Lone Wolfe (13 page)

 
          
Mollie
thought it sounded like an incredibly oversimplified version of what she was
sure would be an engrossing and inspiring story, but she decided not to press.
‘J Design does a lot of work for charity, doesn’t it? Is that your choice?’

 
          
‘I
like to help those less fortunate,’ Jacob replied with a shrug. He glanced at
her, his eyes narrowing. ‘I noticed you haven’t cashed your cheque.’

 
          
‘Am
I less fortunate, then?’ Mollie asked lightly, although his implication stung
just a little.

 
          
‘That’s
not what I meant. Although I consider it unfortunate that your father worked
for so long without being paid. Why didn’t you deposit the cheque?’

 
          
Mollie
shrugged. ‘It didn’t feel right.’

 
          
‘You
deserve that money, Mollie—’

 
          
‘Do
I?’ she challenged quietly. ‘I might have flung a few accusations at you, but
the truth is my father didn’t work a full day for years. He was too ill.’

 
          
‘And
why do I think that you carried his slack?’ Jacob
questioned,
his voice soft.

 
          
Mollie
looked away. ‘Besides, it’s not as if a gardener was necessary when no one
lived in the house and it was half falling down anyway. It was only Annabelle’s
charity that gave us a place to stay. We didn’t need to be there.’ She took a
breath and let it out slowly. ‘And you certainly don’t need to pay us for the
privilege.’

 
          
‘I’m
sorry if I insulted you by giving you the money,’ Jacob said after a moment.

 
          
‘It
was very generous of you,’ Mollie said quickly. ‘I wasn’t insulted.’ She had
been, bizarrely, hurt. As if money could fix the heartache and loneliness of
those years. Write a cheque and be done with it.

 
          
‘I’m
sorry,’ Jacob said quietly. ‘I hurt more people than I even realised by
leaving.’ Mollie’s heart twisted. For so many years she’d imagined Jacob
leaving carelessly, without a thought or concern for the people he’d left
behind. She’d seen Annabelle check the post every day for letters, and when
none had
come
Mollie had assumed Jacob didn’t care
enough to write. She’d pictured him partying in some glamorous city, too
involved in his own pleasure to think of his family or Wolfe Manor. She had,
Mollie knew, tarred Jacob with the same brush as his father, and she knew now that
wasn’t fair.

 
          
Yet
why
had
he left? How could he have
done such an agonising thing, knowing the pain it would cause his family? She
still didn’t know him well enough to understand, or ask the question.

 
          
‘It’s
okay,’ she said now. ‘It’s time to move on.’ She paused,
then
dared to add, ‘For both of us.’ Jacob didn’t reply.

 
          
They
didn’t speak for a while after that, and Mollie was glad. She’d much rather
enjoy the day, as Jacob forewent the motorway for country lanes with their
bright hedgerows, the fields dotted with primroses and buttercups, and the sun
shone down benevolently upon them.

 
          
Mollie
started to relax, the tension slipping away from
her the
farther they travelled from Wolfe Manor. Jacob seemed to relax as well, for his
grip on the steering wheel loosened and he draped one arm along the back of the
seat, so his fingers nearly brushed her shoulder.

 
          
Not
that she should be so achingly aware of his nearness, Mollie told
herself
, or tempted to close that tiny distance. It would be
so easy to shift in her seat so he was actually touching her—barely, but she
knew she’d feel it. She’d feel it right down to her toes. Just the thought sent
a blush firing her body. She was so amazingly, agonisingly aware of him, her
body attuned to his in a way that was both pleasure and pain.

 
          
Despite
this aching awareness the hours passed in a happy haze; it was so pleasant to
be speeding along in a fancy car with a gorgeous man at the wheel. Mollie
decided to enjoy the moment—and the whole weekend—for what it was.
Something surreal, out of time, and certainly wonderful.

 
          
They
arrived at the Grand Wolfe, and an officious-looking concierge showed them to
their suite himself. Sebastian, he told Jacob, was out of town with his new
wife, Aneesa.

 
          
Mollie
noticed the speculative and envious looks a few women in the lobby slid her
way, the respectful deference of the entire hotel staff towards Jacob. He
strode through the lobby unaware of the admiration, yet clearly accepting of
the respect. Mollie was suddenly conscious that Jacob was a
Wolfe
, the head of a noble English
family, and she felt a swell of pride that she was on his arm.

 
          
Once
in the hotel suite Mollie took in the set of elegant rooms, all of which looked
to be equipped with every imaginable luxury. She peeked into an en suite
bathroom that had a huge, sunken marble tub, glanced at the wide private
terrace that could easily hold fifty people and marvelled at the living room
with its plush sofas and hidden widescreen television; the concierge showed
them how the painting that hid it folded back at the press of a button.

 
          
And
of course she noticed the bedrooms—two of them—positioned at either end of a
hallway so they could both have adequate privacy. Even so, the sight of the
canopied king-size bed with its smooth, silken sheets made something in her
bump unsteadily, for there could be no question that this luxury suite was also
romantic.

 
          
Yet
neither of them was here for romance.

 
          
‘You
can change if you like,’ Jacob said once the concierge had left them alone. ‘And
then we can head off to the expo.’

 
          
Mollie
nodded. ‘I’ll freshen up and be right out.’ She disappeared into the bedroom;
her suitcase lay on a luggage rack, already opened, her cocktail dress hanging
in a huge walnut wardrobe. Mollie hesitated, because she hadn’t actually
brought enough clothes to change after just a few hours. Were you
supposed
to change on arrival at a place
like this? She had no idea. She’d never stayed in a hotel like this before. The
closest she’d come is when she’d splurged on a
pensione
in Florence that actually had its own en suite bathroom, a
tiny cubicle with peeling lino and a leaky tap.

 
          
Shrugging
this aside, Mollie pulled a brush through her hair which had, of course, become
unbearably tangled during the drive. She washed her hands and face and
reapplied her lipstick, finishing off with a spritz of perfume. She gazed at
her reflection in the mirror with critical glumness; her hair was still wild
and her cheeks were pink from the sun. So was her nose. She had more freckles than
usual, and if not for the fact that she was no longer gap-toothed she could
have passed for herself when she was eight years old, going the entire summer
with bare feet and skinned knees.

 
          
Sighing,
she turned away from the mirror and slipped on the fitted jacket she’d worn
that first night Jacob had seen her. She added a scarf in primrose yellow,
deciding this constituted enough of a wardrobe change, and headed back out to
the living room.

 
          
Jacob
was opening a bottle of champagne as she came into the room. ‘Compliments of
the hotel,’ he said with a flicker of a smile as he reached for two crystal
flutes. ‘I thought we could toast the weekend.’

 
          
Mollie
felt that unsteady bump inside again. She was afraid it was her heart. ‘That
sounds lovely,’ she said, and took the proffered glass.

 
          
Jacob
clinked
his flute lightly with hers. ‘To a change of
scene,’ he said, and Mollie nodded.

 
          
‘Hear,
hear.’ She drank, and as she did she saw that Jacob’s dark eyes were fixed on
hers, and despite the apparent lightness of the moment his expression had
turned brooding.
So many hidden thoughts.
So many unspoken memories.

 
          
She
put her glass down on a side table and gave him a bright smile. ‘Shall we?’

 
          
‘Yes
indeed.’ Jacob set his glass down next to hers, and Mollie noticed that he
hadn’t drunk any of his champagne. Then she watched with relief as he smiled,
the brooding expression replaced by something far lighter, and holding out his
arm so Mollie could—all too naturally—slip hers into his, he led her from the
room.

 
          
The
expo was amazing. Even during her university days Mollie had seen nothing like
it: display after display of architectural plans and blueprints, models of
houses and buildings, gardens recreated in tiny, exquisite spaces, all
innovative, unique and completely wondrous.

 
          
She
wandered through the exhibition halls, Jacob at her side, her eyes as wide as a
child’s. Her mind buzzed with ideas of new techniques, hybrids and landscaping
concepts, and she couldn’t quite seem to help herself from sharing it all with
Jacob.

 
          
‘I’ve
never seen an arrangement like that before … There are so many new kinds of
water features now … Did you see the use of wildflowers in that exhibit? Most
gardeners would consider them weeds….’

 
          
And
Jacob listened, and made comments, and asked questions, so Mollie felt like he
was genuinely interested.
Like he genuinely cared.

 
          
Uh-oh
.
Don’t go
there, her mind warned. Don’t start to believe some nonsense like he is
interested in you … could
love
you….

 
          
Love
was not a word she’d ever associate
with Jacob Wolfe.

 
          
Yet
as they strolled through the various displays and exhibitions, Mollie wondered
what word she
would
associate with
him. What kind of man was he? She’d assumed so much, and now she felt those
assumptions were being swept away—yet replaced with what? Jacob never talked
about himself, never offered any information or preferences or opinions. He was
so self-controlled, so self-contained, that the man was practically a cipher.

 
          
Yet
then she saw a flash of something in his eyes, something deep and dark and
raw
—and she knew there was far more to
Jacob than she could ever imagine or understand.

 
          
While
he was talking to some colleagues—they treated him with a wary, deferential
respect—she perused the expo’s programme, noting in its write-up the number of
prestigious awards J Design had garnered.

 
          
J Design has always had the unique ability
of creating a space with the individual needs of its client first in mind, so
that the building takes on the characteristics of the client rather than the
architect …

 
          
Even
in his business Jacob revealed nothing of himself. The omission, Mollie
decided, was intentional. Jacob didn’t reveal anything because he didn’t want
to be known.

 
          
Why?

 
          
He
joined her again as she stood in front of a

 
          
Japanese
Zen garden, admiring the raked sand, the careful placement of stones and the
little painted bridge that led into the tranquil scene.

 
          
Jacob
gazed at it a moment with her before asking, ‘What do you think?’

 
          
‘It’s
very peaceful.’

 
          
‘Yes,
gardens are meant to be places of stillness and tranquillity in Eastern
culture.’ He pointed to an assortment of rocks that had been arranged
off-centre. ‘Nothing in a Zen garden is symmetrical, because according to their
belief system nothing in life is.’

 
          
‘Nothing
in life is symmetrical?’ Mollie asked, frowning slightly as she considered
this.