by Annie West
These months at Flynn’s side, stepping back into a world where she had to pretend to be soignée and glamorous, enduring round after round of empty chat with people she didn’t particularly care for, had been hard. She kept recalling her father pulling the strings, demanding she look just as he wanted, say and do exactly the right things.
Playing the society hostess in this house, full of memories of her mother’s brittle smile, her father’s manipulative ways and her own trauma...it would stretch her to the limit. She dreaded it—even though she was convinced it would finally help her face her demons.
Rupert sighed. ‘Okay, Ava. I’ll be there. For you. Just remember you owe me big-time.’
She smiled, relief hitting her as she sank back against the ancient wood panelling. With Flynn and Rupert here she could do this. She’d prove the past had no hold any more.
Once that was done—once the rush to refurbish the Hall and organise this ball were over—she’d make Flynn take time off. They’d build their relationship and make a home together.
‘Thanks, Rupe! You don’t know what that means to me.’
‘Well, if nothing else it will give me a chance to know Flynn. A man who can get you to live at Frayne Hall, even host a ball there, must be special.’
‘He is. Just wait and see.’
Yet as she ended the call, absently watching men get out of the van full of the furnishings Flynn had organised, Ava frowned.
Every night Flynn made love to her with a tender intensity that touched her heart and left her more than ever addicted to him. Yet somehow they never managed more time together, even now she was jobless.
Flynn had assured her that once Frayne Hall was ready he’d work from his home office. There would be more time for them once a couple of huge projects were wrapped up. He’d take time off to spend whole days with her, like in Prague.
She understood his need to network. But there had been an unrelenting round of social events.
Ava wanted to let down her hair—literally—and spend quality time with the man she loved. She felt as if she was becoming a cipher, not a real person.
The image of her mother rose. She’d been elegant and charming, but beneath the charm and the tinkle of laughter had been tension, an emptiness that had scared Ava almost as much as the desperation she’d sometimes seen in her eyes.
A clatter drew her attention. They had opened the back doors of the van. Ava slipped the phone into her pocket and headed out, grateful for the distraction.
* * *
‘Where do you want these?’ The foreman gestured to the paintings in the vehicle’s cavernous interior.
‘It depends what they are. I’ll need to have a look.’
Already, with a speed that Ava could scarcely credit, the painters had finished the main ground floor rooms of Frayne Hall and were working upstairs. Flynn had said it was up to her where she placed the items he’d organised, but as she had no idea what he’d bought she’d have to check each piece.
Funny... Usually it was the wife who shopped for furnishings. Though, given Flynn’s schedule, she doubted he’d shopped himself. He’d probably had one of his super-efficient staff do it.
Her brow wrinkled. She should have volunteered. But everything had happened so fast. First the news that Flynn had bought the old place, then her job loss, and then his casual announcement that he had some items being delivered and would she mind being there to supervise?
Well, things would change, Ava decided. If they were going to live here she’d have to take a hand. Especially in their private rooms. Something bright, she decided. Something utterly unlike the pale watered silks, gilt and crystal and child-unfriendly furnishings of her parents’ era. Something comfortable and welcoming.
As soon as this delivery was sorted she’d make a list and start some serious shopping.
Following the driver’s lead, she stepped up into the van and watched him uncover the first of dozens of paintings, all carefully wrapped and secured.
Familiar eyes met hers. Blue eyes, and the trademark family mouth and chin. Ava stared. The painted face belonged to her great-great-grandmother, refined in pearls and an Edwardian gown.
Ava stared, a sense of déjà-vu hitting her. Last time she’d looked into that face it had been in the portrait gallery upstairs.
The next painting was of a Cavalier on horseback—another ancestor. Then a study of two boys in satin and lace-edged collars, with a glossy spaniel at their feet.
Her heart pounded as she scanned the stacks of covered canvases. Had Flynn tracked down all the portraits her mother’s family had accumulated? How long must that have taken? They’d only been married a couple of months.
She shook her head, bewildered.
‘You approve?’
Ava spun around, startled by the familiar deep voice.
‘Flynn? What are you doing here? I thought you were in London.’ Her heart leapt as he climbed into the van, taking her outstretched hands and tugging her to him.
‘I took the afternoon off.’
‘You did?’ She arched her neck, peering up into his smiling face. Her pulse skittered. Without his jacket and tie he looked like the man who’d wooed her in Europe. The man whose humour and compassion had swept her off her feet.
‘I promised, didn’t I?’
His voice was a low rumble as he kissed first her cheek then her mouth, and she sank into him. Dimly she was aware of the driver exiting the van, discreetly leaving them alone.
‘One day soon, you said. I didn’t think—’
His finger against her lips stopped her. ‘I’m here now, with a picnic lunch.’
‘A picnic?’ Ava’s smile became a grin. ‘Really?’ Had she told him they were one of her favourite treats? One she’d never indulged in till she left home. There was something deliciously decadent about eating outdoors, lying back and watching the clouds pass by. ‘Let’s go up to the woods. I know the perfect spot. High up on the edge of the forest. It’s full of bluebells in spring, but even today it will be lovely, with a fantastic view over the park.’
To think she’d been so discontented just half an hour before. See—Flynn was making an effort.
‘Whatever you like.’
He kissed her again and her breath snagged. It was almost frightening, the power he had over her emotions. What was it about Flynn that could brighten her day in the blink of an eye?
The answer was easy. He cared for her. Not as a pawn to be played, but for herself. He loved her. He’d showed her in so many ways.
‘You’re happy about the paintings?’ He drew back a fraction.
Ava nodded, turning to survey the canvases. ‘It must have taken ages. I can’t believe you’ve found them in the short time since we married.’
His fingers tightened around her waist and it was a few moments before he spoke. ‘I have excellent staff. When they know I want something, they make it happen.’
His tone sounded stiff.
‘Is everything all right?’ Ava regarded him curiously.
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
She shrugged. She couldn’t read his expression, yet she felt he’d tensed. ‘I just wondered.’ When he said nothing she spoke again. ‘It was a lovely idea.’ Just the sort of caring, generous gesture he showed her again and again. ‘What else is in here?’ She pointed to the other shrouded shapes.
‘Furnishings. Pieces for the Hall.’
Curious, she stepped forward. He moved with her, his hand at her waist. Ava loved that Flynn was so demonstrative, always touching her, even when they were at some high-profile event. It reminded her that behind the glitz and glam it was her he was interested in.
She lifted some heavy felt wrapping—and froze. In the stillness her breath sawed loudly.
‘My father’s desk...’ He
r voice sounded far away.
‘It took some tracking down.’
‘Why did you bother?’
Ava told herself to drop the heavy material and block out the sight, but her fingers didn’t obey. They clutched the fabric like talons.
‘It’s a beautiful piece. A one-off. I remember admiring it the one and only time I went into the Hall.’
Slowly Ava nodded. It was beautiful—massive and imposing, as befitted a man who’d seen himself as ruler of all he surveyed. She’d spent hours studying its intricacies as her father verbally tore her to shreds for various misdemeanours.
One of her earliest memories was of standing, hands clenched, before this desk as he berated her for having the temerity to skip down the hall and nearly collide with some important visitor. Her eyes had been level with the top of the desk and she’d thought if she concentrated hard enough on its carvings she wouldn’t cry.
She jerked back convulsively, as if touching a snake, and the heavy felt dropped.
Her eyes darted to the other shapes. What else was Flynn bringing back into the house? She swallowed hard, her throat scratchy.
‘Where are you planning on putting it? In the library?’
Despite her father’s strictures on her not touching the books, that had always been her favourite room. Her father had rarely used it, instead turning another room into his study.
‘No. I’ll use it in my office.’
Ava frowned. ‘I thought you preferred a modern style? This is an antique.’ She hated the idea of Flynn at this desk. It was irreparably stained with her father’s imprint. ‘Why not get something streamlined—like in your London office?’
‘This is in keeping with the ambience of Frayne Hall.’
Ava swallowed a retort that it was exactly that ambience she wanted to change. It was lovely to see the family portraits, but she hadn’t missed being watched over by ancestors who couldn’t save her from her father’s rule. If she had her way there’d be nothing from the past in their home.
‘Ava?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is everything okay?’
What could she say? That he’d resurrected her father’s ghost by bringing his desk back to the Hall? Surely she wasn’t such a wimp that a chunk of carved wood could spoil everything? Flynn had gone to enormous trouble to locate and purchase some of her family heirlooms. Because he loved her.
‘Of course everything’s okay. So long as you leave me scope to finish the rest of the furnishing. I need to get more involved.’ She slipped her hand in his as they moved towards the back of the big van. ‘Let’s show them where to store this stuff, then we can be on our way.’
‘There’s one more thing.’ The corner of Flynn’s mouth curled, grooving a sexy curve into his cheek. ‘A surprise.’
His obvious pleasure made her smile, her heart lifting.
‘Another one?’ Ava surveyed the swathed paintings and furniture. ‘You’ve done enough, Flynn. It’s surprise enough that you’re here.’
That was what she treasured—time alone with him. Not the material things he could give her. But maybe it wasn’t a thing. Maybe it was like the picnic—a shared experience.
‘Indulge me,’ he murmured.
He jumped down, then grabbed her by the waist, swinging her through the air, making her clutch his shoulders. Slowly he lowered her to the gravel, his eyes gleaming in a way that made her heart career wildly.
He leaned close, but instead of kissing her he touched his lips to her ear, making her shiver. ‘Ready?’
Ava nodded, her vocal cords too tight for words. It was crazy, but Flynn’s tenderness made her that happy.
She’d supported herself since she was seventeen, after walking out of Frayne Hall and never looking back. She was independent, capable, and moderately intelligent. But she’d waited so long for Flynn to share himself with her again—to give her that part of him that seemed so distant in London.
Now he was back—the Flynn she’d fallen in love with.
Ava cupped his jaw, feeling the texture of his skin, the solid bone and the steady pulse beneath her fingertips.
‘Ready,’ she whispered, and let him gather her to him.
This time he did kiss her, regardless of the removal men, till her head spun and she could swear the autumn sun blazed brighter.
When Flynn pulled back he was breathing hard, his nostrils flared and his chest lifting. His hand in her hair cradled, caressed.
He opened his mouth to speak but a nearby scraping sound reminded him they weren’t alone. His mouth twisted ruefully and he turned to give the men directions, telling them they’d be back soon. Then he led her around the side of the house.
‘Where are we going?’
‘It’s a surprise, remember? Close your eyes.’
With Flynn’s strong arm around her waist, and his stride shortened to match hers, Ava had no qualms about shutting them. They walked in silence, gravel crunching. Funny how disorientated she felt. She should be able to tell exactly where they were, but couldn’t even tell how far they’d gone.
Finally they halted.
‘You can open them.’
She hesitated, enjoying Flynn’s embrace and the delicious frisson of anticipation feathering through her.
She opened her eyes—and froze.
Ava’s breath stopped. For a heartbeat, then a second, third and fourth, she stood unmoving. Then, like a blow from an unseen axe, sensation hit. Her knees crumpled and she sagged against Flynn.
Her eyes rounded as she took in the car parked in the cavernous garage. In the overhead lighting it gleamed as if it had never left the showroom. On its bonnet was the most enormous bow she’d ever seen—black, to contrast with the powder pink of the chassis.
‘It’s... I don’t believe it.’ But even blinking furiously didn’t alter what she saw. The latest model Mercedes convertible in pastel pink.
As if someone had taken the car her father had bought her years before and waved a magic wand, updating it and removing the damage done when she’d crashed it.
What had possessed Flynn to give her this?
Did she look like a pastel pink sort of woman?
The idea added to her shock.
Was that what she’d become, with her society smile and her formal clothes and the sleek, upswept hair Flynn preferred for their evenings out? How long since she’d worn vibrant colours or her favourite polka dots? How long since she’d spent the evening talking about something important rather than mouthing platitudes?
‘Believe it, Ava.’ Beside her, Flynn sounded pleased—as if he’d read her shock as delight. ‘I remembered the old one and how you loved to drive it.’
Silently, Ava nodded. She had loved to drive it. What teenage girl wouldn’t? Until her father had made it clear what price he expected her to pay for the privilege. He’d explained with devastating succinctness that everything they had—even the house—rested in the balance as he tried to bring off the coup that would salvage his business. That he needed her co-operation.
Bile rose in her throat. She choked it back, pinning the semblance of a smile on her face. It felt like a rictus grin, but Flynn didn’t notice. He was too busy explaining the latest model, its features and gadgets.
Typical man, some functioning part of her brain noted.
But the other part—the feeling, emotional part—felt as if Flynn had ripped her wonderful day apart and tossed her back to the year she was seventeen, when she’d discovered just how vile the world could be.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AVA SMILED AND NODDED. Yes, the Hall looked wonderful. Yes, it was good to be ‘home’, hosting her first party at Frayne Hall. Yes, the ball next month would be a red-letter event.
As if the prospect wasn’t like a lump of rock in her belly.
She’d tr
ied to lift her spirits with a dress of vibrant scarlet—a colour she loved. But it hadn’t succeeded. She moved among the guests, laughing and feigning interest. No one seemed to realise her smile hid thoughts that were anything but placid.
Plans for the ball and this house party had consumed her. Thinking about them, and the memories they dredged up, made her queasy.
But it was more than that. She felt...dissatisfied.
After months of marriage her dreams of quality time with Flynn were still only dreams. He might work from Frayne Hall sometimes, but that just meant long hours locked in his study. There’d been no more picnics, and precious little time together when they weren’t on public view.
Something had to change. There and then she determined to confront Flynn tomorrow. She couldn’t go on like this.
He was good at providing material things. But the one thing she really wanted—the man himself—eluded her.
Ava saw him across the throng, talking to a high-profile politician, working the room. He didn’t glance her way. How long since he’d held her in his arms except in bed?
She blinked as the throb behind her eyes became a harsh pounding. She longed to escape—pull the pins out of her too tight hair, kick off her high heels and put on her old comfy pyjamas with the cute cow print that always made her smile. Pyjamas she hadn’t worn since she’d met Flynn, because he liked her in silk and lace or nothing at all. She’d make hot chocolate, grab an old film and—
‘Well, hello, Ava.’ The voice froze her thoughts. ‘Long time no see.’
She spun to find a florid man with iron-grey hair and a wide smile.
The air ground in her lungs as if she’d breathed in shards of glass instead of oxygen.
Her flute of sparkling water tilted in nerveless fingers, spilling down her dress. Belatedly she clutched it tight, holding it in front of her like a barrier.
She felt her eyes widen, her mouth sag.
‘Benedict Brayson.’ Her voice was a wisp of sound.
His smile grew, but his eyes were calculating.
A shudder ran down her back, chilling her despite the climate control and the press of people. Hairs stood up on her nape and arms as his gaze trawled her slowly...thoroughly.
