonderful it felt to hold her.
Eventually, she looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with fear. ‘Are they still outside?’
‘I’m afraid they are.’
‘When I got here, one of them had a ladder. He was look-looking into Jamie’s room, trying to take a photograph. I . . . Oh God, what have I done?!’
‘Nothing, Zoe, just fallen in love with a famous man. Here.’ Simon offered her his hanky and watched as she dried her tears.
‘I’m so sorry for being pathetic. It was all such a shock.’
‘Nothing to apologise for. Where’s His Royal Highness?’
‘Back at the palace, I suppose. They woke us up in Hampshire at five o’clock, said we had to leave. Art went off in one car and I came here in the other. I arrived back at eight and the media were already camped outside. I thought you’d never come.’
‘Zoe, I’m sorry. They didn’t call me until half past ten this morning. Have you heard from His Royal Highness since you arrived back?’
‘Not a word, but besides that, I’m so worried about Jamie. What if the press have gone to his school like they’ve come here, to get a picture of him? He knows nothing . . . Oh God, Simon, I’ve been so selfish! I should never have begun this again and risked his safety. I—’
‘Try to keep calm. I’m certain the Prince will call you, and the palace will make sure both you and Jamie are safe and looked after.’
