“Looks like we’re not the first to hide out here.” Max pointed towards a pile of firewood and a couple of large logs. “I’ll light a fire.”
Rachel followed him and wrapped her arms around herself. Her black rain jacket was slick with water and she felt cold right down into her bones. “Do you have matches? Or a lighter?”
Max was sorting through the wood and looked up at her. “No. But every good bodyguard should know how to light a fire from scratch, in the middle of a thunderstorm, in a cave behind a waterfall.”
Rachel let out a short sharp laugh that echoed around the cave and quickly put her hand over her mouth. “Wait. Was that a joke?”
Max made an ‘it might have been’ gesture with the corners of his mouth, then knelt down to concentrate on lighting the fire. A few minutes later, he succeeded. And a few minutes after that, a warm glow began to fill the cave.
“Will it get smoky?” Rachel asked as she bobbed down and warmed her hands.
Max pointed to the ceiling at the back of the cave. “The roof’s quite high and there are some holes back there letting daylight in – should be enough to allow the smoke out.” He sat back on his heels and shrugged off his jacket. “Here…” He wrapped it around Rachel’s shoulders then dragged the larger log over to the fire and gestured for her to sit down. “Now we just have to wait for the storm to pass.”
“Story of my life,” Rachel muttered sarcastically.
Max allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch into a smile. In the firelight, his square jaw and dark brown eyes made him look more like a T.V. version of a detective than a real life one.
“So, how d’you learn to do that?” Rachel nodded towards the fire.
“I was a boy scout.”
Rachel wasn’t sure whether his reply was sincere, and she couldn’t interpret the look on his face. “Well, lucky for us that you’ve got some survival skills. Hey, Brandi?”
Brandi was stretched out beside the fire with her head on her paws, but her ears twitched at the sound of her name.
“You never did tell me how you two ended up together…” Rachel crossed her legs at the ankles and pulled Max’s jacket closer around her shoulders.
Instinctively, Max reached down and patted the top of Brandi’s head. “She was my friend Frank’s dog.”
Rachel didn’t say anything, just waited to see if he’d continue.
Max glanced at her, cleared his throat, then rubbed his hands together as if he still couldn’t get warm. “Frank was a dog handler for the Metropolitan Police. He raised Brandi. She lived with him and his wife, and their girls.”
As if she knew exactly what they were talking about, Brandi sighed, stood up, and leaned against Max’s legs. Max was staring into the fire and his features had settled into an almost pained expression. “Frank died eighteen months ago. Killed in the line of duty. Caroline, his wife, moved the kids to Ireland to be with her family and…” Max trailed off.
“They didn’t want to take Brandi with them?”
“They did. Broke their hearts to leave her, but Caroline’s mother is allergic, and she needed her family’s help. She and Frank…” Max brushed his hand through his short hair and smiled as if he was remembering something. “They were the perfect couple. Truly loved-up, even after thirty years of marriage. She was broken when he died.”
Rachel bit her lower lip. She wanted to put her hand on Max’s back, on the broad, muscular spot between his shoulders, and tell him she was sorry. But instead, she reached for Brandi. “Thank goodness you were able to take her.”
Max looked at his canine companion and smiled. “She was nearing retirement and it’s hard to find homes for old working dogs. I couldn’t let her…” He visibly shuddered, then sat up straighter and looked towards the waterfall. “Thunder’s stopped. I’ll go check the rain.”
Rachel watched him get up and tucked her damp hair back from her face. A strange, prickly, fizzing sensation was bubbling beneath the surface of her skin. And she knew it was because of Max. Because, even though he’d tried so hard not to let her see it, he was a good and honourable man. He was tall, handsome, liked to read, and knew how to light fires without matches. And, on top of that, he had a depth to him that very few people – in Rachel’s experience – possessed. Max had a story. He’d lived a life, a real life, and under any other circumstances Rachel would have been jumping for joy to have found someone like him.
“Rain’s almost stopped. Looks like the storm passed quickly.” Max returned and tipped his head at the fire. “We best put this out before we go. I’ll fetch some water.”
14
Max
Back at the cottage, Rachel insisted that they eat dinner together.
“Come on, Max,” she said, folding her arms in front of her chest and tapping her foot up and down. “This whole ignoring-one-another-when-we’re-indoors thing is getting ridiculous. And I’d like to thank you for rescuing us.”
“I hardly–”
“Yes. You did.”
“We were stuck for less than an hour.”
“But it could have been longer. And if it had been, your fire lighting skills would have saved us.”
Max tried to fight the urge to smile but didn’t quite manage it. He was cold and damp, and the idea of a delicious hot meal made his stomach lurch into a growl.
Rachel laughed and raised her eyebrows at him. “See. Your stomach agrees with me.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m going to go and freshen up, call Tyler for an update, then I’ll help.”
Rachel nodded approvingly. “Good. See you in a minute.”
Upstairs, Max sat on the edge of his bed and released a long, heavy sigh. Then he took out his phone and called Tyler. After three rings, his friend answered and very quickly told him there was no progress, nothing to report. “Sorry, Max. I’ve got to go. I’m on another case right now...”
“Sure. Keep me in the loop though, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah. Will do.”
Tyler hung up and Max was left holding the phone and wondering whether he should change into something else or stick with his slightly grubby jeans. He decided on a fresh pair, went to the bathroom to splash hot water on his face, then ventured back down to the kitchen.
Rachel had taken off her sweater and was wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and bare feet. She was chopping vegetables and when she turned around, tears were streaming down her face. Instantly, Max’s muscles tensed. “Rachel?” He strode forwards and put his hands on her upper arms. “What happened? Are you all right?”
Rachel’s eyes fixed on his and he heard her breathe in sharply. He loosened his grip on her arms and felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. “Onions,” she whispered.
Max frowned.
“Onions.” Rachel stepped back and waved her knife at the chopping board. “They always make me cry.”
Embarrassed, Max rubbed the back of his neck and swallowed forcefully. “Of course. Sorry. Guess I’m on edge tonight.”
Rachel smirked and wrinkled her nose. “Unlike every other night... when you’re super-relaxed.”
He was going to object, remind her once again that it had nothing to do with being relaxed and everything to do with looking after her. But then he found himself nodding and saying, “Can I do anything to help?”
“Actually, yes.” Rachel wiped her hands on a tea towel and pulled a chair out from the table. “You can sit down and talk to me while I cook.”
Max frowned at her. He felt nervous and he had no idea why. “Talk to you?”
“Yep. It’s polite to talk to your host when they’re cooking.” She took two wine glasses from the shelf behind her and poured a small amount of white wine into each. Handing him one, she said. “So, why don’t you start by telling me what you think of my books, Detective Bernstein?”
15
Rachel
Rachel had summoned all the bravado she could muster, and it seemed to be working; Max had agreed to eat dinner with her.
And now he was sitting at the table in the kitchen with his legs stretched out in front of him, sipping slowly at a glass of white wine and making actual conversation.
Asking him what he thought of her books could have been a disaster but, to her surprise, he said, “When I’ve finished the series, I’ll tell you.”
“Okay. I’m assuming the fact that you want to finish the series is a good sign?”
“It could be.”
“But you don’t think they’re terrible?”
Tilting his head to one side, he said knowingly, “I think you’re very aware that they’re not terrible.”
Rachel shrugged. “In a way, yes. I know what the reviews say, and I know what my agent and my readers tell me. But every writer, deep down, thinks they could do better.”
“That’s just human nature.” Max leaned forward onto his elbows and flicked the stem of his wine glass with his index finger. “We all wish we were better.”
“Do you?” It was a personal question. Deep. Possibly too deep, considering that up to now they’d barely talked about anything real. Rachel held her breath while she waited for Max to answer.
He looked up at her, caught her eyes, and smiled thinly. “Every day. Every single day.”
She had considered making another risotto, but she’d used most of the small bag of Arborio rice so settled for her second-best dish: lasagne.
“You like cooking?” Max’s question surprised her. It was almost the sort of question you’d ask if you were trying to get to know someone.
“It reminds me of my mother,” she said softly. As always, even mentioning her mother made her feel both nostalgic and profoundly sad at the same time. “She was a wonderful cook.” Rachel turned back to her onions, swiped them to one side of the chopping board, and set to work dicing a carrot.
“She died. A while back. Cooking her recipes makes me feel close to her.” Rachel shrugged her shoulders and tried to make her voice sound sing-song and okay, despite the fact that her onion tears were dangerously close to becoming real tears. “Plus, you know, everyone loves good food, don’t they?”
“Best way to make friends and influence people.” She felt as if Max was watching her closely but didn’t want to turn around and see him looking at her with pity in his eyes. “You cook for friends back home?”
Rachel added the carrot to her onion pile and peeled the outer shell away from a clove of garlic. “Mostly my neighbour, Pete.”
She heard Max’s chair scrape back and turned to look at him. He walked over and stood beside her, sipping his wine. Not a single thing about him reminded her of Pete; where Max was tall, broad, and brooding, Pete was no taller than she was, slender, and academic. “You mentioned Pete before, is he...?” Max’s expression didn’t change as he waited for her answer.
Rachel shrugged. “I thought once that he might have been but now... probably not.”
“I’m sorry.”
She waved her knife in the air. “I’m not one for relationships, really. Not since the divorce.”
Max cleared his throat and Rachel caught him picking at a wooden groove in the countertop with his short fingernails.
“Sorry. Is talking about relationships a step too far? Should we stick to the weather and our jobs?” Rachel had stopped chopping and was standing with her arms folded.
“Miss French.” Max was speaking slowly, but he didn’t sound annoyed. “You’re welcome to talk about your relationships. Just don’t expect the same in return.”
“Oh, so you admit you’ve had relationships? You’re not just a lone wolf?” She smiled, turned back to the chopping board, and started to slice some mushrooms.
Max didn’t answer her. Just put down his wine glass and said, “Why don’t you give me something to chop?”
The lasagne took nearly an hour to cook in the small, not-very-hot oven. While they waited, Rachel tried one more time to draw Max into talking about his relationship status. She wasn’t sure why it mattered to her but, for some reason, the thought that she might be sharing a house with someone else’s husband made her feel deeply uncomfortable. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t married or living with someone.
“So, seriously, is it just you and Brandi?”
They were sitting opposite one another and Max was on his second glass of wine. For a moment, he looked at her sternly. But then finally he said, “Yes. Just us.”
“There’s no Mrs Max?”
“No. There was. A long time ago. But now it’s just me and the dog.”
“How long were you married?”
“Not long.”
“I managed six years. But after my mother died, things got… I got…” She trailed off and shook her head. When she looked up, she said, “It didn’t work out.”
“How old were you? When she died?”
“Not young. Twenty-eight.”
Max bit his lower lip and Rachel felt like he was about to share something with her in return. But he didn’t. He just looked over her shoulder at the oven and said, “It looks like it’s nearly done.”
As they ate, Rachel tried not to watch Max too closely. But the way he closed his eyes as he savoured each mouthful made her feel both proud, that he was enjoying her food so much, and sorrowful, because it seemed as if it had been an awfully long time since he’d been cooked for like this.
“Question,” she said as they moved through to the lounge with their wine glasses. “What do you usually eat?”
Max sat down in the armchair beside the fire and let Rachel take the couch. He looked at the wine in his glass, sipped it, then said, “Cereal, sandwiches… kebabs from the truck down the street if I’m back in London.”
Rachel’s face crumpled with distaste; the only kebabs she’d ever tried were the greasy, likely to give you food-poisoning, kind that she’d eaten after a long night of dancing in nightclubs when she was at university.
“Never had much time for cooking when I was in the police force. Most detectives are chronically undernourished.” He looked up at her and a smile flitted across his lips.
Rachel caught herself dipping her head and smiling, the way she might if they were two people who’d met, got along, and gone out on a date. Correcting herself, she patted the couch and Brandi jumped up beside her.
“So, how are you feeling about it all now? Everything that went on in London?” Max’s voice was slow and steady, and he was watching her as if he was truly very interested in her answer.
Rachel swallowed uncomfortably; she’d been trying to forget about the reason she was in Scotland. She’d pushed what had happened in London to the back of her mind and been focusing on just enjoying the scenery, and the wide open spaces, and – even though she’d been trying not to admit it to herself – Max’s company.
“Better. My anxiety has definitely faded. To be honest, I’m trying not to think about it too much. I’m trying to trust that Tyler will find the guy and that when I go back, everything will be normal again.” She paused and pursed her lips. “Do you think that’s possible? For things to be normal again?”
Max swayed his head a little and took a sip of wine. “Anyone who goes through something like that will feel differently afterwards, but it’ll fade.” He looked up and smiled thinly at her. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”
After that, after his small allusion to the past he hadn’t shared with her, Max changed the subject and started to ask Rachel about her books. She knew he was diverting her, deliberately steering the conversation away from himself, but she allowed him to do it. Surprisingly few people asked her about her writing process, and it was nice to talk to someone who seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.
They were half way through their bottle of wine when Rachel asked Max if he’d like another glass. Instinctively, his body twitched as if he was going to move forwards and offer to pour. But then he stopped, said, “Better not,” and got up to do the dishes.
Insisting that Rachel didn’t nee
d to help because she’d cooked, he persuaded her to go settle down for the night and Rachel got the feeling that he was trying to bring the evening to an end.
“All right, if you’re sure?”
Max nodded fervently, already filling the sink with hot water. “I’m sure. Goodnight Rachel.”
She paused in the doorway, wondering what would happen if she ignored him and stayed.
“See you in the morning.”
“Yes. Goodnight Max. And thank you for a lovely evening.”
16
Max
The next morning, Max found Rachel clattering around in the cupboard in the hall.
“Everything okay?” He was coming in from his early morning walk out back with Brandi and shut the front door softly behind him.
“I’m just looking for the router. I need to start researching but I can’t seem to find the Wi-Fi on my laptop,” she mused, wrinkling her nose as she spoke.
“That would be because there’s no Wi-Fi here.”
Rachel stopped what she was doing and stepped away from the cupboard. “No Wi-Fi?”
Max fought the urge to laugh; Rachel looked utterly panic stricken. “I’m afraid not. We’ve been here a week, you’re only just realising?”
Rachel leaned back against the wall and sighed as if all the air had been let out of her system. “I didn’t need it before. I was using my phone for emails and texts, but it just died.” She swallowed hard and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Your phone died?”
She nodded and held it out in front of her. When she pressed the screen, nothing happened and she winced as if it was physically painful.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know. I tried to turn it on this morning and... nothing.”
The True Love Travels Series Box Set Page 6
