by Lexi Hart
I pause at the top of the grand staircase and make sure my cell is in my pocket before descending.
Listening for sounds of activity, I cross the hallway and make my way into the large kitchen.
The lighting in the castle is set on a timer, so the kitchen is as illuminated as everywhere else guests are allowed to go.
I feel distinctly weird opening up the massive refrigerator to see what food I can use.
Everything is neatly labeled and separated into containers, and without clear instructions on what to eat, I go with simple and pull out a selection of vegetables and search the freezer for some protein.
When I’ve found a piece of frozen fish, I lay everything out on the counter, acutely aware of how alone I am.
I stare at the chunk of frozen fish and take out a few more pieces to defrost in the refrigerator.
I know I’m in danger of allowing my imagination to get the better of me, so I open the bottle of wine on the countertop and pretend not to notice how my hands carry the slightest shake.
I pour myself an overlarge glass, annoyed at myself for being so ridiculous. I’m a grown woman, Luther is here somewhere, I’m not entirely alone.
But glancing around the empty kitchen, that’s exactly how I’m feeling.
With nothing else to do but wait for my fish to defrost, I take a seat at the massive oak table and drink my wine way too quickly to enjoy the quality.
I stare out the window, watching a tree outside the window sway in the breeze.
The tiniest sound coming from behind me makes me jump in my seat. I pivot, expecting to see Luther, and see nothing but the old wood stove.
I swallow thickly, and pour another glass of wine, as my heart starts to tap a little too fast in my chest.
Sitting here in silence, not doing anything is making me even more anxious, so I down the rest of my glass of wine and carry the bottle to the counter like it’s a security blanket.
When I’ve chopped the vegetables and the fish is still not defrosted, I realize I should have brought my laptop down here.
Instead of tramping all the way upstairs, I pull out my phone and check my email.
It’s nearly seven when I finally start to cook my food. I eat it quickly, not wanting to linger in the kitchen, and tidy away my dishes, feeling increasingly unnerved by the silence surrounding me.
With the wine almost half gone, and my head a little light, I leave the kitchen and decide to go explore the castle.
I have no idea where Luther is. I haven’t seen or heard him since he arrived, so with my promise to stay out his way, I walk around the castle, revisiting places I already saw, and wondering how I’m going to get any sleep tonight.
I already went for a walk in the gardens today, and I’m not about to go outside in the dark, but the pool is heated, and a swim might help me sleep.
I can’t remember if the lighting is automated, and I’m not about to go upstairs to get my swimsuit without switching all the lights on, so I cross the hallway and make my way towards the pool.
The corridor leading to the swimming pool is narrow, and while it’s lit, I start to feel distinctly claustrophobic as I follow the curving stonewalled path.
My heart is thumping too hard in my chest; my palms are growing clammy. The walls start to press in and I have to fight the insane urge to run back.
This was a mistake. A huge one. Panic is rushing through me as I carry on walking.
What seemed like an escape each morning when I came here for a refreshing swim, with sunlight creeping in the windows along the passageway, now feels like one step closer to a tomb I might be sealed in.
Sweat trickles down my spine as hot tears burn in my eyes. I’m almost at the pool when I hear a noise that makes me freeze.
Heat rushes around my body as I hear the faint sound of water splashing.
Half afraid it won’t be Luther taking a swim, I force myself to edge towards the sound and not away from it.
When I reach the pool, relief floods me as I see Luther swimming under the water.
I lean against the wall, hidden, trying to control my breathing as Luther reaches the end of the pool.
He surfaces, taking a gasping breath and pulls himself out of the water. My skin heats, my pulse speeds and I find it impossible to look away.
Luther’s just as muscled as I thought he was. Defined abs, arms and shoulders with dark hair on his chest.
My breathing is growing increasingly erratic, and I should be grateful he’s distracting me from my near panic attack.
But my thoughts are spinning in a thousand directions as I realize he’s quite possibly the most buff man I’ve ever met in real life.
I pull back, suddenly ashamed I’ve effectively been spying on him, and hastily retreat.
Heat is covering my skin as multiple thoughts start to crowd in until all I can see is the water dripping off his torso.
No longer thinking about how alone I am, now thinking about how I’m alone on an island with an incredibly attractive man, who wants nothing to do with me.
LUTHER
I dip the strip into the water sample and shake my head. Whoever has been adding the chemicals has got the balance totally wrong. I clean the skimmer, removing all the debris it’s caught before switching the pump on.
Rolling my shoulders back, I make a note on my cell to ask Jake who’s been taking care of the pool and head back to the kitchen.
The faint smell of food greets me as I step inside. With a scowl at the now half-empty bottle of wine, I grab the steak, some prepacked salad and make my own meal.
I scarf it, standing at the counter, and put all the dishes in the washer before I switch the lights off.
The castle creaks and groans as the wind and rain increase. I head to the office, and flick off the lights in the main hallway, shutting them down, except for the second-floor landing where Blaire is sleeping.
If she needs to come down here for anything, she’ll need a flashlight.
Hopefully she has enough sense to stay on her floor now she’s eaten. I have no way of knowing if she’s going to be a giant pain in my ass.
The last thing I need is her stumbling around in the dark. I don’t care who she is or how much she might be able to help drum up business. She hurts herself; it’s going to be me who has to take care of her.
My lip curls into a smile when it shouldn’t do. How long has it been since I took care of a woman’s needs?
Six months? A year? It wasn’t worth the risk of getting close to anyone. Not that there’s been anyone since I came home from Afghanistan.
Even if I wanted there to be. I’m not the same man I was. I don’t think I could be even if I wanted to.
I pause on the stairs, and rather than head up one floor, I look down the corridor to the room Blaire’s locked away in.
I listen for a while. Hear the patter of rain overhead, the castle as it cools from the day before I make my way back up to my room.
I forgot to leave the light on, so the floor is clothed in darkness. I take the flashlight off my belt, and growl at the tell-tale sound of scuttering as vermin descend back to the corners they hide in.
A draft is blowing cold air through the cracks in the mortar making me think I’d be better off down a floor.
But I can’t move closer to her. I need to keep at least a floor between us.
Any closer than that, the rats will be the least of my worries.
I slide under the covers, not bothering to remove my boots, close my eyes and start to breathe slow and even.
I’m caught in a thick blanket of sleep when I jolt awake yelling myself into consciousness, throat dry, heart thrashing in my chest as fragmented pieces of the nightmare stab into me painfully.
Tremors wrack my body as I reach for the water bottle I left here last month.
As per usual, I overreach, my depth perception off, my shaking hands unable to grip the plastic.
I roll over in sweat-soaked clothes and groan as fog cl
ouds my brain. At least it clouds some of the nightmares.
All I have are hazy snatches of dreams. Every fucking night. Even now out in the middle of nowhere where the ghosts were supposed to be quieter.
I pull myself out of bed and snatch up the bottle, guzzling until half is gone.
Heart still finding its pace, it picks up again when I hear movement coming from the doorway.
I tilt my head, listening for confirmation, heart thrashing about in my chest as cold sweat drips down my forehead.
I stare at the door, each passing second making my anxiety spike a fraction higher.
I hold my breath, fingers gripping the bottle as a light tap sounds on the door.
“Luther? It’s Blaire. I heard you from downstairs. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I growl.
But I’m not fine. I haven’t been fine in years.
And now not only do I have to tell Jake his castle is sinking, but I also have to come up with a rational explanation for why I was screaming in my sleep.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
BLAIRE
I back away, clutching my cell, heart crashing against my rib cage as I take a couple of deep breaths.
I’m drowsy, the half-sleeping tablet I took helped me shake my anxiety at sleeping on the floor below Luther, but nothing could have kept me from running up the stairs when Luther was yelling like a wildman above me.
I was right in the middle of a scene. Completely immersed in what I was doing, waiting for the sleeping pill to do its thing and make me drowsy enough to try to sleep.
I glance at my cell as I stare at the door. Should I call Mary? Is this why she wanted to warn me about him?
I frown as a yawn overtakes me. Now the adrenaline is wearing off and he’s assured me he’s okay, sleep is tugging at me, convincing me to go back to my bed.
It’s worse than unnerving knowing he might do it again. Is this what I have to look forward to for the next two nights?
I’m yawning and my legs are heavy when I make it back down the stairs and into my room.
Since my imagination is running on overdrive, I pull my laptop into bed with me and keep writing until my phone buzzes.
With a frown at who is calling, I answer.
“I am not a conventional girl. I don’t want a conventional life,” a voice growls down the line.
I know what’s coming before my niece says it so I intercept her before she can begin. “Chloe. I know you aren’t conventional. You must know how this looks? You want to be a nanny in Paris right after a boy dumps you.”
I can almost hear the anger in her voice. And even though it’s not directed at me, it’s difficult not to take offense.
“Why are you taking Dad’s side?”
I run a hand over my face. This is not the time to get into another argument about her latest scheme. Bringing up that she can’t speak a word of French is only going to prolong a conversation I’m not sure I want to have.
“It’s not about taking sides. All I’m saying is that there are easier ways to get over—”
“That is not what I’m doing,” she snaps at me.
I frown at the stone wall beside me. “Really? Where’s your father? Why are you calling me so late?”
Chloe sighs. “He’s with his new girlfriend.”
I flinch. “He’s seeing someone?”
“Yeah. He was keeping it quiet. You know, since you and the Brit broke up.”
A sigh escapes. Chloe never liked Kent. She might have her head in the clouds but she called that way before anyone else did.
“I’m assuming you're calling me because you think I have some influence over your dad.”
I can hear her start to formulate an argument so I interrupt her before she can begin. “Paris is a long way away. And people will depend on you.”
I can almost picture her rolling her eyes, the pout to her lips. “I’m eighteen. I can do this. Why doesn’t anyone believe in me?”
I’m close to rolling my eyes myself. These hysterics are getting a little old. So is the rebounding from boys she was desperately in love with.
But her mom is too much of a flake to notice Chloe needs guidance. Not to mention boundaries that my brother has trouble setting and she likes to push.
I’ve watched her grow from a cute little chubby girl to a hormonal teen. All without supervision and the parenting she needs from her mother.
My brother has ever so kindly dropped me in this mess somewhere along the line. And normally I’d talk her down from the ledge, but my eyelids are drooping, and I’m close to saying the wrong thing.
Chloe needs an ally. If my brother has started dating again, and she’s lost another boyfriend, she’s acting out, and these little dramas will only increase.
“I’m not home till Monday. I can come by then and we can figure it out. But please don’t do anything hasty.”
She huffs a breath down the line, sounding even more like a petulant teenager than she is. “Fine. I don’t have a passport anyway,” she grumbles.
A smile pulls at my lips. At least this little attention-seeking ploy won’t come to fruition.
“I’ll come home and we can blob out. Order pizza. Watch cheesy romance movies.”
She half groans. “I’m not watching movies with you. You always guess the plot and have this really smug look on your face.”
I snicker. “I know. We could just watch a British panel show? I can’t guess that.”
Chloe chuckles down the line and I know I’ve disarmed the situation for tonight anyway. “Okay. I’m tired of wallowing around missing Randy. How do you do it? Aren’t you lonely?”
My mirth dissolves as stare at the luxurious bedding covering a bed designed for two.
How can I explain to her I am lonely? And being this close to a man I’m strangely attracted to is playing havoc with my hormones.
She might think she’s an adult, but she has no idea of what it feels like to ache for someone and to know they’ll never be in your life again.
There’s no way she understands what it’s like to have a void deeper than physical need that hasn’t been satisfied for years.
I’m not prepared to try to explain to her that my heart was splintered into pieces and the only way I could get through each day was to write until I could glue myself together again.
She didn’t see the tears. The utter humiliation that I can write romance but couldn’t keep my marriage together.
No one saw. I hid everything. Not even my best friends saw me fall apart. I poured my grief, my shame and my misery into creating happy endings so I could escape the mess my own life was in.
Writing six books in a year distracted me from the horrible realization I’m nothing but a fraud.
My throat is getting thick letting me know I’m in danger of reopening emotions I’m not willing to.
“Chloe. It’s late. I’ll see you on Monday, okay?”
Her voice wobbles a little, and she’s back to being that awkward little girl who just wants to feel secure. “Okay. Love you.”
My own voice comes out a little shaky. “Night sweetie. Love you too.”
I end the call, blinking too fast to force the tears back where they belong.
I save my document, back it up and when I’m sure my body won’t fight to stay awake, I switch the light off and let sleep pull me under.
Chapter 3.
LUTHER
Saturday 5.46am
I haul my aching body out of bed and stumble into the tiny bathroom. After splashing cold water on my face, I make it downstairs.
I check the second floor is quiet before carrying on down to the kitchen. It’s grey outside. Rain is still falling and according to the weather report it’s going to be hanging around all weekend.
That means more seepage in the cellar. I need to keep an eye on it.
I’m thinking about the jobs I need to do when I notice the smell of coffee brewing. I hover at the kitchen door, ready to turn on my heel and l
eave.
I was hoping to eat in peace. Just my luck she’s an early riser.
I pivot and decide to eat later when the door opens behind me. Her eyes light on me, and a tentative smile plucks at her lips. “Morning.”
I shift back, fully prepared to lie about last night when her smile falters. “I made some coffee. Would you like some?”
Surprise jerks out a mumbled acknowledgment. But I’m not about to invite conversation with her, so I shake my head. “I’ll come back later.”
Her lips pucker and she frowns. “This is ridiculous. We both need to eat.”
The words slip past my lips easily. “Not together we don’t.”
She just stares at me unmoving. I shouldn’t but I stare back; taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the weary expression on her face.
I’m not the only one who doesn’t sleep. Or is it that I’m the reason she didn’t sleep?
I narrow my eyes, assessing her as I fold my arms across my chest. She’s not saying anything. But that doesn’t mean she won’t bring it up if I give her the chance to.
There’s a stubbornness about her. Determination is evident in the set of her shoulders and the way she’s not backing down. Normally I’d rise to the challenge.
But I can’t.
Her eyebrow arches but she shrugs. “Okay. I get it. I won’t bother asking you again. I’ll try not to take it personally.”
She steps back through the door and leaves me inhaling the subtle scent of her perfume.
Take it personally? It’s entirely personal. If she were a guy, I’d have no problem accepting a cup of coffee and shooting the breeze.
But she’s not a guy. She’s an incredibly sexy woman, and I’m far too attracted to her.
I hang about in the doorway, eyes on her, as she takes a seat at the table where she’s set up her laptop.
Dressed in curve-hugging jeans and a sweater that accents her full breasts, a coffee cup pressed to her lips; it’s too easy to pretend I could join her and spark up a conversation about what she does for a living.
It would be easy to open a bottle of wine, eat dinner together. Light the fire, let the atmosphere and the circumstances work their magic.