by Georgia Fox
Ducked under their coats to shelter from the rain, they were merely two anonymous wet lumps, until they reached the ivy-strewn porch and he, acting a gentleman, opened the door for his partner. As his body turned, he glanced up just once at the grim sky and she got a full view of his face.
No. Oh, no, no, no. Figgity, Foggity Fuck!
She fell back from the window and bumped her hip on the dresser. She’d know that starched bastard anywhere.
Of all the hotels in all of Cornwall, why did he have to walk into this one?
Out of spite, naturally.
****
"Don’t look now, but didn’t she used to be your wife?"
They had only just sat down at the bar when she walked in. He’d seen her through the glass paneled doors a second earlier and quickly decided he needed an excuse to leave. But it was too late now. His companion had seen her too and if he retreated now it would look like cowardice. His ex-wife was ordering a martini and smiling at the barman—probably distracting him so that he would "forget" to charge her room. Oh yes, he knew her M. O. She was a master puppeteer when it came to men. They were powerless, with their strings up.
"Is she allowed to be here?" his companion asked in a hollow whisper above the rim of her wine glass.
He tore his eyes away from Trouble. "You mean does the zoo know she’s escaped?"
"Be sensible. Isn’t there a restraining order or something?"
He shifted uncomfortably on the little bar stool, which had a wonky leg and made him feel slightly sea sick. It didn’t help that the old wound on his backside was suddenly hurting again. The sight of her, just like the mention of her name, always made that wound smart. "It’s been six years. Even she can’t hold a grudge that long," he muttered under his breath.
Still, he thought, maybe he should call his solicitor—or the police. Just in case. His gaze hastily scanned the length of the bar for any stray bar tools, but they were all packed away out of sight. Of course, she could always grab a bottle and break it over his head, couldn't she?
Instead his ex-wife pretended not to see him there, took her drink and walked across the room to stand by the bay window, where she looked out at the mix of sea spray and drizzle.
"We should leave," his companion hissed, setting down her glass.
He straightened his shoulders. "Why should we? Let her leave."
"I thought she was in a mental hospital."
He smiled at that. "Just another rumor. Mind you, she probably ought to be in one. Having lived with her for four years I can tell you that with certainty." It had been a rollercoaster. One that had a screw loose and sent everyone involved plummeting through the air. Some hadn't touched earth again yet.
The woman across the room downed her martini in one gulp and stared out at the gloomy evening while munching on her stuffed olive.
Suddenly his companion said, "Did you know she was here?"
He almost spilled his beer. "Why would I come here if I knew?"
She shrugged and inspected her French manicure. "Just seems like one heck of a coincidence."
"You were the one who said the place looked nice as we drove by yesterday."
She flipped her hair back. "Well, I don’t think it’s so nice now."
He pointed to the flyer on the wall. "There’s a play tomorrow. You’ll like that."
Sulkily, she glanced over her shoulder. "I hate Shakespeare."
"How can you hate Shakespeare?"
"It’s old and irrelevant."
"Like me?"
She fluttered her lashes. "Don’t be silly. You’re not that old."
"Ah. You’d be surprised how old I am." Just then he was feeling every one of those years. Hundreds of them. Shakespeare, irrelevant? That meant she didn’t understand it, but at least she didn’t pretend. He could almost hear his wife—ex-wife—scornfully pointing the age difference out, laughing at him. Well, he’d just remind her that she fell for him too once when she was too young to know better. When they both were.
A handful of other guests entered the bar and there was momentary chaos as they all ordered drinks at once. While his young companion eyed the newcomers, he sipped his beer and stole another surreptitious glance across the room at his ex-wife. She looked good, better than ever. Women always looked that good, he thought, when they weren't available. Sad fact of life. His life anyway.
What was she doing there?
The same thing as him, of course. Reminiscing. It was ten years ago this weekend when they met. Right here in this hotel. A decade ago. Damn.
His current companion was an adolescent at that time, he mused.
Across the room his ex-wife drank her martini in unladylike, deliberate gulps. Was she alone?
She put down her empty martini glass and walked over to the arched doors that lead to a small stone patio. There was a prowling grace to the way she moved. It always amazed him that she could move so elegantly on heels that high, as if they were a part of her.
"Will you get me some roasted peanuts?" his companion asked. "I’m just going to the ladies."
He smiled absently and nodded as she slipped off her stool and went to find the toilet. When he turned back to look for his ex-wife and one time attacker, she was outside, in the rain, walking across the sodden grass, her heels sinking in. She’d get soaked.
"Didn’t that used to be whatsername?" someone exclaimed at the other end of the bar.
"No."
"Who?"
"You know the writer who shot her husband—that actor—when she caught him with another woman?"
"Yeah, that prick. The arsehole. What's his name?"
He quickly tugged his baseball cap further over his brow and hunched over his pint glass.
"Nah. It can’t be her. What would she be doing in a place like this?"
"She stabbed him, by the way. She didn't shoot him."
"You sure?"
"Looks like her."
"Doesn't she live in America?"
"I thought she was in the nuthouse."
"All writers are crazy."
The voices faded away, while he watched her stride across the grass, her arms swinging.
And then, as it occurred to him that she was heading directly for the edge of the cliff, he also realized she wasn’t slowing down.
****
There was a tumbling stone ruin at the edge of the cliff. At one time it must have been further inland from the treacherous edge. So many hundreds of years had passed since it was built that the cliff rock was worn away by the relentless tide and now those ancient stones teetered so dangerously at the overhang that they were cordoned off by yellow tape and a rash of rusty, pitted warning signs.
It saddened her to see that ugly tape swinging in the windy rain, spoiling the beauty of the old stone. The last time she came here, ten years ago, this castle ruin drew her like a magnet. On that occasion it was sunny and the sky was that extraordinary shade of blue—the shade that must have been responsible for making man first think about trying to fly. And she was there on holiday with friends, a giddy young girl of twenty-two. Ready to fall in love.
"Look out," he'd shouted to her as he strode across the grass, hands in his pockets, the sun shining on his handsome face. "You'll fall off the cliff."
That anyone should pay attention to her at all was amazing. But that he should was frankly unbelievable. The famous actor, a man with a new girlfriend every month. She'd recognized him at once from the photos she always greedily perused in OK magazine and Hello. Her first thought was that one of her friends had put him up to it. For a joke at her expense.
But they hadn't. He was simply the chivalrous sort that loved women, thought it was his job to help them out. All women, unfortunately. Couldn't stop helping them. That was his problem, she thought wryly. The needier they were, the more useful he felt. No doubt, when he first saw her—with her frizzy hair, scowling expression, complete lack of social graces and an excess of inappropriate shoes—he thought he'd hit pay-dirt in the
needy department.
Someone had persuaded him, or possibly blackmailed him, into being the guest star that weekend in the local amateur production and he loved being the center of attention, naturally. She often thought he approached her on that sunny day at the cliff edge because she wasn't looking at him, wasn't fawning over him. She was too busy daydreaming, writing plots in her head. Living in another world.
Ten years ago. How could the time have passed so quickly? She wondered if the castle ruins remembered her. Those stones had been there for a long time; no doubt they'd seen a great deal of life come and go.
She sighed and moved her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears so she could see the ruins again. In today's grim weather they looked mournful, but still mysterious, breathtaking, inspiring. She'd aged too in the ten years since her last visit, but this pile of stones would always be more beautiful. Her grandfather, so she'd been told, was born in this part of the country and lived around there until he went away to war, met her grandmother and eventually settled near London. Perhaps she felt a family connection to the area and that's what brought her back here again.
Out of nowhere, a large black lab tore by her. She shouted a warning, thinking the dog might fall over the cliff edge, but it stopped, sniffing at the wet grass. It began to dig enthusiastically, tail swinging so hard its entire back end moved with it. She looked over her shoulder, but there was no one in sight. The dog had no collar. Maybe it was chipped. Nice dog. Beautiful coat.
While it scratched at the damp earth, flinging clods of mud and grass, the rain slowly eased and the grey clouds blew by. Soft streaks of sky, the color of forget-me-nots, slipped into view at last. She sheltered her eyes from the last pinpricks of drizzle and saw then that she was not alone at the ruin.
A man sat on a stone ledge, looking out at the Atlantic ocean, his back to her.
Maybe it was his dog?
The animal barked excitedly, nuzzling into the hole it had dug. Where was the tour guide today, she wondered. Protective of this ruin, they wouldn't appreciate big holes dug by a dog—neither would they like to see a man perched on the stones, defying all the warnings.
"Excuse me," she shouted. No response from the man on the stones. He was soaked, she realized, his t-shirt stuck to his back and muscular shoulders.
The sun shyly peeked from behind a cloud and he seemed edged in silver for a moment. Like an angel.
"Excuse me!"
The dog ran to her feet and dropped something.
She stooped to inspect the muddied object and the dog barked again, backing away, front legs going down, waiting for her to throw whatever it had retrieved. She wiped it part way clean with the bar napkin she still held in her hand. It seemed to be some sort of necklace made of metal and ... bone?
The dog suddenly took off, as if it heard a whistle, forgetting its prize. On his stone perch, the man had slowly turned and saw her standing there.
She caught her breath. She'd seen him before. Somewhere.
"What am I doing here?" he said, frowning, bewildered. "How did I get here?"
Why ask her? She had no idea what she was doing there either. Did anyone ever know?
She walked slowly up to him, picking her way through the tufts of grass in her impractical high heels. "Is this yours?" She held out the necklace. Now why do that? What made her think...?
His eyes lit up. "Yes."
He snatched it from her. His hand was large, dirty, definitely in need of a manicure. Astonished, she saw tears in his eyes.
"This I know," he said. And then he pointed over his shoulder, "The sea too. That I know."
She eyed him thoughtfully. Was he drunk? A wandering stray from one of the other, cheaper hotels along the coast? Suddenly he brought the necklace to his lips and kissed it. Then he looked up at her and his eyes were very dark, sucking her in. Just like those ruins always did.
"I am Remy, " he said.
"That's nice," she replied dubiously.
"Nice?" He squinted up at her, wet hair in short, sharp points, stuck to his brow.
"You know, these ruins are out of bounds. That's what the tape is for." She pointed.
He didn't look, but kept his gaze fastened on her face. "Where is my warhorse?" He had incredible eyes, long lashed, mesmerizing. The tears had gone; perhaps it was just rain caught in his eyelashes. "I remember now, I was wounded," he said, "in the thigh. A witch cured me."
Wonderful. He'd probably offer to show her his wound next. "Yes, well. I wouldn't sit there, if I was you. The stone could give way. Can't you read English signs?" She'd noted a faint accent, possibly French, but more German—more guttural.
"I need my horse," he insisted.
"Yep! Excuse me. Gotta go." She turned away, desperately in need of another martini, but he stood suddenly and grabbed her hand.
"Take me to it," he said.
"There are no horses here."
He towered over her. "My horse, woman!"
Oh, that did it! She took a step back toward the hotel. But two hands held her waist and lifted her. Screamed curses did not help as he tossed her over his shoulder and bore her across the grass.
Things were getting misty around the edges. Blood rushed to her head. She began to think the barman must have mixed her a triple instead of a double, because she felt quite limp and unwilling to protest as her captor strode all the way to the car park and set her down on her teetering heels again.
"You look angry," he observed, sounding surprised.
"Do I, wise ass? You bet I'm angry. How dare you—"
"You are all bristles, wench. Like a wild hog."
She had no time even to formulate an insult in retaliation. Apparently he'd just seen a hotel customer pull up and leave his car. He laid his hand to the warm bonnet of the recently parked vehicle.
"Heat," he muttered. "Fine horses."
Maybe he was an actor. One of the amateurs from tomorrow's production. Oh, no. Not another actor! "Yes. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
"Excuse?" He caught her wrist. "You keep saying this word. What means it?"
"Sorry." She didn't know why she bothered explaining, but she did. "It is an apology."
"But to me you have done naught, wench."
True.
"Yet," he added, smiling suddenly. "It is in your thoughts, I think, to do much to me."
"You bet!" One of her heels gave way, snapping with a loud click. "Well, I'll leave you to it then."
Still holding her wrist, he looked away, his hard gaze quickly assessing the other cars, until they alighted upon the sports car she'd watched her ex-husband pull up in a few hours ago. He dropped her wrist and made a bee line toward the parked vehicle. Despite her former intent to leave and return to the hotel bar, she limped after him on her broken heel. Couldn't leave him wandering out here, could she? He seemed lost and alone. Might have suffered a head injury of some sort.
"This must be mine," he said.
"A man of expensive tastes," she muttered, amused.
He walked around the vehicle, running his hands over it, grinning. "Fine mount."
"Yes, you might say that."
"Then 'tis mine."
"If only life was that simple." She laughed, feeling stupid in her broken heel.
He looked over his shoulder, scanning the hotel. "Get in," he said. "You come."
"What? Don't be—"
"Get in." He leapt in through the open window on the driver's side, with all the agility of a panther. She'd only ever seen stuntmen do that in movies. "Come with me, wench," he shouted.
What else did she have to do? Why not?
Before she knew what was happening, her ass was on the cool leather of the passenger seat. She blamed it on the dizziness that still hadn't worn off. Four days ago someone hit her in the head with a heavy duffle bag. Is that why all this was happening? Perhaps none of this was real. She might still be in her narrow seat on the plane, dreaming. She could be dead.
The man behind the wheel was stud
ying the console of gauges, frowning. How the hell would Remy de Robynet—a character of her own creation—know how to drive a car?
"You don't know how to start this thing," she muttered, reassuring herself.
He looked at her and winked. Then he turned on the ignition and the engine purred to life.
"Excuse?" he said.
Ok, who the hell was he?
"Fast learner," she exclaimed.
"You bet."
She barely had time to grab the seat belt and they were roaring out of the hotel car park.
****
The detective scribbled in small notepad. "You don't think, sir, that the disappearance of your car might have something to do with the disappearance of your ex-wife?"
"No!" He sighed, getting tired of this. "I told you. I saw her walk into the fog at the end of the cliff. She must have jumped." Just like her, he thought, to ruin his holiday.
"But we haven't found any body below the cliff, sir."
"Couldn't she be swept out to sea?"
"We'll have divers looking, sir, as soon as the sea calms down." The officious detective glanced at his notepad again. "But if you would just remind me, sir—the description of your missing wife?"
"Ex-wife."
"A writer, so I understand."
"Yes. Of erotic romance."
The detective frowned. "Pornography, sir?"
"Oh no. She insists it's quite different." He laughed coldly, flicking cigarette ash onto the wet patio. "She always did have a vivid imagination and the sex drive of a teenage boy. I couldn't keep up with her. Ironic, isn't it—she stabbed me in the ass, because she thought I was having an affair. As if I had the energy after her."
"I see, sir." Plainly he didn't see at all.
"And she doesn't have a valid driver's license, so she couldn't possibly have gone off in my car."
The detective smirked. "In my experience, sir, people don't usually care about the legalities of a valid license, when they take off in a stolen vehicle."