I glanced into the mirror, not liking that the woman staring back at me was all too recognizable. My broad shoulders, my too-lean body, my blue eyes, and my mane of hair which fell past my shoulders and which over the years had been artfully (and expensively) highlighted into tones that were more sand and honey than its natural caramel. I wished I’d brought a black wig with me, but all I had in the way of disguise were my Tom Ford sunglasses, which were courtesy of a small sponsorship last year, and my baseball cap.
Perhaps a walk on the beachfront would do me some good. The press would all be in their conference, and when that was done, they’d flock straight to the pubs and restaurants. I knew what journalists were like. They wouldn’t go out for a walk, especially now, with the wind starting to freshen and light clouds obscuring the sun.
I changed into capris and a blue T-shirt, scraped my hair back into a ponytail, and put on the baseball cap, taking a light jersey from my bag before making sure my sunglasses were safely stowed in my purse.
As the elevator doors closed, I wondered whether it would be more sensible to walk or drive to the beach. Walking would be better exercise, but driving would mean I’d get there quicker. I was still undecided, but happily so, when the “Lobby” button lit up and the doors slid open again.
The man waiting in front of the doors was as impatient to get in as I was to get out. We almost collided before he stepped hurriedly back.
“So sorry,” he said. He moved aside and, with a chivalrous sweep of his hand, invited me to walk out and past him. But I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. I’m sure I must have looked as if I’d seen a ghost…and not your everyday, common-or-garden specter, but something way more terrifying.
I recognized this man. Tall, broad-shouldered, his build as lean and rangy as I remembered it. His face…the rugged handsomeness of his bone structure more defined than it had been back then. His hair—slightly shorter, perfectly cut, although not so perfectly styled—those wayward locks still falling over his forehead. His gold-hazel eyes, that seemed to be lit from within by a flickering flame. He was arching his right eyebrow slightly, just the same way he’d done when I’d first seen him. I took in his chiseled mouth, which had kissed my own with such expert, melting tenderness…
Patrick was standing in front of me—the physical embodiment of all my thoughts and dreams.
I remembered exactly how it had felt when I’d slid my hands underneath his sweatshirt and let them roam over his body, touching his abs, moving round the leanness of his waist, to press into the thick muscles flanking his spine. Taut as his skin looked, it had been silken soft to the touch and surprisingly hot, as if the same fire that flickered in his eyes was also smoldering in his core.
Now, he wore dark pants and a perfectly cut black jacket. His white dress shirt was open at the collar, no tie. He looked like he’d just started undressing after a formal function, and for just a moment, it scared me to think how badly I wanted to tug that shirt out of his pants, to pull the buttons open so it hung loose, to slide my hands under it and touch him again.
I stared into his eyes and saw my own emotions reflected there. First confusion, then surprise, and finally I saw, dawning, the same incredulous realization that I felt.
This couldn’t be! It was impossible. This was a man I’d met once, an encounter I’d fantasized about forever after…and now, here he was. Just inches away from me. In the same hotel, in the exact town where I had chosen to run.
Oh, God, my cover was so totally blown now. And in that instant of self-awareness, humiliation swept over me. Who had I been, when this handsome rogue had last seen me? An athlete on the brink of a promising career. A young woman with a bright future ahead of her. No scars on my body. No blemishes on my record.
Now, ten years later, I was a has-been, hated by the media, fleeing from scandal as sponsors severed their ties. I had broken everything that was precious to me. I was broken myself.
And that knowledge, finally, unfroze me.
He was already moving toward me again, starting to say something as I pushed past him, my hands cold and my heart hammering in my throat, and headed for the exit at a run.
I heard his voice calling behind me—deep, commanding.
“Claire? Claire!”
This time, no doubt, the words were meant for me.
I did not stop, but sprinted out of the hotel, past the startled doorman, and out into the fresh, cloudy afternoon.
Chapter 3
Out in the streets, I just kept walking. No way was I turning back to the hotel now, not even to get my car. Wherever I was going, I wouldn’t drive…on foot was safer.
Spying a gap in the light afternoon traffic, I jogged across the road and glanced behind me. The glass door of the hotel was closed. Nobody had followed me out. I prayed no one was watching.
Even so, I kept up my swift pace, with the wind tugging at my ponytail and the sights and smells of the town surrounding me. So different from the repetitive slog of a gym treadmill, where I’d put in most of my miles in recent years.
I headed inland, following the main road for about twenty minutes until I was out of town, before making a left turn onto a quieter road. It took me up a hill, over its crest, and half an hour later, I was walking through the farmland I’d seen from the plane. At times, my view was blocked by the overgrowth of trees and hedges that lined the road, but every so often a gap in the greenery allowed me to see wooden gates leading on to emerald fields where cows and horses grazed.
I turned again twice more, going deeper into the countryside and choosing narrower roads each time, including one that was little more than a tarred footpath and had grass growing down its middle. Hardly any cars passed me now; just the occasional farm vehicle or horse trailer. I was wished a good afternoon by a gray haired woman walking her two red setters, and a man riding a large chestnut horse tipped his hat in my direction as he trotted past.
I had no idea how I was going to find my way back. I had my purse and my phone with me…perhaps I’d call a cab. But the idea of heading back to that hotel terrified me. Should I find another place to stay? I knew I’d have to make a decision soon, because the shadows were starting to lengthen, the sun was hovering above the hills, and in another hour, it would be getting dark.
Now that I thought about it, I remembered there had been occasional signposts for B&Bs along my walk. I just couldn’t recall how far back the most recent one had been. But it was worth a try.
I turned around and began the long walk back.
This crossroads…had I gone straight here, or turned? I gazed around me, mystified. Nothing looked familiar. Or, rather, the problem was that it all did. There were only so many bushy hedges, five-barred gates and Jersey herds you could pass before everything started looking the same. My sense of direction was unreliable even when there was a recognizable landmark within view—the Eiffel Tower, for instance. I’d gotten lost in Paris more times than I cared to remember. And now, for the first time, I was getting lost in County Kerry, Ireland.
I decided to go straight, knowing that it would probably be wrong, and then kept walking out of sheer stubbornness, as if by not giving up, I could make the right road come to me.
A half-hour and two more turns later, it was almost dark and I was ready to admit defeat. The only reason I was still going was in a vain quest to find the name of the lane I was on, so I could tell the cab driver where to come.
And then, I saw it: a hand-painted sign on a white board propped against the edge of a stone gatepost.
“Room Available. Enquire Within.” It was followed by a phone number. The gate was open and, straining my eyes in the gloom, I saw that the winding driveway snaked its way between apple trees, up to a quaint farmhouse that looked to be built of the same stone.
I took a deep breath. Perhaps this sign was fortuitous—a signal from Fate. Or perhaps I was simply too tired to realize what a bad mistake I was about to make. Hoisting my ever-heavier purse o
nto my shoulder again, I trudged up the long gravel driveway.
Chapter 4
I was about fifty yards from the farmhouse door when a bloodcurdling yell stopped me in my tracks.
“Guinness!”
It was a woman’s voice, furious, pitched midway between a roar and a scream. I could almost feel the sound waves battering me. I glanced back toward the gate, wondering whether I should make a hasty retreat.
“Guinness, come here!” I’d thought it impossible for her to shout louder, but this second wrathful cry made my ears ring.
Decision made, then. Clearly, a madwoman lived here.
I turned my back on the farmhouse and began hurrying to the gate, but a moment later, the scampering of paws on gravel made me spin round again. A large black and white dog—a collie, I realized—was heading my way at a run, letting out a volley of sharp barks.
“Um—good dog?” I tried, hopefully. “Shush, now!”
But the barking grew louder as the collie came closer.
“Guinness!”
Light streamed out as the farmhouse door was flung open, and a sturdily built woman marched outside.
“Come here! Now! Bad dog!”
Guinness’s barks trailed off into a whine. He slowed to a walk and crept up to me, his ears laid apologetically against his head.
“Who’s out there?” the woman called. “Can I help you?”
Guinness licked my hand, then wagged his tail.
“Come here, you thieving dog!”
Guinness left my side and scampered back to the farmhouse. The woman flicked a dishcloth at him as he trotted inside. “What is it with you and baked goods, Guinness?” she chastised him in a musical Irish accent. “I could leave a roast out, ready for the oven, and go into town and you wouldn’t touch it. But put a cake on the cooling tray for five minutes…” She grimaced in annoyance before turning to me. “Sorry for the shouting. How can I help you?”
“Good evening.” I made my way up to the door—a kitchen door, I now saw. The smell of baking biscuits wafted out to meet me.
Up close, the woman looked less scary than her voice had sounded. She was shorter than me and in her mid-forties, I guessed. Dark hair in an outgrown bob was held back from her face by a tortoiseshell clip, and her ample bosom strained against the confines of a blue apron.
“I’m Claire,” I said. “I saw your sign at the gate.”
“Noreen Neville.” She nodded in response. “Which sign would that be? Free-range eggs? I meant to take it down until after the weekend.”
“No, no. The one about the room for rent.”
Noreen tilted her head sideways and regarded me shrewdly. “It’s only a room,” she said. “I don’t think it’s suitable accommodation for a tourist.”
I nodded. “I wasn’t looking for anything fancy.”
“This is very basic,” she explained further. “Just a small bedroom, with a bathroom down the passage. I normally rent to people who work around here. You know, riding the hunters, that sort of thing.”
She must have seen the confusion in my eyes, because she added, “The horses. Riding the horses.”
I felt my face grow hot. “I don’t mind how basic the room is,” I said. “I’d like to take it.”
She regarded me for a moment longer, smoothing her fingers, which I noticed were floury, over her apron.
“Well, you’d better have a look at it then. Give me a minute while I wash my hands. Do you want to bring your car into the yard?”
“My car’s—um—it’s somewhere else. I walked here.”
That comment earned me another narrow-eyed glance. But Noreen said nothing more. She ushered me into the kitchen, which looked like the main living area of the house. It was spacious, with a polished wooden floor, white-painted cupboards and grey granite surfaces with a large table in the center. An empty cooling rack stood on the nearest surface, surrounded by the evidence of crumbs that had spilled onto the floor. From its perch on top of the refrigerator, a large, long-haired tabby cat regarded me inscrutably.
“The room belonged to my daughter, Marian,” Noreen explained, leading the way down the passage. “She’s gone to England, so I’ve been letting it out.”
The floorboards squeaked under my feet. I followed Noreen up a flight of stairs. The house smelled good: the sweet, crispy aroma of cake, with a warm undertone of polish. And when she opened the door at the end of the corridor, the first scent I picked up was the fragrance of pot-pourri.
The room was tiny, barely big enough for the double bed, wooden wardrobe and small desk and chair it contained. It had a beige carpet and curtains that looked new. The duvet cover was patterned with roses.
“Basic, as I told you,” Noreen repeated.
“It looks perfect,” I reassured her.
I asked Noreen what the address was here, and she wrote it down for me.
“If you’d like some dinner, I’ve more than enough for two in the oven,” she told me. “I can’t offer you cake, though,” she added, with a mock-frustrated sigh.
“Thank you,” I said.
“We’ll eat at seven.”
She closed the door and I heard her footsteps going back down the passage, over those squeaky boards, and down the stairs.
I checked my phone.
There were a couple of missed calls and messages, none from anyone I knew. Ignoring them with an effort, I called the hotel instead.
“It’s Claire Harvey here,” I told the receptionist. “I was checked into room number 507, but my plans have changed and I’m now staying at…” I consulted the piece of paper, “Mulligan Heights Farm, Shepherd’s Lane, Drewes’ Folly.”
I waited while the receptionist took down the address.
“Could you possibly send my bag to me tomorrow morning?” I asked. “If you can’t, then I’ll come round for it, but if you could organize a courier, that would be wonderful.”
I could do without the rental car for now. Maybe in a day or two, I’d summon up the courage to sneak into the hotel’s parking and reclaim it. It was not urgent; my bag was. Apart from my toothbrush, toiletries and clothes, it also contained my cellphone charger—an essential, since my phone couldn’t go twelve hours without needing to be charged.
“Of course we can do that, Ms. Harvey,” the receptionist told me. “We’ll send your bag with a courier.”
I put down the phone with a sigh of relief.
I would not have to set foot in the Park Hotel again. I would not have to run the risk of being recognized by a curious journalist keen for a story. And I would not risk bumping into the man I’d spent far too much time thinking about over the past years.
That thought gave me an unexpected jolt of disappointment, but quickly, I suppressed it.
I walked down the passage a few yards to find, as advertised, a bathroom. A clean towel was hanging on the rail, and a bathmat was folded on the lid of the wicker laundry basket. There was a cake of soap in the shower and lavender bath gel on the shelf next to the claw-footed tub.
The tub looked too sumptuous to resist. I filled it halfway with steaming water, folded my clothes on the laundry basket, and climbed inside.
I lay down with a sigh, carefully positioning my left arm, fearing the usual stab of pain when I moved it, and was relieved to find that there was none. Only the usual residual muscle ache, but even the water was soothing that.
Looking at my body dispassionately, I could see it only as a tool—a tool that had been useful to me but which, ultimately, had failed me, or I had failed it. My legs, toned and sleek from hours of arduous gym sessions. My protruding hipbones and concave belly. The left arm, more firmly muscled than the right from the endless hours of thrusting and parrying with my blade. Even after the weeks of rest following the injury, you could still see the difference. It was one of the reasons I didn’t like wearing sleeveless tops; I was embarrassed about the visible disparity in the size of my arm muscles.
I looked down at my breasts, which were firmly
rounded, but otherwise average in every way. Perhaps I should have made more of the cleavage I had, flaunted it, worn lacy push-up bras and low-cut tops. But that would not have suited the image of the blonde, decent, all-American sports icon that College Sport wanted me to portray. It had been conservative necklines for me during my photo shoots. Even the gym tops hadn’t been very revealing.
Now, my image was indelibly tarnished.
I soaped myself in the essence of lavender. Scooped hot water into my cupped hands and let it cascade over my breasts, and as I did so, I found my thoughts straying back to Patrick.
After so many years of existing only in my memory, I’d almost been able to believe he had never been real; that he’d been a figment of my dreams. And it was there that he reappeared, sometimes. I’d wake up alone in my hotel bedroom, or in my lonely bed at home on the many occasions when Dave was away. I’d be breathless and tingling with desire, still feeling the audacious brush of fingertips across my throbbing mound…only to realize with a stab of guilt that I’d just spent the night, figuratively, with another man.
The shrilling of my cellphone interrupted my reverie. I scrambled out of the bath with a curse, water streaming down me, grabbed my towel, and did a quick foot-drying dance on the bathmat before hurrying down the corridor to grab it just before it rang through to voicemail.
It was the hotel calling.
“Ms. Harvey, would it be convenient for us to deliver your bag later this evening?”
“That would be wonderful,” I said, surprised. “Thank you.”
I would be reunited with my toothbrush sooner than I’d hoped, and I’d be able to plug my pesky phone in before it died on me.
I put my capris and jersey back on, and went downstairs, where more delicious aromas were starting to fill the kitchen.
“You’re not a vegetarian or anything, are you?” Noreen asked.
Soaring Page 3