Читать книгу The Price of Retribution - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 5

July

THIS flat was smaller than his previous one, yet now it seemed strangely vast in its emptiness, an echoing space, rejecting him as if he was an intruder.

He stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his gaze moving restlessly over the few items of furniture that had been delivered over the past week.

There were the two long, deeply-cushioned sofas in dark green corded velvet, facing each other over the custom-made, polished oak coffee table. The bookcase, also in oak, the first of three ordered from the same craftsman. The thick cream rug, circular and luxurious that fronted the carved wooden fireplace.

A fairly minimal selection, yet all things they had chosen together, planning to add to them—over time.

Only there was no time. Not any more.

His throat muscles tightened to the point of agony, and he dug his nails into the palms of his clenched hands to dam back the cry that threatened to burst from his lungs.

And down the hall, behind the closed door of that other room—the bed. Memories he could not allow himself to think about.

He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here. Why he’d come back. God knows, it hadn’t been his original intention.

Brendan and Grace had pressed him anxiously to go back and stay with them, but he couldn’t face the thought of their shocked sympathy, however genuine and well-meant. Couldn’t stomach the prospect of being treated as walking wounded. Or feeling the complete fool he undoubtedly was.

His mouth tightened as he remembered the barrage of cameras and shouted questions waiting for him outside the registry office as he walked alone down the steps. He’d been spared nothing, and tomorrow the papers would be full of it. The tabloids would probably feature him front page.

But there were issues that mattered far more than the destruction of what had become his cherished privacy.

Decisions would have to be made, of course. The furniture disposed of. The flat put back on the market. That was the easy part. It could be done at a distance by other people, in the same way that flights and reservations for a suite in an exclusive resort hotel in the Bahamas had already been cancelled. The special orders for flowers and champagne rescinded. The plans to charter a boat in order to visit some of the other islands shelved.

However, retrieving himself from the wreckage of his life would be a very different matter. But there he could at least make a start.

He turned and walked swiftly down the passage, to the room he’d designated as his working space. Not to be confused with the similar room next door, although both had been rudimentarily equipped with a desk and chair, a filing cabinet and a shredder.

He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the crumpled sheet of paper which he’d carried with him since that morning. He did not attempt to read it again. There was no need. He could have recited its contents from memory—something else that must stop right here and now.

He unfolded the letter, put it down on the desk, smoothed it flat with his fist, then fed it into the shredder, which accepted the offering, reducing it to fragments with its swift high-pitched whine.

It was done. Now all he had to do was erase it from his brain. Not so simple a task. But, somehow, he would manage it. Because he must.

He glanced at his watch. There was nothing more to keep him here. But then, there never had been. Waiting for him now was a different hotel suite, this one bland and anonymous. No intimate dinner for two to be anticipated, no vintage champagne on ice or rose petals on the pillows. And, later no eyes, drowsy with shared fulfilment, smiling into his.

Just a bottle of single malt, one glass, and, hopefully, oblivion.

At least until tomorrow when, somehow, he would begin his life again.