One Night with A British Billionaire

Chapter Nineteen

Landon's POV

"Thomas Thorpe."

She's completely caught me off guard.

"For how long?"

"A long time."

She's avoiding the question.

"How long?"

I'm struggling for control. I'm grateful we're in public. I'd have already lost my temper if we were sitting at home having a cup of tea.

"It's a long story."

She's checking to see if we're alone. I watch as her eyes search the restaurant. For the first time, I'm regretting choosing to come to my favourite restaurant, the restaurant owned by Thomas Thorpe's son.

"Just tell me."

I pull out my phone to send a quick text to Lisa asking her to cancel my afternoon appointments.

"When did it start?"

"You were just a small boy." She sighs before continuing. "Your father was working all the time and I..."

She stops as if she expects me to help her, but that's not an option, I'm not making this easy on her.

"I was lonely. When you were born, I suffered from postnatal depression and your father barely noticed. He was so busy with the company."

She takes a deep breath, taking a moment to search my face for something, perhaps compassion or empathy. When she doesn't find what she is looking for she continues.

"You had a nanny who looked after you. I wasn't a very good mother to you. Thomas was regularly at the house, usually with your father in his study, drinking scotch and smoking cigars."

"He noticed that I was unhappy," my mother tells me, "and we talked. It became a regular thing. We would have coffee in the kitchen while your father was working."

I nod because I realise I haven't responded to anything she has said.

"It started out quite innocently. It made me happy. Nothing happened for a long time."

"What do you mean?" I ask. I'm not sure I really want to know what she's alluding to.

"A year after you were born, your father went away on business, and I didn't want to be alone, so I invited Thomas over for dinner. Just as friends. He missed his wife; you know she..."

"Yes Mum," I'm frustrated by how slow she is telling me this story, it's convoluted and just not getting to the point, "I know she died giving birth to Jarrod."

"I kissed him. I'd had quite a bit of wine. He didn't kiss me back. He told me he wanted to, but he couldn't because of his friendship with your father."

There are tears in her eyes now, and I wonder if I should pity her. My face is probably all hard lines as I take in what she is telling me.

"We stopped seeing each other. I didn't want to, but he didn't really give me a choice. I tried to contact him, to tell him how I felt, but he wouldn't respond. That's when I started painting. It was my distraction."

I want her to get to the point. This is tedious.

"We kept our distance for the best part of a year," she tells me, "but I loved him."

"You loved him?"

I can hear contempt in my voice. My mother is not a woman who regularly speaks of love. Most people think her cold and so hearing her talk about love in this context is beyond painful.