‘You can’t meet my brother.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘You can’t meet any of my family. They died in an accident two years ago. They all died. Everyone except me.’
* * *
For a few half-seconds Arlo stared down at Frankie in shock and horror, and then he pulled her into his arms, holding her close until she softened against him just as he had on that first morning.
Only this was so much worse.
‘It’s okay, Frankie. It’s okay,’ he said, holding her tighter.
But obviously it wasn’t.
His heart was thudding painfully hard, the last few days replaying on fast-forward inside his head. The things he’d said, the way he’d acted.
‘Here.’ Pulling out a handkerchief, he gently wiped her eyes and cheeks.
She bit into her lip. ‘I’m sorry. You don’t need to deal with all this. It’s not fair. You lost your parents too.’
He tensed. They hadn’t talked about his parents, Lucien and Helena, but no doubt Johnny had told her the basics—that his mother had died young and their father was dead now too. Heaviness was seeping through his chest. He’d known pain and loss, but to lose everyone like that... It was impossible to imagine how that must have felt—how it must still feel, given that it was so recent.
‘You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve got strong shoulders.’
He pulled her closer. She needed to talk, but he felt as if he’d cornered her into the conversation, and he sensed that it would be easier for her to answer yes/no questions.
‘Was it the same accident that gave you your scar?’
She nodded. ‘It was a plane crash. We were coming back from a holiday in France. My dad was flying the plane.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘He loved medicine but flying was his passion.’
‘Do you know what happened?’
He felt her shiver.
‘Not really. At the inquest they said he’d fallen asleep. I’d taken a travel sickness pill. The first thing I remember is waking up to this enormous headache.’
Arlo nodded mechanically, but inside his head he was visualising the scene. The wreckage. The bodies. The silence. His chest squeezed tight.
‘Does Johnny know?’ He hadn’t consciously intended to ask that question, but for some reason he cared enormously about the answer.
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t really told anyone. I did a couple of sessions with a therapist, but I don’t know how to tell people. It’s stupid, really. I did try a few times, but they were always so horrified, and then I just ended up trying to make them feel better.’
It wasn’t stupid. After his mother’s death people had wanted to be kind, but mostly he’d found himself having to manage their reaction. The idea of Frankie trying to cope with that as well as everything else made the muscles in his arms tighten painfully.
Her eyes found his. ‘You’re a good listener,’ she said quietly, sifting a layer of sand between her toes.
He pulled her closer and kissed her. Holding her, feeling her soft body against his, made his heart contract.
But he ignored it.
This wasn’t about him. It was about Frankie. And she needed more than a few days off. She needed someone to fill the family-sized gap in her life. She needed someone to love her and look out for her.
He couldn’t do any of those things but he could, and would, take care of her, for now, until it was time for her to leave.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HANDS TIGHTENING AGAINST the ship’s wheel, Frankie squinted through the sunlight at the sea, her heartbeat leapfrogging in time to the waves.
She had not been prepared for this. For any of it.
For the patches of shining brightness or the dazzle of spray hitting the bow of the boat. But most of all for where the pursuit of her unfinished connection with Arlo Milburn had taken her.
They were on board his yacht, The Aeolus, and she couldn’t quite believe that she was here with him.
Remembering her stumbling confession out on the beach, she felt her chest tighten. She still didn’t really understand how she had ended up telling Arlo about the accident. She hadn’t planned on telling him anything.
Why would she?
They’d promised one another nothing.
But Arlo had been so calm, unfazed—and in a way that wasn’t surprising, given how he lived. He must have had to deal with far more terrifying things in Antarctica.
What she hadn’t expected was for him to show compassion. Had she thought about it, she would have assumed he would be brisk, practical, detached. Instead, his gentleness had caught her off-guard, and she had been telling the truth when she’d said he was a good listener. He was the first person who had given her space to find the right words. Or maybe to realise that there were no right words.
He hadn’t just rushed in and tried to fill the void with his pity and shock, and crucially he hadn’t made it about him. And that was the most incredible part, given that he had lost both his parents too.
He had understood that in that moment there had been no room for his experiences, even though they were relevant. He was the first person who had seemed to know that she was in a dark place and that what she needed most of all was for him just to join her there.
So instead of telling her that he knew how she was feeling, or giving her advice, or trying to be positive, he had let her talk. He had listened—really listened—so that it had been easy to tell him the truth.
Her stomach muscles tightened. Not all of it—not the fact that she had caused the accident...that it was her fault that her family had died.
Just for a moment or two she had thought about it. A part of her had wanted to tell him. But she had tried telling the truth before in France, first at the hospital, with the gendarmes, and then again at the inquest, but both times it had made no difference.
She allowed herself a brief glance at the man with the intense focus and formidable craggy profile at the other end of the boat.
At the hospital she’d thought it was because she was speaking English and that something had got lost in translation. But at the inquest there had been a translator, and it was then that she’d realised it wouldn’t matter what language she was speaking, because telling the truth couldn’t change what had happened.
It was her punishment not to be heard or understood, for to be understood would mean to be forgiven, and she didn’t deserve that. And that was why she hadn’t told Arlo about the part she’d played in the accident.
‘Bear off a touch.’
Arlo’s level voice came to her across the deck, and she looked over to where he was working the boat with the crew. She knew nothing about sailing, but it hadn’t taken more than ten minutes at sea for her to understand that Arlo knew a lot.
Her pulse beat in her throat.
Like the rest of the crew he was wearing a dark T-shirt and buff-coloured chinos, but he still stood out from everyone.
Partly that was his height and breadth, but the human race had evolved sufficiently not to blindly follow someone simply on account of their strong thighs and wide shoulders. There was something else that drew her gaze. Something not actually visible. A certainty and authority that was both self-contained yet infinitely subtly responsive to those around him. An energy that thrummed from his core...that was tangible with your eyes shut. Or in the darkness of a bedroom.
Her face felt suddenly hot. She stared, dry-mouthed, her heart thumping against her ribs.
His hair was blowing in front of his eyes and her breath caught as he raised his hand and pushed it back from his angular face...
Their skin might be callused, and he might have lost the tips of two of his fingers, but she loved his hands. Their shape, their size, the dark hairs on the back of his wrists... They were so expressive of his mood, moving constantly while he spoke.
Watching them now, as he demo
nstrated something with a rope to one of the crew, she felt almost dizzy with hunger, remembering how they had moved over her body.
As if sensing her gaze, Arlo looked up. She felt her face grow warm as their eyes met, and then her heartbeat accelerated as he excused himself and began walking towards her.
‘Everything okay?’
He’d stopped in front of her and, gazing up at him she felt a hum of pleasure. If not for the presence of the crew, she would have reached up and pulled his mouth onto hers.
‘Yes, everything’s fine.’ She glanced past him to where the huge white sails swelled in the wind. ‘Actually, it’s incredible. But then I’ve only ever been on a ferry before, so...’
That morning, when Arlo had rather offhandedly suggested they go out on his boat, she had imagined some kind of dinghy, maybe even something with oars, but certainly nothing like this.
At over sixty metres long, The Aeolus was no rowing boat. She was a single-masted sloop-rigged superyacht. Although, truthfully, the expensively smooth contours reminded her less of a boat and more of a huge white gull—the kind Arlo had sketched out on the ice floes.
The Aeolus moved like a bird too, skimming fluidly and silently over the waves, following some invisible flight path that seemed to have more to do with the natural rhythms of the wind and the sea than the actions of the crew scurrying about the deck or the high-tech navigation system.
His dark gaze rested on her face. ‘Well, they both float,’ he said drily. ‘But it’s a bit like comparing a mule to a steeplechaser.’
She laughed. ‘I wasn’t actually comparing them.’ A warm feeling settled in her stomach. His mood seemed lighter today, his gaze less shuttered, so that without giving it much thought she asked, ‘So who taught you to sail?’
For a moment he didn’t reply, and she wondered why. It wasn’t exactly a contentious question. But then she realised that he wasn’t weighing up his answer, but how much to say.
A bit like me, she thought, confused by this sudden small connection between them.
‘My Great-Uncle Philip,’ he said finally. ‘He was in the navy. He loved sailing and—’ his mouth flicked up into one of those stiff, almost-smiles ‘—he expected his entire family to love it too.’
He glanced past her to where the sails arced, winglike, above the unbelievably dark blue water.
‘He had a beautiful boat. But before he’d let you on board you used to have to go out with him in a dinghy—prove yourself ready and worthy.’
Frankie shuddered. ‘Like a test?’
He gave another of those careful almost-smiles. ‘Exactly. It was pretty stressful. He was exacting, and relentless when it came to attention to detail, but he wanted you to be the best sailor you could be, and he thought that experience was a gift to share. It wasn’t all hard work. We had a lot of good times too,’ he said, almost as an afterthought. ‘We’d sail all day and then we’d go back to the house, and the whole family would be there, and we’d have this huge meal, and me and my cousins would get to stay up late...’
Her throat tightened with a mix of pain and envy. She missed her family so much it felt as if someone was squeezing her chest in a vice. And yet she liked hearing Arlo talk about his family. It made his face change, grow handsome, almost...
Glancing up, she found him watching her and, feeling suddenly self-conscious, she said quickly, ‘I don’t think any boat could be as beautiful as The Aeolus. I feel like I’m in The Great Gatsby, or something, but she’s not vulgar. There’s something organic about how she looks...as if she’s in harmony with the sea.’
He looked pleased, and she felt something wobble inside her. She didn’t know why, but she liked watching his grey eyes lighten at something she’d said.
‘You like her?’ he asked.
‘I do.’ She nodded slowly, then frowned. ‘Why are boats always female?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Historically, I think it’s because a lot of boats used to be named after women. The Aeolus isn’t, so I don’t know why I say “she” and “her”. I suppose I’m a little traditional.’
Tilting her head to make his eyes meet hers, she smiled slightly. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
There was a beat of silence as their gazes locked and she felt a shiver run over her skin, knowing that he, like her, was picturing the many and various ways they had made love last night—some of which she hadn’t even known existed, all of which had made her forget how to breathe.
Her breath caught now as he took a step forward, moving behind her so that she could feel the press of his body, slipping his hands past her waist to close over her hands.
‘What are you doing?’
‘You were drifting,’ he said softly.
His skin and the bristles of his beard were cold against her heated face and she felt her heartbeat lose its rhythm.
‘I’m just correcting your course.’
It wasn’t just the boat that was drifting, she thought helplessly. She could feel her body melting, her insides turning liquid and hot, limbs softening and if he hadn’t been holding her she would have slid to the floor.
‘I don’t know where we’re heading,’ she said hoarsely.
In her head, she’d meant literally—as in their destination—only it had sounded different when she’d said the words out loud.
Her heart bumped against her ribs.
It was something they hadn’t discussed—how and when this would end. When they were in bed, with her body still ringing like a tuning fork and his body so warm and solid next to hers, it had been easy to do as he said and not ‘overthink’ things.
So don’t start now, she told herself. Stop thinking about what you told him yesterday and just enjoy the ride.
‘I meant with the boat,’ she said quickly.
There was a short, pulsing silence, and then slowly he raised his head and drew her chin around, so that she was looking at him. His face was completely expressionless.
‘We’re going to drop anchor just up the coast. Constance has fixed us some lunch, and I thought you might enjoy a picnic on dry land. Or we can just stay on The Aeolus.’ His fingers softened against her skin. ‘But it’s your call. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.’
* * *
Frankie had chosen a picnic, as he’d known she would, Arlo thought, glancing up at the flawless forget-me-not-blue sky.
Who wouldn’t want a picnic on a day like this?
As if trying to make amends for the storm-force winds and slanting rain of a few days ago, the weather was perfect. Just the shimmering sun and a soft, Gulf-Stream-warmed breeze that barely lifted Frankie’s dark red curls from her face.
A part of him was still reeling from her revelation yesterday. He hated to think that she’d been so hurt and lost, that she was still hurting.
That was what today was about.
Distracting her from the pain and hoping that it eased a little in the meantime—just like when Johnny had been teething and Arlo had carried him around the Hall, showing him the paintings in the early hours of the morning.
They had dropped anchor near one of the small uninhabited islands on the outer Firth of Forth. They’d taken the tender between the jagged rocks, and now they were sprawled on rugs on the heather-topped cliffs, picking through Constance’s peerless picnic.
A loaf of homemade bread and a simple cold dish of thinly sliced slivers of chicken breast, dressed with a refreshing yoghurt sauce, were joined by baby beetroot with chutney, spiced aubergines, and some superb cheeses. To follow there was a rhubarb fool and a fruit and marzipan panforte, accompanied by a chilled bottle of Mâcon Blanc.
‘I can’t...’ Frankie protested as he leaned forward and filled up her glass.
‘On the contrary—you can. I’m the one who can’t.’ He dropped the bottle back in the ice bucket.
She s
crewed up her face. ‘But that’s not fair. You organised all of this and now you have to stay sober.’
Arlo stared at her in silence, a pulse ticking below his skin. It didn’t matter that most of his crew were experienced sailors, or that it was a beautiful calm day. Alcohol and boats didn’t mix.
But that didn’t mean he was sober. On the contrary, being with Frankie made him feel as if he’d drunk a cellar full of wine. Although probably that was just the ozone. After a day at sea, he often felt that way. It was just a coincidence that he was here with her.
His heart thumped against his ribs.
He couldn’t deny, though, that he liked knowing he could make her happy. That it was in his power to make her happy.
And unhappy.
Here, out in the sunlight, basking in Frankie’s smile, it felt suddenly more important than ever to remember that—to remember how it had ended the last time he’d sought out that power.
He felt a twinge of guilt, as he always did when he thought about his blink-and-you’d-miss-it marriage.
His marriage...the divorce.
Harriet was part of a past he’d intentionally buried deep, deep down, so that he didn’t have to think about it. And it had been working just fine until Frankie had arrived with her past, and her questions, and now suddenly memories kept pushing to the surface.
He gritted his teeth. Not just memories. Feelings too. Only it was going to stop now. Whatever it was he was feeling for Frankie had nothing to do with the past.
She needed a friend. It didn’t mean anything. All he was doing was trying to make a few days of her life feel like a picnic. There was nothing more to it than that.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask—what are the other rules?’
He glanced up at her. ‘Rules?’
She waved her fork in the air. ‘The other day you said that when you came home you had to eat real food at a table because that was one of your rules.’
Had he said that? How unbelievably pompous of him. He didn’t have any rules.
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