A Temporary Arrangement

by Pamela Fudge

  A Temporary Arrangement

  Pamela Fudge

  © Pamela Fudge 2016

  Pamela Fudge has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2016 by Linford Romance

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘What do you mean - “no”? You agreed - we agreed - that we would call it a day the minute either of us wanted out of what was only ever supposed to be a temporary arrangement. Well, I do – and so the engagement is off, Sam Lawrence, whether you like it or not.’

  Roz could hear her voice rising, an awful shrill, shrew-like note creeping in. She stopped, forcing herself to get a grip on her rising temper and calm down. Screaming down the phone and getting into a childish slanging match clearly wasn’t going to get her anywhere at all.

  Why on earth Sam was being so unreasonable Roz had absolutely no idea, but she made herself to take a deep steadying breath before she added a little more evenly, ‘You can’t do this to me, Sam. You just can’t.’

  ‘Let’s talk about it.’ The deep voice was soothing and aggravatingly reasonable as he continued, ‘Why not take a break and come down to Dorset?’ His tone became coaxing, ‘Then we can spend some time talking things through and looking for a compromise, I promise.’

  Roz held the receiver at arm’s length, glaring at it in patent disbelief and scowling horribly. She could feel her hackles rising again, along with the bristling red of her hair.

  ‘We don’t need to talk,’ she hissed, the moment she found her voice again, ‘or to look for a compromise. There is absolutely nothing to talk about, and I have no intention at all of coming down to Dorset. I’m far too busy.’

  She had meant it at the time, but Roz wasn’t totally surprised when she found herself boarding the South West train at Waterloo Station. Sam had always had a disconcerting habit of getting his own way with very little apparent effort. On reflection she wondered why she’d even bothered to argue.

  However, telling herself she was giving in gracefully only as a means to an end didn’t stop her from continuing to fume all the way as the train carried her to the small town of Brankstone. Nor did it prevent her promising herself that Sam would pay for this inconvenience - and pay dearly. Despite her determination to work during the journey, her laptop lay open and ignored in front of her as she seethed all over again at his high-handed manner.

  Just who exactly did Sam Lawrence think he was? His CDs might finally be creeping up the Country and Western down-load charts, but recognition of his talent as a singer was only fairly recent and still quite low key. She was pleased for him, of course she was, because she was aware how hard he had worked for this taste of fame, but Roz had known him for too long and knew him far too well to be hugely impressed with his slowly growing celebrity status.

  Sam still had a very long way to go before he was anywhere near the same league as Brad Paisley or Nathan Carter, after all, and so Roz intended to remind him. His trouble was that he was evidently beginning to believe his own publicity and thought he only had to say, ‘Jump,’ and everyone around him would say, ‘How high?’ Well, she wasn’t everyone, as he was about to discover.

  What the guy badly needed was taking down a peg or two - and Roz had already decided she was just the one to do it. By the time she’d finished with him he’d certainly think twice before issuing orders to her in that high-handed manner, Roz promised herself.

  For all of her bad humour, Roz still couldn’t deny the lifting of her spirits as the lush green of first the Hampshire, and then the Dorset countryside came into view. Following swiftly was an eagerness to see her old home – and, of course, her great-aunt Ellen - again.

  About Sam, she couldn’t have cared less, Roz assured herself stoutly. But see him she must, she supposed, if seeing him and talking to him would free her from an engagement that was little more than a joke these days that had gone on for far too long and was no longer remotely funny.

  It was a relief when the train pulled into the familiar station and Roz knew she was that much closer to setting her life in order. Treating this trip as holiday had been the right – the only – thing to do, because even she had to admit a visit was long over-due. Once she had convinced Sam to see reason over the engagement business, she could enjoy the remainder of the time spent in her great-aunt’s company before returning to London and her life there with a clear conscience.

  Roz could already picture herself boarding a train back to London from the opposite platform in a much happier frame of mind. She was smiling at the thought as she closed her laptop, collected her bags, and went to exit the train. She reached out to press the door release catch in a much better humour than the one she had started the journey in.

  Her feet had barely touched the station platform before Roz found herself swept up into a bear hug that lifted her and her belongings at least six inches above the ground and quite squeezed the breath out of her lungs. She allowed herself to savour the moment briefly, resolutely refusing to analyse the rush of feeling evoked by those strong, possessive and all too familiar arms.

  ‘Put me down, you big oaf.’ She found herself laughing in spite of her determination to be severe with him from the outset. ‘Stop it, Sam, People are looking.’

  They were, too. A couple actually going so far as to stare and point, but not at Roz, of that she was quite certain. If this was a taste of reflected glory she wasn’t at all keen, and she knew she’d never get used to the idea that people might actually recognise Sam in the street. She just hoped they stopped at looking and didn’t start snapping on their mobile phones. Roz felt only relief when one of them shook her head - obviously doubting that even a minor celebrity could possibly be standing in a small town station - and pushed her friend onto the train Roz had just alighted from.

  ‘Let them look.’ Sam easily dismissed any real or imagined interest, setting her down, and holding her at arm’s length. The gaze resting on her face was steady and warm, and having him look at her in just such a way made her pulse behave in a most peculiar manner. It raced and jolted until she felt quite dizzy, and then he said softly, ‘Hello, darlin’.’

  ‘Hi.’ To Roz’ own annoyance she sounded all breathy and girlish, most unlike her usual brisk and efficient self.

  Sam had taken her unawares, she told herself. She wasn’t expecting him to meet her, and it was the element of surprise that had thrown her. That and, if she were honest with herself, the fact that he looked so - so... She hunted for a description that suited him, and finding not a single one that did him justice, Roz just stared back at him instead.

  As ever he towered above her own - not exactly meagre - five foot seven inches. She had to tilt her head back to look into a face that really was impossibly good-looking - a detail she had decided on without reservation a very long time ago.

  Sam’s features were lean, chiselled almost, from skin, bone and sinew. His nose, well-shaped and very straight, jutted proudly above a full and sensual mouth. The thick, dark hair had been raked back carelessly, as always, by a hasty hand. Roz sometimes felt the action was a nervous gesture - if she could bring herself to believe that Sam possessed any nerves - but still often wondered if he owned a comb. Dark brows winged above eyes of a most unusual tawny shade, lit by tiny amber spec
ks that seemed to brighten or dim to suit a given mood.

  So, there he stood, tall, slim and straight. Dressed in denim jeans that clung to his thighs lovingly and a thin sweater that was moulded to the unexpected width of his chest and shoulders, it was little wonder, after all, that every female eye on the station was turned his way. Even the middle-aged lady serving coffee in the kiosk was gawping.

  Roz gulped and reminded herself forcefully that she was not here to savour Sam’s appearance, impressive though it might appear to some. She was here to end, once and for all, an engagement that should never have been allowed to happen in the first place.

  ‘You’re looking great,’ he said, smiling down at her with admiration and approval showing clearly in his eyes.

  Roz took a firm step back, refusing to allow her toes to curl in her shoes as they were showing an annoying tendency of doing. In a carefully flippant tone, she accepted the compliment, ‘Really? Well, I suppose you don’t look so bad yourself. Shall we get on?’

  Sam took the hint, and relieving her of her bags, suggested, ‘Coffee, a drink, or straight back to the B and B?’

  ‘I’d like to go straight home,’ she said, smiling in spite of herself, and savouring the warmth the word always engendered in the secret, and often ignored, recesses of her heart.

  Was it possible, she wondered idly as they made their way to the car park, to belong so completely to two places so entirely different that they might have been in different countries?

  When she was in London, as Roz would freely admit, she had no desire to be anywhere else. She loved her life there, the bustling streets, the theatres, restaurants and shops, her smart apartment, rising position in the human resources department of a large company, all of her city friends and, of course, Andrew.

  Yet the minute she returned to Dorset, with its gentler pace and beautiful surroundings, she always felt it was where she truly belonged and wondered how she could bear to live anywhere else or stay away for as long as she did.

  Perhaps she was two people, she mused, or perhaps she just had the happy knack of being at home anywhere. She hoped it was the latter, because if her life went according to her own meticulous planning it was definitely in the city that her future lay.

  ‘I like your hair like that,’ Sam’s approving murmur forced Roz to focus her attention on him once more.

  Ruffling the short, artfully tousled layers self-consciously, she managed a light laugh, taunting, ‘Liar. You always liked my hair long.’

  ‘It suits you,’ was all he said, throwing her bags carelessly into the back of a familiar and very battered Volvo estate car, and then opening the passenger door with a grand flourish to the shriek of protesting hinges.

  For all the world, Roz thought wryly, as if it were a limousine. She couldn’t prevent herself from mocking, ‘Still using Aunt Ellen’s transport, I see. Haven’t you ever thought about bringing your own car with you, or even getting the WD40 out to this one once in a while?’

  He grinned, with no hint of embarrassment, ‘She likes me to make use of her pride and joy when I’m here. In fact,’ he added, lowering his tone confidingly, ‘Ellen likes having me around.’

  And wasn’t that just the truth? Roz admitted, recognising that fact must be part of the problem Sam was insisting they had. Her great-aunt’s deep and very obvious affection for Sam certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for Roz to dismiss him summarily from her life.

  Aloud she said caustically, ‘Only because you butter her up all the time and let her spoil you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed, and suddenly serious, added with a straight look in her direction, ‘She doesn’t get much chance to spoil you, these days, Roz, does she?’

  It was the first hint of any criticism that Sam had allowed to creep into his tone. Roz found it troubled her all the more because she had to admit that it was all too well deserved.

  ‘I don’t have a career like yours,’ she reminded him defensively, her eyes narrowing. ‘I can’t just take off at the end of every tour and rush home as and when the feeling moves me. I have commitments and set holiday entitlements.’

  The statement was quite unfair and Roz knew it. London was a scant two hours away by rail and there were always weekends. She pulled the door closed hastily, cutting off any comment to that effect he might have cared to make. Fastening the seat belt, she stared carefully ahead as he climbed into the driver’s seat. Thankfully, he kept any such observations to himself.

  The car, for all of its great age started, as always, first time. They were both silent as Sam negotiated filter lanes leading onto a roundabout and then joined the heavy afternoon traffic heading out of Brankstone town centre. When they were well on their way, and he still refrained from voicing any further opinion regarding her very infrequent visits home, Roz knew that she had to speak herself, or burst.

  ‘All right,’ she said acidly, as if he had just spoken first. ‘You’re right. I know it - and you know it. I should come home more often.’

  Sam remained silent, but a dark eyebrow lifted expressively, and his mouth rearranged itself into a wry line. Though careful not to look directly at him, Roz saw every movement from the corner of her eye, she cringed inwardly, suddenly very aware of her own selfishness as seen through his eyes.

  ‘How is Aunt Ellen? She always sounds so well and cheerful on the phone that I suppose I don’t worry enough about her. I know that I should, especially given her age,’ she added quietly.

  He seemed to relent, then, and with a warm smile, said, ‘Oh, you know Ellen, she’ll outlive us all. She’s thrilled to bits that you’re coming, though of course she doesn’t know why.’

  With a jolt, Roz was suddenly reminded again of the reason for her visit, and that it wasn’t only a social one. Just as well, she told herself, that she’d managed to arrange to take her annual leave this early in the year. It would give her time, once she had sorted things out with Sam, to bring her great-aunt round to her way of thinking and also to keep her company for a while.

  Not that Aunt Ellen lacked company of course, with the popular bed and breakfast establishment she owned and ran keeping her busy pretty well all the year round. Still, Roz supposed it wasn’t the same as having family around, and even Sam wasn’t that, strictly speaking.

  Turning in the seat, and looking at the perfectly sculpted profile, she said firmly, ‘We have to talk, Sam. “Come to Dorset,” you said. Well, now I’m here, at your insistence, and I won’t be put off any longer. Just tell me what you think the problem is, so we can deal with it, end this ridiculous masquerade, and get on with our lives.’

  ‘We’ve arrived,’ Sam pointed out, as the old car swerved into a wide sweeping driveway and pulled up with a slight skid and scattering of gravel, ‘and here’s Ellen, so any discussion will just have to wait a little longer, I’m afraid.’

  Roz couldn’t argue with that, nor would she have wanted to prevent the wide smile she could feel lifting her lips. Great-aunt Ellen was poised on the porch step, leaning forward eagerly, and waving for all she was worth. The very minute Roz was out of the car she was clasped to a bony, crimplene-covered bosom, before being ushered into the large house that had been home for most of her childhood. Sam was left to carry the bags, she noted gleefully.

  ‘Come on through, dear. It’s still a bit chilly for the time of year, in spite of the sun. Now, sit yourself down and I’ll make us a nice fresh pot of tea. Come on, Sam, you too.’

  ‘I’ll put these bags upstairs first,’ he offered with surprisingly good grace. He didn’t have to ask where to put them, since Roz’ room was kept ready and always had been. Unlike Sam’s, it was never let out to paying guests.

  With a contented sigh, Roz sat at the huge kitchen table that had always dominated the kitchen, and looked around. She felt the welcome heat from the old Aga warming her back and watched her great-aunt bustling. With all the energy of a person half her age, she was hither and thither, putting the kettle on, setting a tray with the cups a
nd saucers and arranging home-made scones onto a plate without a pause.

  It was a familiar and cosy domestic scene, and one that Roz wanted to enjoy after so long away. She tried hard to ignore the tiny fear niggling away at her subconscious, but finally she was forced to face and recognise it.

  She had tried, at first, to tell herself that it was her imagination, that her great-aunt wasn’t any older or any frailer than when she had last seen her several months before. Suddenly the regular phone calls home didn’t seem nearly enough. Not when compared to the willing sacrifice made by a woman already of advancing years in offering an orphaned child a home.

  Finally, facing for the first time the older woman’s mortality, Roz felt an icy hand squeeze at her heart. With great reluctance she was forced to accept that the woman who had brought her up with such loving care wasn’t, after all, the invincible person she had always believed her to be.

  She wanted to jump to her feet and tell her beloved aunt to leave everything, that she would make the tea while the older woman sat down and allowed herself to be waited on. Common sense kept her seated, and told her in no uncertain terms that her aunt would be mortally offended at any suggestion that she couldn’t manage perfectly well, just as she always had.

  Sam came in and sat down, and Roz looked away from her aunt and raised her stricken gaze to his face. She knew her fear was showing but was quite unable to find the strength to hide it. Looking for comfort, for reassurance, she found it in the warm clasp of strong tanned fingers and a look that was warning and yet understanding all at once.

  ‘There you are, a proper Dorset cream tea. I know it’s your favourite, Rosalind, and the scones are still warm from the Aga, just as you like them.’ The gentle tone with its slight hint of the local dialect was soothingly normal, and Roz tried hard to ignore the hint of a tremor in the hands that set the tray on the table. She almost succeeded.