Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  “I’ll let you know more soon. But for now, you don’t have to pay any money back. And they’re considering renewing your contract, like they were going to do.”

  That news silenced me. After the scandal, I’d given up hope of having the contract renewed, and the truth was that this contract was absolutely essential to me financially. There was no other way I could earn enough to support my parents as well as myself.

  My mother had been a quadriplegic for the past three years after a fall while she’d been doing the sport she loved—rock climbing. Her care, equipment, medical bills, and physical therapy costs were frighteningly expensive, and my dad, who was only a few years away from retirement age, had been laid off from his job last December and hadn’t been able to find new employment.

  “I’ve scheduled a meeting with the College Sport team for Tuesday. You’ll need to be there, of course,” Dave told me.

  That was in four days’ time.

  “I’ll be there,” I said in a small voice.

  “I’ll send you a mail with the details. I assume you’ll be home before then?”

  “I’ll be back on Monday,” I said reluctantly, my stolen holiday shortening with every word we exchanged. What was the definition of stress? Saying yes when your brain was screaming no? That was the way I felt right then.

  “And in the meantime, Claire, just make sure you look good, okay? I think maybe that’s gonna swing it. Get your hair done, and make sure you’re in shape, you know? They’re gonna have to be sold on you all over again, as the face and body of the brand. We need to remind them that you’re hot property. Not just a sportswoman, but a public figure. A model and a presenter who was marketable a while ago, and who could be again.”

  I thought guiltily of that thick cream I’d spooned into my coffee this morning. How rich and sweet it had tasted. I’d need to go for a run to make up for that. Or something.

  “Oh, and you need to set their minds at rest that your injury is fully healed,” Dave added. “When are you seeing your surgeon?”

  “Um…” With a jolt, I realized I’d missed my appointment, which was supposed to have been yesterday. God knew when I’d get another appointment; he was very busy. Perhaps he could squeeze me in, or I could get another opinion. “I’ll see what I can do by Monday,” I promised.

  “I’ll be in touch again soon. Take care, okay?”

  “I will,” I said.

  I disconnected, and for a while I sat on the bed, feeling utterly torn.

  This was the answer to my dreams, the miracle I’d needed, the second chance that I should grab without hesitation. I could make a living once again by pursuing my passion. I could try to improve my rankings, to be included in future international teams. It wasn’t enough to be a pretty face and a slim body…College Sport also required me to compete. I sometimes felt like I was their full-time employee, attending hundreds of meetings and functions, doing numerous photo shoots and interviews, and squeezing my gym time and training into every busy day. But ironically, the more I’d dieted and exercised, the less time and energy I’d had for training. My rankings had been slipping. I needed to get them back on track.

  A new sponsorship deal would provide me with a nest egg of savings, while being able to support my parents.

  I should be jumping up and down with excitement, and yet, I felt strangely deflated, as if life hadn’t turned out the way I was hoping it would. I must be going crazy. Perhaps it was that, for the first time in ten years, I’d had a taste of another life, and I was reluctant to turn my back on it so soon.

  But this wasn’t just about me. It was about Dave, who’d worked so hard to get all the deals. It was about my parents, whose life was tough and grim right now through no fault of their own. And my sponsors—how could I say no if they were prepared to invest money in my brand, the fencing star Claire Harvey?

  With a jolt, I realized it was a quarter to one. I’d been so preoccupied by the astonishing turn my life had taken that I’d forgotten about my lunch date. Now, I felt nervous, but without any of the earlier excitement. With so much at stake, it was vital, for the sake of my career, that there were no further scandals.

  “Be sensible,” I told my reflection in the brass-framed mirror on the wall. “Remember, your future is in the balance, and your family’s, too.”

  After that stern warning, I changed into a pink top and the only skirt I’d brought, and went downstairs to wait for Patrick.

  Chapter 7

  Patrick arrived at 1:05, and as soon as I saw the sleek silver body of the Merc purr up the driveway, my heart jumped into my throat.

  He climbed out and strode over to me.

  God, but he was gorgeous—heart-stoppingly good-looking, and so confident in his own skin. So unlike the mess of doubts and regrets that I was right now. I wondered briefly, and with a stab of jealousy, how many lucky women had enjoyed his company in the past.

  “I’m late. I’m sorry.” He walked over to me, wrapped his arms around me, and I pressed my face into his neck so I would not be tempted to kiss him again. His skin felt soft against my lips, and I breathed in the faint spice of sandalwood.

  “I wanted to be punctual.” He opened the car door for me before getting in the driver’s side. “Do you know, I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ve been driving round these lanes for twenty minutes, so that I could be exactly on time for you. And then, as I’m heading down this road at exactly five to one, what happens but I get stopped by a shepherd and have to wait while about two hundred sheep cross to another field.”

  “Oh, no!” I found myself laughing at the picture.

  “Un-flocking-believable!” He grinned at me and I smiled back, unable to look away. I was utterly captivated by his charm. The rogue lock was flopping over his forehead, tempting me to smooth it back just for the sake of running my hand through his shiny, dark brown hair.

  He drove out of the farm gate and up the lane, stopping briefly at the crest of the hill to point out the offending sheep, now wending their way down a narrow lane between two stone walls.

  It struck me suddenly that I didn’t know the first thing about this man, beyond the little he’d told me the first time we’d met and what Noreen had said the previous night. And here I was, in his car, being driven to an unknown destination. Not a soul in the world knew where I was going—not even me.

  If I were sensible, I wouldn’t have gotten myself into such a situation. But here I was…and I was enjoying it. It felt like my final taste of freedom. Behind the car’s darkly tinted windows, I felt safe and anonymous. It was surely unlikely that I would be recognized by anyone on this one outing. And whatever restaurant we went to, I’d sit facing the wall and wear my shades.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Patrick, but he shook his head at me and said, “We’ll see.”

  “Well, tell me this, then,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I sold my business a couple of years ago,” he said. “As of now, I’m dividing my time between Ireland and the States, investing in a few ventures that I enjoy.”

  “Like the hotel?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You weren’t a hotelier by trade?”

  Patrick shook his head. “I’m still not. I don’t have a clue about the hospitality industry. Pouring a glass of champagne is about my limit. So my managers look after the running of it, and I make sure it stays in the black financially, and returns a profit.”

  We reached the main road and he turned right. Getting my bearings, I saw we were heading into town. Seeing as he’d told me he owned it, I suspected we might be going to the Park Hotel, but when we turned through its ornate wrought iron gateway, I found myself feeling nervous about the choice of venue. Okay, so as the owner, he would get top-class service, but what if any of the press from yesterday’s event were still around?

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured me, as if he’d read my mind. “We aren’t going into the hotel itself.”

  Sure enough, he bypassed the
parking lot and instead drove up to a boomed-off entrance which was marked “Private.” He touched one of the buttons of the remote-control on his key ring, and the boom swung open.

  The Mercedes purred up a narrow driveway, which led past a few stone outbuildings and then wound through a large, beautiful expanse of garden. He parked under a tree and we climbed out.

  “Come this way,” Patrick said.

  I walked with him along a paved path that led up the hillside and curved its way toward a small pavilion. It was only when I got closer that I appreciated the building’s amazing location. Its balcony offered a dramatic view over the cliffs and onto the sea. Fresh salty air filled my nostrils, and I could hear the breaking of waves far below as I leaned over the rail and stared down at the shimmering waves.

  Patrick walked over to stand beside me. He slid an arm round my waist, his fingers moving down to stroke over my hip. Light as it was, the touch tempted me with the promise of more. I knew exactly where Patrick’s skillful fingers desired to roam. I wanted to melt against him, but I resisted the temptation. This lunch was a chance for us to talk, and I intended to use it.

  “Can I offer you a drink? Banqueting did a good job,” I heard Patrick say in approval, and I turned to look properly at the quaint building.

  A table for two had been set up on the shady balcony, covered with a starched white cloth and perfectly set with glassware and silverware. Bottles stood in an ice bucket, and a wicker picnic basket was on a stool nearby.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” I found myself smiling in delight at this idyllic setting.

  “Would you like champagne?” Patrick asked. “There’s wine if you prefer, or mineral water.”

  “Champagne sounds great,” I said.

  Patrick popped the cork and poured us each a glass.

  “To meeting again.” He touched his glass to mine. Our fingers brushed. I noticed his hands were broad, long-fingered, tough and capable looking. They spoke of a workman’s heritage. He might be a business tycoon, but he had the hands of a horseman, I decided. I imagined them holding the reins with strength and sensitivity, restraining a powerful Irish hunter during the excitement of the chase.

  “To meeting again,” I echoed.

  The dry champagne felt crisp and icy on my tongue.

  I took a long sip of it, savoring the taste, feeling suddenly lightheaded, and not only from the bubbles.

  Then Patrick’s phone rang, its loud trill interrupting the serenity of the moment.

  “Damn it all, and I was sure I’d turned it off.” He took it out of the pocket of his grey chinos and checked the screen. “Actually, I do need to take this. Please, sit down.”

  I sat on the comfortably cushioned chair, looking out over the ocean as I listened to his one-sided conversation.

  “I’m sorry, Kathy,” he said. “I should have called you yesterday. I’m not traveling tonight. Last minute change of plans. Yes, please cancel the ticket. No, I don’t need to rebook at this stage.”

  “Where were you going?” I asked him when he’d turned the phone off.

  “I was flying to New Jersey,” he said. “But I don’t have to go anymore.”

  He’d been heading to my home state just after I’d left it? What a coincidence.

  “Well, that’s lucky,” I said, and his mouth softened.

  “It is indeed.”

  He sat down, pulling his chair closer so that our knees brushed.

  “So, tell me, Claire, why did you travel here?” he asked.

  I frowned, wondering if he knew about my recent circumstances. I didn’t want to have to explain the whole embarrassing saga to him. He must have been sensitive to my dilemma, because he rephrased the question.

  “I should say—why Castle Hill? Why did you choose to come here?”

  I felt my cheeks grow red. So he did know, then.

  “I’ve always wanted to visit this town,” I explained. “It’s been at the top of my list, ever since a stranger on an airplane told me how beautiful it was.” I glanced at him from under my lashes, feeling flirtatious and embarrassed all at the same time.

  Now, his eyes sparkled.

  “Are you serious? You came here because I told you about it?”

  “The way you described it was poetry.”

  Actually, the way he’d done a lot of things was poetry…talking about his home town was only one of them.

  “I’ve always wanted to visit since then,” I said. “This was the first…”

  I hesitated, realizing too late that I was saying more than I should. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if he didn’t already know. “This was the first chance I’ve really had to go anywhere on my own since we last met. To do what I want to do.”

  There it was…out in the open. The admission of why I was here, and what had gone wrong.

  “I guess you know about me. I can tell when people do,” I said, feeling my cheeks redden. “There can’t be much you want to ask me, apart from the obvious questions, and I don’t want to answer those.”

  He shook his head. “There are plenty of other questions I want to ask you. First one, how long are you here for?”

  “Till Monday.”

  My eye was caught by a faraway glint—the sun on glass, perhaps? It was coming from the cliffs on the opposite side of the bay. I was attuned to such sights, because they often meant cameras. And cameras, now, meant trouble.

  I gazed out over the cliffs again, but I didn’t see the flash of light a second time. It must have been something else. I told myself not to be so jumpy; that nobody could possibly have seen me here, and I returned my attention to Patrick, who was now watching me curiously.

  “Next question—favorite color?”

  “Favorite color?” I could hear the surprise in my own voice.

  “Well, I want to find out more about you. I have to start somewhere,” he teased.

  “Blue.” I took another sip of champagne. “And yours?”

  “Mine’s green. Favorite food?”

  “Um…” I did a mental run-through of everything on my forbidden list. “Roast chicken and gravy. With crispy skin, of course!”

  “I’ll second that,” he grinned. “And another question…you’ve had the easy ones. Now let’s move on to something different. Why did you start fencing?”

  “I started because I read about sword fighting in a book when I was about twelve,” I said, feeling rather embarrassed; I’d never told anyone about this before. “It was a fantasy novel. Strands of Starlight, I think it was called. I loved the heroine. She was so strong-willed, so courageous—and she learned how to use a sword. When I found out fencing was a real sport, and I could do it at school, I signed up.”

  “Did you find it easy from the start?” Patrick asked curiously.

  “I started out using the epee,” I explained. “My instructor saw I had some ability, but decided I would be more suited to fencing with the saber. Saber fencers need strong legs and gluteus muscles, which I have, and because the saber is shorter and lighter than the other swords, it’s also a faster sport. Speed is important, which seemed to suit me.”

  Being left handed had helped me, too, because it was less common and therefore put my opponents at a slight disadvantage. And of course, my strange ability to see pictures had also played a part. When I was relaxed and confident, in the zone, I could occasionally read my opponent’s moves before she made them. Knowing what was going to happen gave me a split-second advantage, and that was usually all that was needed to score a point. I wasn’t going to tell Patrick that, though.

  “I also liked its roots. I found them romantic,” I continued.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because saber fencing originated on horseback. It was done by cavalry troops, which is why today, hits still have to be scored above the waist. The legs would have been hard to reach, and a pointless target, when riding a horse.”

  “How fascinating. I didn’t know that.”

  “To most people, fencing is fencing. T
hey don’t even know that there are differences in the foil, epee, and saber categories. But I guess I don’t know much about Ironman competitions. Do you still do them?” I asked, although from the way he looked, I was sure he was still in training. I couldn’t see as much as an extra ounce of fat on his body.

  “I enter two or three competitions a year, but try to train constantly,” he said. “I’m turning thirty-five soon, which means I have a few years left at my peak, although I must admit competing never seems to get any easier. I’m an enthusiastic sportsman, but not a talented one. Not like you.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised.

  Patrick nodded ruefully. “I’m a hopeless swimmer,” he said. “Way too slow. I always end up near the back of the field, and have to try and catch up during the cycle and the run. I do it for the personal challenge, and I choose the events where I can enjoy the travel. I realized long ago I’m never going to make the rankings.”

  “Probably more sensible. When you compete seriously, it can take a lot of the fun out of it. And you don’t really see much of any of the places where you go.”

  I’d also visited many countries, but I had never had the chance to sightsee. There hadn’t been time. But now, sitting with Patrick in this secluded pavilion overlooking a summer’s ocean view, it suddenly felt as if we had all the hours we needed in the world. It was as if Patrick sensed my thinking, because he leaned over, slid his arm round my waist, and kissed me.

  The touch of his lips made me feel dizzier than the champagne had done. Last night, our kiss had been rough and urgent. Now, his lips brushed over mine in a sensually light touch. He’d shaved—the pleasurable friction of his stubble against my skin was gone, and in its place, a voluptuous satin smoothness. His eyes stared into mine, capturing me in their smoldering, golden depths as the kiss deepened. His mouth tenderly parted my own, his fingers strayed to my waist, caressing the curve of my buttocks.

  Unhurried as this leisurely exploration was, my body’s response to him was as intense as before. I felt breathless with desire; as if each deliberate caress was melting my core. The soft thrust of his tongue against my own made me turn liquid inside. My fingers, roaming along his thighs seemingly of their own accord, tightened in urgency. A pulse was beating hard in the pit of my stomach, its throbbing reaction begging for deeper penetration in other ways.