Authors: Demelza Hart
A Twist of Fate
A
Twist
of
Fate
Demelza Hart
An attraction that can't be ignored.
A spoilt little rich girl.
A rough ex-soldier.
When Callie Frobisher and Paul Mason are stranded after their plane crashes, the mismatched couple are forced into battling each other and their feelingsâ¦
Callie has it all - rich parents, a private education, and a great job, whilst Paul is harbouring a dark and destructive secret. The trauma of the crash and the harsh media spotlight proves to be challenging for them both.
Can their attraction survive when they return to reality?
Contents
One
Things always went right for me. Callie Frobisher, the girl with the charmed life. That's what I was told, anyway. My parents had sort of preordained it. By their force alone they convinced me that they'd made a deal with my creator that I would lead the perfect life.
So far, their plan â in their eyes at least â had worked. But it was all about to go spectacularly wrong.
Until the plane reached its cruising altitude, even I had been lulled into a false sense of security, an acceptance of perfection. A scholarship to private school; a First from Bristol; PGCE from Cambridge; and now, at twenty-five, teaching history at another independent school, one that boasted several minor royals among its alumni. I hadn't really questioned it until recently. It was what people did, wasn't it? Followed a particular path? Mine seemed mapped out for me from the start.
It had been a busy first year teaching, and my parents â always there, firm but doting â had rewarded me with a holiday in the Maldives with my friend, Lily. I'd like to point out that I did put up a token protest. But, again, easiness and comfort were such a familiar part of my life that, even though something inside me screamed âwrong', I just smiled sweetly, offered my thanks, and had a fabulous time. And now I was coming back alone. Lily had stayed on for another week's sailing on her boyfriend's yacht. I was returning to drizzly England.
The flight was delayed. The sky, which had been an azure blue for the duration of my stay, was now a heavy grey, oppressive and dark, as if in tune with my downbeat mood. Malé Airport, despite the Duty Free and smiling faces always ready to flog something sensational, provided little in the way of comfort. You know that feeling at the end of a holiday, when it inevitably has to end, and you just want to get it over with and be home.
We boarded at last, bound for Gatwick. The plane was full. I was at the back â my mother always insisted on it â âthe safest place' â and I was not relishing the prospect of the rising whine of the cabin crew as they bitched about their colleagues.
I sat staring ahead while waiting to leave the gate. A large lady sat next to me, her breathing heavy and low, dragged in through protesting lungs. Clearly uncomfortable in the narrow seat, she shifted around to better her position. I moved to my right, trying to give her room and resulting in losing any arm space in the process. I was now sitting with a noticeable lean, a bit like a human Tower of Pisa.
The last few passengers boarded and the doors closed. The seat across the aisle from me was free. Perhaps I'd move to sit there and make it easier for us both. I'd be stiff as a board when we landed otherwise.
Just as I felt sure they'd closed the flight, I looked up to see a man walking down the aisle. My heart sank. He had that determined stride that told me he was heading to the back. As he approached, he studied the seat numbers close to me. Sure enough, his was the seat opposite mine. I must have huffed audibly in annoyance.
âSorry. Did I bump ya?' The man looked down from his impressive height with a lopsided apologetic smile. For a moment I forgot to resent him. When he smiled, he showed off his perfectly hewn good looks. He had neat white teeth, a firm jaw covered in considerable stubble, and thick, dark hair. Early thirties, I thought. His red checked shirt and grey T-shirt poking out at the neck was concealing what was clearly a broad, muscled torso.
âNo, no,' I demurred, still looking up, his staggering gorgeousness robbing me of my usual bite. His eyes held mine. They were the most arresting blue.
He looked away at last, denying me the force of his gaze, and I felt as if I'd had a bag of sweets snatched away. The man shrugged off a large backpack, surely only just within cabin baggage regulations.
âIt's my bag, y'see. Has a mind of its own.' He gave a low chuckle, as low as his voice, which was rough and raspy, and phenomenally sexy. Sexy? What the hell was I thinking? He wasn't my type at all. He was too casual and rough and ⦠northern. He was probably the type who wore naff short-sleeved shirts in the summer rather than rolling his sleeves up. Something told me, however, that he probably didn't require a collared shirt for his work. My mother would not approve. I lowered my head and tried to ignore him.
By now, he'd turned away from me and was trying to squeeze his enormous bag into the overhead locker. His backside was only about three inches from my right ear. I glanced over. Tight, round, neatly encased in jeans. God, I could just reach out and ⦠I sighed loudly and studied the safety guidelines instead.
âIt's not goin',' he declared, unable to fit his bag in the locker. He turned around and glanced at the one above me. âYours is nearly empty. Could I try it? Might be able to squeeze it in.'
I hoped my blush wasn't obvious, but of course it would be. I was renowned for my blatant shows of embarrassment.
He looked down, his eyebrow cocked. I angled my head up to him. If I looked to my right now, I may get an eyeful of something else entirely.
âI suppose,' I mumbled, managing to sound distinctly fed up. It was my way of dealing with a loss of control. This man had thrown me. His exhilarating masculine physicality was making my head spin. He smiled again.
Oh, don't do that
. âBe careful of my bag. It has precious things in it, gifts for my family,' I declared as snippily as I could.
âDon't fret. I can be as gentle as a lamb ⦠when I need to be.'
He continued to push and shove at his bag for a while longer. I could smell his cologne; rich, aromatic, totally intoxicating. I glanced up. The outline of his arm muscles shifted as he held the bag, which was still refusing to fit anywhere.
âAre you having trouble, sir?' asked a female crew member, her body language as overly attentive as her voice. She hadn't been like that with me.
âIt's a bit too big to go in.'
âIt won't fit under your seat either, sir. Let me take it. I'm good with big things,' she smiled, holding his eye contact. I saw him give a wry smirk but noticed that he held off from a cheesy response to her blatant innuendo.
The crew member took his bag and sashayed off with it. I couldn't help rolling my eyes. He glanced down with a lop-sided smile. âThere you go. Managed to spare your nan's souvenir.'
The man then sank down into his seat with a guttural sigh, as if breathing out the tension of days of hard labour. I was pressing my legs together. Oh, bloody hell. I only did that when attraction reared unstoppably.
He stretched out his legs â long and firm. One of them extended into the aisle. How thoughtless. What if someone tripped on it? He was wearing dark blue Skechers which had seen better days â a much-loved pair by the look of it â and now settled back to read the book he'd taken from his luggage. Andy McNab â predictable. He frowned a little as he read and those blue eyes bored into the text with admirable concentration.
I wanted so hard to find him annoying; everything about this man was the polar opposite of what I was expected to like, but his presence was oddly reassuring. He made me feel as if I was really going back after all. For the first time since preparing to depart, I felt the call of home.
He must have noticed me looking at him because he turned his head and gave me that wonky smile again, just briefly, before focussing back on his book. If he'd held my gaze a little longer I might have smiled back, but as it was I now set my mouth straight and pretended I wasn't remotely interested.
To distract myself I took out my phone and pulled up the last text I'd received before leaving Malé. âThanks. I'll make it worth ur while. Ur so worth it & hopefully I can prove that I am 2. R xxx'
I sighed â a little louder than I'd intended. The cack-handed attempts at text-speak were so awkward. And three kisses. One could be explained away as casual familiarity; two was optimistic; three, and you knew you were in for a hard sell. Rupert â the R in question â had never had to sell himself hard before. We'd got together at university. It turned out our
mamas
knew each other. His term, not mine. Mine was lucky if she still got âMummy'.
I'd been with Rupert for four years. It seemed longer. It became a habit. We were expected to go on forever. My parents adored him â more than me, it seemed at times. My friends kept extolling our compatibility. We were certainly well-matched on paper â same sort of education, same Surrey background. When he got a Good Job â i.e. in the City (to my father Good Jobs didn't exist beyond the City) â then we were expected to marry. He was cute, I can't deny it. He looked a bit like Laurence Fox, Billie Piper's husband. (Or more properly, according to my mother, James Fox's son.)
But something was missing. One day last year, I'd had the courage to admit it. I never quite figured out what it was though, so my courage eventually failed me, and now I was giving him another chance. He'd coaxed and pestered and cajoled and insisted, and now, a year after splitting, was about to give it another go. After all, that was the path I was supposed to take, wasn't it? And there was a certain comfort in that.
After take-off, I tried to doze for a while, reading occasionally, listening to music. I kept half an eye on the man opposite, despite my best intentions. When the drinks trolley came round, he ordered a gin and tonic. Even that annoyed me. That was my in-flight drink. There are certain drinks that work well in particular situations, which you grow to associate with those situations. For me, on a plane journey, a G and T hit the spot. I associate the taste with popping ears and extreme air conditioning.
The lady crew member stuck her arse in my face as she leant down to continue her flirtation with northern bag man. It gave me a strange satisfaction to notice that he didn't play up to it. He barely smiled before turning his attention back to his book. I ordered one too, but as she handed it to me the plane jolted suddenly and the gin spilt over my top.
âOh, sorry,' she said with a downward sneer of sham remorse. She handed me a single flimsy paper napkin to wipe it up with.
âDo you think I could have another gin? This one's down my front.'
The woman (whose fake boobs were as prominent and obvious as her collagen trout pout) glanced down at my chest (natural, pert, but not overly prominent) with a look conveying, âNot much to spill it down, is there?'
Without even looking in my direction she handed me another gin, waving it vaguely in front of me. I snatched it from her.
When she'd moved on, the northern guy looked over and offered me a cloth. I took it with a wary smile. âThanks. That was quite a jolt.'
Just then the plane did it again. A few people screamed. The turbulence continued, juddering and shaking us erratically. âBetter get that gin down you before the rest ends up in your lap,' bag man grinned.
The “fasten seat belt” sign flashed on. There came the clinking noise of metal sliding into metal, a rushed domino of sounds echoed through the plane. âLadies and gentlemen, Captain Rhodes here. We're experiencing some adverse weather conditions at the moment which are resulting in severe turbulence. We'll drop down to try to avoid it. Nothing to be alarmed about but please remain seated until it passes with your seat belts fastened. It may be quite bumpy for a while.'