Running From the Storm

by Lee Wilkinson

  Undaunted, he said, ‘Oh, you never know. There’s quite a lot of stuff left in the cupboards. I’ll take a look.’ He rose to his feet.

  On one of her previous visits, whilst glancing in the various cupboards to assess the storage space, Caris had noticed quite a good supply of tinned food and store-cupboard items, but she had seen no sign of any coffee.

  She shook her head. ‘I rather think you’ll be wasting your time.’

  ‘Want to bet?’ he asked jokingly.

  In the same vein, she answered, ‘I was taught never to bet for money.’

  ‘So what shall we bet for? What would you like if you win?’

  Fairly confident of doing just that, she took a deep breath and chanced his wrath. ‘I’d like to leave here straight away, regardless of the weather.’

  ‘Very well. And if I win—’ he pretended to consider ‘—let’s say … a kiss for old times’ sake, shall we?’

  Sudden panic had her blurting out, ‘No! No, I—’

  ‘Afraid of losing?’ he taunted.

  ‘Not at all. But if there is any coffee, it has to be fit to drink.’

  ‘That goes without saying.’

  She pressed home her advantage. ‘Let’s say an unopened pack or jar.’

  ‘Unopened?’ He ran thoughtful fingers over his chin before agreeing. ‘Okay.’

  For no good reason, his prompt acceptance of her terms made her feel a shade uneasy.

  Watching her expressive face, he asked, ‘So is the bet on? Or do you want to chicken out?’

  Dismissing the unease and telling herself they would soon be out of here, she informed him decidedly, ‘The bet’s on.’

  ‘Good,’ Zander said with soft satisfaction and, crossing the kitchen, he opened the door of one of the huge cupboards.

  As she watched incredulously, he reached up to the second shelf and produced a cafetière and a sealed pack of coffee.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to drink it black, but in the circumstances …’

  Feeling as if she had been winded, she asked hoarsely, ‘How did you know they were there?’

  ‘I noticed them earlier,’ he admitted.

  As if reading her unspoken thoughts, he added, ‘They were a little way back, so unless you were six inches taller you wouldn’t have noticed them.’

  Biting her lip, she silently berated herself for being fool enough to bet. She should have realized he was setting a trap.

  Having half-filled the cafetière with water, he spooned in the coffee and set it on the stove. Then while it heated, he pulled the low table into place and found and rinsed a couple of mugs.

  When the cafetière started to bubble and the fragrant aroma of coffee drifted on the air he filled the mugs and set one in front of her.

  Dropping into the chair opposite, with a glance at the streaming windows he observed, ‘It seems to be raining harder than ever.’

  ‘Well, we can’t stay here much longer,’ she burst out.

  ‘Why not? We’re warm and comfortable, and the cupboards are well stocked with canned food, so we can rustle up a meal of some kind if we get hungry.’

  It sounded very much as if he was pleased by the prospect. Convinced now that he was playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game, keeping her here while he waited for her to crack, her blood ran cold.

  But she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how rattled she was. She bit back the panicky rush of words that rose to her lips and, trying to look unmoved, picked up her mug of coffee.

  But he hadn’t failed to notice her agitation, and as she prepared to take a sip he warned, ‘Careful; it’s very hot, and I wouldn’t like you to burn your mouth.’ With a little mocking smile, he added, ‘I haven’t yet collected on our bet.’

  It sounded like a threat and she had to repress a shiver. She couldn’t bear it if he kissed her.

  While she made a pretence of drinking her coffee, she tried to focus, to sort out something workable from the seething mass of thoughts filling her head.

  Suppose she simply refused to stay any longer? It wasn’t professional, and it could well mean losing the sale. But there were other people interested, she reminded herself.

  A sudden, disturbing thought brought her up short. What if he wouldn’t allow her to leave? What if he was determined to drag up the traumatic past—ask questions she didn’t want to answer?

  Don’t be a fool, she scolded herself, he can’t make you stay.

  But in her heart of hearts she knew he could if he so wished. He was much bigger and stronger than she was, and if he was angry enough to coerce her …

  A glance in his direction showed he had finished his own coffee and was leaning back, enjoying the warmth with catlike indolence, his eyes closed.

  Perhaps to make things easy she could slip out while he was dozing? It would mean leaving him to lock up, but surely he would do that? And when he returned the keys to the office she would take care not to be alone.

  For a while she watched him surreptitiously, then when he showed no sign of stirring she rose to her feet, picked up her bag and briefcase and, leaving the bunch of keys on the table, moved noiselessly towards the door.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ The lazy enquiry stopped her in her tracks.

  Her heart throwing itself against her ribs, she turned to look at him. He didn’t appear to have moved, but now she could see the gleam of his eyes through their thick curtain of lashes.

  ‘I have to get back to the office.’ Relieved that her voice was steady, she added, ‘I take it that you’ll lock up when you leave?’

  ‘Isn’t abandoning a potential buyer rather unprofessional?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘It depends on the buyer.’

  ‘Very well, run. But you can’t go on running. I know where to find you, and sooner or later you’re going to have to talk to me, face up to the past.’

  Closing her mind to his words, she fled.

  The rain was still torrential, bouncing off the paving stones, gurgling in the gutters, dripping from the climbing plants and streaming down the shallow channel that directed it away from the house.

  Though her car was quite close, without a mac she was saturated in seconds. Pulling open the door, struggling to hold it against the wind, she jumped in. Too relieved that she had escaped to worry about her drenched state, she wiped water from her eyes, fastened her seat belt and turned the key in the ignition.

  There was a click, then nothing.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried again.

  Still nothing.

  The problem she’d had starting the car earlier had gone clean out of her head, and now she groaned.

  Why did it have to happen today of all days?

  Driven by desperation, it took several more tries to convince her that it wasn’t going to fire; the engine was dead.

  Which meant she would have to wait for a taxi.

  While the lightning flashed and thunder ripped the heavens apart, she opened her bag and felt for her phone.

  When she couldn’t immediately find it, she looked more carefully.

  Still it failed to come to light.

  It took a third and more thorough search to convince her it wasn’t there.

  Her heart like lead, she realized she mustn’t have picked it up that morning. Harassed by her dream and thoughts of the past, hurrying to try and leave them behind, she must have left it on charge.

  Now what was she to do? Though Zander’s hired car was standing there, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—ask him for help.

  But what if he’d left the car unlocked and the keys in the ignition?

  Choked by excitement, she pulled on her mac, struggled out and hurried towards his car buffeted by the wind and rain.

  The door was unlocked, but to her disappointment the ignition was empty.

  Unless she was willing to return with her tail between her legs—which she wasn’t—that left her with just one option: to walk as far as the road and try to get a lift back to town.


  With the storm still raging it wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but she was already cold and soaked to the skin so it wouldn’t make all that much difference, she told herself stoutly.

  As she turned, a fierce gust of wind sent her staggering offbalance; she stumbled and fell, grazing her shins and knees on the rough stone.

  Picking herself up, she gritted her teeth and, head down against the elements, started for the driveway.

  She had only gone a matter of yards when her arm was caught and held. His voice raised above the noise of the storm, Zander was demanding, ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? Where are you going?’

  Pulling her arm free, she told him shortly, ‘My car won’t start and I’ve forgotten my phone, so I’m going to try and get a lift back to town.’

  Holding on to his patience, he pointed out, ‘The drive must be the best part of a mile long, and even if you get as far as the road there aren’t likely to be many cars out and about in these conditions.’

  As he spoke an extra-strong gust sent them both staggering.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he urged. ‘You’ll never make it. Come back inside.’

  The rain was beating into her face and the wind was stopping her breath. She hesitated. Then, feeling suddenly exhausted, chilled to the bone and trembling in every limb, she allowed herself be hurried into the house and back to the warmth of the kitchen.

  Dripping wet and still shaking, she went to stand by the stove. She looked a sorry sight. Stray wisps of hair hung around her pale face, blood trickled down her legs and a puddle of water was starting to form at her feet.

  Zander was equally wet, his fair hair plastered to his head, rain drops running down his face, his clothes clinging to his tall frame.

  She rounded on him and, through teeth that had started to chatter, cried, ‘Damn you! This is all your fault.’

  Wiping water out of his eyes, he said mildly, ‘Do I take it you’re blaming me for the inclement weather, for your car refusing to start and for the absence of your cell phone?’

  Suddenly ashamed of her outburst, she said, ‘No, of course not. I’m sorry.’ Then before he could crow any more she went on, ‘But you are to blame for insisting on staying here.’

  ‘May I point out that if you had stayed here neither of us would be in the state we’re in? But, rather than stand arguing, I suggest we get ourselves dried.’

  ‘What on?’ she asked raggedly. ‘A sheepskin rug?’

  ‘I think a towel might be a better bet.’ He opened one of the linen cupboards and took out a big white towel. ‘You can even have a different colour, if you prefer.’

  ‘Full marks,’ she muttered, savagely sarcastic. ‘You seem able to produce everything that’s needed.’

  ‘Not quite everything. A change of clothes, though perhaps not essential as we know each other so well, would have been handy.’

  Watching her bite her lip, he added, ‘But in the circumstances we’ll have to manage with a bathrobe. And I’m afraid that this time you don’t have a choice. It’s navy-blue or nothing.’

  ‘My favourite colour!’

  He raised an eyebrow. Handing her a folded robe, he suggested, ‘If you want to strip off by the stove where it’s warmer, I’ll use the bathroom. Unless you’d like me to stay here with you?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t!’

  Grinning at her vehemence, he took a towel, one of the robes and departed.

  As soon as the door had closed behind him, Caris removed her sodden shoes and her ruined tights, peeled off her wet clothes and dried herself thoroughly before donning the towelling robe and belting it securely.

  It was a man’s robe and much too big for her, but it was blessedly warm, and once she had turned up the sleeves it was comfortable to wear.

  Having searched in her handbag for a comb, she removed the pins from what remained of her knot, towelled her long hair, combed out the tangles and left it loose around her shoulders to finish drying.

  Then all at once reaction set in. Her legs feeling scarcely able to support her, she abandoned her saturated belongings by the hearth and, with a weird feeling that she was reliving a scene that had taken place almost three years ago at Owl Lodge, resumed her seat close to the fire.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE had barely sat down when Zander reappeared wearing a matching robe and queried solicitously, ‘Feeling warmer now?’

  Holding back her anger and frustration, she answered stiffly, ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Good.’ He was carrying his own wet things and when he had gathered hers up too he headed for the deep porcelain sink.

  After removing as much water as possible from the garments, he hung them on a slatted airer suspended from the ceiling, commenting, ‘The air’s quite warm now, so with a bit of luck they should soon start to dry. Though it’s going to take some time,’ he added as he pulled the wooden contraption up and secured the cord.

  Caris gritted her teeth. Events seemed to be repeating themselves. It was as though she had been caught in some kind of time-warp and travelled back three years.

  When she remained silent, he glanced at her; noticing the blood still oozing from the grazes, he remarked, ‘Your legs are still bleeding; I’d better take a look.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s only a few scrapes.’

  ‘They may need cleaning; earlier I noticed some antiseptic pads and cream in one of the drawers.’

  Having located both items, he came to stand in front of her. ‘Let me see.’

  Knowing only too well that he wasn’t about to take no for an answer, she held the robe closely around her thighs and reluctantly stretched out her legs.

  Zander squatted down in front of her and began to wipe away the blood and gently clean the grazes on her knees and shins.

  She stared down at his well-shaped head, his damp, slightly rumpled hair and neatly set ears. With a tug at her heartstrings, she recalled a previous occasion when he had crouched at her feet and played the role of nurse.

  She also recalled, with a sudden flare of alarm, the unprecedented effect it had had on her.

  But even as she told herself that things were very different this time—that she wouldn’t let his nearness, the touch of his hands, move her in the slightest—she felt that old familiar warmth rising inside her.

  He glanced up and smiled a little, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling.

  Her face growing hot, she looked hastily away.

  When he had finished applying a light film of antiseptic cream, he remarked, ‘There, that should help to ease the soreness.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said in a constrained voice.

  Having used a pad to remove the grease from his fingers, he put everything neatly back in the drawer before starting to make some fresh coffee.

  When it was made and poured, he passed her a mug. Resuming his seat, he leaned back, his bare feet extended towards the blaze.

  To an onlooker the little scene would have appeared tranquil, companionable, but in reality anger and resentment laced the air and tension stretched between them, dangerous as barbed wire.

  When both their mugs were empty, he enquired solicitously, ‘More coffee?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Anything you would like?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like to know how long you’re intending to stay here.’

  ‘Well, we can’t really go until our clothes are dry.’

  ‘Please don’t play games with me,’ she said sharply. ‘How long?’

  ‘For as long as it takes.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To break down the barriers you’ve erected and get through to you. I need you to talk to me, to tell me exactly why you left me.’

  But she couldn’t bear to talk about the past, to have all her pain, misery and guilt dragged into the open.

  ‘I’ve no intention of talking about the past. You’re only wasting your time.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve
plenty of it.’

  Thoroughly rattled now, she burst out, ‘Well, I haven’t. If I’m not home by this evening, people will miss me.’

  ‘Oh? Which people in particular?’

  After a moment of complete blankness, she stammered, ‘M-my aunt, for one.’

  Zander shook his head. ‘I think not. I happen to know that your aunt died about two years ago.’

  Watching her jaw drop, he added, ‘Oh yes, since finding you I’ve done my homework.

  ‘I’m sorry about your aunt. She couldn’t have been very old; what did she die of?’

  Losing her beloved aunt had been a big blow, and Caris’s voice was unsteady as she told him, ‘She had what should have been just a minor operation, and died of septicaemia.’

  ‘That must have been tough.’

  Brushing aside what she saw as spurious sympathy, she demanded, ‘How long have you known where I was?’

  ‘I only found out quite recently.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By chance. I was in England when I happened to read an article about Gracedieu being on the market. Your name was mentioned as the sole agent, and there was a photograph of you. I asked Michael Grayson’s PA to make an appointment.’

  So she had been completely mistaken in believing that meeting Zander again was just a devastating coincidence.

  Though she was already sure of the answer, she asked, ‘Why did you use Michael Grayson’s name?’

  He answered her question with a question of his own. ‘Would you have shown up if you’d known in advance who the buyer was?’

  After a swift glance at her face, he said grimly, ‘No, I didn’t think so.’

  He stopped speaking and the silence lengthened—a silence that was far from companionable. Though they were together physically, mentally they were miles apart, a no-man’s-land of unspoken questions and answers, of shattered expectations and dashed hopes stretching between them.

  In complete contrast she found herself recalling the past, how close they had once been, how they had sat by the stove at Owl Lodge, together in every sense of the word, and all at once her deep-blue eyes filled with tears.

  Hoping against hope that he wouldn’t look up, she tried not to blink. But despite all her efforts the tears escaped and rolled slowly down her cheeks in tracks of shiny wetness.