Читать книгу The Last Woman He'd Ever Date - Liz Fielding - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

CLAIRE Thackeray abandoned her bike, her shoe and, as her hair descended untidily about her shoulders, a scatter of hair pins.

Hal knew that he would have to go after her, but it hadn’t taken her stunned expression, or her stiff back as she limped comically away from him on one shoe to warn him that laughing would be a mistake.

It was as clear as day that nothing he did or said would be welcome right now, although whether her anger was directed at him or herself was probably as much a mystery to her as it was to him.

The only thing he knew with certainty was that she would never again ride her bike along this path. Never toss an apple—the toll Archie charged for letting her pass unmolested on her bike—over the hedge.

‘Job done, then,’ he muttered as, furious with himself, furious with her, he stepped down into the ditch to recover the shoe she’d left embedded in the mud. He tossed it into the basket on the front of her bike, grabbed the fishing rod he’d confiscated from Gary Harker and followed her.

It was the first time he’d lost control in years and he’d done it not just once, but twice. First when he’d kissed her, and then again as her unexpected meltdown had made him forget that his intention had been to punish her. Punish her for her insulting offer of a bribe. Her pitiful attempt at seducing what he knew out of him. Most of all, to punish her for being a Thackeray.

He’d forgotten everything in the softness of her lips unexpectedly yielding beneath his, the silk of her tongue, the heat ripping through him as she’d clung to him in a way that belied all that buttoned-up restraint.

Which of them came to their senses first he could not have said. He only knew that when he took a step back she was looking at him as if she’d run into a brick wall instead of a flesh-and-blood man.

Any other woman who’d kissed him like that would have been looking at him with soft, smoky eyes, her cheeks flushed, her mouth smiling with anticipation, but Claire Thackeray had the look of a rabbit caught in headlights and, beneath the smear of mud, her cheek had been shockingly white.

Her mouth was swollen but there was no smile and she hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t given him a chance to say… What?

I’m sorry?

To the daughter of Peter Thackeray? The girl who’d been too good to mix with the village kids. The woman who, even now, down on her luck and living in the worst house on the estate, was still playing the patronising lady bountiful, just as her mother had. Handing out charity jobs to the deserving poor. Sending the undeserving to the devil…

That wasn’t how it was meant to be.

But she hadn’t waited for an apology.

After that first stricken look, she’d turned around and walked away from him without a word, without a backward glance as if he was still the village trash her father—taking his cue from Sir Robert—had thought him. As if she was still the Cranbrook estate’s little princess.

The battered wheel ground against the mudguard and stuck, refusing to move another inch. Cursing the wretched thing, he propped it up out of sight behind a tree, then grabbing her shoe he strode after her.

‘Claire! Wait, damn it!’

* * *

Claire wanted to die.

No, that was ridiculous. She wasn’t an idiot kid with a crush on the local bad boy. She was a responsible, sensible grown woman. Who wanted to die.

How dare he!

Easy… Hal North had always done just what he wanted, looked authority in the eye and dared anything, defying them to do their worst.

How could she?

How could she just stand there and let Hal North kiss her? Respond as if she’d been waiting half her life for him to do exactly that? Even now her senses were alight with the heat of it, the blood thundering around her body at the thrill of surrendering to it, letting go in a world-well-lost moment when nothing else mattered. Not her dignity, not her child…

It had been everything her youthful imagination had dreamt about and more. Exhilarating, a dream-come-true moment to rival anything in a fairy tale.

Appalling.

She clung desperately to that word, closing her eyes in a vain attempt to blot out the warm, animal scent of his skin, the feel of his shoulders, solid beneath her hands as she’d clutched at them for support. The taste of his hard mouth lighting her up as if she’d been plugged into the national grid; softening from punishing to seductively tender as her lips had surrendered without a struggle to the silk of his tongue.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’

Of course she’d heard him.

“Wait, damn it…”

He’d sounded angry.

Why would he be angry? He was the one who’d kissed her without so much as a by-your-leave…

‘I brought your shoe,’ he said.

She took it from him without slowing down, without looking at him. It was caked in wet sticky mud and she tossed it defiantly back into the ditch.

‘That was stupid.’

‘Was it?’ Probably. Undoubtedly. She’d come back and find it later. ‘What’s your on-the-spot fine for littering?’

‘Are you sure you want to know?’

She stubbed her toe on a root and he caught her arm as she stumbled.

‘Get lost, Hal,’ she said, attempting to shake him off. He refused to be shaken and she glared up at him. ‘Are you escorting me off the premises?’

Bad choice of words, she thought as his mouth tightened.

‘It’s for your own safety.’

‘Safety? Archie isn’t going to bother me now I’m on foot, but who’s going to keep me safe from you?’ she demanded, clearly not done with ‘stupid.’

‘You’ve had a shock,’ he replied, all calm reason, which just made her all the madder.

‘Now you’re concerned!’

Too right she’d had a shock. She’d had a shock right down to her knees but it had nothing to do with Archie and everything to do with crashing into Hal North. Everything to do with the fact that he’d kissed her. That she’d kissed him back as if she’d been waiting to do that all her life. Maybe she had…

How dare he be all calm reason when she was a basket case?

‘It’s a bit late to start playing knight errant don’t you think?’

‘You’re mistaking me for someone else.’

‘Not in a hundred years,’ she muttered, catching her breath as she stepped on a sharp stone, gritting her teeth to hold back the expletive, refusing to let him see that she was in pain.

The last thing she needed was a smug I-told-you-so from Hal North.

It did have the useful side effect of preventing her from saying anything else she’d regret when Hal moved his hand from her arm and looped it firmly around her waist, taking her weight so that she had no choice but to lean into the solid warmth of his body, allow him to support her.

The alternative was fighting him which would only make things worse as she limped the rest of the way home, her head against his shoulder, her cheek against the hard cloth of his overalls. The temptation was to simply surrender to the comfort, just as she’d surrendered to his kiss and it took every crumb of concentration to mentally distance herself from the illusion of safety, of protection and pray that he’d put her erratic breathing down to ‘shock.’

When they reached her gate, she allowed herself to relax and took the fishing rod when he handed it to her, assuming he meant her to give it back to Gary.

‘Thank you…’ The word ended in a little shriek as he bent and caught her behind the knees, scooping her up like some bride being carried over the threshold. Hampered by the rod, she could do nothing but fling an arm around his neck and hang on as he strode along the gravel path that led around the house to the back door.

‘Key?’ he prompted, as he deposited her with an equal lack of ceremony on the doorstep.

‘I’m home. Job done,’ she said, propping the rod by the door, waiting for him to leave. She was damned if she was going to say thank you again.

‘Are you going to be difficult?’ he asked.

‘You bet.’

He shrugged, glanced around, spotted the brick where she hid her spare key. ‘My mother used to keep it in the same place,’ he said, apparently oblivious to her huff of annoyance as he retrieved it and opened the door. ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the same brick.’

‘Go away,’ she said, kicking off her remaining shoe in the scullery where the boots and coats were hung.

‘Not before the statutory cup of hot, sweet tea,’ he said, following her inside and easing off his own boots.

Her suit was damp and muddy, her foot was throbbing and her body, a jangle of sore, aching bits demanding her attention now that she’d come to a halt, responded with a tiny ‘yes, please’ whimper. She ignored it.

‘I don’t take sugar.’

‘I do.’

Behind her, the phone began to ring. She ignored it for as long as she could, daring him to take another step then, with what she hoped was a careless shrug—one that her shoulder punished her for—she limped, stickily, into the kitchen and lifted the receiver from the cradle.

‘Claire Thack…’

Hal pulled out a chair, tipped off the two sleeping cats and, taking her arm, eased her down into it before crossing to the kettle.

‘Claire?’

‘Oh, Brian…’

‘Is there a problem?’ Brian Gough, the news editor, sounded concerned rather than annoyed, but then she had always striven to be one hundred per cent reliable—hoarding those Brownie points that every working mother needed against the days when her daughter was sick and her needs had to come before everything, even the desperate necessity of making a career for herself. ‘Only I’ve just had Charlie on the phone.’

Charlie… That would be Charlie Peascod, the Chief Planning Officer. Her important ten o’clock meeting. She caught sight of the clock and groaned.

Hal heard her and turned. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

‘No,’ she hissed, swivelling round so that her back was to him in an effort to concentrate. ‘I’m s-o s-sorry, Brian but I’ve had a bit of an accident.’

‘An accident? What kind of accident? Are you all right?’

‘Y-yes…’ she said as, without warning, she began to shiver.

‘You don’t sound it.’

‘I will be.’ Behind her there was a world of comfort in the sound of the kettle being filled. The sound of the biscuit tin lid being opened. She refused to look… ‘I was going to c-call you but…’ But it had gone clean out of her head. Her important meeting, her job, pretty much everything. That’s what a man like Hal North could do to you with nothing more than a kiss. ‘I f-fell off my bike.’

‘Have you been to the hospital?’ he asked, seriously concerned now, which only added to her guilt.

‘It’s not that bad, truly.’ And it wasn’t. She just needed to get a grip, pull herself together. ‘Just the odd bump and scrape, but there was rather a lot of mud,’ she said, attempting to make light of it. ‘Once I’ve had a quick shower I’ll be out of here. With luck I’ll catch the eleven o’clock bus.’

‘No, no… These things can shake you up. We can manage without you.’

Her immediate reaction was to protest—that was so not something she wanted to hear—but for some reason she appeared to be shaking like a jelly. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she would almost certainly have collapsed in heap.

‘Take the rest of the week off, put your feet up. We’ll see you on Monday.’

‘If you insist,’ she said, just to be sure that he was telling her, she wasn’t begging. ‘I’ll call Mr Peascod now to apologise. Reschedule for Monday.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about Charlie. I’m taking him to lunch and, let’s face it, he’s much more likely to be indiscreet after a glass of wine.’

Of course he was. All boys together. On the golf course or down the pub. No need for Brian Gough to make an effort with his hair, wear his best suit, flutter his eyelashes. He’d take Charlie to the King’s Head and over a plate of their best roast beef—on expenses—he’d hear all about what was going on at Cranbrook Park. It was how it had always been done.

Forget the news desk. At this rate, she’d be writing up meetings of the Townswomen’s Guild, reviewing the Christmas panto until she was drawing her pension. Thank goodness for the ‘Greenfly and Dandelions’ blog she wrote for the Armstrong Newspaper Group website. At least no one else on the staff could write that.

And that was the good news.

All that expensive education notwithstanding, it was as good as a single mother without a degree, a single mother who had to put her child first could hope for. Even then she was luckier than most women in her situation. Luckier than she deserved according to her mother.

The bad news was that the Observer was cutting back on staff and a single mother with childcare issues was going to be top of the chop list.

‘All done?’ Hal unhooked a couple of mugs from the dresser, keeping an eye on Claire while he filled a bowl with warm water. Despite her insistence that she was fine, she was deathly pale.

‘All done,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to call the Town Hall and make your apologies?’

‘No need.’ She looked at the phone she was still holding, then put it on the table. ‘The news editor is handling it.’

‘Right, well I’ll clean up your foot.’

She frowned as he placed the bowl of water at her feet, then she rallied; he could practically hear her spine snapping straight. ‘There’s no need to make a fuss. I’ll get in the shower as soon as you’ve gone.’

‘It’s cut,’ he said. ‘There’s blood on the floor.’

‘Is there?’ She looked down and saw the trail of muddy, bloody footprints on her clean floor. ‘Oh…’ She bit back the word she’d undoubtedly have let drop if she’d been on her own. ‘It must have been when I stepped on a stone.’

One sharp enough to cut her and yet she hadn’t so much as whimpered. His fault. If he hadn’t kissed her, if he’d just scraped the mud off her shoe, let her go…

‘It might have been a piece of glass,’ he said, not wanting to think about that kiss. About the button she’d been playing with or how she’d felt as she’d leaned against him as he’d helped her home. ‘Or a ring pull from a can. I can’t believe the litter down there.’

‘A lot of it blows in from the towpath. It used to drive my dad wild.’

‘It wasn’t just me, then.’ Before she could answer, he said, ‘Stick your foot in this and soak off the dirt so that I can make sure there’s nothing still in there.’ She didn’t bother to argue, just sucked in her breath as she lifted her foot into the water.

‘Okay?’

She held her breath for a moment, then relaxed. ‘Yes…’

He nodded and left her to soak while he made tea, adding a load of sugar to hers. Adding rather more than usual to his own.

He shouldn’t have come to Cranbrook. He hadn’t intended to come here. Not now. Not until it was all done. It had been his intention to keep his distance and leave it all to the consultants he’d engaged, but it was like a bad tooth you couldn’t leave alone…

‘Have you got any antiseptic?’ he asked, setting the mug beside her.

‘Under the sink, with the first-aid box.’

‘Towel?’

‘There’s a clean one in the airing cupboard. It’s in the bathroom at the top of the…’

‘I know my way around.’ He took a chocolate biscuit—it had been a long time since breakfast—and handed another to her. ‘Eat this.’

‘I—’

‘It’s medicinal,’ he said, cutting off her objection, opening the door to stairs that seemed narrower than he remembered. He glanced back. ‘You might want to lose the tights while I’m fetching it.’

‘Are you quite sure I can manage that all by myself?’

He paused, his foot on the bottom step, and looked back. ‘You have a mouth that will get you into serious trouble one of these days, Claire Thackeray.’

‘Too late,’ she said. ‘It already has.’

‘It’s not a one-time-only option,’ he pointed out and as she blushed virgin pink, he very nearly stepped back down into the kitchen to offer her a demonstration.

Peeling down tights over long, shapely legs that he’d already enjoyed at his leisure as she’d lain sprawled on top of him with her skirt around her waist would have offered some compensation in a day that was not, so far, going to plan.

He’d arrived at sunrise and set out for a quiet drive around the estate, wanting to claim its acres for himself. To enjoy his triumph.

The rush of possessiveness, unreasoning anger, when he’d seen a lad fishing from what had once been his favourite spot had brought him up short. Or maybe it had been the fancy rod and antique reel wielded so inexpertly that had irritated him. The boy had sworn it had belonged to his granddad, but he was very much afraid that it had been stolen.

Not the most pleasant start to the day and, once the boy had gone, he’d stopped to look, remembering his own wild days.

That’s when he’d noticed that the bank opposite had been seriously undermined by the torrential winter rain. He’d pulled on the overalls and boots that had been lying in the back of the Land Rover and crossed the stream to take a closer look at the damage and walked right into the Claire and Archie double-act.

And if it hadn’t been part of his plans to come back to Cranbrook Park until he’d made it his own, that was doubly so with Primrose Cottage.

There had been no reason to come down a lane on the edge of the village, a lane that stopped at a cottage that was hidden unless you were looking for it. Forgotten by the estate.

Jack North had never been prepared to use good drinking and gambling money to decorate, repair a house he did not own and Robert Cranbrook would have seen it fall down before he’d have allowed his workmen to touch it.

He never could understand why his mother had stayed. Some twisted sense of loyalty? Or was it guilt?

In his head the cottage had remained the way it had looked on the day he’d fired up his motorbike and ridden away. But, like him, it had changed out of all recognition.

The small window panes broken in one of Jack’s drunken rages and stuffed with cardboard to keep out the weather had all been replaced and polished to a shine. Windows and trim were now painted white and the dull, blistering green front door was a fresh primrose yellow to match the flowers that were blooming all along the verge in front of a white-painted picket fence.

There had always been primroses…

Weeds no longer grew through the gravel path that led around to the rear; the yard, once half an acre of rank weeds where he’d spent hours stripping down and rebuilding an old motorcycle, was now a garden.

Inside everything had changed, too. His mother had battled against all odds to keep the place spotless. Now the walls had been stripped of the old wallpaper and painted in pale colours, the treads of the stairs each carpeted with a neatly trimmed offcut.

He’d once known every creak, every dip to avoid when he wanted to creep out at night and he still instinctively avoided them as he took the second flight to revisit his past.

Everything was changed up there, too.

Where he’d once stuck posters of motorcycles against the shabby attic walls, delicate little fairies now flitted across ivory wallpaper.

Did Claire Thackeray’s little girl resemble her mother? All fair plaits and starched school uniform. Or did she betray her father?

He shook his head as if to clear the image. What Claire Thackeray had got up to and with whom, was none of his business.

None of this—the clean walls, stripped and polished floors, the pretty lace curtains—changed a thing. Taking it from her, doing to her what her father had done to him would be all the sweeter because the cottage was now something worth losing.

A towel…

The door to the front bedroom was shut and he didn’t open it. Claire was disturbing enough without acquainting himself with the intimacy of her bedroom, but the back bedroom door stood wide open and he could see that it had been converted into an office.

An old wallpaper pasting table, painted dark green, served as a desk. On it there was an old laptop, a printer, a pile of books. Drawn to take a closer look, he found himself looking out of the window, down into the garden.

He’d hadn’t been able to miss the fact that it was now a garden, rather than the neglected patch of earth he remembered, but from above he could see that it was a lot more.

Linked by winding paths, the ugly patch had been divided into a series of intimate spaces. Divided with trees and shrubs as herbaceous borders, there were places to sit, places to play and, at the rear, the kind of vegetable garden usually only seen on television programmes was tucked beneath the shelter of a bank on which spring bulbs were now dying back.

He looked down at the piles of books. He’d expected a thesaurus, a dictionary, whatever reference works journalists used. Instead, he found himself looking at a book on propagation. The other books were on greenhouse care, garden design.

Claire had done this?

Not without help. The house was decorated to a professional standard and the garden was immaculate.

He’d suggested that she was still all buttoned-up but her response to his kiss had blown that idea right out of the water. The woman Claire Thackeray had become would always have help.

He replaced the books, but as he turned away wanting to get out of this room, he was confronted by a cork board, thick with photographs of a little girl from babyhood to the most recent school photograph.

Her hair was jet black, and her golden skin was not the result of lying in the sun. Only her solemn grey eyes featured Claire and he could easily imagine the thrilling shock that must have run around the village when she’d wheeled her buggy into the village shop for the first time.