This time the pain came out of nowhere. It rippled through her body in a gathering wave to center on her chest and overwhelmed her to the point that her mind emptied of everything else. Ah, well maybe not such a bad thing this time if it stopped her from thinking of Turner.
Matty pressed her forehead against the glass and tried to breathe through the cramping agony, but her lungs struggled to inflate. What the hell was the matter with her? Apart from everything else in her weird, shitty life, why did things have to hurt as well?
After a couple of minutes, the talon-like grip on her heart eased and Matty let out a long expiration of air. It might be her imagination, but these episodes seemed to be coming with more regularity—as though something was building to a climax. She swallowed hard, not liking the idea of that. As a large man lumbered down the aisle with his eye on her seat, Matty moved to plonk herself opposite. She pressed her face against the window and watched the world pass by, wishing she was properly part of it.
* * * * *
When Matty had piled all she needed in her basket in the grocery store, including a funny birthday card, she made her way to the register. The line for self-checkout snaked back to the cereals. Damn. No point waiting. She’d not get a chance to scan all her purchases before someone pushed in. Matty roughly totted up how much she owed and slipped fifteen pounds in front of a cashier sitting at a regular till. The gray-haired woman picked up the notes and gave them a bewildered look.
“Sorry, in a rush,” Matty said.
She needed to hurry. The longer she stayed away from Milford, the more tired and anxious she became. Back on the main street, Matty wandered up and down, trying to find something for Turner’s birthday. She didn’t care if he thought she was trying to bribe him into letting her stay. A bit of her was, but Matty knew what it was like to spend a birthday alone, with no presents, no cards and no cake. A month ago, that had been her. Twenty-nine years old and not one “Happy birthday” had been tossed her way. Maybe a slice of her chocolate cake would warm Turner’s heart. George had made her promise not to give up, no matter how cold Turner seemed. If she could hang on until George returned, maybe he’d have some suggestions how to crack Turner’s shell.
Matty smiled when she spotted the perfect gift for a miserable guy who slept all day—a solar-powered orange light encased in a glass cube. A fragment of sun trapped in a jar. She put twenty pounds of her precious cash on the counter and left with her purchase.
Forty-three pounds remained in her purse. When that was gone, she’d have to take what she needed without paying. Matty gulped. She didn’t want to steal, but she had no way to get more cash. When she’d attempted to take money from a machine in the wall it had eaten her card and told her to inquire inside. Those were the early days when she’d still been open to trying to communicate. Now she knew better.
She caught the next bus back and walked from the middle of Milford village, feeling better and brighter with every step. Turner’s car didn’t look as though it had moved. The lazy lump was probably still asleep.
The light blinked on the phone in the hall, the connection restored. Her heart fluttered at the thought that the message might be an old one for her. Every week or so, she listened to the same three messages on her pay-as-you-go mobile, her friend Sally wondering where she was. Matty’s finger hovered and then she pressed the button.
“Good morning, Mr. Turner. My name’s Diana Rolfe. I’m treasurer of Milford’s Winterval committee and I’m calling to remind you you’re hosting our get-together this evening at seven thirty. Looking forward to meeting you. Bye.”
Matty sighed. Not for her. She pressed the save button.
“Message deleted. You have no saved messages,” said a woman’s voice.
Shit. Now she had to admit to incompetence or invasion of privacy. Or say nothing. It seemed Turner had been told about the meeting, so maybe keeping quiet was the best option.
There was no sound or sign of Mr. Grumpy, which was just as well as she needed to use the kitchen. Matty put the solar cube on the windowsill to charge in the sunshine and set about making the chocolate cake. She longed to scoop up a spoonful of raw mixture but restrained herself. She wouldn’t be able to swallow it.
While the cake was baking, she tore chunks from a pack of fondant icing, colored them different shades and shaped them into a decoration for the top of the cake—a dark-haired guy tucked up in bed. Matty hoped Turner thought it was funny.
Neither the kitchen cupboard nor fridge showed any sign of his having shopped for food. Maybe he lived on take-out. George hadn’t said what Turner did for a living. Matty had watched the removal guys carry lots of boxes into the stable block, and she’d wondered if they had something to do with his work. She was not going to peek. Obviously whatever it was, Turner did it from home. At night.
Once the cake was cool, she covered it in foil and hid it in the back of a cupboard along with the edible decoration and four packs of candles.
In the attic, she put Turner’s present under a skylight to maximize its charge and chewed the end of her pen while she thought about what to write on his card. Would wit impress him? Charm? Flattery? Kisses? Matty smiled. No way would she believe he hadn’t enjoyed kissing her. But should she write love? What would he think? It was just a figure of speech—right?
* * * * *
Turner was awake and alert in an instant. He looked across the room at the chest of drawers he’d pulled across the bedroom door and sighed. Relief or disappointment that she hadn’t tried to get in? If he was being honest, a little of both. He showered and dressed quickly. He needed to get to the estate agents before they closed. He’d eat when he got back.
When he opened the bedroom door, he found Matty standing against the wall opposite, her hands behind her back. Bloody hell. It was like having a stalker.
“Hap—” she began.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, and held up his hand. “On second thought, don’t bother giving me an answer.”
Turner strode away from her. When he reached the stairs, he glanced back. She was clutching something in her arms. Turner hoped it wasn’t some stray cat or lost puppy. He left the house and hurried to his car.
As he pulled down the drive, his bad temper evaporated. He was such an idiot. Why did he have to be so unpleasant? Last night she’d done something wonderful and he’d walked away without a word. He’d just had a chance to at least apologize and he’d stalked off again. What had she been about to say?
Luckily there was a place to park right outside Hartley and Stonehouse, the estate agents. Unluckily he had to maneuver into a gap between two vehicles and after ten minutes’ effort, ended up with two wheels on the curb. He hadn’t the energy to repark.
Turner’s lip curled when he saw they’d put a tacky nativity scene in the window. A stable surrounded by an arrangement of plush animals, fake snow sprinkled on their heads. A dinosaur stood next to a zebra. Lovely. He pushed open the door and went in.
A young man working on a laptop glanced up. “Can I help you?”
“I’ve just moved into Milford Hall and—”
The man leapt to his feet. “Mr. Turner? Pleased to meet you.”
Turner shook the proffered hand. The name tag said Steven Foster.
“There’s a problem,” Turner said, and the man’s hand went limp as a dead fish. Turner dropped it.
“What sort of problem?”
“One of your employees is living in my attic.”
Foster gulped and his eyes widened. He reminded Turner of a carp but then the pulse in his neck throbbed and Turner remembered he hadn’t fed. All these years managing with Plasmix and one irritating female had thrown him out of kilter.
“What?” Foster asked. “Who?”
“Matty Hobsbawn.”
“There’s no one of that name working here.”
Turner gritted his teeth. Had she lied about her name? “She’s tall, slim and has white hair. Not well cut.” Tho
ugh it wasn’t as spiky as when he’d first met her. “Her eyes are gray, she has soft lips—” Idiot. Idiot. “She must work here. She gave me the keys to the property.”
The estate agent went over to a filing cabinet and unlocked it. A moment later, he turned and held out a set of keys. “We still have them here. We were waiting for you to call.” He handed them over.
Turner wrapped his fingers around them. What the hell is going on?
“How long have you worked here?” Turner asked. If Foster was new, then—
“Nine months.”
Bang went that theory. “Did you handle the sale? Was it you who spoke to my assistant?”
“No, one of my colleagues.”
“Can I speak to him-her?”
“He’s on vacation.”
Of course he was. Everyone Turner needed was on vacation. “Remind me of the vendor’s name.”
“Strachan.”
Not Hobsbawn. Turner sighed. “Which lawyers handled the sale?”
Foster consulted the file. “Jenkins and Stour. Based in Derby.”
“And the purchase?”
The question caused another fish impression. “You don’t know the name of your own solicitor?”
Turner was aware how that sounded. “My assistant handled the whole thing. He’s on vacation too.”
Foster took another look at the file. “Dorling and Hynd. Nottingham.”
“The telephone numbers?”
Turner ignored the furrowed brow, suspicion written all over the man’s face. He wasn’t leaving without a way to contact the lawyers on both sides. Turner stared hard at Foster. “You want to give me the numbers,” he said in a firm voice.
“Let me write them down for you.”
Good to know Turner’s thrall still worked. Just not on Matty. Piece of paper clutched in his hand, Turner nodded his head in thanks. He’d reached the door before Foster spoke again.
“I have heard of a Matilda Hobsbawn.”
Turner looked back. “And?”
“Well, I doubt it’s her living in your attic.”
Turner begged to differ. “Why’s that?”
“She’s dead.”
“If only that were true,” he muttered, and walked out.
Turner unlocked his car and got in. His fingers were about to press the ignition button when he paused. His little uninvited house guest must have stolen Matty Hobsbawn’s identity. Was she a criminal? That made sense. Hiding from the police in someone else’s property. Or perhaps she was on the run from an abusive relationship. Turner bristled at the thought of anyone hurting her. He set off back to the hall.
Whatever the truth of the situation, one thing was certain. The woman in his house was most definitely not dead, and despite his parting quip, Turner was glad about that.
Now he had a way to get rid of her. He called Dorling and Hynd and left a message on their answering machine. Turner didn’t try to hide the annoyance in his voice. They were idiots for putting those clauses in the contract. He wanted an eviction notice issued immediately.
The moment Turner walked into the hall he saw a parcel and a letter lying on the bottom stair. Was that what she’d been holding before? He picked the items up. A gift? Bribery now? Turner lifted his head, sniffed and followed his nose to the kitchen.
Matty stood with her back to the sink. Between them on the table sat a lopsided chocolate cake. On top were a large number of candles and the model of a dark-haired guy lying snug in bed. Oh fuck.
“Happy birthday,” Matty blurted.
“Birthday?” He felt like he’d swallowed a stone. He eyed the table. “You made me a cake.” Turner put down the card and present.
“Let me light the candles,” she said.
She launched into the Happy Birthday song, her voice trailing away as Turner stared at her. He couldn’t think when he’d been more shocked in his life. Well, yes he could. It hadn’t been that long ago.
“You have to blow them out,” she said. “Better hurry before the smoke alarm goes off.”
Turner took a deep breath, exhaled and all the candles went out.
“Now make a wish,” Matty said.
“I wish you—”
“Not out loud or it won’t come true,” she blurted, and then chewed her lip.
Turner hadn’t been going to wish her gone, though he could see that was what she expected. He’d intended to say he’d wished she hadn’t bothered. Oh, and that would be better, moron? He was an absolute idiot. How old was he?
He counted the candles. Thirty-six.
“How—?” he began.
“I saw your birth certificate when I found the contract for the house. Do you want a slice of cake?”
God no. “Yes please.” Turner frowned. “You went through my papers?”
“Only a little bit.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it again. She took off the candles, put them to one side and grabbed a knife. The slice she gave him had his head perched on top. Matty had neatly decapitated him. She cut a very thin sliver for herself and then appeared to only play with it.
“Are you going to open your present?” she asked.
Turner picked up the card and slid his finger under the flap of the envelope. The paper sliced into him and a red bead blossomed on his skin. He licked the blood away and his fangs dropped. Oh fuck. He should have eaten before he went out. Turner dropped the card and forked a piece of cake into his mouth. It wouldn’t kill him to eat it and with a bit of luck it might disgust his fangs into a tactical retreat.
He forced the mouthful down and sure enough, his fangs retracted. “Delicious,” he said, fighting off the urge to vomit.
The smile on Matty’s face was so radiant he could have sworn the room lightened. Had anyone ever made him a cake? After he’d been turned there had been no point. Matty’s cake tasted— Oh crap. He swallowed his heave. Turner wished it tasted great but it didn’t.
He picked up the card. The picture on the front was of a boy’s head perched on a couch. Next to the head was a cowboy hat and scrunched up wrapping paper. Parents stood nervously in front of their bodiless child. The caption was Another hat? Fred wished he had more imaginative parents. Turner laughed. Inside she’d written Happy Birthday, love Matty.
Love. Turner’s mind drifted and Matty pushed the gift into his hands. “Wait until I switch off the light.”
Turner raised his eyebrows but waited until the room was dark. Inside the wrapping he found a small glass cube that shone a bright yellowy-orange.
“It’s a piece of the sun,” Matty blurted. “Solar-powered. You spend all day sleeping and don’t see much of it.”
Turner’s miserable, shriveled, pathetic excuse for a heart felt as if it were going to break in two.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “The perfect gift.” She had no idea how perfect.
* * * * *
Dava couldn’t wait any longer for Gabriel to get in touch. She’d decided if he did blame her for his incarceration, he would have been in touch, so it was more likely he didn’t know how to find her. It had taken Dava awhile to track him down and cover up what she’d done by overwriting files, her computer expertise gained thanks to a pizza delivery guy getting an address wrong. Several nights ago, Pete had turned up at her door with his last delivery, and every evening since, he’d continued to provide food she didn’t want and food she did.
A rat-a-tat-tat on the door was the cue to strip. Dava pulled the door open and smiled. Pete wasn’t a patch on the blond VRB vamp, but of far more use to her. The mortal was thin with greasy hair and sallow skin, though the lust in his eyes almost made him handsome. His big cock was handsome.
Why did he look worried?
“Hello, gorgeous,” she purred.
“Still want the pizza?”
He just needed reassurance. “Have you brought me a deep pan, fourteen-inch pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and a stiff cock?”
He held out the box and finally offered up a grin. Dava
closed the door behind him. The idiot never seemed to notice she never ate a morsel. She followed him to the kitchen and he put the pizza on the counter.
“I’m starving,” she said, and leapt at him.
Dava flipped his pants’ button open, pulled the zipper down and the stiff cock promised jumped out. She lifted her leg, grabbed his shoulders and impaled herself with a long hiss.
He was enthusiastic and O positive. A delightful combination. He was also lucky. If he’d arrived that first night before she’d drunk the crap that masqueraded as blood, she’d have drained him, unable to help herself. She’d relearned control though hadn’t yet mastered the balancing act of not sucking too hard when he was on the verge of orgasm.
Unexpectedly, Pete reached for her clit, rubbed, and Dava came with a shudder as he flooded her with his cum. He was learning. How impressive. She licked the wounds on his neck and nuzzled into him as he lowered her leg to the floor.
“You are so hot,” Pete whispered.
Yes, I am.
“You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.”
So true. “Would you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
Of course he would.
“Drive me to the train station?”
“Now?” Pete asked, his voice pained.
“Please.”
She’d bought a first-class train ticket to Nottingham, the cost horrifying even though she wasn’t using her money. Twenty years ago she could have purchased a fur coat for the same amount. She’d not seen anyone wearing fur except a few dogs. Perhaps Gabriel would buy her a little mink jacket.
After Pete had gotten over his sulk at not getting another fuck, he’d been pacified by her promise to call him. He wouldn’t remember giving her the money out of his wallet, though Dava didn’t remove his memory of her. She had a feeling he’d come in useful. He was saving for college and those who needed money were always vulnerable.
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