by Maggie Cox
As the minutes ticked by, she became more and more convinced that the idea that had taken hold of her last night and wouldn’t let go was a good one.
‘They look like kind people … your parents, I mean.’
Turning round to face her, he folded his arms across his chest and smiled … a little uncertainly, Grace reflected with a pang. ‘They are very kind. Shall we go through onto the patio and have that coffee?’
The sunshine seemed especially glorious that morning, and the sky was a perfect duck-egg-blue. There was a faint caressing breeze, and it carried the scent of bougainvillaea along with the smell of the suncream she’d rubbed into her skin, making her wish that she could make the deceptively simple choice merely to enjoy this holiday—to have nothing else in her mind but to spend all her time with Marco.
‘You take it black with no sugar, right?’ she poured him some coffee and slid the porcelain cup on its saucer across the wooden table towards him. The crockery rattled a little, as if mimicking her nervousness.
Murmuring his thanks, he lowered his aviator sunglasses down over his eyes and instantly added to the mystique he exuded so effortlessly, making Grace’s stomach take a slow elevator ride right down to the tips of her toes.
‘I missed you last night,’ she confessed softly, not looking away when his glance intensified.
‘I missed you too, Grace.’
‘So … how did you spend the evening? Did you go to see your friends?’
‘Yes, I did … Although in truth they aren’t really friends. Simply people I once worked with or still work with.’
‘Oh?’
‘There was a time when I would have referred to them as friends, but not any more.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Since spending time with you, Grace, I have begun to see more and more who I can count as real friends and who I cannot.’
His smile at her was slow as the most luxurious honey being poured over a waffle—and a thousand times more tempting.
‘I’ve also faced up to the fact that I’ve been running away from my past instead of properly dealing with my feelings about it. Hearing you talk about your own fears, seeing how you’ve been determined to face them and overcome them, has made me see the sense in trying to do the same—because I don’t want them to impinge any more on the present. You see what you’ve done to me? I am a changed man because of you.’
‘I haven’t done anything. If you’ve realised these things it’s because you want to see the truth, Marco … that’s all.’ Grace absently stirred more sugar into her coffee, because being caught in the hypnotic beam of his disturbing gaze—even behind his shades—made it hard to sit still, made it hard to breathe. But his admission that he was at last going to face up to his past and not let it dominate his present made her feel like cheering.
‘You won’t take the credit for anything, will you? I’ve never met a woman so generous of spirit that she would not dent a man’s fragile ego by proving she was the one who saw things much more clearly than he did. It makes me think that I should hold onto you, Grace … yes hold onto you and never let you go.’
As well as making her heart race with joy, his sincere assertion sent her emotions into a tailspin. She yearned to tell him there and then that she loved him, but first she had to tell him about the abrupt change to her plans …
‘Marco?’
‘Yes, Grace?’
‘I don’t know how to cushion this, but I’m afraid I need to go back to Africa … to the orphanage.’
‘When?’ He instantly removed his sunglasses, and she was sure she didn’t imagine the shadow that moved across his irises. ‘You’re not telling me you plan on going soon? Not before our holiday is ended?’
Her tongue came out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. ‘I’m afraid I am. I’m going to have to go today, in fact. Two of the workers at the home have contracted a fever and are being treated in hospital. That leaves only two other people to help care for the children. They’re desperately short-handed, and there’s nobody else that can go other than me … All the charity’s field-workers are already working abroad elsewhere—plus I know the children, and they know me. As well as needing practical help, they’ll need reassuring that everything’s going to be all right.’
His face darkened, and she bit down on her lip. The duck-egg-blue sky suddenly didn’t seem quite so blue or benign … ‘It’s not that I don’t want to stay with you, Marco … it’s just that this is an emergency. I have no choice but to respond to the charity’s request for my help.’
He rose to his feet and strode over to the edge of the balcony, to stare out at the shimmering verdant lawns of the golfing resort in the distance. The scene of where they had first met …
Grace got slowly up from her chair to join him, unable to ignore the stiffening of the broad shoulders encased in his black fitted shirt that told her he was already shutting her out emotionally because of what he must no doubt see as a betrayal.
Marco turned round to face her. The shadows in his deep dark eyes made her heart sink like a boulder. ‘How do you expect me to feel? I know how much you care about others, Grace, but what about yourself? You are supposed to be resting—recovering from the exhaustion you suffered after your last visit. And most of all I don’t want you to put your own health at risk by going out there while a fever is raging. Didn’t you already tell me that the baby Azizi died from it? How on earth could I be happy about you returning there now?’
Flushing, Grace dipped her head. ‘We don’t even know yet if what the workers have contracted is the same fever that killed Azizi. It could be a completely different strain altogether … a less virulent one. The hospital lab will have to run some tests. The most important thing is that those poor, defenceless children shouldn’t be left without help and support. I know I was exhausted when I came back from there, but I’m strong and in good health. I’ll be absolutely fine … I know I will,’ she added, feeling the helpless sting of tears behind her eyes because Marco had made it abundantly clear that not only would he not consider going with her, but his tone also suggested that she was crazy for even contemplating making such a trip.
‘I don’t want you to go.’ Scrubbing his hand round his jaw, he moved his head a little despairingly from side to side. ‘I know you’ll probably go anyway … after all, it’s what you’re all about, isn’t it? Helping those less fortunate, I mean. It’s commendable to be so dedicated, but being dedicated is one thing—risking life and limb is another!’
‘I’m sorry, Marco … but you’re right. I am going. Try not to think too badly of me for it.’
‘I don’t think badly of you … I couldn’t. But I still wish that you’d reconsider.’
Even though she couldn’t be sure that everything would be all right, Grace knew that she must still go. Her strong natural instinct to help was too compelling to ignore, so she would answer it—if only to assure herself that everything humanly possible would be done to aid the children.
Looking as though he’d wanted to say more to persuade her to stay, but had concluded that he wouldn’t, Marco turned away and strode across the sunlit patio to the open French doors that led back into the living room. It hit her then that he was leaving, and that it might be a long time before she saw him again. A scalding tear slid down her cheek that their relationship should take such an unhappy turn.
‘Marco? Please don’t let’s part on bad terms. I promise I’ll be okay. Can you wait just a minute?’
Flying across to the table, she picked up the notepad and pen she’d left lying there, with which she’d been making notes about her trip back to Africa. She scribbled down her mobile phone number, along with her address back in the UK. As an afterthought, she wrote down her parents’ phone number and address too.
Tearing out the page from the notepad, she moved quickly across to where Marco was waiting and handed it to him. ‘If you want or need to contact me, then you should have this.’
He slowly nodded h
is head, took the sheet of notepaper and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Have your flights been booked already?’
‘Yes. The charity has arranged everything. A cab is coming soon to take me to the airport.’
‘Are you okay for money?’
‘Yes … I’m fine.’
‘Then there is nothing more to say, is there? Nothing except take care of yourself—and don’t take any more risks than you strictly need to.’
There was a husky catch in his voice that made Grace fleetingly hold her breath. Then, leaning forward to cup her face, he kissed her hard, almost bruising her lips with the passionate pressure of his mouth. Before she could gather her wits—and without so much as a backward glance—he turned and walked away. Seconds later she heard the front door slam resoundingly …
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE rain hit the concrete pavements hard, bouncing up on impact like thin, pointed daggers. Although it might be deemed refreshing, after the dry burning heat he had left behind in the Algarve, Marco felt too bleak to mind whether it rained or it didn’t. As he stared out of the windows of the Mercedes at the unfamiliar suburban streets he’d never had reason to visit up until now his mouth dried, and his heart pounded at the prospect of seeing Grace again after six interminably long weeks. He felt bleak because his separation from her had been like a death sentence. It had worn him down, prevented him from concentrating at work, and made him snarl like a tiger every time something didn’t go his way …
Although he’d rung her mobile several times it had been to no avail. Trying desperately hard not to let his fearful imagination run away with him, he’d followed up the futile calls with several to the charity in London, whose number he’d found out when Grace and he had first met, but the manager there had been frustratingly close-mouthed about how Grace was faring, refusing even to tell him when she might be returning home again because he wasn’t family.
Marco had hated that. He’d wanted to yell at them that he fully intended to be her family, if she’d have him. But he hadn’t said that. Instead he’d rung her parents’ number and spoken to her father—Peter. He was the one who had told him haltingly that Grace had been taken ill at the orphanage, after practically working herself into the ground, and that after spending a week in hospital she was being flown home to London … In fact, he’d been about to fly over there to travel back with her.
That had been over a week ago now. Peter Faulkner had advised Marco to wait awhile before visiting his daughter—’at least a week’—because when she got home she would need some time to acclimatise and recover her strength before having visitors.
It had been another test of gargantuan endurance to wait for a week, not knowing if Grace’s health was improving or not. Marco had been to hell and back in fear that she might not make it—that she wouldn’t recover and might die before he got the chance to tell her how much she meant to him … So now, as Miguel drove the car onto the generously wide drive of a smart detached red-brick house at the end of a tree-lined avenue, Marco dropped his head into his hands and murmured a fervent prayer.
When he’d lifted his head he flexed his hands several times, because they were clammy with fear at how he might find Grace. At the back of his mind was the memory of Miguel confiding in him that the love of his life had died from a terminal disease. Why, oh, why had he not agreed to fly out to Africa with her? If only he had been able to get over the sense that she was abandoning him—even though he’d known what she was doing was beyond courageous and deserved nothing but his admiration and respect. But, in his defence, her change of plans had devastated him.
‘Deus!’
‘We are here, Senhor Aguilar.’ Miguel opened the passenger door and held a large black umbrella over Marco’s head as he stepped out onto the smartly paved drive.
The man who had become a true friend to him over the past weeks, since Grace had departed for Africa, briefly proffered a smile. Contained in that friendly gesture was a wealth of empathy and understanding at what Marco must be going through.
‘I will wait in the car,’ he said respectfully as Marco nervously tunnelled his fingers through his hair, then ran his hand down over the sleeve of his chocolate-coloured suede jacket.
‘Thank you.’ Accepting the umbrella to shield himself from the still torrential rain, he turned away to press the button that rang the doorbell on the house’s scarlet painted front door.
After briefly introducing himself to Grace’s serious-faced but amiable father, he followed the silver-haired older man through a spotlessly neat living room out to a glass conservatory, where he told Marco that Grace was resting.
Marco sucked in a breath to steady himself when he saw her. She was sitting perfectly still in a rattan rocking chair that was pulled up close to the clear plate-glass windows, staring out at the sheeting rain that hammered dramatically onto the garden as though transfixed. Her pretty blonde hair had been left loose to fall softly round her shoulders and appeared to be a little longer. She was wearing a thin white sweater with denim jeans, and her small hands were clutching the wooden arms of her chair as if to anchor herself, he saw. She put him in mind of a fragile porcelain figure set on a mantelshelf—one false move would send it crashing to the ground to splinter into a thousand tiny pieces that would be near impossible to put together again.
The icy shard of fear that sliced through him made him feel almost physically sick.
‘Grace?’ Peter Faulkner moved up behind his daughter to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘You’ve got a visitor, love.’
‘Who is it?’ At the same time that she asked the question she turned her head, and her startled cornflower-blue gaze collided with Marco’s. ‘Oh, my God …’
It was too quiet and too stunned to be an exclamation, but even as he registered the words Marco saw that his appearance had deeply affected her. Likewise, the sight of her staggered him.
‘I tried to ring you so many times—’ he started, but emotion hit him with all the force of a rogue wave he hadn’t anticipated, scrambling the thoughts in his head so emphatically that he scarce knew what to say. There was so much he wanted to communicate, but where to begin?
He cleared his throat, moving a little closer to where she sat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her father lean over and drop an affectionate kiss on the top of her head.
‘I think I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted. When you’re ready, your mum will make us all a nice cup of tea.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
Grace waited until her father had vacated the room and shut the door behind him before she turned her face up to Marco’s and gave him a smile. The gesture was no less dazzling than it had always been, even though she looked far more fragile than when he had last seen her.
‘I can’t believe that you’re here,’ she said softly.
‘What have you been doing to yourself? You’ve lost weight, and you don’t look well at all.’ He bit back the despairing anger that suddenly gripped him, frustrated that he no longer seemed able to contain the great swell of emotion that washed over him at even the thought of Grace.
‘I just need some rest to help me get my strength back, then I’ll be fine.’
‘That’s what you told me the last time we were together … “I’ll be fine,” you said. Now I see that you’re not. I should never have let you leave.’
‘Marco?’
With a tender smile that he didn’t feel he deserved at all, she reached for his hand to enfold it in hers. His heart missed a beat, and when he answered his voice was a little gruff. ‘What?’
‘I’m so glad you came to see me. I—I was afraid you might forget me.’
‘Are you crazy?’
Mindful of her weakened state, he carefully but firmly pulled her up from the chair and embraced her, clutching her to his chest as if terrified she was a mere figment of his fevered imagination that might vanish at any second. But the reality that he was holding her in his arms again made him feel as if he m
ight die from the sheer pleasure and relief of it, even though at the back of his mind he registered worriedly that her bones had far less flesh covering them than they’d used to. Had she eaten at all in six long weeks?
Pressing his lips against her soft wheat-coloured hair, he breathed in the scent of the silken skeins as if they were anointed with the most divine scent a master perfumer could devise. ‘Could I forget the moon and stars … the sun or the sky? To me, my angel, you are all those combined and more.’
When Grace pulled back a little and turned her face up to his Marco saw that her incomparable blue eyes were drowned in tears.
‘Baby, don’t cry … It near kills me to see you cry,’ he soothed, cupping her face.
‘I’m only crying because I’m so happy that you’re here.’
Intent on stealing just a short, affectionate kiss, so as not to overwhelm her, Marco changed his mind the instant he felt her satin-soft lips quiver beneath his. He ravished her mouth with a heartfelt helpless groan. When he realised that Grace was kissing him back with equally as much ardour and passion, some of the fear that had dogged him since he’d heard she had been taken ill ebbed away. As if by mutual silent agreement they slowed the tenor of the caress so that gradually it became tender rather than passionate.
Marco lifted his head to observe her with a rueful smile. ‘I too am very happy to be here, Grace. I’ve been like a wounded bear since you left, and not fit company for anyone. But tell me … how was it that you never answered your phone? As I said before, I tried to contact you on numerous occasions while you were away.’
She emitted a soft, regretful sigh. ‘I’m afraid I lost my mobile the day after I arrived in Africa, and once at the orphanage I just didn’t have the time or energy to source another one. That’s why you couldn’t reach me. But I swear I thought about you every day, Marco. Every spare moment that I had—and there weren’t many—I thought of you. I shouldn’t have rushed away like I did.’
