This Man Confessed (9 page)

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Just say I’m doing the right thing.”

She shakes her head a little. I need her to understand. “Okay,” she says reluctantly. She doesn’t think it’s okay at all, but her willingness to halt any guilt trip is enough for me. I feel guilty enough already. I need to regain control.

“Thank you,” I whisper, picking up my tea and taking a shaky sip.

I
t’s Monday. I wake at the crack of dawn and cry silently to myself. I’m only delaying the inevitable. I need to see Dr. Monroe.

I exit Green Park tube station onto Piccadilly and stop for a few moments, absorbing the frantic rush hour blur of people. I miss this. I miss the chaos of the tube and walking the few blocks to my office—all of the hectic scrambling, the dodging of bodies, and the loud voices, mostly shouting down a mobile phone. That, coupled with the screeching of cars and buses, the honking of impatient horns, and the ringing of cyclist bells, all strangely bring a small smile to my face, until I get nudged in the back, and then ridiculed for keeping the frantic stream of pedestrian traffic from flowing. I snap out of my daydream and shift my feet into gear, heading for Berkeley Square.

“Morning, flower.” Patrick’s big body strides out of his office toward my desk.

I take my seat and swivel to face him. “Good morning.” I fake chirpiness on a stupidly over-the-top level.

He perches on my desk, prompting the usual shriek of strained wood and my usual tensing in anticipation. It’s going to give one day. “How’s the blushing bride?” He clucks my cheek affectionately and winks.

“Perfect.” I smile, laughing at myself and my ability to choose the most inaccurate word to describe how I’m really feeling. Perfectly distraught, that’s what I am.

“It was a wonderful reception. Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.” I brush off my boss’s appreciation. “Where is everyone?” I ask, desperate to divert the conversation from my shambolic wedding, and probably shambolic marriage, too.

“Sal’s in the stationary cupboard having a tidy up, and Tom and Victoria should be here by now.” He looks at his watch. “Van Der Haus.” He returns his eyes to mine, and I struggle to look relaxed at the mention of my Danish client’s name. “Has he been in touch yet?”

“No.” I load my computer up and jiggle my mouse to get the screen on. It doesn’t escape my thoughts that I’ve been given a deadline of today to inform my boss of Mikael’s revenge mission, but given my current state of affairs and the fact that I’ve left Jesse, I’m thinking my Lord will not be pressing me on this issue. “He said he’d be in touch once he’s back in the U.K.”

“Fair enough.” Patrick shifts on my desk, and I will him to at least be still if he insists on torturing the poor thing. “And anything to report on your other clients? The Kents, Miss. Quinn…Mr. Ward.” He chuckles at his own little joke, and although I’m in turmoil with my new husband, I’m grateful for Patrick’s acceptance of mine and Jesse’s relationship. If there will even be a relationship after the next few days.

“All great. The Kents are in full swing, Miss Quinn’s work starts tomorrow, and Mr. Ward would like me to commission the beds as soon as possible.”

Patrick laughs. “Ava, flower, you don’t have to call your husband Mr. Ward.”

“Habit,” I grumble. I could think of a lot of things I could call him at the moment.

“You mean those lovely lattice style beds?”

“Yes.” I pull out the design from my drawer and present it to Patrick.

“Stunning,” he says simply. “Bet these will cost a few quid.”

Stunning? Yes. Expensive? Ridiculously. But Patrick doesn’t realize the benefits of these beds in a place like The Manor. To my big cuddly bear of a boss, The Manor is still just a lovely country retreat. “He can afford it.” I shrug and take the design back when he hands it to me.

I’m happily filing the drawing away when the sharp cracking of splintering wood rings out through the quiet of our office, and I watch in shock as Patrick crashes to the floor with a look of alarm on his face.

“Bloody hell!” he shouts, rolling around among the many pieces of broken wood and stationary that graced my desk, including my flat computer screen. A rip roaring giggle is bubbling in my throat, and it’s taking every modicum of power to hold it back. This is just too funny.

I lose the battle. A burst of laughter flies from my mouth. “I’m sorry!” I chuckle, regaining control of my twitching body. “Here.” I put my hand out to him and he reaches up to take it, his stretch straining his shirt buttons. It flies open, scattering buttons all over the office floor and revealing Patrick’s potbelly. This does me no favors, and my earlier laughter returns full force.

“Drat!” he curses, keeping a tight hold of my hand. “Double drat!”

“Oh God!” I cry, bending over to stop myself from peeing my knickers. “Patrick, are you okay?” I know he is. He wouldn’t be rolling around and cursing if he was seriously injured.

“No, I’m bloody not. Will you control yourself and help me out?” He tugs at my hand.

“I’m sorry!” It’s no good. I’m crying, mascara probably pouring down my cheeks. I throw all of my strength into heaving Patrick up from the floor, making quick work so I can get to the toilet. And I do just that when I’ve finally got him to his feet. “Excuse me!” I laugh, running to the ladies’, passing a shocked-looking Sal as I fly past the stationary cupboard.

When I’ve sorted myself out and composed my jerking body, I walk back into the office to find Tom and Victoria have arrived and Sal’s on her knees collecting up a million paperclips.

“What happened?” Victoria whispers.

“My desk finally gave in.” I smile, and try my hardest to keep the giggling fit from returning again. If I start, I won’t stop.

“I missed it!” Tom cries incredulously. “Damn it.” He hangs his man-bag on the back of his chair. “Darling! How is the bride?”

“Fine,” I answer.

“Oh yes!” Victoria pipes up. “When I get married, it’ll be just like your wedding, except perhaps not at a se…”

I dart warning eyes to my ditsy work colleague, and she acknowledges her near error by snapping her mouth shut.

I kneel down to help Sal. “It was beautiful, Ava,” she muses dreamily. “You’re so lucky.”

Sal’s sweet words only enhance my gloom—until my phone starts singing “Angel” from my bag. I glance across at it, sitting amid the chaos of broken-up desk. I can’t speak to him. I’m a little surprised that it’s taken him until now to call me, and even more surprised he wasn’t so persistent last night. These signs are all an indication of one thing and one thing alone. He knows he’s pushed the boundaries. I can’t even imagine what he’s doing with himself, besides running continuous laps of the Royal Parks.

Sal looks at me expectantly, but I just smile and continue picking up paperclips and popping them in a pot. It’s only now I wonder why out of all the things we could be clearing up, we’re collecting the smallest things of all. “I’ll call him back,” I say to Sal, while thinking how therapeutic this actually is.

When we’re done, Sal gets up and heads to the kitchen to make coffee, while I pull myself up and head for Patrick’s office. I knock on the door and poke my head around. He’s sitting at his desk, a little red-faced, combing his hair. “Are you okay, Patrick?” I ask, biting my lip furiously to contain my grin.

“I’m fine,” he huffs. “I think Irene might see this as a sign to lose some weight.” He grins a little, making me feel a whole lot better about laughing at him. “I’m glad I’ve made your day, flower.”

“I’m sorry, but you must have heard the creaks every time you sat there.”

“Yes, I did. Stupid cheap tat!”

“I’m sure,” I agree on a serious face. There was nothing cheap about my desk. “Would you like a coffee?”

“No,” he grumbles. “I need to go home and change.”

“Okay.” I slip out of his office and return to my pile of wood, rummaging around the lose parts until I find my bag. I locate my phone, clear the missed call from Jesse, then dial my doctor.

“Is he okay?” Tom asks on a chuckle, Victoria joining him.

“He’s fine, but keep a straight face when he leaves to go and change out of his burst shirt.” I grin.

“He popped his buttons?” Victoria laughs, flopping back in her chair.

Tom looks over at Victoria and joins her laughter. “Oh, flipping heck!”

I manage to hold my giggles and slip into the stationary cupboard when my call connects, and after getting past the guard dog of a receptionist, I finally get an appointment for four o’clock.

The day passes swiftly, with only a few missed calls from my Lord. The calls were expected, but what wasn’t expected was his lack of persistence. He didn’t call the office, he didn’t stop by, and he didn’t ring off the hook. I’m not sure if I should be satisfied that he seems to accept my request for space, or worried that he’s uncharacteristically giving it to me. I miss him, but I need to override this. I need to stick to my guns and the only way I can ensure that happens is if I don’t see or speak to him. It’s frightening what he can do to me when I’m determined to hold my own.

I collect my bag and get up from my makeshift desk, which happens to be a paste table. “I’m off. See you tomorrow,” I say as I pass all three of my colleagues. “I’ve cleared it with Patrick.”

A chorus of good-byes ring out as I shut the door behind me and make my way to the tube, “Angel” sounding from my bag the whole way there. So much for his lack of persistence.

As I’m approaching the station, I jump on a shocked gasp when a tall, lean, green-eyed wall lands in front of me. My hand flies up to my chest, resting on my heart as I breathe heavily. Then I get mighty irritated. “What are you doing?” I ask shortly.

“You wouldn’t answer your phone.” He points to my bag. “Maybe you didn’t hear it.”

I look up at him and find an accusing stare. He knows damn well I could hear it. “You were following me.” I can be accusing too.

“Where are you going?” He steps in closer, but I move back. I can’t let him touch me. And shit, where am I going?

“A client,”’ I blurt out.

“I’ll take you.”

“I told you. I need space, Jesse.” I’m aware of fellow pedestrians stepping around us, some moaning, some throwing filthy glares, but I’m not concerned and neither is Jesse. He’s just staring at me, looking shockingly spectacular in a gray suit and blue shirt.

“How much space and for how long? I married you on Saturday and you left me on Sunday.” He reaches forward and grasps my upper arm before sliding his touch downward until he’s holding my hand. As always, my hairs stand up on end and a shiver reverberates through me. I watch him just stare at our joined hands, his fingers weaving through mine slowly. “I’m struggling, Ava.” He looks up at me and lands me with a green-glazed stare. “Without you, I’m really struggling.”

My heart breaks for him, and I clench my eyes shut, desperately fighting my natural instinct to step into him and hold him. If he’s not getting his way with fuckings of various degrees or a Jesse-style countdown, then he’s breaking me down with heart-wrenching words.

“I really need to go.” I turn, fully expecting to be held back, but he releases my hand and I’m walking away, shocked and actually quite worried.

“Baby, please. I’ll do anything. Please, don’t leave me.” His pleading voice halts me dead in my tracks, pain slicing through me. “Let me at least drive you. I don’t want you on the train. Just ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

“It’ll be quicker on the tube,” I say quietly amid the roaring crowds. I turn to face him.

“But I want to take you.”

I can’t tell him where I’m going. He’ll have a seizure. I quickly wrack my tired brain and come up with only one option. I’ll ask him to drop me off around the corner from the doctor. There are some residential properties close by. He won’t know any different.

I sigh. “Where’s your car?”

The relief that washes over his face is obvious, and it emphasizes my guilt. Why I’m feeling guilty is beyond me, though. He lifts his arm and takes my hand gently, then slowly leads me back toward a hotel car park. The valet produces the keys from his cabin and hands them to Jesse, and he releases me only when we get to the car so I can get in.

Pulling out onto Piccadilly, he drives with consideration for the other road users and shifts gears gently, too. His driving style is matching his mood, subdued.

“Where am I going?” he asks as he turns the music system on and The XX “Islands” filters through the speakers. Even the music is passive and soft.

I scan my brain for a road name around the surgery, and only one comes to mind. “Luxemburg Gardens. Hammersmith,” I say, looking out of the window.

“Okay,” he answers quietly. I know he’s looking at me. I should turn and challenge him, prompt him to explain himself better, but my despondency is getting the better of me. He’d better not mistake it for submission. I’m not surrendering on this. I just need to get myself to the doctor, minus one Jesse, and get my awful situation remedied.

He pulls into Luxemburg Gardens and drives slowly down the tree-lined street. “Here will do.” I indicate to the left, and he pulls over. “Thank you.” I open the door.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs. I know if I turn and look at him, I’ll see cogs whirling and a concerned frown set in place on his handsome head, so I don’t. I step out of the car. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” he asks urgently, like he knows his chance is slipping.

I take a deep breath. “You just asked for ten minutes, and I gave them to you. You said nothing.” I leave a despairing face of hurt and make my way across the road, but suddenly come to an abrupt halt when it occurs to me that I have no
client’s
house in which to disappear. I need to backtrack at least half a mile, and I can’t do that with Jesse sitting at the curb in his car, so I pull my bag open and feign searching for something while mentally praying for him to leave. I listen for the roar, or possible purr, of the DBS and after what seems like forever, it finally reaches my ears. It’s a purr. I look over my shoulder and watch his car disappear down the street before I head back the way we came. I feel nauseous. I’m not sure how I’m going to approach this. After my numerous visits to our family doctor, seeking replacement pills and the lectures I received from her each time, I’m facing a grilling and an even sterner talk on carelessness. She’ll think I’m a glutton for punishment. I think I probably am.