Little Pink Taxi

by Marie Laval

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The small wooden house nestled between the sand dunes. With its pointed roof and walls painted a light blue, it looked like a fairy tale cottage – an abandoned fairy tale cottage, by the looks of it. Yet this was where Marc was staying, the man who lived at the Petersen farm with his young family had explained in broken English when she’d visited earlier. Not wishing to impose on his tenants, Marc had rented a holiday cabin nearby.

  Rosalie climbed out of her rental car. Shivering in the bitter wind, she walked to the front door to check she had the right number and knocked. Only silence answered.

  Now what? Daylight was fading fast. Should she try and find Marc? Should she sit in her car, or drive back to the nearest town a couple of miles down the road, find a hotel and try again in the morning?

  Turning away from the cottage, she took in the bleak winter landscape, the huge clouds churning and swirling in the darkening sky, the dunes covered in coarse brown grass that undulated in the wind, and the steel grey line beyond – the North Sea.

  It looked like a long walk to the beach, but she started on the narrow path anyway. Her feet sank into the sand, she lost her footing a few times, and had to stop to catch her breath, but at last she reached the end of the lane and caught her first sweeping, uninterrupted view of the beach and the sea.

  Several fishing boats had been pulled up on the golden sand. Their masts clanged and rattled in the wind. Waves climbed hungrily onto the beach, leaving white froth behind as they retreated. She narrowed her eyes to peer into the distance but there was no sign of Marc.

  Where was he? How naive of her to think that she would find him. Perhaps he had already left.

  Unsure of what to do next, she stood on the dune until her face was almost numb with cold. She was about to turn round and go back to the car when somebody walking at the far end of the beach caught her attention. A man, hands in his coat pockets, was striding in her direction. Hope bubbled inside her, making her heart beat faster. Even though he was too far for her to see his face, she knew it was Marc.

  She started running down the sand dune, the wind whipping her hair around her face, pushing her forward, and giving her wings.

  He stopped and stared at the woman. It was getting dark and she was only a tiny figure in the distance but he caught a glimpse of her pink anorak, of long, curly brown hair. Could it be …? He shook his head. No, surely not. He was imagining things.

  Rosalie didn’t know where he was, for a start. He had instructed Kirsty not to tell anybody he was coming here, and even if she had found out, Rosalie was too afraid of flying to travel to Denmark. More importantly, she had made it very plain what she thought of him. She hated him, despised him, didn’t want anything to do with him, and he had decided to grant her wish by staying away from Raventhorn.

  The woman was still running, and every step she took made his pulse beat more erratically. If it wasn’t Rosalie, then it was someone who damned well looked like her. He stood still, not daring to hope.

  And when he realised it was indeed her, his body felt too frozen to move.

  ‘I’m so glad I found you.’

  Rosalie stopped a few paces away from him. Her cheeks were red, her hair wild, and her soft brown eyes sparkled in the dimming light. She had never looked more beautiful.

  He took his hands out of his pockets and let them fall by his sides when all he wanted to do was to touch her, take her in his arms, bury his face in her hair and get drunk on her sweet, delicious, fruity scent.

  ‘Rosalie. What are you doing here?’ His voice sounded clipped and cold.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you. I’m so sorry for getting everything wrong.’ Breathless, she lifted her hand to push her hair away from her face. ‘Marion and Kirsty explained everything. They told me about you setting up Love Bus, and helping Angus with the brewery.’ She smiled. ‘And most of all, about your signing Raventhorn over to Geoff. I can’t believe I misjudged you so much. I wanted to thank you and tell you I was sorry, and very grateful.’

  Disappointment crushed his chest, and tightened his throat. So she had only come out of loyalty for her friends. He swallowed hard.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.’

  She lifted her hand to his arm. Her touch was warm and soft, almost tender. ‘Oh, but it is. I said so many hurtful things you didn’t deserve. It’s wonderful what you’re doing for us all. Geoff will be so happy to be able to stay at Raventhorn. And Lorna too.’

  How he wanted to kiss her, crush her lips under his, hold her tightly against him. He remembered only too well how she had felt under him, how soft and silky her skin was, and how wild her sweet, intoxicating kisses had driven him. Their night together would stay with him forever. He had to remember that Rosalie didn’t feel the same way, that she’d said it had been a mistake.

  He took a step back. ‘How did you get here?’

  She laughed. ‘I flew! Can you believe it? I who always said I would never set foot on a plane.’

  He couldn’t help but smile. ‘Really? And how was it?’

  ‘It wasn’t half as bad as I’d feared.’

  She moved close to him again. It was torture, to be so close and not be able to hold her – to know she’d never be his again. He looked at the darkening sky. ‘It’s getting dark. We should go back to the cottage. We’ll talk there.’

  She nodded and he led the way, setting off at a fast pace in the direction of the cottage.

  ‘Marc, wait,’ she called as he started climbing the sand dune. ‘I can’t go as fast as you.’

  ‘Sorry. Here, take my hand.’ It was so cold he was reluctant to let it go when they got to the top of the dune. She must be freezing, and exhausted too after her journey – not to mention she’d only just come out of hospital, having been beaten and abducted by her madman of a father.

  When they reached the cottage, he pulled his key out of his pocket, pushed the door open and switched on the lights.

  ‘What a lovely place,’ she said as she walked in and looked at the pine-clad walls of the open-plan lounge and kitchen, the deep blue velvet sofa and matching curtains and soft furnishing, and the wood burning stove he had left on before going for a walk.

  ‘It is nice indeed,’ he agreed, although he had hardly paid attention to his surroundings since he’d arrived. Finding the cabin had been a stroke of luck but he could have stayed anywhere, as long as it was close to the farm. When he had introduced himself to the family who rented the farm, they had invited him to stay with them, but he hadn’t wanted to impose his black mood onto them. What’s more, the farm was their home, for now at least.

  He shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair before going to the kitchen area to fill the kettle.

  ‘I’ll make us a hot drink. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Rosalie seemed about to add something, then bit her lip.

  ‘It won’t take long. Please make yourself comfortable.’ Did he have to sound so stiff and formal? He could almost see Cédric shake his head and hear him snigger that he’d turned into an iceman all over again.

  The silence between them became increasingly strained as he got two cups out of the cupboard and threw a tea bag into a teapot. Rosalie took her anorak off, and he noticed that she was wearing a black jumper with her black cords and boots. It wasn’t like her to be dressed in sombre colours from top to toe.

  ‘What’s with the black clothes?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t think pink would be appropriate under the circumstances.’

  He arched his eyebrows. ‘The circumstances?’

  ‘Kirsty told me about your father, and what you came here for. I am sorry. It must have been very hard for you to be on your own at a time like this.’

  He closed his eyes for a moment. It had been lonely indeed on that empty, weather-beaten beach that very morning, with the sea roaring in his ears and sadness almost choking him as he said his final goodbyes to the man he had admir
ed more than any other, the man he had so completely misjudged – his father.

  ‘It’s kind of you to care,’ he said, but once again his tone was cool, almost indifferent. He couldn’t help it. It seemed he was reverting back to what he did best – distancing himself from people and feelings. Rosalie was only being kind and thoughtful. She’d be the same with anybody. That was the way she was. What’s more, it was obvious she now felt obligated to him – so much so she had braved her fear of flying to thank him in person. Well, he didn’t want her thanks, her gratitude or her pity. And he wanted even less her feeling indebted to him.

  He handed her a cup of tea and they sat down on the sofa.

  Putting his own cup down, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘Listen, Rosalie, I appreciate you coming all the way to thank me in person, but it was completely unnecessary. I don’t deserve your thanks. I’m doing this for myself and the company, not for you, Angus or McBride, or anyone else in Irlwick. Setting up the bus company and the brewery makes good business sense and will turn out to be good advertising for us.’ It was a lie of course. He was doing it for her. Only for her.

  She heaved a sigh. The light went out of her eyes, as if she was disappointed. His stratagem was working, so why did he feel so annoyed?

  Her hand shook as she lifted the cup to her lips. She drank a sip of tea then said, ‘Kirsty mentioned you might be selling up your company.’

  At least he didn’t have to lie about that. ‘That’s right. I have just accepted an offer from an American firm who’ve been interested in a merger with us for a long time. I’m selling them all our overseas operations, including the Paris branch, and will only keep our London office.’

  The decision had been surprisingly easy to take. In fact, he had realised he’d been mentally ready to sell up for weeks. He just needed the incentive to do so.

  ‘I thought you lived in Paris, and the only reason you came to London was to settle your father’s business.’

  He shrugged. ‘Paris … London … It doesn’t really matter where I live. I’m going back to Paris at the end of the week to show the American team around. I suspect I have a busy few months ahead of me, but don’t worry, I won’t forget about Irlwick, or Raventhorn.’ Or you, he finished silently.

  ‘I’ll delegate one of my best men to set up the bus company and the brewery, and you’ll receive all the help you need.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘As for Raventhorn … well, I have no intention of living there. It would take a long time to sell and I don’t want to be lumbered with it. McBride might as well have it back.’

  He hoped his dismissive tone would convince her, because once again, he was lying. Raventhorn was the only place he’d felt at home for many years, and he had considered living there permanently, but it was meaningless without Rosalie by his side. After what she’d told him on her return from the hospital, the look of utter dislike she’d directed towards him, he knew there could be only one thing to do – give it back to its rightful owner so that Lorna and Rosalie could stay there. He had been kidding himself to think he could ever belong.

  He glanced at the window and the darkening skies and rose to his feet. ‘I’ll take you to a hotel now. Thorup Strand isn’t a big place but we should be able to find somewhere decent for you to spend the night.’

  She put her unfinished cup of tea down and got up too. ‘There’s no need. I’m going straight back to the airport.’

  He scowled at her. ‘It’s completely out of the question. I don’t want you to drive alone at night somewhere you don’t know, in a country of which you don’t even speak the language. You could get lost, have an accident …’

  She snatched her anorak from the sofa. ‘I won’t get lost, and it doesn’t matter what you want. I’ve been a fool to come here. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. I thought … I hoped … I’ve been stupid.’

  She turned away. She made a strange, strangled sound. Her shoulders were shaking. Was she crying?

  He didn’t move as she grabbed her handbag, made a dash for the front door, and opened it onto the cold, blustery gale.

  The cold breeze jerked him awake from his torpor.

  ‘Rosalie, wait!’ He caught up with her in a couple of strides and pushed the front door shut again. ‘What mistake?’

  She swirled round to face him and looked up. Her eyes shone with tears, her cheeks were wet. She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You’re upset, so it clearly is something.’

  Her lips quivered as she took a deep breath. ‘All I wanted was to be with you. Right, are you happy now?’

  He stood still. Not daring to breathe. Not daring to hope. Even his heart felt like it had stopped. ‘You said you came to thank me for Raventhorn, the brewery, and the Love Bus company.’

  ‘That too, but I wanted to be here, with you, after you scattered your father’s ashes. I thought you might need a friend.’ She shook her head and whispered. ‘I see now I was wrong. You don’t need anybody, and me even less.’ She let out a bitter laugh. ‘After all who am I but the daughter of a thug?’

  She tilted her face towards him, and even though she was crying there was so much light in her eyes it took his breath away. Nobody had ever looked at him like that. With so much warmth. So much … love.

  The truth hit him like a blow to the chest. He’d been the stupid one. He hadn’t understood anything at all! Rosalie loved him. She’d only pushed him away at Raventhorn because she was hurt and ashamed after meeting her father. She’d believed Kirsty’s lies, and thought he had betrayed her.

  He lifted his finger to catch a tear as it rolled down her cheek. ‘It’s not a friend I need,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s you. Only you.’

  She shivered under his touch. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and pulled her against him. Her hands came up to rest on his shoulders, and it felt like she was melting in his arms.

  Sliding a hand to the back of her neck, he bent down to kiss her. It was the sweetest kiss he’d ever given, the sweetest kiss he’d ever received. She tasted of the sea, she smelled of the wind and her own sweet, deliciously feminine scent. Rosalie’s fingers traced slow patterns at the back of his neck, giving him a jolt of desire. His need for her grew stronger, overwhelming, obscuring any conscious thought.

  He pulled her closer, kissed her harder. Suddenly it wasn’t a lover’s gentle, tender kiss but the kiss of a man staking his claim, taking possession. ‘I want you.’

  The words came out in a harsh whisper as he kissed the side of her mouth, the fragrant skin of her throat. She threw her head back, her fingers tangled in his hair and she arched towards him in silent surrender.

  He needed more. He needed everything. And he needed it now. Feverish, he lifted her jumper, the T-shirt she wore underneath, and touched her bare skin before kissing her mouth again, and again. His hands glided over her back, the sides of her waist, moved to cup her breasts and stroke her through her bra’s thin fabric. Her breathing shallow, her heartbeat erratic, she moaned softly as their bodies moved and sought closer contact. He couldn’t get enough of kissing her, of touching her. It was torture. It was heaven.

  Her clothes were in the way. Impatient, he pulled her sweater up and over her head and threw it on the floor. Her T-shirt soon followed. His throat went dry and his heartbeat increased as he took in her creamy white skin, and the tips of her breasts straining against her bra. She clung to him, stroked the back of his neck, sending electric jolts all over his body as he slid the straps off her shoulders and pulled the bra down. He kissed and touched, teased and aroused with his fingers, his lips, his tongue.

  Soon it wasn’t enough. Breathing hard, he tore himself from her, and looked down, an unspoken question in his eyes. ‘Rosalie.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she answered in a whisper, her eyes dark. ‘Kiss me, hold me, make love to me. Please.’

  His heart skipped a beat. ‘Is that another of your Happy Baby songs?’ He tried to laugh, but his voi
ce was hoarse and his body painfully hard. With a barely repressed growl, he lifted her into his arms and marched across the living room. ‘There’s no magic bed here, no Crimson Room. And no ghosts.’

  ‘There is no magic bed, and no ghosts, they’re just stories,’ she replied, her fingers still caressing his neck.

  ‘I’m not so sure about that.’ How could he tell her that once or twice he’d had the crazy thought that Isobel had something to do with him falling in lust, and in love with Rosalie – that she’d somehow pushed them together?

  ‘The sofa is fine,’ Rosalie added in a breathless voice.

  So the sofa it was. The way he was feeling, he doubted whether he could reach the bedroom anyway. He put her down on the blue cushions and she crossed her arms on her bare chest with an endearing modesty that made his heart ache. He couldn’t stop gazing at her. Her hair formed a halo of dark curls around her face, a deep pink coloured her cheeks and her mouth was red and full. But it was her eyes that held him, as always. Her deep, beautiful brown eyes. Right now they were dark and stormy, and incredibly arousing.

  He kicked his shoes off, dragged his sweater over his head and lowered himself on top of her, almost groaning with pleasure at the contact of her naked skin, at the scent of her body, the soft embrace of her arms around his neck. She was the woman he dreamt of, the woman he craved, the woman he would love for the rest of his life … and he hadn’t even told her.

  ‘I love you,’ he said in a deep, low voice, before kissing her and pulling the rest of their clothes off.

  And when her body cradled him, he pushed inside her, harder and faster until she arched and cried out and their worlds became one.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Raventhorn, end of April

  ‘Lorna, they’re here at last! Come and have a look!’

  Rosalie swung the front door open and ran down the steps just as three pink minibuses drove up the lane and parked in front of Raventhorn.