A Little Crushed (33 page)

He scanned her over, eyebrows knotting together when he saw the tear in her sleeve. They were exquisitely shaped eyebrows, fine and yet setting off a very masculine forehead. Cassie wanted to giggle. Here she was, recently savaged by a walking carpet, and she was noticing his eyebrows? His eyelashes were amazing too—long, thick and coal black. Hysteria, she reasoned. I’m in shock.

“She bit you?”

The eyes darkened to indigo, the smooth forehead creasing with worry.

“I don’t think she drew blood.” Cassie pulled at the toggles on her coat and shook her arms free. “No...no blood.” There was, however, a bruise the size of a golf ball forming, two Dracula indents at the centre.

His lips were drawn in concern. “Look perhaps we’d better have a doctor check you over. Dog bites can be dangerous.” He turned and threw the sulking Madonna a malevolent glare. “Even pedigree ones.”

“No.” Cassie shook herself free from his searching eyes. “Really, it’s fine. Look, the skin’s not even broken, and I’m well up to date on my tetanus jabs. I know about these things, you see. My dad’s a vet...” Realizing she was rambling, she clamped her mouth shut. He didn’t look convinced. Probably thinks I’m going to sue, she thought.

“Still…”

“I’m okay. Just wet.”

“You’re a mess.” He raked his fingers through midnight blue hair.

The last time Cassie had seen hair that colour had been on Elvis’s head, and his had come out of a bottle. Not so with this stranger. The soot eyelashes were testament to that. And anyway, who was he to say she looked a mess? He was running around London barefoot and in stupid pyjamas. He smiled then, and her heart skipped a beat. Her pique was forgotten. Why, she didn’t know; only that for a brief moment, she felt faint.

She dragged herself away from those hypnotic eyes to stare down at her legs. Her tights were shredded at the knees, and her boots scuffed to high heaven. The burgundy Wallis coat lay in a crumpled heap, caked in mud. A gust of wind swirled above her chest, and she wrapped her arms around her body.

The boyish smile disappeared to be replaced with concern. “Look, my house isn’t far from here. Just on the other side of the park. Come home with me. You can clean up a bit, and I’ll make some tea.”

This time Cassie didn’t shrink from the proverbial hand of friendship. Loneliness filled her heart. She couldn’t remember conveying her agreement, but she must have done because he bathed her in that warm smile, relief radiating from those luminous eyes.

“It’s the least I can do. You’ve saved me from an early grave.”

“Oh?” Cassie hugged herself tighter. In true British fashion, the weather had made another of its notorious U-turns, and dirty grey clouds now scurried above their heads, dragging the sun’s frail warmth with them.

“Christ!” The stranger banged his fist against his forehead. “I’m a prize idiot. You must be freezing.”

With bullfighter panache, he wrenched free of his dressing gown and draped it across her shoulders. Underneath, his chest was bare, smooth, and well muscled. Not quite Spartan warrior fit but pretty impressive all the same. Another giggle gurgled in Cassie’s throat. “Do you always run around London in your PJ’s?”

“Pardon?” The eyebrows connected again. “Oh…” Full lips parted in a wide grin, displaying even white teeth. “No. I was in the shower. I’d just got back from the airport, and I was knac…it doesn’t matter. The stupid housekeeper must have left the door open on her way out, although I’ve told her time and time again. My pyjamas were the first things that came to hand. When Miss Asheera Madonna Blond Ambition over there makes a break for freedom, there’s no time for wardrobe inspection. She’s faster than Carl Lewis on an overdose of energy drink.”

“Yes. Afghans are sight-hounds. Very fast. They are free spirits…” She rambled again.

“No kidding!” He grunted in Madonna’s direction. “I’ve a good mind to leave her tied to the bench all night—except my sister would murder me. The dog’s hers, by the way. I’m just babysitting. Ungrateful walking floor mop. The dog, I mean, not my sister, although she can be a spoiled little bi…sorry. This isn’t getting you warmed up, is it, and it’s starting to rain.”

True. Large splats dropped from the sky, but strangely, Cassie’s chill had melted away. His voice was intoxicating.

“Come on.” One hand on her elbow, he pointed her in the direction of the park gate. “If we run, we can do it in five.”

“And Madonna?” Cassie glanced over her shoulder to where the dog studied the sky with apprehension, bemused expression clearly stating it wouldn’t do to ruin the hairdo.

“I suppose you’re right.” He worked at the knot. “Come on Lady Godiva, and no funny business, or it’s the last Crufts Best in Show you’ll ever see.”

A sharp tug of the lead, and Madonna broke into a stride that would have made Pavlova weep. Graceful, fluid, so regal.

Her owner was pretty good, too, and Cassie struggled to keep up with his long gait. Her knees throbbed, and her head pounded from days of suppressing her emotions. It occurred to her she could be playing a dangerous game here. After all, who was this man in the garish night attire? And how did she know the Afghan belonged to him…or his sister? He could have borrowed Madonna to use as a babe magnet. And then again…Cassie stole a glance at her disheveled apparel and wrinkled her nose. Some babe!

They reached a pillar-box red door just as the heavens decided to quit pussyfooting around and let rip with monsoon ferocity. Cassie was beyond aiming for chic. Water ran in icy rivulets down between her collar and neck. Her hair, she knew, was well on its way to Medusa snake effect. So much for anti-frizz.

“Here,” he slipped the lead into her hand. “Watch her. She’s as slick as an oil spill and just as hard to clean up after.”

He turned the key in the door, but before he could open it fully, Madonna wrenched free from Cassie’s grasp, shot between his legs, and disappeared into the house.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she stared in horror at the muddy trail now snaking across what she imagined was very expensive flooring. “Oh…I’m sorry.”

His eyes shut in silent curse, and Cassie wanted to die.

“And the ditzy cleaner isn’t back until Friday. Never mind. It’s not your fault. I should have warned you about her Houdini tendencies. Aristocratic blood, my arse. More like fucking peasant. Excuse my French.”

Cassie would have excused Swahili; she only wanted to get out of the rain. She got her wish. Huddling her inside, he slammed the door behind them.

Cassie’s jaw didn’t so much as drop as disengage from her skull. The house was stunning. Awe-struck, her gaze scanned the high beamed ceiling before coming to rest on the huge sash windows. She counted at least eight. The floor was a plank oak expanse, original she imagined, and buffed to a mirror shine. The errant housekeeper might have been crap at dog watching, but she certainly was handy with the beeswax. The furniture was authentic cracked and scuffed cozy. Squashy leather in muted shades of taupe and hazelnut brown. Burnished gas lamps dotted the white-stuccoed walls. Turned to dim, they bathed the room in warm, bronze shadows. The back wall boasted a stone fireplace so vast Cassie imagined you could spit-roast an ox in it. The grate was neatly stacked with logs ready to be lit, and their apple scent mingled with the heady aroma of pine, vanilla, and sandalwood candles. Somewhat feminine touches, she mused, and yet the room was so masculine.

“I love it.” The words spilled from her lips, hushed and reverent.

“Yes, it is lovely, isn’t it?” He pulled the sodden dressing gown from her shoulders. “Alex is a genius at the interior decor. I wasn’t so sure about the open plan thing but it works.”

It was an understatement. Cassie felt as if she’d stepped into the pages of an
OK!
shoot. Her mother would have been gutted by jealousy. Her efforts at interior design couldn’t really compete. Thinking of her mother brought reality crashing back down on her head. Together, they’d spent hours, painstakingly putting the new house in order, poring over material swatches, deciphering the intricacies of the paint colour code and for what? Her temples throbbed. She could never live in that house now.

“Hey.”

Light pressure on her shoulders dragged her back from the depths of her not too distant past.

“Are you okay? You look a little pale?”

“It’s nothing. I’m...I’m fine.” The sob burst out from its confines. “No. No I’m not.” Hot tears scalded her eyes before spilling down her cheeks. “I should be though, shouldn’t I? I’m on my honeymoon.”

* * * *

Blind-sided by this outpouring of emotion, James McIntyre felt uncomfortable. Although he was the sometimes-proud owner of three sisters, feminine tears confused him.

Beneath his curled fingers, her slim shoulders shook as her weeping intensified. Fists clenched, she rubbed at her tears. The gesture made her seem child-like, so vulnerable. His heart melted. With a will of their own, his hands slid down over her arms before circling her waist. She wilted against him, tears damp against his chest.

“It’s okay…” Before he knew what he was doing, his hand was on her head, stroking her hair. “Just cry it out.”

His photographer mind registered the vibrant mix of colour. Russet laced with gold, reminding him of a New England fall. The scent of her hair was intoxicating, filling his nostrils with the heady perfume of a meadow on a summer’s day. His heart skipped a beat. The air in his lungs felt trapped, and his throat constricted. This was wrong—so wrong and on so many levels. In his fugue brain, images of Alex clicked open and shut, and malicious fingers of guilt gripped his conscience.

He broke free from this dance of compassion. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

He read the pain mingling with confusion in her eyes, and he felt like an absolute prat.

A slow flush seeped into ashen cheeks. “No…” She brought her hand up to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I should go. I can’t be here.” She stumbled past him.

“Wait…” His word bounced off the closed door.

Frozen, he stared at the wood panels, while his head spun, uncertainty battling against relief for pole position. Was he supposed to go after her? The answer lay on the sofa. The mud-splattered coat remained where she’d dropped it, her light perfume captured in the wool folds. Her presence still lingered, playing havoc with his senses, and an involuntary shiver travelled the length of his spine before setting up home in his cock.

“You have got to be kidding me!” He closed his eyes against this unwelcome betrayal.

Madonna chose that moment to remind him she was the most important creature on God’s green earth. Breaking into a doleful
Hound of the Baskervilles
solo, she broke the perilous spell.

“Christ, but I wish you wouldn’t do that.” James crash-landed back in reality. “It’s scary.”

Madonna’s expression hovered between disdain and however-this-sub-species-is-in-charge-of-the-menu.

“Don’t push it, Blondie.” He skewered the canine with what Alex called his ‘man’ glint. “I love you about as much as you love me. A few more hours, and we need never see each other again, but until then, my rules, okay, so get over it.”

Raising an eyebrow, Madonna yawned.

Sighing, James shook his head. He could recognize defeat along with the next man. “I’ll take that as in-your-dreams, pal.”

Deciding he’d commanded enough of her royal attention, the dog nimbly jumped up on to the sofa, not in the least perturbed that her mud-caked feet smeared the cushions.

“Oh God.” James ran his fingers through his bed head. “Alex is going to kill me. Get off, you jumped up Paris Hilton wannabee. He lunged for the coat before ‘Paris’ turned it into a pillow. As he whipped it out from under saucer-sized paws, a card slipped from a pocket and fluttered to the floor. Thinking it was a game Madonna lunged for it.

“Not this time, Blondie.” Grinning his triumph, he pulled it from under her nose. “And don’t tell your mum I called you that.”

Flicking the card between finger and thumb, he read the address. “Mmm, Worthington Hotel. Classy.” He pursed his lips. “Looks like the not-so-happy couple isn’t short of a bob or two.”

Deep in thought, he walked over to the window and stared out across the road to the sodden park beyond. What were his options? Should he follow her now and risk barging in on a lovers’ tiff? His habitual cynicism reared its ugly head. So much for wedded bliss. Sparring on the honeymoon? If her distress was anything to go by, the guy she’d married just had to be a colossal wanker. If he had a girl like...

“Blondie, what am I saying?” Incredulity nudged at his semi-comatose brain cells. Oh the joys of jet lag, and his hellish day wasn’t yet over.

The grandfather clock burst forth with its hourly chime, and Madonna let rip with another Country and Western style rendition. He winced. And there by the grace of God went his longed for forty winks. Black-tie events were the bane of his life even when held in his honour. He didn’t want another friggin award, and he was tired of having his ego stroked by a bunch of inconsequential journalists whose idea of pictorial brilliance was a snap of a B celebrity’s snatch on You Tube. Shit, but he could do without it!

Somewhere over the Pacific, exhaustion had set up home in his bones, a testament to his punishing schedule. That wasn’t the only thing demanding retribution. Alex was gone. Breathing space? A commitment assessment more like. Depression vied with weariness for first place. He needed a drink.

Pyjama bottoms trailed over his bare feet, polishing the waxed planks as he crossed the room to the annexed kitchen. He rummaged in the freezer for Alex’s clandestine supply of vodka. Bingo. Wrenching his prize free from a month’s build up of ice, he unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his mouth. The liquid seared his lips before gripping his gut with its fiery fingers.

“So,” he spoke to his reflection in the stainless steel door. “This is good. Our relationship is still in with a chance, or there’d be no vodka, right?” He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. Who was he trying to kid? “Focus, James.” Resting his head against the cool metal, he closed his eyes. “We’ll get through this.”