by Marie Laval
There was another short pause. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I would like to see the books and all the paperwork for Love Taxis first thing in the morning. It’s about time I knew what I was dealing with.’
Her heart sank, but even though he couldn’t see her, she tilted her chin up. ‘No problem. You’ll have the accounts in the morning. Good night!’
She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the sound of the door closing. She had only postponed the inevitable. She would have to face him soon enough, but at least she would have time to compose herself, her cheeks would not be quite as hot and her hands would have stopped shaking.
She would use her evening to get the books ready for Petersen. He wouldn’t be impressed though, especially since she had neglected them lately. A little creative accounting was in order.
She slipped into a thick flannel shirt and a pair of jeans and phoned Lorna at her sister’s in Norwich. She had to let her know about Geoff’s operation.
As she suspected, Lorna offered to return to Raventhorn straight away. ‘There’s nothing you can do. The doctors said the operation could take hours. What’s more, you need a break to recharge your batteries. You’ll need all your strength to help take care of Geoff when he leaves hospital.’
‘Did he talk to you?’ Lorna asked.
‘He couldn’t say much because of his oxygen mask. He did mumble a few things about some dangerous man – or was it dangerous men? – but he wasn’t making much sense. Do you know what he wanted to tell me? You said it was important.’
Lorna hesitated. ‘I’m not sure, sweetie.’ There was a silence. ‘Anyway, how are you getting on with Marc Petersen?’
‘Very well.’ Rosalie crossed her fingers and touched the table’s wooden top. She’d never told so many lies, it could only bring bad luck.
They talked a while longer and she hung up after promising to call the following day. She settled at the dining room table with her ledgers, receipts and bank statements for the past three months, and opened the diary where she recorded all of her and Duncan’s fares. If there was a time she regretted declining Niall’s offer of help with her accounts, this was it.
Her heart was sinking when she pushed the books away a couple of hours later. Things were bad, very bad. She would be well over her overdraft limit after she paid Duncan’s, Fiona’s and Fergus’s wages this month, and that was before Niall billed her for the repairs to both Duncan’s cab and her own.
She could already see Marc Petersen looking down at her with his cool grey eyes as he passed judgement on the way she managed, or rather mismanaged, her taxi firm. Perhaps he was right and she wasn’t cut out to run a business. She didn’t charge high enough fares, gave her customers too much leeway with credit. She should work from a large town, do more airport runs, offer businessmen special deals, invest in a minibus and diversify into day trips for tourists. She would never make any money in Irlwick, and yet this was where people needed her most.
She rubbed her eyes, stifled a yawn and pushed her chair back. All she wanted now was something to eat and a cup of tea with lots of milk and sugar. She walked to the window, and lifted her curtain. Blustery gusts of wind swept fresh snow across the courtyard. All the windows at Raventhorn were dark, which meant that Petersen was asleep and she could safely sneak into the kitchen and get some food. He would never know she’d been there.
Cheered up by the prospect of Lorna’s chocolate cake that she knew was in the fridge, she put on her boots, found her key to the kitchen door and wrapped herself in one of Geoff’s dark green padded jackets which was far too big, but much warmer than her pink anorak, and which she often wore to go hiking. Pulling the hood down to shelter from the wind, she hurried down the stairs and across the courtyard. The security lights didn’t come on. She sighed. The power must be down, once again.
The kitchen was cold – far too cold to take her coat off. She flicked the electricity switch but nothing happened. So she’d been right. The fuses had blown and the heating was down too. She didn’t fancy a trip to the basement on her own right now. She’d wait until morning to fix it. That way she could show Petersen what to do if it happened again, which it no doubt would. Isobel McBride playing around with the electricity was a story Geoff had made up years before to justify not doing anything about the dismal state of the plumbing and the electricity, in the same way he used the ghostly Raven Lady as an excuse not to replace rotten window frames which let in freezing draughts and made doors slam shut. He said it gave paying guests something to remember Raventhorn by …
She was feeling her way along the kitchen cabinets to get to the drawer where Lorna kept a torch when her sleeve caught the handle of a frying pan. It crashed to the floor with a deafening noise before she could stop it. Hoping that Petersen was sound asleep and hadn’t heard the racket, she picked it up and set it on the table.
She found the torch, opened the fridge and shone the light inside, and licked her lips. Lorna’s chocolate cake would go some way in helping her forget the mortifying bathroom incident and the hours spent worrying over the accounts for Love Taxis. Taking the whole cake back to the flat was tempting, but selfish, and she decided to leave some for Petersen, even if he didn’t deserve it.
She balanced the torch on the table, took a knife out of the drawer and was just starting to cut the cake when a noise outside the kitchen startled her. She bumped against the table. The torch fell down and switched itself off, plunging the kitchen in darkness.
After that everything happened too fast. As she was bending down to retrieve the torch, a man’s hand seized hold of her arm and twisted it behind her back, forcing her to release the knife. She extended her free hand forward, feeling for something – anything – that could serve as a weapon against her attacker. Her fingers made contact with the handle of the frying pan. She grabbed hold of it, twisted round and swung the pan in front of her. There was a loud metallic sound as it connected with her assailant’s face, quickly followed by a curse in French.
Her blood froze. No. It couldn’t be.
Gasping in shock, she held the pan against her chest. ‘Petersen? Is that you?’
‘Rosalie?’ He sounded as stunned as she was.
Her heart sank. What had she done? What if he pressed charges for assault, or demanded she left Raventhorn immediately and found somewhere else to live?
She swallowed hard. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘What do you think?’ he grunted.
He picked up the torch and flicked it on. ‘What the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night? With that coat, your hood up and that great big knife in your hand, I thought you were some psycho burglar.’
‘I wanted some chocolate cake.’
He stared at her, his eyes filled with shadows, and repeated very slowly, ‘You wanted some chocolate cake.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He rubbed the side of his face. ‘You are truly one of a kind, Rosalie Heart.’ Something in his tone hinted that he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
‘It was your fault too! You shouldn’t jump on me like that. You scared me to death. When I think I was cutting a piece of cake for you …’
His gaze travelled from her to the frying pan, then back to her, and he shook his head. Surprisingly his lips stretched into a smile and a spark of humour lit his eyes. The change was so striking it almost took her breath away.
‘You should play tennis,’ he said, rubbing his jaw. ‘You have a terrific backhand.’ Before she could respond, he carried on. ‘By the way, the heating and the electricity are down. I’ll call an electrician in the morning, but in the meantime do you have any idea how to fix them?’
‘Grab the torch and come with me to the basement, I’ll show you what to do.’
It didn’t take long to sort out the electricity. The heating as usual proved a little trickier, but she tinkered with the controls and the boiler spurted back to life.
‘There. All done.’
As if to prove her wrong,
the lights flickered and went out again. A cold breeze blew into the basement, and the door slammed shut with such a loud bang that Rosalie shrieked, swung round, and bumped into Petersen. His arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her against him to stop her from falling. Her fingers instinctively gripped his jumper and she clung to him, breathing in the subtle lemony scent of his aftershave. How strong and solid he was … and how hot and tingly he made her feel all over!
‘I’m all right,’ she mumbled as she jerked back, confused and angry at her body’s treacherous response.
‘Stay here, I’ll fix it again,’ he said. There were a few clanking noises as he must have tripped on tools scattered on the stone flags, and a couple of muffled curses in French when he banged his head on a shelf, but a weak halo of yellow light soon danced on the walls. He removed the casing from the fuse box, flicked the small levers and light flooded the basement.
‘These power cuts have nothing to do with your ghostly Isobel McBride,’ he remarked, wiping cobwebs from his hair with his fingers. ‘The whole place needs rewiring and renovating.’
‘No, it doesn’t. It has character, that’s all,’ she protested. ‘If you wanted designer bathrooms and fancy central heating, you should have bought a modern house. Raventhorn is perfect the way it is.’
He did not reply and they made their way back upstairs.
‘I only had a very uninspiring sandwich earlier on,’ he said when they walked into the kitchen. ‘I think there’s some pasta in the fridge. Would you like to join me for a bite to eat?’
As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. A few hours earlier, she would have been mortified at the idea of sharing a meal with him. Now she was hungry and cold, and acutely aware that the cupboards in her flat were bare. And who knows, perhaps hitting him over the head with the frying pan had given him amnesia and he’d forgotten all about seeing her naked in the bath?
She nodded. ‘Thank you. I’d like that. Lorna makes the best lasagne, they’re even better than Alice’s.’
She put a pasta dish in the microwave oven while he set the table and pulled a bottle of red wine out of the wine rack.
‘I met your cleaning lady today,’ he remarked, when they sat down to eat. He poured wine into her glass.
She glanced up. ‘And you lived to tell the tale? Marion can talk for Scotland.’
He smiled. ‘She must be the most talkative person I’ve ever met – apart from Alice and yourself, that is.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Marion gave me a thorough grilling. She should work for the police or MI6.’
She frowned. ‘You didn’t tell her why you were here, did you?’
‘No. She is under the impression I’m here to help McBride translate old Danish manuscripts and I didn’t put her right.’ He leaned across the table. ‘You can’t put it off forever, you know. Petersen Holdings own Raventhorn and there’s nothing you can do about it. People will have to be told eventually.’
‘I want to talk to Geoff before telling anybody.’ She hung her head down and sighed. ‘But now I don’t know when that will be.’ She explained about the heart operation scheduled for the following day.
‘I’m surprised you’re his next of kin,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you say Elaine and Rupert were his cousins?’
‘They’re not close. He knows all they were ever interested in was Raventhorn. Rupert came to the hospital this morning, but only to ask Geoff for money and gloat about my troubles.’
She proceeded to dip her spoon into the moist chocolate cake and brought it to her lips. She had a very seductive way of eating chocolate cake, slowly, savouring every mouthful and when she’d eaten the last morsel, she licked the spoon clean and passed her tongue across her lips.
Marc put his glass down, clenched his fist under the table and looked away. It didn’t stop his blood pulsing and his body throbbing. He almost groaned aloud as sensations and images flashed through him –sensations of how soft she had felt as she nestled against him in the basement, and images of the creamy skin and wonderful curves he’d caught a glimpse of when she was in the bath and that she’d now hidden under her shapeless checked shirt. Once again, he wondered what was happening to the polished, controlled, disciplined man he’d striven to become all these years. It was as if Scotland’s raw wilderness yanked him back to a crude and untamed version of himself.
‘Has McBride ever been married?’ he asked in a gruff voice.
She smiled and pushed her empty plate away. ‘What would Geoff have done with a wife? He had us – Lorna, my mother and I.’
‘You mean that your mother was … hmm … involved with him?’
‘Oh no, things were never that way between my mother and Geoff, although I’m quite sure that, like every female over the age of five, she was a little bit in love with him.’
An unpleasant thought made him frown. He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Are you? In love with him, I mean.’
This time she stared at him in shock. ‘Of course not. What a silly thing to say. Geoff is like a … well, I suppose, he is a very dear friend, or an uncle to me.’ She rose to her feet with a sigh. ‘Anyway, it’s late. We’d better clean up. There’s no need to fill the dishwasher for just a few pots. I’ll wash up if you dry.’
She handed him a tea towel, rolled up her sleeves and started clearing the plates. He helped her pile the dirty crockery by the sink and stood next to her, towel in hand.
She was close – too close. The button at the top of her shirt had come undone, giving him a tantalising glimpse of her milky white throat. Her warm, sweet and fruity scent drove him to distraction. His throat felt dry and tight, and his hands so clumsy he almost dropped several plates to the ground.
‘Watch out, Petersen!’ She laughed. ‘I bet you don’t do the dishes very often.’
‘No. I don’t. Sorry.’
She turned to look at him. As if she could guess what he was thinking and felt the attraction that sparked and sizzled around them, her eyes opened wide, and her pupils grew larger. A pink blush spread on her face as she parted her lips.
His fingers wrapped themselves around the damp tea towel. Damn. This was torture. It would be so easy to bend down, take, touch and taste. He’d never wanted anything more in his life. Kissing Rosalie Heart, however, was out of the question. He wasn’t here to mix pleasure with business. And Raventhorn was business – only business.
He drew in a sharp breath and stepped back. His voice was cold and matter-of-fact when he spoke. ‘It’s time to call it a night. Leave the rest of the washing-up. I’ll finish it in the morning. And don’t forget to bring me the books at nine o’clock.’
Blood drained from her face, and she shrunk away from him. ‘The books … oh … yes … of course.’
‘Would you like me to walk you back to your flat?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s no need. Sorry once again about your head.’ She slipped her green jacket on, and opened the door, and almost ran out into the night, leaving in her place a gust of cold air and a flurry of snowflakes.
He stood alone in the kitchen, wondering what he was going to do about Raventhorn, about Rosalie Heart and her taxi business.
But most of all he was wondering what the hell was happening to him.
Chapter Ten
It was still snowing the following morning when she walked across the courtyard, clasping the ledgers against her. The plan was to leave them on the kitchen table, get the keys to the Range Rover and sneak out without bumping into Marc. But, of course, nothing went to plan these days.
‘Good morning.’ Marc put his coffee down and rose to his feet. He was dressed in a thick green jumper and a pair of jeans, and sported a vivid purple bruise on his cheekbone where she’d hit him with the copper pan.
‘Good morning,’ she mumbled back, her chest tightening with guilt and shame. She could have killed the man.
‘You’re early,’ he remarked.
‘I have things to do.’ She pulled her hood down and set the l
edgers on the table. ‘Here are the books for Love Taxis, as requested.’
‘Would you like a coffee before we start? I’ve just made some.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t stay.’
He glanced at the window. ‘There’s a raging snowstorm outside. Don’t tell me you’re going out in your cab today.’
‘Not the cab. I need the Range Rover today. In bad weather, a group of us take it in turn to visit elderly or disabled people who live out of town and make sure they’re all right. We bring them essential supplies, collect their medicines or clear their drive, that kind of thing.’
She ran a finger along the spine of one of the ledgers and let out a heavy sigh. ‘I did my best with the accounts but I’m sure you’ll have plenty of comments about my lack of business sense and my … what was it … naivety – or was it stupidity – I can’t remember your exact words.’ She didn’t even try to hide the bitterness in her voice. It probably wouldn’t take more than five minutes for Marc Petersen to decide to close Love Taxis down.
She looked up. ‘I need to go. Did you put the keys back in the desk in the library?’
He frowned, thoughtful. ‘I’m coming with you.’
She tilted her head up in shock. ‘What for?’
‘I’ll drive.’
‘Oh I see, you don’t think I can handle the Range Rover on my own. I’ve driven it many times before, and in worse weather than this, and I’m sure you have far more important things to do than shovel snow off someone’s drive, cut wood, bring in people’s groceries and … you know … be nice to people. You don’t do nice and chats, remember?’
‘I said I’d keep an eye on you, and I will, whether you like it or not. And for the record, I am capable of being nice. I’ll get the keys.’ Without giving her time to find fresh objections, he disappeared upstairs.
Rosalie stamped her booted foot on the floor tiles in frustration. How dare the man meddle with her life so? Now she would have to be with him all day! She poured the rest of the coffee from the cafetière into a flask, added lashings of milk and sugar, and stuffed a packet of chocolate digestives and a couple of bananas into her bag.