Owen suppressed a grin as he watched the pixie try her best to ignore him while she chatted with Mrs Barnes as she served her. She might be only a slip of a thing, but she seemed to contain enough energy for a woman twice her size. If he held his hands towards her, he’d expect to see a current arcing from her towards his fingers, like one of those plasma energy balls. Though she did her best to pretend she was ignoring him, he couldn’t miss the way her eyes flicked in his direction every few seconds. This might get interesting, after all.
He let his gaze trace the pixie from the tips of her black boots to the peacock shock of her hair before leaning into her space a touch closer than was strictly polite. ‘You were wrong in what you said about arse-biting, you know. I’ve always found it very charming.’ That bright red flush mottled her cheeks once more, and he wondered if he’d miscalculated. It had been a harmless bit of flirtation, something that came as easily to him as breathing. Her bold appearance and brash words had given the impression of an experienced woman. The blush told a different story, however.
Clutching the ice bucket holding her bottle of champagne like a shield before her, she started to edge past him before stopping to stare up at him through her thickly mascaraed lashes. ‘What did you want with the emporium anyway? I hope you weren’t planning to sling up a load of ugly apartments like they did at the other end of the prom. They’re a dreadful eyesore, and not the kind of thing we need around here at all.’
The disdain in her tone shattered any sympathy he might have been harbouring towards her—and any other kind of feelings for that matter. The fact she’d hit the nail on the head about the kind of project he was interested in didn’t help either. Owen bristled. ‘Those flats bring a much-needed touch of class to the prom. People want more than donkey rides and kiss-me-quick hats, these days. This place is dying on its feet. You should be grateful anyone wants to invest in a provincial little backwater like Lavender Bay!’
Shock widened her azure eyes, and in their depths he read a deeper emotion, almost like pain. Expecting her to lash back, he squared his shoulders in preparation. When she spoke, instead of sharp and spikey, her voice was soft and full of disappointment. ‘I was right, you’re definitely not from around here.’ With a shake of her head, the pixie walked across the bar and out of his life.
If she’d slid a knife up under his ribs, she couldn’t have scored a more fatal blow. Turning his back, Owen gripped the edge of the bar as her words ricocheted around his brain. Not from around here. Myriad insults and accusations from the past swelled up to join them, forming a tortuous chorus. Bad blood will out. Rotten little bastard. No wonder your mother dumped you. Get back to where you belong. That last one was ironic to the extreme because Owen didn’t belong anywhere. Not in any of the foster homes he’d passed through, and most definitely not in this one-horse excuse for a town.
Bile burned the back of his throat and he swallowed it down with the last dregs of his pint. It was just as well the deal to buy the emporium had gone nowhere. Whatever he’d thought he was doing coming down here—looking for his bloody roots or some such bollocks—it had been a mistake. The only person he had ever been able to rely on was himself and he had the bitter experience to prove it.
Having slammed his empty glass down, Owen marched from the bar. Sod Lavender Bay, and sod big-mouthed pixies who didn’t know a good thing when they saw it. The sooner he got away from this godforsaken little town, the better.
Chapter 2
A few weeks after his impulsive visit to Butterfly Cove, Owen was finally starting to feel back on track. Things were running smoothly at CCC—Coburn Construction Contractors—the company he’d built from the ground up. Who needed a grotty old shop in some old-fashioned seaside town when he could be inches away from a securing a client that could propel the business to the next level? After eighteen months of submitting unsuccessful bids to them, one of London’s most prestigious property developers was seriously considering CCC for part of their overall conversion package for a huge disused warehouse area. If Owen could get a foot in the door with Taylors, he’d be made for life.
Feeling pretty bloody pleased with himself, he decided an early celebration was on the cards and put in a call to Claire, a woman he’d been seeing. They’d been out for drinks a couple of times and now seemed like the perfect time to up the ante with a date at Fabiano’s, one of the most exclusive restaurants in his local area. Taylors wasn’t the only deal he was hoping to secure that night.
Placing a hand on Claire’s back a few inches below the end of the glossy blonde mane flowing over her shoulders, Owen steered her through the front door. As a server helped his date out of her jacket, Owen let himself appreciate the way her neutral-toned designer dress clung to every curve. Owen wasn’t on top of the latest female fashion trends, but he knew quality when he saw it. The logo on the handbag hanging from her arm was large enough to be seen from space. Good for her. If you’ve got it, sweetheart, flaunt it.
A couple waiting at the bar for a table turned at their entrance, the man’s eyes lingering on Claire for a few more seconds than was strictly polite. To Owen’s satisfaction, Claire made a point of slipping her free arm through his as she leaned into him, making it clear who she was with. There was no hiding the little smile on her face, though, but that was all right. There was nothing wrong with a woman enjoying being admired; if he hadn’t already been with her, Owen would’ve taken a second glance himself.
‘You have a reservation, signore?’ The maître d’ asked.
‘Coburn. Eight o’clock. I believe you have a corner booth for us?’ Owen slipped the man a tip large enough to make his eyes gleam.
‘Most certainly, let me escort you to your seats.’
They’d just got settled when Owen’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Alex, his second-in-command at CCC had promised to let him know the moment they heard anything from Taylors. Owen glanced across the table to where the maître d’ had been replaced by a waiter who was fussing and fluttering over Claire. Figuring he had a couple of minutes’ grace, he slipped out his phone and opened his emails.
‘Owen? Owen?’
‘Hmm? Whatever you want to order is fine with me.’ He glanced up from the email response he was hesitating over and caught Claire’s exasperated glare. His fingers clenched around the phone. Contrary to his expectations, the news from Taylors wasn’t good. Far from offering to sign on the dotted line, they were demanding a fifteen per cent reduction on a contract already pared down to the bone. Swallowing down his frustration, Owen gave his companion his most winning smile. ‘I’m being rude. Forgive me?’
The ice around her eyes melted a fraction. ‘You’ve not heard a word I’ve said, have you?’ He stared across the corner booth at his dinner date. The perfectly made-up face he’d first admired at a local networking event was currently twisted into a disappointed pout. Owen bit back a sigh. One of the things he’d found attractive about her was that she ran her own business and would therefore—he’d assumed—understand his erratic schedule. Apparently not.
Eyes on the prize, mate. Reaching over, Owen took one of her hands and raised it to his lips in a calculated gesture he’d melted many a frosty heart with in the past. ‘I’m sorry, Claire. I just need a couple of minutes to resolve a work problem, and then you’ll have my undivided attention, I promise.’
As expected, her pout transformed into a delighted smile. Nails lacquered in the same café au lait shade as her lipstick dug briefly into his palm as she squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t mind me, I’ve just been looking forward to this evening ever since you told me you’d booked us a table here.’
Booking Fabiano’s gave the right message to a woman like Claire who valued symbols and linked them to her own sense of self. She’d worked hard for those rewards, and he understood the desire to control perceptions and project the right kind of image. As a child, he’d been powerless to do so, and been judged by people who couldn’t see past hand-me-downs and bargain basement rubbish. Tho
se days were gone now, and he wouldn’t stint himself, or anyone he spent time with. ‘Why don’t you order us some champagne, while I finish this up?’
Eyes sparkling, Claire waved their waiter over. Owen let her grand production of perusing the wine list amuse him for a moment before turning back to his phone. He’d done enough to seal one deal for the evening, time to put the other one to bed, so to speak. Thumbs poised over the automatic keyboard on his phone, he considered the best way to phrase his response. Taylors had enough money to buy Owen a thousand times over and still wanted to bleed him dry. The fifteen per cent they were demanding would mean less than nothing to a business as large as them, but would cover decent year-end bonuses for Owen’s staff or help to replace a couple of their older company vans. And what if all the other companies he was hoping to attract through this new contract were just as tight? Kudos wouldn’t pay the bills.
What was he doing risking the company he’d built from scratch? Was his ego so bloody fragile he’d throw away everything he’d worked so hard to build for the chance to link his name to people who wouldn’t give him the time of day if they knew his background? There were better jobs to chase than Taylors. Jobs which would bring a decent profit margin and be a damn sight less stressful for all concerned.
Mind made up, Owen tapped a quick reply. Tell them, thanks but no thanks. We’ve offered a damned good package and if they can’t see that there are plenty of others who will. Send the email then GO HOME! Debrief at 8 a.m.
The waiter returned just as he was putting his phone away. ‘Your champagne, sir. An excellent vintage, and if I may suggest the perfect accompaniment to the chef’s dish of the day. The salmon is truly exquisite.’
Owen’s eyes travelled from the distinctive shield-shaped label on the bottle to the slight smirk on the waiter’s face. He might well look pleased with himself considering Claire had ordered the most expensive offering on the menu. The commission on a bottle like that would be a nice boost in the waiter’s pocket. Well, it served Owen right for being an arse and ignoring her, he supposed. Some days, being the boss sucked, but he’d take the hit to his wallet. ‘Ladies first.’ He gestured the waiter towards Claire and watched her simper and fuss over tasting the straw-coloured wine like she knew the difference between a two-hundred-pound bottle of Dom Perignon and a supermarket prosecco. The champagne matched her hair, nails and dress to perfection. Fifty shades of beige.
Out of nowhere, the image of the black-clad, wild-haired pixie from Lavender Bay popped into his head. He bet she’d never set foot in a place like Fabiano’s, and likely wouldn’t give two hoots about it. No sexy high heels and skin-tight dresses for her. He couldn’t imagine her sulking over his need to deal with a work problem if they’d been out on a date. She’d have either understood and let it go or turned on her heel and walked away. A wry grin teased the corner of his mouth. She’d already done the second, so a date with her was never going to get beyond the hypothetical. Not that she was his type.
Resting his chin on the tips of his fingers, Owen studied the woman opposite him. He could admit to a grudging admiration for the audacity she’d shown in ordering the top-priced champagne the waiter was currently pouring with a flourish. It was all just business at the end of the day. Owen had let his guard down and she’d taken advantage. Score one for Claire. It was what people did. What she hadn’t realised yet, was that he would only let someone get away with it once.
His gaze roamed around the room, more than half a mind still on the pretty, spiky girl who’d marched away from him clutching an ice bucket. She’d bought champagne that night, too, and likely enjoyed it as much if not more because her eyes hadn’t watered at the cost of it. The sleek lines and discreet lighting of Fabiano’s were a world away from the cosy, slightly shabby taproom at The Siren, and a deep desire to be standing at the bar with Mrs Barnes smiling up at him filled his heart. A bone-deep weariness crept over him as the disappointment over the failed Taylors deal struck home. Whilst he didn’t regret saying no, there was still a big hole in their projected work schedule which needed to be filled. He should be at home with a takeaway, a cold beer and his laptop, not trying to prove his success by being seen at the right place with the right kind of woman.
Owen gave himself a shake. This was why digging around in the past had been a bad idea. He wasn’t one for self-doubt and deep introspection. He’d built this life for himself, and it was a damn good one. A night off with a beautiful woman would do him good. All work and no play makes Owen a dull boy, and all that. Accepting a crystal flute from the waiter, he raised it in toast to Claire. ‘What shall we drink to?’
Mirroring his pose, she fluttered her eyelashes. ‘How about to the future?’
‘Perfect.’ Owen drained the sparkling liquid from his glass and tried to ignore the ping of his phone. Claire’s mouth tightened as he reached for it. With a swipe of his thumb he turned it off then tucked it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Work could wait for a couple of hours. He’d been the one to suggest their date, the least he could do was give her a nice evening. Reaching across the table, he took her hand. ‘I’m all yours. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to lately?’
The rest of the evening went well. Once she’d got over her initial mood, Claire proved to be as interesting and knowledgeable as he’d originally hoped. Beneath the labels and the perfect spray tan sat a sharp mind and a level of ambition to match his own. As they lingered over coffee, the spectre of the lost deal with Taylors came back to haunt him. Regardless of his gut instinct that turning down the deal was the right thing to do, he hated losing something he’d worked so hard for.
Fingers touched his. ‘Earth to Owen.’
Shaking his head, he pushed his work worries to one side and offered Claire a smile. ‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’
Her lashes flicked down then up. ‘I’d like that.’
The taxi stopped outside a neat block of flats and he ducked his head to study them through the window. Not the best part of the area, but by no means the worst and he knew the local council were working with investors on several regeneration projects. Give it a few more years and the place would be worth considerably more than current market value.
‘Are you coming up for coffee?’ Ah. The universal code for extending the evening. On autopilot, he paid the cab fare and slid out after Claire. As she fumbled around in her oversized handbag, an image of the two of them a few years down the line formed in his mind. They were sitting at a long dining table in an immaculate flat full of chrome and granite and all the latest gadgets. To his left and right sat two rows of shiny, well-to-do couples in grey suits and neutral body-con dresses chattering about their latest holidays to somewhere exotic. The right place, the right wife, the right friends, it was exactly the kind of thing he’d dreamed of as a kid scuffing along streets like this in a too-thin coat picked up from the local charity shop for a couple of quid. Now, though, it seemed cold and lifeless, more nightmare than fantasy. A shudder rippled down his spine and he took a step backwards.
‘There it is!’ Claire gave a little laugh of relief as she slid the errant key into the lock and pushed open the door. She’d made it a couple of steps inside before she realised he’d made no move to follow. ‘Owen?’
His feet were glued to the pavement. His future was right there in front of him, but all he wanted to do was run. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me, Claire. I’ve got a bit of a headache, so I’m going to pass on that coffee.’ And anything else that might come after it.
‘Oh.’ Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. ‘Well, if you’re sure?’
If he crossed her threshold, she’d want something more from him than one night and she deserved it—just not from him. Owen nodded. ‘Goodnight, Claire.’ Tucking his hands in his trouser pockets, he forced himself to stroll down the front steps—rather than sprint as his brain was urging him to—and turned randomly to his left, desperate to get away from the eyes he could feel boring into his b
ack. At least he’d done the right thing and walked away now before things got any further down the road between them. The thought didn’t make him feel any better.
He wandered aimlessly for a few streets, trying to get his head around the jumble in his brain. Claire was perfect for him, so why didn’t he want her? The blue-haired pixie’s face popped into his head and he shoved the image away with a silent curse. He needed to forget about her, and everything else about Lavender Bay in the process. There was nothing there for him. He’d made it through the last thirty years without his mother, hadn’t he?
A fine drizzle drifted from the sky adding another layer of misery to his mood. Ducking into an empty shop doorway, he withdrew his phone and switched it back on in order to summon a cab. He’d barely clicked on the app when the phone started ringing. Hoping it wasn’t Claire checking up on his non-existent headache, he was relieved to see an unfamiliar dialling code on the screen. Did he even know anyone who used a landline these days? He swiped to answer. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh…umm…hello, is that Mr Coburn?’ The deep country burr was about as far from Claire’s clipped tones as Owen could imagine. He’d spent a weekend surrounded by that rich accent, and all thoughts of his disastrous date fell away as a sense of anticipation filled him.
‘Speaking.’
‘Ah, right then. I hope you don’t mind the lateness of my call, it’s been a very busy day and I’ve been in two minds over whether I should even be bothering you at all. I want the best for me and my girl, see, and I heard on the grapevine you might be looking to buy a property down here in Lavender Bay, and it seems like too good an opportunity to pass up. I was thinking about retiring next year, so I think we could help each other out. You’d have to promise not to breathe a word about it until after Christmas as I need to get a few things in order and I haven’t talked to my girl about it. I know she’ll be on board though, once I explain it all to her properly. She’s had no life here, you see, and I’ve not been able to give her the chance she deserves to get out and see the world for herself. Well, not until now, that is…’ The stream of consciousness pouring into Owen’s ear trailed off leaving him not much the wiser.
Snowflakes at Lavender Bay Page 2