by Nina Milne
None of her business—she was sucked in enough; she couldn’t risk getting further involved. That way led madness.
It was best if she concentrated solely on the scenery for the rest of the journey. So as the car glided down the motorway and then wound its way along bendy valley roads she inhaled the sweet breeze and soaked in the greens of the verdure outside until Luis said, ‘Nearly there.’
Her vision didn’t yield so much as a hut, let alone a villa, and Imogen frowned as Luis turned down a dirt track. ‘Wow. So the villa is really secluded, then?’
‘Villa?’ Luis said. ‘No, no—did no one email you?’
‘No,’ Joe growled. ‘Should they have?’
‘Yes. You see, all the singletons have been assigned the villas. You have been given a yurt. You will love it. Full of luxury and romance. It is five-star.’
The scenery became so much irrelevant colour and the brilliant sunshine faded as Imogen struggled for breath. ‘A yurt?’ she coughed out.
‘Do not worry. This is a state-of-the-art yurt. All mod-cons. Leila and Howard have had them specially put up for the occasion. You will be able to fall asleep together, gazing up at the stars.’
Tension ricocheted from Joe’s body and no doubt collided with hers; in fact their mingled tension could probably power a rocket. All the way to the ruddy stars.
‘Here we are,’ Luis said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the atmosphere as he parked the car and turned to look at them. ‘Howard was very particular about your accommodation, so I hope I can report back to him that you are happy. Yes?’
Oh, hell and damnation. They were supposed to be a loved-up couple and Imogen had no doubt that Howard Kreel would much rather that was exactly what they were. It couldn’t be much fun for the groom, having his bride’s ex-boyfriend there for ‘closure’.
This was clearly her cue to be adoring, when in actual fact the desire to strangle Joe with her bare hands was making her palms itch. ‘Of course we’re happy,’ she said. ‘How would it be possible not to be happy? Don’t you agree, sweetheart?’
‘Absolutely,’ Joe said, with a credible attempt at enthusiasm and an overdose of heartiness. As if Joe had ever been hearty in his life. ‘Imogen and I are sure to appreciate every second of our stay.’
‘Excellent.’ Luis sprang out of the car and opened Imogen’s door. ‘Then I’ll take you on a guided tour of the site and leave you to it.’
Imogen tried to appreciate the fairytale beauty of the site—she really did. It was a good few steps up even from a glampsite. Lord knew how much it must have cost to convert the area so spectacularly. Tipis and luxury tents dotted the area—all individually decorated and all, Luis assured them again, equipped with a variety of mod-cons. Two large wooden huts had also been constructed.
‘There is the bar and the dining area. Meals and refreshments will be available all day.’
In addition to what money could buy was the wealth of nature’s offerings—the colourful flowers, the vibrant vegetation, the lap of water from a small brook that wound its way down a rocky precipice and then meandered through the lush lime-green meadow.
And there in a secluded corner …
‘Here we are,’ Luis announced, gesturing at a pink canvas palace. ‘You have guaranteed privacy. All the details about the wedding and the reception and the available activities are in a folder inside. The coach will arrive at four to take you to the beach ceremony.’
‘Fabulous. Thank you so much, Luis,’ Imogen trilled, forcing her lips upward, keeping the smile … aka rictus … in place as she watched his departing back.
Two more strides and Luis had climbed into the four-seater.
‘Not! This is not fabulous, Joe. Look at it. It’s got turrets! It’s the yurt of love. What happened to the twin beds in a villa?’
‘Yes, well, I obviously got upgraded from singleton to one of the loved-up people.’ He thrust a hand through his hair. ‘Let’s not panic until we’ve actually looked inside.’
‘Fine.’ Imogen tugged the canvas door open. ‘Um …’
Pink canvas walls were draped with beaded curtains and gauzy material. There were tasselled cushions, luxury pile rugs, an overstuffed sofa, a dressing table … and an enormous sleigh bed.
Below a porthole.
With a view of the stars.
For a fleeting second she wished that there could be a rerun of Paris—another rash decision to break the rules. But she knew that wasn’t possible. Once was fine—could be chalked up to a magical experience. Twice … That was way too dangerous and she wouldn’t go there. Couldn’t go there for the sake of her own sanity.
She was not going to end up bedazzled, befuddled and controlled by lust.
Turning to Joe, she swept her hand towards the bed. ‘Now can I panic?’
Joe exhaled heavily and forced his features to neutral. What had he ever done to deserve this? A twin room in a populated villa would have been tough, but manageable. Worst-case scenario: he’d have stayed up in the lounge playing video games. All night.
There was nowhere to go in a yurt.
Chill. He needed to chill. He was a ruthless corporate businessman, for goodness’ sake—not an adolescent.
Plus he had no one to blame but himself; this whole jaunt had been his damn fool idea. Now he would just have to suck it up.
‘No need …’ He stopped and cleared his throat, forced more words past the knot of panic in his throat. ‘No need to freak out. I’ll sleep on the sofa; you can have the bed.’
Rocking back on his heels, he swept a final glance around the tent and rubbed the back of his neck.
‘I guess you need to change, so I’ll leave you to it.’
Fresh air—that was what he needed. Fresh air and exercise. Perhaps if he walked a very, very long way he’d walk off the desire that urged him to turn round, rip open the door of the yurt and throw Imogen down onto the bed. Walk off the desire.
Master plan, McIntyre. But it was the only one he had …
It didn’t work worth a damn.
An hour later, as he approached the yurt, anticipation unfurled in his chest. And when he stepped into the pink canvas bubble he stopped in his tracks. Because Imogen looked so beautiful she robbed his lungs of air. Her dark hair rode her shoulders in sleek glossy waves; a floaty floral dress gave her beauty an ethereal edge.
She rose from the dressing table and faced him, her lips tilted in an almost shy smile as she spread out her arms and gave a twirl, the orange and red flowers of the dress vibrant as they swirled around her.
‘Do you think this is all right?’ she asked. ‘I chose it myself—no help from Mel, no ulterior motive. Just because I like it. But now I’m worried that it’s not glam enough.’
‘I don’t think that’s a problem,’ he managed. Though his blood pressure might be approaching the turreted roof.
‘You sure?’
‘One hundred per cent. You look beautiful. I promise.’
Silence enveloped them; awareness hummed in the air. Time to distract himself.
Keeping his movements casual, he headed for the sofa and picked up a leatherbound folder.
‘That must be the itinerary Luis mentioned,’ Imogen said, her voice slightly high as she sat down.
‘Yup.’ He stared down at the words and forced his brain to make sense of them. ‘So, as we know, after the ceremony there’s a Bond-themed party on a yacht. We’ll need to take a change of clothes with us. Then tomorrow there are various activities we can do. Leila and Howard will have left for their honeymoon, but they want all their guests to stay and have fun.’
‘Activities?’ Imogen looked up and there was genuine enthusiasm on her face as she no doubt worked out a way to avoid his company for the day. ‘That sounds like a great idea. What sort of activities?’
Joe scanned the list. ‘Sightseeing, beach yoga, surfing and …’
‘And what?’
‘There’s an art class run by Michael Mallory, who is a lecturer at on
e of London’s top art colleges. You should do that.’
Imogen narrowed her eyes. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘No. I’ve seen how talented you are—seems a shame for it to go to waste.’
‘That is not your decision to make.’
‘Agreed … But I just don’t get why you are being so damn stubborn about this.’
For a second unease pricked his conscience. Why did it matter so much to him? Hell, it was way better to have this conversation right now than dwell on all the other things they could do in the Yurt of Love.
‘Now is as good a time as any for you to tell me. No excuses—no need to nap.’
‘I did need a nap.’
‘Rubbish! No one sleeps with their body completely still and radiating tension. You were ducking out of a proper explanation of why you refused to go along with my report and help out on Richard’s apartment. And please spare me the I can’t do any art because I need to move crap.’
‘It’s the truth.’ One defiant swivel and she presented her back to him, leaning forward to pick up a lipstick and peer into the heart-shaped gilded mirror. ‘So I’ll give the lesson a miss.’
‘Shame.’ Joe leant against the cushioned back rest and picked up the folder again. ‘“Michael Mallory: esteemed lecturer and mentor to Justin Kinley, Myra Olsten and Becca Farringham, all of whom exploded on to the art scene after graduation. Michael has planned an intense day in which you will learn how to express your artistic instincts and find your own definite artistic voice. This kind of near one-on-one tuition is an incredible chance to learn from a master and—”‘
‘Stop!’ Imogen spun on the chair to face him, her chest rising and falling as she jabbed a mascara wand in the air. ‘Just stop—OK?’
‘Why? I’m just telling you what you’re missing.’
‘I get it. OK? I get what I’m missing and I’m good with it.’
Only she wasn’t. Not by a long shot. He could see the sparkle of tears in her eyes even as she blinked fiercely. Sense her anger and frustration as she clenched her hands round the edge of her seat and inhaled deeply.
‘Imo, sweetheart. You’re not good with it.’
He stood, strode over the canvas floor and dropped to his haunches in front of her, covering her hands with his.
‘Tell me. C’mon. I’m sorry I went on at you but I’ve seen your talent. That proposal—you made the sketches come alive. I could see the glitter of the mirror, feel the softness of the sheets, smell the freshly baked baguettes.’
‘They were just a few pencil and charcoal sketches.’
‘They were a lot more than that.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t get it, Imogen. Why don’t you take the project further? I’ve seen how absorbed you’ve been, how much it matters to you.’
He had seen her frustration if it hadn’t been perfect—the way she’d thrown crumpled bits of paper at the bin—seen the ink streaks on her forehead, the forgotten cups of tea and coffee, the food he’d forced her to eat.
‘And that’s exactly the problem!’ she said.
‘Meaning?’
For a moment she hesitated, and then a small reluctant smile tugged at her lips. ‘I’m guessing you won’t let up until I explain?’
‘Nope.’
She leant back against the dresser and inhaled an audible breath. ‘I told you my parents’ marriage is less than stellar?’
Joe nodded.
‘I didn’t explain why. The main reason is my dad. He’s an artist, and he’s dedicated his life to his art even though he’s barely sold anything. It’s an obsession with him—more important than my mum, more important than me. Mum did everything. Worked at any job she could get to pay the bills and put food on the table. She wanted to study, to go to uni, but somehow it never happened. It couldn’t because Dad wouldn’t go and get a job, it was always, “When I get recognised, then it will all change.”‘
Her shoulders hitched in a shrug.
‘Mum couldn’t even leave me with him when she was at work, because he got so absorbed in his work he forgot me. It consumed him. I don’t want that in my life.’
His throat tightened as he saw the pain in her eyes. So much made sense now: her desire for a job that didn’t challenge her, her need for a partner who pulled his weight.
‘Just because your father lost perspective it doesn’t mean you would.’
‘Not a risk I’m willing to take. And even if I were I couldn’t do that to Mum. She had such high hopes for me. She wanted me to be a lawyer or an accountant. Make something of my life … do all the stuff she missed out on. When it turned out I couldn’t achieve that she was devastated … I can’t disappoint her even more.’
‘But surely what your mum wants most for you is for you to be happy? You should talk to her about this. You can’t live your life for your parents.’
Imogen shook her head. ‘I’m not. Sure, Mum steered me away from art at every turn—but I don’t blame her for that. I don’t want to be bitten by the bug. Mum does want me to be happy and so do I. I know what I want from my life—I want to be secure, settled and comfortable. I want a nice husband and two point four kids. Maybe a Labrador and a white picket fence. The happy bonus is that I won’t make my mother miserable, watching her daughter follow the same road as her husband.’
‘The less than happy price is that you miss out on something you love.’
‘Then it’s a price I’m willing to pay.’
‘Even to the point of not taking up art as a hobby?’
‘I can’t.’ A small shake of her head as she looked at him almost beseechingly. ‘I’ve realised that these past weeks. I did love doing Richard’s proposal, I did enjoy working on projects for Peter, but you saw what happened. I became obsessed.’
‘That was one proposal—with a deadline. And you don’t have a family yet.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I have to draw a line under it now.’ As if suddenly realising his hands still covered hers, she pulled them away. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
Her words pulled a nerve taut. Years ago, after his parents’ death, that had been his exact decision. With two grief-stricken sisters to look after and a company to try and sort out—responsibilities that had surpassed his own dreams—he’d drawn a line under his surfing career. He’d taken his board out one last time—and the memory of the cool breeze, the tang of salt, the roll of the waves was etched on his soul in its significance.
‘But I don’t agree.’
He rose to his feet and looked down at her. Lord knew he did know how she felt—maybe that was why he was reacting so strongly to Imogen’s decision. But he’d had no choice. His sisters were his priority—that was an absolute, and he had no regrets as to his decision. But this … this was different, and he wished—so wished—there was some way to show Imogen that.
‘Your talent—your art—is a fundamental part of you that you’re shutting down.’
‘Maybe. But by shutting it down I get to be the person I want to be.’ Her lips curved into a small smile. ‘It’s truly lovely of you to care, and I appreciate it, Joe, but I made this decision long ago—it’s the sensible option. And I’m all about the sensible.’
Turning, she picked up the abandoned mascara wand and leant forward to peer at her ref lection.
Only she wasn’t ‘all about the sensible’. He’d seen Imogen Lorrimer at her least sensible and she’d been vibrant and alive and happy.
It’s truly lovely of you to care.
Her words echoed round his brain and set off alarm bells. Caring was not on his agenda. Time to back off—Imogen’s life was hers. He’d had his say and now it was time to join the Sensible Club.
‘Have it your way,’ he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IMOGEN SWALLOWED PAST the gnarl of emotion in her throat; she didn’t even know Leila or Howard, and yet the sight of them repeating their vows had tears prickling the backs of her eyelids.
In a gown that clung
to her in diaphanous folds of ivory and lace Leila radiated bridal joy—her smile could probably illuminate the whole of the Algarve. But it wasn’t that which touched Imogen most—it was the way Howard looked at his bride. Such love, such adoration, such pride that it was little wonder Imogen’s chest ached.
Hollywood, eat your heart out. Imogen, get a grip.
Maybe she was overreacting like this because the setting was so damn movie-like: the golden sand, the lap of waves and the glow of the setting sun that streaked flames of orange across the dusky sky.
What she needed to remember was that this was a moment of time—not a happy-ever-after. Look at her parents: she had pored over their wedding photos as a child, in an attempt to work out how such rosy happiness could have evaporated into screaming and bitterness.
Her parents’ dreams had crumbled to dust, their radiance no more than sex and foolish hope. Proof-positive that a marriage based on lust did not work—a marriage between two incompatible people did not work. But a marriage based on a tick-list would. Imogen was sure of it.
There was a collective gasp as Howard lifted his wife’s veil and kissed her. As Leila slid one slender arm around his neck Imogen cast a surreptitious look at Joe. Did he mind? Was he revisiting the past, wondering what would have happened if Leila had agreed to marry him all those years ago?
Surely not. He didn’t look like a man harbouring thoughts of the past—if anything he looked faintly bored. Unless, of course, it was all a façade—Joe was hardly a man to wear his heart on the sleeve of his grey suit, and that was even assuming he had one.
‘You OK?’ she asked under cover of the applause that had broken out as Howard and Leila continued their lip-lock.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You loved her once—whatever your reasons, you wanted to commit a lifetime to her.’
Broad shoulders hitched. ‘I’m happy for her—happy that she is happy. That the damage I did has been mitigated. No more than that.’ He glanced around. ‘Come on. It’s the receiving line. So don’t forget to turn on the adoring look.’