Come Back to Me (Love Across Time Book 1)

by Annie Seaton

  He wrenched it open. “You can’t be that desperate, darling?”

  “You are a vile human being, whoever you are. Do the McLarens know you are squatting at their place?” Her voice conveyed her disgust and his interest was piqued as she stood on the porch, the light of battle in her eye. He glanced down at her chest. Her shoulders were back and she wasn’t wearing a bra. Everything was on display, and to his disgust he felt a stirring of interest.

  Hmm. A vile human being. That’s exactly what he was.

  “Ah…you’re referring to the family of the late Alice McLaren, I guess?”

  She nodded and spoke slowly, the wary look still in those shadowed eyes. “That would be correct.”

  He leaned against the lintel and sipped his whiskey. She held his gaze. Once you got past the purple shadows beneath her flashing eyes, and the rosy flush high on her cheekbones, she was really quite beautiful. Her lips were deep red and full, and her complexion was pale, despite the twin spots of colour signaling her anger. He hoped she’d stay angry. Women were trouble, and he was a sucker as soon as they went soft and pulled out the tears or quivering lips.

  But not anymore. After having his privacy disturbed, she was lucky he was even having a conversation with her. He’d been manipulated in the past and he was not going to go there ever again, no matter how vulnerable the woman was.

  “Well, sweetheart. If you weren’t looking for me and a good shag—”

  “Shag?” she interrupted. “Who says shag these days? You sound like Austin Powers.” Her pretty lips tilted up in a brief smile.

  “Who?” He shook his head and then set her straight. “I assume you’re looking for Violet Cottage—which is next door.” He inclined his head with a slight nod to the house next door.

  “But the taxi dropped me here.” Her shoulders sagged and it was like watching an exotic flower wilt beneath his gaze. Regret spiked in his chest for a brief moment, but he needed to be cruel to protect himself. Being alone was what he wanted.

  “This is Rose Cottage. You’ll find the key beneath—”

  “I know where to look for the key. I just had the wrong cottage.” She turned away and picked up a small bag and a laptop case. “Please accept my heartfelt apologies. I’m sorry your sexual thirst won’t be slaked tonight.” The sarcasm dripped from her words and he smothered a grin. “You’ll have to make do with your drink. I’ll come back for my suitcase after I let myself into Violet Cottage.”

  Chapter Six

  Megan found the key where Beth had said it would be. She turned it with trembling fingers and it unlocked the door with surprising ease. Exhaustion claimed her and as soon as she switched the light on, she headed for the first chair. Old fashioned floral fabrics and an overpowering smell of camphor filled the room and she slumped gratefully into the soft sofa.

  She leaned her head back and groaned. The train had been late and when the taxi had finally dropped her at the cottage, she’d been unable to find the key where it was supposed to be. She’d pulled out her phone but it was dead and she couldn’t charge it till she got inside, so she’d decided to camp out on the porch of the cottage until daylight and then head into the village to call Tony. From a distance, the muted sound of music reached her through the still air and her skin tingled with anticipation as she realised she was hearing the rehearsal from the festival.

  And, of course, she’d ended up at the wrong bloody cottage. Why had things suddenly gone so wrong for her? Ever since her parents’ accident, nothing in her life had seemed to go right.

  She closed her eyes to rest…for a brief moment, and then she’d go back and get her suitcase. God, she was so tired. She’d gotten a lot of work done on the twenty-two-hour flight across from Australia but going more than twenty-four hours without sleep, and worrying about her appeal, had drained her. It had taken five hours to get out of terminal three at Heathrow and make her way across London to Paddington Station. She’d almost—only almost—been too tired to even appreciate being in London. A place she’d dreamed of visiting her whole life.

  Then, at the almost-deserted railway station it seemed as though she’d waited for hours for an old black cab to drive her down the never-ending country lanes until they had finally reached the cottage.

  The wrong damn cottage.

  Her face heated as she remembered the reception she’d gotten from the dark and brooding David Morgan.

  When the light had first shone on his face and she’d seen those deep blue eyes staring at her, her heart had almost stopped beating. Davy Morgan was her idol and she knew his face intimately. In her teens, she’d scoured the retro shops and had found posters of him as well as David Bowie, Queen, and Bryan Ferry to cover her bedroom walls. While all her friends had been into nineties bands, she had loved listening to all the compilation CDs of seventies music and she’d uploaded them all to her iPod. She was sure she’d been born in the wrong time.

  She grinned to herself. The posters of his uncle were still rolled up somewhere in a box along with her CDs of all his albums. She even had her parents’ old vinyl records stowed away. In a special place—in her flat, and in her heart— was the record that Dad had bought for her on the day her parents had been killed.

  Davy Morgan’s songs had started her love affair with music. She hadn’t even heard of this nephew, David Morgan, but if he was playing at Glastonbury, he must have some claim to fame. Probably cashing in on his uncle’s reputation.

  But he’d assumed she was a groupie, so he must have some fans of his own.

  But what a jerk. Heat filled her cheeks as she recalled his words. A shag, for goodness sake,

  Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. He wasn’t even original. She knew her Bowie song lyrics, thank you very much.

  And God, he was her neighbour. She hoped like hell he wasn’t around when she went back to collect her bag. She’d just rest her eyes for a minute before she went back to get her bag, and then find a bed.

  Alone in Violet Cottage.

  The sun filtering through the narrow paned window and the twittering of an unfamiliar bird woke Megan. She lay on the soft sofa, pondering the birdsong, before the events of the previous day came crashing back. Closing her eyes, she groaned at the memory of last night and how she had ended up at the wrong house.

  Megan cleared her mind, focusing on her breathing until her consciousness was directed inward. After a few moments, she was aware only of her inhaling and exhaling, until the tightness in her chest began to ease. Keeping her eyes closed, she let snatches of songs float through her mind. It was a technique she had perfected through her grief last year and she could now achieve it without any external aids.

  No candles, no music. Just her own thoughts. Good thoughts.

  She dozed again and woke a short time later, refreshed and calm. The sun was still shining in the window and the same bird was trilling away happily. Wandering through the small cottage, she smiled at the contrast to her own apartment, which was always cluttered with books, papers, and music.

  This little place was filled with knickknacks and crocheted doilies and dozens of framed photos. She climbed the narrow stairs and peeked into the two small bedrooms. The one facing the east was full of sunshine and she chose that one for her stay. Sitting on the bed, a wide grin broke across her face as she sank into the soft bedding, which was covered with a white candlewick bedspread.

  She was in a cottage in the English countryside. It was all she could do not to break into a happy dance. Huge pink roses and trailing tendrils of green leaves papered the wall. She crossed the room to the window and looked across at the other cottage.

  Rose Cottage was only a short distance away, across the emerald-green grass and a low fence. Too close for her peace of mind, but she’d just ignore the guy next door. Pushing the window open, she leaned out. The two small cottages were surrounded by open green fields with a narrow road lined with hedgerows winding away into the distance. On the horizon, the hill she knew from her research was Glastonbury Tor
rose above the distant village. Church roofs and spires glinted in the bright sunlight and a sense of well-being stole over her as her problems receded. It was like coming home. In the field at the back of the cottages were three tall stone markers and Megan grinned. She wouldn’t even have to take a tour to nearby Stonehenge now. It looked as though there were Neolithic monuments almost in the back garden.

  Bright yellow roses tumbled over the fence between the two homes and in the distance she could see the tents and stage being set up for the festival on the farm at Pilton. A frisson of anticipation ran through her and she smiled. She planned on heading over to have a look at the festival site as soon as she got settled, but first she had to go next door and collect her suitcase. Hopefully, he’d gone out.

  Going back down the steep wooden staircase to the ground floor of the cottage, she wandered into the kitchen. A huge ancient Aga stove filled the whole wall next to the door. She picked up the kettle and turned the tap at the old stone sink.

  Nothing. Apart from a few creaks and groans and spits of rusty water. Opening the old refrigerator, she was pleased to see a jug of water and filled the kettle from that. It took a bit of fiddling to get the stove going but after a while she had a little gas flame alight. It would take a few minutes before the cold water in the kettle heated enough to have a coffee so she went into the small bathroom next to the kitchen to give her face a quick wash. But the tap there produced no water either. After running her fingers through her mussed hair, she straightened her now-crumpled T-shirt and jeans and went back into the kitchen. The whistling kettle was bubbling merrily on the stove and she switched the flame off and scrabbled through the cupboards for coffee.

  Nothing. Not even a tea bag. Beth had said the cottage was rented out for the odd weekend, and she thought there might have been some coffee or tea bags, at least, in the cupboard. It looked like a walk into the village for some essentials was her first task for the day.

  No, the second. First job was to collect her suitcase from next door and then, even if she couldn’t wash, she could at least put on some clean clothes.

  The sunshine was bright and warm at her back, although nowhere near as warm as summer in Sydney. Megan appreciated the fresh air and the sweet smell of the grass and the bluebells lining the path. Her heart beat a little faster as she walked slowly through the gate and along the footpath to the cottage next door, but there was no sign of life. The door was closed and all the windows were shut.

  Great. He’d gone out or he was still in bed.

  She quickly retrieved the suitcase and turned to go back to her cottage.

  The door behind her creaked open and she put her head down and kept going, determined to ignore him.

  “Morning, sweets.” She stopped walking and turned around. The posh accent was at odds with the sight of the laid-back man leaning against the doorframe who lifted his cup and nodded at her.

  Megan’s breath caught in her throat and she stared at him unabashedly. Tight, low-slung black jeans were unbuttoned and his chest was bare. Her mouth dried as her gaze rose from his bare feet, up his legs, and skittered past the dark V of hair running into the top of his open jeans, and farther up to sleep-rumpled hair, with sexy dark stubble covering his strong jaw. He was a dead ringer for his uncle. He could have stepped straight from one of the posters that used to cover her walls.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  Last night she hadn’t noticed what a beautiful speaking voice he had. Deep and smooth with a melodious hint of a Welsh accent, but the hard line of his jaw and his closed expression didn’t quite fit with the sexy voice. She held his gaze and drew a quick breath. Dark-blue eyes surrounded by long dark eyelashes stared back at her. His unsmiling gaze was fixed on her face but she still self-consciously tugged her crumpled T-shirt down over her bare midriff without speaking.

  “Ah, she has lost her voice.” He said to no one in particular before tipping the mug to his mouth and taking a sip. The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted across and Megan’s nose twitched. She put her suitcase down and pulled herself up straight, meeting his gaze.

  “No, I haven’t lost my voice,” she said. “I was wondering if I could speak to you without getting another crude proposition.”

  He laughed. “Up to you, sweetheart. But it wouldn’t be a bad way to start the day, if you are interested. Guaranteed to get the blood pumping.”

  His gaze pinned her and as his lips tipped up, she realised he was teasing.

  She knew she needed to lighten up. Her life for the past few months had made her way too serious.

  “I came for my suitcase, but I wouldn’t say no to one of those.” She looked at the coffee cup in his hand. “I haven’t had time to shop, and I thought there might be something in the cottage, but there’s not even a stray tea bag.”

  “Not surprised. No one’s been there all summer,” he said. His intent gaze stayed on her face and Megan’s neck prickled. There was something about this man that unsettled her. She’d come across arrogant musicians like him as she’d interviewed them for her research, but his resemblance to his uncle unnerved her.

  “I suppose I can stretch to some coffee.” He stepped through the door and she stepped forward, about to follow him into his home, but he stopped her with a curt command over his shoulder. “Wait there.”

  Megan did as she was told, stayed on the porch and looked out over the green fields. If he didn’t want her inside, that was fine by her. The less she had to do with the rude musician, the better for her peace of mind.

  And God knows she needed peace, and nothing more to stress her.

  The air was still and the sound of the bees buzzing in the roses in the cottage garden drifted across to her. A couple of minutes later, David appeared at the door with a different mug in his hand and passed it to her.

  “Cream and sugar. You could do with fattening up.”

  Maybe, just maybe, there was a kind person beneath that aggressive exterior. He’d brought her coffee and in Megan’s books that was one way to get in her good graces. Undeniably, there were good looks and a kind of charm…or rather a dangerous attraction. He stepped back inside and turned to her. “Keep the cup. Consider it a welcome gift.”

  The door shut in her face and all was quiet, apart from the bees and the occasional mooing of a cow.

  Okay, take back the thoughts of him being kind or having basic manners.

  No. No charm at all. The less I see of him, the better. Bemused, she shook her head and took a sip of the hot coffee before grabbing the handle of the suitcase and dragging it along the path back to her cottage.

  Chapter Seven

  David was tired and still in a filthy mood. The last thing he’d wanted to see was the Aussie woman on his doorstep again. The last two days had been a total loss as far as rehearsals went. First, the electrical setup had failed and then the stage had collapsed and they’d had to pull the pin on a full rehearsal for the second day in a row. He was worried that they were going to look like fools at the concert on Saturday night. They were opening for Bowie and the crowd was predicted to be huge for this second festival.

  Then Holly had presented him with that bloody newspaper. She’d jumped around in excitement, telling him what great media coverage it was, and how she couldn’t have set up anything better if she’d tried.

  “It’ll pull the crowds in, Davy.” Her face was lit up in a grin beneath that stupid red hat she thought made her look like a hippie. “They so love a bad boy.”

  Bear had glanced over at him and had shaken his head slightly, as if to say “don’t lose your cool,” but David had lost it anyway. Holly had opened her mouth to speak but he’d wrenched the paper from her hands and torn it in half.

  “Get rid of it, and don’t encourage them. The only publicity I want is about how good our music is. None of that other gossip shite. Is that clear?” He’d glared at her and wasn’t aware he’d taken her arm until Slim came over and pulled her away from him. David dropped the torn pages onto
the floor and kicked at them. “For Christ’s sake. They write lies, and all you can say is that it will pull the fucking crowds in?”

  Holly had scurried away across the stage. “You want to sell records, Davy? You put up with it.” She’d looked at him defiantly as she stood at a safe distance, behind Bear and his drums. “Get over it. And all publicity is good. You want to make the big time or not?”

  “I don’t care what they make up. It has nothing to do with our music.”

  “Ah, a purist.” Holly’s voice was cynical. “You want truth and light, man. Maybe you’d better go and join a symphony orchestra and play classical music for the BBC.”

  David shook his head and forgot all about Holly and her drivel as he moved across to the kitchen window to tip his coffee dregs into the sink. A movement next door caught his attention. His new neighbour was wandering around in her back garden. He’d dreamed about her all night. He’d been so wired, he’d gotten up early to do some writing. Rose-red lips, glorious hair, and a body begging to be loved; it was as if she’d bewitched him. The crazy dreams had stayed with him after he had woken up, dreams of touching her and his hands overflowing with her tears even as he held her breasts. She’d stared deep into his eyes and he’d felt as though his soul had been exposed to her. He’d still been thinking about her when she’d appeared on his porch this morning.

  But she’d come back over to get her bag, not to connect with him. He’d forgotten all about it, or he would have put it on her porch last night. He’d gotten a jolt in his chest when he’d heard her out there. Despite the crumpled shirt and jeans she looked like something out of a fairytale. All that tumbling hair and those bright-red lips.

  And she had attitude.

  It was a shame he wasn’t interested. He frowned and shook his head.

  I’m not.

  After he’d strummed his guitar softly in the early hours, new words and notes had poured out of him and he’d written a great new song. The only reason he was unsettled was because of the rehearsal fiasco, nothing to do with his next-door neighbour. He was always on edge before a concert.