Tempted by Trouble

by Michelle Smart

  “Of course there isn’t,” she said. “How could there ever be a future for us when you refuse to let go of the past?”

  His hands balled into fists, the acid in his guts bubbling. “It’s not a simple case of letting go. I can’t forget what you are.”

  “Will you get over yourself!”

  The loud shrillness of her tone jolted them both but did nothing to stop her from slipping off the Steinway and rising in front of him.

  “For a start, Mr. Ego,” she said, prodding a slim finger into his chest, “I do not recall asking for a future with you. For another, I am not the screwed-up teenager you remember or the tarty ‘It Girl’ who caused so much destruction. Not anymore. I have spent the past five years trying to make something of my life…”

  “Make something of your life? You call working stupid hours serving food making something of your life? When you’ve got a God-given talent you’re hiding away from the world?”

  “Don’t you dare put down my job. It might not be glamorous, but it’s honest work.”

  “At least there is something honest about you.” It was a low blow and he regretted it the second the words left his mouth.

  “How dare you?” she seethed, jabbing harder at his chest, her blue eyes ablaze. “I know I was a rude, drunken, spoiled brat and believe me, I am sorry for the harm I caused. But I am not that person anymore. If I could make amends with you then I would, gladly. Just tell me what I can do to put things right. In the meantime, I would thank you not to keep throwing my past in my face like you promised you would. I can’t change it and no amount of sniping from you is going to change it either. Get over it.”

  “Have you finished?” he asked caustically, grabbing her wrist to stop the incessant prodding at his chest. “For all your clever psychoanalysis, I can’t suddenly switch off my feelings about the past. I can’t pretend that you were never an accomplished liar or an expert attention seeker. I can’t suddenly forget that because of you I nearly lost everything. I commend you for trying to turn your life around, but I can’t forget. And because I can’t forget, I can never trust you.”

  The color drained from her face and she stared at him with eyes that had clouded, her mouth moving but no words coming out.

  Whatever the truth, the acid in his guts was demanding he take back each and every word, apologize for being such a callous bastard.

  Her seeming and unexpected fragility lasted only seconds.

  She yanked her wrist away from his hold and took a step back. Hands on hips, she straightened her spine, almost magnifying her slight frame, and looked him straight in the eyes. “Marco, what just happened on that piano was sex. Good sex but still, just sex. I’m sorry your ego demands that every woman you bonk immediately starts planning white dresses and babies but I am not one of them. And I am certainly not desperate enough to want a relationship with an arrogant arse who won’t trust me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Pippa sat in the music room, her fingers skipping over the piano keys, waiting in vain for the music to possess her.

  Nothing came.

  No matter how hard she tried to shut all thoughts out, there they remained, crowding her head in a cacophony of noise that refused to abate. Marco’s cruel words continued playing on a loop in her head.

  Make something of your life? You call working stupid hours serving food making something of your life?

  Every word he said had hurt, but it was those in particular that had lodged in her mind.

  A spark of rage flashed through her and she grabbed the sheets of music in front of her and threw them on the floor.

  “I take it you don’t want these,” a masculine voice drawled. She spun round to see Marco step over the threshold. Bending down, he retrieved the papers before passing them back to her.

  She snatched them from him and placed them on the piano, deliberately turning her back to him, holding her breath as a waft of his spicy scent splayed under her nose. She swallowed back her Pavlovian response, grimly determined to keep control in every sense of the word.

  “Did you want something?” No matter how much she had planned to keep a cool, civilized head and tongue when she next saw him—she had futilely hoped she would never have to see him again—she could not disguise her animosity.

  When no answer was forthcoming she turned her head, half-expecting him to have gone, but no. There he still stood, dressed for the office, his eyes narrowed, staring not at her but at the sheets of music.

  “Did you write this?” he asked, his tone accusatory.

  “No. I stole it from Mahatma Gandhi.”

  His eyes flashed a warning. “Is this the piece you were playing yesterday when I got home?”

  “Do you mean when you returned home yesterday and screwed me over this piano? Is that the piece you’re talking about?”

  To witness his face harden gave her enormous satisfaction.

  “I did not ‘screw you,’ ” he refuted grimly. “We made love. There is a difference.”

  She shrugged. “You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to. It’s the same difference. Anyway, we’re going off on a tangent. I assume you want something. You’ve already had your wicked way with me and declined a second helping, so I assume it must be about something else.”

  “You’re upset,” he said, exhaling through his flared nostrils.

  Well spotted, Einstein. “Not at all,” she lied airily. “You must be confusing me with someone who gives a shit—now what can I do for you?”

  This time he made no effort to hide his anger, the fury on his face clear, and she sucked it in, reveled in it. Let him hurt. Let him experience a fraction of the pain he had put her through.

  She might have done some bad things in her life, but in those days she had been little more than a child. She had never made love to someone and then minutes later denigrated him, implied that he was dirty, and spelled out in no uncertain terms why he was not worth more than a quick shag over a piano.

  It had been the best experience of her life. And he had twisted it into something seedy.

  And she hated him for it.

  “Joycy tells me you are planning to return to England tomorrow.”

  “Yep.” She still had still six days before her ticket expired, but if she had to spend another night more than necessary under Marco’s roof, she would likely choke.

  “Did you not think it would be polite to tell me this yourself?”

  She pretended to ponder the question. “Nope.” Of course, she hadn’t planned to tell him personally. What she had hoped for was to leave this hateful island without having to lay eyes on him again.

  “And what, exactly, do you intend to do when you return?”

  “I intend to book myself into a cheap bed and breakfast, find a job, and then meet the lawyer I have appointed to try and keep me out of prison. In that order.”

  “You have appointed someone?”

  “Yes.” Now please leave. Go on. Get out. I never want to see you again.

  “You have it all planned out.”

  “Of course. I have written a list of all the possible accommodations and jobs, so as soon as I land I can get started.”

  “And your lawyer? What kind of reputation does he have?”

  “She has an excellent reputation.”

  “Can she perform miracles?” It sounded as if he were talking through his teeth.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Can she find a way to get the Crown Prosecution Service to drop the charges against you? Stop it even reaching court? Can she find a way to make sure that bastard gets charged instead and banged up for the rest of his natural life?”

  “I’ll find all that out when I meet her.”

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling and took a deep breath. “So, this list of possible jobs—is it all waitressing?”

  The tightness in her chest compacted further. “Yes, Marco, they’re all waitressing jobs. You’ve asked your questions, you’ve satisfied yourself that I’ll be getting
out of your hair sooner than expected, so why don’t you go back to your hotshot lawyers—I bet they’re missing you.”

  “Don’t you want anything more?”

  Her spine stiffened and she turned away from him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. You’ve been given a God-given talent and you’re wasting it.”

  “And you say I’m a drama queen,” she said, trying to sound airy, doing her damnedest to tune out the sound of his voice and focus on the music in front of her. There was a note that was off-key on the third passage and she was keen to pin it down…

  “You’re a stubborn fool, Pippa Rowantree,” Marco said, his low timbre breaking through her, admittedly hopeless, attempt to tune him out. “You work your fingers to the bone to keep a roof over your head—a roof you cannot afford to buy outright—when you have a gift that could, if you harnessed it properly, be your ticket to a comfortable life.”

  “We don’t all have the Midas touch,” she said, struggling to control her voice, as the walls of the room began to close in on her. What did he know about failure? His mistakes were not played out in the spotlight of a British public who would inevitably compare her talent to her mother’s and find her wanting.

  “You have it there in front of you,” he bellowed, the volume of his voice cutting through her, making her wince. Making her listen. “That piece of music you have composed…” His tone dropped an octave. “Pippa, that is the most beautiful piece of music I have ever had the privilege to hear. It’s criminal that you won’t do anything with it and it’s criminal that you won’t let the world hear the magic that runs through your fingers. I know people in the classical music industry—they’re always crying out for the next new thing…”

  Something inside her snapped. “Will you bloody well stop interfering!” she screamed. “What I do with my life is none of your business. How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want your advice, I don’t want your help—I don’t want anything from you or anyone.”

  His color darkened. Arms folded tightly across his chest, he loomed over her, close enough that she could taste his bitterness. “Believe me, sweetheart, I’m not one for wasting my breath or my time, and I’ve wasted enough of both on you. Good luck with your life —you’re going to need it.”

  She wanted to make a retort back to him. But nothing would come. All the air had left her lungs, a large concrete bollard lodged in her throat. All she could manage were shallow breaths. She certainly could not speak.

  When he slammed the door behind him, she flinched.

  For an indeterminate amount of time she sat on the bench gazing into nothing, her only movement the tremors racking her body.

  Shuffled footsteps came into the room, the bench tipping slightly as Joycy sat her rounded body down next to her.

  “There, there, girl,” she said, extending an arm around Pippa’s waist. “Don’t you worry about him. His bark is a lot worse than his bite.”

  Unable to deny the comfort, she rested her head against the old woman’s meaty shoulder.

  Joycy squeezed her. “He is right, though. You are good enough to have the world on its feet.”

  Pippa snorted.

  “Do you know what your problem is?”

  “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

  “You believe your own press.”

  Confused, she gazed at the warm, kindly eyes. “You’re not worthless, my girl. Whatever those newspapers and blogs may say about you, you are a good, beautiful, talented woman. I believe in you and so does Marco.”

  Pippa snorted again. “Marco hates me.”

  “No,” Joycy corrected, “Marco thinks he hates you. If he really hated you, why would he keep trying to help you?”

  “He only tries to help me because he thinks I’m too useless to help myself.”

  “That’s not true. Not anymore. He got that lawyer for you because he believes in your innocence.” Joycy rested her heavy cheek on the top of Pippa’s hair. “You’ve looked out for yourself for too long, girl. You’re going to have to let someone in soon, otherwise you’ll end up an old woman resorting to housekeeping to get her fix of human company.”

  Pippa disentangled herself and stared in confusion at Joycy’s face. “You?”

  The elderly woman nodded, running a finger down Pippa’s nose affectionately. “But my situation was not my choice. My body wasn’t built for making babies—I was born without a womb. This was back in the days when medicine couldn’t give women like me a baby. My mammy always said no man would want me and I believed her. When I was old enough to marry, I pushed away every man who came a-courting me. I believed that if they knew the truth, they wouldn’t want me. So I pushed them away first.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes were wet. Unbidden, a tear escaped and snaked down Pippa’s cheek.

  “Oh Lord, look at us,” Joycy laughed, producing an enormous handkerchief and thrusting it into the younger woman’s hand. “I didn’t mean to make either of us cry. Here, girl, take this.”

  Pippa was sobbing. She had no idea where the tears had come from, but now that they had started, they would not stop.

  She didn’t know if she was crying for herself, or for the young Joycy, or for the old Joycy. Maybe she was crying for all three. All she knew was that she could not stop.

  The older woman removed her apron and blew her nose noisily into it before wrapping an arm back around her. “That’s it, my girl, let it out.”

  How long they sat there, Pippa sobbing into Joycy’s neck, Joycy holding her close, stroking her back, murmuring soft, indistinguishable words, she had no idea. When the dam was finally stymied and the anguished howls had been silenced, she was reluctant to let go. If she closed her eyes she could almost believe it was her mother’s arms wrapped around her.

  But of course, it was not her mother. It was Joycy. And her embrace filled a small part of the gaping hole she had lived with for eighteen years.

  Joycy didn’t seem in a hurry to break the hold either.

  “I’m so sorry,” Pippa said, sniffing. “You would have made a wonderful mother.”

  Joycy kissed the top of her head. “I’m sure if your mammy had lived you would have been a wonderful daughter.”

  “Do you think?”

  “I know.” The elderly woman chuckled. “Now don’t you go feeling all sorry for me—I haven’t had a bad life. I have my sister and my nephews, and I have Marco.”

  “You think a lot of him, don’t you?”

  “He’s the son I would have wished for. Just like you are the daughter I would have wished for. Except maybe with less of the attitude.”

  Laughing, and with great reluctance, Pippa disentangled herself. “Thank you,” she said, planting a kiss on Joycy’s wrinkled cheek.

  “What for?”

  “Everything.” Raising her shoulders, her head a lot clearer than it had been since she had arrived on the island, she knew what she now had to do. “I’m going to start packing now.”

  “So soon?”

  “I have to leave for the airport at stupid o‘clock in the morning.”

  Joycy reached out for her hand. “I know you’ll clear your name even without Marco’s help.”

  “Really?” She didn’t try to hide her uncertainty.

  “Once they see what a good girl you really are, they’ll see you never meant to hurt that man. Then they’ll lock him up and throw away the key.” A look that could almost be described as protective flittered over her features. “You will keep in touch, won’t you?”

  Pippa smiled wistfully. “I will keep in touch with you, that much I can promise.”

  To her alarm, she saw that Joycy’s eyes had moistened again.

  “Go on, girl, shoo,” she said, sniffing loudly and gesturing with her hands. “I’m just being a silly old woman.”

  Pippa left the room feeling as if her heart was bleeding.

  …

  Marco mechanically ate the cardboard-tasting takeout Ma
rnie had ordered for him. He could have sworn she had brought the most tasteless food available as a form of protest at having to perform such a menial task. Although, thinking about it, his breakfast granola had also been tasteless.

  Mountains of paperwork were piled high on his desk and his e-mail inbox was filling quickly. He could not motivate himself to tackle any of it.

  He put the half-eaten food in the trash-bin, casting an eye out of the window and taking in the pale orange sky.

  What was happening to him?

  He had a good, old-fashioned headache. He could hardly recall anything from that day’s meetings, knew he would have to rely on the transcript someone from the typing pool would provide for him.

  He had also left his BlackBerry at home, which was unprecedented. His BlackBerry was with him 24/7. The only reason he had returned home earlier was to collect it; otherwise, his plan had been to stay at his office until the middle of the night and then return to it at sunrise.

  If the day had gone according to plan, he would have been the last to know that Pippa had changed her ticket home. He wouldn’t have known until it was too late.

  Too late for what?

  Too late to ask her to stay?

  No!

  He hunched over his desk and rubbed at his temples.

  In reality, he should have been celebrating getting rid of her.

  If there was a more stubborn, ungrateful woman in the world he had yet to meet her.

  It was none of his business whether she wanted to waste her talent.

  It was none of his business if she wanted to place her life in the hands of some low-ranking lawyer and spurn the best in the business.

  Swearing under his breath, he forced his attention back to his workload and clicked his laptop back to life.

  Instead of opening his e-mails, he found himself looking through the stored photos, many of which had come via his family. He scrolled through until he came to one he had always intended to delete. Taken by his mother, it was a picture of Pippa at her eighteenth birthday party.