‘Why don’t you leave Matey here?’ Rachael asked hopefully. She could so do with the comfort. ‘It would be good to spend some time with him. He’s forever at your heels. I don’t mind looking after him for a bit and—’
‘Can’t. Sorry. Vets.’
Rachael’s stomach nose-dived. ‘Is something wrong with him?’ she cried, leaping up from the sofa.
‘Not yet.’
‘Not …?’
There was a pause. ‘Not yet as in vaccinations, that kind of stuff.’ He reached the door, Matey still at his heels, his back still to her. He raised a hand to clasp the wooden door frame. ‘Rach … I couldn’t believe in Soul Mates, with or without Matey in play so don’t take it personally. All that love conquering all crap, even death? I’m not a roses round the door kind of bloke. I’ve never been able to believe in happy endings. Don’t ask me why, I’ve just never been able to. I’ve always felt circumstances can intervene. Anyway, we’re off to the vets so will you please stay out of trouble? And promise not to open the door to George Silbury if he returns?’
‘Why?’
‘It might not be safe and—’ He cut off his words before continuing, ‘Just wait until I’m around.’
With that he and Matey left the room. Rachael swallowed hard. She already missed Matey.
Chapter Eight
George continued to watch the woman sitting in the corner of The Old Church restaurant. A shaft of sunlight was shining through one of the large stained-glass windows and the red-hued beam was making her hair, which he’d already labelled gorgeous: glorious. He wasn’t sure how many prompts he’d been given before finally hearing Michael.
‘What is it with you recently? Ever since you disappeared off with your sister … What was it by the way, the family emergency?’
Dragging his eyes away, George turned his focus to the much less appealing image of his manager: fifty-two years old, balding, but with a major comb-over issue. And he didn’t like the way he’d just said ‘family emergency’.
‘You can’t afford to be distracted, George. You have responsibilities and it’s not as if Cassie isn’t more than old enough to look after herself. That’s one of the reasons I wanted this lunch. That and, of course, spending time with the divine Porsche. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you two would make an incredible couple.’
George picked up a piece of cutlery to twiddle between his fingers and focus intently upon. It was more preferable, and at this point more appropriate, than looking at Porsche, who was sat to his left on the pew. Why did Michael have to continually harp on about this? He knew how George felt about Porsche. It wasn’t just a lack of interest; it was active disinterest. He’d left Michael in no doubts about that, yet he still went on about the two of them. And despite the reports in the press, he and Porsche had never had a thing going. They never would. Not that Porsche necessarily grasped that point.
As Porsche’s virtually bare thigh pressed against George’s leg, he shifted away from her. She was dressed in a ridiculous creation, not at all appropriate for an informal Saturday lunch in a restaurant a few roads across from the set. With it being a converted church with stone walls and high ceilings, she must be freezing. No doubt he could act as a hot water bottle, but being chivalrous with Porsche was no longer an option. He’d been that once before, and that had marked the start of the problem.
‘George,’ she said in her Californian drawl, leisurely running her fingers up and down his arm. ‘We’re all worried about you.’
So sincere. George wondered for the umpteenth time why he’d agreed to do this film with Porsche in the equation. Come to think of it, that lake scene alone should have been enough for him to say no.
Michael, George remembered, clenching his jaw. ‘She’s moved on,’ Michael had assured him. ‘She won’t be up to her tricks again. And the lake? Forget your fear of water. There will be body doubles and you’ll be no more than knee deep.’
George shifted his leg yet again and pointedly removed his arm from Porsche’s reach.
He wasn’t presently in the right mood for either of his lunch companions. And Porsche was going to be a problem; he could feel it in his bones. As for Michael … He knew why his sister didn’t like him. He wasn’t someone you easily warmed to. Even George hadn’t taken to him at the start, but Michael had stuck by him throughout his early struggling actor days when no one else would and George owed him for that.
George returned his eyes to the woman across the room. He was grateful that he could observe her at his leisure without alerting her to the fact. She was in a corner, near the old wooden doors at the front of the restaurant, while his party was at a table hidden away in an alcove off to one side. It allowed some privacy and would hopefully prevent the media turning up.
He was … drawn to her. No doubt about that. It didn’t surprise him with the way she looked. Not at all the sort of girl he found himself in regular contact with, but there was something about her natural beauty that more than appealed. It was impossible to describe the effect she was having on him though. Physically, his heart was thudding and his body … tingling. All right it was more than tingling, an unfortunate fact bearing in mind Porsche’s sidling up. The last thing he needed was her assuming his physical condition was down to her. But there was something else that was exciting him, and not just at a physical level. It was both disconcerting and compelling.
His extreme reaction to this woman was making him wonder … He couldn’t help but think of Wednesday. His body hadn’t behaved itself then either. Or on numerous occasions since as his thoughts returned to that day. Whereas his brain might not be able to remember what had happened in that consulting room, his body wasn’t suffering with the same issue. And considering the circumstances, its response was mortifying.
He had not got much out of Cassie when she’d finally opened the door to him on Thursday night. Although she asserted it was less of an assault and more of a mutual attraction thing. But he’d been so far from a gentleman.
It had been more than physical then, too. He was sure of it. He realised he was making no sense here; he couldn’t even remember what had happened. Yet he knew it. Somehow he knew that encounter had been … significant. No sense whatsoever.
He’d left countless telephone messages for the mysterious Susie. He’d sent flowers offering his humblest apologies, but she hadn’t returned his calls. He couldn’t blame her. Not with the way he’d behaved.
He didn’t even know what she looked like. And Cassie hadn’t been able to help there. ‘You ask too much,’ she declared. ‘She looked like a swampland creature. I suppose she had longish hair, it looked lightish, but it was impossible to tell with the state she was in. Average height. Average build.’
‘Eyes?’ he’d prompted.
‘Grey,’ she replied, evidently surprised at herself for noticing. ‘A striking grey.’ She looked at George and frowned. ‘Are you telling me, she’s sparked your interest?’
He wasn’t quite sure what to say. Had she? He had nonchalantly shrugged and hedged. ‘Is it wrong to try and find out about the woman I’m supposed to have attempted to have my “wicked way” with?’
For some reason she’d looked stunned by his answer. He had to admit it hadn’t come out as casually as he’d been aiming for, no matter how much he’d tapped into his acting abilities. Cassie had subsequently fixed him with one of her looks that he knew from experience saw too much.
‘I don’t believe this,’ she finally murmured, shaking her head. ‘She cannot be right about this. Yet …’ She had stared at him again and disconcertingly appeared to find what she was looking for. With a shrug and a grin, she had then said, ‘I take it she hasn’t returned any of your calls?’
‘No,’ he had confessed, mumbling something about sending six bouquets of flowers. ‘What’s put that smile on your face?’
She had just shaken her head at him and her grin broadened.
He got nothing else out of her on that subject for the rest of the night. But when she volunteered her journalistic skills to find out more about Susie, he’d not said no.
George sat up straight in his seat as a man approached the woman at the table. He gave her a quick peck on the lips and sat down in the seat opposite. Siblings? Or something more?
‘George! Snap out of it!’ Michael demanded. ‘No wonder I’ve had Francis on the phone about you. It comes to something when the director calls me. What has got into you? What are you looking at?’
George quickly looked away. Who was kissing her?
‘And Porsche here tells me you’ve so far failed to get together to practise your one-on-one scenes. Men would kill to be in your shoes, yet you—’
The food fortunately arrived at that point and after the serving staff had departed, George focused on his plate with absolutely no intention of continuing that topic of conversation. George was having to psych himself up for any one-on-one time with Porsche. Moving his leg again, he realised it would have been too much to have hoped that Porsche could be similarly focused on her food. She wasn’t touching her salad. It came with dressing, rather than without, she complained. Despite Michael’s gallant attempts, she refused to ask for a replacement. Come to think of it, George had never seen her eat.
He spared a glance to the corner by the door. Who was kissing her? He could make out newly bare skin in the V at her throat. She’d shed her jumper. A deep V. George promptly choked on his mouthful of chicken. Shrugging off Porsche’s hands from his back, he took several gulps of water, assuring everyone he was fine.
Giving up on his food and with glass of water in hand, he looked again. They were both eating. She appeared to be eating a salad of some kind and they were sharing a side order of chips. He still couldn’t work out their relationship.
The more he reflected, the more he needed to see the colour of her eyes. It was mad, but he needed to see them. He glanced away quickly as he found his own eyes being redrawn to that incredible V. His anatomy didn’t need that right now.
Susie was experiencing the strangest sensation; tingling all over. And Peter had finally arrived. Late. And despite their plans to see a film, he had announced that he needed to return to his mother’s straight after lunch.
It was unfortunate he still lived with his mum at thirty-nine, but Susie understood his sense of responsibility. His mum was on her own, he the only child, and if he needed to take her to the hairdressers, rather than letting her catch the bus which stopped right outside both doors, he was obviously very … caring.
The tingling sensation wasn’t caused by him, Susie knew that much. And it was beyond disconcerting. She was actually getting hot and flustered. She felt like she was being watched too; intently watched. But her few quick glances around the restaurant revealed everyone getting on with their own meals and paying her no attention whatsoever.
‘Good week at work?’ Peter asked.
‘Yes thanks.’ That wasn’t strictly true. Wednesday had been particularly hellish. And she was talking about her working day here, not her personal life. But she’d tried sharing details of what she’d been doing with her class with Peter before: the bureaucracy, the parents, the idiosyncrasies of her kids, their funny moments, their misdemeanours – of which there had been plenty on Wednesday. But his lack of interest ensured it wasn’t worth the effort of telling the tale. As for the rest of Wednesday? He’d asked about work. ‘You?’ she asked, with a catch in her voice.
As he spoke, Susie realised it was too much. Not what he was droning on about, although he was droning. But that sensation! She felt like she was boiling up. She had to shed her jumper. Once that was done, she continued to half listen to Peter while she returned to her food. Not that she tasted a single mouthful. She was too preoccupied with how her body was feeling. She looked up and gave Peter a polite smile. But while his mouth continued to release its monotone words, he was actually looking at her boobs. She wished she could ignore that, but it made her wince. She glanced down at her chest. She hadn’t been expecting to remove her jumper, and her top, although normally respectable, was a little too low bearing in mind the uplift bra she’d thrown on that morning. She gave her top a tug up, before continuing to eat.
She concentrated on her plate. Peter was still going on about work. Accountancy she couldn’t understand; particularly when Peter was talking about it. He loved using long words that she supposed were meant to impress her. All it did was confuse and make her feel inferior. She’d never managed to get a handle on numbers; other than what she taught her eight-year-olds. She’d tried to explain that to him, but it had made no difference to the nature and tone of his explanations, meaning she’d no hope of contributing to such ‘conversations’.
Taking a deep breath, Susie attempted to reorder her thoughts. She couldn’t understand what the matter with her was. Her adverse reaction to Peter wasn’t normally so extreme.
She sighed with relief as he ate his last pea and placed his knife and fork precisely together on his plate. She looked up at him to say farewell and yanked her top up again as it became evident he was saying goodbye to the boobs. She couldn’t have him getting any ideas. He didn’t believe in sex before marriage. She was counting on that.
As he departed, she called for the bill. He’d managed to avoid paying his share again. So canny with numbers, but on this occasion it was a price worth paying to see him disappear more quickly. She wasn’t feeling herself.
Shrugging her coat on, Susie started to button it up while furtively scanning the restaurant. She was so sure she was being watched, but there was no one. Popping her pin number into the portable card-payment machine, she smiled and thanked the waiter. Retrieving woollen accessories from her bag, she pulled on her gloves, wrapped the scarf around her neck and popped the matching grey bobble hat on her head. It was freezing out there. It had sleeted the night before and there was sludge everywhere.
She left the restaurant without turning around.
George watched her dress. It was strangely sensual. She looked adorable wrapped up like that. A far cry from the scantily clad Porsche at his side. He saw her smile at the waiter. He gulped. It did things to his insides that a smile shouldn’t be able to do. He ground his teeth as the waiter smiled back.
He was not going to miss his chance. He would catch up with her outside. He had to see her eyes. He watched her leave her chair. And there was the perfect excuse: she’d left her jumper behind.
George leapt up from his seat and quickly cut a dash through the restaurant. He’d already planned his route and only encountered one unforeseen obstacle – that damned waiter, who very quickly got out of his way. Snatching up her jumper, still warm, and which he couldn’t resist holding to his nose, he was out of the door before it fully closed behind her.
And there she was. Standing with her back to him, repositioning her scarf against the elements and pulling her hat down further. George didn’t feel the cold in this moment, despite being in shirtsleeves.
‘I believe you left this behind.’ He held her intoxicatingly scented jumper in his outstretched left hand. She slowly turned.
It seemed like time stood still while he waited for her to raise her eyes to him. And then he knew. It was her.
‘Susie,’ he whispered reverently, as he took in the most stunning eyes he’d ever seen. Deep, intense … warm grey. So warm. Dawn, he thought. A northern ocean at dawn. But that didn’t begin to do them justice. He’d never seen a more heart-stoppingly beautiful sight … or had he? There was something disconcertingly familiar about this moment. He realised her eyes were growing larger as he held their gaze. Impossibly large. He reached out and instinctively grabbed her elbow as she stumbled.
Something precious … His heart jolted.
‘Are you okay?
’ The colour had leached from her face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not here to assault you again. I didn’t even know it was you … yet, somehow, I knew. I’m sorry. I’m babbling. And you don’t look well. I’m so sorry. Come back inside and take a seat. I didn’t mean to scare you.’
Susie couldn’t remove her eyes from his. In the flesh they were … They weren’t just brown. There was amber, and ochre and even tiny freckles of chestnut and mahogany. They were warm and alive and intently focused on her. They reached deep, deep within, wrapping themselves around her in a … familiar embrace?
And his voice … Her whole body, inside and out, was responding to its resonance. Thrumming. His hand on her elbow; it somehow seared through her thick winter coat to brand her flesh.
But finally she heard her head. She was face-to-face … with George Silbury!
George had extended his arm around her waist to provide further support. He was seriously concerned she would pass out. He shouldn’t have shocked her like he had. He was an idiot. He hadn’t thought. He’d been on a mission.
So pale, he thought worriedly as he looked down at her. But beautiful. Red-blonde hair. Those eyes. Dimples – although he’d only caught sight of them when she smiled at that damned waiter – a gorgeous curvy figure. He’d yet to hear her voice.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been meaning to thank you for the flowers.’ Shaky, but husky. Sensual. Come to bed … He closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed painfully.
‘Please come inside,’ he somehow managed.
‘No!’ she cried, shaking her head hard. ‘I need to go. Thank you again. Your messages … There is nothing to forgive. It was me. All me. You had nothing to feel guilty for. It’s me that should have been asking for forgiveness. I’m so sorry. I’m grateful you’re not pressing charges. I didn’t deserve the flowers. I wanted to say thank you, but didn’t … but couldn’t … but … thank you.’
She was pulling away from him. He knew he had to let his arms drop from their hold, but his whole being cried out at the thought. ‘Let me take you home,’ he urged, desperate to continue their encounter.
Romancing the Soul Page 7
