‘Go after her.’
‘Tim’s with her. He’s taking her home.’
‘Good idea,’ he mumbled. ‘Going home. Want to go home.’
‘Sorry, we have to keep you in,’ the doctor said. ‘I need to monitor you—’
Pretty little thing. Couldn’t have been more than about twelve. He tried to smile at her, but his mouth wouldn’t work.
‘You’ll have to duct-tape me to the trolley,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m going. Get me the forms.’
‘Mr Harding, it really isn’t a good idea—’
He sat up and swayed, glaring at the cot sides. ‘Let me out of here,’ he said firmly and much more clearly. ‘I know the risks. I don’t have a head injury—I’ve got a migraine. Got pills at home. Going home—Ruth, get me out. Oh, hell, sick again—’
He retched into a bowl shoved under his face in the nick of time by the long-suffering doctor, and glowered at her defiantly. ‘Just let me go.’
‘I can’t. Why don’t you lie down and—?’
‘Because I’m going home,’ he said clearly. ‘Either with or without your approval.’ His gaze swivelled to Ruth. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘I’m in Tim’s—and he’s taking Annie back. Stay till tomorrow, Michael, be reasonable.’
But he couldn’t, because he had to get out of here and talk to Annie—and he couldn’t do that pinned out like a butterfly and wired up to God knows what. And anyway, he didn’t trust them not to pump him full of morphine, and he’d had enough of that to last him a lifetime.
‘Now, Ruth,’ he pleaded. ‘Get me a taxi. Get me out of here.’
* * *
Annie didn’t know what to do.
All she knew was that she was afraid. She didn’t know who he was, or what he wanted, but she knew—she just knew—that he was in some way involved with Claude Gaultier.
And that scared the life out of her.
And Ruth? She was involved, too, but she was marrying a policeman. Did that make her one of the good guys? And what about Michael? Was he a good guy or a bad guy? And how could she tell? Oh, God, how had she got herself involved in this?
And then she thought of Stephen, and her fear escalated. Michael had been around for years, lurking in the background, somehow contriving to own her tearoom, with Ruth installed in the flat overhead monitoring every detail of their lives.
Befriending her. Spying on her, for heaven’s sake! And on Stephen—babysitting him, of all things. And she’d told them in words of one syllable that Stephen was his son. Etienne’s son. Michael’s son.
The same thing.
Except Etienne had been a playboy, a charmer, a gentleman in his rather lighthearted way. She’d never taken him seriously, but she’d loved him anyway.
But Michael. What kind of man was Michael?
More to the point, who was Michael?
What did he want with them? Was he working for Gaultier? Surely not. Gaultier had been killed—unless he wasn’t the real boss? But why would any of them be interested in her? What did she know that meant she had to be stalked for nine years? Or was he just after Stephen?
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply to quell the panic. She could feel the wind shaking the house, rattling the glass in the windows. There was a draught under the study door, and she went in there to see if the sash had slipped with the howling gale and something crunched under her shoes.
She flicked on the light and stared in horror. The window had gone, the glass exploded all across the floor, and the hole where it had been was filled with broken branches. One of the bookcases had been knocked over, and Michael’s book, the one set in Wales, lay open on the floor at the title page, signed with his bold scrawl.
For Roger, with every good wish, Michael.
He’d been here, met Roger. Infiltrated her family when she’d been out—with Ruth’s help? How many times had he been here while they’d been out? How many times had he seen Stephen? With every good wish? She didn’t think so. She didn’t think so at all, but then she didn’t know what to think.
She lifted the phone, staring at the mess, not knowing whether to cry or run. Who could she phone? The police?
Why? They’d ask her questions she had no answers to. The only person who had the answers was Michael, and she had no intention of asking him anything.
She cradled the phone, picked it up again and called Grace.
‘Help me,’ she said, her body shaking. ‘I’m so scared—’
‘Annie? My God, what’s happened? Where are you?’
‘Home. The tree fell down. Michael’s in hospital, but it isn’t that. He isn’t—’
‘I’ll be right there.’
The line went dead, and she clutched the receiver until the message to please hang up and try again finally penetrated her daze. She put it down and stared at it.
She thought of calling the girls, but what was the point of worrying them? Surely they were safe? Unless he was part of the human trafficking thing?
No. She knew he wasn’t. The way he’d made love to her—nobody involved in trafficking prostitutes could be so gentle, so passionate—could they?
‘Annie? Annie, open the damn door!’
She opened it, and Grace swept in and hugged her tight.
‘Sweetheart, tell me all. What’s happened?’
She didn’t know where to start, so she began with the most important thing, the thing that somehow drifted to the top.
‘He’s Stephen’s father,’ she said.
Grace stared at her. ‘But—he’s dead.’
‘No. He’s Michael—but I didn’t know. His face is different—his voice. His injuries—’
She remembered the X-rays, and shuddered. What must he have gone through? No. Don’t think about that. Don’t let yourself feel sorry for him. Not until you know—
‘Annie? Annie, let me in, I need to talk to you.’
The knocking on the door was relentless, insistent, and they turned towards it uncertainly.
‘Ruth,’ she said, looking at Grace with fear. ‘I don’t know if I can trust her. She knew all about it—’
‘I’ll get it,’ Grace said firmly and, pushing past her, she opened the door. ‘What is it?’
‘I want to see Annie.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t want to see you.’
‘Please, Grace. I need to talk to her—to explain.’
Grace snorted. ‘It had better be good—and who are you?’
She heard a low murmur, and Grace stood back. ‘OK. You’d better not be a bad cop. I’m a journalist.’
‘I’m not a bad cop,’ Tim said firmly, pocketing his ID, and following Ruth in; he closed the door and met Annie’s eyes. ‘Annie, please listen to Ruth. At least hear what she has to say.’
She swallowed hard and nodded. ‘All right—but just five minutes.’
‘Where’s Stephen?’ Ruth asked.
‘Somewhere safe,’ she replied, not even questioning her choice of words.
‘Good. He doesn’t need to hear this. Tim, could you take a look outside at the tree and make sure the house is OK?’
Annie laughed raggedly. ‘I should start in the study. Half of it’s in there.’
She turned away, going through to the kitchen, retreating automatically to the room where she felt safe. ‘OK, fire away.’
Ruth glanced at Grace. ‘Could we have a minute?’
Grace hesitated, then nodded. ‘I’ll be just outside,’ she promised, and closed the door.
‘May I sit down?’
Annie nodded, then pulled out a chair and sat down herself. Quickly, before she fell. ‘OK, start talking. Who is he? Why is he spying on me? And why are you spying on me? For umpteen blood
y years, pretending to be my friend, coming into my home, babysitting my child. How could you, Ruth?’
‘Because he asked me to keep an eye on you, to make sure you were safe and that everything was all right.’
‘It was—until he came along!’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘How do I know that? I don’t even know who he is—and, as for keeping me safe, I’ve never been so terrified in my life! Ruth, what the hell is going on? Who is he—and come to that, who are you?’
‘Me? I’m who I am. You know me.’
‘I don’t think so. And Michael? What’s your connection with Michael? Is that his name, by the way?’
Ruth sighed, and started talking. ‘His name’s Michael Armstrong. He was in military intelligence. When you met him, he and David were working undercover, trying to get evidence on Claude Gaultier, the owner—’
‘I know who Gaultier is. It’s Michael I’m having a problem with—and your connection to him. And who’s David?’
‘You knew him as Gerard.’
‘The man who died?’
Ruth nodded, and something that could have been pain flashed in her eyes and was gone. ‘David and I were lovers. We were in the police together, in immigration. He was seconded to the task force to work with Michael, because he was bilingual. I was working in London, with the prostitutes. I was—raped. I was in hospital when it all went wrong in France. The first I heard, David was dead, and Michael had survived. Just. They stuck him back together again, gave him a new identity and sent him into the military equivalent of retirement under witness protection.’
No wonder she’d been unable to get anything out of the police in France. They must have been hushed up in a big way. And Ruth’s David had been Gerard, the dead man. And she’d been raped. Poor Ruth. No. Don’t feel sorry for her, she’s in this up to her lying little neck, she told herself. But that didn’t explain everything anyway, not by a long chalk. Not the years after that night.
‘So why did he come here?’ she asked, refusing to back down because she needed these answers. ‘Why did he buy the Ancient House, and live so close, and put you in the flat? Don’t tell me it was coincidence.’
She shook her head. ‘Oh, no. It was quite deliberate. And he had to pull some pretty impressive strings to be allowed to be here and work with me while we watched you. I still don’t know how he did it, or why he bothered with me.’
‘But why did he want to be near me? Was it just because of Stephen?’
‘You’ll have to ask him that. I’ve told you all I can—all that’s mine to tell. All I know, really—except that he would die for you and his son.’
That was true. He’d nearly died that afternoon, throwing himself over them to protect them from the falling tree, shielding them with his body, and the horror of that moment would be with her for ever. But that didn’t explain his secrecy.
‘Why didn’t he tell me who he was?’
‘He couldn’t. He’s bound by the Official Secrets Act. So am I. As long as the case was ongoing, there was nothing he could do. Until Gaultier was arrested.’
‘But it all came to a head just over two weeks ago,’ Annie said slowly. ‘That’s when you moved out—when he came into my life.’
‘Because he could, at last.’
‘And yet still he didn’t tell me who he was,’ she said, still puzzled. ‘Why didn’t he, Ruth? Why didn’t he tell me then who he was? Was he trying to gather evidence for custody or something?’
Ruth looked horrified. ‘No! Nothing like that, I promise you.’
‘So what, then?’
She shook her head. ‘You’ll have to ask him that. I told him to, warned him. He had some crazy idea about getting to know you from scratch. Go and talk to him, Annie. He’s a good man. The best. He’s only ever had your safety and happiness at heart.’
‘And Stephen’s? What about Stephen?’
Her face softened. ‘He adores Stephen. It’s killed him having to watch him from a distance.’
‘But—he couldn’t have known he was his son. Not for certain. Not until I told him.’
Ruth looked away, and Annie felt the icy chill of betrayal. ‘How did he know?’ she asked, her voice cold.
‘DNA,’ Ruth confessed. ‘I cut a little bit of his hair one night when I babysat for you.’
She stood up, backing away from the woman she’d thought was her friend. Her legs were shaking, and her voice wasn’t her own, but she couldn’t take any more. She just wanted Ruth out, wanted this to be over.
‘OK, that’s enough. I want you to go.’
‘Annie, talk to him. Give him a chance to explain.’
‘I don’t know that he can. He might be a national hero, Ruth, but he’s lied to me, deceived me, cheated his way into my life, my bed, my heart—and I don’t think I can ever forgive him for that, whatever his motivation.’
‘And me?’ Ruth asked, lifting her head and meeting Annie’s eyes, her own tortured. ‘Can you forgive me?’
She couldn’t speak. Instead, she simply turned away, and after a moment the door closed softly and left her in silence—a silence broken only by the sound of her own weeping.
CHAPTER TEN
THE next hours and days were hell. Afterwards, Annie didn’t know how she’d got through them, but somehow she did.
Tim was wonderful. He took Ruth back to Michael’s, then returned with a saw and a hammer and some nails and dealt with the tree, weatherproofing the house with tacked-on plastic sheeting and some old boards as a temporary measure until the morning.
He didn’t say much, and Annie was grateful for that. He just worked quietly and steadily, securing her home, clearing up the broken glass in the study, righting the bookcase and returning the books to it.
At least the wind had died down, so the plastic sheet was secure enough to weatherproof it, but the boards across it wouldn’t have held back a determined intruder, and Annie was afraid.
‘Do you want me to stay?’ he asked, but she shook her head.
‘No. I’m being silly. I’ll be all right. It’s Michael I’m afraid of, and he’s too ill to be a threat at the moment.’
He hesitated, then said, very gently, ‘Michael won’t hurt you, Annie. He saved Ruth’s life. She tried to kill herself a few months after David died. He wouldn’t let her. He kept her going, looked after her, made her feel safe. Without him she wouldn’t be here now, and nor would a lot of other people. He’s a good man. A really decent man, and he’s been through hell. Give him a chance.’
He patted her shoulder awkwardly, then left her with Grace.
Grace, who hadn’t left her side since Ruth had gone, who’d held her and let her cry and fed her tea and biscuits and refused to go home now.
‘I’ll stay with you.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Will you? I don’t think so. You look like hell, Annie.’
She started to cry again. ‘I just can’t believe he didn’t tell me. You know, Vicky was right. She said he was dangerous.’
‘I don’t think he is. You heard what Ruth said about him, what Tim just said.’
‘But—military intelligence? Working undercover for the government? He must have killed people—that’s what they do. Dog eat dog. I don’t think I can spend my life with a ruthless killer, no matter why he did it.’
‘But he’s Stephen’s father, Annie. Don’t you think he has a right to see him, at least? That Stephen has a right to his father? They’re wonderful together—you’ve seen them. And he might be a killer, but only because he had to, because someone has to do the dirty jobs to keep us all safe. That doesn’t make him a bad person.’
But what Ruth had told her was still sinking in, and she couldn’t think clearly. A
nd until she could, until she could be sure that there was no threat whatsoever to her son, she had to keep him safe.
‘I want to phone him.’
‘Michael?’
‘No! Stephen. I need to talk to him, make sure he’s all right.’
He was, but he was very worried about Michael, and Annie had to struggle to reassure him. Even to say his name nearly choked her.
‘He’s gone home,’ she told him. ‘He’s all right. He just had a little cut on his head.’ And a face full of metal plates, and yet another name to add to the list—
‘I want to see him.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s resting. You can see him next week, maybe. Look, Stephen, I want you to stay with Ed for a few days, OK? I’ll drop some things over there for you in the morning.’
‘But I want to come home.’
‘The house is damaged,’ she told him, sticking at least a little to the truth. ‘Until it’s mended you can’t stay here. Your bedroom window’s broken.’
Well, cracked, anyway, and the guttering was hanging. It was near enough, and it would have to do. Ed’s mother had swallowed it, at least.
‘I could sleep with you, in your room at the front,’ he said, but she was adamant. She wasn’t having him anywhere that Michael could find him—not until she was sure.
‘Just stay there, darling. You like Ed—what’s the problem?’
‘I want to see Michael,’ he said, and started crying. ‘He’s hurt, and it’s my fault.’
‘Nonsense. It’s the cat’s fault.’
‘Is Tigger dead?’
She didn’t know. She hadn’t given the cat a moment’s thought in all this, but Stephen needed to be reassured. And so she lied, cursing Michael for bringing her to this, making her lie to her son when she’d never lied to him in his life.
‘No, he’s fine,’ she said, crossing her fingers and hoping it was true. She’d got enough to deal with without a dead cat. ‘I’ll see you in the morning—I’ll pick you up and take you to school.’
Valtieri's Bride & A Bride Worth Waiting For: Valtieri's BrideA Bride Worth Waiting For Page 32