by Ella Hayes
* * *
‘Your face is healing well.’
It had been over a week since the episode at the canal. He’d left a few days before calling her to arrange a date. He’d been going for casual, meanwhile he was anything but! He ran a finger over the taut little ridges near his eye. ‘Thanks to you.’
She laughed. ‘What can I say? Florence Nightingale made a big impression on me when I was a kid.’
He pictured her rescuing injured birds, bandaging her teddy bears. ‘I’d like to have seen you as a kid.’
Her eyes clouded. She turned away, looking around the restaurant. ‘It’s lovely in here, isn’t it? Very cosy with the candles. Perfect for such a horrible day.’ She picked up the menu, scrutinising it closely. ‘What do you recommend?’
She’d thrown up a wall. For some reason it made him think about the photographs he’d seen on the barge: Ash and her in smart school uniforms, the architecture of the buildings in the background... Boarding school? She’d told him about summers on Texel but maybe there were things about her childhood that were less than rosy.
He glanced at the menu. ‘I like the ravioli with the shaved truffles, but the risotto’s good too.’
She smiled. ‘The ravioli sounds perfect.’
‘Wine?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll have a sparkling mineral water...’ She shot him a mischievous look. ‘But I’m totally having a dessert. I love zabaglione.’
When she looked at him that way, he couldn’t help smiling. ‘You can have as much zabaglione as you want!’
Her eyes held his. ‘Worth walking through the rain for, then.’
‘Definitely...’
It was happening again—the effortless back and forth, the subtle flirting. Candlelight in her eyes, a touch of pink in her cheeks, that luscious mouth. It was easy to lose himself in the changing geometry of her smile, in the muted colours of her soft dress and in the warm fragrance she was wearing, but feeling attraction wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel more, wanted to know who she was inside, because she was doing something to him, tilting him off-centre in the best possible way.
When the waiter had taken their order and disappeared, he watched her watching the bubbles rising in her glass. That night on the barge she’d asked him a straight question about why he was involved with the refuge charity, and he’d answered truthfully, even though he wasn’t in the habit of revealing his family history to anyone. But she’d just deflected his light-hearted attempt to talk about her childhood. Did she still think it was inappropriate to talk about her family because of Ash and their business connection?
Ash himself hadn’t been as circumspect. When they’d met in London, he’d remarked to Theo how close he and Mia were, had told him that they’d ‘been through a lot’ together. There’d been sadness in his eyes, an awkward pause... Maybe he should have picked up Ash’s baton, asked him what it was that he and Mia had been through, but it wasn’t in his nature to ask personal questions. He’d cultivated a habit of incuriousness because he couldn’t reciprocate, couldn’t share his personal past or his present without fear of exposing Bram to the kind of scrutiny that could send him spiralling back into his old habits. Being private had become second nature, but now he felt restless, trapped in a cage of his own making.
She suddenly looked up, cornered him with her clear brown gaze. ‘I’m surprised you asked me for lunch today.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a week day.’ Teasing light in her eyes. ‘I thought you’d be busy with important CEO stuff.’
‘I took the day off.’ He pointed to the scratches on his face. ‘Sick leave!’
Her mouth fell open. ‘You pulled a sickie?’
He grinned. ‘Don’t tell the boss.’
‘I won’t.’
The light in her eyes faded, but her gaze held him fast, and suddenly he knew that if he wanted to break out of his cage he’d have to risk a piece of himself.
‘Mia...’ Breathe. ‘The truth is that I took the day off for you.’ Just saying the words out loud made him feel lighter, triggered a warm glow of surprise in her eyes which warmed him right back. ‘I didn’t want to be fitting you into a schedule. I wanted to spend some time with you.’ He smiled. ‘I thought it was time to take control.’
She smiled back shyly, a flicker of something akin to gratitude in her eyes. ‘I’m glad...although I’m not so sure that we ever control anything. Mostly I’ve found that fate takes the upper hand.’ She sighed. ‘We just get to react to whatever it dishes out.’
She’d opened a door. ‘Such as...?’
A shadow crossed her face. ‘You said you’d have liked to see me as a kid...but you wouldn’t have enjoyed the view.’ She dropped her gaze, twisted her glass around by single degrees. ‘I lost my parents suddenly when I was eight, so a lot of the time I was a sad little thing.’
The photos: the young couple...her parents... That was what he’d noticed: how young they were. There’d been nothing recent and it had struck him as strange. ‘I’m so sorry, Mia. What hap—?’
‘Helicopter crash.’ She looked up, cheeks pale, eyes dry. ‘We never found out exactly what happened...’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a loose end—but it niggles a bit, not knowing.’
She was wearing her composure like a mask, but he could see the hairline cracks. ‘Where did it happen?’
‘In Africa... Angola.’ She sipped her water. ‘Dad was in the diplomatic service. The Angola post was supposed to be temporary, but then it was extended, so Mum went out for a while. They’d been on consular business outside Luanda, were on their way back to the embassy when the helicopter went down.’
Her tears were dry, but he could still see them. Maybe on some level he’d felt it about her from the very beginning: the way she’d intervened for her brother; the curious combination of strength and fragility he’d seen in her eyes. That protective instinct she had, her warmth, her ready empathy. He didn’t want to cause her pain, push her too far, but he wanted to know more. He searched her face. ‘Do you mind talking about it?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not my favourite subject but it’s part of who I am.’
Mia the brave.
‘So after that...?’
She fingered the silky ruffle at the neckline of her dress. ‘Boarding school in London; weekends with my maternal grandparents in suburbia; summers with my Dutch grandparents on Texel. Then university. We both studied in London so we could live together. We inherited the house, you see. Ash still lives there—me too when I’m in London—but after Hal I had to get away.’
His curiosity spiked. ‘Who’s Hal?’
She looked down, flushing, a sudden tightness framing her mouth. Clearly she hadn’t intended to mention Hal, whoever he was, and he’d fired out his question at point-blank range. It was too late to take it back. She was biting her lower lip, wrestling with something, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say that he shouldn’t have asked, that it was none of his business, but he swallowed the words because he desperately wanted to know who Hal was... Why his name had affected her so profoundly.
After a moment she lifted her eyes, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Hal’s my ex. My former fiancé...’
‘Oh. I see.’ It made sense that she’d been with someone. She was too lovely, too special, not to have been cherished, but he couldn’t bring himself to say he was sorry about the break-up because he wasn’t. He was glad that Hal was history, but it was hard to see the bright flare of old hurts in her eyes. He wanted to know what had happened, but he wasn’t going to push. Maybe she’d tell him in time. He unscrewed the bottle cap, poured her some more water. ‘So you moved to Amsterdam?’
‘Yes.’ She sipped her water. ‘A fresh start on an old boat with an accident-prone cat.’ She grinned. ‘Ash calls him Clueless, but that’s so rude! He might not be the sharpest knife in the box, but
he’s got emotional intelligence, and that’s more important.’
He remembered the barge. Cleuso, still damp from the canal, rubbing against his bare legs then jumping onto his lap. Maybe it had been the cat’s way of apologising for the scratches.
Emotional intelligence...?
The main thing was that Mia’s face was radiant again and he was glad. When the waiter brought their ravioli, she was all smiles, full of praise for the flavours, the textures and the presentation. Her pleasure warmed him. This was his favourite restaurant. He liked that the tables were well-spaced; he liked the warm, hushed ambience and unobtrusive music. He always felt relaxed here, could see that Mia was falling under its spell too.
When she tasted the zabaglione, he realised he was watching her mouth.
‘This is so good.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’
She scooped up another little mound of the pale, creamy dessert. ‘It’s divine!’
Her lips closed around the tip of the spoon, then she touched the corner of her mouth with her finger, ran her tongue...
He put his spoon down. He couldn’t taste anything, couldn’t think of eating, because something unsettling was running through his veins, a burgeoning torrent of emotion that was skewing his senses. His eyes slid to the silk ruffles touching the milky skin along the neckline of her dress, the smooth rise of her breasts just visible.
He picked up his glass and took a sip. He’d thought lunch in a restaurant would be safe, but it seemed that where Mia was concerned there was no safety. Whenever he was with her, his thoughts ran away with him. He tried to switch them off, but it was no use. He was picturing his vast, empty bedroom, the king-size bed, Mia cocooned in acres of white bed linen, hair tumbling around her face.
‘What are you thinking?’
Her face came into focus, clear brown eyes locked on his. He sipped his water, put down his glass. He’d have to go for a white lie. ‘I was thinking about my house...thinking that you might be able to give me some advice about what to do with it. You write about interiors?’
‘I do.’ She put her spoon down next to her empty dessert glass. ‘Are you remodelling?’
He nodded. ‘At the moment it’s a shell. I have an interiors guy but some of his ideas are...’ He shrugged. ‘I just can’t seem to decide on anything...and you have a flair for it. I like what you’ve done with the barge, the feel of it.’
She smiled. ‘It’s easy to make a barge feel like home. For one thing, it’s very small. I’m assuming your house isn’t...’
He laughed. ‘Not small, no, but not massive either. It’s a canal house—four floors and an attic, which is my observatory.’
Her eyes widened. ‘I remember! You have a telescope.’
‘Yes. The observatory’s the only space that’s finished.’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Her eyes were full of mock consternation.
He grinned. ‘It’s not a “toys for boys” thing, honestly! It’s also my office. It’s a functional space. Everything in it is there for a reason. The rest of the house is...a challenge.’
She tilted her head and shot him a little smile. ‘Well, if you give me your address I’ll come by some time, take a look.’
‘What about now?’
Damn! What was happening to him? He might have been thinking it, but he hadn’t meant to blurt it out. It sounded too eager...pushy. Controlling. His heart clenched. Maybe she’d think he was pressuring her. That was the last thing he’d ever do. That wasn’t the kind of man he was. White noise was buzzing in his head. What kind of man was he? He’d spent his life trying not to be his father’s son, but in that moment, trapped in Mia’s warm, steady gaze, he wasn’t entirely sure who Theo Molenaar was. He cleared his throat quickly. ‘Or...just whenever.’
She considered for a moment, then she smiled. ‘I’d like to see to your house, and since you’ve taken the day off maybe now’s as good a time as any.’
Her smile filled him with light. ‘Only if you want to. I mean, I wouldn’t want you to feel—’
‘I don’t. Whatever it is that you’re worried about.’ She grinned. ‘I’m just hoping that you have a kettle and a cafetière.’
* * *
Theo pushed open a set of double doors. ‘This is one of the sitting rooms...’
Thankfully, it was very large—unlike his dark-blue sports car. Maybe it was the rain streaming down the windows that had made the atmosphere in the car so very intimate, or maybe it was the way he’d caught her eye, the way he’d smiled. Whatever it was that had electrified the atmosphere within that plush leather interior, she was relieved to be out of it, glad that he was walking to the opposite side of the room. It was easier to breathe when he wasn’t beside her.
He stopped at the fireplace, rested his hand on the broad, empty mantelpiece. One side of his face was in shadow, the other was washed by the grainy wet weather light spilling from the two tall windows which overlooked the canal. He looked like a painting of a lonely man. She turned away, gazing at the exposed brickwork in a corner recess. She’d thought lunch would be safe. She hadn’t expected him to invite her back. Why had she come? Her eyes slid over white walls that were peeling in places. No skirting boards. When he’d told her that he’d taken the day off for her, she’d felt a rush of happiness because he’d laid down a cornerstone, something they could build on.
How quickly their conversation had deepened after that, or at least her conversation had. She’d opened a door into her past, told him about her parents, because she’d wanted him to see that he wasn’t the only one who’d had a difficult childhood. She’d been trying to lead him into talking about his father, his family, but she’d tripped, inadvertently opened the Hal door. At least he’d had the sensitivity to see it, hadn’t pursued her about it, but then he’d changed tack, started talking about his house...
She dropped her gaze to the wide, wooden floorboards. They were mostly sound. They’d benefit from sanding and sealing, then they’d need something to draw out the tones... Wax would do it, well-buffed.
When he’d told her that he liked the barge, she’d considered how it reflected her, filled as it was with all the things she loved: her treasured books, photos, plants. Everything she owned told a story. And she’d got the idea into her head that his house would tell her his story. That was why she’d come, but she was looking at a blank page. He’d said the house was a shell but for some reason she’d thought he’d been exaggerating.
Her eyes settled on the two cream armchairs brazening it out in the middle of the room, a pale rug on the floor in front of them. The chairs were accessorised with tribal print cushions—charcoal diamonds woven through a coarse cream fabric. On the floor beside one of the chairs was a black decorative birdcage. She frowned. It was an incongruous little tableau.
‘The chairs were Direk’s idea. He’s my interior designer.’ Theo shrugged, starting to walk towards her. ‘He’s trying to help me visualise living in these spaces.’
‘So, in this room he sees you relaxing with one friend and a canary?’
He chuckled. ‘Poor Direk’s been driven to desperate measures because I can’t make decisions.’
She met his gaze. ‘You’re the CEO of a global business. I think you’re underestimating yourself.’
‘Business is different; I find business decisions much easier.’
‘Maybe you just need time. Once you’ve lived in the house for a while, things will come to you.’
‘What constitutes a while?’
‘A few months...enough time to get a feel for things.’
He exhaled a long sigh, regarding her with a baleful expression.
She frowned. ‘How long have you been living here?’
He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Three years.’
‘Three...years?’
He nodded. ‘Bear in mind th
at I’m away a lot.’
She couldn’t think of anything to say. Coming home to this emptiness had to be dispiriting. From the outside he looked like a man who had everything, but instead... She glanced upward. Thick white beams. Why was he alone in this vast unfinished house? She wanted to ask him, but something stopped her.
She scanned the room again. ‘You need a jumping-off point...a piece of furniture you like, or an object, or a colour. Once you’ve got that, you can start pulling ideas together.’ She met his gaze. ‘You must have a favourite thing...?’
‘I don’t.’ He shrugged.
‘A favourite colour?’
His eyes swept over her. ‘I like the colours in your dress...’
She felt a blush coming and looked down at the subtle hues of plum, ochre and olive in the silk skirt of her dress. Why did it feel like he was saying something else? She cleared her throat, looked up. ‘Okay, well, that’s a start.’
He shifted on his feet. ‘Do you want to see the rest of the house?’
Maybe the other rooms wouldn’t be as bare. She smiled. ‘Absolutely.’
The rest of the house was hardly better than the first sitting room he’d shown her. The vibe was archaic minimalist, occasional items of furniture swamped by white space. There was a huge bed in the master bedroom, a vast wardrobe, a massive chest of drawers and through a peeling door, a sizeable en suite bathroom which looked starkly functional. With every step she took, she felt sadder and sadder. If a house reflected the personality of the person who lived in it, then Theo was either empty inside—which she knew he wasn’t—or he had no idea of who he was, which seemed so much worse. Maybe it was the size of the place that amplified its emptiness, but in it Theo seemed so alone, so lost, that it was hard not to ache for him, hard not to want to hold him.
In the kitchen, which at least had a sink, an old range, a table and chairs, she couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘Why did you buy this house?’
He set the kettle on the range. ‘It was an investment.’
