by Heidi Rice
‘Don’t be daft.’ Rye backtracked furiously as clammy sweat pooled under his arms.
Maddy was a problem. No question. But that would be a catastrophe.
‘It’s not like that,’ he said emphatically.
‘Who are you trying to convince here, buddy?’ Zack coughed out another laugh. ‘Me or yourself?’
Zack had always had a cruel sense of humour. But Rye couldn’t see the joke as the old scars that had festered inside him ever since he’d been twelve opened like a fresh wound.
He didn’t feel like that about Maddy—or anyone—and he never would. Because he knew what the consequences were. To love someone, you had to depend on them, to trust them to be there for you when you needed them. And he was never falling into that trap again.
Maybe Maddy had got under his defences, had become an addiction which he was finding it hard to break. But there was nothing more to it than that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘YOU’RE absolutely positive? You don’t have anything?’ Maddy’s fingers squeezed the mobile. ‘I’ve got a lot of experience and I can provide excellent references.’
The woman on the other end of the phone, the last employer on the list she’d jotted down from the Internet last night, apologised again and hung up.
Maddy dropped the phone into her apron pocket. She’d lost count of how many people she’d rung in the last week, begging for a job. But all the winter work had been snapped up ages ago.
‘Still no luck on the job front, eh?’ Phil placed two frothy cappuccinos on her tray.
She shook her head, tried not to look as dejected as she felt. She should never have indulged herself with Rye for so long, that much was obvious. She wiped the thought. She couldn’t think about him now. He’d been away for over a week and she was in a worse state now than when he’d left.
She’d spent that first day, her day off, scrubbing the cottage until her fingers had been raw. She’d washed the floors, scoured the hob, cleaned out the kitchen cupboards, reorganised her wardrobe and laundered all the bedding in a vain attempt to put him out of her mind, but it hadn’t worked. The empty feeling inside her, the aching sadness when she had to cook alone, the well of tears that caught her unawares hadn’t gone away. But worse had been the nights and those wildly erotic dreams which woke her in a cold sweat, every cell in her body throbbing, the phantom scent of his skin and the need to have his arms around her so strong the loss felt like a physical blow.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She’d never been the clingy type. She had to stop obsessing about this. She’d already decided that if Rye returned she would have to be firm and tell him their affair was over. She couldn’t go through all this a second time. A clean break would be best, for both of them. But as hard as that was to contemplate, even harder was the creeping suspicion that Rye had decided not to return to Cornwall after all.
Her bottom lip quivered and she bit into it. Balancing the tray on her arm, she squared her shoulders. ‘I’m sure something will come up.’
Phil laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey, Mads.’ His brows drew together. ‘Are you about to cry?’
‘No, of course not.’ She tried to tug away but he held her easily, plucked the tray off her arm.
‘Sit down.’ He studied her face as he nudged her onto one of the bar stools. ‘And stay put; I’ll take these over. Then we’re going to have a little chat.’
He was back before she had a chance to do more than sigh. ‘Did you ask Rye about working at the hotel? Lover boy owns the place; the least he could do is get you a job.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ she said, folding her arms over her chest. The last thing she needed right now was to be interrogated by Phil. ‘He’s away.’
‘Where is he?’
‘California,’ she replied curtly. She really didn’t want to be talking about Rye. And she absolutely refused to start whimpering in front of Phil.
‘For how long?’
‘I have no idea.’ She threw her hands up, exasperated. ‘And, as we’re not seeing each other any more—’ she paused, swallowing to shift the idiotic constriction in her throat ‘—I don’t really care.’ She tried to climb down from the stool, but Phil took her upper arm.
‘You guys broke up? Since when?’ he asked.
She huffed out a frustrated breath. Why couldn’t he let this go? ‘We didn’t break up. We were never together. It wasn’t that sort of thing.’
Phil swore. ‘So what sort of thing was it?’ The incredulity and annoyance in Phil’s tone brought a cold rush of shame. Why did their affair suddenly sound so compromising?
‘He was here every damn night behaving as if he owned you,’ Phil continued. ‘And now suddenly he’s gone? I knew he’d do this. That son of a …’
‘Phil, I know you mean well,’ she interrupted, tugging her elbow out of his grasp, ‘but this really isn’t any of your business.’ She climbed off the stool.
‘It is my business when you look dead on your feet and on the verge of tears and one of my friends is the cause.’
‘You’re not responsible for me,’ she said, her spine straightening and the tears drying in her throat.
She’d been a total wimp. And more of a pushover than she ever wanted to admit. But she’d made the decision to have a no-strings affair. And it was her own fault the strings had ended up strangling her. It was way past time to cut loose. ‘And neither is Rye. I’m responsible for myself.’ Pulling her pencil out of her apron, she shoved it behind her ear. ‘Now, I’ve got a shift to finish, if you don’t mind.’
She marched off, her head held high and her back ramrod straight, ignoring the panic that had been clutching at her throat ever since she’d watched Rye walk away a week ago.
She needed to take control of her life again—a control she now realised she’d ceded to Rye, and her hormones, over the last month.
No more avoidance. No more self-indulgence. Today had officially become Pull Yourself Together Day.
She did remarkably well, considering. She got through the rest of her shift without becoming tearful once. She made another round of calls to prospective employers, but didn’t let the round of fresh rejections get to her either. She even managed to eat all of the dinner she’d cooked in the stillness of her silent kitchen. Or nearly all of it. It wasn’t until she was running herself a hot bath, determined to get her first restful night’s sleep in over a week, and flung open the bottom cabinet to get the bath salts she kept for a special occasion, that Pull Yourself Together Day fell apart at the seams.
There on the shelf was the spare razor and men’s shaving gel Rye had left behind. She stared at them for the longest time, before picking them up and placing them carefully in the bin. But then she caught a whiff of the woodsy scent of pine forests and her legs buckled.
She gripped the basin to stay upright and stared at herself in the mirror, her arms and shoulders screaming with tension, the dark shadows under her eyes almost ghoulish.
What was happening to her? How had cool, calm, sensible Maddy turned into a basket case? And why had Rye, of all men, been the trigger? A man who knew her body better than she knew it herself, but cared so little for her he hadn’t even bothered to contact her since saying goodbye?
She drew a jerky breath.
Face it; he’s not coming back.
She frowned at her bloodshot eyes. She couldn’t even cry, the huge black hole opening up inside her making her feel as if she were totally numb and disconnected from reality.
She slumped back down on the toilet seat, pressed her knees together to stop them shaking.
Stop it. It’s over and there’s nothing you can do about it.
She grabbed some toilet paper, blew her nose, her hands shaking. She’d foolishly believed she was immune to love. And she’d found out in the most devastating way possible she wasn’t.
The misery pressed against her chest, the tears she refused to shed making her throat burn.
Not only had she fallen
hopelessly in love for the first time in her life. She’d fallen for a man who didn’t feel the same way about her and probably never would.
Because he had sealed off his heart at an early age—and was determined never to expose it again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘MADDY, it’s Rye, how are you?’
Maddy’s fingers jerked on the handset at the sound of the rich masculine voice on the other end of the line. ‘I’m …’ She paused; fine seemed like an overstatement. ‘I’m okay. Where are you?’
‘London. I got back from California last night.’
The stupid bubble of excitement, of anticipation burst. ‘Okay.’
This was probably good. Just because she’d had some sort of bizarre mental and emotional meltdown and fallen in love with her no-strings fling didn’t mean she should pander to it.
‘I won’t be coming back to Cornwall,’ he continued. ‘Not for the foreseeable future.’
‘Oh.’ The word gushed out as air expelled from her lungs and her heart thumped to a stop.
She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach—even though she had been expecting the news.
He’s not coming back. Our affair is over.
‘I would have called sooner,’ he continued, talking in that reasonable, matter-of-fact tone as Maddy’s insides churned and her heart galloped into overdrive. ‘But things have been hectic and I thought it would be easier to contact you once I knew what I was doing.’
‘Okay.’ She knew she sounded like a moron but she couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone a proper sentence. She wanted to be angry with him for being so calm and unruffled when her life had become an emotional car wreck. But all she felt was numb.
‘Listen, Maddy, I can’t talk right now. I’ve got an important board meeting in a few minutes. But I want you to come to London. For Christmas.’
‘You want …?’ She struggled to register the words. ‘But why?’
The sensual rumble of laughter made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. ‘Well, apart from the obvious reason,’ he said, the husky tone of voice making her pulse points vibrate, ‘I may have found a solution to your employment problem. Phil told me you haven’t found a job yet.’
The abrupt change of subject threw her completely. ‘You spoke to Phil?’
‘That’s right.’ She heard a rustle of papers and then a female voice said something in the background that she couldn’t make out. ‘Thanks, Pamela,’ he said, his voice muffled, ‘I’ll be there in five.’ More rustling. ‘Look, I’ve got to dash. There’s a car picking you up in two hours. The flight from Newquay’s at four. And bring some of those silk paintings.’
‘But …’ Why did she feel as if her head were stuffed to bursting with cotton wool?
He chuckled. ‘I’ll see you at my place this evening.’
‘But I …’ the deafening sound of the dialling tone interrupted her question ‘… don’t know where you live,’ she finished, to no one in particular.
She placed the phone in its cradle and dropped into an armchair. Her hands began to tremble so hard she had to clasp them between her knees and squeeze.
Should she go? Wouldn’t she just be prolonging the agony?
She’d barely slept again last night, feeling shaken and confused and desperately unsure of herself. Everything she’d ever believed about herself, about her outlook on life had proved to be wrong and she didn’t know how to make it right again.
But how could she not go? And throw away the one chance to find out whether what she felt for Rye was real?
‘George will escort you up to the penthouse, Miss Westmore.’
Maddy nodded at the uniformed concierge, feeling woefully underdressed in her jeans and second-hand suede jacket. She glanced round the palatial foyer of the Kensington apartment block; the fresh scent of tree sap perfumed the air from the enormous spruce, tastefully decorated with silver bows, taking up one corner of the cavernous space.
When the limo from City Airport had pulled up at the art deco building, she’d thought all the sleek steel and stone made quite a statement amid the rows of quaint Victorian mews cottages. As George, the doorman, walked towards her carrying the battered rucksack he’d lifted out of the limo’s trunk, it occurred to Maddy that the statement was Ludicrously Wealthy.
‘Is Mr King here?’ she asked.
The plump, pretty concierge sent her a polite smile. ‘Mr King’s due back in half an hour. He said to make yourself at home.’
Maddy glanced round the enormous lobby area. Not much chance of that. With its polished teak wall panelling and luxury leather furniture, the place wasn’t exactly homely.
‘Can you contact him for me?’ she asked, trying not to let her annoyance show. She’d rung his mobile about fifty times in the last four hours and got the busy signal and then been given the runaround by his PA, who had insisted he was in meetings all afternoon.
The concierge’s perfectly plucked eyebrows drew together a fraction. ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I could leave a message with Pamela Martin, his PA, if that would be helpful?’
‘That’s okay.’ Pamela Martin already had about twenty messages, none of which had been returned. ‘Please don’t bother.’
What was the point in trying to contact him, anyway? She was here now. But she wasn’t exactly a happy camper.
Having picked herself up off the floor after his call four hours ago, it had taken Maddy a while to get her mind to engage again but, as soon as it had, irritation had started to bubble. Irritation which had swiftly turned to annoyance, during her fruitless attempts to call him back. Annoyance had then turned to aggravation when she’d realised that she didn’t have a choice. He hadn’t given her a choice. Rye King had called the shots and she’d been left trailing in his wake.
Maddy knew she could be too appeasing. Too easy-going. Hence Miss Fixit. Cal had always called it her doormat tendency. But, as she’d stuffed brightly coloured silk into her ratty old rucksack and agonised over what else to pack, her ire, at long last, had been well and truly roused.
And it had stayed that way as she’d sat rigidly in the black Mercedes that had arrived to take her to Newquay Airport and in the sleek First Class cabin as she had flown to City Airport.
Rye had walked out on her without a word eight long days ago. He hadn’t contacted her once. He’d tricked her into falling in love with him. And then he’d had the cheek to ring her up, effectively snap his fingers and expect her to jump to attention without a proper explanation.
The assumption that she would be sharing his bed in London only added fuel to the flames of Maddy’s temper.
Since when did having a casual fling mean that he got to make all the decisions and she was just supposed to step into line? Fortunately, stewing in her own anger and frustration had a hefty fringe benefit. As long as she was concentrating on how mad she was with him, she didn’t have to dwell on the much bigger problem—what on earth she was going to do about the fact that she’d fallen in love with him?
As George directed her into the panelled lift and closed the ornate cage doors with a creak, Maddy tried not to be intimidated. She resolutely refused to be overwhelmed in any way by the trappings of Rye’s wealth. She had more than enough to worry about without letting his snazzy home bother her too.
Then the lift jolted to a stop and George opened the doors onto a marbled lobby area. Maddy’s boot heels clicked on the tiles. Large bunches of red lilies stood in black onyx vases, decorating the lavish space. She stopped and gawped, dropping her head back to see the lights of a passing plane blinking through the domed glass atrium above her head.
Maddy sucked in a breath. Okay, this was more than just snazzy. This was an alternative reality.
Depositing her rucksack on the cool marble floor, George gave a gallant little bow and left.
As the lift doors clanked closed, Maddy ventured into the apartment proper. Thick royal-blue carpets accented off-white walls hung with an array of modern art in the
main hallway. Maddy’s mouth formed an O as she recognised some of the artwork and realised they were originals. She hurried past a series of doors, then stopped dead at the end of the corridor. With a double-height ceiling and one whole wall devoted to a panoramic view of Kensington Gardens, the penthouse’s main living space was breathtaking.
The minimalist decor, which was both tasteful and unobtrusive, had obviously been coordinated by a professional decorator. She couldn’t see Rye bothering to hunt up a rug edged with the exact same shade of turquoise as the waisthigh glass brick wall that separated the lavish living area from the state-of-the-art kitchen. Or spending hours decorating the Christmas tree in one corner with pinpoint lights and colour-coordinated red and gold ornaments.
Spotting a console embedded into the wall with loads of dials and displays, she wondered if it was for the inbuilt sound system or the huge plasma TV over the fireplace.
She sighed. Probably both.
She stood, her reflection dwarfed by the windows that looked out over a decked balcony. This was the lavish bachelor pad she’d expected Rye to have all those weeks ago, before she’d got to know him, with its new-fangled boy toys and expertly coordinated interior design.
But how could the man she had come to know since live in a place like this? It was as if Rye King were two different people. The urbane billionaire businessman with a swanky penthouse pad in Kensington who probably dined at a new ‘in’ restaurant every night, and the sexy ex-surfer who was happy to slum it in Cornwall and devoured her home cooking as if he were starving to death.
But which man was the real Rye King? Had she fallen in love with a man who had never really existed?
The soft ping of the lift bell had Maddy freezing in place.
She heard the telltale creak and clatter of the lift doors opening. Uneven steps hit the marble foyer tiles, then became muffled by the thick wool carpet in the hallway.
‘Maddy, where are you?’
She wrapped her arms round her midriff. ‘In the living room,’ she called out, her voice sounding small and fragile.