Authors: Elise Alden
Anjuli stifled a mad urge to laugh. Of course she was daft. She’d bought a manor she now couldn’t afford, insulted her only chance at restoring it and was limping home in the middle of a howling gale with a dog that would probably give her rabies. But even rabies would be preferable to hearing what Rob had to say, and it looked as though he had plenty.
“Get in.”
Somewhere inside her a little voice protested against his order, but she clamped her mouth shut. The cut on her hand was throbbing and besides, one should never antagonise a reluctant rescuer. Rob shoved the bicycle into the boot, whistling for the collie to follow suit. The dog settled down with his tail over his nose. Wouldn’t it be great if she could do the same?
Rob got into the car and slammed the door shut, making her jump. He wiped his face and raked a hand through his dripping hair. A turn of his head and he took in her sodden, mud-speckled face before slowly lowering his gaze to her soaked top. Anjuli shivered, though whether it was from the cold or from his look, she couldn’t say.
Rob reached into the back seat for his jacket. “Put this on.”
Get in.
Put this on
. Peremptory orders, but it was hard to argue with common sense. The jacket was large and warm, and soon stilled the trembling in her shoulders if not in her stomach. Jaw hard and face tight, Rob pulled out of the passing place.
Anjuli clamped down on the insane urge to throw herself into his arms and hang on for dear life. It was time to apologise, but which one of her transgressions should take pride of place? London? What should she say about that little disaster? Nothing she’d planned seemed right and the blank, shuttered glance Rob gave her as she shifted in her seat stifled her words before she’d even begun.
“Don’t bother,” he said tersely. “I don’t need an apology.”
“But I should explain—”
“I think you said enough that night.”
He could sell his voice as a weapon. Its cool, clear tone was smooth on the surface, so full of contempt in the undertow.
Anjuli cleared her throat. “My divorce had just been finalised and I took it badly. When I saw you it was a shock and I wasn’t thinking straight.”
It was the truth, although the divorce had affected her because Brendan had been her last link to Chloe. Not because she’d loved him. Rob’s hand tightened on the gearshift. “Divorce?”
Hard not to wince at his tone. “I was married for a short time, to B. R. Kavon. It was hasty and we kept it secret. It didn’t last.”
Please God
,
don’t let him recognise the name.
“B. R. Kavon, the Welsh guitarist from Death Instinct?”
And
that
was why she shouldn’t put her faith in prayer. “That’s the one.”
“B. R. Kavon, who married an heiress last month and then got busted for punching a paparazzo so hard he broke his jaw? Charged with possession of class A drugs when they booked him?”
“That would be him, too,” she said lightly.
Rob frowned. “Interesting company you keep.”
“Interesting magazines you read.”
“Everybody needs to see their GP now and again and I didn’t have a book.”
Anjuli sighed. “Brendan isn’t really like that. Violent, I mean. He struggles with the pressure of fame and sometimes does stupid things. He’s lonely most of the time and he thinks drinking and...doing other things help him to deal with being a star.”
“Right.”
They drove in silence for a few seconds before Rob’s face went dark. “So...Brendan R. Kavon was the man in bed with us that night.”
Remorse rolled over Anjuli and spread, like the muddy surface water hitting the windshield. “Listen, about what I said—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted. “I’ve never been used for rebound sex before, but I’m no’ complaining. I had a good time and so did you, regardless of whose dick you pretended was pleasuring you.”
Huh?
“But you were furious,” Anjuli said incredulously. “What I said and did was terrible and I’m very sorry.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “It was a blow to the ego, but I survived. We had sex with no messy strings to worry about. A win-win situation, although I almost froze trying to find a taxi. That part was downright cruel.”
Anjuli turned in her seat and stared at Rob’s profile in shock, not trusting herself to speak. Male hubris had been the cause of his anger? A trampled-on ego the reason he’d stalked from her flat in such barely contained rage? She wouldn’t have believed it of the Rob she used to know and even now it didn’t seem possible yet there he sat, a rueful smile on his face. What had happened to “I’m not letting you go”? Something hard tightened in her chest, then slowly descended to her stomach. Rob had no lingering feelings for her. He would have felt the same scorching passion for any other woman he’d picked up. His declarations in bed were galling, nothing but a well-practised spiel. And to think she’d been feeling
guilty
!
Rob gave her knee a casual squeeze. “The next time you need a man, let me know, lass. If I’m free I’ll consider helping you out, provided I’ve got transport afterwards. There aren’t many black cabs around Heaverlock.”
Anjuli drew in a sharp breath, a reaction both to his words and to the hand on her leg. She spluttered for an answer. “The cold obviously affected your brain.”
“Maybe, but if memory serves me right you were begging for it.”
Had he always been such a jerk? Another casual squeeze and he shifted up a gear to overtake the tractor in front of them.
The next time you need a man let me know
,
my arse.
Rob made her sound like a desperate nympho. She’d let him know all right. Give him a piece of her mind—a large slice of derision smothered in get-over-yourself icing, big enough to wipe the smug look off his face.
And nothing would be gained except another scene between them.
The rain beating down on the roof seemed to amplify the tension, punctuating it with sharp exclamation points. If she apologised for leaving him at the altar, would he shrug it off as lightly as he had that night in London? She didn’t want to find out, not when thinking of that time still filled her with anguish. Anjuli looked at the blanket of relentless rain, wondering how many days of it she would need to wash away her regrets.
“We should talk about...the past,” she said.
A brief glance, no longer amused. “I’m more interested in the present. Why did you move back to Heaverlock? Why here and why now? What are you running away from this time?”
She should have remembered his uncanny knack for shoving her off balance. “I’m done with singing so why not move back?”
“As soon as you get bored with country living you’ll return to London or leave for New York. Another concert or tour will beckon and—”
“I’m never singing again,” she said flatly.
“Never?”
“That’s right. I got tired of it and now I want to do something different.”
“Soooo.” He dragged out the word like a suspicious detective. “After living the glamorous celebrity lifestyle you want to run a B&B on an isolated moor. The obvious choice.”
Why couldn’t he let it go? Why couldn’t the press, the fans and everybody else leave her alone, forget she existed and find somebody else to badger?
“Maybe I should ask Ben if moving to Heaverlock is a crime,” Anjuli said testily. “At least when he interrogates people they’ve done something wrong.”
“All right then, just one more question. Why won’t you sing at the ceilidh?”
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you,” she snapped.
Rob’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. “I understand a damn sight more than you think.”
“Really? Please enlighten me. I can’t wait to hear it.”
“I understand you need my help to restore Castle Manor and you wish to God that you didn’t. In fact, it kills you to ask me for anything, though you think using me in bed is okay. You came to the pub today to find me, but instead you insulted me and ran off. I believe you’re hiding something, something that spurred your decision to move back to Heaverlock.” He shifted gears and took a steadying breath. “Is that understanding enough for you?”
Anjuli sank into her seat and looked out her window. She didn’t want Rob to see her face. He could still read her like one of his blueprints, with all the doors and windows clearly marked. She felt boxed in, with him using up entirely too much room in the car and the tension eating up what little space there was between them.
This section of the road was lined with birch trees, the nascent leaves clinging to the branches and shimmering in the wet. She looked towards the west where the sun would be if it hadn’t gone AWOL. The sky was no longer black but a dull, murky grey. The colour of her mood.
Rob flicked on the radio, filling the car with the sound of her voice.
Oh God
,
anything but this
.
Her vocal cords contracted and her throat went dry. The song was “River Tide,” her favourite, a tribute to the Scottish folk band they’d gone to see on their first date. The song Rob had whispered in her ear when he’d proposed to her at Heaverlock Castle. They had slow danced and it had rained, but they hadn’t cared, letting the droplets fall on them until they ran to the abandoned manor for shelter. What happened after that would be emblazoned in her memory forever. It played through her mind along with the song on the radio. Was Rob remembering also? Was he thinking of how—
No!
Longing and desire were not going to submerge her in the past. Anger was a much more useful coping method for dealing with painful memories, and where anger failed, there was nothing like a healthy dose of avoidance. Rob hit the CD player and the music changed over, easing the pressure on her chest. The song was mainstream. Safe.
“One Direction?” Since when was Rob interested in reality TV bands?
He turned up the volume. “Mac makes compilations for me. I’ve got Scouting for Girls in the next slot.”
“So...you’re in touch with your boy-band side now?”
“Girl band, too. They’re much nicer to look at.” He flashed her a lopsided grin.
Oh
,
boy
,
that’s lethal.
Anjuli took a deep breath. “I was way out of line at the pub. I jumped to conclusions and I apologise.”
And just like that she’d wiped the grin off his face.
The Land Rover hit a deep pothole, jolting Anjuli forward.
“The next time you want to ask a man for help try not to insult his integrity beforehand.”
Heaverlock Castle’s stark outline loomed ahead, separated from them only by a thin line of trees. Three intact turrets and a crenellated parapet crowned the perfectly symmetrical semi-ruin. It had been a Border fort and its defensive purpose showed in the narrow slits carved into its walls.
It had no windows except for one elegant Elizabethan frame in the west turret. Anjuli had always wondered at that window, her teenage imagination conjuring a trapped princess looking out, or perhaps a Border Lady sewing a tapestry in her incongruous corner of graceful beauty.
The ruins watched over them like a sentry as they drove past. The moat was dry, the only evidence that the river had once been diverted to fill it was the empty space at the castle’s entrance, where a drawbridge used to exist. Two hundred metres ahead the River Redes raced violently past, separating the ruin from Castle Manor. Anjuli strained forward as they approached the crossing. The river looked likely to burst its banks at any minute. The rocks she could normally see were covered by fierce rapids only a few feet from the underside of the arched stone bridge.
Rob glanced at her worried face. “It’s been higher.”
He jumped out of the Land Rover and unlatched the heavy chain between the posts. Crossing over, she had the fanciful thought they were leaving the modern world behind. Maybe they were. Approaching her grey sandstone manor felt like stepping straight into a Brontë novel. She only hoped what happened when they arrived wouldn’t play out like one.
Chapter Five
Castle Manor stood defiantly, crumbling in isolation, dark walls worn by gale-force winds and heavy snowfall. Large and square, built in a small valley between the gradually sloping moors and the river that separated it from Heaverlock Castle. Boarded-up windows on the third floor screamed years of neglect, as did the moss growing between the stonework. Anjuli heaved a small sigh. The graffiti on the front façade was a glaring reminder of which century they were in.
The trust that had owned Castle Manor had cut down the trees that used to form a perimeter around the house and hadn’t finished chopping up the wood. Chunks of silver birch and pine lay strewn haphazardly, forming a natural obstacle course to the front door. Anjuli peered at the swaying birch sapling on her roof and grimaced. The slender trunk looked as if it would fly off any minute. Maybe it would take her with it.
Rob let the Border collie out of the back seat and took out her bike, and Anjuli mumbled a “come on in” and sprinted up the steps to Castle Manor. Awkward, to leave him behind so rudely, but she had to save Chloe’s things.
She raced down the entrance hall, trailing water on the faded Victorian tiles as she searched the house. The box wasn’t on the day bed in the spacious morning room where she’d fallen asleep, nor in the empty library. Kitchen? She’d taken it in there at breakfast, hadn’t she, wanting to unwrap the more fragile items after she’d finished? But then Ash had texted her about Rob and she’d been thrown into chaos. Anjuli ran across the spacious hall, checking the central staircase as she went. No box. That left the large, double-fronted sitting room.
The floor-to-ceiling sash windows were open and the faded brocade curtains soaked, as were the boxes she hadn’t yet unpacked. Chloe’s wasn’t one of them.
Oh thank you
,
thank you
,
thank you
,
God.
I
didn’t mean what I said about not praying.
Chloe’s box was open, next to the fireplace near the piano. The crystal Lalique sparrow Anjuli had bought when Chloe was born sat at the top. Gently, she rubbed it with her fingertip, then closed the box when she heard Rob walk in. “No lights in here yet, sorry,” she said.
She looked around the sitting room, relieved not to find major damage. She had very little furniture and it was all arranged on the right-hand side, around the fireplace. The large area between her furniture and the Steinway at the other end was currently occupied by boxes labelled Books, Electronics, and Stuff I Never Knew I Had.
Together, they pulled the heavy sash windows shut—not an easy task as the rusted pulley system stuck in the old grooves.
Rob shook the rain from himself with a shudder, and so did the collie. Anjuli smiled as both man’s and dog’s hair stood on end.
“
Dreich
,” Rob said, studying the room.
Well, “drab and dreary” was exactly how she felt, and being with Rob inside the house that had witnessed their happiest moment didn’t help. Rob didn’t seem to share her discomfort. He was on his haunches studying the cast-iron fireplace. It glittered in the semi-darkness, a large surround for his intent form. When she’d moved in the tiles surrounding it had been covered by square, stick-on patterns in garish, flowery prints. Compelled to find what they hid, Anjuli had left unpacking for later and spent the afternoon painstakingly removing the stick-ons and cleaning the glue from the original ceramic. Her efforts revealed Art Deco tiles, seamlessly fitted together to form the dark, graceful silhouette of a sleeping woman.
Rob ran his hand over one of the tiles. “Alphonse Mucha’s ‘Nocturnal Slumber,’ probably added in the 1890s or early 1900s.”
“And preserved by 1970s bad taste,” Anjuli said wryly.
The collie barked and ran a few laps around the sofa, slipping on sections of faded brown carpet before jumping onto her distressed leather armchair. He played with Anjuli’s favourite cashmere throw, soiling it with his paws while his tail brushed the table lamp.
“Stop it, dog. Please?”
Rob patted his thigh and the collie ran to him. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t think he has one.”
Man and dog regarded each other, heads cocked to the side. “He looks like a Reiver to me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not keeping him.”
“Hello there, Reiver.” The dog nuzzled him, then jumped on Anjuli and pawed her thighs.
“Down,” Rob said sternly, speaking to the dog but looking at Anjuli. “You’ve got to be firm so he understands you’re the boss. It works with animals...and people.”
Well, it wouldn’t work with
her
. “You two can bond while I get him some food. Sorry, I don’t have any boy-band CDs to provide background music.”
A low chuckle spurred her to the kitchen, a large square with a separate utility room and a marble-countered larder used to keep food cool in Victorian times. North-facing, but large windows made the most of daylight hours. Unfortunately, no amount of light could brighten the mildew-coloured linoleum competing for ugliness with the 1970s units.
The dog—Reiver, as Anjuli now couldn’t help thinking of him—deserved a nice bowl of water and a feast for his heroics but a bit of leftover lasagne and some sausages was all she had to offer. And a box of Hotel Chocolat goodies, but dogs shouldn’t eat chocolate, right? Making a mental note to find out more about feeding her new guest, she set the sausages down and filled a plastic tub for him to drink from.
Rob followed Reiver into the kitchen. His shirt was plastered to his chest and with his wet, tousled hair he had an “I-don’t-give-a-damn” look about him that was altogether too disturbing. Anjuli hid a sigh. She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked “I-don’t-give-a-damn” too, but in an entirely different way.
She not only smelled of mud, but her sweater was soaked and so were her jeans. A quick look in the utility room and she handed Rob a clean towel, then turned on the creaky tap. Bracing herself, she washed and rinsed her face with icy water. One should never conduct business with a dirty face, no matter if the rest of one’s body looks like it dropped out of a sludge pipe.
Should she offer Rob a hot drink? A stiff drink? Stare at him until the river washed her away?
He seemed oblivious, studying the larger of two holes in the wall and measuring it with an expert eye. “Ask Viking to give you some plywood. There’s a bit left over from the platform he built for the pub that you could use to cover the holes with.”
“Sure, I’ll add that to my to-do list.”
Rob glanced at the freestanding cupboard. “In the meantime, help me push.”
Together, they positioned the biggest in front of the largest hole
.
Blech
. Anjuli made a face at the empty floor space they’d uncovered, where lumps of accumulated gunk looked like something a mad scientist would grow into a biohazard. Over the smaller hole she’d plastered a bit of newspaper.
The Borders Chronicle
showed the vicar’s escaped horse being pursued down the village green by two heavyset men.
Rob pulled up the linoleum and examined the flagstone floor, uncovering a section where the stone was missing.
Yes!
Anjuli recognised the expression on his face and felt her waning hopes blossom. He was immersed, his creative mind thinking along restoration channels.
“The kitchen is going to be a massive job,” she said worriedly. “It’s the worst part of the house.”
“Aye, but I’d say the roof is stiff competition.”
“Yeah, that silver birch wasn’t there the last time we were here, was it?”
A sharp glance. “No...but I don’t recall looking at the roof much.”
A reflexive thrill ran down Anjuli’s back at the tone of his voice. She watched the memory of that day flit over his face and wanted to slap herself. About five sharp slaps would do for starters, and then she could start in with the punches.
“Ash mentioned you were in charge of the Callants Hotel restoration in Halton a few years back,” she said, hoping to turn his thoughts to business. “I went shopping there yesterday and had a drink at the café. I love the way you left a few bits of the old plaster as you found them.”
No response.
“There’s so much more to owning a listed building than I first thought. The dos and don’ts read like a legal contract and I have no idea how to handle the restoration.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you put in a bid.”
And maybe you should put me out of my misery and tell me if you’ll work for me
. Anjuli tried to quash her frustration. Rob in moody mode had always made her want to shake him, but she couldn’t afford to let him get to her. He knew she needed his help so why couldn’t he tell her if he was going to oblige?
Rob continued his methodical study of the kitchen, tapping the walls and looking behind units and into corners.
Anjuli washed her breakfast dishes, letting the icy water run over her hands and counting the cracks in the deep porcelain basins. She loved the symmetrical beauty of the Belfast sinks. They’d seen grander times, elegant dinner parties, weddings and christening feasts, each tiny crack perhaps made by the same large cast-iron pot.
Anjuli put a hand to her lower back and straightened slowly. The sinks were set lower than she was used to and after kissing the verge, it hurt to bend over them. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck. Shutting her eyes, she ran her right hand down her throbbing thigh and massaged it in slow, circular sweeps. She arched her spine, pushing her chest out.
God that feels good.
A cascade of sensual warmth ran from her shoulders to her thighs as she transferred the massage to the small of her back. She opened her eyes. Rob was staring at her, his face suffused with anger and something altogether more threatening. Anjuli dropped her hand, unsure of what to say or do next. Rob solved the problem for her, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her head back to look up at him or look away. A sensible woman, one who knew danger and backed away from it, would retreat.
She didn’t know what she was anymore, where Rob was concerned. Not an inch of his body was touching hers and yet she felt as if she were being caressed by the energy between them. And there it was again, that visceral tug of longing assaulting her barriers, beating at her resistance like the gale hammering at her house.
Rob dropped his eyes to her mouth and she lifted her chin. He parted his lips and hers parted in response. His head slanted and hers slanted with it.
Where had the wind gone, and when had the rain stopped pummelling the roof? Was that sibilant sound her own breathing or the hiss of wet, masculine chest meeting burning hot nipples?
“Have you got a proposition for me?” Rob asked huskily.
Anjuli gulped. “Never.”
One of his brows rose sardonically. “Never?”
“Unless it pertains to Castle Manor, of course.” Anjuli stepped away. “Shall we discuss it in the—”
A jaunty Beatles tune came from Rob’s pocket. He took out his mobile, read the screen and switched it off, a wry expression on his face. “I seem to have forgotten I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes.” He took out his wallet and handed Anjuli a crisp business card. “Phone Mrs. P. She knows my schedule better than I do.”
“But I need—”
“For your other needs you can text the mobile,” he said, dipping his gaze to her breasts. “If I’m free, I’ll consider satisfying them.”
It wasn’t until Anjuli heard the front door shut that she snapped out of her outraged daze. Cursing him from hell to Heaverlock, she went to the sitting room and watched the Land Rover cross the bridge and negotiate the potholes past the castle.
Smug
,
conceited...
So what if she’d been putty in his hands in London, begging for his body and handing him hers? It didn’t mean she wanted a repeat performance. If she wanted casual sex she could dress down and buy a vibrator.
Rob’s jacket was where she’d dropped it on the sofa. She picked it up, and before she knew what she was doing, had brought it to her face to inhale his sent. “Arrgh,” she cried disgustedly, throwing it down as if it carried the plague. What she needed was a shower. Cold water would wash the grit from her body and the dirt from her mind.
Reiver followed her from the sitting room. “Stay,” she ordered sternly.
Satisfied with her new-found assertiveness, Anjuli climbed her
Gone with the Wind
staircase. Maybe it was fanciful, but she felt like Scarlett O’Hara post-Civil War, living in a faded house once full of vibrant splendour. The banister was cool and smooth under her fingertips, its dark varnish worn and discoloured from other palms, other fingers that had once glided along its graceful lines.
The stairs curled to the second floor past the floor-to-ceiling oriel window at the midway landing. The remaining multi-coloured glass panels were dulled with time but she could see that they had once been beautiful. Reiver brushed past her and waited at the top of the staircase, tail wagging as he watched her slow climb.
Anjuli made a face and pitched her voice low, mimicking Rob. “It works with animals and people.”
Taking a shower was her daily dose of freezing reality, but this time the showerhead spluttered, coughed and spat out the brownest water she’d ever seen. She let it run for a few minutes but it only got darker. Then came little chunks of sediment that didn’t bear thinking about. By the time she’d finished heating water from the kitchen for a sponge bath and hair wash she was shoring herself up with the promise of wine, lasagne and Hotel Chocolat heaven. The diet could wait.
“After all, Reiver, tomorrow is another day.”
He cocked his head, watching her from the kitchen doorway as she poured a glass of red. “Do you like your new name? Don’t worry, in your case it means wild adventurer, not murderous Border mercenary.”
Reiver gave her a two-toned bark.
“Ready for a bath?”
He whined and Anjuli laughed. “You’re having a wash or not sleeping in my room tonight.”
In the end she settled for wiping him down with Rob’s towel, rubbing the worst of the dirt off his scraggly hair. By the time she’d finished and gone upstairs, the electric heater Ash had lent her had warmed up her bedroom. At some point she’d have to cram some clothing into the tiny wardrobe she’d inherited with the house. After a thorough clean, that is. It smelled of mothballs and was full of dead spiders and flies.