Even then, she hadn’t given up. She’d still tried to reach out. Still clearly believed that they could be friends, that she could help him.
In return, he’d spent the next week wallowing in work and self-pity, stomping on every olive branch she held out. He’d sent his own message, loud and clear: back off. He hadn’t even thought about how that would make her feel; how much that might cost her on top of the recent wedding fiasco. Hadn’t thought of anything but himself and his own peace of mind. He’d been blinkered and selfish and cruel.
So now it served him right if she was finally doing it. Finally backing off. He’d made his bed, and Rick got to lie in it.
He picked up the chair, righted it, and sat down, shell-shocked. Tried to calm down. Did some deep breathing that made him sound like a congested seal. Stamped on some stray popcorn, grinding it into the shagpile. Told himself this was a horrifically predictable he-man reaction. He’d come home determined to get Leah out of his life. All this was doing was giving him a helping hand, and if he could switch his testosterone levels down from Neanderthal, he might even welcome it.
What Leah does, he told himself, and who she does it with, is officially None Of Your Business. He couldn’t have it both ways – push her away with one hand, and keep her crushed against him with the other. Much as he wanted to, that was too sick, too screwed up for even him to contemplate.
She was entitled to a night of fun. To a lifetime of fun. God knows he hadn’t offered her any since she’d landed in Chicago; he’d been distant, cold, downright nasty. He’d taken the connection they’d shared in Scotland and buried it. Buried it, shovelled dirt over it, and covered it with concrete. And despite all that, Leah had stayed… Bright. Shiny. Optimistic.
She needed fun. Heck, she deserved it, was made for it. Plus it was true, Rick was a nice guy. Rob had known him for years; and even as a 110% heterosexual male, he could still see why chicks liked him. He’d seen Rick in action, and it was impressive. He was sharp, witty, good-looking. There was a reason Rick had his pick of the women he met, a reason he never seemed to come across a single girl who ever said no to him. Rick had earned his rep for being a player, for being the guy most likely to bag the unbaggable. He could make the Virgin Mary head for the condom machine if he was on form. Leah would be easy prey in comparison, especially after a few glasses of something boozy. Defences down, head swimming, those big amber eyes glazed…
It was that final thought that had him up, out of the door, and scurrying down the fire escape steps to the floor below. None Of His Business be damned. So what if his mother had been right, and he was jealous? So he was male. That didn’t change anything long term. It didn’t mean he wanted Leah in his life. It just meant he didn’t want her in Rick’s. Oh hell, he’d figure out what it meant later. Right then, he was concentrating on taking the steps three at a time, barefoot, and not landing on his ass.
He hadn’t taken the elevator, realising he’d look like a stalker if he coincidentally appeared on her doorstep as she arrived there with another man. Almost as though he’d been doing something weird…like watch her on a security camera. He could imagine the scene, elevator doors pinging open to reveal the shambling mess he was at the moment - unshaven, baggy sweats, bits of popcorn stuck in his hair - just as a perfectly coiffed Rick Machin smooth-talked his way into her bedroom. No, far better to hide in the stairwell, peeping out of a tiny crack in the fire door, that was far less creepy. Right up there in the serial killer handbook.
And after what he’d just seen, he felt like a serial killer. And maybe he would be. He’d track down every man he ever saw Leah with and kill them. That, or sign up for some serious anger management classes.
Because even after Leah had shut the door behind her, even after Rick had waved and left, he still felt tense and fuelled with adrenaline and misplaced anger. He was bouncing with it. All hyped up and nowhere to go.
Watching them laugh together, hold hands, kiss. Even without hearing them, it was overload. He’d rarely felt such rage flowing through him. His hands were shaking with it, and his breath was coming in short, ragged bursts. He was consumed with his own messed up fury.
He’d been stupid to bring Leah back to Chicago. Stupid to encourage her to see Rick. Stupid to come and watch them whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears. The list of stupid, it seemed, was never-ending, mixing up with anger in his brain to make a potent Screw You cocktail.
He kicked the fire door, hard. Doubled up in pain as he felt the bone of his bare big toe impact against the metal. Great, he thought, falling down onto the step, grimacing. Pain. Stupidity. Anger. Whirling around inside him, making him so crazy he tried to karate kick steel doors with bare feet. It was chasing away all his control, all his intellect, all his… guilt.
He realised he’d spent the last three hours thinking about nothing but Leah. He hadn’t been thinking about Meredith at all. The name, usually an ever-present whisper in his mind, had been gone. Wiped out, no matter how temporarily. He sat on the cold stone step, rubbing a toe he thought might be broken, and frowning.
For the first time since her death, Meredith had been chased completely out of his mind. Even during sex, with a few notable recent exceptions, she was never far away. Now, he felt her absence. Felt the niche in his heart where he usually kept her, empty. She was gone; and even conjuring up the smell of her perfume didn’t bring her all the way back like it usually did. He should feel guilty about it, he thought. But somehow, he couldn’t manage even that. Couldn’t even retreat to the harsh comfort of emotions he was familiar with; emotions he’d called home for a long time.
The guilt wouldn’t come because, even now, sitting here like this, all he could think about was Leah. Leah and Rick; his mouth on her mouth, his hands sliding onto the curve of her butt, the way he made her laugh, so breathless and happy. About the way she’d giggled all the way back into her rooms.
About her lying there now, in bed. Just feet away from him, not even knowing he was back in Chicago. Thinking about her new lover.
Maybe she was naked. Maybe she was thinking about Rick Machin as she fell asleep. Maybe she was regretting sending him away, wishing she’d invited him in after all. Maybe she was imagining him there, doing things to her. Maybe…
No. He had to stop right there with the maybes, or he was going to kick down the door and do something they’d both regret and he could probably get arrested for. He couldn’t see her right now. Couldn’t risk the words that might come out of his mouth, not when his brain was this sweltering mass of anger and rage and confusion. He didn’t understand anything about his feelings for Leah. He didn’t understand if he wanted her to leave, or stay. He didn’t understand if he wanted her friendship, or her hatred. But he did understand this: she was driving him insane, whether she meant to or not.
He limped back up the stairs, and back into a world of solitude and broken popcorn.
Chapter 15
Leah woke the next morning feeling every one of her 25 years. Which made a refreshing change from the other 40 or so she’d been borrowing from someone else the last two weeks.
She didn’t know whether it was her date-that-wasn’t-a-date, or simply the fact that she’d slept nightmare-free for the first time since she’d been in Chicago, but the fresh morning light striping its way across the bed fitted her mood perfectly. She reached out and pressed the remote control, waiting for the swoosh as the drapes opened. She would never, ever get fed up of that, she thought, blinking as winter sunshine flooded the room.
This morning, she decided, is the first morning of the rest of your life. Yes, Rob is still there, like an ache in your heart. Or a bunion on your toe. But life is for living, not for wasting. The irony wasn’t lost on her that while she was busy trying to convince Rob of exactly that, she’d been allowing herself to slip into a slow depression, waiting for him to respond.
The obvious fact was he didn’t want to respond. He was like a drowning man ignoring a hand reaching out to grab hi
m. And if he was determined to end whatever mutant spark had developed between them, she could do no more about it. She certainly couldn’t do any more waiting, or use up any more energy trying to figure out what was going on in his head - she had to get on with her own life, and simply say a prayer for his.
The date with Rick hadn’t ended with fireworks or passion, despite his very best efforts. But Leah had lived most of her life without fireworks and passion, and it hadn’t been so bad. She’d gained a friend, if not a lover. And who was to say that at some point down the line, say in a couple of decades or so, she wouldn’t forget all about Rob Cavelli, and find someone new? Someone else who could make her pulse race with nothing more than a half-smile? Make her forget her own name just by kissing the soft skin of her shoulder?
Either she would or she wouldn’t – but worrying about that, or worrying about Rob, would do nobody any good. It was time to start moving, and keep moving.
She had three apartment viewings lined up for the next day. Dorothea had paid her in cash, so she had the money to put down a deposit if she saw one she liked. And tomorrow evening, she had a meeting arranged with a potential client to discuss catering for a Ruby wedding anniversary. There was a lot to do, and none of it needed to involve any emotions other than hope and determination. She would be busy; she would be successful; she would be independent. She would make I’m Every Woman the soundtrack to her life.
Which just left today to enjoy the luxuries of Cavelli Tower. While she still lived there, and he was in New York. Because independence, she knew, was likely to come in the form of a one-bed studio so far outside the Loop she wouldn’t even be able to see it.
Leah had planned to use the Tower’s pool since she got here, but somehow between jet lag, parties and trauma, she’d never managed it. It was on the penthouse floor, and today was the day. She jumped out of bed and rooted around until she found the bikini she’d bought at the airport. It was red with white stripes, and she thought it made her look like a saucy sailor from an old seaside postcard. Even looking at it cheered her up. This was going to be a day of perfect displacement activities, she decided. Of happy, busy solitude.
Within a few minutes, she was implementing stage one: the pool. She was in the water, pretending to be in the Olympic synchronised swimming team: head under, legs up, scissor kicking the air. She rotated back up, landed on her back with a splash. She spluttered out the water she’d swallowed and gasped for breath. The rich really did know how to live – she’d never been able to have this much fun in the municipal pool. Not without amusing the local teenagers, anyway.
“Crikey,” she said out loud, shaking her hair and blinking her eyes, “that was a lot harder than it looks.”
“Really?” came a voice, echoing slightly around the pool room. “Because it looks ridiculous. Mind if I join you?”
She kicked herself around until she faced the edge of the water, already knowing what she was going to see. Who she was going to see. And how he was likely to be dressed.
“Well it’s your pool, do what you like,” she said, swimming over to the side and pulling herself up and out into a sitting position. All the better to escape from.
Rob loomed above her, his body as lean and bronzed and perfect as ever. She tore her eyes away from his legs. They only led up to hips, and that could only lead to trouble. She started to wring her dripping pony tail out as a way of shielding her face. She didn’t want him to see how surprised she was. How nervous she felt. How annoyed she felt that her day of simple pleasures had just got a lot more complicated.
“I thought you were in New York? Don’t they have pools there?”
“Yes, but without the added bonus of scantily clad women disco dancing underwater. How are you, Leah?”
“That was called synchronised swimming, and I’ll have you know it’s a recognised Olympic sport. And I’m fine, thanks,” she replied, trying very hard not to jump when his bare thigh brushed against hers. He was sitting down beside her, long legs dangling down into the water; wearing snug blue trunks and with a white towel slung around his shoulders. He was staring straight ahead, as though he felt awkward as well. If he did, she thought, it served him right. For behaving like a prick for weeks, and for not backtracking out of the pool the minute he spotted her splashing upside down like an epileptic Shetland pony. That would have been the gentlemanly thing to do.
“You’re fine? Is that true? Because I thought I might have upset you,” he said, kicking small circles in the water with his feet, the movement making the muscle of his stomach clench and unclench in a way she didn’t want to notice. She dragged her eyes away from his abs and saw that one of his big toes was swollen and purple, so bruised she could practically feel it throbbing.
“What happened to your toe?” she asked, pointing down into the water. “Did you drop your ego on it?”
“Very funny,” he replied, glancing down at his own foot and frowning, like it reminded him of something he wanted to forget. “Long story. Are you going to answer my question?”
She paused, thought about it. Was she? Should she?
“Are you sure you really want me to?” she said. “And after two weeks of silence, do you think you even have a right to ask how I’ve been?”
“Probably not, but I’m asking anyway. So this is your chance to kick my ass, Leah, if that’s what you want to do.”
She did want to kick his ass…And she also wanted to stroke his ass. All at the same time. It was way too confusing for a day that had started so well. Why couldn’t he have just stayed in New York for 24 more bloody hours and spared them both this?
“Right,” she finally said. “If you insist.Today I’m fine, genuinely. But as for the rest of the time? No, not what you’d call brilliant. In fact, my thumbs almost fell off from texting you, phoning you, and emailing you. In the end I had to stop, Rob. Have you any idea how hard it is to find work in catering without thumbs?”
He half-smiled at the lame joke, and her heart juddered. She literally felt it bopping up and down, and thought it might flop out of her bikini and land shaking on the tiled floor. This is bloody ridiculous, she thought. Even when you’re angry, he only has to smile to make you turn into a human jellyfish. Pathetic.
“You’re doing it again,” he said. “That thing you do when you’re upset. Making light. Making me smile when it’s the last thing I should be doing.”
She blew out a long breath, her exasperation carrying into the air of the pool room.
“Well for goodness’ sake, Rob, what else do you expect me to do? Open up a vein and bleed out into the pool because you ran away and hurt my feelings?”
She shook her head so hard water spun from her curls, like an angry mermaid. Her toes only just reached the water, or she’d have been tempted to kick up spray. Or to kick him.
“You had your reasons,” she continued. “You did what you thought you had to do. Yes, it sucked. Yes, I think you’re an idiot. But I’ve had enough drama to last me a lifetime, and in my own annoying way, I’m being honest. You deal with things by hiding in your Bat Cave, I deal with them by making light. I refuse to throw plates and scream, Rob, I refuse to feed into it.”
She was angry, and hurt – but fighting to control both. Because a screaming match in a swimming pool would do nobody any good.
“Feed into what? What the hell are you talking about?” he said, his own tone deepening as hers had risen.
“Feed into your guilt! You’re crippled with guilt about your wife and your baby. And I get that, Rob, I get that more than you can possibly imagine! I thought I could help you; I was wrong. You made yourself clear, and it hurt, a lot – is that what you want to hear? Do you want me to tell you how much it hurt, or how angry I can feel about it, or how sad?
“I’m all of those things, yes. But I’m not in critical condition, and I refuse to let you add me to the list of things to beat yourself up about. The list of reasons why you can’t let yourself be happy. I’m looking at apartments tomorro
w, I have work lined up, and I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can. Then you can get on with the business of half-living your life again, without any interference from me.”
“Good. That’ll be for the best. Clean break,” he said, his voice low, muted, so quiet she could hardly hear him over the sounds of the water sloshing gently against the sides of the pool. His fists were clenched, pummelling his own thighs, and every line of his body looked stretched out with tension. He refused to meet her gaze, and his mouth was set in a twisted line. He’d aged ten years in a matter of minutes.
She’d mentioned his wife and baby. She shouldn’t have done that; Leah knew she shouldn’t. For years after her mum and dad died, she couldn’t bear for anyone else to talk about them. Even the most casual mention had felt like a punch in the stomach, piercing her careful self control. It was the same with him and his family, she knew.
But she wasn’t perfect, and the anger had ridden her to the point where it just came out. Where it had to. She’d crossed a line that he wasn’t ready to cross, and probably never would be. She reached out to touch him, brushed her fingers against the granite of his shoulder, over the bulk of his deltoid.
“I’m sorry, Rob,” she said. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, I had no right to—”
“Don’t give it a second thought,” he replied, shrugging off her hand sharply. He couldn’t bear for her touch him right now. Not when everything she’d said had left him so raw and wounded.
Her fingers curled away as though he’d slapped her, and her eyes looked haunted. He hardened himself to it, put a couple of inches between them. Something about this woman stripped him bare, exposed all his nerve endings, hit so many nails on the head at once it left him full of holes. And even now, feeling the anger that had flared up between them, feeling the shock that any mention of Meredith always brought, he wasn’t immune to her touch. To the way she looked in that ridiculous bikini. To the feel of her skin on his, and the wordless promises it made: promises of comfort, and warmth, and intimacy. Promises he couldn’t afford to hear. She wasn’t his, would never be his.
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