But therein lay the rub.
She had zero expectation that they’d found him.
In fact, Jasmine Walker was convinced ‘the one’ just wasn’t out there...
Or he was...but she ruined her chance with that particular man a long, long time ago.
* * *
What are you doing?
Freddie Highgrove let his gaze drift from the pretty white brick lighthouse to the impressive vista beyond. With the sun hanging low in the sky it cast everything it touched in a warm amber glow. The endless sea, the luscious vegetation, the white sand beach with its rolling granite boulders breaking into the water. It was all so very easy on the eye and he tried to feel nothing. Nothing at all.
But the grip he had over his chilled glass mimicked the tight hold around his heart and both told him otherwise.
There was only one woman he’d ever intended to travel here with.
Jasmine Walker. The one that had got away. The one that had run away, even.
The moment the pilot of the private jet arranged by the M dating agency had announced their destination, he should have ordered them to stay grounded and let him make his exit. Quick, sharp, painless.
Instead, he was waiting on the arrival of said date with a bitter taste in his mouth and no amount of the island’s chilled finest could see it off.
It was his own sorry fault too. Not M’s.
When Madison Morgan, the owner and very much the heart of M, had asked ‘When I say romance, what location do you think of first?’ he should have ducked it. Not said the first thing that had come into his dim-witted brain.
He gave a brutal laugh, the sound as harsh as it had been when she’d posed the question.
The Seychelles.
He could have said Paris, Rome—anywhere else—but no.
And why? Because of her. Jasmine.
Ten years and he couldn’t rid himself of the woman. And she hadn’t even been a woman then, not really. They’d been teenagers counting on a future so rosy it made him feel sick to think of it now. Sick and foolish.
He rubbed his freshly shaven jaw and tilted his head back to the setting sun. Now there wasn’t a romantic bone left in his body, he had no interest. No interest in a date of M’s choosing, or a marriage of convenience designed to elevate his illustrious family’s reputation.
So, what on earth was he doing here?
His lips quirked. He knew what he was doing, all right. He was delaying the inevitable, putting off his Scottish parents’ wish that he marry into the English aristocracy by convincing them he was finding his own ‘rich’ and ‘suitably entitled’ wife.
He ran a finger through the collar of his black polo shirt, the fabric, though breathable, felt too thick and heavy as he wished he was anywhere but here. Anywhere but about to sit down with some unsuspecting woman who through no fault of her own could never be the one for him. Regardless of what M may think.
Truth was, what heart he’d possessed had left with Jasmine ten years ago. And try as they might, his parents were going to be sorely disappointed if they were depending on his marriage to enhance their place in the world. As for grandkids, more lairds-in-waiting, it wasn’t happening.
Ten years ago—yes. It was all he’d wanted. Marriage. Kids. A family home filled with love and warmth. He would have taken that over his family’s wealth and status any day. But Jasmine had bailed on him.
Fifteen years of friendship. A year as lovers. A ring on her finger. And it hadn’t been enough to make her stay and fight.
His hand pulsed around his glass and he threw back the chilled liquid, not tasting a drop. He wouldn’t be that fool again.
‘Mr Highgrove?’
He turned at Monique’s voice, forcing a smile, and—
No.
He had to be seeing things.
It wasn’t.
It couldn’t be.
‘May I present Miss—’
‘Jas!’ It choked out of him. This had to be some kind of sick and twisted joke.
The Jasmine lookalike gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes—those eyes that had haunted his dreams, his nightmares too—wide. ‘Freddie?’
Monique frowned. ‘You two...’ she looked at Jasmine, looked at him ‘...know each other?’
He couldn’t respond. He felt like every grain of sand on the beach had made its way into his lungs, his chest, his body. He couldn’t breathe.
Monique cleared her throat. ‘It seems I needn’t introduce you after all.’ She clasped her hands together, her eyes dancing in the golden light. ‘How clever M has been on this occasion! Do please take a seat, Miss Walker.’ She gestured to Jasmine’s chair like the tension weighing heavy in the air didn’t exist. How could she not feel it? He couldn’t even move for it and neither could Jasmine. Her mouth was still agape, her pallor obvious in spite of her make-up and the warm glow of the evening.
‘I shall pour the champagne,’ Monique said as Jasmine stayed stock-still.
‘No.’
Both women jumped and Monique’s eyes narrowed on him. The ‘no’ had come from him... Oh, this wasn’t good.
‘Excuse me, sir?’
‘What I mean is...’ He softened his voice, working hard to relax his posture, but his heart was pounding, his pulse beating wild at the sight of Jasmine. His first glimpse in ten years, and it wasn’t just a glimpse, she was his date! ‘I will pour it.’
‘Of course.’ If Monique still considered his behaviour odd, she made no show of it as she beamed. ‘I will leave you to get reacquainted and bring your starters out when they are ready.’
She walked away, her whispered words carrying on the breeze. ‘Well, well, well, this has to be a first.’
A first he could have done without...
‘Take a seat, Jas.’ He waved his empty hand at her chair before pulling out his own. ‘I won’t bite.’
He couldn’t look at her as he said it, though. He was in shock. Utter shock.
‘Did you set this up?’ she whispered.
A laugh erupted through his chest, his eyes soaring to hers. ‘Are you serious?’
She was. He could see it in the accusatory glint to her brilliant green eyes, her glossy pink lips pursed.
This couldn’t be real.
Only it was...
‘Do you honestly think that of all the women in the world I would choose to bring you here?’
As intended, his words stung. He watched with forced satisfaction as her eyes flared and her throat bobbed. That beautiful slender throat in that petite little frame that had hardly grown in the time they’d been apart.
Compared to his six feet one, was she still only five feet three?
He remembered the day he’d measured her, pressed up against the wall of the kitchen in Highgrove Manor. Her refusing to believe that he was almost a foot taller than her, him proving a point, while enjoying every inch of her body trapped against his.
He breathed past the sudden rush of tension, the lustful hit the silly little memory sparked, and dragged his eyes from the alluring green of hers.
‘No, Jas.’ Like it needed stating in clearer terms. ‘I did not set this up.’
He reached for the champagne and poured two glasses, the gentle fizz of the drink as it bubbled up in the glass more pronounced for the silence now stretching between them.
And still she hadn’t moved.
He rested the bottle back in the ice and looked at her. Her blazing red hair was cut into a long, smooth bob that smacked of both sophistication and maturity. The black dress she wore clung to her curves and ended just above her knee with the smallest of front slits, and a pair of gold heels that gave her an added inch or two.
Classic. Smart. Disturbingly stunning.
And aside from her obvious shock, there was a confidence about her, an unfamiliar poise that made him shif
t in his seat.
‘I take it from the persistent shock on your face that you didn’t set this up either?’
‘How could I possibly...?’ She shook her head, her arms folding around her middle in a protective gesture that dug beneath his skin, wounding as much as it angered. It wasn’t him that had broken her heart. It wasn’t her that needed the protection.
And neither do you...you’re older and wiser and know better.
‘No.’ She wet her lips. ‘I didn’t set this up.’
‘In that case, why don’t you sit, and we’ll offer up a toast to this cruel twist of fate.’
She eyed him, wary and silent. Long, drawn-out moments when he thought she might turn and run—again.
But finally she stepped towards him, her scent carrying on a sudden breeze, and his chest spasmed.
How can she still smell the same?
He raised a hand to his face, a barrier to her scent as he masked it with his own and watched her lower herself into the chair opposite. He didn’t want to feast on the sight of her up close, of the flames from the firepit in the centre of the viewing platform flickering in her eyes, dancing over her skin and making her hair even more vibrant.
He sought distraction in the drinks he’d poured and took up hers, offering it to her. He realised his mistake the second her delicate fingers brushed against his. Their eyes collided and for the briefest of moments time fell away. They were in the Highgrove guest house, the fire roaring, a diamond ring fresh on her finger, champagne in hand.
He gritted his teeth and retreated back into his chair, taking his drink with him.
‘To us.’ He raised his glass to her, the vulnerability in her eyes holding him captive, and inwardly winced. He could practically feel her reaching inside his soul and stamping all over it anew.
‘To...’ She swallowed and wet her cupid’s-bow lips. ‘To us.’
CHAPTER TWO
THE CHAMPAGNE STUCK in Jasmine’s throat as she lost herself in the sight of him.
Freddie. Her Freddie. The man whose heart she had broken, shattering her own in the process.
She’d been convinced he was a figment of her imagination. With the sun setting at his back, she’d tried to convince herself it wasn’t him. That it couldn’t be.
But it had been a sixth sense, a growing awareness that the man standing there, waiting for her, his smile as frozen as his body, was him.
She cleared her throat, swallowed with a gulp that she prayed wasn’t audible and lost herself in the dark glittering gaze that was so familiar and yet not. Those blue eyes that had once sparkled with such humour, such love, such passion...now they were almost black, the flames from the firepit playing in their brooding depths.
She shuddered as the flutter in her stomach returned tenfold and she covered it with her palm.
‘Cold, Jas?’
She shook her head, words refusing to form.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be lost for words, not in my presence at any rate.’ His eyes narrowed on her. ‘There was a time when you had plenty to say.’
His soft-spoken observation was all the more powerful for the past it recalled and the frostiness in the air that no amount of paradise could warm.
‘It’s just...it’s a shock. It’s been...’ She broke off. She had the awful feeling her champagne was about to make a reappearance.
‘Ten years,’ he supplied for her. ‘Ten years in December.’
She lowered her lashes, raised her glass to her lips and took a larger sip. If a small amount was threatening to return, maybe a larger amount would weigh itself down. And she needed the Dutch courage.
She felt eighteen again. Insecure. Out of place. Unworthy.
But she was none of those things any more. And, boy, did she need the timely reminder.
‘How have you been, Freddie?’ She forced her eyes back to his as she acknowledged just how much he’d changed too.
He wasn’t the tall, athletic man of his youth. He was broad, sculpted, his voice deeper. His black hair, no longer foppishly long, was trimmed, tailored to fit his new persona—sharp, empowered, all man—and she shivered anew. He demanded attention, dominated her vision, made her feel things she’d long given up hope of feeling again.
He leaned back in his seat and rested his elbow on the arm of his chair as he ran his index finger over his lips. She tried not to watch, tried not to take in the fullness of that bottom lip, or feel the tingling sensation it sent through her body.
‘I’m good. Very good.’ His mouth lifted to the side, not quite a smile, his stare intense as he watched her. ‘No need to ask how you are, I can see that well enough for myself.’
‘Still...’ Her hand trembled over her stomach and she lifted it to her hair, sweeping it back behind her ear as she raised her chin to him. ‘It would be polite to ask.’
‘Polite?’ He surprised her with another laugh and leaned forward in his seat. Planting his elbows on the table, he steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them, his eyes pinning her in place.
‘So, Jasmine...’ He was too close now, much too close. His aftershave—expensive, masculine, woody—reached her and her nostrils flared, panic lifting the hairs at her nape. ‘How the devil are you?’
The question reverberated down her spine as her heart tried to clamber up and out of her throat. She didn’t like how he said it, his Scottish high-born inflection colliding with an American twang and making him so far removed from the boy she once knew.
But then he wasn’t the boy trying to be a man any more, the boy so willing to reject his family for her, offering to run away and make a new life with her.
No.
He had his own wealth now, his own life across the Pond, and everything about him spoke of that new existence, of that independence and liberation. But his eyes... His eyes still showed the broken heart she’d left him with and it was that which held her tongue-tied.
Did he still hate her after all this time?
She hated herself enough for walking away. But she couldn’t bear facing his hatred too.
‘I think this is a mistake.’ She started to rise. ‘I’m sorry you’ve paid good money for this...this...’
Her hand flapped about, words failing her.
‘Date?’ He looked up at her, his eyes glinting, his mouth twitching. Was he laughing at her?
‘Yes.’ She tried to detach herself from the cocktail of emotion fogging up her brain. ‘I’ll contact M and see if something can be done.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you can’t want to spend this week with me.’
‘Why?’
She blew out a flustered breath, felt her cheeks heat with a combination of shame, panic, hurt, even anger that he would make her put words to it. ‘You know why.’
She stepped away from the table.
‘Running away again, Jas?’
She stilled. It was a low blow. But there was something in his voice that made her pulse trip over itself, and not entirely with anger.
She wanted to stay. She wanted to show him that she wasn’t the same person that left him ten years ago. She wanted to show him the person she had become. Confident. Successful. Worthy.
It no longer mattered what the Highgroves thought of her. Freddie included.
Yeah, like you really mean that...
‘No.’ She ignored the inner scorn. ‘If you really must know, Freddie, I’m trying to salvage what we can of this week. Maybe M has another date in reserve for you, someone she can send out to accompany you so the week’s not a total waste of your time and money, and I’ll leave.’
Someone more accustomed to champagne and fine dining and the demands of a family as high-born as his own. Because it didn’t matter that she had become a woman of standing. In their eyes she would never be worthy. She would always be the help’s daughte
r.
‘And what if I said I don’t want someone else?’
Her eyes lifted to his. Her heart stuttered in her chest. He couldn’t mean it.
But try as she might, she couldn’t read his expression.
He looked serious, but his posture was far too relaxed to be genuine as he leaned back in his chair.
Or at least that was how she’d like to interpret it.
‘Don’t look so shocked.’
She shook her head, her laugh high-pitched as she eyed the view instead. The sun was almost gone, a sliver of bright amber radiating out across the waves, the sky, its soft hue so golden and warm. But she was cold. Chilled to the bone. ‘You can’t want to spend this week with me,’ she repeated.
‘On that you’re very much mistaken.’
She met his gaze, confusion and apprehension making her frown. She couldn’t deny the bubble of excitement, too, that against her better judgement she was getting carried away with the meaning behind his words.
‘To be completely honest, Jas, now that you’re here, I can’t imagine anyone else I’d rather spend this week with.’
* * *
And, again, what on earth are you doing?
Maybe this question would hound him all week, because common sense, or rather his heart, told him to re-insert an ocean between them as soon as possible.
But then he hadn’t been thinking clearly when he’d blurted it out. His only goal had been to avoid the alternative: her leaving and someone coming in her place.
Or, worse, her staying and him being replaced.
It was madness.
Ten years they’d gone without seeing one another. She could have married, had a thousand boyfriends, lovers, whatever and he shouldn’t care. But now that she was here, in front of him, the idea of her being with anyone else...
And it was just a week. One week.
Seven days with the woman his parents had so cruelly rejected was an interesting twist of fate.
Seven days with the woman who had so cruelly rejected him in turn was even more twisted.
But where he had once been weak, he was now strong and here before him was the opportunity to lay the ghosts of the past to rest and finally get her out of his system. Move on. It was a sound plan. And he always liked to have a plan.
Surprise Reunion with His Cinderella Page 2