“My father had a memorial or something for her but I was deemed too young to attend, so I’ve never been able to say good-bye to her, not properly.” She knew she was rambling but his ominous silence was unsettling. “If you’re going to chew me out for placing myself in danger and inadvertently placing you in danger when you had to fish me out, please get it over with.”
“Believe me, cara, it is not you I want to chew out.”
A shiver ran up her spine at the grimness of his tone. “Then who?”
“Your father.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Why? What’s he done?”
His chest rose and he broke eye contact, gazing down at their conjoined hands. “Nothing. Which is precisely the problem. Pippa, why did you go out there alone? Especially with your phobia?”
“I had to. I’m flying home tomorrow—no, today,” she corrected, hoping against hope she would be discharged early enough to catch her flight. “I knew it would be my last chance to say good-bye.”
“But why alone? I would have come with you. You didn’t have to do it alone.”
“Of course I did. It’s the only way.”
…
Looking back into her widened eyes, Marco was consumed with a swell of emotion so strong that, for a moment, he could not breathe.
Of course she hadn’t asked him for help in confronting her fear. Pippa had done what she had always done—what she had always had to do—she had handled it alone. And the consequences had so nearly been fatal.
Cold perspiration broke out across his back. He had come within a gnat’s whisker of losing her. The rancid taste of his petrified fear still lingered on his tongue.
Regardless of the near-disastrous consequences, she should never have felt she had to do it alone, without anyone there to hold her hand, to support her. For that he blamed her father. How could he be so callous that he would be happy to rid himself of his daughter to a beachside home when he must have known she had a phobia of the water? Even if he hadn’t known of the phobia, there was no way on Earth he didn’t know it was the same stretch of water her mother—his wife—had drowned in.
Did he even care? If Marco were to call him now and tell him that his daughter had nearly died saying good-bye to a woman who had been dead for eighteen years, and all because she’d never had the opportunity to do so before, would he care? Would he have the same rancid taste in his mouth?
Taking deep, steady breaths, Marco forced himself to remain calm. The last thing Pippa needed at that moment was him raging about the man who had abdicated his parental responsibilities upon the death of his wife. For that was what James Rowantree had done. He had cast aside a small child who had needed love, comfort, and reassurance.
“Listen to me, cara, and please believe what I say. There is nothing wrong in asking for help and there is nothing wrong in accepting it when it is freely given.” He wiped away a solitary tear trickling down her cheek. “You are not alone. You are not adrift. There are people who love you and who want nothing but the best for you.”
Pippa’s chest heaved. Her face was pinched. “Name one.”
“Sorry?”
“Name one person who loves me.” She tugged her hand away from his hold. “Forget I said that,” she muttered, rolling onto her side, turning her back to him. “I sound like a whiny brat, but that’s because I’m tired. Can you please leave?”
His chest filled. He thought of the feisty woman who had arrived with such dreadful bruising, which she had masked behind a defiant don’t-care stance. Finding that woman’s vulnerability had been akin to scraping blood from a stone.
This woman in front of him, her vulnerability was right on the surface. And still she was fighting it, not wanting to show him that side of her even existed.
“Joycy loves you. My mother loves you.” His chest swelled ever fuller. How would she react if he were to wrap his arms around her…?
“Please, Marco. Just go.”
“I’ll be back later to collect you. Joycy has canceled your flight. Don’t bother arguing about it. For once you are going to do exactly as you are told and you’re going to come home with me.”
Chapter Twelve
Marco was delighted the doctor had no further concerns about Pippa’s health. He was less delighted at what was happening outside the hospital.
“The paparazzi are here,” he told her after the doctor had signed the discharge form.
She stared at him, wide-eyed with bewilderment. “Are they here for me?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But how do they know I’m here?”
A good question. A week ago he would have assumed she’d tipped them off herself. But now? Now his gut did not believe any such thing. “Someone must have put two and two together. Maybe someone recognized you on the flight over and they’ve been sniffing around.” He shrugged.
Her previously pale face had turned red. “You’re probably right. Plenty of people have made money tipping the press off about me before. Why should it be only my so-called friends who benefit from such a lucrative sideline?”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“All the time.” She pursed her lips. “I’m exaggerating. Since I left home I get papped every month or so. It depends on the story.”
“But if you’ve been clean all that time, what story can they print?”
She looked as if she had sucked on a particularly sour candy. “It’s not the actual stories they want, it’s pictures. Pictures sell, whether it’s me taking the rubbish out or going on a quiet date. Whatever.” Stomping over to a window, she peeked out. “Marvelous.”
She turned back to him, determination etched on her face. “Are there any other exits?”
“There are three exits. They are stationed at all of them. The police are on their way, so we shall wait until they arrive and move them on.”
“Move them on where?”
“To wherever these vermin go.”
“They go wherever the story is or in this case, they’ll go wherever we go—they must know I’m with you. What could be a better picture than the British socialite suspect and the sexy billionaire?”
“You think I’m sexy?” he asked, not displeased at this assessment.
“Of course you’re sexy,” she said dismissively, as if it were a given. “There’s only one thing to do—we have to face them head-on.”
“Pippa, you are not in any state to face anyone, let alone those vultures.”
“Don’t tell me what I am or am not in a state to do. I’m perfectly fine.”
For a moment doubt crowed into his mind. Surely she hadn’t called them?
But then he caught the anger on her face and thought it impossible anyone could fake that, even someone as adept at lying as she had been.
Had been. As Pippa would say, had being the operative word.
“Look, Marco, if we let the police move them on, they’ll only stake out your home.”
“I can easily arrange for security at the house.”
She pulled a dismissive face. “They’ll still be there, waiting. All they want is a picture—as soon as they have that they’ll leave us alone.”
“What? You are proposing to feed the vultures?”
“That’s exactly what I’m proposing. Come on. Let’s get it over and done with.”
He reached out for her hand, but she threw him a glare that lightened his heart and confirmed that she truly was on the mend. “There is feeding them and then there’s making them a roast dinner and chocolate pudding.”
The second they were out of the door, more than twenty flashbulbs went off in their faces, a couple of the paps pushing their lenses in her face.
“That is enough,” he said, placing a protective arm around her. His authoritative tone did the trick and the more intrusive ones took a few steps back.
“Farther back,” he insisted. “Miss Rowantree has only just been discharged.”
“What were you in for, Pip?” asked a particularly slimy-looki
ng pap, who really did look like a vulture with his bald head and beaky face.
“If you’re going to address her, you can refer to her by her full title, which is The Honorable Pippa Rowantree.”
“There’s nothing honorable about this one,” a voice cackled, the owner of which should have been grateful Marco could not distinguish him from the crowd or else there was a good chance his camera would be inserted somewhere the sun never shone.
She placed a hand on his arm and squeezed lightly. “I dropped the title five years ago,” she murmured for his ears only. “Now walk and whatever you do, do not lose your composure. Just ignore them.”
They made their way through the throng of paps, who took one look at Marco’s towering height and build and parted like the Red Sea to let them through. But still they fired questions, which only by tuning out their voices could he ignore.
“What were you in for, Pip? Back on the drink again?”
“Why are you staying with Mr. Capello? Trying to marry some new money now your father’s cut you off?”
“Are you looking forward to prison? I hear your old boss is going to sue you for damages.”
Marco had to hand it to her. Pippa handled them like a pro, strolling through them as if she didn’t hear a single word they said. Which she probably didn’t.
The only way he got through it without attacking one of them was down to her nails digging into his arm, reminding him not to lose it. Only by the skin of his teeth did he keep his cool.
Imagine facing this on a constant basis. Seven years ago he’d had to deal with it for a couple of weeks, but they had at least kept a respectful distance around him. Pippa was much bigger prey for them.
It was not until they reached the car and someone yelled out, “So you went back for seconds with her then? She must be a good shag,” that any pretext of serenity was abandoned.
Before Marco could react, Pippa had already slipped from his hold and stormed over to the offender. “I will have you know that Marco is a gentleman. Don’t you ever cast aspersions on his character again. Not ever. Do you understand me? He is a good man. Treat him with respect.”
Such was the venom in her voice that he almost felt sorry for the man.
As he steered her back to the car he could not help the flicker of pride at her total defense of him, and something else, something that warmed him from the tips of his toes to the short curls on his head.
…
Pippa sat back and fumed, compacting as closely as she could to the door. Her sunglasses—given to her by a wry Marco, whose own eyes were hidden behind his enormous Ray-Bans—kept her hair out of her eyes, but she hardly noticed the strands whipping around her head.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said, certain he must be steaming mad to have endured such a scene.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said, sounding surprised. “I’d forgotten how repugnant they could be.”
“Don’t you have to deal with them much? I mean, you’re hugely well-known.”
“Mine is a different type of fame. In America I rarely get bothered, only at official functions. The press there is a lot more respectful than in the UK. Here on Grand Cayman I’m generally left alone.”
“I suppose it helps that you haven’t cultivated a playboy image.”
“Maybe.” He changed gear, his muscular thighs straining beneath the denim of his jeans. A wave of longing flooded through her and she looked away, afraid of the strength of her response.
They completed their journey in silence, but through it all something was happening inside her, something that fizzed and bubbled manically, spreading out and dancing upon her skin in a mad jive.
After Marco had left the hospital she had laid in that bed replaying events over and over in her mind.
She owed him the debt of her life. She would repay that debt if it took the rest of her life.
It was more than that. She owed him for so much more. Now that she was able to reflect upon her adolescence with an adult’s mind, she could see that where she had thought him sermonizing and patronizing, he had been genuinely trying to help her. His manner toward her had been stiff and formal out of necessity she now understood. He had needed to keep a certain distance toward her, especially as she had been pretty blatant about her infatuation with him. She might not have paid the blindest bit of notice to what he had actually said but she had adored his pep talks, simply because he was giving her the one-to-one attention she had so craved.
Would she have fallen for anyone, man or boy, who had given her the same attention? That was a question that could only be answered in some parallel universe. On this universe, her reality was that Marco had been the one good constant in her life. Even when she had screwed up his life and inadvertently thrown all his concern back in his face, he had stepped up to the pulpit when no one else would.
And still she threw it all back at him.
There is nothing wrong in asking for help and there is nothing wrong in accepting it when it is freely given.
“We’re home,” he said, bringing the car to a stop.
So wrapped up had she been in her thoughts that she had failed to notice any of the drive home. She had even failed to notice the sea.
She took an enormous lungful of air—she could not believe how fantastic it felt to do that even if her throat did complain at her for doing so—and turned to him, grabbing hold of his hand before he could get out of his door. “Will you come to the beach with me?”
She could not read his eyes, hidden as they were behind his sunglasses. Luckily, her eyes were hidden too, so he wouldn’t be able to see the agony reflecting out of them when he said no.
“Now?”
She nodded.
He inclined his head. “Let’s go and see Joycy first.”
Together they walked through the basement and up the stairs, his hand resting on her lower back in a gesture that could have been interpreted as protective.
Joycy was waiting, ready to pounce on her the second she entered the kitchen, pulling her into an enormous, crushing hug.
When the old woman finally released her, she held her at arms’ length and beamed. “Am I glad to see you, girl,” she said, before pulling her into another bear hug.
Pippa willingly clung to her, closing her eyes as the most disturbing yet wonderful sensation of coming home washed over her.
Marco, his sunglasses removed, was staring at her with that same odd expression she had seen in the hospital.
“I’ll pour the coffee,” he said, turning to the pot.
“I’ve made Pippa a pot of tea,” Joycy said, releasing her properly and steering her to a chair at the kitchen table. She smoothed down her apron, a clean version of the one she had blown her nose in the day before. “Before I forget, Pippa, the health insurers called to confirm they received the forms, thank you.”
He spun round. “What forms?”
“The health insurance forms I told you about last week. They needed me to fill them out again because I’m about to turn seventy-five. We hit the deadline with three days to spare.”
He swore in Italian. “I was going to do that for you.”
“Yes, well, you have been busy with that software launch you’ve been working on…”
“Hold on a minute,” Marco interrupted. “I put the forms in a drawer in my office.”
Pippa piped up. “I took them out when I borrowed your laptop. They were pretty useless being there when they needed to be at the insurer. Don’t worry,” she added, interpreting the worry on his face, “I didn’t take a sneaky peak at your documents and sell them to Microsoft. Or spill coffee on them. Or cause any damage whatsoever.”
“I know that,” he said, waving a dismissive hand, although his face had that tight, thin-mouthed look she had come to distrust, usually forming before he ranted about something she had done. He hooked an elbow behind his neck and stretched his back. “I’m sorry, Joycy. You should have reminded me.”
“You should have rememb
ered,” Pippa said pointedly, quite enjoying watching him squirm. It made a nice change.
Joycy slapped her arm. “Don’t tease him. Marco, we knew how busy you were. She offered to do it. No harm done.”
At last his features relaxed and he cast gentle eyes on her. “Thank you. That was decent of you.”
“So you’re not going to have a go at me for rifling through your desk?”
The strangest expression came over his face. “As you said, I should have remembered. I’m just relieved Joycy had someone trustworthy to fill the forms out for her.”
“I told you she was a good girl,” Joycy said before Pippa could digest what he had just said.
He considered her trustworthy?
“Which also reminds me,” Joycy continued, blithely unaware of the rush of emotions skating throughout Pippa’s veins. “Pippa, your father called the house.”
“He did? When?”
She exchanged a look with Marco, who looked as startled as she felt.
“This morning, not long after Marco left to collect you. He’d lost your phone number so he called here. Didn’t he call you at the hospital? He said he would.”
“Did he leave a number?” he asked, his tone suspicious.
Joycy rummaged in her apron pocket and handed it to him. Immediately he dialed the number, placing his BlackBerry on loudspeaker.
A mechanical voice rang out. “The number you have dialed has not been recognized.”
“I took the number down right, I’m sure I did,” Joycy said, looking confused.
“I’m sure he’ll call back,” he said, his eyes flashing Pippa a warning. “If he was calling from England the line was probably bad.”
She understood and agreed wholeheartedly. As much as Joycy was ashamed of her illiteracy, she would feel ten times worse if she learned she had inadvertently confirmed to the press that Pippa was there.
…
Pippa sat on the stone wall facing the clear blue sea, her hand clasped in Marco’s.
She had managed to walk all the way to the wall that ringed Marco’s private beach before her legs had turned into rubber and refused to take another step. Her repeated reasoning to herself, It’s like falling off a bike, get right back on, had zero effect.
Tempted by Trouble Page 12
