by Heidi Rice
It had been two weeks now since Callum Westmore had driven out of her life. But this morning she’d finally had to face the truth, as she’d dragged herself out of bed after another night spent struggling to sleep, while the wild unbidden images tossed around in her brain and her body ached as if it had been battered with a baseball bat.
She’d developed some sort of obsession for her wild weekend fling.
A man she’d known for all of three days. A man who was totally wrong for her but her mind and body had somehow decided was totally right.
She couldn’t be in love with him, because that wouldn’t make any sense. She’d been in love before and it didn’t feel anything like this. Love was easy, effortless, painless, pleasant. One of life’s little joys. This strange yearning she had to see Callum again wasn’t painless or pleasant or joyful. It hurt. And she hadn’t been able to let go of it however hard she’d tried. Plus, she’d never, ever been the one to fall first, because that would be incredibly stupid. And she’d never been a stupid woman.
But if it wasn’t love, what was it? And why couldn’t she seem to get over it?
Ella cradled her hand and stared at the livid red line. ‘Ouch. That’s the third time you’ve scalded yourself this week.’
‘I know,’ Ruby muttered as she allowed her friend to lead her to the sink.
The cold water splashed over the raw skin, dousing the fiery pain in her palm. But doing nothing to alleviate the aching, ever-present pain in her chest.
Her mother had once told her the story of how she’d fallen in love with her father. How it had literally been love at first sight. When they’d both been children in Italy together.
Ruby had thought the story wildly romantic as a girl. And ever so slightly ridiculous as a teenager. And after her mother had died, and her family had fallen to pieces, she’d begun to question whether it was even true. How could her mother have loved her father and then slept with another man?
But she’d been thinking about her mother’s fanciful story more and more in the last two weeks. Ever since Callum and she had parted. And right now the thought that it might be true, that you really could fall in love with someone in the space of a minute—or even a few days—filled her with fear. She didn’t want to be beholden to someone like that. Fully and completely and without prejudice and for ever. She’d breezily told Callum in Cornwall that love mattered. That it was much more than lust. But she wasn’t feeling quite so blasé about it any more. What if love snuck up on you when you weren’t looking? And you couldn’t say no to it?
She shook the thought away. She was being silly. Ridiculous. The trip to Maddy’s had just made her realise how much she missed having a family. She’d spent years denying the need inside her for that kind of lasting, loving connection because she’d always been scared that it could blow up in her face, as it had before. Maddy and Rye had made her realise that the risk could be worth it. And then she’d taken her admiration for the couple, her yearning for the simple contentment of their life together, and somehow fixated on Cal.
Which was perfectly understandable.
Her live-wire attraction to him right from the first moment she’d set eyes on him. The way she’d basked in his approval. The electric zing of excitement whenever she’d been in his company and that compelling feeling of connection as she’d discovered a depth to his character she’d never expected. All those qualities had made him the perfect candidate for her newfound desire to start a family.
And also perfectly ridiculous.
Because Callum Westmore wasn’t interested in family or love or happily ever after. He’d said as much, and people didn’t lie about that stuff. And given what his father had put him through, it was no big surprise he found it impossible to trust anyone.
The only problem was, even knowing that, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She’d go from being euphoric at the mere thought of him, to crushingly sad at the thought that she’d never see him again. In the process she’d lost the ability to work, or sleep, or function like a normal person. And her business was suffering as a result.
She couldn’t contact Callum. What would she say? That she wanted to extend their weekend fling? That she wanted to have a relationship with him? He’d made it perfectly plain he wasn’t in the market for anything like that. And how would she explain the way she felt about him, when she couldn’t even explain it to herself?
She had to snap out of it. That much was obvious.
‘Does this have something to do with that guy?’ Ella said softly as she soothed antiseptic gel over the burn. ‘Callum Whatshisname.’
‘How did you guess?’ Ruby sighed.
She’d tried not to let her insanity show. Had resisted confiding in Ella because it would only make the confusion more real, more tangible. And up until this morning she’d clung to the vague hope that the train wreck her life had become might be nothing more than a bad case of great sex withdrawal.
It was way past time to stop kidding herself.
Maybe she’d never be able to forget Callum completely. Their sexual connection had been pretty intense. But that didn’t mean she could carry on obsessing about him. She had a business to run, for pity’s sake. And a perfectly nice, happy and fulfilling social life she wanted to get back to without this aching feeling of emptiness and futility dogging her every move.
‘So he’s The One?’ Ella said, her voice hushed in awe.
‘He most certainly is not The One,’ Ruby said sharply. A bit too sharply. ‘He’s just the one who got away.’
So far it had only been a fortnight, she told herself staunchly. This silly yearning to spend time with Callum, to explore every single facet of his character, would fade eventually. It had to.
Picking up the tray of cupcake sponges, she began transferring them to the icing sheet. She needed to immerse herself in work, and stop thinking about him constantly. That would be an excellent start.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Ella said, her voice subdued.
She did want to talk about it. She wanted to talk about every minuscule detail of their time together. Even the arguments. But that was the delusional person talking. The delusional person she’d decided to ignore. ‘Not particularly,’ she said.
The melodic ding of the doorbell made one of the cupcakes jerk out of her hand. The little spurt of excitement was instantly quashed. Cal wasn’t going to call on her, and she didn’t want him to. She was having enough trouble forgetting Mr Unforgettable without him turning up on her doorstep and making matters worse.
‘I’ll get it,’ Ella said, giving Ruby’s back a gentle rub before heading for the front reception area.
Minutes later, her friend came dashing back, brandishing a letter. ‘You have registered post, Rube. And it’s from him.’
‘What?’ She blinked. ‘How do you know that?’
Ella thrust the letter into her hand. ‘There’s a return address.’
Holding the thin white envelope with the registered mail sticker on it, Ruby’s hands trembled as she read the Lincoln’s Inn address, written in a swirling serif font with Callum Westmore, QC emblazoned at the top.
‘Open it, then.’ Her friend gave her a nudge.
Ruby sliced open the envelope with one of the kitchen carving knives. The thick white paper inside was stamped with the same letterhead. As she unfolded it another piece of paper fluttered onto the work surface. She stared at it. A cheque made out to her for a thousand pounds.
Why on earth …?
Then her gaze strayed back to the note, her heart pounding so hard now she could barely breathe as she read the three concise sentences written in a bold black scrawl.
Ruby,
We had fun a couple of weeks ago. Let’s have more.
Contact me.
Cal
‘What’s all that money for?’ Ella piped up beside her as Ruby sucked in a shaky breath.
Screwing up the note, she threw it in the dustbin, hitting the wicker dead on and making i
t rattle. Even though she knew she was overreacting, she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Her heart felt as if it were being ripped from her chest.
For one blissful moment, she’d believed something wonderful was going to happen. And she wasn’t even sure what that wonderful thing was. Just that Cal had contacted her, he wanted to see her again. And that meant anything was possible.
But then his curt, cursory words had registered, and the full impact of the insulting payment. And everything had crashed down into the pit of despair opening up like a chasm inside her.
It was worse. Much worse than she had imagined. She’d thought that although he didn’t care for her enough to even consider a relationship, that at least they had parted as friends. That this silly yearning hadn’t been completely one-sided. But the note showed she had never been more than an available body. A willing available body. No doubt like all the other women he’d dated and then discarded.
Fury rose up to quell the vicious, inexplicable pain. She shoved the cheque in the pocket of her apron, whisked her car keys off the hook by the ovens and charged out of the door.
‘The money is for Callum Westmore’s funeral expenses.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RUBY drove to his flat first. Stabbed on the intercom for ten minutes, allowing the simmering rage to dry up all of her tears. She’d shed them later, after she’d confronted him. Seeing him again would be hard, but not as hard as letting him rob her of the last of her pride and self-respect.
No man got to waltz into her life, waltz back out again, turn her into a basket case and then kick her while she was down.
She’d invented the man she thought he was. The sensitive, traumatised boy who’d become a man of such rigid control that he’d closed himself off from even the possibility of love.
That had all been an illusion brought about by sex and emotion and a lack of sleep—and her own stupidity. Callum Westmore wasn’t the troubled, turbulent man she’d discovered over that long-lost summer weekend. She’d always been impulsive, passionate, and reckless—and in Callum she’d met a man who knew how to exploit that, by giving her an out-of-body experience in bed. Probably not unlike the man who had once made her mother forget the man she loved for one night of thoughtless passion.
She closed her fist over the cheque, stabbed the button again, ready to throw the offending scrap of paper in his face when he opened the door.
But, he didn’t.
Damn, he wasn’t in.
The letterhead on his note had included an address in Lincoln’s Inn, one of the prestigious Inns of Court in central London. Forcing her mind to engage, she flagged down a cab.
He must have his chambers there, and on a Friday morning he was probably working. She was in no condition to drive—and she needed to stay in one piece until she confronted Cal and told him where he could stick his insulting offer.
When she arrived at the hallowed oasis of historic buildings and manicured garden squares tucked behind the Strand, the imposing eighteenth-century façade of red stone and leaded glass only fuelled her temper. Was it any surprise that Cal would never be able to appreciate what she had to offer? They came from two different worlds—he righted wrongs for a living and she baked cupcakes. The connection she’d felt so strongly in Cornwall seemed a million miles away in the lofty legal environs where Callum Westmore QC had forged a meteoric legal career.
She had led with her emotions instead of her intellect and she supposed she deserved to be punished for that, but she didn’t intend to be the only one suffering.
It took her ten minutes more to find the building that housed the chambers referred to in Callum’s letter. Polished oak panelling and centuries-old stone masonry made the place reek of gravity and importance—doing nothing to quell the inadequacy twisting in Ruby’s stomach. Entering a large room full of men in suits, Ruby was directed to a fresh-faced young man sitting at a desk piled high with files.
‘I need to see Callum Westmore,’ she blurted out, grateful that her pitch was only slightly shrill.
The man’s gaze flicked down her figure and she realised she still had her flour-stained pinny on. ‘You’ll have to make an appointment.’
She stifled the blush. ‘Is he here?’
‘He’s in court.’ The man glanced at his watch. ‘And he has another case at twelve. So he won’t be able to see you today.’
‘Could you please just contact him and say Ruby Delisantro is waiting? It’s personal.’
Hysteria bubbled under her breastbone at the thought that she couldn’t contact him herself. How could he have come to mean so much when his phone number wasn’t even programmed into her mobile? She clamped down on the urge to run, suddenly unsure and confused.
What was she even doing here? What did she hope to achieve? Was this really just some pathetic excuse to see him one more time? What had become of the smart, confident, self-assured woman she’d always believed herself to be?
The young man kept a watchful eye on her as he made the call in hushed tones. He put down the phone. ‘If you’d like to wait over there,’ he said coolly, indicating two leather armchairs placed at the corner of the office, ‘he’ll be here shortly.’
The rapid ticks of her heartbeat pummelled her ribs as she stood next to the chairs and watched the heavy oak entrance door—only too aware of the many pairs of eyes she could feel boring into her back. Clearly Lincoln’s Inn wasn’t often graced with irate pastry chefs on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Cal strode in moments later. A flowing black robe draped over his broad shoulders and billowed out behind him, accentuating his tall frame and dark, compelling features. The green gaze locked on hers. ‘Ruby?’
Her breath caught and for a second that seemed to last a lifetime she stood rooted to the spot.
His lips curved into a sensual smile as he crossed the carpeted lobby area towards her. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, the casual pleasantry given an erotic overtone by the rough murmur of his voice.
Ruby drew in a staggered breath.
How could the memory of those firm lips on hers, those long, talented fingers stroking heated flesh, still be so vivid? How come she could still recall the exact shape of his chin, the flecks of moss green in the emerald hue of his irises, the woodsy scent of his shampoo? How could the rough, steady tone of his voice still heat her insides like hot chocolate? She thrust her hand into the apron pocket before she gave in to the desire to plunge her fingers into his hair—and touched the cheque. Misery and fury tangled in her belly, right alongside the desire and the wistful tug of longing.
Closing her fist over the scrap of paper, she threw it at him. ‘I came to give you this.’
One dark brow winged up. Shifting his gaze to the floor, he bent to pick up the crumpled cheque. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m not your whore, that’s why,’ she snapped, the words remarkably calm and clear considering her throat had thickened so much it was blocking off her oxygen supply.
The other brow arched up his forehead. ‘When did I ever say you were?’
‘The money. What was it for? Services rendered?’
Instead of looking guilty or even embarrassed, his brows flattened. Strolling towards her, he gripped her upper arm. ‘Let’s take this upstairs,’ he said wryly. ‘Before my reputation is completely ruined.’
As he guided her through the main door she heard the hushed whispers, detected the strained silence as the young man gaped at her and all the other clerks stared with avid curiosity. But she was past caring as Cal propelled her towards a wide sweeping staircase. She wrestled her arm out of his grasp, swung round to face him.
‘Your reputation?’ She shoved him with her palm. ‘What about my reputation? You paid me money for sleeping with you. Or was it a bribe to get me to sleep with you again?’
His exasperated curse echoed in the stony silence. ‘Why is nothing ever easy with you?’ Before she could guess his intent, he caught her round the waist, bent over and hefted her over
his shoulder.
‘Stop it, put me down.’ She kicked, struggled.
He held her legs down, ignoring her protests as he marched up the stairs. ‘Be quiet, Ruby,’ he said coolly. ‘And stop punching me, or I’m going to take great pleasure in paddling your very nice behind.’
Striding down a long, panelled hallway, he burst into one of the rooms at the end and dumped her unceremoniously into a leather armchair.
She grasped the armrests, ready to leap out of it, but his hands came down on hers, caging her in.
‘The money was for the damage to your car,’ he said, his voice low with annoyance.
‘My …? What?’ She dropped back into the seat, the fighting spirit draining out of her.
‘Your car.’ He stood up, that searing green gaze slicing right through her indignation. ‘We agreed I would pay for the damage.’
‘But it only cost two hundred,’ she murmured, choking on the denial as the brutal blush blazed up her neck and set her scalp on fire. What had she done? ‘A thousand pounds is too much.’
‘So give me a damn refund.’
He paced across the room, thrusting his fingers into his hair. Standing with his legs akimbo, he stared out of the large, mullioned window into the courtyard below. ‘Do you have any idea how much legal clerks love to gossip?’ he murmured. ‘You’ve just given them enough fodder to keep us feeding the rumour mill for a month.’
Shame filled her at what she’d shouted at him. ‘I’ll explain. To the people downstairs.’
She stood, her legs trembling, more unsettled and unsure of herself than ever. Why had she jumped to all the wrong conclusions? What had possessed her to come storming in here, accusing him?
He turned. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘It’s my fault as much as yours. I should have explained in my note.’
But it wasn’t his fault. It was hers. And now she knew why. Because she’d done the unthinkable. The one thing she wanted to believe wasn’t possible. This wasn’t an addiction. It wasn’t a fixation. He meant much more than that to her. And she’d wanted to mean more than that to him.
