by Kathy Jay
Layla pulled a face. ‘Crikey. Give me a chocolate biscuit over that lot, any day of the week.
He put all the little tubs, packs and tubes bag into the holdall and stared at them for a second or two before zipping it up, a thoughtful look on his superlatively handsome face. ‘You know what, Red? You’re probably right. I think I will have a biscuit.’
That contagious smile twisted his lips and she handed over the packet.
‘Hello? Anybody in?’ Mervin wiped his boots on the doormat and stepped into the cottage. ‘You left the door ajar. You want to be careful about that. You don’t want just anybody letting themselves in.’ He gave Layla a quick once over. ‘By jingo, Layla love. What have you come as?’
‘I’m here to paint.’
He nodded wisely, and turned his attention to Nick. ‘What’s all this then?’ He bobbed his head in the direction of the doorway and gestured outside with his thumb. ‘I’ve had a report of an abandoned vehicle and lights on in a property that’s known to be unoccupied.’
‘Told you,’ Layla muttered at Nick in a whispered aside. ‘He’s here to arrest you.’
‘I take it that’s your car outside sir?’
‘It is. It’s a hire car.’
‘And the lights in the night?’
‘Guilty.’
Layla cringed. ‘You probably don’t want to be saying things like that.’
The puzzled policeman, eyebrows knitted, stood his ground, taking in the battered state of Nick’s face.
‘Cup of tea, Mervin?’ Since his arrival in the village he’d fast become the protector of his adopted community. He’d transformed her mum’s pub quiz group into the crack team to beat. To regain fitness after the accident Shelly had taken to hiking the coastal path, and Mervin often went too, the pair of them chaperoned by Ophelia.
‘No thanks, love. Things to do. I wouldn’t say no to a misfit though.’ His face turned red. ‘Sorry,’ he corrected, ‘I don’t know where that came from. I meant biscuit.’
Nick offered him the packet. ‘Help yourself.’
Layla knew exactly where the slip of the tongue had come from. He didn’t like the look of Nick.
‘Well, if everything’s alright here,’ he said through a mouthful of crumbs and not sounding entirely convinced, ‘I’ll leave you two to it.’ He beckoned Layla over to one side lowered his voice. ‘Looks like he’s seen better days. Are you sure he’s not bothering you? We had three complaints down at the station. I thought I’d better look in.’
‘He’s Maggie’s brother-in-law. He’s come to stay.’ She hesitated. ‘For a while.’
Mervin harrumphed, and Ophelia yelped, hinting that she’d like a biscuit. Nick took one, snapped a bit off which didn’t have chocolate on it, fed it to her and polished off the remainder himself.
‘I’m sorry I wasted your time,’ he told the policeman. He pointed to his eye apologetically. ‘I got into a scuffle with the press. Someone hit me with a camera.’ Silence. ‘By accident,’ he added. ‘Maggie kindly offered me the use of her place.’
Mervin stepped out into the sunny lane followed by Layla and the dog. He squatted and ruffled the dog’s fur. ‘I was sorry to hear about …’ He stumbled to find the right word and failed. ‘… You know!’
‘Yep. Thanks. Bye now.’ Layla avoided meeting the concern in his eyes.
The policeman stood his ground, not quite ready to leave. ‘You deserve better.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘As for Mr Pathetically-Poor-Parker in there.’ He gestured towards the house with his thumb. ‘The slightest whiff of trouble with him, and you know where to find me.’
‘Everthing’s okay, honest.’ She drew an X in the air with her finger. ‘Cross my heart.’ Since her mum’s accident and Joe’s departure everyone in Porthkara had been wrapping her in cotton wool so tightly, that it felt like she was in a straitjacket. She called Ophelia, walked briskly back inside and closed the door quickly. In a weird way, although she’d been shattered by the news that Joe was married, she felt calm – free to get on with living her own life.
There was a glimmer of curiosity on Nick’s compelling face.
‘Eavesdropping?’ She shut the door, closing everything out except him.
A muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘Not on purpose.’
The object of Nick’s mesmeric stare, she balled her fingers into fists, fighting off the chemical craziness of the smouldering attraction that had been distracting her since she’d walked in and found him asleep like Goldilocks. He was ridiculously fanciable, despite a black eye. Somehow it added to the loveable rogue thing he had going on. Even supposing the scandals written about him weren’t true, he had an undeniable air of mystique.
‘Since you’re here, I wonder if you’d mind helping me lug this lot upstairs?’ His cool vibe attracted and unsettled her simultaneously. She made a lunge for a bunch of paintbrushes and a colour chart, feeling like a klutz.
‘Sure thing.’
As he followed her up the narrow staircase, laden with paint pots and dust sheets, he marveled at his not entirely perfect view of her dungaree clad behind. At the top of the stairs she elbowed open the door to a small bedroom and dumped everything on the floor.
‘This is the nursery. There’s some furniture that needs shifting. It would be great if you could help.’
‘Okay, Red.’
‘The name’s Layla.’
‘I know that.’
‘Oh really?’ Her eyebrows shot up. ‘I thought you’d forgotten my name.’
‘No, I didn’t forget. I guess I kinda like your hair.’
‘Well don’t.’
‘Don’t like your hair?’
‘Yes, well, no.’
‘It’s super high impact.’ He stifled a laugh while she thought about it.
‘I know that. But there’s more to me than my redness in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Oh, I noticed!’
Either she didn’t hear his half-whispered reply or ignored it. She was insanely attractive. Her perfect curves grabbed his attention. When he’d met her on Christmas Eve at Alex’s wedding he’d been dating Toni, otherwise he’d have been tempted to …
But now the thing with Toni was as dead as a dodo. It had imploded the moment he broke the news he’d received in Fran’s email. She’d been categorical. She couldn’t see a future with him. Which was just as well because he’d realized that he didn’t want that either. He wasn’t a long-haul type.
‘You must be wondering if it’s pantomime season already.’
‘I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort.’ He swept her with a slow, appreciative glance amused by her paint-spattered clothes, and the baggy purple shirt covered in what appeared to be a cats-and-dogs-holding-umbrellas print and concluding that it wouldn’t go down well if he admitted that, in fact, he thought she looked hot. Waking up staring into her pretty eyes had been quite something. ‘Anyway, it’s the middle of July.’
‘Come to think of it, you and Alex would make awesome Ugly Sisters. You should mention it to your agent.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind. If I’m ever offered Widow Twanky, I’ll know exactly where to come for a hot pink headscarf.’
Layla laughed, relaxing. For no apparent reason she untied and retied her hair. It was good that she’d lightened up. ‘I expect the costume supervisor will have something much zanier in mind.’
Acting on his attraction would be a major detour off plan. All he wanted was somewhere to stay – well away from cameras. He needed to clear his head. It was lucky that the policeman had turned up when he did and his impetuous suggestion about Paris had been forgotten. He needed to pull himself together.
It pained him to admit it, but he was out of control. He’d gone to see Fran but there was so much distance between them. Still, he’d agreed to everything she’d asked of him; promised to be her back-up in the event of a bad outcome given what she was facing. He owed her that. The word mess didn’t come close to covering it.
He shut
everything out. Except for Layla. Apparently, she came with the accommodation. She went to pick up a flat packed baby crib.
‘Here, give it to me.’ He reached out and took it from her. He’d been crass, calling her Red. He’d treated her like there was nothing more to her than her appearance. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to.’
‘That’s okay. I don’t know why I got so touchy about it.’
‘Because I was being an asshole?’
‘You’re forgiven. I’m glad you’re here. You make lifting that thing look like it’s a box of matches.’
‘Careful, there’s more to me than a bunch of useful muscles, you know. Where do want it?’ He fired her a look. He couldn’t help it. Her eyes sparkled right back at him. Her smile was sunnier than the summer day outside.
‘In the other room. Please.’ He felt the way she averted her gaze, trying not to look as he hefted the first flat pack into the other bedroom. She was staring out the window at the far horizon when he came back for the second. There was something potent about that avoidance. She magnetized him. He watched, feeling like an obstacle cramping her space, as she snapped the lids off pots of paint and set to work focusing on her drawings and her paints.
‘Is it alright if I take a shower?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And then I’ll go for a walk. I’ve got some things to figure out. I’ll do my best to keep out of your way.’
‘Yep. Okay.’ Not turning away from the wall where she was painting dabs of colours from different test pots she chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘See you later.’
‘Towels?’
Concentrating on the wall she asked, ‘Which blue do you like best?’
It wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for. He stared at the colours seeing virtually no difference between the two blues. ‘Both.’
‘I prefer the lighter one, it says summer to me and it will make the room feel bigger, I think.’
‘Absolutely.’
Leaving Layla absorbed in her work he went into the bathroom figuring he’d air dry. A minute later blasted by an icy jet of water he let out a yelp several decibels louder than Ophelia’s.
Just deserts?
Layla’s arm appeared around the door, her hand offering a large fluffy towel. The rest of her stayed strategically outside the door, but he could hear her muffled giggles.
‘I forgot to say. There’s no hot water. The immersion heater is on the blink.’ She paused, and added charmingly, ‘Oops!’
His wet fingers grazed hers as he clutched for the towel. She pulled her arm away quickly, as if she’d had an electric shock.
‘I guess you could go next door and use mine. In fact, look, given the state of this place, perhaps you’d better stay with me.’
Still hidden behind the door, he didn’t need to see her face to know from the tone of her voice that she wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect. ‘I’ve had more enthusiastic propositions,’ he joked.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she challenged, mockingly sweet. ‘My spare room’s not exactly the Ritz. You might be more comfortable at the Manor House Hotel. In fact, you definitely would be.’ Suddenly as jumpy as a box of frogs she babbled her words in a rush. She made him smile from the inside out. ‘If you like, I can call and see if they have availability.’
‘Your spare room sounds good to me.’
‘I’d better warn you I don’t cook. I don’t have time.’
‘That’s not a problem. I do. I’m a domestic god in the kitchen.’
‘Even if you do say so yourself.’
‘When I’m not bingeing on vegetable soup, vitamin supplements and egg white omelettes, that is! To tell you the truth, when I’m prepping a role or a photo shoot I need to be careful.’
‘Super. That’s settled then.’ The forced breeziness of her reply betrayed an undercurrent of second thoughts.
‘Layla?’ He emerged from the bathroom, tucking the towel around his waist, and forking fingers through wet strands of hair. Back in the nursery, he found her intently painting, a sketching pencil tucked behind one ear. He walked across the room, reached out and gently touched her arm. ‘Listen.’ Forced to turn her face, her eyes met his with an intense focus. ‘Thanks.’
An icy shower hadn’t taken the edge off the raw attraction.
Chapter Four
A cloudburst, accompanied by a rainbow arching out from the headland into the sea, cleared the beach, scattering the holiday people and cutting dead the run on ice cream at the Kandy Shack. Finishing a run-off-her-feet shift, Layla locked up the shop and headed home, wending her way uphill. The winding lane took her past the pastel-painted jumble of higgledy-piggledy houses with their colourful window boxes and pots crammed with summer flowers. At her side Ophelia trotted obediently.
When she reached the bridge over the brook that ran down through the village into the sea she stopped. A small padlock dangled from a curlicue of ironwork on one of the rusty railings. The sight of it made her sad and disappointed, totally humiliated. It was a horrible feeling. She glued her eyes to the padlock. She and Joe had been wearing school uniforms when they’d put it there and thrown away the key. The memory had been eating away at her all afternoon. He’d bought the padlock in the village general store and she’d painted the heart on it in red nail polish. She remembered the name of the colour on the bottle wistfully.
Forever Yours! So much for that.
A year ago, on the anniversary of the day they’d put their lovelock on the bridge she and Joe had stopped there and he’d given her a gummy sweet ring and a promise that when he got the money together he’d buy her a real one. She’d eaten the ring. That was probably a bad omen. At any rate, everyone considered them to be practically engaged, and she’d been dreaming of him giving her an engagement ring in Paris. Her hope had been to put a lovelock on the Pont des Beaux Arts to mark their commitment to a shared future.
Joe hadn’t shared her vision. And now she was stuck. She wanted to get rid of the padlock so badly, the sight of it made her physically sick. It conjured up the image of Joe down on one knee in the most romantic city in the world. Utterly, irritatingly wrong. She couldn’t bear to see it dangling from the bridge a single day more.
She pulled a hairgrip out of her unruly mop. Unpicking locks with a hairpin struck her as something she’d seen at a village vintage cinema night. It was the kind of thing which only ever really worked in films, but it had to be worth a go. With a theatrically furtive glance left and right to check that nobody was watching, she crouched down, took the padlock between her fingers, inserted the wire hairgrip, and twisted. Nothing happened. She straightened the wire, and tried again.
Ophelia sat looking on dolefully. ‘It’s got to go, O!’
In that precise moment Nick came walking round the corner. He was in such unbelievably great shape that trotting up the steep hill from the harbour didn’t appear to fizz on him. A big smile broke out across his face when he heard her chatting to the dog.
‘Is this a private conversation or can anyone join?’
‘Are you making fun of me Nick?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘For your information Ophelia’s a very intuitive dog. She understands me.’
The dog gave a well-timed yelp of agreement and Nick laughed. ‘I can tell.’
‘You’ve been in the village barely a day and somehow you’ve developed the uncanny knack of being exactly where I don’t need you, exactly when I don’t want you.’
‘Harsh! I didn’t hear any complaints when I helped you move the heavy boxes.’ He studied her with a puzzled look. ‘In fact, you said you were glad I was there.’
‘To be fair, you are a useful pair of hands.’
His lips twisted into that much-too-sexy smile.
Sheepish, she positioned herself in front of the lovelock. ‘How was your walk? Porthkara beach is amazing, don’t you think?’ She gave an impatient wave of her fingers. ‘Don’t let me keep you. Why don’t you jog
on? Find a bit more of Cornwall to explore?’
‘What’s up?’ He crossed his arms over his broad chest and fixed his eyes on her. An unnerving combination of darkness and honey in his eyes, he waited, getting under her skin. When she didn’t reply he stooped to greet Ophelia, ruffling her soggy fur. ‘Hey, how’re you doing?’ The dog jumped up and placed two paws on his thigh leaving wet prints on his leg.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to butt out. Instead she held the less-than-useless piece of wire out to him on the flat of her palm and cringed. ‘I’m just standing here in the rain making a complete fool of myself. If I tell you why you’ll probably think I’m the village idiot.’
‘That’s a thing?’ The downpour that had cleared the beach had turned into gentle, steadily falling rain. Sheltered beneath the branches of the trees that spread out over the bridge like a big natural umbrella Nick didn’t budge. ‘I’m no Sherlock Holmes but something tells me you’re not waiting for the rain to stop.’
She managed a weak smile. ‘I’m picking a lock.’ She met his eyes. ‘Only breaking and entering isn’t my field of expertise, so I’m not having much luck.’
His gorgeous masculine features melted her like ice cream and at the same time she felt ridiculous and conspicuous and as weirdly hilarious as a Punch and Judy show. The Nick effect spiralled through her. She struggled to get a hold of herself, to stamp out the badly-timed attraction.
‘I’m not an alien. Contrary to appearances I wasn’t beamed in from a celebrity-holding planet in outer space. If there’s something I can help with, please just tell me.’
She stepped aside and pointed. ‘I have to find a way to remove this padlock. It’s outstayed its welcome. Any suggestions?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t see it’s much of a problem where it is.’
‘That isn’t helping.’ The padlock encapsulated things she couldn’t define – emotions, memories, elapsed time. Things she couldn’t begin to explain. Not wanting to appear unreasonable she attempted an explanation all the same. ‘Joe and I put it here, a long time ago, so you see its presence is no longer required. I don’t want to have to see it every day.’ She peered over the side of the bridge. A long way below in the gully the clear water flowed over moss covered stones. ‘The key might still be in there, hidden.’