All That Lies Broken (Ashmore's Folly Book 2) (36 page)

Dominic Abbott had not given up. Against the odds, he had not given up. He’d had Renée back for two years, time to father two more daughters, and he’d managed to keep her with him until the October day when something had snapped between them.

Laura had finished reading the paperback on the flight, while Cam slept beside her. She’d put the book away and stared out the window at the Atlantic miles below, into her own heart.

The apple doesn’t fall far
. In her veins mingled the blood of the unstable Renée and the man who refused to throw in the towel. Renée had been described as a dreamer – was that why she could escape inside herself so easily? Renée had written poetry as a child – had that been passed along with mother’s milk? And if she indeed had Renée’s genetic imprint, she had asked herself at 40,000 feet, then what had she inherited from Dominic? She’d spent even more years than Renée trying to escape him, but – she’d looked at her hands, the long fingers that she had inherited from her father – she could never truly leave Dominic Abbott behind. Wherever she went, she carried within herself that same determination, that same refusal to give up, that had kept her at Meg’s side in the intensive care nursery.

She was more Dominic’s daughter than Renée’s.

Laura stared out at the rain falling against the window, the lightning crashing through the sky.

Dominic would have understood the scene at the Folly. He would have understood that need to win, to dominate, to vanquish. He might even have applauded. But even more, he would have understood the drive to push herself. Her throat ached slightly now; she hadn’t been as warmed up as she had thought. But no matter. She had won.

And was she going to throw in the towel now? Abandon the field? Let Diana win by default?

Leave?

She moved her hand over Max’s silky neck, and he opened one feline eye and glowered at her.

She had to leave. Tom’s words rang in her memory. She didn’t see that she had any other choice.

But did that mean she had to give up?

~•~

Easier said than done, though. It took a difficult few minutes to get ready, throwing things into her overnight bag with one hand while she held a flashlight in the other. Max didn’t help. He hated thunderstorms, moaning and cringing every time the sky flashed, flattening his ears as if an enemy were pounding at the door, and making a nuisance of himself by throwing his furry self against her as she moved around the room. Toothbrush, silky nightgown, diaphragm – mustn’t forget that!… she stuffed everything into the bag without regard for wrinkles or order. Her hair was still wet from her shower, and the French twist that she had planned to take down for Richard, oh so carefully and seductively, was ruined. That belonged to another hour, another woman, innocently looking forward to her evening.

She clipped her hair up and forgot about seduction.

No raincoat. She searched through the armoire… and then she remembered where she’d left it, hanging in the coat closet in London.

“Ouch!” She banged her knee against the edge of the armoire. Max hissed. “I know, baby. I’m such a wuss.”

A pitiful little meow, and a brush of fur against her ankle.

She stood at the back window and watched the torrents come down. The wind was whipping through the trees, blowing leaves and debris furiously across the terrace. A good night to snuggle in bed and listen to nature’s fury.

O Western wind, when wilt thou blow
… She had always loved that verse.
That the small rain down can rain?
She whispered to Max, “Go hide under the bed, baby.”

Christ, that my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again….

She set her bag on the veranda and closed the door. Outside, sheltered only by the shallow overhang, she felt the fury of the storm, and she wished violently for her coat. The rain, blowing so hard that it slanted sideways, hit her bare legs. She looked out across the circular drive, and her heart dropped. She wasn’t going anywhere. The gates were closed, and they operated electrically.

But the agent had said something about a manual override. Fine. She’d pull the gates back herself. She started down the steps and stepped right into a puddle, and cold muddy water splashed up over her feet. Her sandals weren’t up to this. She ran back into the house and found her tennis shoes.

Maybe her raincoat was inconveniently thousands of miles away, but the umbrella was close at hand. She kept several in the car; Meg was always losing hers, and Cam had believed firmly in being prepared. She ran down to the car, thinking that it was just too bad that the owners had splurged on a reflecting pool when a
porte cochère
would have been so much more practical, unlocked the passenger door, and got herself drenched in the space of only a few seconds.

She shoved the keys into the shallow upper pocket of her denim skirt and felt around for an umbrella. Nothing in the front seat – was this going to be the one time in history a St. Bride wasn’t prepared for an emergency? Cam had always thought she couldn’t be trusted to come in out of the rain. She hung over the seat and moved her hands around in the back – the headrest crushing into her breast, horribly uncomfortable – and felt, in triumph, her hands close around an umbrella left on the floor.

The umbrella kept the worst of the cold from her head, but she was already wet through and through. She had forgotten the cold soaking rains that swept in from the Atlantic with so little warning. The wind was picking up speed; she had to fight to hang onto the umbrella, turning it into the wind so that it did not act as a sail and blow her off her feet.

Above her head, lightning streaked through the sky, and she saw a shower of sparks off in the distance.

She reached the gates and searched for the handle that operated the manual override. And, of course, naturally, she found it half-hidden behind the overgrown bushes on the side of the drive. She grasped it as firmly as she could with one wet hand and shoved it into the unlocking position.

And nothing happened.

She couldn’t be trapped here. She couldn’t be. She had to get out of here. If she had to, she’d walk all night through this monsoon. She was going to do what she had so ungenerously refused to do ten months before.

And one stupid electronic gate was not going to stop her.

She walked across the drive to the business end of the gate, transferred the umbrella handle to her left hand, and began to pull back on the iron bars. Nothing. She threw her weight into it and pulled again.
Nothing
. Damn, damn,
damn
.

She tucked the umbrella handle awkwardly between her breast and arm, grasped the bar with both hands, and yanked.

And was knocked decisively off her feet and onto her rear end when a sudden gust of wind turned the umbrella inside out and sent it flying over the gates.

“Oh, God!” No point in either swearing or praying. She dragged herself up, shivering, the back of her legs smarting. Her hair fell wetly across her face; she pushed it back, took a deep breath, and put her hands on the iron bar again.

She froze then, fixed to the spot by the headlights that swept into view, pinpointing the bedraggled mess trying futilely to open gates that simply would not budge.

She stood still, letting the rain do its worst, while he stopped the car and got out. Of course, he had an umbrella; of course, he handled it competently so that it didn’t turn into a sail and get him soaked to the skin.

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. Somehow, managing to hold onto his umbrella, he put his hands above hers on the bars, and, beneath the sound of the thunder, she heard, “Pull.
Now
.”

They pulled together – even in her sodden misery, she saw the irony – and the addition of his strength and weight did the trick. The gate began, reluctantly, to slide back – not all the way, but enough room for his Lexus to crawl through.

They stood a foot apart, the gates no longer a barrier between them, and they said nothing. She felt him pushing the umbrella handle into her hand, but she shook her head and stepped back. She was wet through already – no point in both of them getting soaked. He simply looked at her, with eyes that she could not read, and his face was completely blank of emotion. He had gone away again.

She felt her hand start to lift to him, to touch his face gently, and then his eyes lifted and he looked beyond her towards the Jaguar, towards the veranda where she had dropped her overnight case. In the light of the storm, she saw his mouth twist, and her hand fell.

She thought he said, “Just what I thought.”

An attack of shivering hit her. She wrapped her arms across her chest.

“Get in the car. You’re freezing.”

She shook her head. “I’ll get your seats wet.”

She turned from him then, quickly, ignoring the hand that he extended to her. She didn’t look behind her as she walked back across the circular drive to the veranda – that small, merciful strip of roof that provided a respite from the driving rain that was, incredibly, picking up in speed and rage. She was cold, through and through. She did not think, in the few seconds it took her to reach shelter, that she would ever be warm again.

Through the storm, she heard his car door close, heard the Lexus pull up behind the Jaguar.

At least, on the veranda, the rain wasn’t beating down on her head. She pushed her hair out of her face and watched him get out of the car and walk around the Jaguar to her, his eyes again on her bag.

He said again, “I expected as much.”

Her teeth were chattering; she couldn’t stop them. Her arms around her chest brought no warmth to her body.

“Let’s go inside.” He pulled out the key she had given him last Sunday afternoon, when she had lain across her bed and he had made her warmer than she had ever thought possible. She felt heavy and sodden; she had been light as air as his mouth had moved across her. “You’re soaked through. You can leave later.”

She stared at him.

“For God’s sake, Laura!” He pushed the door open. “Get inside. I’m not going to stand out here all night.”

Once inside, his hand felt for the light switch by the side of the door, and he swore as he found no power. The air was still and stuffy, but it was so much warmer in here. The sound of the storm faded into the distance, the house a wall between them and the fury outside. She stood there, trapped in a dream that she couldn’t awake from, dripping rainwater on the hardwood floor, as he disappeared into the powder room off the staircase.

A moment later, he came back with a towel and handed it to her.

She sank onto one of the lower stairs and rubbed the towel over her hair. He stood before her, only a few feet away; she could have reached out and touched him, if only he hadn’t felt a universe distant. She felt the cotton cloth become damp with the rainwater soaking her hair; she rubbed it across her face and thought, in surprise, how strange that anything still registered on her skin. She felt not quite real, as if the real Laura floated somewhere high above her body, watching.

He said, “Are you leaving?”

She stared at him, her eyes adjusting to the shadows. “I have to – we can’t – Tom said—”

Then, unbelievably, he cut her off.

“No,” he said. “
No
.”

He turned away from her. She looked after him, bewildered.

“But I thought—”

He said harshly, never looking back at her, “You don’t get to make those decisions anymore. Not by yourself, you don’t.”

She inhaled the warm air sharply. “But you told me I could leave.” That one thought was her talisman, that he had tried so many times to release her. “You said – it was my choice, it was up to me. You said I could walk away.”

He wheeled around, and she saw then, in shock, the full force of his anger against her. “If that’s your decision,” he said. “But that’s if you want to leave me, Laura, not if you’re leaving to protect me. I’m a grown man. I don’t need your protection. I went into this with my eyes wide open.”

She swallowed. Impossible, without the benefit of light, without the luxury of touch, to know what he was thinking. She only sensed his anger running high, in tune with the fury of the storm. She noticed, almost incidentally, that her feet were freezing inside her soaked shoes. In the warm stuffiness of the house, her shirt clung to her uncomfortably; the denim of her skirt felt clammy against her legs.

“I’m half of this,” Richard said. “It’s not all about you anymore. It’s you and me.”

She stared down at the floor. “I have to.” She barely heard her own whisper. “This is hurting Lucy. Tom says—”

“Yes, I know what Tom says,” he interrupted. “I do not appreciate his interference. We had a short discussion to that point not an hour ago. I can keep Lucy out of this. If it’s going to cause her stress, then I will damn well get other lawyers.” He stopped and came back towards her. His hand lifted her chin to make her look at him. “Now tell me why you’re leaving.”

Why didn’t she feel anything? All her courage, all the determination that had driven her out into the storm had drained away. “I’m going to cause you problems if I stay.”