Some hero.
His jaw tightened.
Maybe he wasn’t a hero to look at, but he had the medals and the scars to prove his heroism—scars that had come from bullets, not pool cues. Yet those words and the expression of disdain on Frankie Fox’s face were what had kept him from sleeping. Oh, and the faint scent of jasmine that still clung to his pillow.
Irritably, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked into the bathroom. Turning on the tap, he ducked his head under the flow of cold water.
Why was he letting some ridiculous, utterly irrelevant ‘social media influencer’ make him question himself?
Straightening up, he stared at his reflection. She hardly knew Johnny and she knew nothing about him. He gritted his teeth. But Frankie Fox had been right about one thing. His little brother idolised him.
They had always been close. It hadn’t mattered that there was an eleven-year age gap or that they were very different people. Arlo was the difficult one. The brilliant high achiever with a double first from Cambridge and a doctorate in geology and earth science. Whereas Johnny...
His throat tightened. Everyone loved Johnny. It was impossible not to. He was beautiful, sweet-tempered, generous...
Too generous, he thought, stalking back into the bedroom. Yanking back the heavy curtains, he glared down at the turbulent grey sea outside. And some people—unscrupulous, self-serving people, like Frankie Fox—took advantage of that generosity.
He swore softly. Why was he even still thinking about that woman?
But he knew why.
He flexed his fingers, remembering the moment when their hands had touched. It had been more than skin on skin. It had felt oddly intimate. As if it had been their lips touching. There had been a charge of something electric.
They had both felt it...
Felt what? An imbalance of protons and electrons?
He scowled. It had probably been that silk thing she was wearing.
Great. Now he was back to thinking about her semi-naked.
Gritting his teeth, he reached down and stroked Nero’s head, as if the action might erase the way her touch had jolted through his body.
Last night he’d been exhausted...disorientated.
Look at how it had taken tripping over her suitcase for him even to realise someone was in the house. If he’d been even halfway up to speed, he would have sensed that the moment he’d walked in the front door.
He ran a hand across his face, registering the slight resistance as his fingers grazed the scar on his cheek.
It wasn’t just tiredness playing tricks with his mind. The truth was that since his marriage had imploded, he’d spent way too long on his own—and by choice.
He should never have got involved with Harriet in the first place.
Love, relationships, women...all of them came under the heading of ‘Random, Imprecise, and Illogical’. In other words, everything he distrusted. So, aside from the occasional dalliance, he’d kept women at arm’s length since.
And then, boom, out of nowhere there was Frankie Fox. Not just in his house but in his bed.
No wonder he’d got momentarily knocked off-balance. But whatever he’d imagined had happened in those few seconds had been just that. A figment of his imagination.
His lip curled.
Frankie, though, was real, and she was here in his home. And, despite her capitulation last night, he wasn’t totally convinced that she would leave without a little persuasion.
Remembering the look she’d given him as she stalked out of the room, he felt his shoulders tighten.
Maybe if what had happened hadn’t happened, he might have let her stay. There was obviously room and it wasn’t as if he was in any danger. She might look like a living flame, but he’d put his hand in the fire once and that was enough for him to learn his lesson.
But he was here to work, and he didn’t need any distractions. He didn’t need to spend any more time with Frankie to know she would be a distraction with a capital D.
Constance could book her into a hotel for a couple of days and he’d offer to drive her to the station...
There was a low rumble of thunder and, glancing up at the darkening sky, he frowned.
He’d best get on with it.
This storm was going to be a big one.
* * *
Exactly six minutes later, he strode into the kitchen. He stared with satisfaction at the cream tiled walls and limed oak worktops.
After his father had retreated from the world much of the house had fallen into disrepair. The kitchen had been the first room he had renovated and, despite lacking the glamour and opulence of the drawing room, in many ways it was still his favourite.
‘Good morning, Constance.’ He glanced into the pan on the hotplate. ‘Porridge—good! I’m absolutely starving.’
Constance swung round, her eyes widening. ‘What are you doing here?’
Arlo felt a stab of irritation. First Frankie...now Constance. Why did everyone keep asking him that?
Turning towards the table, he frowned. ‘Eating breakfast, I hope. Is that yesterday’s paper?’
Constance ignored his question. ‘I thought you were with Frankie.’
With Frankie!
Two small words. One big implication. Bigger than was necessary or welcome, he thought, as a tantalising image of what being with Frankie might encompass popped into his head.
Keeping his tone even, he shook his head and replied. ‘I haven’t seen her.’ He glanced up at the window. ‘Storm’s picked up.’
The wind sounded like a trapped animal whining and the rain was hitting the window with great wet smacks.
‘She said you were taking her to the station...’
The cheeky little...
His jaw tightened. ‘And I will. After breakfast.’
‘But she left twenty minutes ago.’
It took two strides for him to reach the window that overlooked the causeway. The sky was the colour of a twelve-bore shotgun now, and it was raining so hard that it was impossible to see clearly. But he didn’t need to see clearly to spot the blur of red inching along the raised cobbled road.
* * *
Gritting her teeth, Frankie gripped the handle of her suitcase more tightly and gave it a small, sharp tug.
Arlo Milburn had to be the rudest, most loathsome man she’d ever had the misfortune to meet, not to mention the most hard-hearted. What kind of host turned a guest out of their bed in the middle of the night? she asked herself angrily, for what had to be the hundredth time.
And as for his accusations—
She felt her heart scrabble inside her chest as her memories coalesced. Her shocked realisation that he was Johnny’s brother... His cold-eyed disdain... That moment when the key had caught in her pocket and he’d tried to help her...
She replayed it silently inside her head, her fingers flexing involuntarily. His hand had been warm—warmer than she’d expected—the skin rough like sandpaper, and there had been a tiny but definite jolt of electricity.
Her mouth twisted. Arlo had been so tense with fury he could probably have single-handedly powered the entire coastline from here to John O’Groats.
She had no idea how he could be related to Johnny. But, then again, look at her and her super-high-achieving siblings. The twins had both been super-academic, sporty, and had won every prize going. Harry had been head-boy at school, and Amelie was practically a saint. With her blonde hair and sweet smile, she’d looked like an angel. Everyone had always been so surprised to find out Frankie was a Fox...
And now she was the only one left.
But this was not the time to go there. Right now, all that mattered was getting back to the mainland.
Screwing up her eyes against the rain, she stared down the causeway, trying not to give in to the panic ri
sing in her chest. The wind was blowing so hard she could hardly keep hold of her suitcase and the rain felt more like hailstones. Worse, the waves were starting to slop over the cobblestones.
Was that supposed to happen?
Her lower lip trembled. This whole trip had been a disaster. Basically, she’d spent five hours on a train to get shouted at and soaked to the bone. Twice. And to top it all, she’d overslept.
This was all Arlo’s fault.
If he hadn’t got her so wound up last night she wouldn’t have slept through her alarm, and then she wouldn’t have bumped into Constance, and Constance wouldn’t have insisted that Arlo take her to the station...
Obviously she hadn’t been about to hang around to be insulted again, so she’d pretended Arlo was waiting and sneaked out through the front door.
And it had seemed fine at first...
Her case slipped sideways again and, scowling, she gave the handle a savage jerk.
No, no, no, no... This could not be happening.
One of the wheels had popped out of its socket and was spinning away from her across the cobbles. She watched in dismay as it was swallowed up in a rush of water. Now she’d have to carry her case.
But as she turned to pick it up she felt something change amid the chaos.
Darkness.
As if the sky had turned black...
Looking up, she felt her heart slam into her ribcage, panic strangle her breath.
A huge, curling grey wave was rising out of the sea, towering over her.
For a moment, the air around her seemed to thicken and slow. And then the wave was falling, and the earth shifted on its axis, and then she was falling too, her feet slipping beneath her, her scream drowned out by an infinity of water...
From an immense, unfathomable distance, as though it had reached through the storm clouds, a hand grabbed her shoulder. Suddenly she was on her feet again.
Spluttering, gasping like a landed fish, she squinted up at her rescuer.
Arlo.
Water was sloshing around his feet, swirling and foaming across the cobbles. She caught a glimpse of dark, narrowed eyes, and then he scooped her into his arms as if she was made of feathers.
‘Don’t let go,’ he shouted into her ear.
He turned back into the storm and the scream of the wind felt as if it was vibrating inside her bones like a shrieking banshee. Ahead, she could see nothing. The rain was like a curtain of water.
Her fingers tightened around Arlo’s neck and she felt his shoulders brace. Then he bent his body into the gale, pushing forward, the only solid object in a swaying world. Dragging in a shallow breath, she turned her face into his chest, felt the heavy curve of his arm muffling the noise and the pounding rain.
Salt was stinging her eyes, and it hurt just to breathe, but she was not alone. Arlo was here. And she knew that, whatever happened, he would keep on going until he reached where he wanted to be.
A dark shape loomed out of the rain. It was a car, and as her chest hollowed out with relief, Arlo yanked open the passenger door, tossing her and her case inside.
He wrestled with the door and for a moment the roar of the storm filled the car. Then the door closed, and he was clambering into the driver’s seat, and turning the key in the ignition.
‘Hold tight,’ he muttered. ‘This could be tricky.’
They inched forward, the furiously swinging windscreen wipers having no impact on the rain thundering against the windscreen.
She clenched her hand around the armrest as a gust of wind sent the car staggering sideways, and then the car stopped and Arlo jumped out. Seconds later her door opened.
‘Take my hand,’ he yelled over the howl of the wind, and then he was pulling her forward.
They stumbled into the house. The huge front door crashed shut behind them and the high-pitched shriek of the storm faded like a whistling kettle taken off the heat.
Constance was standing in the hallway, her face pale with shock. Arlo’s dark dog was beside her.
‘Oh, my dear... Thank goodness you’re all right. Come with me. There’s a fire in the drawing room.’
Arlo glanced away, over his shoulder, his profile cutting a broken line against the cream panelling. ‘I’ll get some towels.’
Frankie let the housekeeper lead her through the house. She was shivering so hard her chattering teeth sounded like an old-fashioned typewriter.
‘Here, sit down. I’m going to make you some tea,’ Constance said firmly.
Frankie sat down obediently on a large, faded velvet sofa and as the dog jumped up beside her lightly, she pressed her hand against his back. He felt warm and solid and, blinking back tears, she breathed out unsteadily.
Outside, in the screaming power of the storm, she had been robbed of the power of thought. It had been all she could do to cling to Arlo. Now, with the flames warming her body, her brain was coming back online.
Her fingers curled into the dog’s fur as she pictured the scene on the causeway, her guilt blotting out any relief she might have felt at having been rescued. How could she have been so stupid? After everything that had happened. After all the promises she’d made to herself. To her family.
‘You need to get changed.’
Her head jolted up at the sound of a deep, male voice. Arlo had walked back into the room, holding a pile of towels. Folded on top were a green-and-blue-striped rugby shirt and some sweatpants.
‘Here.’ He held out the pile. ‘These are some of Johnny’s clothes. Your suitcase got drenched,’ he said, by way of explanation.
He was staring down at her intently, and the flickering flames highlighted the hard angles of his face. He was soaked right though to his skin too, she thought guiltily. His shirt was sticking to his arms and body, and water was pooling in little puddles at his feet.
Picturing how he’d swept her into his arms like a knight without armour, she felt her heart beating too hard for her body. He’d saved her life. But, more importantly, he had risked his own.
She was about to apologise, to thank him for what he’d done, but before she could open her mouth, he said abruptly, ‘They might be a little big, but they’re clean and dry. I’ll leave you to get out of those wet things.’
Glancing down at the dog, he frowned, moved as if to say something else, and then seemed to change his mind.
She watched him walk back out of the room, and then she stood up shakily. Her fingers were clumsy with cold, and it seemed to take for ever to peel off her jeans and sweatshirt, but finally she managed to get undressed and into Johnny’s clothes. As she was rubbing her hair with a towel there was a knock at the door and Constance popped her head round.
‘Oh, good, you’ve changed.’ She was carrying a tray. ‘I’ve brought you some tea and biscuits.’ Leaning down, she picked up the pile of wet clothes. ‘I’ll just take these and run them through the washing machine.’
Frankie shook her head. ‘Oh, no, please...that’s really not necessary—’
‘It is.’
Arlo was back. He had changed into faded chinos and a dark jumper that moulded around the contoured power of his arms and chest, and she had a sudden sharp memory of how it had felt to be pressed against his body.
‘The salt will rot them if you don’t wash it out.’ He turned towards the housekeeper. ‘Constance, could you give us a few moments? I need to have a couple of words with Ms Fox.’
As the door clicked shut, Frankie said quickly, ‘Actually, I wanted to—’
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
Her chin jerked up as Arlo spun round, his eyes blazing. She stared at him, dry-mouthed, her heart pounding fiercely. Last night she’d thought he was angry, but now she saw that had been a warm-up to the main act.
‘I’m not playing at anything—’
But he wasn’
t listening. ‘So what was that little stunt of yours about?’ He shook his head derisively. ‘Let me ask you something. Do you know what that is out there?’ He gestured to where the rain was slicing horizontally across the window. ‘It’s a storm with a name. Not all storms have names, but if they do that means there are winds of over fifty miles an hour.’ His lip curled. ‘There’s also this thing called a tide. And twice a day there’s a high tide. That means the sea is at its highest—’
‘I know what a high tide is,’ she snapped, her shock switching to anger at the condescension in his voice. ‘I’m not a child.’
‘Then why were you out there skipping down the causeway like a pre-schooler?’ His cold gaze was fixed on her face, the pale line of his scar stark against the dark stubble. ‘Did you think you could influence the weather? Make the sun shine? Stop the wind blowing?’
Stomach twisting, she struggled against a surge of humiliation and fury. ‘I was doing what you told me to do. I was leaving.’
‘What I told you to do—?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I might have known this would be my fault.’
‘I didn’t say that’
‘But you thought it.’ His eyebrows collided in the middle of his forehead. ‘Of course you did—because nothing is ever your fault, is it, sweetheart?’
Her ribs tightened sharply at the memory of a different room on another rainy day. Not her fault officially, no. But the coroner’s verdict hadn’t changed the facts. She knew it had been her fault. All of it. That if she hadn’t been so selfish, so insistent about getting her own way, then her family would still be alive...
Tears stung her eyes and the effort of not crying made her throat burn. Only she was not going to cry—not in front of him.
‘Actually, Mr Milburn—’
The calm, bland expression on his face made her pulse shiver. ‘Why so formal? I think we went past the “Mr Milburn” stage when you decided to get all warm and cosy in my bed.’
Her jaw dropped. She felt heat in her face, in her throat. Oh, but he was a horrible, horrible man.
Folding her arms, she took a deep breath. ‘It’s not my fault, Mr Milburn, that you’re some boorish oaf who throws his guests out into the rain.’
Beauty in the Billionaire's Bed Page 3
