She looked at the kids. At the telly. At Patrick. And desperately wanted a way out. An excuse to run, to hide. To start the day over and do it different. To start her entire life over and do it different.
“You’re going,” he said firmly, “so don’t even try. No excuses. I even know what bunches are now.”
By midday she was still packing. Asking Patrick what she should take had earned her the kind of look she’d probably given him hundreds of times in recent years: the one that said, “what do you expect me to do about it?” The one that said, frankly, “grow a pair and sort yourself out”.
Verbally, he’d replied: “I don’t know. I’ve only just mastered bunches, sis, don’t ask me to pack for a mini-break as well. I’m not bloody Bridget Jones, am I? If it was me, it’d be a large jar of Nutella and a multi-pack of condoms.”
She’d shivered at the thought of him combining the two and distracted herself from her anxieties by shoving pretty much every item of clothing she owned into a rucksack. A rucksack that was still only half-full, despite containing all of her wardrobe. Several pairs of holey jeans. Vest tops. Fleeces. Mismatched socks. And the one “proper” dress she had – short, tight, black. It had been way too grown up for her when she’d bought it, her little teenaged brain filled with the images of Oxford balls and handsome strangers, and she suspected it was still way too grown up for her now. Especially as the only tights she had were still held together with nail varnish. Sometimes, she thought, being a girl just sucked. Especially when you were this bad at it.
She heard the sound of a vehicle pull up outside and deduced that Ben had arrived. Brilliant. A whole morning to prepare and she still wasn’t ready. It felt like weeks since she’d seen him, even though it was only hours.
She shoved a hairbrush and some lip gloss into the bag and trotted down the stairs with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Her feet weren’t capable of moving very fast – all of her energy seemed to have been diverted into her heart, which was beating so fast she felt as if she’d drunk eight cups of coffee. Which, now she thought about it, she probably had. She was scared, wired and jittery – perfect date material. Any man would be delighted.
Pippa pulled on her jacket – the old velvet one her mum had always called “vintage” – and twisted her face into something resembling a smile. Time to man up. She might feel like hell, but Patrick, Mr Jensen and yes, even Ben, had gone to a heck of a lot of trouble to organise this for her. It would be just plain ungrateful to walk out there looking like a French aristocrat on her way to the guillotine.
She paused to glance around the farmhouse kitchen. Dirty dishes in the sink. Toast crumbs on the pine table. Cracks in the floor tiles. Scotty’s collection of precious found objects cluttering up the mantelpiece. It was a mess, but it was her mess. Theirs. It was home, and it was love, and it was safety. And she felt something approaching a sense of tragedy about leaving it – some portent of doom so strong she half expected a crow to come flying through the open window and crash beak-first into the Aga.
She was gripped with an agonising need to see the kids. To cuddle Scotty and kiss Daisy and Lily. To hold them tight and comfort them the way she always had…God, she wished they weren’t at school.
For the first time, she realised that the comfort went both ways – that she needed them as much as they needed her. That they’d looked after her as much as she’d looked after them. Because, really, without them, what would have happened to her after her parents died? Would she be backpacking around Asia, or would she simply have curled up in a ball of pain and faded into the west, with no reason to carry on? All this time, she thought she’d been making them secure – when a lot of it was the other way around. Now she was stripped bare of all her defences. No kids. No chores. No pressing need to be dodging cowpats in the paddock. She should have been thrilled – but instead she felt exposed, vulnerable. Like a skinny-twigged tree blown naked by autumn winds.
She shook it off, told herself she was being a dumb ass and unlatched the door. She’d be back in a matter of hours – and it would all still be there waiting for her. Especially the dishes.
Outside, she found Mr Jensen and Patrick standing next to each other, working their way through an open packet of custard creams. She could see some chocolate digestives and several tubes of Pringles peeking out of the carrier bag at their feet. Ah. A balanced dinner for the children.
They were both grinning up at Ben, who was waving at them from the cab of the van. The very old, very battered VW camper that he appeared to be driving. It was painted in three colours – red, cream and rust – an old-fashioned “splitty”. Exactly the kind that her dad used to drive them around in. Different colours, yes, and minus the CND stickers in the windows, but essentially the same.
Pippa felt her heart squeeze out an extra couple of beats. She’d told him about it and he’d remembered. He’d remembered and he’d found one, and it was all for her, and that was so sweet, and really, she thought she might cry. Again. And if she started, she’d never stop. She’d carry on crying until she flooded Bottom Paddock and had to be rushed into hospital with dehydration, or the whole village was swept away on a tidal wave of the emotion she’d been keeping clenched inside her.
She squeezed her eyelids so tight the tears were forced back in, as Patrick ambled over to her.
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” he said, nudging her so hard she almost fell over. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Patrick saw the expression on her face and pulled her into a hug. A huge, big-brother hug that made her wonder if he was part bear. While he had her trapped, he whispered into her ear, “You know what you always say to me, Pip?”
“No, what?” she replied, expecting the worst.
“Don’t be such a knob.”
“I never say that to you, Patrick!”
“Okay, but I know you’re thinking it – and it applies here. To you. Me and Mr Jensen have got it all under control. Ben’s dead excited and you should be too. Go off, enjoy yourself. It’s a camper van, not a torture wagon. Scoot – and make sure you don’t tell me all about it when you get back.”
He gave her a light shove in the small of her back and she hopped, skipped and jumped her way to the open van door. Ben smiled down at her. He was wearing Levis again and a t-shirt tight enough to show off the awesome shoulders. His hair was slightly too long, giving him a wild, edgy look. Like a pirate who’d come to kidnap her. But his eyes…his eyes were gentle. Soft. Slightly concerned. As stunts went, this one was a risky one – would she love the fact he’d tried to recreate a happy family memory or would she burst into tears and run shrieking back into the cocoon of the farmhouse?
“Miss Harte,” he said, keeping the tone as light as he could, “your chariot awaits.”
Chapter 11
They headed, as she’d known they would, to Barrelstock Bay. It was different in the daylight – still quiet, but not deserted. A few dog-walkers and ramblers dotted the beach and the cliff pathways; a lone ice-cream van doing solitary business in the almost-empty carpark.
They walked and they should have talked. But something inside Pippa was still wound so tight she couldn’t let it out. Something was coiled in her tummy, strangling her emotions, deadening the pleasure she knew she should be feeling. She kept wondering what time it was, whether Patrick would remember to pick the kids up from school, whether he’d crash the jeep on the way home. Whether they’d eat anything but custard creams and crisps for tea. Whether he’d get drunk and leave them all alone while he visited that new barmaid he had his eye on.
She knew that wasn’t what she was really worried about. She knew she was using all of that as some form of defence, that her crippled brain was trying to distract her from the real problem: the tall, handsome man walking beside her, holding her hand firmly in his.
“I’m sorry, Pippa,” he said, after a few minutes of silence.
For what, she wondered? For existing? For messing up my perfectly ordered life?
For making me feel alive for the first time in years? For making me realise that I do have needs, after all, and giving me the sneaking suspicion that you are the only man who can meet them?
“Why?” she asked, with a voice so small he barely heard it over the crash of the waves.
“I’m sorry about the camper van, about coming here. I thought you’d like it, that it would remind you of happy times, but I can see…it doesn’t. It was insensitive of me and I’m sorry.”
She stopped and he stood still beside her. It was a bright, cool day, dazzling sunshine and jumper-wearing temperatures. Rays of sun dappled over his hair, bringing out shades she’d never noticed before: golds and auburns and glints of chestnut. She reached up, wound her fingers into its thick, dark waves. He nuzzled into her hand, kissing her palm so softly, so sweetly, but with such promise that it made her clench and tighten lower down.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” she said, looking up at him with the full force of those cornflower-blue eyes. “It was a lovely thing to think of and it hasn’t upset me. This…mood…is nothing to do with you.”
That wasn’t strictly speaking true, but it would be just plain rude to blame him for the fact that she was having a fit of the collywobbles.
He pulled her close to him, and her face fell against the firm plain of his chest. She automatically inhaled his scent: wood, spice, sex on a stick. Her arms wound their way around his waist and she felt herself start to deflate slowly, from the inside out. As though she was a giant balloon and someone had just popped her.
Ben stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head, held her so tight and so long that she thought she might melt. When he finally let her go, when she could finally breathe again, she felt different. Better. Happier. As if the physical contact alone had somehow chased away the black dog; as if one super-hug from Ben Retallick had rendered her so senseless that all of her creeping fears and sneaky little doubts had run screaming, locking themselves away in the cupboards where she usually kept them.
And that, alone, was enough to tell her she was right to be scared. When she felt bad, Ben fixed it. When she felt weak, Ben gave her strength. When she felt worried, Ben made her smile. And when she felt horny…well, Ben sorted that out as well. He was a rock and she was a stream flowing around him. He had become part of her world, as important to her as the air she breathed.
She loved him. And he was going to leave her.
“You look amazing,” said Ben, as she walked into the bar. She’d thought Barrelstock Bay was it for the night, that they’d be roughing it in the camper van, making love beneath the stars and sleeping in socks and bobble hats to stay warm. All of which would have been fine with her.
But Ben had different ideas. He’d taken the date night seriously and booked them into Tregowan Lodge – a place Pippa knew existed, but had never visited. It was, she’d been told, a “boutique hotel”, and most definitely not the kind of place where locals would ever stay, for fear of being labelled soft in the head. The prices were crazy, and one night there could have paid for several new dishwashers. In the sale.
Ben had taken one look at her face as they’d pulled up into the car park and burst out laughing.
“What?” she asked, giving him a slitty-eyed look that told him to shut-the-mollusc-up, or risk losing a vital body part.
“Your face,” he replied. “It’s priceless. You look as if someone’s forcing you to spend the night in a flea-infested crackhouse.”
“Hmm. I’d probably feel more comfortable there. Have you any idea how much it costs to stay here? This isn’t for people like me. I live here, for goodness’ sake.”
“Snob,” he said, jumping down from the step of the camper and grabbing their bags.
“Snob? How can you say that?” she shrieked, falling into step beside him as they walked towards the imposing colonnaded doorway. It had been a minor manor house in days gone by and she had to admit the location was amazing. Perched on the side of the cliff, almost as though it was growing out of it, with eye-dazzling views of the bay below. It was beautiful, with layers of terraced gardens creeping down the sides, tiny patios with tables and chairs sitting beside the steps to the coastal path. Presumably so you could stop and have a G&T on your way, she thought. It was so far outside her comfort zone she didn’t know quite where to put herself.
“You are being an inverted snob, Pippa Harte,” he said, “as well as a selfish baby. Some of us are on holiday, you know.”
“Huh. Your whole life seems to be a holiday,” she sniped, whispering it as they entered the lobby. It was all country-chic and fresh flowers and smiling staff and copies of Harper’s Bazaar scattered artfully on antique side tables. It was just plain weird and made her head hurt.
She was, though, she had to admit, as he handled checking in, being a bit of a baby. He’d planned this. He’d done it to please her. The least she could do was try and enjoy it and stop being such a girl freak.
She kept reminding herself of that as she holed up in an en-suite bathroom that was the size of her lounge. Ben was getting ready in the bedroom and said he’d see her downstairs. She pulled the little black dress out and stared at it critically as she hung it up over the shower rail. Maybe the steam would help with the creases and the ladder in those tights was right at the very top. Any man who got that far was probably not in the mood to be critical anyway.
After almost an hour of, as Patrick would put it “fannying about” she decided she was as glamorous as she was going to get. She was clean, her hair was shiny and straight and she smelled fantastic – those hotel toiletries were definitely going in her bag before they left. There was a hint of clear lip gloss, mascara, and yes, a real-life, very grown-up frock, together with ancient black stilettos that were nowhere as easy to walk in as wellies.
In fact, she didn’t look, smell or feel anything at all like her usual self. And maybe that, she thought, giving her hair a final poof in the mirror, isn’t at all a bad thing. She’d been feeling shaky all day; suffering from some kind of minor emotional seizure as a result of finally being honest with herself. Finally admitting in her own screwed-up brain that she didn’t just fancy Ben Retallick. She didn’t just like his biceps, or his bottom or his bedroom skills. She loved him and it was too late to stop it. It was like standing in front of a car going at 100mph on the motorway: you knew you should be throwing yourself out of the way, but for some reason your feet were stuck. Like in one of those anxiety dreams where all the door handles fall off the minute you touch them.
None of that, she decided, was Ben’s fault. He couldn’t help being totally awesome in every way, any more than he could help being too damaged to make this stick. It was like the ladder in her tights. It was there and she knew it was there, but if she was very careful and distracted him just enough, maybe he wouldn’t notice.
The way he looked at her as she walked into the hotel bar, though…she wasn’t quite sure. His dark eyes drank her in, seemed to devour every inch of her. She saw his pupils dilate and was suddenly full of the thrill of being a woman. The girl stuff had seemed to be such a chore, so irrelevant to her life and now it filled her up. Made her feel powerful and strong and kind of squishy in her nether regions. That look alone, that one very male, very assessing, look was enough to make her forget potential heartache and pain, and just feel wanted. For now, she thought, that would have to be enough.
“You look more than amazing. You look like an angel,” he said, “one who needs to be thoroughly defiled.”
He stood up to kiss her. She put a bit of heat into it, brushing his tongue with hers in a way she knew she shouldn’t do in public, and was rewarded with a quiet growl that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.
“Be careful,” he said, “or we won’t be making it to dinner.”
She let her hands roam over his body, skimming his backside in its tailored suit trousers, melting herself into him like running water.
“Maybe I don’t want dinner,” she whispered b
ack, feeling him stiffen in response. Lord. Being in love seemed to be making her reckless, she thought. Maybe it was the realisation that she had nothing else to lose – it was already gone.
Ben kissed her neck until her knees turned to rubber and she half collapsed into his arms, earning them a few looks from staff and other guests.
“They’re just jealous,” he said, but pulled away. He held her hand, steadying her, and walked her into the dining room. Pippa felt her eyes pop at the decor, all subtle golds and bronzes, table linen so white it glowed in the candlelight.
“Feeling all right?” he asked, sitting across from her at their table for two. “You seemed a bit…wobbly back there.”
“It was just the high heels,” she replied, “nothing to do with you at all. You don’t move me in the slightest.”
He smiled, an edge of arrogance showing her just how little he believed that last statement. Which was fair enough as it was a load of old codswallop.
“If this was a film,” she said, looking at the menu, “I’d let you order for me.”
“Do you want me to?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow upwards.
“Yes,” she replied, “but only because I don’t know how to pronounce most of the stuff on here. I’m just a country bumpkin, see?”
“Yeah, right,” he said, laughter dancing in the chocolate of his eyes. “And I’m Luke Skywalker. You should have been an Oxford graduate by now. I’m guessing there’s not a thing on this menu you couldn’t pronounce better than the chef, so don’t give me that small-town-girl routine. You, Pippa Harte, are like no other woman I’ve ever met.”
She grinned at him as she studied the menu, and he realised he’d meant every word of that. She wasn’t like anyone else in the known universe. Today, she’d been anxious, off-balance, quiet. He’d been so worried that he’d upset her with the camper-van thing, or the talking-under-the-oak-tree thing, or any of the other things he knew he was capable of doing to upset a woman. And yet, here she was, looking like all his fantasies come true, laughing and joking and, yes, touching him up with her shoeless toes under the table. Her stockinged foot edged its way up his thigh, heading for the obvious destination, and he almost cringed as he felt the inevitable male reaction take hold.
Pippa's Cornish Dream Page 10