That decided, I take a step towards the door. Immediately, another unwanted thought assaults me. What if she’s met someone else? Christ, what if she’s married? Technically, if she’d moved really fast, she could even have a kid by now. It’s been over a year, for God’s sake.
It doesn’t matter, I try to convince myself. Regardless of her response, I need to say some things, get them off my chest, clear the air. I’ve spent the last twelve and a bit months righting my wrongs, sorting my head out. This is the last step. Whatever happens here today, I have to roll with it and move forward. No more fucking about.
Clenching my hands into fists, I grimace. They’re still sopping wet. I give in, slip them as casually as possible beneath my suit jacket and rub them on my shirt. Attractive it is not, but at least my hands are dry now. Right, time to go in. Straightening my clothes and my spine, I stride towards the door.
I needn’t have worried about gripping the handle, though. An immaculately-dressed doorman takes care of it, welcoming me into the building with a subtle nod. I mutter my thanks.
Glancing around, I don’t see any security guards ready to pounce, so I obviously look the part, even if I don’t feel it.
Making every effort to look as though I belong, I walk up to the reception desk. I greet the receptionist, then immediately feel my cheeks heat up as she comes back with what can only be described as a lascivious smile. It’s been so long since I’ve been out in the real world looking like a presentable human being that I’ve forgotten what it’s like for someone to look at me that way. Well, anyone except Carrie—and I was far from presentable when she last saw me.
I shake my head. Somehow, she saw past the mad hair and beard, the scruffy clothes, and liked me anyway. She’s an incredible woman. And it’s entirely possible she’s going to kick my arse—figuratively, if not literally.
Still, it’s got to be done. Widening my smile, I say to the leery receptionist, “Hi, I’m here to see Caroline Rogers, please.”
I know she’s here. I called from the end of the street on my mobile—I’m definitely back on the grid now—and asked to speak to her. I was told she was unavailable, not that she was out. So, somewhere in this building is Caroline Rogers. My Carrie.
“Do you have an appointment?” comes the response. The woman is still appraising me, and apparently, she likes what she sees. Her gaze makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. But I need her on side, so, without having any idea if I’m doing it right, I turn on the charm.
Leaning my elbows on the desk, I reply, “I don’t, sorry. But I’m an old friend of hers. Haven’t seen her for a while, but I was in the area for an interview, so I thought I’d swing by and surprise her. Would you be a sweetheart and let her know I’m here?”
I grin so widely it hurts my bloody face. “I promise you, she knows me. And even if she didn’t, you could just kick me out, couldn’t you? No harm done.” I spread my palms, trying to look as congenial as possible.
The girl’s eyes narrow, and she slowly reaches for the phone. “Name, sir?”
I bite back a smirk at the “sir”. She’s hedging her bets—if I turn out to be genuine, she doesn’t want me telling her boss she was anything but immensely polite and helpful towards me. Smart. “Thanks. It’s Flynn Gifford.”
I wait, heart pounding and fresh sweat beading, well, all over, as the woman relays the information down the receiver.
There’s a long, long, pause. I feel myself aging about fifty years. I imagine Carrie, beautiful Carrie, sitting at her desk, an incredulous expression on her face as she clutches the phone to her ear. Then the expression morphs into anger. Yeah, I’m definitely getting my arse kicked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the receptionist eventually says, her posture relaxing. “I’ll send him right up.”
She replaces the receiver into the cradle and fixes me with a polite—and distinctly less lecherous smile. “Miss Rogers will see you now. Use the lift on the right, straight to the top floor. Have a good day.”
“Thank you so much,” I reply, giving a nod before walking over to the lift, thoughts whizzing through my head.
She’s still Miss Rogers, I realize with a huge sense of relief. Even if she kept her surname, surely she’d ditch the “Miss”?
Get a grip, man! Miss, Mrs., Dr., Professor, fucking Reverend, it doesn’t matter. You’re here to apologize, now damn well get on with it.
Suitably chastised—albeit by myself—I press the button for the top floor, then step back as the lift doors close and the car begins carrying me up the innards of the tall building. Up to Carrie’s lair, from whence I may never return.
I roll my eyes at my melodrama. I’ve faced down terrorists, psychopaths, rapists, mass murderers and more—and still Carrie is more frightening. How the hell is that even possible? She’s much smaller than I am, and, as far as I know, has no combat training. If necessary, I could totally defend myself against her.
So why the anxiety? Because you still fucking love her, you idiot. You love her, but you screwed her then did a runner. It may have been for the right reasons, but she probably didn’t see it that way at the time. Fucking someone, then disappearing isn’t really the done thing.
I cringe as the large red numbers on the screen count up, each change in digits bringing me to closer to Carrie. Christ, how the hell am I going to make her understand? She’s no idiot—far from it—but if the roles were reversed, I’d want to kill me, too. Or at least maim me, anyway.
That temper, that fire, of Carrie’s has never been directed at me before, and I sure as hell am not looking forward to it. But I do deserve it.
The lift pings its arrival at the top floor way too soon, and I resist the temptation to press the button marked G. I’ve got this far. And, I remind myself for the umpteenth time, this is necessary. No matter what the outcome, this is absolutely necessary. My counselor said so—and he’s helped me so damn much in the past few months that I see no reason to disbelieve him now.
I step out of the open doors and into a plush reception area that makes the main foyer downstairs look like a third-rate doctors’ surgery. It’s immaculately designed and decorated, all glass walls, brushed steel, carpets that you sink into up to your knees, sumptuous leather chairs and sofas, and artful coffee tables.
This is Carrie’s inner sanctum, her world, her real world. Not a tiny Peak District village still steeped in tradition, but a London skyscraper with an interior so expensive that it puts Buckingham Palace to shame. And I’ve seen some of the bits of Buck House that the public doesn’t get to clap eyes on.
It’s only now that it really hits home. She really is filthy rich. Completely and utterly. Ridiculously.
Why the fuck am I here? Yeah, I’m wearing a nice suit, but I don’t belong. Not here, not now. Not ever. I’ll say my piece, and I’ll go. Where, I don’t know, but somewhere more suited to me. Somewhere simpler, more normal. Not as simple as slumming it in an abandoned house, living hand to mouth, but somewhere easy, without many expectations. I’ve had it with expectations. All too often, they lead to failure. At least with my newly-cultivated people and business skills I can turn my hand to something new. I’ve just got to figure out what that is, and fast.
I suddenly realize the receptionist—or is this woman a PA?—is staring at me expectantly. Striding over to her desk, I open my mouth. But she beats me to it, her cool blue gaze assessing me, but in a genuinely curious manner, unlike her pervy mate downstairs.
“Mr. Gifford?” she asks, though it’s clear she already knows the answer.
“Yes.”
“Please follow me. Miss Rogers is expecting you.”
She stands up, swivels on her heel and moves effortlessly across the carpet. I’d half-expected her heels to snag or wobble on this uneven surface, but she’s as sure-footed as a goat. Practice, no doubt.
We walk along a corridor of sorts, though it’s more of a wide walkway with glass offices either side. At the end, I see her. The back of her, anyway. She’s
in the biggest glass box, looking out of the window to a view of the city. I wonder what she’s thinking about. Guess I’ll find out soon enough.
The receptionist-or-PA leads me to the glass door emblazoned with Carrie’s name in some kind of fancy yet businesslike font, followed by CEO and some other acronyms I don’t get the chance to absorb as the door has been tapped upon and swung open, and my name announced. The woman indicates I should enter the office, then takes her leave. I’m surprised she hasn’t offered me—or Carrie—a drink. But then perhaps she’s been ordered to make herself scarce. We do, after all, have a lot to talk about.
My heart lurches uncomfortably, and I step into the office, closing the door behind me. Carrie remains motionless, looking out at London’s vista spread before her.
I can’t stand here all day waiting for her to turn around, to say something. The anticipation will finish me off. “C-Carrie?” I venture.
Several seconds pass, and they feel like bloody centuries. Eventually, Carrie moves. She clasps her hands behind her back, then turns on her heel. As her gaze lands on me, her eyes widen. “Flynn?”
My eyebrows rise of their own accord. Okay, that’s not the reaction I was expecting. “In the flesh,” I reply, chancing a small smile.
“Wow.” She drops her hands to her sides—a move which relaxes her entire posture—comes out from behind the barrier of her desk and crosses the room to stand in front of me. Not too close, but near enough that she can get a good look at me. “Fucking hell, Flynn. Are you sure that’s you?”
I chuckle uneasily, unable to shake the feeling that an explosion is coming. But then, we are in a glass box. Would she say or do anything like that, knowing that her colleagues can see us? They may not be able to hear what we’re saying, but body language speaks volumes. “Yes, I promise it’s me. Want to see some ID?”
She shakes her head in disbelief, then meets my eyes. Quietly, she says, “What happened to you?”
I can tell from her tone that she doesn’t just mean the change in appearance. Resisting the temptation to reach for her hand, I reply, “Can we sit down, please?”
“Yes, of course.” The businesswoman comes back to the fore as she strides back behind her desk again, indicating the chair opposite. Fortunately the desk isn’t too deep, as otherwise it’d feel like even more of a barrier between us. “Would you like something to drink? I’ll get Tia to bring something in before we start.”
“Um, yes please.” It’s part delay tactics, I admit, but also I know I’m going to need some lubrication to get all these damn words out. I’m not much of a talker at the best of times. “Just water would be great.”
“Still or sparklin—” She trails off as she remembers who she’s talking to. Pressing a button on the phone on her desk, presumably an intercom, she asks Tia—who I assume is the girl that showed me into Carrie’s office—to bring a carafe of regular water and a cappuccino.
We sit in an uncomfortable silence as the order is carried out. Then, as soon as the door is closed behind Tia’s retreating form, we look at each other.
Carrie raises her eyebrows, silently telling me to start talking.
I pull in a deep breath, place my hands on the table and spread my fingers, giving me something else to concentrate on, instead of her expectant expression. “Carrie, I’ve come to apologize, and to explain myself, if you’ll let me.”
“I’m all ears.” Her tone is chilly, but calm.
“I’m truly sorry for running out on you when we, uh, you know … it was wrong, unforgivable, and somewhat insane. So many things were going on in my head. My past, your past, our futures, whether they could ever be the same future. Together. I don’t know if it was the fever or what, but my brain couldn’t leave it alone. I just couldn’t figure out a way we could be together with the way my life was. Not just the penniless tramp part of it, but the AWOL bit. More than a bit, actually.”
Unsurprisingly, my mouth is getting drier by the second, and I pour myself a glass of water. I offer to pour Carrie one, but she declines, instead sipping at her cappuccino.
Taking a long drink and draining half the glass, I put it down again. “So in the end, I kind of snapped, I guess. I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted you, for us to be together. But there was just no way I could have expected you to be with me—technically, you had been hiding a criminal. Aiding and abetting. And you’d already risked so much for me. So the only way to get you was to face up to what I’d done. Go back to the army, hand myself in and see what happened next.”
“And did you?”
If I’m not mistaken, there’s a faint glimmer of emotion in her voice as she speaks, and it gives me hope. Maybe, just maybe, I haven’t royally fucked up, after all. But then, I haven’t told her the whole story yet.
“Yes,” I nod. “I did.”
Carrie frowns. “Okay…” I can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she tries to figure things out. “So, where have you been, then?”
Letting my head loll back, I stare at the ceiling for a moment, trying to summon up the courage to say the words. I close my eyes, lower my head, then open them. Meeting Carrie’s gaze, I admit, “Prison, Carrie. I’ve been in prison.”
Chapter Sixteen
I’ve dreamed about it for so long that I couldn’t believe it when Diane on Reception called up to tell me a Flynn Gifford wanted to see me. I’ve spent the last months getting over him.
I can’t hide the surprised cynicism in my voice as he tries to explain. His appearance is so different, but beneath the suit and the haircut he’s the same Flynn. The guy with the startling eyes and the cheeky smile who saved me when I was lost and then deserted me when I needed him the most.
“Prison? Jesus.” I tap my fingers on the desk. “No wonder you didn’t contact me.”
“Oh, Carrie, I’m sorry. I was a bastard. I just couldn’t think straight. Inside I was given the help I needed and trust me, you were on my mind, but Christ, a convict can’t just send messages to a CEO you know.”
I glare at him. My anger is more in check these days and I think before I blurt, but if Flynn isn’t careful he’ll get an earful.
“Just, please, Carrie, hear me out. You have every right to be angry and I don’t hold out much hope of you forgiving me, but I need to tell you things, put stuff straight. The rest is in your hands.”
I can’t meet his gaze, but I nod briefly to indicate he should continue. I’ve wanted answers since he left. No way am I going to ruin my chance of getting them by screaming and yelling and being childish.
Damn, that has to be personal growth.
“So what I did was stupid, so stupid. I shouldn’t have wimped out like that, left you in the lurch, but,” Flynn sucks in a deep breath. “I was so scared, Carrie. Scared I’d hurt you, that I’d fuck up, that things just couldn’t ever work for us, that I ran. Not proud of that at all and I can’t apologize enough. But I needed to go back, to serve my time. I’ve been rehabilitated, and now I can see what a huge twat I was.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” I shake my head. “Do you realize how fucked up I was when you left?”
Flynn looks up, meets my gaze and looks down to the desk again. “But—”
“But nothing. You can listen for a bit now. All your ‘I had to get straight’ crap. Well sure. Whatever. Glad you’re not a wanted man now all that shit’s straight, but why didn’t you talk to me? I must have cried for a week straight. I was bleeding useless, hated every minute of it. Questioned every fucking thing. Finally got to a doctor, talked it all out and got back to work. I did all that with a broken heart, Flynn. A broken heart.” I realize what I’m saying, but it’s too late. I’m admitting my feelings for him. I wasn’t sure they really still existed, wasn’t sure if they just surfaced in my dreams, but no. Flynn Gifford still makes my heart pound. I love the bastard. I still do.
“Carrie, nothing I can ever say will make that right. I did a really bad thing. I’m here to say sorry. I owe you that much at the very least
and there’s more I want to say, but I’m not sure I can.”
“Go on, talk.” I push away from the desk and stand up. I can’t sit still. I’m vibrating with a mixture of lust and anger.
“Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think—now there’s an original line—and I’ve had some counseling and it’s helped me to see some stuff and accept some things. I’d run away from responsibility, and if it wasn’t for you, I’d still be out there, beard as big as a hedge, hair like candy floss, doing odd jobs, if I were still alive, even.”
I walk away from my desk to the window, my work heels catching in the carpet. I’m more comfortable in my heels than any other footwear usually, but today I wobble like a fawn every step of the way. I can’t look at him, can’t be close to him. His presence drives me crazy, when I do look at him I just want to hold and kiss him and forget the past year ever happened. I can’t give in to that.
“You made me think of someone other than myself, Carrie. For the first time since Basra I wasn’t just thinking about my safety, my life, and hiding from the authorities. You stumbled into my way, barefoot and crazed and changed me. Or maybe not changed exactly, but pulled me out of myself, you know?”
I stare out of the window. The comforting view of roofs and cranes and the river just off in the distance passes me by. I can’t process this. I don’t know if I can cope. I feel like I’m going to fall apart, and all I want is for Flynn to pick up the pieces.
“Carrie.” His voice is a lot louder than I expect. I start and stumble. His hand grips the top of my arm and steadies me. “Are you okay?”
I look at him, this sparkly, super-cleaned version of the wild man I love, and I start to weep uncontrollably. Flynn wraps his arms around me. I stand stiffly at first, but I can’t resist any longer. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his chest. Reveling in his presence.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” he whispers against my ear. “I didn’t want to hurt you, honestly. I was just stupid. I was, well, I was in love and couldn’t handle it.”
The Billionaire and the Wild Man Page 13