The Antique Love

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by Fairfax, Helena


  Kurt lifted his head.

  “Seems to me that would be a coward’s way out,” Alex continued. “You might be an idiot, but I never had you pegged as a coward.”

  A spark finally lit in Kurt’s deadened heart. “I’m no coward,” he said fiercely. “But I’d sooner face a raging bull alone in a pen than…than end up half-crazed again like this.”

  Alex shook his head and sank back in his chair. “Kurt, you’re already half-crazed,” he said eventually. He gave a short laugh. “God knows, I’m not the person to give advice. But I tell you something—I’ve never in my life seen anyone as miserable as you these past few weeks. Go and get the girl.” He stood and picked up his laptop, then leaned over the table and said quietly, “Take a risk on her before someone else does. Because I’m telling you, you’re a fool if you lose her.”

  * * * *

  The bell over the shop door jangled its familiar chime as Kurt pushed it open. The very first time he’d stepped into Penny’s shop, a cold drizzle had been trickling down from a grey sky. Today the sun was out in force, and the streets were dry and dusty. The weather wasn’t the only change. Kurt scanned his eyes around the shop to find Tehmeena sitting behind Penny’s desk. A young man in short sleeves stood behind the counter. There was no sign of Penny.

  Tehmeena jumped up at the sight of him and stepped forward in surprise. “Hello.” She stretched on her toes and greeted him with a polite kiss on the cheek, her brown eyes full of a rather frosty enquiry. “What brings you here? Do you need something for your house?”

  Kurt cleared his throat. “No, actually I’d just come to see Penny. Is she here?”

  He felt rather uncomfortable under Tehmeena’s cool scrutiny. Her usual banter appeared to have vanished, and she was looking at him in an appraising way that made him feel even more ill at ease than ever, if that were possible.

  “Actually, Penny isn’t here,” she said eventually. Her eyebrows lifted. “Didn’t you know?”

  “No.” His heart plummeted sickeningly. “No, she didn’t say. Where did she go?”

  Tehmeena continued to search his face for a minute or two. Then the shop door jangled again, letting in another customer. She swivelled her head before turning back to look at him.

  “You really didn’t know?”

  Kurt shook his head, a cold fear rising from the pit of his stomach. Tehmeena regarded him thoughtfully whilst he stood there waiting, taut with anxiety. “Fine,” she said eventually. “I’ll meet you in the pub over the road at twelve. Okay?”

  Twelve? That was hours away. It was all Kurt could do not to grip Tehmeena’s arms and beg her to tell him where Penny had gone. Something in his expression must have shown, because she began to usher him to the door.

  “Twelve o’clock,” she said firmly. “High Noon, cowboy. Wait ‘til then.”

  Kurt resisted the temptation to plant himself outside the door, waiting with his face pressed agonisingly to the glass. For a couple of hours, he wandered the streets aimlessly, the sick feeling growing with every second. Finally, he came upon the banks of the Thames and sat down on a stone bench to rest his head on his fists.

  What an idiot he was. He’d been terrified of trusting Penny, of revealing the depths of his love for her, because he was frightened of losing his mind to passion. And now this. The worst of it was remembering the hurt in her eyes when she’d left his house. Time and time again her expression and the exact way her head bent, replayed in his mind, like a video-tape stuck on loop. And now she was gone, and it was all too late. Maybe Alex was right. Maybe she’d already found someone else. And it would serve him right if she had, because quite honestly, he didn’t deserve her.

  The brown sluggish waters inched by interminably until it was time to stand up and retrace his steps. When he finally pushed open the heavy swing doors of the Edwardian pub, he couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d been there, waiting for Penny at a table by the window, and how his heart lifted at the sight of her, even then, when he hardly knew her. How long ago it all seemed now.

  He ordered himself a bourbon and sat down at that same table in the window. When Tehmeena finally pushed open the door of the pub, the anxiety coursing through him surged and peaked. He stood hastily and pulled out a chair for her, watching her sink into it. Then she raised her frank brown gaze to his.

  “I’ve only got a few minutes,” she said. “I’ve had to leave our new guy in charge, and he’s only been with us a few weeks.”

  “Thanks for coming. I can’t tell you how much it means. She never told me… I mean, can you tell me where she’s gone?” He tried to keep the desperation from his voice, but he could tell from the sympathetic way Tehmeena was beginning to look at him that he was probably failing.

  “She’s gone to Italy.”

  “What?” Kurt pulled back, astounded. “Why Italy? I mean—” A sudden terrible thought occurred to him. “Has she gone alone?”

  “Yes, yes,” Tehmeena said, waving an impatient hand. “Of course she’s alone. She hasn’t met anyone else, if that’s what you mean. She’s been mooning over you for long enough. She’s taken six months off work to go travelling. Said it’s something she always wanted to do, so she’s combining her trip with searching for new sources of antiques for the shop. We’ve taken on a new guy, and I’ve taken David’s place as joint partner.”

  “Yeah?” Kurt looked up abstractedly. “Congratulations on that.”

  “Thanks,” Tehmeena said drily. There was a couple of minutes silence whilst Kurt stared fixedly at his empty bourbon glass. “Well,” she continued, starting to get up, “I’m running short of time…”

  “No, don’t go.” He reached a hand out, and Tehmeena dropped back into her seat, a patient and interested expression on her face.

  “Where’s she gone?” he said hurriedly. “I mean, where exactly in Italy? And for how long?”

  “She’s in Florence at the moment. She’s there for another week, and then she’s moving on to Rome.”

  “Okay, I need your help,” he said. “And I need to go back into the shop—there’s something I need to buy.”

  He bent his head over the table, and Tehmeena bent forward to listen, agog.

  * * * *

  A small bead of perspiration trickled down Penny’s back. The stone stairs that led up to the Piazzale Michelangelo were never-ending, and the early evening air was hot and dusty.

  Why on earth am I doing this? she asked herself, allowing a giggling group of teenagers to overtake her. She’d had an odd call from Tehmeena that morning, asking her to take a photo of the sunset over Florence. And it had to be taken from the top of the longest climb in probably all of Italy. It would be romantic, Tehmeena had promised her, and wasn’t she looking for romance? Penny just snorted.

  She’d just spent a week in Venice—the most romantic city in Europe—photographing everything she saw, only to realise that for her, romance must be dead. She’d stood in St Mark’s Square and felt nothing. She doubted Michelangelo’s square was going to make her feel any better.

  There was a small crowd milling in the enormous, dusty Piazza when she finally reached the top. She pulled out her camera and made her way to the stone balustrade on the western side to where the sun was making its descent.

  “Actually, this was worth the climb,” she admitted grudgingly. To the west flowed the River Arno, with its three ancient stone bridges arching gracefully across, and a little beyond was the magnificent red dome of the Duomo Cathedral. A row of tall ochre and red stone buildings lined the river. Penny put her elbows on the wall and leaned out. A faint breeze stirred the warm air. The sun was sinking lower over the horizon, the gathering dusk creeping in softly behind it. The reflections of the city lights were beginning to ripple in the waters of the river.

  A footstep behind her caused her to stiffen. She hoped she wouldn’t have to fend off any male attention. Since she’d arrived in Italy, she’d noted with irony that just when she’d decided to devote her life to
being a spinster and a mad cat lady, men seemed to pop up from all over the place intent on getting to know her. She was forever fending off advances.

  She turned a cold shoulder and leaned further over the wall.

  The steps came nearer, and she caught a familiar scent. Like the skin on fresh apples. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “Penny.”

  She whirled round at the sound of his voice, dropping her camera to the ground. The leather case hit the stones with an expensive thud. It was no dream. He was standing there in front of her, a little leaner, the shadows a little deeper under his eyes. She stared, not speaking.

  He took another step forward. “Tehmeena told me where you were. I had to see you before it was too late. I wanted to tell you…” He took a breath.

  In the mad whirl of her thoughts, Penny noted he had a slim, rectangular box in one hand, and that the fingers holding it were clenched tight. His eyes were steady on hers.

  “I wanted to tell you before it was too late that I love you. And when I saw the room you made for me, I thought…that gave me hope that I might not have ruined everything. I love you beyond distraction. I love you, Penny Rosas, and the thought I may have lost you has me half-crazed.” His words came in a trembling rush, so unlike his usual measured tones. His eyes stayed fixed on hers. She didn’t speak. He took another step forward.

  “I brought you this,” he said, holding the box out slowly. “But if you tell me you don’t want it…”

  He was near enough now for Penny to make out the pulse beating quickly under the warm skin of his throat. He extended his hand, and she reached out her own to take the box from him wordlessly.

  “If you tell me you don’t want it, I’ll leave. But after that, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do.”

  There was a whiteness to his lips and in the faint lines around his nostrils.

  Penny lifted the lid of the box. Some crumpled tissue paper and then the dying rays of the sun caught a cluster of tiny rose diamonds. She lifted the jewels in a hand that was suddenly shaking. Two shimmering pearls caught in a silver heart. The love token.

  She raised her eyes to Kurt’s, brimming with tears of wonder. “How…?” she asked. The words caught in her throat. She held the box away from her as though it were unreal.

  “I wanted you to have your dream.” He turned his head to take in the sunset and the lights of the city below them. “I begged Tehmeena to get you to come here. I wanted to ask you to marry me, and I wanted it to be perfect.” His gaze roved her face and fastened on her wide eyes. “I wanted it to be romantic for you. I was scared I’d left it too late.”

  Her eyes dropped to the love token in her hands. The silver chain played out through her fingers.

  “I want you to know how much I love you,” he said again, taking a step forward.

  Her head lifted quickly, her eyes brimming with unimaginable joy, and she almost leapt forward into his arms. His hands fastened around her, and his mouth was on hers, gently at first. Then his arms tightened, his hungry mouth devoured her, and she gasped with the most delicious burst of golden euphoria lifting and swirling her body.

  A passing group whistled. He drew back, looking down at her.

  “What an idiot I’ve been,” he said, a tremor in his voice. “I was frightened of losing you. So frightened of ending up half-crazed, I was out of my senses. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  She reached a hand up to his lips. “Is this a dream?” she asked softly. He shook his head. The well of happiness within filled to overflowing. “Then dreams can come true, after all,” she whispered. She reached up and met his lips with her own, closing her fingers around the love token and wrapping her arms around his neck in a long, long embrace, whilst the sun set behind them over the Arno.

  About the Author

  Helena Fairfax was born in Uganda and came to England as a child. She’s grown used to the cold now and that’s just as well, because nowadays she lives in an old Victorian mill town in Yorkshire, right next door to windswept Brontë country. She has an affectionate, if half-crazed, rescue dog and together they tramp the moors every day—one of them wishing she were Emily Brontë, the other vainly chasing pheasants. When she’s not out on the moors you’ll find Helena either creating romantic heroes and heroines of her own or else with her nose firmly buried in a book, enjoying someone else’s stories. Her patient husband and her brilliant children support her in her daydreams and are the loves of her life.

  * * * *

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  Also by Helena Fairfax at MuseItUp Publishing

  Contemporary Sweet Romance

  Jean-Luc Olivier is a devastatingly handsome racing-driver with the world before him. Sophie Challoner is a penniless student, whose face is unknown beyond her own rundown estate in London. The night they spend together in Paris seems to Sophie like a fairytale—a Cinderella story without the happy ending. She knows she has no part in Jean-Luc’s future. She made her dying mother a promise to take care of her father and brother in London. One night of happiness is all Sophie allows herself. She runs away from Jean-Luc and returns to England to keep her promise.

  Safely back home with her father and brother, and immersed in her college work, Sophie tries her best to forget their encounter, but she reckons without Jean-Luc. He is determined to find out why she left him, and intrigued to discover the real Sophie. He engineers a student placement Sophie can’t refuse, and so, unwillingly, she finds herself back in France, working for Jean-Luc in the silk mill he now owns.

  Thrown together for a few short weeks in Lyon, the romantic city of silk, their mutual love begins to grow. But it seems the fates are conspiring against Sophie’s happiness. Jean-Luc has secrets of his own. Then, when disaster strikes at home in London, Sophie is faced with a choice—stay in this glamorous world with the man she loves or return to her family to keep the sacred promise she made her mother.

  Chapter One

  A deep voice reverberated around the empty chapel, bringing Sophie to a halt in the doorway. Outside, sunlight streamed over a group of black-clad mourners lingering in the memorial gardens. For a moment, she was tempted to let her feet carry her on, to pretend she’d heard nothing and escape into the Parisian sunshine…but that would be the act of a coward. She steeled herself, casting a last, longing glance at the departing mourners before making a slow turn to face the speaker.

  “I am sorry for your loss, mademoiselle Challoner.” The owner of the voice was standing in the aisle, in the semi-darkness of the deserted chapel of rest. The sunlight streaming in from the high windows fell in motes on his broad shoulders, leaving his features in shadow. When he stepped forward, a beam of dusty light lit up the brilliant blue eyes she remembered. He stretched out one strong hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Sophie slipped her cold fingers into his.

  “I assume I should still address you as mademoiselle?”

  Sophie watched in silence as his blue eyes swept down to her ringless left hand.

  “So you didn’t marry, after all?” he persisted.

  She felt the heat begin to mount in her cheeks and forced herself to speak. “No, I…” She pulled her hand out of his and began again. “I didn’t marry. Thank you for coming today. It was good of you to remember my grandmother.”

  She made the mistake of lifting her eyes to his. He was regarding her with the same faintly contemptuous expression he had worn when her grandmother had first introduced them all those years ago. Sophie was grateful for the veil she wore. It masked the flush she could feel deepening. She turned to go.

  “Mademoiselle Challoner.” His voice halted her again. He stepped past her, into the sunlight pouring through the door. And now
Sophie was no longer able to prevent awareness flooding through her. Alone in the chapel, he had created an inescapable intimacy. His position blocked her exit, his stance confident and assured. Sophie remembered only too well how determined he could be. She looked up to find him gazing at her with a curiosity she found far more unnerving than his previous contempt. She flicked her gaze over his shoulder, her heart beginning to thump.

  “Sophie,” he said softly.

  Sophie closed her eyes. A formal mademoiselle Challoner was almost bearable, but the intimate use of her first name brought a rush of memories that threatened to overpower. With an effort of will she forced her eyes open, subduing the pounding in her throat.

  “I don’t think we have anything to say to one another.” Her words were too rapid, too high-pitched. He registered her reaction with a flick of his head but didn’t move from the doorway. Sophie looked beyond him, searching for some means of escape, and noticed her brother at the tail-end of the crowd moving slowly out of the chapel gardens.

  “Jack,” she called, her voice shrill with relief. She lifted one slim white hand to beckon him to her rescue. Beside her she heard a low, defeated laugh as the gentleman stepped back. She didn’t look again in his direction.

  Her brother, tall and gawky in his ill-fitting suit, turned and hurried toward them. Sophie performed the introductions, trying not to let the relief show in her voice.

  “This is my brother Jack, monsieur. Jack, this is—.”

  “It’s Jean-Luc Olivier. I recognised you straight away.” Jack thrust one long, slim hand from the worn cuffs of his jacket. “But I didn’t know you knew our grandmother.”

  Jean-Luc accepted the recognition without comment. Of course, he was used to being recognised. He offered Jack his hand pleasantly.

  “My uncle was an old friend of your grandmother’s. I am sorry for your loss. Unfortunately, my uncle was too ill to attend, so I’ve come alone. I knew your grandmother myself.” He turned to Sophie, the charming smile vanishing. “But perhaps we should say I am more a friend of her family.”

 

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