by Lucy King
But that was fine. She’d survive whatever taunts he threw her way. She always did. And this time she didn’t really have any choice, as she’d known the minute she’d elected to go with him instead of staying with her father. She’d made the split-second decision on the basis that by actually living in the twenty-first century Marcus was the marginally more acceptable of the two, but with hindsight maybe she should have just fled to the bathroom instead and to hell with the weakness that that would have displayed.
As they reached the bar Celia pulled herself together because she had the feeling that she’d need every drop of self-possession that she had for the impending fallout of what had just happened.
‘What would you like?’ he asked.
‘Something strong,’ she said, not caring one little bit that it was only five in the afternoon. She needed the fortification. ‘Brandy, please.’
‘Ice?’
Diluted? Hah. ‘No, thanks.’
Marcus gave the order to the barman and the minute she had the glass in her fingers she tossed the lot of it down her throat. And winced and shook her head as the alcohol burned through her system. ‘God.’
He watched her, his eyes dark and inscrutable, and Celia set her glass on the bar and kind of wished he’d just get on with it because her stomach was churning and she was feeling a bit giddy.
Although now she thought about it his eyes lacked the glint of sardonic amusement he usually treated her to and his face was devoid of the couldn’t-care-less expression it normally wore when they met. In fact she got the odd impression that he wasn’t thinking about her father or that conversation at all, which made her think that perhaps he wasn’t planning to launch a mocking attack on the pathetic state of her love life just yet.
So what was he going to do? And more to the point, what was she going to do, because she could hardly stand here looking at him for ever, could she? Even though deep down she wouldn’t mind doing just that because he was, after all, extremely easy on the eye.
A rogue flame of heat licked through her and she wondered not for the first time what things would be like between them if the antagonism didn’t exist. Kind of secretly wished it didn’t because he was still looking at her as if trying to imprint every detail of her face onto his memory, and every cell of her body was now straining to get up close and personal to him and the effort of resisting was just about wiping out what was left of her strength.
‘Want to take a seat for a bit?’ he murmured, and she snapped out of it because, honestly, what was wrong with her today?
Deeply irritated by her inability to control either her thoughts or her body, Celia pulled herself together and focused. Yes, she’d just had a pretty uncomfortable experience, but what was she, eighty? Besides, she was on edge and restless, as if a million bees were swarming inside her, and she needed to lose the feeling. ‘I’m going to take a walk,’ she said, gripping the edge of the bar and bending down to undo her shoes.
‘I’ll join you.’
No way. ‘I’d rather be alone.’
‘I’d like to talk to you.’
She glanced up. ‘What about?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘No, I won’t.’
He tilted his head and smiled faintly. ‘Don’t you think you owe me for helping you out back there?’
Had he helped her out? She didn’t think so, although that wasn’t his fault. ‘I thought you said you didn’t want anything in return for your help.’
‘Humour me.’
Straightening and dangling her shoes from the fingers of one hand, Celia didn’t see why she should humour him in the slightest, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea because on reflection she’d made some pretty inaccurate assumptions about him today. Therefore she owed him at least one apology, and it would probably be less humiliating to do that on the move when she’d have an excuse to keep her eyes on the ground on the lookout for random tree roots waiting to trip her up.
‘OK, then,’ she said coolly. ‘Let’s walk.’
‘This way?’ he said, gesturing in the direction of the walled kitchen garden that would at least afford them privacy for the talk he wanted to have and the apology she had to give.
‘Fine.’
They set off across the lawn and as the chatter of the guests and the music faded Celia felt her coolness ebb and her awareness of him increase. He was so tall, so broad and so solid and every time his arm accidentally brushed hers it threw up a rash of goosebumps over her skin and sent shivers down her spine.
She sorely regretted taking off her shoes. They might be tricky to walk in, particularly over grass, but they’d added inches. Without them she felt strangely small despite the fact that she was well above average height, and a bit vulnerable, which, as she was the least vulnerable person she knew, was as ridiculous as it was disconcerting.
She tried to distract herself by mentally formulating an apology that would let her keep at least a smidgeon of dignity, but it was no use. She couldn’t concentrate on anything except the man walking beside her. There was something so different about him at the moment. He seemed unusually tense. Controlled. Restrained. Maybe even a bit dangerous...
Which was utterly absurd, she told herself firmly, shaking her head free of the notion. Not to mention idiotically fanciful. Marcus wasn’t dangerous. No. The only danger here was her because with every step she took away from the safety of the crowd she could feel the pressure inside her building and her self-control slipping.
‘You can relax, you know,’ he murmured, shooting her a quick smile that flipped her stomach and unsettled her even more.
Suddenly totally unable to figure out how to handle the situation, she fell back on the way she’d always dealt with him and shot him a scathing look. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You have to ask?’
‘Clearly.’
She stopped. Planted a hand on her hip and glared at him, all the tension and confusion whipping around inside her suddenly spilling over. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, just get on with it, Marcus.’
‘Get on with what?’ he asked, drawing to a halt himself, a picture of bewildered innocence.
‘The “talk” you wanted to have. Come on, you must be dying to gloat about the sorry state of my love life, not to mention all the other things my father said.’
He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked at her steadily. ‘I’m not going to do that.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right. Why change the habit of a lifetime?’
Marcus pulled his hands from his pockets and shoved them through his hair while sighing deeply. ‘Look, Celia,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest and pinning her to the spot with his dark gaze. ‘How about we try a ceasefire on the hostilities front?’
For a moment she just stared at him because where on earth had that come from? ‘A ceasefire?’ she echoed, as taken aback as if he’d grabbed her and kissed her. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m sick of it.’
She blinked, now blindsided by the weariness in his voice as well. ‘You’re sick of it?’
‘Aren’t you?’
She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn’t. But then she closed it because hadn’t she been wishing the animosity between them didn’t exist only minutes ago? ‘Maybe,’ she conceded. ‘A bit.’
‘I suggest a truce.’
‘And how long do you think that would last? Five minutes?’
‘Let’s try and give it at least ten.’
‘For the duration of the “talk”?’
‘If you like.’ He tilted his head and arched a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Think you could do that?’
Celia didn’t really know what to think. A ceasefire? A truce? Really? Was it even possible after fifteen years of animosity?
Maybe it was. If Marcus was willing. She could be civil, couldn’t she? She generally was. So with a bit of effort she could manage it now. Particularly since, despite herself, she was kind of intrigued to know what he wanted to talk to her about. And besides, she didn’t like the way he was making her sound like the unreasonable one here. She wasn’t unreasonable at all, and she’d prove it.
‘Why not?’ she said, tossing him a cool smile from over her shoulder and continuing towards the kitchen garden.
* * *
Well, that had gone a lot more easily than he’d expected, thought Marcus, going after her. He’d anticipated much more of a battle, much more withering sarcasm and scathing retort, but then perhaps that conversation with her father had knocked her confidence a bit. Not that she’d ever dream of showing it, of course.
Nevertheless a mortified, confidence-knocked Celia was novel. Intriguing. More alluring than it probably should have been. As was a chat without all the acrimony, he reminded himself swiftly, which was the main point of this little exercise.
‘So I’m imagining that wasn’t quite the way you were intending the conversation with your father to go when you asked for my help,’ he said once he’d caught up with her.
Celia snapped her gaze to his and shot him a look of absolute horror. ‘Not exactly.’
‘So much for small talk.’
She shook her head as if remembering the conversation in all its awful glory, and winced. ‘I still can’t believe he said all that stuff about, well, you know, sorting me out and things.’
‘Nor can I.’ Although, to be honest, he was now so aware of her, it was pretty much all he could think about. That and getting to the bottom of why she detested him so much.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Why? It’s not your fault.’
‘I guess not, but, still, he put you in an awkward position.’
‘I doubt mine was as awkward as yours.’
‘Probably not.’
‘Nor is it your fault your father’s stuck in the Dark Ages.’
‘No, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.’
They reached the kitchen garden and he held open the gate. Celia brushed past him, making all the nerve endings in his body fizz and his pulse race as her scent slammed into him.
‘Where does it come from?’ he asked, just about resisting the urge to take advantage of her proximity and pulling her into his arms because that was not what this was about.
‘His attitude?’
He nodded and followed her down the path that bisected the garden, watching the sway of her body that was exaggerated by the flimsy fabric of her dress and ignoring the punch of lust that hit him square in the stomach.
Celia shrugged and sighed, then bent to look at the label stuck in the earth in front of a row of something leafy and green. Her hair tumbled down in long golden waves and Marcus found himself scanning the garden for a soft piece of ground he could pull her down to.
‘Who knows?’ she said, and he dragged his attention back to what she was saying. ‘The fact that he was a doted-on only child? That he had a stereotypical fifties mother? Or was he simply born a chauvinist?’
‘Why do you put up with it?’ he said, clearing his throat and determinedly shoving aside the images of Celia writhing and panting beneath him, her dress ruched up around her hips and her body arching against him.
She straightened, swept her hair back with a twist and looked at him. ‘I don’t have any choice. He’s still my father even though I’m never going to be what he thinks I should be.’
‘Which is no bad thing,’ he said, briefly trying to imagine Celia as a housewife and failing.
‘I agree. I can’t cook. I don’t have a clue where my iron is and I haven’t used a Hoover since my last day at university.’
‘Yet you still want his approval?’
She nodded. ‘Stupidly. I always have. Although I really don’t know why I still bother. I mean, he barely knows you yet he admires you in a way he’s never admired me even though he’s known me for thirty-one years. We work in similar fields, for goodness’ sake, yet he’s never offered me help. Whatever I achieve he’ll never think it amounts to as much as marriage and a family would. Which is ironic, really, when you think about how badly he screwed his up.’
‘Is his attitude to women why your parents divorced?’
She shook her head. ‘I think that was mainly because of his many, many affairs. But the attitude couldn’t have helped.’
‘So what did you mean when you said your ambition was his fault?’
‘Exactly that. The divorce hit me hard. Despite what he’d done I adored him. When he moved out I spent quite a lot of my time at school pathetically crying in the bathrooms. As a result I was bullied.’
That odd protective streak surged up inside him again and he frowned. ‘Badly?’ he asked, pushing it back.
‘Not really. Small-scale stuff. But one day I’d had enough and decided to channel my energies into studying instead of blubbing my eyes out.’
‘Is it a coincidence you’re a lawyer?’
She arched an eyebrow and shot him a quick smile. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think Freud would have a field day.’
‘Very probably.’
‘But why corporate law? Why not divorce law?’
‘Experiencing it once—even though sort of vicariously—was quite enough,’ she said with a shudder.
Marcus watched her as she began to walk further along the path and thought that, while he did think she had a problem with her work-life balance, her drive and focus when it came to her career were admirable. She’d worked hard and deserved everything she had. ‘What you’ve achieved is impressive,’ he said, reaching her with a couple of long, quick strides. ‘Especially with so little encouragement.’
She glanced over at him, surprised. ‘Thanks.’
‘You deserve everything you have.’
‘Wow,’ she said slowly. ‘I never thought I’d hear you say that.’
‘Neither did I.’
They continued in silence for a moment. Celia brushed her hand over a planter full of lavender and a faint smile curved her lips, presumably at the scent released.
‘Anyway, you haven’t always had it easy, have you?’ she said.
‘No,’ he said, although he’d got over the death of his parents and the trouble he’d subsequently had years ago.
‘So you’ve done pretty impressively too.’
Funny how the compliment warmed him. The novelty of a sign of approval after so many years of the opposite. Or maybe it was just the sun beating down on the thick fabric of his coat. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered.
She turned to look at him and her expression was questioning. ‘Why am I telling you all this anyway?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Must be the brandy.’
‘Must be.’
‘I don’t need sorting out, you know.’
‘Of course you don’t.’
‘I don’t need rescuing.’
‘I know.’
She shot him a quick smile. ‘I definitely don’t need to see my father for at least a decade.’
‘A century, I should think.’
At the fountain that sat in the middle of the garden they turned left and carried on strolling down the path, passing raspberry nets and then runner-bean vines that wound up tall, narrow bamboo teepees before stopping at a bench that sat at the end of the path amidst the runner beans.
‘I’m sorry, Marcus,’ she said eventually.
He frowned, not needing her continued apology and not really liking it because, honestly, he preferred her fighting. ‘So you said.’
‘No, not about that,’ she said with a wave of her hand. ‘I me
an about the things I implied you were going to do with your time now you’d sold your business. It was totally childish of me to suggest that you’d be partying with floozies. Your plans sound great. Different. Interesting.’
‘I hope they will be.’
‘I was wrong about that and I was probably wrong about why you were late getting here too, wasn’t I?’
‘Yup.’
‘No trio of clingy lovers?’
‘Not even one.’
‘Shame.’
‘It was.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I was in Switzerland tying up a few last details surrounding the sale of my company but was due to fly back yesterday morning. I should have had plenty of time, but because of the ash cloud my flight was cancelled, as were hundreds of others. By the time I got round to checking, all the trains were fully booked and there wasn’t a car left to rent for all the cash in Switzerland.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Found a taxi driver who drove me to Calais. From there I got on the train to cross the Channel, rented a car in Dover and drove straight here.’
‘Oh.’ Celia frowned. ‘When did you sleep?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You must be tired.’
Oddly enough he wasn’t in the least bit tired. Right now he was about as awake and alert as he’d ever been. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve gone twenty-four hours and I doubt it’ll be the last.’
‘You’re very loyal.’
‘Dan’s my best friend. Why wouldn’t I be?’
She shrugged and carried on looking at a point in the distance so that, he assumed, she didn’t have to look at him. ‘Well, you know...’
Something that felt a bit like hurt stabbed him in the chest but he dismissed it because he didn’t do hurt. ‘Maybe I’m not everything you think I am,’ he said quietly.
She swivelled her gaze back to his and sighed. ‘Maybe you aren’t.’
‘Just what did I do, Celia?’
