The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  After a time, Marianne stretched out and, taking the remains of the champagne, unceremoniously poured it over him, laughing as he squealed. Then pushing him onto his back, she licked him back to fullness before climbing astride, tearing strips off the abandoned lobster and feeding it to him piece by piece, rocking rhythmically backwards and forwards, until he exploded inside her again.

  Dessert was eaten off her breasts, the chocolate mousse coating her nipples as he sucked her clean, stroking softly between her legs, teasing her to such a shuddering final climax with his fingers, she almost wept with pleasure.

  With the feasting over and all desire spent, he took a wolf-skin throw from a chair and wrapped it around them as they nestled together in front of the dying embers, softly dozing in each other’s arms.

  “You okay, my darling?” he asked her, holding her tightly.

  “Mmm...” was all she could manage.

  “Sleep tight, my heart’s desire,” he whispered, as she slept.

  Dawn was breaking when Marianne woke. The fire had been rebuilt and was blazing. She pulled the throw about her as she went to the window, the snow storm still swirling outside. She pushed open a door, a huge four poster bed draped in red tapestry and silken fringe dominated the room, a smaller fire burned in an elegant hearth. She could hear water running. She followed the sound to a white marble bathroom the size of a ballroom. A former chapel, it featured paintings of saints and bible stories along the walls, sealed in glass frames against the moisture. The roof was a dome of sapphire blue adorned with faded silver stars.

  She could see his body outlined through the glass of the shower. She hesitated, the only thing assuring her it had not all been a dream was the soft burning between her legs and the sweet soreness of her nipples against the throw.

  He saw her and stepping out pulled her to him gently, letting the water spill over them both, as he carefully began to soap her hair and wash her body, kissing her throat, moving down to the scars on her shoulders and back, as he worked his hands all over her. He pulled away the arm she held against the scar that dissected her lower torso, and ran his fingers along the fine white line.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he whispered, and she responded, taking him in her hands and stroking him until he was hard. He made love to her again, softly, smoothly, and with such tenderness, she was moved near to tears. They clung to each other under the water until it ran cool and then he wrapped her in white fluffy towels and carried her to the bed, placing her between clean linen sheets.

  “I bet you’re tired my darling,” he said, smiling down at her, “tired but happy?”

  “Happy, yes, but a little bit sleepy too.” She smiled back at him.

  “Okay, I’ll make a start on the script, you doze awhile. See you later.” He kissed her forehead and then, dimming the lights, padded out of the room to begin work on the final scene of the screenplay. She drifted off into slumber, too happy to care if she were dreaming, to dreamy to care if she should wake.

  Marianne was up and dressed in suede jeans and Ryan’s evening shirt when room service came to clear away the evidence of last night’s passion. The butler brought coffee, croissant, scrambled egg and smoked salmon. Ryan grinned at her as she entered the room.

  “Good morning, Muse. Hair of the dog?” He poured Bucks Fizz, skilfully ensuring the fresh orange juice did not cause the champagne to overspill.

  “Don’t really need one, but that looks delicious.”

  “Talking of dogs, how is the little fella?”

  “Staying with my ex-boss and his wife, but in fine form. What about Larry?”

  “In fine form also. Delighted with the film deal, he and Lena will do well out of it – it’s all good.”

  “And Innishmahon, heard from anyone there?” She took the irons to poke the fire.

  “Gregory, the priest emails from time to time and, Miss MacReady, she keeps me up to speed.”

  “Me too. And Oonagh from the pub, I’m very fond of her and Padar.”

  “Everything happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to...”

  She shrugged. He took her by the shoulders, turning her towards him.

  “Because I left in such a hurry I asked Lisa to track you down. Miss MacReady came up trumps. I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “Abandoning you, rushing off, full of big plans. Not letting you know how I felt…how I hoped you might want me to feel.”

  “It’s not up to me to dictate how you feel. But I’m not a home-wrecker – I know what that feels like. It’s not surprising I don’t want a relationship with a man who already has a partner.” She sipped her drink. “So, truthfully now, how is Angelique?”

  “Over. Definitely over, but like these things often are, messy. Well, the thing is…” He looked away, the atmosphere shifted.

  She put her hands to his face, bringing him back,

  “Hey, it’s okay. Come on, let’s get to work, looks like you’ve written loads.”

  He smiled, relieved.

  “There’s a lot of waiting between takes.”

  “A lot of waiting when you’re out of work, too.”

  “Really?”

  She ignored the question, taking spectacles out of her bag and arranging the pile of paper in order.

  “Missed you.” He kissed her on the top of her head as she bowed over her work. She started to make notes. He joined her at the desk. They did not look up until the butler returned to re-lay the fire and enquire if they wished to make a reservation for dinner in the restaurant.

  “Have you boots?” he asked her. “We need some air.”

  The sun was gold and glorious against the ivory of the winter sky, trees turned black against the backdrop of early evening iridescence. They walked hand in hand, silent footprints of powder soft snow in their wake.

  “And what of Paul Osborne’s book? The series of articles? How does that sit with you?” He gave her a sidelong glance.

  “For goodness sake, Ryan, I’m not an undercover agent, any more than you are. Trust me, I mean it. I’m not party to his work, or secretly researching you on his behalf, or indeed, anyone else’s.”

  They walked on in silence for a while.

  “There’s been a bit of a family rift to say the least,” he said.

  She nodded, encouragingly.

  “Paul is persona non grata as far as Zara and Mike are concerned, you can imagine. Although Lena likes the added value the frisson brings to the whole scenario, she thinks the publicity can only help the movie. Me? I’m disappointed he’s written such rubbish about me. Seems I rescued all the survivors of the terrorist attack single-handed, and the sequel is me salvaging Innishmahon after the storm. He’s the one over-playing this All-Action Hero stuff. It’s all unauthorised and every now and then my PR has to issue a statement refuting the more ridiculous claims, but beyond that I am not too worried, just disappointed.”

  “More sales when you get round to writing the authorised version though.”

  He frowned.

  “There is that. Don’t turn into a Lena on me now.”

  “Just an observation, I’m opting out of the world of commerce and journalism – for a while anyway.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Not sure. I still feel strongly about the stolen babies’ story. I’m sure there are lots of mothers and children who would love to be reunited, if not reunited, just told what happened, told the truth. Every woman I interviewed said something was wrong. They knew deep down their babies had not died. It feels unfinished to me, maybe this is the space and time I need to finish it, do something positive. I don’t know yet, and won’t make a decision until I have to.”

  “That’s admirable, and I understand what you mean about unfinished business and not making decisions until you have to. But what about me? Have you decided about me?” He gave her that look again.

  “What’s to decide? Film star, fantastic lover, gifted writer, excellent company
. You tick all my boxes.”

  “But do you like me, Marie? Are we friends?” He stopped, his eyes burning into her. She blushed.

  “Ah, come on.” She laughed. “That’s going a bit too far now.”

  They kept to the roadway until they found a stile. He brushed the snow off, helping her over.

  “Race yer,” he called, and was away, taking off as fast as he could up the hill. She followed, failing hopelessly to make any ground. He reached the top of the hillock and started sparring Rocky-style. Marianne tried to run, breathless and laughing, but her feet could not take hold in the new snow. He held out his arms and then, as if in slow motion, her foot caught a rock and she fell, head first, arms flailing, to glide gracefully down the slope on her front, her chin leaving a small trench in the snow as she went.

  Ryan headed after her, but he too lost his footing and ended up on his bottom, sliding at speed towards her splayed figure, now stuck in its own little snow drift. She was just setting herself right when he ploughed into her. Throwing her back to the ground, he seized the opportunity to pin her down with a full body dive, pushing her hair off her face, to kiss her passionately in an old-fashioned teenage snog. Eventually gasping for breath, she wriggled free, laughing.

  “Stop it, I can’t breathe, nutcase.”

  “I can’t help it. You really turn me on. I feel like a kid with a crush, I’m mad about you, can’t stop thinking about you. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Now that sounded like a script.”

  He pulled his mouth down, like a clown. Marianne kicked at the snow as he made snowballs and, within minutes, a battle ensued ending when Ryan, with an overzealous throw, slipped again and Marianne took the opportunity to climb onto his chest pinning him down to claim victory.

  “Call yourself an All-Action Hero?” She laughed, helping him to his feet.

  “It’s only acting.” His eyes grew dark.

  “I know that.” She took his hand. They walked on for a while in silence.

  “Do you fancy the restaurant tonight? What about roast pheasant and a nice bottle of Bordeaux in front of the fire. That final scene needs some more work, doesn’t it?”

  “Are you on the menu for dessert?”

  “Could be,” he teased.

  “That’s a yes then. Ryan O’Gorman, you’re such an easy lay.”

  “I’m not really.” He was serious.

  “Yeah, right.” She reached up and bit his earlobe.

  “Ouch!”

  “Race you back.”

  Marianne packed quietly the next morning and then stood at the foot of the bed watching him as he slept. The long eyelashes on his still boyish face, the curve of his chin, straight nose, plump bottom lip. His arms were spread across the sheets, dark brown nipples like velvet against the light brown skin of his torso, a stretch of gold against the stark white linen. He looked like a god. She closed her eyes to hold the image, a picture of perfection. He stirred, searching for her in the bed.

  “Marie?”

  She bent to kiss him.

  “I have to go. Snow’s nearly melted and the roads are clear. Isabelle and Jack are leaving for Scotland this evening, I need to collect Monty.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Eleven.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Monday.”

  “Shit!” He leapt out of bed. “I’ve three interviews today. Lisa should be here, I should be ready.”

  “She is here. She called the room, your mobile is switched off. I answered, she thought I was Angelique.”

  He stepped back out of the bathroom.

  “No way.” He took her hands. “That’s over. We’ve separated. Seriously, Lisa made a mistake, that’s all.”

  “And the baby? I’ve heard Angelique’s pregnant?” Marianne did not want this conversation now, he had not mentioned it all weekend, she wished she could keep her tirelessly investigative mouth shut.

  “I’m not sure about that. She’s said she’s pregnant, she’s said it’s mine but she won’t even talk to me. So I don’t know what to think, and now the gossip columns are speculating and Angelique’s PR machine is in full flow. You know what it’s like.”

  “Sure I do.” She started towards the door.

  “It is over, Marie, believe me please, and I don’t know about this, us, but it feels pretty special to me.” He was standing before her. He took her hands in his.

  “Ryan, it’s okay. Really. I had the most lovely time, thank you.”

  “Oh, so did I, the best of times.”

  She half-smiled.

  “We have each other’s personal numbers, we’ll stay in touch, see each other again, I do so want to see you again. I’ll call, I promise. I know the coming months are going to be busy…”

  “I can imagine.” She tried not to sound cynical.

  “Don’t, Marie. This was special. You’re special.” He held her shoulders, searching her face.

  “And so are you. Very,” she told him.

  They kissed and she left.

  He moved to the window where he had waited for her to arrive and watched her go.

  She started the car, and looked up. She could just make out his silhouette. She willed coldness into her heart as she gripped the steering wheel. She would not miss him, it was just an affair, a glorious brief encounter, but only that. She would never have her heart broken again. He raised his hand. She turned the wheel; the car park had turned to slush as she drove cautiously away.

  Chapter Eighteen –

  The Phoenix Fights Back

  Jack Buchanan never returned to England. He was taken ill shortly after he and Isabelle had arrived at their holiday home near Kelso and, following a brief stay in Borders General Hospital, died peacefully in his sleep in the croft Isabelle had lovingly restored ahead of his retirement.

  Isabelle was stoical as ever when she spoke with Marianne on the telephone; she was having a private burial for Jack and hoped Marianne would stay in touch.

  After their conversation, Marianne sat down at George’s old desk and wrote out her resignation, in long hand, using her fountain pen. She was not even going to go and clear her desk. She took her laptop, mobile phone, and the letter to the Post Office and mailed the whole lot back to the newspaper’s new managing director. She signed the docket for the recorded delivery with a flourish.

  A terse finale to her years at the Chronicle, she mused, but the empire she had hoped to one day rule was no more. The ambition which had driven her on had been driven away, and Jack’s demise felt like the final nail in the coffin of her own career. She felt no loyalty to Global Communications Inc. Most of her colleagues had left, and when she heard that Paul Osborne had been made editorial director, it came as no surprise at all. Even with the news of Jack’s death, a couple of paragraphs on page nine and then a brief, humourless obituary the following day, Paul did not contact her. There had been no communication between them at all and, in spite of everything, this saddened her.

  Oonagh, on the other hand, liked to keep in touch with everyone, constantly, and it was while listlessly re-filing her emails on her new laptop, that Marianne received a message from her favourite Irish landlady. She was thrilled to read Oonagh cautiously announce that she had fallen pregnant. This was one conversation Marianne did not want to have via email, she wanted to hear the joy in Oonagh’s voice and share in the excitement. The news touched her deeply, she was near to tears as she telephoned her long-distance friend.

  Within minutes, Marianne was assuring her everything would work out this time, lecturing her about looking after herself and taking things easy. Oonagh took it in good part; with Padar’s help they were going to do everything they could to ensure this pregnancy had a happy outcome; they were both nervously yet deliriously delighted. Then, having discussed the well-being of their mutual acquaintances, Oonagh launched into her unofficial ‘Ryan O’Gorman’ fan club update: the sets; the stars; the locations; she had all the latest gossip, until finally stopping to d
raw breath, she said:

  “He’s in England promoting the film at the moment, you know. Have you seen him? Has he been in touch?” She waited, “Marie, are you still there?”

  “Sorry Oonagh, I have to go. Other line’s ringing. Business. Catch you later.”

  Marianne put the phone down quickly. She did not want to have to lie, but if she told Oonagh she had seen Ryan, the barrage of questions would have been relentless, and to reveal any detail of their recent rendezvous would be a huge mistake. Marianne did not imagine Oonagh was malicious in anyway, but she also knew Oonagh would find it impossible to keep any detail of her encounter with Ryan, romantic or otherwise, confidential. She would be straight onto Miss MacReady and between them they would be busy broadcasting the ‘Romance blooms for super spy star on Innishmahon’ story to the world, and although Marianne was bursting to tell somebody, anybody, of her tantalising yet fleeting love affair with currently the most popular film actor in the Universe, her lips were sealed. The ramifications of such a revelation were incalculable.

  “It was a glorious fling and everyone should have one, at least once in their lifetime. And in media terms, yes it’s a great story; ‘Super Spy’ in secret love tryst,” she explained to Monty, shuddering as she imagined the headlines. “We all know showbiz revelations sell newspapers, but ‘great story’ though it may be, for whom and for what? For the film, the actor, the movie machine, possibly. For the two individuals involved, definitely not.”

  She lifted him from where he had nestled at her feet, his favourite spot when she was working or talking on the landline. Checking she had replaced the receiver fully, Marianne noticed she had an answer phone message. She recognised Sophie’s number; her scatterbrained friend had been leaving increasingly anxious messages and she had not responded to any of them. She had heard that Jack had died and Marianne was not to go another day without calling her back or she was going to turn up on the doorstep and camp there with her entire family, until Marianne came out of the house to speak to her and at least tell her she was alright.

  Marianne sighed and considered a trip to Sophie’s the easier option.