When it came to Pippa, the only way to handle her was with hard logic. He had allowed the vulnerable child she had been to influence his emotions toward her throughout her teenage years. Instead of seeing her through the same eyes as everyone else, as a trouble-making pain in the arse, he had seen her as a lost soul, floundering and desperate for help.
And she had amused him. Not the drunken binges, which had horrified and saddened him, but the times when she was sober, the outrageous attempts to gain his and her father’s attention. As he had pointed out to her time and again, if she would only apply that brilliant brain to something productive, the world would be hers for the taking. He had wanted to help channel that ballsy, creative brilliance into something worthwhile. He had even been planning to offer her a job when she left school, figuring she would be brilliant in the creative marketing department.
What a fool he had been.
All his attempts to help and guide her had been thrown back in his face.
He would not allow her the opportunity to ruin him again.
This resolve did not stop him reaching for his phone to call James Rowantree. Whatever damage Pippa had caused throughout the years, it was time for her father to learn that in this one instance, his daughter was innocent.
…
It was late afternoon and Pippa was sat at the Steinway next to Joycy, doing a chopsticks duet. The sprain on her left wrist had almost healed and she was hopeful that in a couple of days she would be able to start playing properly again. They both giggled as Joycy hit a bum note, exchanging amused glances before carrying on regardless.
Thank God for Joycy, she thought reverently. The doctor Marco had brought in to examine her had diagnosed bruised ribs, a sprained wrist, and severe abdominal bruising. He had upped the strength of her anti-inflammatories and doubled the strength of her painkillers, which had done the job but unfortunately had had an increased sedative effect, effectively knocking her out. Joycy had gone out of her way to tend to her, bringing all her meals to her room and sitting with her while she ate, encouraging her to eat a little more with every meal.
That morning she had awoken and there had been hardly any pain, only a dull ache across her ribs. When she had informed Joycy of this, the elderly woman’s face had broken into a beaming grin.
“That is good news, my girl, now eat your breakfast and get out of bed. Your sheets are rancid.” She had then shuffled over to the shutters, which had been permanently closed since she had moved in. “Let’s get some sunshine in this room…”
Pippa had whimpered, before trying to speak succinctly. “Please, Joycy, leave them closed.”
The housekeeper started to argue about it, but shut her mouth with a snap before nodding. “You will have to face it sometime,” she had said enigmatically. “Now eat some breakfast while I run you a bath. You stink.”
Once Pippa had bathed and dressed, she had found herself seeking the Creole woman out. There was something so soothing about her, a calm solidity. And such warmth, too. Just being with her made Pippa feel better. No wonder Marco had moved her in.
What would it have been like if she’d had a Joycy in her life when growing up? Someone who would never have stood for any of her nonsense, who would have clamped down on her tantrums and wild antics without turning a cold shoulder to her?
Looking at the gnarled hands tinkling across the ivory keys, Pippa felt a rush of affection toward the older woman.
Joycy would never have given up on her.
An unexpected burn of tears stung the back of her retinas and she pinched the bridge of her nose, blinking the maudlin turn of her thoughts away. There was no room for self-pity in her life. She had made her bed. It was only proper she lie in it.
“Are you all right, girl?” Joycy asked, her chocolate eyes fixed on her with that same shrewd glint Pippa had noticed before.
She nodded, trying to force her lips into a smile. “I’m fine.”
Joycy’s eyes became bleak, but before she could say anything else, movement in the doorway made them turn their heads in unison.
There, standing at the threshold wearing tailored trousers, a white shirt unbuttoned at the top, his ties askew and a briefcase in hand, stood Marco.
The breath caught in Pippa’s throat. Other than when he had brought the doctor to her room, this was the first time she had seen him since their talk by the swimming pool. As far as she could make out, he spent upward of twelve hours a day in his office. Just as he had promised, their paths had not crossed.
He nodded his acknowledgment and set his briefcase on the floor, leaning against the doorway as his studied them, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Did you need me for something?” Joycy asked, rising from the bench.
He shook his head. “I was looking for Pippa.” Fixing his eyes upon her, he said, “You’re feeling better?”
“Much better, thank you,” she said, pleased her voice didn’t sound too breathless, even though his sudden appearance had sucked all the air from the room.
Joycy got to her feet. “I will leave you two alone to talk.”
“That is not necessary,” Marco refuted.
“I have things I need to get on with,” she said, ruffling Pippa’s hair before shuffling out and leaving them alone.
Pippa waited for him to speak, trying her best to keep her posture, while inside, her bones had liquefied. She remembered what it had been like as a teenager when he had made his occasional visit to Rowantree Manor. In those days, one look from him would be enough to turn her into a hormonal wreck. Nearly a decade later, those hormones reacted in exactly the same way.
The difference now was that she was in control of her emotions and her reactions.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” Good. That was polite and succinct.
“There are issues we need to discuss. I thought we could discuss them over dinner.”
Remembering that the last time he’d had issues he wanted to discuss had ended with them wanting to kill each other, she searched his face for any hint of an agenda. His features were masked.
“Okay,” she said with a shrug. It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. The thought of sharing a meal with him had not really opened a kaleidoscope of butterflies in her belly. “As long as you’re not planning on chewing me out over something. I can assure you I have not broken anything or spilled anything or stolen a car or…”
A flicker of a smile played on his lips as he shook his head, interrupting her. “For once there is nothing I need to admonish you over.”
“That makes a pleasant change.”
Now the ghost of movement did appear in his eyes but one blink and it was gone. “Does seven o‘clock suit you?”
“That’s fine.”
“Good.” He picked his briefcase up before looking at her again. “Do you still play?” he asked, indicating the piano.
“Yes.”
Another smile flickered on his lips. “I remember Amelia forcing you to play for us all one Christmas. You murdered the piece.”
A small laugh escaped from Pippa’s throat. “I was more or less blackmailed into playing it.”
“I take it you’re better at playing now?”
She shrugged. “I’m okay. Nothing special.”
He hesitated before saying, “I recall being told your mother was a concert pianist.”
Her stomach roiled at his mention of her mother. Not a day went by when she didn’t feel her absence but since arriving on Grand Cayman, it had been so much more than a feeling of something missing. Since being here, the memory of her mother had been pushing increasingly to the forefront of her mind. Since being here, the tear ducts she had long assumed dried out kept turning on, catching her off-guard. It was becoming a battle of wills not to let the tears fall, a battle she was determined to win. Tears were nothing but a sign of weakness.
Forcing a bright smile, she nodded. “My mother was an excellent pianist, but unfortunately I didn’t inherit that gen
e from her.”
“The genes we inherit from our parents are a lottery,” he conceded.
And then he was gone, leaving her alone at the piano bench. She placed a hand to her racing heart and closed her eyes. All she had to do was hold onto herself for a few more days and then she would be able to purge all the emotions raging under her skin, those terrifying feelings evoked by Marco.
Chapter Six
Marco was adding freshly caught prawns to the large pan when Pippa came into the kitchen.
“Something smells good. Are you cooking?” She sounded skeptical.
He threw a half-smile over his shoulder. “Joycy is tired, so I told her to take the evening off.”
“Oh. You should have told me—she’s been fussing around me like a mother hen today.”
“She’s worried about you,” he said. “She’s delighted that you’re up and about but she wants you to eat something.”
“I am eating.”
“Like a sparrow, according to Joycy.” He removed the plates that had been warming in the oven and placed them on the surface next to him. “I hope you like seafood risotto.” He ladled the steaming rice dish on the plates.
“I can’t believe you can cook,” she said, leaning against the kitchen table. In the few days she had been a guest in his home she had lost weight she could ill-afford to lose. Her khaki culottes hung low, her collarbone visible through the simple cream top she was wearing. It pained him to see her skinny form and in this respect he was in complete agreement with Joycy. While she was without doubt the sexiest woman on the planet, Pippa needed fattening up.
“My mother taught me. She used to tell me and my brothers that being able to cook meant never going hungry.”
“And you enjoy it?”
“I find it an excellent form of relaxation. Did you ever learn?”
She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “I make a mean beans on toast, but that’s the extent of my repertoire.”
Of course she couldn’t cook, Marco dismissed. She had been spoiled her entire life. He was surprised she knew how to work a tin opener.
Despite the vow of civility he had pledged to himself earlier, he could not resist asking, “How have you survived without the chef at Rowantree Manor cooking for you?”
Her eyes narrowed a little. “I’ve always worked in restaurants that feed their staff. The rest of the time the microwave works perfectly.”
“Have you never wanted to learn?”
“My mum used to bake cakes with me…” Her voice trailed off until she gave a quick flick of her hair. “That was a long time ago. I hate cooking. Now, can I do anything useful like set the table?”
For all her blasé manner, he caught the wistfulness in her voice, an inflection that tugged at him.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her questions, but the steel in those cornflower eyes warned him to press no further, and really, it was none of his business.
“Don’t worry about setting the table. We’re eating outside.” He picked up their plates. “Could you get the door for me?” He indicated the backdoor that led out to the decking area.
Instead of following his simple request, she stared at the backdoor as if it were laced with the norovirus.
“You are not really expecting me to eat out there, are you?” she asked, her well-bred diction even more nuanced than usual.
“Have you got a problem with that?” He felt his vow of cordiality begin to slip. “Worried a creepy-crawly might get in your hair?”
A flash of memory sprang into his mind of a fifteen-year-old Pippa faking terror and pleading with him to remove a giant spider from her bedroom, a request he had declined, not wishing to put himself in such a compromising position. Later, he learned she had scoured the house for said spider, carrying it to her room in her bare hands. After her play for his attention failed, she kept the spider as a pet, knowing her stepmother was afflicted with arachnophobia.
That same fake fear she had shown then was on display now.
“I am sorry but I cannot possibly go outside, not in the dark. The sea is evil.”
“Evil?” he repeated, incredulous.
Her fingers began wringing together. She shuddered. “Maybe that’s the wrong word, but it looks so malevolent…”
But he was not going to be suckered into whatever game she had decided to play. “I’m sorry if dining under the Caribbean stars is beneath you,” he said, heading sharply off through the kitchen, ice lacing his every word. “We shall eat in the dining room. I’m sure you’ll find it much more suitable.”
She trailed right behind him. “I’m not playing games. The sea bloody terrifies me.”
“I do not have time for this,” he countered in exasperation, wishing her fresh honey scent didn’t follow his every movement. “We shall eat our meal, discuss what needs discussing and then I have a conference call to attend with my satellite office in London. I don’t have time for your childish attention-seeking.”
He set the table with short, jerky movements, regretting this ridiculous idea that they could eat a meal together like normal human beings without sparks flying or daggers being drawn.
“Well, of course I’m playing games,” she said, laughing sarcastically. “I didn’t want to eat outside so I decided to invent a phobia just to wind you up.”
Marco, done laying the table, raised his hands in surrender. He was not going to fall for this. Pippa wasn’t scared of anything. Plus, he had seen her outside when she had sat by the swimming pool. It was amazing how this supposed ‘fear’ hadn’t prevented her from sunbathing. “I’m running on too tight a schedule to deal with this. You wanted to eat indoors? Your wish has been granted. I suggest you take a seat while I retrieve the wine from the garden table.”
By the time he returned with the wine and a jug of water, she was seated at the table, her face the perfect mask of serenity.
He eyed her suspiciously. What was going on in that beautiful head now?
He picked up the wine and started to pour her some, but she placed her hand over her glass. “If you don’t mind, I would prefer water.”
His eyebrows drew together.
“I don’t drink anymore,” she explained. “In any case, I can’t drink alcohol on my painkillers.”
Even he couldn’t dispute the latter statement. He had read the warning on the prescription himself. He poured her some water, all the while watching her closely.
“You are looking better,” he said, determined to steer them back to calmer waters. He was not going to let her pathetic, attention-seeking ploy spoil his appetite. “Although you could do with some color on your cheeks.”
“I’m feeling better,” she confirmed with a shrug. “I’ve stopped taking the painkillers but I don’t want to risk the wine reacting to the ones left in my system.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming off them so soon?”
“They’re addictive. The sooner I stop taking them, the better.”
“You should know.”
Her fork paused in mid-air. Calmly, she replaced it on her plate and met his hard gaze. “I have done many things I regret in my life, but apart from smoking one joint, which made me violently sick, I have never taken an illegal drug. I may be a lot of things, but I am not stupid.”
No, he thought, watching through narrowed eyes as she picked up the fork and popped the risotto between those gorgeous lips. Stupidity was not something she could ever be accused of. At least not in the intellectual sense.
He took a breath, determined to stay on course. “Let’s not waste our time starting another argument. I wanted to talk to you because I have news. My English lawyer has a colleague, one of the country’s top criminal lawyers, who has agreed to represent you. He has taken a look at your file and is confident he can have the charges dropped due to a lack of evidence.”
Her fork paused again. “Are you kidding me?”
He frowned. “I would not joke about such a matter.”
“But ho
w is it possible? I mean, I never gave my consent for someone else to act for me.”
He shrugged. “Anything is possible when money is involved.”
“But why? Why would you hire someone for me?”
“I hate injustice. I think that any man who hits a woman is scum and what that man did to you, whatever was going on between you…”
“There was nothing going on between us,” she interjected, glaring at him, making him feel like a despicable heel for even mentioning it.
“Whether there was anything going on between the two of you or not is irrelevant. That man hurt you badly and deserves to be punished.”
Actually, the man deserved to be castrated with a rusty spoon. Over the past few days, he had enjoyed dreaming up new and varied ways to torture the man who had caused Pippa so much pain.
Her gaze dropped to her plate before she raised her head again. “So you are serious? The lawyer really thinks the charges can be dropped?”
“He will not promise anything, but yes, he is confident. I can only apologize it has taken me so long to organize things, but when I first contacted the lawyer, he was on holiday.” He waited for her grateful response, watching as she chewed on a mussel, her eyes fixed expressionlessly on his.
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “Marco, while I am grateful for what you have done, you should not have hired him behind my back.”
“Why ever not?” he asked, perplexed. “You have not been in a fit state to consult with over the past few days, so I made the decision for you.”
“I know I’ve been wiped out but the least you could have done was discuss the matter with me before hiring the man.”
“I don’t understand what your problem is.” He hadn’t expected her to jump up and down with glee but she was sounding more ungrateful by the minute.
“My problem is that I can’t afford him. I’m not in a position to pay what I assume will be a hefty bill.”
He frowned. “I hired him and I will take care of the bill.”
“No, you will not. I pay my own way, thank you, and the last thing I want is to be indebted to you.”
Tempted by Trouble Page 6