Pitch Imperfect (8 page)

Although...the signals she had been sending out tonight seemed to warn she might want more, despite saying she was on a relationship hiatus.

Rob followed Sarah to her sitting room. The modern furniture seemed out of place in the low-ceilinged stone cottage, and her two-seater sofa was as uncomfortable as it looked. She sat next to him, then picked up her pad and pen. “Give me a minute or two to read through my notes.”

Had she pulled down her neckline or had it always been low? He hadn’t noticed at the pub, but he sure as hell hoped seduction wasn’t on her mind. Maybe he was imagining things. Since that mind-fucking night in London he’d lost confidence in his ability to read women’s desires.

Their whims.

But Sarah would never sleep with him and pretend he was another man. Never use him. And as he answered her questions, Rob wished he could feel something more for her than warm affection. Should he try, in spite of his gut feeling to keep their relationship platonic?

Sarah gave him a radiant smile and put down her pad. “Well, that’s another ‘persons of note’ in the Scottish Borders interview sorted. Anjuli Carver is next on my hit list.”

Rob gave her a hard look. “‘Hit list’ is right.”

Sarah raised her hands in surrender. “Like I said when you called, I was sorry the second I filed the piece. Truly, I was. But I couldn’t help writing that article. Someone told me Anjuli Carver was your ex-fiancé, and what she did to you. And there she was, three or four days back in Heaverlock and already trying to make you look bad.”

“She came out worse than I did, thanks to you.”

“I don’t like it when my friends are publically insulted.” She put her hand on his. “My article was a one-off, a forgivable mistake, don’t you think?”

He shouldn’t feel angry on Anjuli’s behalf, shouldn’t want to insist Sarah write a glowing piece to even out the balance. Shouldn’t hate it when he overheard people say Anjuli Carver was a stuck-up bitch who didn’t care about the village enough to sing at the ceilidh. Everybody makes mistakes—hell, he’d made his fair share, and was in no position to judge Sarah for trying to be his friend. He squeezed Sarah’s hand and picked up his coffee mug, but her worried expression didn’t fade.

“You were right, Rob. My article was unprofessional and I truly regret it.”

“You should tell
her
that.”

Sarah sniffed. “I’m sure Anjuli Carver has had much worse written about her. You should see the dossier Tom’s put together. Pictures, articles...She’s refused his attempts to interview her so many times he’s sure she’s hiding something.”

So was he, but he wanted to take Tom by the throat and squeeze until he agreed to stop prying into Anjuli’s life and leave her alone. And just in case Sarah still thought she needed to defend him...

“Anjuli apologised for what she said,” he said firmly. “It’s forgotten.”

Sarah stiffened. “When did you talk? Tonight? She seemed engrossed in Damien, that charmer.”

Charmer? The man preyed on women, was probably sniffing around Anjuli now, inviting her to bed. Rob looked at his watch and stood up. Eleven-thirty. Had the smooth-talking vet got his way or had Anjuli rebuffed him? Maybe she was still at the pub. He could swing by and have another drink, then get a lift home or walk.

To Halton Forest
,
man?

Despite “last orders” Ash often locked the pub and allowed the punters a few more drinks when Scotland won a game. Was Damien kissing Anjuli in there, this very second? He hadn’t stopped glancing at her during the game, and the expression on his face had said he was going to try it on, sooner rather than later. Not that Rob had been paying attention. Much.

Sarah stood and playfully shook his arm. “Heaverlock to handsome, are you going to answer me? Do you know why Anjuli Carver suddenly came back?”

No
,
but I’m going to find out.
“She wants me to restore her manor.”

“Oh? Are you going to? It would make a great feature. Sulky Celebrity Seeks Safe Harbour in Heaverlock.”

“Sarah...”

“Just kidding. But I would love to interview her, even if only for a story on the house. I’d be on my best reporter behaviour and could endear her to the village. Just tell me when and where you’re meeting and I’ll do the rest.”

“Friday morning at the office, after eleven but probably before twelve.”

Sarah looked perplexed, then her face brightened. “I could come by earlier, show you what I’ve written up about you and get any additionals I need.”

“I’m not sure what else I’ve got that morning. Mrs. P. keeps my schedule.”

Sarah leaned into him. “And does she also keep your social diary? I’m in need of a partner for the ceilidh.”

Damn, his intuition had been right. “I’m meeting up at the Town Hall with Mac and Craig, but I’m sure I’ll see you there.”

Sarah heaved a put out sigh. “Everybody in this village is either married or paired up. Craig and Mac...Damien and Anjuli...”

“They’re not together,” he said sharply.

Sarah put her hand on his arm. “They soon will be. Trust me, I know when a woman fancies a man, and as for Damien, well, he’s on the prowl for his next ‘gorgeous’ conquest.”

Fury rushed through his blood. Men like Damien lumped the opposite sex into generic labels to get into their pants—beautiful, sexy, gorgeous—all true where Anjuli was concerned, but if any man called her those things it would be
him
. “Damien can go to hell,” he said in a growl.

Startled, Sarah blinked, then her face grew sultry and she laced her arms around his neck. “He can go to hell and you can go to paradise,” she whispered, then kissed him on the mouth.

Surprised, Rob forced himself to stay still. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he could feel something for Sarah, forget Anjuli and try to love the intelligent, warm woman in his arms. But it was no use. Sarah wasn’t the woman keeping him awake at night, making him drench his sheets with unfulfilled need. She wasn’t the woman whose voice he wanted to hear, whose body he ached to cover with his. She might have offered to take him to paradise, but it seemed he preferred to live in hell.

All he could think of was dark brown hair, hazel eyes and firm, full curves. Sarah’s body didn’t fit with his the way Anjuli’s did. Her mouth was the wrong shape, her hair the wrong texture. She wasn’t the right height to rest his chin on her head and cocoon her body with his.

Gently, he set her away. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I wish I could, but I don’t want to lie to you. It would never work.”

For a moment, Sarah looked crestfallen, then she shrugged her shoulders and pulled up her bodice. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

At the door, Rob didn’t know whether to shake her hand or kiss her cheek. To his relief, Sarah solved the problem for him, giving him her usual friendly peck. “I’ll wear something to the ceilidh that won’t clash with the Douglas plaid.”

“Sarah...”

Her brows lowered. “You cannot be so unkind as to let me go alone, Robert Douglas, not when the entire village will say I’m out to steal a boyfriend or three if I show up without a date. You have to come with me.”

He felt like a bastard, but he had to say it. “As friends.”

“Of course,” she said firmly. “And friends don’t let friends dance alone.”

Rob’s thoughts drifted to Anjuli. She wasn’t his friend and he didn’t want her to be but if he had his way she wouldn’t be dancing with Damien.

Chapter Seven

Damn Brendan to hell. Anjuli’s visit to Glasgow had been pointless. Brendan didn’t have the money and probably never would. He’d been apologetic, but that hadn’t stopped him from reminding her he hadn’t signed an IOU. If she sued he’d let his new wife tell the papers it was a desperate attempt to keep him at her side.

Bastard.

What’s more, he’d kissed her goodbye and a paparazzo had snapped a picture and run off, delighted. Anjuli’s lips twisted. If she could make a pound off of every photo taken of her she would be rich again. There was nothing for it, a teacher’s salary and a bank loan would have to see her through the restoration. That is,
if
she convinced Rob to take it on.

Trying to feel confident, Anjuli walked up the tree-lined path to Heaverlock Primary School, hoping with all her heart that she made a good impression. The 1960s eyesore she remembered had disappeared, and in its place was a building that looked like a cross between a space ship and a wagon wheel. It was on one level, circular, with classrooms on the outer rim and the library at the hub. Rounded glass walls overlooked grassy areas between the centre paths. A separate, domed walkway led to similar building, smaller in scale, which housed the school gym.

The headmistress’s office was as charming as the rest of the school, though its occupant looked anything but. Mac had warned Anjuli that Mrs. Spedding was a difficult boss. At the time she’d wondered whether that was a euphemism for “occasionally moody” or “coldhearted bitch.” Looking at the middle-aged woman’s rigid posture and unsmiling face, Anjuli hoped for the former but suspected the latter.

The headmistress brusquely shook her hand and invited her to sit. Then she glanced at Anjuli’s top, frowned, and perused her CV. Self-consciously, Anjuli smoothed a hand down her skirt. Had she worn the wrong thing? She’d gone for her best interpretation of the “teachery” look in a brown, pinstriped pencil skirt and blue silk top. The skirt was a bit tight around the hips, but it was a far cry from the sexy dresses she’d worn for her concerts.

For a second Anjuli wished she was backstage, preparing to sing to thousands of fans. Sitting in front of Mrs. Spedding was more nerve-racking than her first live performance at Wembley Stadium.

Sharp blue eyes seemed to cut straight through her thoughts. “Am I right in assuming that you don’t have any formal teaching qualifications, Ms. Carver?”

“That’s right, but all the same I believe I can inspire a younger generation of students to pursue their love of music.”

Long lines indented Mrs. Spedding’s thin cheeks as she spoke. “Please forgive me for being candid, but I read that you were in a rehabilitation centre in America.”

And I read that all middle-aged headmistresses are frigid.
“Not everything one reads is true,” Anjuli said, aiming for confident dismissal. “I decided early on in my career to ignore the tabloid press. I can assure you that I am not, nor have I ever been, addicted to illegal substances or a resident at a rehabilitation centre.”

Mrs. Spedding nodded and her posture relaxed—somewhat. “The Local Education Authority takes drug and alcohol abuse very seriously. Teachers are expected to be of upstanding moral fibre. And also qualified.” She handed Anjuli her CV. “That means a post-graduate certificate in England or a diploma in Scotland. As you have neither, I suggest you look into Teaching Assistant positions, for which you would need to undergo the appropriate training. At the moment, there are no such vacancies at Heaverlock Primary.”

Mrs. Spedding scanned her computer screen and wrote something down on a yellow sticky note. “Here’s the number for a countywide tutoring service. Failing that I suggest you put an advertisement in
The Borders Chronicle
or the
Southern Reporter
. A woman of your renown should have no problems in acquiring students. If you decide to pursue a career in teaching we would love to have you some day.”

Anjuli accepted the note dejectedly. There would be no regular paycheque coming her way, no buying a car. And to think she used to rent flats in New York and Paris that cost more each month than a teacher’s annual salary. She had bought whatever she wanted without thinking about the cost. Gifts for her agents and the people who surrounded her; expensive cars for some and jewellery for others.

How many times had she “loaned” people money and never asked for it back? She could afford to help and did so gladly. But she had slowly discovered that gifting people with the money they wanted was a mistake. Perversely, they resented her for giving it to them. So-called friends suddenly began to avoid her. Others, she’d later discovered, only wanted to be around her so they could take pictures, doctor them and sell “insider” fabrications to the press. If she had been less naive, less willing to trust in people’s integrity, she never would have provided them with a reason to hate her.

Generosity could be as lethal as stupidity.

Mrs. Spedding held out her hand. “We would love it if you came back and sang for us at the Summer Fair. We’re raising funds for our new computer suite.”

Anjuli suppressed a sigh
.
Singing. It always came down to singing. That’s all people saw when they looked at her. A walking, talking, singing machine.

“I’m sorry, I’m very busy at the moment.”

“Of course you are,” Mrs. Spedding said thinly.

Definitely coldhearted bitch
,
then.
Great, her first week back home and already she had snubbed Councillor Hamish and managed to disappoint the influential headmistress of Heaverlock Primary. She should probably head home before she bumped into the Provost. Unfortunately, she had a shift at the pub so she could only hope he didn’t come in for a pint.

Anjuli walked into the colour-coded library and looked around for Mac. A petite, dark-haired woman of about fifty was shelving books in the red zone.

“What a great library,” Anjuli said.

The woman smiled proudly. “The entire school is beautiful. Not only that, Heaverlock Primary is the first eco-friendly primary in the Borders. We get our energy from solar panels and recycle almost everything. I’m the librarian by the way, Florinda Montrose.”

“It must have cost a fortune to build.”

Florinda smiled. “Not as much as it might have. The village rallied round and we raised enough money to add to the Council’s budget. It helped immensely that the architect—our own Robert Douglas—only charged for labour and materials.”

Anjuli’s brows lifted. Why hadn’t she realised that Rob had designed and built the school? It had his attention to ecological detail imprinted in every sleekly rounded corner. Ash had mentioned the drab old building had been torn down, but what she hadn’t said was that Rob had built the new school.

“Oh, it’s true,” Florinda said, misinterpreting Anjuli’s expression. “Mr. Douglas didn’t charge for the hours he spent designing our school, or his time on-site, or any of his expenses, although the man himself wouldn’t admit it if you asked him.”

“I can imagine.” Rob would have refused to charge because he thought it was the right thing to do, not because he wanted the village’s admiration.

Florinda lowered her voice. “I never indulge in gossip myself, but I heard that Mr. Douglas was left at the altar. There he was, a young man waiting for his bride, rejected in front of friends and family. The poor lad insisted that his bride was coming until his brother sat him down and told him she was gone. Good riddance, I say. There are plenty of lasses around these parts who would love to have his ring on their finger. Why, if I were any younger I’d—”

“What’s in that section over there?” Anjuli interrupted, turning her back. “Is that a chill-out area? It looks great.”

Florinda followed her to the green zone. “It was the Carver lass who humiliated him. Not the loopy publican, mind, but the drug-addicted singer. Janet or Jules I think her name was. My neighbour told me about her. She was flighty at best, constantly picking causes to get riled up about and causing all sorts of trouble.”

“Flighty?”

Anjuli’s huff added fuel to Florinda’s fire. “Oh yes. It’s not surprising, really. The entire family is odd. The parents run a bizarre retreat in the hills. ‘The Centre for Life Studies’ they call it. It’s one of these mumbo-jumbo cults, you know, dancing around or hugging trees.”

“It’s not a cult. It’s a spiritual pathway from India that—”

“But Jules was the worst. She and one of the teachers here rode the village boundaries in the Common Riding Festival. Can you imagine? Ignoring our traditions just to prove a point.”

“I hardly think that was the reason.”

Florinda sniffed. “Shortly after that Jules snared Mr. Douglas and stomped all over his heart. Then she left him for somebody in New York who was in the music industry. And I hear she made a nasty scene at the pub on Monday. Bold as brass she was, accusing Mr. Douglas of foul play in front of the whole village. And when Councillor Hamish asked her to sing? She declared she’d never perform for the likes of us.
I
think she probably can’t sing at all. She’s young and beautiful so they put her on stage to mouth the words.”

Anjuli stared at Florinda. Watching her talk was like watching a lion move in for the kill. Even though she wanted to look away from the blood and gore, from the utter enjoyment the beast had in chewing on its prey, she couldn’t. She had to let the attack run its course, eyes half-shut, looking sideways through her fingers.

“...and then Jules bought that old manor in front of Heaverlock Castle even though the trust had a gentlemen’s agreement to sell it to Mr. Douglas. In she waltzed with a higher offer and just like that they accepted it.”

“What?” Anjuli squeaked.

Florinda looked pleased at her reaction. “I have it on good authority that she offered whatever they wanted as long as they didn’t sell to Rob Douglas. I know his secretary, an old biddy who should have retired years ago, and she confided that he’d already invested a lot of time and money, making drawings and paying for surveys based on his understanding with the sellers. He was furious when they pulled out. Nobody knew who the new owner was until Jules Carver announced it to the village, brazen as can be.”

Anjuli made a garbled noise that spurred Florinda into more gossip, but she was no longer listening. No wonder Rob had been so tight-lipped and irritable! How was she supposed to know he was the other bidder for Castle Manor? Did he think she’d deliberately outbid him? Clinging to the idea of living in Castle Manor had been the only thing that had made her days bearable.

She’d wanted the house so desperately she’d bid for it blind, instructing her solicitor to go over and above the recommended purchase price. No surveys or viewings and she would pay for it in cash. The vendors had jumped at her offer and she’d been ecstatic. That is, until she’d received the devastating news that Lordship Wealth Management had lost her fortune. She’d kept a relatively small amount in a separate savings account, and most of that had paid for the house and the hefty stamp duty, as well as funding the move up from London and the lawyer who had represented her against the financial advice firm.

Anjuli smothered a groan. If only she’d kept more money in her savings account! But no, another singer had recommended Lordship, and she’d been too quick to trust. Maybe she should have stuffed her mattress with her cash, the way people used to hundreds of years ago.

Her smile was ironic. Buying the stately Victorian manor had taken the pea from under the mattress and turned the princess into a pauper.

“Everybody is buzzing with the news that Jules is back,” Florinda said, snapping Anjuli out of thoughts about money. “Wondering if she’ll try her wiles on Mr. Douglas. She’s quite promiscuous, you know.”

Anjuli narrowed her eyes. “And you have that on good authority also?”

“Everybody knows what she got up to at those glamorous parties, surrounded by other addicts and sexual deviants. I remember reading an article once that said she—”

“Anjuli!” Mac rushed up from behind them and embraced her warmly. “You look great.”

“Old friends?” Florinda asked.

“Yes, and my name is
Anjuli
Carver, actually. Not Jules. If you’ll excuse us I’m taking my flighty, promiscuous self to do some mumbo-jumbo with Mrs. Scott in the staff room. And if she can find a CD player, I’ll mime to one of the tracks.”

With a flounce she’d learned from an American diva, Anjuli turned on her heels, leaving the red-faced librarian behind.

* * *

Mac chuckled all the way to the staffroom, then ushered Anjuli in, asking for a few seconds to put away the poster in her hand. Anjuli sank into one of the chocolate-brown sofas and eyed the light green walls. What was the interior designer thinking? If she’d got the teaching job she would quickly have become a mint chocolate junkie. Was that why Mac had put on so much weight? Minty chocolate had always been a particular favourite of hers.

Her old friend was almost unrecognisable. Where was the athletic, slender girl she’d known? And who had sabotaged her dress sense? Mac looked more like an overweight Postman Patricia than the Yummy Mummy she’d expected. The functional black trousers, light blue top and clunky brogues made her wish she had the money to fly Mac to Paris and hit the boutiques.

Polyester? Puh-lease! In her mind, Anjuli dressed Mac in a burgundy silk that enhanced her pale skin, ink-black hair and clear grey eyes.

“That’s the only time I’ve seen Florinda speechless,” Mac said, laughing, and her face was transformed. Her eyes brightened and her mouth curved upwards in a mischievous smile that swept away the years.

Anjuli answered her laugh with a self-mocking smile. “She didn’t recognise me. And there I was, thinking I’m famous. My ego will never recover from being considered an unfeeling bitch.”

“You’re as far from an unfeeling bitch as Florinda is from a fuzzy bunny,” Mac said vehemently, then took Anjuli’s hand and pressed it. “I’ve never been able to thank you...for the roses.”

Anjuli knew immediately to what she referred. “Jamie’s favourite,” she remembered sadly.