For the Sake of Love Read online

  FOR THE SAKE OF LOVE

  FOR THE SAKE OF LOVE

  Chrissie Loveday

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This Large Print edition published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2011.

  Published by arrangement with the Author.

  Epub ISBN 978 1 445 82441 3

  U.K. Hardcover ISBN 978 1 408 49317 5

  U.K. Softcover ISBN 978 1 408 49318 2

  Copyright © Chrissie Loveday, 2010

  All rights reserved.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne

  PROLOGUE

  Amanda Jayne Manon stared dejectedly through the window of her small flat. She stroked her swollen belly and sadly twisted the wedding ring from her finger. ‘Hello baby,’ she muttered, as she did at least once every hour or more. ‘I’m trying very hard to do my best for you but it’s so tough. Okay, I know it’s all my fault that you won’t have a daddy to love you but maybe I can love you enough for the two of us. Whatever the world says about me, I’ll always know I did the right thing at the time. I love you, baby.’

  She sighed deeply. There were still seven weeks to go before the birth and she needed to make her final plans. She wouldn’t be able to work for much longer.

  ‘This magazine job is much too stressful for you and baby,’ the midwife had told her, as she neared her time. Besides, she felt distinctly unwell and needed some rest, Her editor, the oh-so-perfect Penelope Withenshaw, had been unsympathetic.

  ‘Of course you’re entitled to maternity leave, darling,’ she’d said in a tone that had disapproval dripping from it. ‘Just make sure you’re back in the fold preferably within days. If you’re to be of any use at all, you need to be able to whizz off anywhere at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘But Penelope,’ she began.

  ‘Don’t have “but” in my vocabulary. Of course, if it’s a problem . . .’

  The woman had no heart. Or understanding. She who knew nothing about children. Not that Amanda knew much but the learning curve was steep and fast.

  ‘I’ll do my best to find adequate child care.’

  ‘Adequate doesn’t come near, darling. Get it sorted or I’ll have to appoint one of the many dozens of girls just waiting in the wings.’

  Where on earth would she find the sort of childcare that Penelope was demanding? Did it even exist and if it did, how could she afford it? Would she be happy with someone else bringing up her precious baby? Her future as a single parent was beginning to look bleaker by the minute. Ingenuously, she had believed she would be able to work from home and send in her material from there. Penelope would not hear of it. Her editor sat in her large air-conditioned office, immaculate as ever and quite implacable.

  ‘You need to be here. On the ball. Ready to follow up leads and catch the celebs when and wherever they are. If you don’t want to do the job . . .’

  ‘Of course I want the job. I love it and I’m good at it.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll grant you that. You certainly have the knack of getting close and asking the right questions. But just lately, you’re letting this . . . this pregnancy,’ said with a sneer, ‘become the most important thing in your mind.’ Of course this baby was filling Amanda’s mind!

  Did Penelope totally live and breathe her magazine, Personal, Amanda wondered? It seemed to be the only family, lover, life she needed. Nobody had ever heard her speak of anything or anyone else in her life. She was never seen without perfect makeup and elegant clothes, she was totally chic. Amanda felt positively frumpy, despite the most stylish maternity clothes she could lay her hands on. Her complexion and hair looked good, she knew, but there still remained the ever increasing middle section.

  Everything was different for her now. She’d been willing to devote her own life to the magazine and rising to one of the senior reporters over several years. Until she had met Sacha. To say she’d been swept off her feet by the handsome tennis player was a total understatement.

  CHAPTER ONE

  How long ago did it all begin? Amanda scarcely remembered. Penelope had demanded that she should get an interview with ‘someone significant in tennis’. The grass court season was just beginning to get started and so it was current and newsworthy. She wanted to get the low down on one of the major tennis hunks who were in Town. Precisely as instructed, the keen reporter had hung around outside the courts and managed to waylay Sacha after his defeat at one of the lesser tournaments. She’d picked up the information on the match as the supporters left the courts. He’d been expected to win but was having a bad day. At first, he’d waved her aside, clearly battered by his loss.

  His perfect English, spoken with a hint of a French accent was enough to make her feel weak at the knees. Weak didn’t even come close. She looked up at him, towering over her with his six feet four of muscular body, as perfect a specimen of manhood as she could ever hope to see, let alone be as close as this. Despite his obvious rejection, her years of practice made her persist in her quest.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I know the last thing you want to do is talk about losing but I promise you, have a drink with me and I won’t even mention the subject.’

  ‘Have a drink with you? Why on earth should I?’

  Not my best interview opening, she thought. But necessary for her job.

  ‘Sorry. You just looked so deflated. I felt so sorry for you. I know what it’s like to have the sort of day that makes you wish you’d never got out of bed. Not even cappuccino with chocolate sprinkles and an oversized double chocolate muffin can do it for me. But . . . I bet you never eat such junk food.’ His eyes held a glimmer of a smile and the corners of his mouth were twitching slightly.

  ‘Now what makes you think that? Carbs are always important and with added chocolate, what could be nicer?’ When he said chocolate, he pronounced it with a ‘sh’ sound and even added the final ‘e’ as a separate syllable. It sounded incredibly sexy. She would always call it shocolatay from this moment on.

  ‘Okay. So, where do you suggest we go for this drink?’

  ‘Oh wow. You mean you will? Right, that’s wonderful.’ She needed to think fast before he had the chance to change his mind. ‘Okay. Okay. I have my car parked near here. We can go to a wine bar. Or somewhere else if you prefer. Do you drink? Maybe you don’t drink alcohol with your training schedule. So maybe it should be a coffee house.’ She was babbling. ‘Sorry. This is exciting for me, though. You’re my first tennis star.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Your first?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I mean . . . I’m such a fan. Of tennis. Of you.’ She did not want to give away the fact that she was seeking an interview. Not yet. She needed to get him into her car before she let that little nugget slip. ‘I mean, I’ve been a fan for years. Tennis that is. I haven’t ever talked to anyone involved before. Not a famous player.’

  ‘I’m hardly famous. Yet,’ he added with a grin. ‘I do intend to play all the big tournaments though. Maybe that makes me start to be famous. In France, I am well known. Okay. So where is this coffee bar with the triple chocolate muffins?’

  ‘Double. Double chocolate. Not far.’ They reached her small car and he dumped his oversized tennis bag in the back, almost filling the entire rear seat. ‘Excuse me asking, but how were you proposing to get back home? You could hardly walk far with that lot.’

  ‘My coach was organising a cab for me. He’ll be absolutely furious that I have left, of course. Probably write me off completely, after today’s disaster,’ he added gloomily.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’d hate for you to be in any trouble on my account.’ He folded himself into what was clearly an inadequate sized car seat for him and they drov
e off.

  ‘Don’t worry. My trouble is all of my own doing. This is a pleasant relief from the pressures. There’s always someone pestering me outside the courts. Fredo, my coach, guard dog, mother substitute and publicity agent, usually protects me from anyone and everyone. Interviews, radio, television, magazines. They want to know everything about me for some reason. So intrusive.’ Amanda blanched. She was yet another of these tiresome people. ‘Even the most intimate details,’ he went on. ‘I guess they practically want to know how many times I sneeze in a day. I just hate gossip writers.’

  She giggled nervously. At what point did she have to confess the truth? He’d just described her job exactly. For once, she could see the other side of it. Always, she’d told herself it went with the territory of fame: the gossip columns and true life stories. If she confessed the truth right now, that would be it. No more talking of any sort. And she knew she could listen to him talk all day. That accent was incredibly attractive, even though his English was so perfect. Her heart was making the sort of gyrations she hadn’t remembered existing for some months. She swallowed hard and grabbed her senses back into some sort of order.

  ‘You speak such good English. Where did you learn?’

  ‘My father is British. My mother is French. We have a family business down in Provence. We mostly lived in France or Spain. Tennis coaching is better there. I played from an early age but only became a professional in recent years. I’ve won a number of tournaments but I think I may have left it too late to be really successful. These are the times of the tennis teenager. I’m already twenty-five but, I reckon I’m as fit as most on the circuit.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’d certainly agree with that. You’re as fit as anyone I know.’ She grinned, wondering if he was aware of the double meaning in today’s slang. She drove carefully, hoping the nearest coffee place would have somewhere to park.

  ‘You are such a pleasure to speak to,’ Sacha told her after they’d spent almost two hours over coffee. ‘No hang-ups. No ulterior motives. I’d like us to share some more time together. I so rarely meet normal, happy girls. Your beauty adds even more to my pleasure. Now my part in this tournament is over, I can relax for a while. You can be my compensation. Will you have dinner with me?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she replied, her eyes already bright with anticipation. Somehow, she’d forgotten all about the article she was supposed to be researching. She’d simply tell Penelope that she’d been unable to find anyone to talk to. Dinner with this gorgeous man who gave a wonderful French lilt to every word he spoke, how could she possibly say no?

  ‘So. You will kindly return me to my apartment and then we can meet again in a short while. I need to shower and change my clothes. Do you know somewhere good to eat?’

  ‘Of course. What sort of food do you want?’

  ‘Italian, preferably. Though anywhere will be a pleasure with you accompanying me.’

  ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’ What a smoothie, she told herself but it was still lovely to be spoken to like that.

  ‘Hey . . . no. What do you take me for?’

  ‘Well, a good looking man who probably has his choice of all the women he could wish for.’

  ‘Not true. I’m usually guarded within an inch of my life. Fredo is like one of those large guard dogs. Rottweilers, are they called? He rarely lets me out of his sight. I’ll be lucky to get out this evening without him insisting on joining us.’ Her face dropped with disappointment. ‘Don’t worry, cherie . . . I am skilled in avoiding him. I’ll meet you . . . so, where shall I meet you?’

  She named a wine bar near to Covent Garden. There were plenty of eating places around there and it should be easy enough for him to find. She left him outside his apartment block and drove back her own flat, almost floating as she parked the car and went inside to get ready. There were several messages on her answering machine at home.

  ‘I assume you struck gold as you didn’t come back into the office and your mobile was switched off. I shall look forward to your piece. Tomorrow morning please. I want it in this week’s edition. Strike while the public’s interested. And make it very personal, as we expect for our magazine. I know I can rely on you. Ciao.’ Penelope’s voice always sounded strident and impatient on the phone.

  What a dilemma she faced. She was very attracted to this handsome French guy — half-French guy. He was so good looking. His eyes were the blackest brown she had ever seen with lashes that curled to a ridiculous length. His jet black hair, slightly too long, perhaps, made her want to run her fingers through it. She shook herself slightly. If she didn’t write a piece for her Editor, she would be in trouble. If she did write it, Sacha would never want to see her again. Even if she told him the truth and didn’t write anything, he might never want to see her again. Why was she suddenly so conscience stricken? She had chatted up many of the lesser celebrities and always got her story. Why was this one any different? Maybe she should make something up about someone but that was way too dangerous.

  Amanda dressed carefully. She chose a slightly low cut, slinky crimson dress that showed off her curves and slim hips to perfection and then in a fit of discretion, changed it for a less blatant outfit. The crimson was much too obvious. She sensed that Sacha would go for a more groomed look. French women were always well-groomed, weren’t they? She picked out a more tailored, linen dress in a pale blue that exactly matched her eyes. She brushed her blonde hair and coiled it into a chignon, clasping it with her favourite silver clip. French made, she remembered. She applied minimal make up, again sensing that her date would prefer a natural look. She gave a twirl and nodded to herself. She’d do. She phoned for a cab and was ready. She still had made no decision about confessing the truth about herself but who cared? She intended to have a fun evening and face the consequences when she saw how things were progressing.

  She arrived at the wine bar first and ordered a glass of house red. There were tables on the pavement outside but she chose to sit at a table near the window, so she could see Sacha arriving. She sipped her wine slowly, looking at each taxi as it stopped. When he was half an hour late, she began to feel anxious. Maybe he hadn’t managed to shake off his guard after all. Maybe he had discovered who she really was. Maybe he had simply changed his mind. Maybe . . . maybe. Well, if he didn’t show when she had finished her wine, she would leave. All the same, she sipped the wine so slowly that it could well have lasted her for most of the evening.

  ‘Cherie? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I had a big argument with Fredo. I needed to sort it out before I left him.’

  ‘I thought you’d changed your mind about coming,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Oh, no, ma cherie . . . how could you think that? I was looking forward to this evening so much.’ The dark eyes looked rather as if they were pouring warm chocolate all over her. What a thought.

  ‘I was looking out for you but I didn’t see you arrive.’

  ‘I came through a side door. I’m becoming paranoid about this wretched publicity. I can’t stand all these so-called celebrity interest magazines. Makes anyone seem like something unusual when all the time, we are just people earning our living. Sensational gutter press. I hate it all.’ Amanda wriggled uncomfortably. Should she just come out with the truth and call it a day? ‘I’m sorry. You’re looking wonderful. Sensational in fact. So refreshing to see a beautiful woman who doesn’t try to force her sexuality on every man she meets.’ She sent up a little prayer of gratitude that she hadn’t worn the sexy red dress. ‘Seems every girl I meet has the same message. But, I guess that goes with the territory. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have an accidental meeting with someone who doesn’t have an agenda. So, now I want to know all there is to know about you. Your life. Your family.’

  Amanda was grateful that the low lighting in the wine bar hid her blushes, at least to some extent. It was getting worse and worse with everything he said. Accidental meeting? It had been totally contrived and she certainly did have an agenda. If
she really was one of the more unscrupulous journalists, she would wheedle out all sorts of things to use in her article but she wasn’t. There were times when she actually hated the necessities of her work. What was more she really liked this man. Who wouldn’t? A truly tall, dark and handsome cliché sitting so close to her so that his knee actually brushed her own, sending pulses of . . . well . . . whatever it was, it was more than pleasant. She was even fantasising about how it would feel to be held close by him.

  ‘Amanda? Where were you? Am I boring you so much?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was . . .well, enjoying looking at you. Sorry, that sounds so corny. But you are a most attractive man. Gosh, should I be saying that? But I think there are several women around here who are incredibly jealous of me and my date.’ She had already noticed the envious looks she was getting and felt very glad to be her.

  ‘I am the lucky one. Perhaps it is I who is the object of such envy. So, ma belle Amanda, where are we going to eat?’

  Feeling as if she were floating on air, she suggested a small bistro a couple of blocks away. It was a balmy summer evening and strolling along the busy cosmopolitan streets held its own special magic. There were people of all nationalities and delicious smells came from the many varied restaurants they passed.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she murmured. ‘Despite that chocolate muffin I ate.’

  ‘Me too.’ He slipped his arm around her waist, a gesture that was comfortingly possessive. He felt her stiffen slightly and withdrew his arm. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps I’m being too intimate on our first date.’

  ‘No, no. It’s fine. I like it.’ Like it? Understatement of the century. It felt wonderful. She looped her own arm around his waist and smiled up at him. She felt dainty and feminine alongside this giant of a man. She could feel his powerful muscles, doubtless the product of many years spent practising. He may not be ranked anywhere in the world of tennis at this time but he was certainly climbing high in her own personal rankings.