‘I’d never seen Damien so relaxed and happy.’ Eleanor swept past Violet’s stammering interruption. ‘A different man. I’ve always worried about the amount of time he devotes to work, but you must have done something wonderful to him, my darling, because he’s finally seemed to get his perspective in order... He hasn’t just made time for me, but he’s made time for his brother...’
‘That’s...great...’
‘Which is why I’m puzzled as to how it is that suddenly you and he are...taking a break...especially when I can see how much the two of you love one another...’
‘No! No, no, no... Damien just isn’t...he’s...we...’
‘You’re stumbling over your words, my darling,’ Eleanor said gently. ‘Take your time. You love my son. I know you do. A woman knows these things when it comes to other women...especially an old lady like me...’
Violet lapsed into temporary defeated silence. What could she say to that? Even with Eleanor talking down the end of a phone, she still had the uncanny feeling that the older woman was seeing right into the very heart of her. ‘You’re not old,’ she finally responded. ‘And I’m so glad the treatment’s going well...’
‘Is that your way of changing the conversation?’ Eleanor asked tartly. ‘Darling, I do wish we could have sat down and talked about this together, woman to woman. Somehow, hearing it from Damien...well, you know what men are like. He can be terribly tight-lipped when it comes to expressing anything emotional...’
‘That’s true...’
‘So why don’t you pop over to his place, say this evening...around eight...? We can...chat...’
With unerring ability, Violet realised that Eleanor had found her Achilles heel. She would have thought that Hell might have frozen over before she faced Damien again. She just wanted to somehow try and get him out of her system and paying him a visit was the last thing destined to achieve that goal. But she was very fond of his mother and Eleanor, despite her cheerful optimism about her health, did not deserve to be stressed out.
She was also still in the throes of guilt at not having spoken to the older woman yet.
‘You’re in London?’
‘Flying visit. Check-up... So, darling, I really must dash now. I’ll see you shortly, shall I? Can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to that! Don’t think that I’m going to allow you to creep out of my life that easily.’
Those two, Eleanor thought with satisfaction as she peered through the window of her chauffeur-driven car on her way back down to Devon, needed to have their heads banged together. Or at least made to sit and really talk because she refused to believe that whatever had taken place between them couldn’t be sorted with a heartfelt conversation. And who better to engineer that but herself? If, at the end of it, things were over, then so be it but Damien had been so sketchy in his details, so alarmingly evasive...and men so often didn’t recognise what was best for them...
Violet was disconnected before she had time to start thinking on her feet. Was, for instance, Damien going to be present? Would there be an awkward three-way conversation where they both tried desperately to undo what they had so carefully knitted together at the very beginning? She assumed not. She assumed that Eleanor had invited her for a one to one. She had no idea what she would say to the other woman. She would have to be vague. Her fingers itched to dial Damien’s mobile and ask him what he had said to his mother but she felt faint just at the thought of hearing that deep, dark, sexy drawl down the end of the line.
Several hours later, standing in front of the imposing Georgian block, some of which had been converted into luxury apartments, others remaining as vast houses, such as his, Violet had to fight down a sickening attack of nerves.
The road where he lived was a statement to the last word in opulence. Gleaming back wrought-iron railings guarded each of the towering white-fronted mansions. The steps to each front door were identical in their scrubbed cleanliness and the front doors were all black with shiny brass knockers for appearance only as a bank of buzzers was located at the side.
She had only been to his place a handful of times but she remembered it clearly. The exquisite hall with its flagstoned floor, the pale walls, the blond wooden flooring that dominated the huge open spaces. Everything within those mega-expensive walls was of the highest standard and state-of-the-art. There was no clutter. She had always found its lack of homeliness off-putting. Now, as she dithered in front of the imposing black door, she had to take some deep breaths to steady her nerves, even though she was nearly a hundred per cent certain that he would not be at home. A cosy chat with Eleanor and she would be on her way. Her uneasy conscience that she hadn’t contacted the older woman would be put to rest. They would meet in the future, of course they would, and it would be fine just as long as Damien wasn’t around, and maybe, down the line, he could be around because she would have moved on from him.
She pressed the buzzer and settled back to wait because she was certain that Eleanor would not be moving at the speed of light to get to the door, however keen she was to see her.
It had been a lovely day which had mellowed into a cool but pleasant evening. In this expensive part of London, there were few cars and even less foot traffic and she was idly watching a young woman saunter past on the opposite side of the wide, tree-lined road, attempting to infuse a reluctant puppy with enthusiasm for a walk it clearly didn’t want, when the door was pulled open behind her.
The greeting died on her lips. For a few seconds her heart seemed to arrest. Damien framed the doorway. He was wearing a pair of faded black jeans that hugged his long, muscular legs and a white T-shirt, close-fitting enough to outline the strong, graceful lines of his body. Memories of touching that body rushed towards her in a tidal wave of hot awareness. In only a matter of a few months, he had guided her down myriad sensual roads never explored before. Her mouth went dry as she thought of a few of them.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked inanely.
‘It’s my house and, funny...I was just about to ask you the same thing.’ He half stepped out, pulling the door behind him and blocking out the light from the hall.
‘I came to see your mother.’ She just wanted to stare and stare and keep on staring. Instead, she looked down at her shoes, some sensible black ballet pumps that worked well with her skinny jeans. She had stopped dressing to hide. It was one of his many lasting legacies to her—the self-confidence to be the person she was.
‘And that would be...? Because...?’ Damien leant indolently against the doorframe and folded his arms. His fabulous eyes were veiled and watchful as he stared down at her. However, his nerves were taut and he was angry with himself for the seeping away of his self-control. There was nothing left to be said on the subject of their non-relationship. He had offered her marriage. She had thrown his offer back in his face and he was not a man who allowed second bites at the cherry.
He wondered why she had come. Had she had second thoughts? Had she come round to all the advantages marriage to him would provide? His mouth curled with derision. He shifted as his body refused to cooperate and jumped into gear as his eyes unconsciously traced the sexy outline of her breasts underneath the figure-hugging top she was wearing. But hell, she could wear something only seen on someone’s maiden aunt and yet have any red-blooded male spinning round in his tracks to stare. He couldn’t understand how he could ever have credited her with being anything but sex on legs. He must have been blind and those tight jeans...that jumper. He wanted to pounce and rip them off her so that he could touch what was underneath. Given the circumstances, it was an entirely inappropriate reaction and he was furious with himself for even allowing his mind to travel down those pathways.
‘Because your mother phoned and asked me to come here,’ Violet muttered. She balled her hands into fists. So he didn’t even have the simple courtesy to ask her inside. He would rather conduct a hosti
le conversation on his doorstep.
‘Pull the other one, Violet. My mother left to return to Devon hours ago. So tell me why you imagine she would be waiting here for you? No, don’t bother to answer that. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what you’re doing here.’
Violet’s mouth dropped open and she looked at him in bewilderment. At the same time, it was dawning on her that she had been coaxed into coming to his house by Eleanor, who had schemed for...what, exactly? A heartfelt talk where their so-called differences would be ironed out? And a reconciliation might take place? If only she knew the truth of their relationship.
‘And you can forget it.’
‘Forget what?’
‘Any plan you might be concocting to show up here unannounced and resume where we left off.’
‘I wasn’t doing any such thing!’ Violet gasped.
‘Expect me to believe that? When you’re dressed in the tightest clothes possible? Showing off your assets to maximum advantage?’ He pictured her in the unflattering dress she had worn that very first time when she had hesitantly walked into his office and scowled because the image didn’t dispel his reaction to her body.
‘You’re being ridiculous! Your mother asked me over here. She said she wanted to chat and I felt guilty because I should have called her, I should have made contact!’
Damien was fast reaching the same conclusion as Violet had only seconds before. She hadn’t come here to try and entice him back into the bedroom. Having recognised that, he had to firmly bank down the fleeting suspicion that he rather enjoyed the notion of her making a pass at him. Naturally, he would have rejected it. But not before he felt immense satisfaction at having her plead with him for a second chance.
‘You’re impossible!’ Violet could scarcely believe the accusations flying at her. Admittedly, there was some small chance that he might have jumped to the wrong conclusions, but how on earth could he think that she had dressed to impress? She was suddenly aware of the tightness of her clothes where she hadn’t been before. Her breasts were heavy and aching within the constraints of her lacy bra and, as her eyes travelled upwards, doing a reluctant, hateful tour of his impressive body, she could feel herself getting damp between her thighs. She recalled his fingers down there, his mouth sucking and licking until she was writhing for more.
‘You have an ego as big as a cruise liner if you imagine that I would come here to...to...make a pass at you! You’re the most arrogant man I’ve ever met!’ She longed to inform him, coldly, that she had moved on, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter such a whopper.
As she stood there, floundering in front of his assessing eyes, she heard a voice behind him. A woman’s voice. Coy and cajoling. For a few seconds she froze and then her eyes widened as the owner of the voice materialised into view.
How on earth could he have dared to accuse her of wearing tight clothes? The leggy brunette with the short, silky bob was clad in white jeans that fitted like a second skin and a small white vest that left very little to the imagination. She was as slender as a reed and Violet could only stare as the brunette sidled up to Damien and slipped her arm through his.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce us, darling? Though I guess there’s no need. You must be Violet...’ The pale blue eyes were glacially cold as she stretched out one thin arm in greeting. ‘I’m Annalise...’
CHAPTER TEN
IT WAS RAINING by the time Violet made it back to her house. A fine, needle-sharp drizzle that she barely noticed. She took the Tube and bus back to her house on autopilot. She couldn’t think straight and her heart was thumping like a steam engine inside her chest, making it uncomfortable to breathe.
She wanted to block out images of Damien with Annalise. She tried hard to tell herself that it didn’t matter, that he was a free man who could do whatever he liked with whomever he liked. Unfortunately, no amount of cool logic could paper over the devastation she felt nor could it stop the flood of painful speculation that assailed her, wave upon wave, upon wave until she wanted to pass out.
He was back with his ex, back with the only woman he had never been able to forget, the only woman to whom he had wanted to commit, fully and without reservation or a list of sensible reasons why the match could work out. It certainly hadn’t taken him long to reconnect. Was it because her rejection of his proposal had put things into perspective for him? Made him wake up and realise that marriage was more than a list of dos and don’ts? Had that propelled him to seek out Annalise? Had it reminded him that, in his carefully controlled world, there was still one woman who had broken through the boundaries and that he needed to find her and tell her? They certainly had looked very cosy with one another.
And Annalise was much more his style than she, Violet, could ever hope to be. Tall, skinny, beautiful. Nor did she look like a typical bimbo. No, she looked like one of those rare, annoying breeds—a true beauty who also had brains.
She couldn’t look at herself in the mirror as she banged about in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. She didn’t want to see the comparisons between her and his ex. Thinking about comparisons drained her of all her self-confidence. Had he only really seen her as a novelty? The broad bean versus the runner bean? Had he fallen into bed with her because she had been there? Available and eager? Was he any different from any other man in a situation where opportunity was handed to him on a plate? No one could accuse him of being the sort of guy who took relationships seriously, who held out for the right woman. He was a red-blooded male with a rampant libido who took what he wanted. And she had been there for the taking. And then he had proposed because it was convenient. He was never going to fall in love; he had done that with Annalise, so why not hitch up with the woman who had won his family’s approval? Noticeably, he had only proposed when he had woken up to the reality that she might walk out on him.
She climbed into bed and tried to read and only realised that she had actually fallen asleep when she was awakened by two things.
The first was the sound of the rain. It had progressed from a persistent drizzle to the wild rapping of rain against her windows. She had left one window slightly ajar and the voile curtain was blowing furiously under the force of the wind. When she went to close it, she realised that the chest of drawers just underneath was splattered in rainwater but she had no intention of doing anything about that just at the moment.
Because, competing with the howling of the wind and the rain, was the thunderous sound of someone banging on her front door.
Outside, dripping water, Damien was cursing the English weather. Between eight, when he had opened his front door to Violet, and midnight, when he had finally managed to get rid of Annalise, the rain had picked up. Now, at a little after three-thirty, the only thing that could be said in favour of his jumping in his car and coming here was the fact that the roads had been traffic-free.
He noticed that one of the lights in the house had now been turned on and breathed a sigh of relief. He really didn’t want to remain outside her house for the remainder of the night, although he would have, had she not answered the door.
Violet had stuck on her bathrobe to see who was at the door. Her immediate thought when she had heard the banging was to imagine that it was someone trying to break in but, almost as soon as she thought that, she realised that it was a ridiculous supposition because since when did intruders give advance notice of their intention by banging on doors?
So was it someone who needed help? She knew her neighbours. The old lady living next door was quite frail. Was there something wrong? She tried and failed to imagine small Mrs Wilson, in her late eighties, having the strength to venture out of her house in the early hours of the morning to bang on a door.
As she hurried downstairs, switching on lights in her wake, she could feel her heart pounding because, of course, there was someone else it might be, but, like her scenario involving the polite
burglar knocking to warn her of his imminent break-in, the thought that it might be Damien was too far-fetched to be worth consideration.
The safety chain was on and as she opened the door a crack she knew instantly that the one man she had least expected was standing outside. There was a storm raging outside her house, or so it seemed. The wind was sending his trench coat in all directions and the rain was whipping down at a slant. His feet were planted squarely on the ground but, as she pulled the door open a little wider, he placed his hand against the doorframe to look down at her.
He was drenched. Soaked through.
‘What do you want?’ Violet wrapped the robe tightly around her. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Violet, let me in.’
‘Where’s your girlfriend, Damien? Is she waiting in the car for you?’ She could have kicked herself for mentioning Annalise but, at this point, she really didn’t care.
‘Let me in.’
‘I don’t know why you’ve come but I don’t want you here.’
‘Please.’
That single word stopped Violet in her tracks. She could feel the rain beating down towards her and she stepped back into the house to avoid being soaked.
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Maybe there are things that I need to say to you.’
But, tellingly, he hadn’t followed her into the hall. He remained standing on the doorstep, getting drenched. Was he hesitant? Violet thought in some confusion. Surely not! Hesitancy was one of those emotions he didn’t do. Along with love. And yet he was still standing there, getting wet and looking at her.
‘What could you possibly want to say to me, Damien? I just came to see your mother. I didn’t come to try and start back what we had! You’re out of my life and if I was a little...a little...disconcerted, it was because I hadn’t expected to be confronted with your girlfriend! Quick work, Damien!’
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