Hate to Love You (22 page)

I dropped onto the bed, struggling to control the wave of
sorrow.
I
would not cry
, I told myself grimly,
not for them and not for myself
. They didn’t deserve
it and I sure as hell didn’t either.

I heard a car pull up and looked out of my window. Only one
person I knew would casually park a bright red Porsche in this neighbourhood as
if he were nipping into a deli in Kensington. And yes, there was James, stepping
out and walking to the front door with a measured, confident stride. He looked
ruggedly casual in jeans and a black T-shirt, dark shades over his eyes even
though evening was fast approaching.

And I looked like crap. No makeup, a pair of brown trousers and
a scoop-necked top from Marcia’s butch phase. She said it made me look suitably
funereal, as did the tight bun and boring ballerina flats. Why hadn’t I bought
myself a pretty little black number? Even Marcia’s zipper dress would have been
better than geriatric brown and cream. I didn’t want to look good for James,
mind. I take pride in my appearance at all times.

When I opened the door James scrutinised me and frowned. I
didn’t look
that
bad did I?

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

I stepped aside, feeling gauche. “How did you know where I
was?”

He took off his shades and regarded me with solemn green eyes.
“My cousin told me I’d just missed you at the church. I couldn’t reach you on
the mobile but he thought you might be headed here.”

And he’d come to find me on the off chance?

On second thought, condensing my trauma into a few hours was
not a good idea. The day’s build-up was threatening to send me teetering over a
cliff that just kept getting higher. Seeing James here of all places, in the
house where I’d taunted him, wanted him and ultimately tricked him into sex was
overwhelming. I was exhausted, drained of social niceties.

His gaze was steady, probing deep and seeing what I didn’t want
him to. I couldn’t speak but it seemed there was no need. We were having one of
those silent conversations neither one of us admitted to.

<<
Why did you come
,
James?
>>

<<
Because you wanted me
to.
>>

“I’m supposed to phone Tarzan,” I said faintly, grasping for
control. “We’re having supper at his parents’ and staying the night, but...” I
faltered, staring at James helplessly. The backlash of the day’s emotions hit
me. Memories I had worked hard to suppress for years would not be denied any
longer.

“I’m so goddamn
angry
, James. I’m
sick and I’m tired of...of...”

The tears had begun in the middle of my sentence and they
flowed down my cheeks, as unstoppable as my shaking body. I tried to stifle the
sobs bursting from my throat but they would not be denied and I doubled over
from their force.

What was happening to me? I had never cried like this before,
not even in my darkest moments. The next thing I knew I was grasping James’s
T-shirt, pulling and pushing and beating my fists against his chest. Ugly snarls
came out of my mouth and my body twisted and turned along with them. I don’t
know how long I did that but eventually I heard James’s voice, telling me he
wouldn’t let me go. He hugged me tightly as the last gut-wrenching shriek
subsided.

I didn’t stop crying though, discovering a well that had
somehow remained untapped. My sobs were powerful and noisy and went on for a
long time but at least I’d left straitjacket territory behind. Night had fallen
and I gradually became aware of where I was. The warm cloak surrounding me
developed angles and ridges, muscular hardness and hot, breathing mass.

I was on James’s lap, cradled against his chest. His slow, even
breaths were the only sound I wanted to hear, the hand massaging my neck the
only touch I wanted to feel. I looked at the hand resting on my thigh, strong
wrist and long, slender fingers. They radiated soothing heat across my body.

I should have felt awkward or flustered but didn’t. How could
something that felt so right be so painful? My mind was a weak little voice
telling me to get up but I lacked the willpower to obey. My head hurt every time
I tried to open my eyes and I wished I could sleep for days.

My voice box felt sore and ragged. “I bet you didn’t know I was
a closet psycho.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” he said drily.

I smiled against his chest, right before I felt guilty. Crying
like a baby may have been cathartic for me but it was surely inconvenient for
James.

“I’m sorry, James. You probably have plans with the beautiful
Vanessa and need to get back.”

Damn, I sounded jealous. Gently, James tilted my chin up and
brushed his lips against mine. “She’s my cousin,” he said.

He scooted forward and scooped me up in his arms, lifting me
effortlessly. “You need to sleep.”

Up the narrow stairs we went, pausing at the top.

“Where?” he said.

“Last door on the right.”

James side-stepped us through the door and set me down on my
old bed. Off came my shoes before he tucked me under the duvet. I wanted to
tease him and ask if this was what he did with Ryan but my mouth refused to form
the words.

He kissed my throbbing forehead, a gentle, lingering touch that
sent a pleasantly warm buzz through my body and numbed my headache.

“Sleep, baby, I’m staying the night,” he said, and my mind
obeyed his firm command.

* * *

I had grown up wired to the sound of my parents’ front
door and when it shut softly at dawn, my eyes automatically popped open. I knew
instantly where I was and that I was alone. The sound of a car door shutting and
an engine purring into action made me jump to my window. I watched James’s
Porsche until he indicated left and drove out of view. Then I stared into the
street, bemused and hungry.

Stomach first, picking apart James’s surprise visit second. I
went to the kitchen and found a home-cooked macaroni and cheese and a note in
James’s straight-forward hand.

I grinned and took my plate to the sofa. Swanky kitchen or not,
I wasn’t going to eat there. I hoped crying my eyes out constituted a
“profoundly deep and meaningful foray into the past” because I was getting the
hell out of my parent’s house as soon as I showered and never revisiting them
again.

Other than a slight rumple of the cushions there was no sign
James had stayed the night. Little waves of pleasure worked their way around my
body, zinging me with a sort of silly happiness I’d never felt before.

I wasn’t supposed to feel delighted James had stayed with me
but my heart didn’t care. It accelerated and expanded without a thought for my
guilty conscience. But at least there was something I could do for James that
showed how much his visit had meant to me.

Chapter Nineteen

Flamenco Meets Disco Porn

I went back to work on Tuesday and presented James with
the gift I’d bought for him in Brighton. He looked at it as if I’d handed him a
half kilo of greasy chip paper.

I had made Tarzan traipse around Brighton’s vintage bookshops
searching for Cervantes’
Don Quijote de la Mancha
until we finally found a flawless copy. I wanted James’s Quijote to chase those
windmills without tripping over creases in the page. The book cost me fifty-five
quid but I wasn’t annoyed because of the price.

James’s shoulder had frozen over again and I didn’t know why.
And he wasn’t the only one acting strangely towards me. Conversations hushed and
people looked away when I approached. The atmosphere in Flintfire was so dense
you could scoop it up with a spoon and fling it, and I was getting pelted with
dark looks and curt responses. I was used to being stared at and talked about
but this felt different.

Word had got out my parents had died and a few people pretended
to care so they could talk to me and pass on what I said. Perhaps I should have
forced myself to read their eyes or asked Velma what was going on, but therein
lies the road to paranoia. If I probed everyone who looks at me sideways I’d end
up never leaving the house. Besides, James’s mind was the only one that mattered
and he was avoiding eye contact.

Had I dreamed his visit to Brighton?

I thought he had held me in his arms, kissed me and called me
“baby.” That must have been a different person because the man double-checking
my travel arrangements for Valencia had a pole stuck up his arse again.

Oh for fudge’s sake! Why couldn’t I just ask him what his
problem was like the feisty heroine in my current romance novel?

“Oh God,” I said under my breath.

James tapped his fingers on the desk. “Did you book the car for
me or not?”

I yanked myself out of the castle and into the office,
resisting the urge to roll my eyes. James’s anal insistence his rental car in
Valencia be smaller than average was typical of his tofflike behaviour.

“The Audi A1 is larger than the dimensions you specified but
they have other sports cars,” I said, scanning my notes. “They’ve got an MG
Midget.”

“Book it, and please ensure you reserve a room for me on
Thursday night.”

And where would he be staying Wednesday night? “Greg and I are
in the Valencia Hilton and you are...”

He didn’t fill in the blankety-blanks.

“You’re with us on Thursday night,” I confirmed. “And we’re all
guests at Sr Doria’s country villa on Friday afternoon and evening. His
secretary told me it’s a ‘ladies in red, gents in black’ occasion, whatever that
means.”

James’s mouth tightened. “You’ll see.”

* * *

In Valencia James was polite and reserved, spending most
of his time with our client. A charming yet wily tycoon in his early sixties, Sr
Doria owned Bizarre Records S.A., the largest producer and distributor of music
in Spain, plus several companies and farms dotted around Europe. Renegotiating
Flintfire’s terms of business with him required subtle skills and astuteness. He
wanted to, ahem,
minimise
his tax liability but he
was unwilling to pay Flintfire’s steep fees. Advising him on his tax affairs was
no simple task.

James disappeared straight after the last meeting on Wednesday
afternoon, telling us to contact him on the mobile only if required. Greg made a
snide remark about James visiting a secret lover and as I watched him drive off
I wondered if it was true. Not that it was any of my business, of course, but
couldn’t he have told me where he was going? It would be polite to share if he
had a girlfriend in Valencia, wouldn’t it? Especially since he’d spent a night
with me. On the sofa in my parents’ house, but technically it still counted as
sleeping together, didn’t it?

And if he didn’t have a lover in Valencia, what was he doing so
secretively? Not that it was any of my business.

You told me that one already
, my
mind sneered.

I made an effort not to think about James and enjoyed going out
with Valencian friends that night. We ate late and danced until early, just as I
used to. A part of me wished I’d never left Spain. It felt as though I was home
in a way I didn’t feel in London and had never really felt in Brighton.

The highlight of our business dealings came the next day. We
were seated in Bizarre Records’ boardroom with several Spanish lawyers and Sr
Doria. James and Sr Doria had reached an agreement on his European companies and
the talk had turned to the new EU legislation affecting Spanish firms. The
meeting had been tax, tax, taxing me to sleep and I was glad when they broke to
sign some paperwork.

Then Greg made a point of saying
punto
final.
He repeated himself and the Spaniards raised their brows and
looked at each other. Sr Doria was bemused but too polite to show it. He thought
Greg was doing one of those typically British things Spaniards like to laugh at
behind our backs. Sr Doria said
punto final
back to
Greg, so Greg said it again, pleased at his response. Then the others joined
in.

James caught my smile before I could hide it away.

<<
A
Spanish custom?
>>

<<
Sí señor.
>>

The mischievous look we shared warmed my heart like the sun
heated my skin. James transferred his attention back to business, a faint twitch
at his lips whenever Greg said the magic words. Our brief rapport made me
hopeful we’d get the chance to talk during dinner. If nothing else, I could
thank him for his company after the funeral. If he showed any indication of
warmth I could ask him about seeing Ryan again. Or invite him out for a
friendly, non-romantic post-dinner stroll.

Unfortunately, although I made sure the seat next to me at the
restaurant was empty, James chose a different table and by the end of the long
night I was no closer to talking to him than before. I’d booked him into the
Hilton as he’d asked but as soon as we got there he disappeared to his room.

Friday morning I packed and went to the hotel dining room for
breakfast, feeling disgruntled. James and Greg didn’t need me for the morning
meeting, so the only thing on my agenda was going to Sr Doria’s villa. It was
farther along the coast and I was looking forward to it. We’d be doing a bit of
work, lazing around the pool and then partying. Tough life, I know.

I’d had another late night and was a little worse for wear,
glad I wouldn’t have to stay sharp during morning negotiations. I tried to read
but gave up a few minutes later. The hero was hot but he was tall and dark, and
every time he got it on with the heroine I imagined myself with James.
Frustrated and annoyed, I propped my Kindle against the table vase and stared
out the window at passers-by.

I was reaching for my coffee when I saw James coming towards me
with his breakfast. He was in a charcoal grey suit and light yellow shirt with a
discreet tie. Ready for business. I was at eye level with his waist and that was
the only reason I noticed the way his trousers moulded to his bulge. Honest. I
grabbed it—the coffee I mean!—and knocked my Kindle over.

James looked at the patterned cover. Thank God I hadn’t brought
my current paperback to Valencia, a nineteen eighties bodice ripper called
Savage Lust
. The cover showed a shirtless Viking
embracing his half-naked captive and I didn’t want to see James’s condescending
look when he saw it. As it was,
Harem on Phallica Space
Station
was nicely hidden.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

I looked at the empty tables around us. “Please do,” I said, as
a polite and nonchalant employee should.

James tucked into his breakfast as if eating with me were the
most natural thing in the world. I gaped at his heaped plate.

“Baked beans and sausages? Mushrooms, bacon and scrambled eggs?
Three different kinds of pastry? Plus toast?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Hardly what I’d thought you’d go for.”

“I like pastry.”

I tsked, shaking my head. “Don’t tell me you’re one of these
people who go abroad and refuse to eat local food or try anything
different.”

“Of course not, I’ll have a kebab if I can find one.”

Huh?
Where was the posh lawyer who
lived in a Georgian mansion and drove a Porsche? The one who drank specially
imported tea and ate his lunch in expensive restaurants, disgusted at my burgers
and chips.

My expression must have been pretty damn funny since that same
man, the one who hadn’t cracked a proper smile at me since I came back to work,
actually laughed. A sexy laugh that hit me like a bullet train, speeding up my
heart rate and leaving me gasping at the burn. The teasing light in his eyes
made them sparkle emerald green.

“Okay, you got me,” I said grudgingly.

I narrowed my eyes at him in mock anger. <<
But payback will be sweet.
>>

<<
I
hope so.
>>

I gulped. Had I read that correctly? James had shifted from
iceberg to volcano and I didn’t know what to do about it. I prided myself on
being a good flirt, a no-nonsense “let’s go for it” kind of woman when the mood
struck. Not quite the same as my slutty teenage years but I was still pretty
confident. James’s teasing stumped me, especially after his behaviour the past
few days.

I tried to read him but he didn’t give me an encore. He
swallowed his coffee and finished his breakfast, eyes on his watch. Any warmth
disappeared with the last bite of his pastry and he was back to his usual
demeanour.

Cold.

Hot.

Cold
.

He didn’t look like a schizo, but who knew with all the
interbreeding between blue bloods?

“The receptionist mentioned that you went out last night,” he
said. “You look tired.”

A euphemism for “you look like crap”?

“I went dancing with friends and I’m a bit sleepy.”

“Take the afternoon and evening off.”

“But what about translating for you later?”

“My Spanish is fluent—it’s just better that clients not know
that,” he said, confirming a niggling suspicion I had. “I’ve booked you back
into the hotel for tonight.”

“But we’ve been invited to Sr Doria’s party, remember?”

James didn’t meet my eyes and I clocked that he’d booked
me
back into the hotel, not himself and Greg.

“Well, you can un-book me because I’m going with you and Greg
to the party. My professional conduct is being observed at all times, isn’t it?”
I said, happy to throw his words back at me. “I wouldn’t want to be derelict in
my duties.”

James stood up. “Be in the lobby at one p.m.” A congested
expression settled on his face. “Were you told what to expect tonight?”

Jesus, was he always this anal at the prospect of a good time?
His tone made it sound as though we’d be rounded up and slaughtered.

“Now’s the time to warn me if I should hide,” I said.

“Look around and you won’t need the warning.”

* * *

For me a car is a car. If it’s got four wheels, a
working engine and will get me from A to B, I don’t care what make it is. But as
soon as I settled into James’s bright yellow MG, I changed my tune. Driving
along the Spanish coast in a sports car was exhilarating. And there’s nothing
like a smooth ride and a masculine, sexy driver. The small, supple space seemed
to be filled with James, with a sort of powerful animal tension. Sitting next to
him while he shifted gears and manoeuvred, sunglasses on and oozing
testosterone, definitely revved
my
engine. James’s
penchant for sports cars now seemed like a forgivable trait.

I inhaled the scent of leather and let out a long sigh of
pleasure. “You can drive me around any time.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “The bend?”

“You do that already.”

The hatch was down and once we hit the motorway conversation
was impossible. We sped through miles of arid brown earth, cracked with thirst.
A few tourist resorts dotted the coastline, high-rise modern buildings in close
clusters that looked incongruous against the sparkling turquoise sea. I lifted
my hands to feel the wind buffet my arms. James cocked a brow at my childishness
and I shrugged, raising my face to the sun. I was in a little bubble of
brightness, enjoying the heat.

Sr Doria’s villa turned out to be a mansion complete with
marble floors, Michelangelo-type ceilings and no fewer than four swimming pools.
James’s face was neutral but I could sense his snobby distaste at our nouveau
riche surroundings.

His relaxed demeanour during the drive had metamorphosed into
the kind of formality more suited to a boardroom than a holiday home.

“Definitely a schizo,” I mumbled.