by Lucy King
How had things gone so badly wrong? she wondered for the billionth time as she stared into the darkness and felt the relentless heaviness descend.
Six months ago she’d been unstoppable. So full of energy and verve and enthusiasm, and fiercely determined not to let what had happened in the Middle East defeat her. She’d snapped up every assignment she’d been offered and had thrown herself into each one as if it were her last. She’d travelled and worked every minute she had, pausing only to hook up with the scorchingly hot journalist with whom she’d been having a sizzling fling.
Everything had been going marvellously, exactly as she’d planned, and she’d enjoyed every minute of it. She’d taken some of the finest photographs of her career and had some of the best sex of her life, and she’d congratulated herself on beating any potential demons she could so easily have had.
See, she’d told herself on an all-time high as she collected an award for one of her pictures and smiled down at the man she was sleeping with. All those colleagues who’d muttered things about PTSD had been wrong. Apart from the occasional nightmare and a slight problem with crowds, she hadn’t had any other symptoms. And besides, she wasn’t an idiot, so as a precaution she’d embarked on a course of counselling and therapy, which had encouraged her to make sense of what had happened, and get over it. As indeed she had, and the full-to-the-brim life she’d been leading, the work she’d been doing and the award she’d won, were all proof of it.
For months she’d told herself that she was absolutely fine, and for months she’d blithely believed it.
Until one day a few weeks ago when she turned out to be not so fine. That horrible morning she’d woken up feeling as if she were being crushed by some invisible weight. Despite the bright Parisian sunshine pouring in through the slats in the blind and the thousand and one things she had to do, she just hadn’t been able to get herself out of bed.
She’d assured herself at the time that she was simply having a bad day, but since then things had got steadily worse. The bad days had begun to occur more frequently, gradually outnumbering the good until pretty much every day was a bad day. The energy and verve and the self-confidence she’d always taken for granted had drained away, leaving her feeling increasingly anxious, and to her distress she’d found herself refusing work she’d previously have jumped at.
Bewildered by that, she’d stopped picking up her phone and had started ignoring emails. And not just those from colleagues and employers. When staying in touch with friends and family had begun to require too much energy she’d stopped doing that too.
She’d given up eating properly and had started sleeping terribly. When she did eventually manage to drop off the nightmares had come back, but now with far greater frequency than before, leaving her wide awake in the middle of the night, weak and sweating and shaking.
Her previously very healthy libido had faltered, withered and then died out altogether, as, inevitably, had the fling.
Barely going out, hardly speaking to anyone, and with so much time on her hands to sit and dwell, Nicky had ended up questioning practically every decision she’d ever made over the years. She’d begun to doubt her abilities, her ideals and her motivation, and as a result cynicism and a bone-deep weariness had invaded her.
Down and down she’d spiralled until she’d been riddled with nerve-snapping tension, utter desolation, crippling frustration, and the dizzyingly frightening feeling that she might never be able to haul herself out of the slump she tumbled into.
Burnout, Gaby had diagnosed over a bottle of wine a week ago when Nicky had finally hit rock bottom, although what made her such an expert she had no idea. Gaby, who was currently feng shui-ing the mansion of a businessman in Bahrain, was an on-and-off interior designer—more off than on—and wouldn’t know burnout if it came up and slapped her in the face.
Nevertheless, as she’d sliced through Nicky’s symptoms, and then relentlessly gone on about the importance of balance and rest and looking at things piece by tiny piece, Nicky had decided that perhaps Gaby might have had a point, which was why when her friend had come up with a plan she’d so readily and gratefully agreed.
Go to Spain, Gaby had said. Get away from it all. Take some time out and restore your equilibrium. Rest. Sunbathe. Get a tan. You can recuperate at my brother’s house. He’s never there so you can stay as long as you need. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll sort it all out.
At the time Gaby had made it sound so easy, and, as she hadn’t exactly had any ideas of her own, she’d booked a flight the following morning, buoyed up both by the thought of having something to focus on other than her own misery and at the heady feeling that finally she might be about to see the blurry flickering light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel.
And OK, in the two days she’d been here she hadn’t noticed much of a difference to her emotional state, but she knew she needed time at the very least.
Time it looked as if she wasn’t going to get, she thought now, her heart sinking once again as she sighed and punched her pillow into a more comfortable shape, because it was blindingly obvious that Gaby hadn’t managed to sort anything out, and it was equally blindingly obvious that, despite her friend’s breezy assurances to the contrary, she wasn’t welcome here.
Nicky closed her eyes and inwardly cringed as the image of Rafael’s handsome scowling face drifted into her head. Quite apart from the initial burglar/assault misunderstanding, throughout the whole subsequent conversation they’d had he’d been tense and on edge, and had looked so mightily hacked off that she’d got the impression that he really resented her being there. Which meant there was no way she could stay.
If she did—and that was assuming he didn’t chuck her out in the morning—she’d feel like the intruder, and she had quite enough on her plate already without adding guilt to her ever-increasing pile of problems.
So who knew whether the peace and tranquillity of the cortijo might have eventually worked their magic? Whether a couple of weeks of enforced rest and relaxation might not have been just what she needed? She wasn’t going to get the chance to find out because one thing she’d learned from years of working in hostile environments was never to hang around where you weren’t welcome.
Therefore no matter how depressing she found the idea, first thing in the morning she, her suitcase and her nifty little hire car would be off.
THREE
Despite his misgivings about any improvement to his night, he’d actually slept remarkably well, thought Rafael, smothering a yawn and setting the coffee pot on the stove.
When he’d eventually made it to his room after leaving Nicky, he’d downed a couple of painkillers and then taken an ice cold shower, which had respectively obliterated the pain throbbing in his head and the heat racing through his veins. He’d crashed into bed and had been asleep barely before his considerably less painful head had hit the pillow. Consequently he’d woken up in a much better mood.
Back in full possession of his self-control and all his faculties, he’d had ample opportunity to assess the events of the previous night and had come to the conclusion that he’d overreacted. Big time. He’d been tired and overwrought. In pain and on the defensive. All entirely unsurprising of course given the circumstances, but nevertheless he had overreacted.
For one thing, he told himself, lighting the gas ring beneath the pot and straightening, he doubted that Nicky, with her big blue eyes, tumbling dark curls and long slender semi-naked limbs, could be nearly as distracting as he’d imagined last night, and the cold light of day would soon prove it.
His reaction to her last night might have been startling, but it was nothing to get worked up about. Any red-blooded heterosexual man would have responded like that to a gorgeous near-naked woman practically draped over him. It would have been unusual if he hadn’t.
Nor were the oddly erotic images that had peppered his dreams anything to worry about either, because that was just his subconscious processing what had been an unexpe
cted and surprisingly traumatic half an hour.
For another thing, last night he’d somehow managed to see Nicky as some kind of threat to his peace of mind, which was a sign of just how tired and at the end of his tether with women he’d become because the very idea was ridiculous. Since his divorce he’d made sure that no woman—apart from family members, and he couldn’t unfortunately do much about them—had ever had such an effect on him, and a woman he barely knew certainly posed no risk.
The second conclusion he’d come to was that there was no earthly reason Nicky couldn’t stay. Why they both couldn’t. The place was big enough, and however exhausted and fed up he was it wasn’t Nicky’s fault. Nor was it her fault that he’d ignored Gaby’s phone calls and emails and was therefore unprepared for a guest. And yes, she’d lamped him so hard it would have made a saint curse the heavens, but perhaps that was understandable in the circumstances.
Besides, he couldn’t get the image of her standing there enveloped by that air of defeat and desolation out of his head, and it had been niggling away at his brain all morning. For someone supposedly on holiday Nicky didn’t look very happy. And who holidayed by themselves anyway? Not even he did, and he valued his solitude highly.
Rafael poured some milk into a jug and stuck it in the microwave, then leaned back against the rough wood worktop and rubbed a hand along his jaw as he contemplated the contradiction.
He supposed Gaby might have been able to shed some light on the situation if he’d been able to get hold of her, but her phone had been off all three times he’d tried. And the emails and messages he’d eventually got round to checking had said nothing more than ‘call me’ with varying degrees of urgency.
But that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to speak to his sister to recognise that there was more to Nicky and her ‘holiday’ than met the eye. In fact, he’d repeatedly gone over the way she’d deflated right there in front of him and got the feeling that she was in some kind of trouble. And if that was the case, then despite the fact he had no interest in—and even less intention of finding out—what kind of trouble she might be in, he’d never forgive himself if he sent her on her way and something subsequently happened to her.
So she was going to have to stay.
Which was absolutely fine, he assured himself, hearing a strange rumbling making its way across the floor above and abandoning the coffee to go and investigate. He had plenty of things to be getting on with, and staying out of Nicky’s way while she got on with whatever she was planning to do would be simple enough.
And if he did still feel a lingering attraction towards her, well, he’d easily be able to handle that too. After what he’d had to contend with lately, suppressing tiny pangs of inconvenient desire would be a walk in the park. Especially now that he was well rested, firing on all cylinders, and most importantly, firmly back in control.
*
Leaving might be the right thing to do, thought Nicky as she trudged along the corridor hauling her suitcase behind her, but it didn’t make it any easier, because what was she going to do when she got back to Paris?
Moping around her flat didn’t particularly appeal. Neither did booking another holiday and having to go through the whole packing/airport/people thing again. And she supposed she could track down her parents and see if they needed any help, but right now their relentless cheerfulness might be more than she could stand.
Oh, if only Rafael hadn’t chosen this of all weekends to visit… If only Gaby had managed to get in touch with him… If only she hadn’t bashed him over the head…
If only…
Her spirits sank even further. There’d been so many ‘if only’s in her life lately. She’d never used to believe in regrets, and she’d never used to wish for the impossible. However since her meltdown it seemed she’d done nothing but, and she was becoming thoroughly sick of it.
Nicky gritted her teeth and yanked her suitcase over the edge of the rug that the wheels were rucking up. She had to stop all this before she lost what was left of her sanity. She really did. Regrets and impossible wishes and ‘if only’s were pointless, especially now, because there was nothing to be gained from wishing she could stay, and even less from dwelling on what might have been. However hard she might find it, she had to drag herself out of the past and start thinking about the future.
‘Good morning.’
At the sound of the deep voice rumbling through her gloomy ruminations, Nicky came to an abrupt halt and stared down. Rafael was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, barefoot and rumple-haired, wearing khaki shorts, a black polo shirt and the kind of lethal smile that had undoubtedly brought about many a swoon but left her depressingly unmoved.
‘Good morning,’ she replied, despite thinking there wasn’t much that was good about this one.
‘Did you sleep well?’
Not particularly, but at least she hadn’t had that hideous recurring nightmare. ‘Like a log,’ she said, mustering up what she hoped might pass for a smile and feeling faintly glad there were no small children around to scare. ‘You?’
‘Beautifully.’
‘How’s the head?’
‘Much better.’
That was one less thing on her conscience at least. ‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘It had more to do with paracetamol than goodness, but it’s fine.’ His gaze shifted to her suitcase and he arched an eyebrow. ‘Going somewhere?’
Nicky bit back a sarcastic comment about his spectacular powers of observation because her frame of mind this morning was hardly his fault, and settled for the more boring but less offensive truth. ‘The airport.’
‘Oh?’ he said mildly. ‘Why?’
For a moment she just stared at him. Why? Why? Had a good night’s sleep somehow wiped the previous evening’s events from his memory? ‘Because I don’t fancy the long drive home,’ she said, this time unable to hold back the sarcasm.
Rafael merely shrugged and grinned. ‘Then stay.’
Nicky went still and blinked down at him, confusion stabbing at her brain. Maybe she’d misheard him or something. Or maybe she was hallucinating, conjuring up the words simply because she wanted to hear them. Whether she’d misheard or was imagining things, she definitely had the sensation that she’d woken up in some kind of parallel universe, because the Rafael who was leaning nonchalantly against the door frame, folding his arms over his chest and smiling up at her, bore little resemblance to the extremely grouchy man she’d met yesterday. That one had looked as if he just wanted her gone, so who was this one who was now suggesting she stay?
‘What?’ she said weakly, as a tiny ray of hope that she might not have to leave after all flickered through her bewilderment.
‘Stay.’
‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘Really.’
The hope surged for a second and then stopped, hovered, and, because such good fortune didn’t happen to her these days, the cynicism that was never far away swooped down and crushed it.
Nicky frowned and narrowed her eyes. Such a volte-face? Just like that? She didn’t think so. ‘Why?’
Rafael lifted his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean why?’
‘Last night I rather got the impression I wasn’t very welcome.’
‘No, but then you’d just hit me over the head. I wasn’t in a very hospitable mood.’
She tilted her head and shot him a sceptical look. ‘But this morning you are?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘Have you spoken to Gaby?’ If Gaby had told him why she was here, then maybe he’d changed his mind out of pity.
‘No. I tried, but her phone was off.’
‘I didn’t have any luck either,’ she said, mightily relieved that Rafael didn’t know the truth because the last thing she wanted was pity. ‘She seems to have gone AWOL.’
‘Probably sensible given the conversations I imagine she can expect.’
‘Probably.’
There was a pause, then he said, ‘So would you
like to stay or not?’
Nicky bit her lip and scoured his face, but found nothing there to suggest he was anything other than one hundred per cent serious. She saw nothing but warmth in the depths of his eyes and in his smile, and felt a reciprocal stab of warmth in the pit of her stomach. Totally unexpected and alien, but so welcome it gave her the strength to push the cynicism aside for once.
Oh, what was the point of dithering any longer? Of course she was going to stay. There was trying to do the right thing and then there was being a stubborn idiot. Besides, she could stand there and try and figure out Rafael’s motivations for hours, but she doubted she’d ever succeed and frankly she didn’t have the energy for it.
And anyway, did it really matter why he’d changed his mind? No. All that mattered was that he was offering her the lifeline she hadn’t realised she so badly needed until it looked as if it had gone, and she’d be a fool not to grab it with both hands.
‘Are you sure I won’t be a bother?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘In that case,’ she said, feeling the beginnings of what she thought might be the first genuine smile to curve her mouth in months, ‘I’d be delighted.’
FOUR
In his conviction that sharing his house with Nicky would present no problem he’d been one hundred per cent right, thought Rafael as he lit the barbecue later that evening. Handling his house guest and, more importantly, his response to her, was simply a question of remaining in control, and so far he’d been doing splendidly.
He could easily have let himself be swayed by the glorious sight of her on the landing this morning, but had he? No, he had not. He’d been ice cool. Unflappable. And as strong and steady as the Rock of Gibraltar that reared out of the sea a hundred kilometres to the south.
The flash of heat that had shot through him when he’d clapped eyes on her striding along and dragging her suitcase behind her, looking strangely and grimly determined, was merely down to the sky-high temperatures of Andalucia in August. Never mind that the sun had only been up for half an hour; the heat started early down here.
