Midsummer Man

by Zelah Roberts

  And that was not happening. She stood up straight. No bloody stalker was going to reduce her to a cowering wreck.

  Her mobile phone was in her pocket. She pulled it out, thanking her lucky stars she hadn’t left it in the kitchen, and called the number she had for Jenna Scott, the policewoman who’d dealt with the stalking case.

  Fortunately, she was on duty. Holly explained the situation briefly and was reassured and relieved in equal measure when Jenna said she would be there straight away.

  “Holly, are all your doors and windows locked?” Jenna asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Stay out of the kitchen. I’ll be ten minutes.”

  At twelve fifteen, after a quick call to the administrator of the charity to get Holly’s contact details, Mac caught a taxi to Holly’s house near Hampstead Heath. His appointment with the security firm had been successful, even if the conversation he’d had with them had seriously put him on edge. Having all the dangers a rich man and his family could face spelt out to him had not made for pleasant listening.

  But plans had been reviewed, actions agreed on and he was now at least assured that everything possible had been put in place to mitigate those risks. He and his family were as safe and secure as he could make them.

  And now he was going to see Holly. His spirits lifted. Damn it, he was looking forward to seeing her again, even though he knew he shouldn’t be.

  But the simmering feeling of anticipation would not be suppressed. Just the thought of seeing her, of being near her again, made him feel lighter, younger, more carefree than he’d felt for months. The feeling was so odd and unfamiliar that it made him realise how grimly dark his life had been recently.

  He closed his eyes, his mind retreating, as it had done so many times that morning, to the exquisite pleasures of the night before.

  “We’re ‘ere, mate. Looks like trouble, though…”

  The taxi driver’s voice jolted him from the light doze he’d fallen into.

  “What?”

  “We’re ‘ere. That’ll be fifteen quid, ta.”

  Mac shook himself awake, fumbled in his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Keep the change.”

  “Cheers, mate. Think there’s some bother going on over there, mind you…”

  Mac looked blearily out of the window and came abruptly awake. There were two police cars parked outside Holly’s house. He was out of the taxi and running before he knew what he was doing.

  Fighting down a sharp shard of fear and a nauseating sense of dread, he hammered at the door. After a moment, it opened. Holly stood there, looking astonished.

  “Mac!”

  “Holly!” He had her in his trembling arms before he had time to process the wisdom of his actions. He pressed her against him, buried his face in her soft hair, kissing it and breathing in her scent. She was alive. Unharmed. Safe. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a quick, reassuring squeeze before pulling away from him, confused. “Yes, of course I am. What’s wrong?”

  “The police cars—”

  Her frown cleared. “Oh. Yes. Right. I…had a bit of trouble, but everything’s fine now. I guess you must be here to discuss arrangements for Leonie?”

  “Ah…yes.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to come in. The police are just finishing up, and we’ll be able to talk.”

  He nodded, wondering just what the hell ‘a bit of trouble’ meant as he stepped into her hallway.

  The house was like Holly—pretty and elegant. Mac just had time to note a sweeping staircase, the rich polished oak of the bannister burnished by sunlight and breathe in the sweet fragrance from a large bowl of yellow roses on a side table before she ushered him into the sitting room.

  A tall, wiry woman in jeans and a shirt was standing by the beautiful Victorian fireplace. In her mid-forties, she looked tough, strong and forbidding. She had an unmistakeable air of authority. He would have guessed a detective sergeant or above.

  He tensed. Whatever was going on, he would lay money on the fact that it was more than ‘a bit of trouble’.

  He sensed that Holly was going to try to usher him past the woman and into the dining room beyond, and forestalled her by holding out his hand to introduce himself.

  “Hello,” he said, evenly. “I’m Mac Sinclair.”

  Eyes narrowing thoughtfully, she returned his handshake. “Detective Inspector Jenna Scott. Haven’t I seen you before? Are you…the Mac Sinclair? Sir Mac Sinclair? The architect?”

  She must have seen his face in the media. He smiled. “I am.” He settled firmly down on a nearby armchair, ignoring the look of dismay that flickered over Holly’s features. “But call me Mac, please. I’m a friend of Holly’s—”

  “Well, friend’s a bit strong. We only met last night—”

  He arched an eyebrow at Holly, a wicked look in his eyes, and watched a crimson blush sweep over her cheeks. Hell, she was gorgeous when she was flustered.

  Jenna Scott glanced at Holly, made a noise that could have been a choked laugh and sat down in the chair opposite him. Holly glowered and reluctantly perched on the sofa. He could see she was too polite to force him to move, a fact for which he was profoundly grateful, since he had no intention of going anywhere until he understood exactly what was going on.

  He smiled benignly. “We may have only met last night, Holly, yet I feel as if I’ve known you for years. So, this trouble…?”

  Jenna frowned. “Yes. As I told Holly, sending something like a dead rat in the post is unpleasant but not normally an indicator of danger. But the one Holly’s received has been eviscerated, deliberately killed in the most unpleasant way possible to be distressing to the recipient. Coupled with the note—” She shook her head. “I don’t like it. This feels like someone who is angry and inclined to violence.”

  Mac froze, the smile congealing on his face. A solid block of ice coalesced in his stomach. Holly was in danger? Someone had sent her a dead rat? And a—

  “What does the note say?” he asked, abruptly.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Holly make a quick movement as if to waylay Jenna from her course of action, but it was too late. Jenna handed over her phone and showed him a photograph.

  He winced. There was a grotesque picture of what had once been a rat but was now a set of gruesomely mangled remains, with a typed note beside it.

  You next…

  He breathed deeply, feeling the pressure behind his eyes. This was a serious threat. He knew it. He looked up and met Jenna’s eyes. She knew it, too. Finally, he met Holly’s and saw fear, defiance, anger.

  “Okay,” he said, roughly, “what’s the plan?”

  Jenna paused then turned to address Holly directly. “Holly, we need to be careful with this. This was calculated to horrify and to frighten, but the note is an implied death threat. Whilst I don’t want to scare you unnecessarily, I do think you need to take some precautions until we find out who’s behind this.”

  Holly frowned. “What kind of precautions?”

  “Is there anyone you could stay with? Preferably somewhere far away from here.”

  “I… I don’t know. I’ll need to think about it.”

  Jenna nodded. “Start thinking. You need to be out of here by tonight.”

  Chapter Three

  They went to the pub.

  It was obvious to Mac that Holly was seriously distressed by what had happened, though hiding it well, and that she was in no fit condition to make any major decisions until she had calmed down and taken time to reflect.

  A quick glance at Jenna’s face had told him that she thought the same.

  So, when Jenna had said that she and the forensic officers would be another two hours in the kitchen, he had seized the opportunity and invited Holly out for lunch.

  She’d agreed—not because she wanted to be in his company, he thought ruefully, but because she wanted to get away from the house and the horror of the dead rat. />
  He’d asked her for a recommendation for a place to eat, so here they were at the St. George and Dragon. It was a lovely Tudor-style pub restaurant on the edge of Hampstead Heath, white-walled and black-beamed with frothy hanging baskets filled with tumbling, sweetly scented scarlet geraniums. Beyond the dining room, there was a leafy outside area with wooden tables and a verdant lawn edged with budding pale pink roses that swept down to the slow-moving Thames beyond.

  By unspoken agreement, they elected to sit outside at a small, secluded table not far from the water’s edge. On such a beautiful sunny day, it was a pleasure to be out in the fresh air. Bees hummed as they drifted lazily from flower to flower, birds sang in the nearby oaks and a couple of ducks with a phalanx of tiny ducklings paddled past in tranquil contentment.

  It was the perfect place to relax—calm, warm, comforting. The strain eased from Holly’s features. The first genuine smile he’d seen from her that day crossed her face like a shaft of sunlight, brightening her countenance.

  He smiled back. “Hi,” he said softly, and the memory of the previous night’s pleasures swirled between them. He looked at her mouth, the soft full curve of her lip, and his body quickened.

  “Hi, yourself.” She picked up a menu, but a faint blush on her cheeks showed that she was no more indifferent to him than he was to her.

  He glanced down at the choices. “Any recommendations?” he asked.

  “Hmm… They do a nice ploughman’s…”

  “Sounds good.”

  A pretty young waitress arrived and they gave their order, deciding on bitter shandies made with local ale to drink with the meal.

  Mac grinned. “It’s years since I’ve had a shandy,” he confided. “My parents used to let me drink them as a teenager, because there’s hardly any beer in them and lots of lemonade.”

  “Mmm. They’re really refreshing on hot days.” She crinkled her nose. “I don’t really like drinking during the day, but I find a shandy quite refreshing.”

  He steered clear of any difficult topics as their meal was served, and they chatted lightly about books and films while they enjoyed their lunch. The cheese had been made by a local farmer and was deliciously creamy. The pickle was spicy and rich. The salad was crisp and fresh, and the bread was still warm from the oven.

  Afterwards, Mac sat back, replete. “That was wonderful,” he said.

  “It was. And I feel much better now I’ve had chance to calm down a bit.”

  “Good.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the waitress approaching to remove their plates. “Would you like dessert?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m done. But I would love an Earl Grey tea…with milk.”

  He laughed. “British through and through.”

  She grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

  He ordered her tea and a coffee for himself, and the peace of the afternoon seeped into them.

  She glanced up at him, a smile in her eyes. “Mac, about last night…”

  “Yes?”

  “I… just wanted to say thank you. I had a wonderful time.”

  He felt something inside himself warm at her words. “Holly, you don’t need to thank me. I should be down on my knees giving thanks for such an amazing woman—”

  His breath caught as he had a sudden, vivid mental image of being down on his knees before her and how exactly he’d like to thank her.

  From the hitch in her breathing, she’d shared the same vision. “I wish—” she burst out impulsively, then stopped.

  “You wish what? The moon? The stars at your feet? Rainbows and unicorns? Just say the word—”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “I wish… Don’t you ever wish that you could just catch a perfect moment and hold it in your hand, keep it safe and treasure it? Stretch it out?”

  He stared at her for a moment, his laughter fading into truth. He knew what she was thinking of. She was wishing their time out of time the previous night had lasted longer. He felt that too, desperately. He yearned with a deep, aching need for more of her.

  He smiled faintly. “Had we but world enough, and time…” In another world, another time, maybe they could have been together. A world where she hadn’t had an ex-lover who’d turned her off relationships and where he wasn’t buried in responsibilities, obligations and dangers.

  “You know Andrew Marvell?”

  He looked up, sensing her astonishment at his knowledge of the metaphysical poet. “I do. I love poetry. And prose, too. I think, in another life, I would have done an English degree and developed my love of literature.”

  She looked at him curiously. “You didn’t have the opportunity?”

  He shook his head. “My parents died, and I had to take over the family business. It was just a building business then. I trained as an architect so I could develop it. It didn’t leave any time for anything else.”

  “And now?”

  “And now, there’s just responsibility.” He shrugged. “I don’t regret it. My family have security, and I’m blessed with a good life in many ways.”

  “But you’re not fulfilled? What you’re doing doesn’t enrich you?”

  He stared down at the table. He’d never shared his feelings about his work. Generally, he was quite self-sufficient, not given to opening up or confiding in anyone. But with Holly, he felt like he could be honest in ways he had never been before. She made him acknowledge things he hid even from himself.

  “Holly, I’d never admit it to another living soul, but no, it doesn’t. Well, the designing part does, being creative, designing buildings that bring pleasure and sustenance to the soul through their beauty. But the business side of things…? No. I’ve always been good at it, but I don’t particularly enjoy it.”

  “I see. I guess I’m similar in a way… I love the creative writing side of things, but the business element, managing the money, contracts…” She scrunched up her nose. “They make me want to run a mile. Luckily, these days I can employ people to do it for me—an agent, an accountant…”

  He nodded. “Very wise. Play to your strengths. So, what about you, then? Did you do an English degree? Is that how you got into writing?”

  There was a pause, then she said easily, “Nope. Just a good imagination, pen and paper.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He watched as her gaze slid away from his. Something about this conversation was making her uncomfortable. He steered it back into what he hoped were easier waters.

  “So,” he said idly, “what moment would you stretch out if you could?”

  “Oh!”

  That beautiful blush was back. He couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “You’re looking a little pink around the edges there, sweetheart.”

  “Ah.” She rolled her eyes. “To tell you the truth, I’m not great at talking about this stuff.”

  “No, but you’re bloody wonderful at doing it.” The words slipped out before he had time to censor them. “Damn,” he said with feeling, “I’m so sorry—”

  But she shook her head. Mercifully, she looked shy but pleased. “I’m glad you think that.”

  “Of course I do. You were thinking about last night?”

  “Yes. It was so wonderful… I wish it could have lasted oh…a couple of years, maybe. A decade. A century?”

  A lifetime.

  He suppressed the thought instantly. No.

  Her hand was resting on the table. Without thinking, he reached out and laid his over it, then jolted with the awareness of skin against skin. He looked down at her delicate fingers lying beneath his—pink, pearly nail polish. Last night he’d caught a glimpse of it when she’d ‘shh’d’ him, just before she’d driven him right to the edge.

  His body surged again. He should stop this. It was dangerous. It was stupid.

  “So, if you could have stretched out the moment, what would you have done in it?” What the hell was he saying? He was a m
asochist. But he desperately wanted to know what she’d say.

  Her flush deepened, then she squared her shoulders and looked into his eyes. And there she was, his vixen from the night before.

  She gave him a sultry look that heated his blood. But then she grinned, and the impression changed. Now she was full of mischief, a woman who wanted to play.

  “Well, let me see,” she said thoughtfully. “If I had world enough and time… I would…” She paused and laughed self-consciously. “Oh, there are so many things I’ve never done but would like to try.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Name one.”

  “Oh. Well…I’d like to make… Ah, have sex…outside. Somewhere warm but private. I’m not an exhibitionist. A beach, with the sound of the sea…”

  “Mmm.” He nodded. “You’d do it in the sea or on the sand?”

  “Oh! Err…both?”

  “Sounds wonderful…” And it did. The thought of being intertwined with her on a warm sunlit beach, with the roar of the breakers and the scent of the sea and the cry of the seagulls in the background, made him ache. Or in the sea, with her long, long legs wrapped around his waist and the warm water lapping around her perfect breasts… Hell…

  “What about you?” her quiet voice broke into his thoughts. “If you had world enough and time, what would you like to do?”

  A thousand ideas tumbled through his head, each one more X-rated and indecent than the last. He gave a hoarse laugh. “Holly, if I told you, you’d run for the hills.”

  She smiled, shook her head slowly. “Truth, remember? I won’t run. I promise.”

  He looked at her and she caught her breath, probably at his expression. His body was so hot, so hard, that it was impossible to disguise what he was feeling. A scalding flush crawled up his neck. “Sweetheart, I’d want to do everything. I’d bend you over the arm of that chair in your sitting room, lift up your dress and press myself into you. I’d kneel at your feet and kiss your ankles, your legs, the area at the top of your stockings, until you begged for more…or I did. I’d take tea and ice cubes to bed with us and see how you reacted to heat and cold…”