Getting Even

by Avril Tremayne

Another stroke of her hair. “I’d go back with you...except that I love you more today than I did then.”

  “If you love me after everything I’ve done, you need psychological help.”

  “Ah, but I love you because of everything you’ve done. We weren’t meant to be back then, querida. But I think, now, we are.”

  “Can it really be that simple?”

  “We can make it so.”

  She turned then, stepped into his arms, under the spray. “I wish I’d read the letter, Rafael,” she whispered.

  “I’ll write you another,” he whispered back.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  SATURDAY.

  Second-last day.

  A few seconds to soak in the quiet, followed by a check of the clock on the nightstand.

  Nine o’clock.

  And she was alone.

  She swung her legs out of bed then stopped as she saw a note on the bedside table.

  She picked it up with trembling hands.

  Below is a list of computer passwords and file names. You’re going to want to kill me after you read Stomp, so please use those pins freely on Little Rafa while I’m gone to work out some aggression so when I get back from Harrogate you’ll at least kiss me before you stick the knife in my chest. Lots to discuss about the new book...

  It took nineteen reads of the note for Veronica to determine she didn’t need the aggravation that was Stomp and was therefore not going to read the damn thing.

  She pulled on one of Rafael’s gray T-shirts and went downstairs for coffee, managing to valiantly resist the lure of the second bedroom for two whole hours.

  At which point she threw her fourth cup of coffee against the kitchen wall. The kitchen walls were going to have to be repainted at the rate she and Rafael were throwing things.

  Okay, so it seemed she was going to read the damn book.

  But first she had to...prepare.

  She took her time over the preparations—showering, washing and blow-drying her hair, rubbing vanilla oil over every inch of her skin, dressing in an almost-new Prada suit she would have worn to the office in London, and applying her makeup with extra care. Ridiculous, given all she’d be doing was sitting in the cottage on her own, reading, but she felt in need of armor.

  And then she took a few deep breaths and made her way to the second bedroom.

  It took her only a few minutes to find the manuscript, and she figured she’d know within three chapters if she had anything to worry about. If all was well, she’d close the computer and pretend she hadn’t given in to temptation.

  At seven o’clock that night, she hit Page 422 and stared at THE END for a disbelieving three minutes.

  What the fuck had she just read?

  Wuthering Heights fan fiction at its absolute worst. Brooding hero, erratic heroine, doomed love.

  Sex scenes so execrable she would have let him bend twenty other women over a piece of furniture just to save his readers’ eyeballs from exploding!

  And the characters! Had he seriously thought getting Hope to give up her entire fucking fortune for Alejandro was a good idea? It was positively archaic! And then to kill Hope off, in that disgustingly soap-opera-ish, my-heart-is-broken way halfway through the book? Fuck that. And fuck the way Alejandro spent the second half of the book wallowing in misery over it, too.

  And while she was having a rant, where was the all-important epilogue he’d been slaving over for almost two weeks?

  She rested her fingertips over her tired eyes and ran that note Rafael had left her through her aching head. She was going to hate it—yep, spot-on there. But it was the last line that was troubling. Lots to discuss about the new book...

  Like...what new book?

  Hadn’t he tortured her enough in the three books he’d already written? Because there was absolutely no doubt in her mind that she was Hope! What new ground could there possibly be to cover? He’d done their own relationship in Catch, Tag, Release as well as her first marriage, her second marriage in Liar, Liar, and now the final vengeance story in Stomp. What more was there to do? Only these past two weeks and what was there to say about—

  Oh!

  Oh! That bastard. Was that what these two weeks were about? Getting more raw material? And to think she’d said last night that what she was doing to him would make an extra-special scene in his next damn book! Was he taking notes in his head all through it?

  Oh God, she couldn’t breathe. She was back in that metaphorical coffin, desperate to get out, to be free.

  She ran downstairs, out into the garden, looked wildly around.

  Pretty. Colorful. A place to reflect.

  But she didn’t want to reflect. She wanted to rage and scream and tear things apart.

  She looked around, seeking an escape, and saw the stone fence that separated the estate from the moors.

  Next minute she was running.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  RAFAEL WAS BUZZING by the time he returned to the cottage and pulled his car in next to Veronica’s—a hot-looking Jaguar sports car, because of course it was.

  When he got out of the car, he took a moment to look at the cottage despite the fact that it was raining. Funny that he’d come to think of this modest cottage as theirs over the past two weeks. As home. Or maybe not funny. Maybe perfect. Because Veronica was here.

  He hoped Veronica had read Stomp I because it would make it easier for him to explain Stomp II. So many things to discuss, ideas for the story, ideas for other stories, ideas for their life.

  But when he opened the door to the cottage, shaking the raindrops from his hair, he knew she wasn’t in—he could feel the emptiness.

  He turned on the main light and searched the lower floor anyway, cast a look into the garden as a just-in-case, even though he couldn’t believe she’d be out there in this weather, called out a general “Veronica?”

  No answer.

  He headed up the stairs, stopped on the landing. “Veronica?”

  No answer.

  Into their bedroom, relaxing as he saw her suitcases, as a quick examination of the bathroom showed her toiletries in their place.

  He pulled out his cell phone, dialed her number and heard the muffled sound of her phone ringing—which might have been comforting if it hadn’t been coming from under her pillow.

  Okay, no need to panic. The fact she hadn’t taken her phone with her meant only that she wasn’t far away. But where? He had no idea. She’d have needed her car to get to the village. And the rain was sheeting down—this wasn’t weather for a stroll around the estate.

  He came out of the bedroom, headed for the stairs, stopped.

  Second bedroom? She was such a sound sleeper it was conceivable she’d fallen asleep in there and hadn’t heard him hollering her name. Not that he could figure out why she’d be in bed before him or why she’d sleep in there, but at this point...

  He didn’t bother finishing that thought; he simply headed into the room.

  No sign of her, except the scent of vanilla, and his open computer.

  He took the jeweler’s box out of his jacket pocket, checked the gift he’d bought her. That settled his nerves enough for him to become convinced she’d walk in any minute. He’d go downstairs, get a bottle of wine breathing, practice what he intended to say. And wait. Just...wait.

  But when he looked out the window for a weather update and saw not only the torrent of rain cascading down but caught a flash of lightning, he knew he wasn’t going to wait.

  * * *

  Veronica didn’t know how long she’d been wandering over the moors like Cathy’s ghost. She didn’t know what time it was when she’d clambered back over the low stone fence and into the estate grounds. She didn’t know how she’d found her way to the mausoleum, either, but it seemed fitting to end up there on this stormy night.

/>   “Catastrophe scale,” she said as she walked up the steps to the platform. “Zombies. Aliens. Or something simpler—say, like dropping dead of a fucking broken heart like some pathetic loser!”

  Maybe Rafael would be the one to find her. He knew she was drawn to this place, so when he got home tonight and wondered where she was, he could conceivably come looking for her here. Serve the bastard right if he found her dead.

  The only problem with that was that it might give him license to go the full Heathcliff, beating his head on a tree trunk, railing at fate and declaring his undying love. That would be enough to make her come back from the dead just so she could tell him to get over himself.

  Heathcliff! What an asshole. Resenting a woman for what she’d done when he’d left her, plotting his revenge, inserting himself back into her life, and then getting all accusatory when she dropped dead.

  She looked out at the moors, imagined Rafael as Heathcliff roaming around out there with a lantern. Restless, angry, searching for something—because he was searching for something.

  At least...he’d been searching for something. But last night she’d really thought he’d found it. Found her again. Loved her again—only loved her more. That’s what he’d said. I love you more today than I did then... I love you because of everything you’ve done.

  But then, Heathcliff had loved Cathy and hurt her anyway.

  “Damn you, Wuthering Heights!” she yelled into the wind and rain. “And damn you, too, Stomp!”

  Well, she wasn’t going to go all Cathy/Hope and grieve herself out of the novel of her life halfway through it. She was a Johnson and she gave zero fucks and the precise way she was going to give zero fucks about having her heart broken twice was by not giving up her damn money and not dying, damn it!

  “Zero fucks,” she said out loud. “As in ze-ro!”

  And that was when she realized she was crying. Real tears. Hot tears. Mingling with the cold rain on her cheeks. And despite the way her head was throbbing, her muscles were hurting, her heather-scraped legs were stinging and her heart was aching, she felt like she was achieving closure at last. She loved him, she always would—but she was going to say goodbye to him and she was going to cry as long and as hard as it took to do it.

  “You’re a fuckhead, Rafael,” she said. “And Heathcliff is, too.”

  She sat on the platform, leaned back against a pillar and let the tears flow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IT WAS ONLY a silhouette. Darker than the night but not by much. A form sitting on the platform, knees up, head leaning back against a column.

  “Please God, please, please, please,” Rafael breathed as he hurried toward the mausoleum, but he knew it was her.

  Up the steps, falling to his knees before her, dragging her into his arms, onto his lap, kissing her hair. “Jesus, Veronica.” Kissing her cheeks. “You scared me to death.” Kissing her forehead, her eyes. “I’ve been out of my mind!” Kissing her stubbornly unresponsive mouth.

  He pulled her to her feet, stepped away from her but only to take off his jacket and throw it to the ground then rip off his T-shirt. Wiping at the mascara-streaked tear tracks on her cheeks with his T-shirt, not believing he’d once wanted to mess her up—no, mess her down—to make her less perfect. When what he really wanted was to have her any way she came. Rich or poor. Perfect and imperfect. Smiling and scowling. Hot and icy. He wanted her feisty and fuck-you, with her eyebrows of destruction any way she wanted to arch them, wanted her snort-laughter and her fierceness. Wanted everything about her and loved everything that had made her who she was.

  This was the hour of reckoning. The knowledge that settled into his soul just at the sight of her. That if you loved someone, you just loved them.

  Which was just as well, since the first words she said to him were, “You’re an asshole.”

  “Yep,” he admitted. “Going to try not to be from now on, though.”

  “You’re a bastard.”

  “Yep—same thing, going to try not to be from now on.”

  “I’m going to cut the dick right off that voodoo doll with the bluntest, rustiest knife I can find.”

  He winced. “Okaaay. I must love you to distraction to risk that, but you go right ahead. As long as you come with me now and let me explain.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Then I’ll talk,” he said, pulling his T-shirt back on. “But can we get into the car and dry off first? I don’t want you dying of a chest infection midway through the story.”

  “You already killed me off.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Despicable.”

  “I was channeling Heathcliff.”

  “Heathcliff’s an asshole.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Heathcliff’s a bastard.”

  “Yep.”

  “I hate Stomp.”

  “I thought you would—and quite rightly.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Um, the book sucks? I did warn you.”

  “So why did you write it?”

  “I call it a college boy’s obsession with trying to mold a woman, trying to own a woman, when it was the fact the woman couldn’t be molded or owned that he loved the most. Come on, it was bound to suck!”

  “Is that why you made me give up everything for you in Stomp? To mold me, to own me?”

  “Hmm, strictly speaking, Alejandro did that.”

  “Alejandro’s an asshole.”

  “Yep.”

  “Alejandro’s a bastard.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not entirely his fault, because when the author wrote it he was a dick. Sorry to be repetitive, but the author’s going to try to not be a dick anymore.”

  “For the record, I’d never give up my money for a man like Hope did.”

  “I’m glad to hear that because we’re going to need a chef, and a house in Yorkshire.”

  “And I’d never drop dead of a broken heart, so stop s-stomping me to death. Stomp! Fuck that book title!”

  “Hey, I killed you once! Metaphorically. And I’ve decided to kill myself off, as well, if that helps. Plus I’ll let you choose how we go. Till death do us part, like that old married couple interred in this mausoleum. Hell, I’ll even throw a mausoleum into the book if it’ll please you. But can I short-circuit this conversation by reminding you that you’re still breathing? And I’m still breathing? And that’s real life, not fiction?”

  “But aren’t you planning another book about me?”

  “Er...no.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re here? So you get raw material for a new book?”

  “Jesus!” He burst out laughing. “We’re here because I love you to a ridiculous degree, and I wanted you back, and kidnapping is illegal!”

  “So there’ll be no more books about me?”

  “No more books about you—well, not unless you want one. Say, an erotic rom-com. Second chance at love, rich girl gone bad, poor boy made good—all the tropes. A brooding Heathcliff-type hero, a feisty voodoo-doll-wielding heroine. Good enough for Smyth & Lowe’s new romance line! The happiest ending ever to not end.”

  “As long as you know I’m not going to do any languishing.”

  He burst out laughing again and pulled her in for a quick, hot kiss. “God, I love you. And I promise, promise, not to make you languish, and not to break your heart, and never, ever to let you go. Not in books and not in real life. I’ll stick pins in Little Rafa for you, I’ll write you a book of love poems, I’ll let you tie me up every night, I’ll eat caviar even though I really truly don’t like it, and drink all the champagne in the world if that’ll make you happy.”

  “Caviar!” she spat, pulling out of his arms and glaring at him. “You knew that night you were going to leave me, even before I gave you the motorcyc
le.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Eric told me!”

  “Yeah, well, Eric’s an asshole. And a bastard. And a dick. I should know because I created him.”

  “Eric made love to Julie the way you made love to me the night we had a fight over the caviar. Like he was escaping the demons of hell even as he soared to heaven.”

  “Yeah, I may have gotten a little dramatic that night.”

  “That was a goodbye fuck.”

  “Ah, Veronica,” he said, dragging her in again. “I wasn’t trying to leave you, I was trying with everything in my soul to keep you!”

  “You were?” she sniffled against his chest.

  “I was. Now can we please go home?”

  “What if home turns out to be London?”

  “I love London. But it can be New York or LA or Yorkshire or Bogota—shit, you’re loaded, I’m almost-loaded, we can have a place in each of them, can’t we?”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “No point—except that my home is wherever you are. But can I make a suggestion? That we call the cottage home for this last night and get the hell out of here? My T-shirt’s wet and I’m cold!”

  She put her arms around him and drew him close. “Is that better?”

  “Always. But I have a present for you in the car, so if we could get at least that far, I’d be grateful.”

  “I don’t want a present. I’m New York Barbie, remember? I already have all the accessories.”

  “Oh if we’re going to go that route, I’ll be Colombian Ken—and the best thing about Colombian Ken is he comes with his own motorcycle—a 1952 Vincent Black Shadow.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m telling you I want my motorcycle.”

  “Huh?”

  “Motorcycle. I want it. I want you. I love you. I’m desperate to get you naked. And I’m about to drag you to the car because I’m not molesting you at a mausoleum. Decorum, Veronica! What would you parents say?”

  He grabbed her hand and dragged her through the rain to where he’d parked, bundled her into the passenger seat, then ran around to the driver’s side and got in.