She Hates Me Not: A Richer in Love Romance (7 page)

“You don’t know that,” Lou replied.  Her own voice sounded as weak as she felt.  Exhausted, she shut her eyes.  “Folks still search for Jean Lafitte’s treasure.  That legend’s been around for two hundred years.”

“But it’s not your legend, Lou.  You’ve been hiding for so long, you’ve forgotten what it means to be free.  It made sense for you to be cautious at first.  Now you live like the sky’s always falling.”

“It almost fell on Amy three years ago.”

“But it didn’t,” Moggie emphasized.  “Maybe that’s what Kip is here to do – prove to you that the sky isn’t falling.”

“The sky never falls on guys like him.”

“The sky never falls on any of us.  That’s the point of the story.”

Lou opened one eyelid to peer at her.  “You’re like the Obi Wan Kenobi of Warwickshire.”

Moggie’s lip curled.  “I’m trying to find the compliment in that.”

“So you really think the sky won’t fall?”

Rising, Moggie grabbed a serviette to brush the crumbs from Kip’s side of the table.  She wiped off his chair for good measure.  “It hasn’t yet.”

After she vanished back into the café, Lou ate her deconstructed scone, currants first, and wondered how right Moggie was.  Usually one hundred percent.

Had she really forgotten what freedom was like?  She was born and raised in America.  Freedom was in her blood, her genes.  Maybe she was mistaking safety for freedom.  They weren’t the same thing – not really.

Lou jumped when her cell phone buzzed in the front pocket of her jeans.  Only Moggie or Beryl ever called her on it, and they were both close enough to holler.  Removing it, Lou checked the screen.  Unknown number.  She let it go to voice mail.

A minute later it rang again.

And again.

And again.

On the fifth round of buzzes, Lou picked up.  She faked a London accent and spoke through her nose.  “Codswollop residence.”

“I thought I told you – no more contact with my son.”

Leaping up from her chair, Lou scanned the court.  “How did you get my number?”

“You’re not as ‘off the grid’ as you believe.”

Lou shuddered at Lydia’s suggestion.  “I didn’t contact Kip.  He found me.”

“Irrelevant.  You are not to see him again.”

“I’m fine with that,” Lou lied.  “But you’ll have to let him know I’m off limits.”

“Did you remind him that you hate him?”

Lydia’s tone was so business-like, Lou had to smile.  “Several times.  It’s not sinking in.”

“Judging from what I saw on Twitter, I’d agree.”

Lou backed herself against the wall.  She never dabbled in the world of social media, so her fears hadn’t traveled that far.  “What did you see?”

“An inappropriate display of public affection.  Just make sure you’re unavailable tomorrow.”

“It’s my day off.  He won’t be able to find me.  The café will be closed, and he doesn’t know where I live.”

“Good.”  Lydia hung up.

Her pulse raising, Lou checked the alley again.  Still vacant.  At least Kip’s mother hadn’t shown up in person.

Lydia also didn’t seem to care about the details of their verbal contract.  Lou had promised not to contact Kip.  Him contacting her was a loophole – one Lydia obviously wanted to close.  Whether or not they renegotiated the terms, one of them would have to tell Kip.

Lou prayed Lydia would take the bull by the horns.  If Kip didn’t hate his mother already, he probably wouldn’t decide to over this.  But their agreement made Lou seem as conniving and phony as Catrella Delcombe or Liam McGreevy.

None of that mattered, Lou decided.  She’d be completely off the grid tomorrow.  While she had Kip’s number, he didn’t have hers, and Lou would resist every urge to call him.

Briefly she thought about crumpling their photo and tossing it in the nearest trash can.  Even if she didn’t hate Kip Richmond, she hated what he might do to her world.

But she didn’t hate him.  Not really.

Grabbing the picture, Lou stuffed it into a pocket and retreated into the café.

W
ith one eye shut, Lou judged her work-in-progress like it was judging her back.

The washes of blue were too uniform.  The green strokes rose too high, and the red dots among them looked like blood spatters instead of poppies.  Nothing showed any motion or texture or depth.

She leaned sideways to check Beryl’s painting.  Flowing river.  Swaying reeds.  Butterflies cavorting among wildflowers beneath fluffy white clouds in a vibrant sky.  Add a thatch-roofed cottage plus a few grazing sheep, and some tourist would pay good money for what Beryl had created in less than an hour.

Beryl paused long enough to pat Lou’s arm.  “Don’t lose heart, duck.  We all start where we are.”

“And I’m still where I started four years ago.”  Lou tossed her brush onto the easel’s tray.  “It’s like a two-year-old ate a bunch of paint and threw up all over my canvas.”

“Switching brushes a bit more might help.”

“Or switching hobbies.”

As though she’d read Lou’s mind, Beryl added a sheep to her scene by forming its nose, ears, and legs with delicate dabs of black.  “Think of space as its own color.”

Lou laughed at the advice.  If Moggie was Obi Wan Kenobi, then Beryl was definitely Yoda.  She sewed her own patchwork skirts, made jewelry from broken china cups, and tied back her long greying curls with colorful scarves.  Most of what Beryl said made perfect sense.  The rest sounded like a mistranslated fortune cookie.

“I’m having enough trouble with the colors that do exist,” Lou replied.

“Aren’t we all?”  With an expert flourish, Beryl painted a second sheep.

Giving up, Lou returned to the quilt – also Beryl’s handiwork – that she’d spread beneath a willow tree on the banks of the Avon.  The weather was even prettier than Beryl’s painting.  As she reclined, Lou thought about taking a nap until lunchtime.  Her rumbling stomach hinted that it wasn’t too far away.

“Am I interrupting?”

Lou popped up like a gopher from its hole.  Kip Richmond stood on the footpath that led south from the bridge and the boat club.  He carried Moggie’s picnic basket in one hand and a bottle of white wine in the other.  His amused expression was a little too self-satisfied.

“What are you doing here?” Lou demanded.

Kip lifted the basket.  “I’m here to return this.”

“Which you could have taken to the café.”

“Which is closed today.”

Lou began to rethink her preference for clever men.  “I don’t remember calling you.”

“I don’t remember taking your call.”

When Kip smiled at her, the sight gave Lou a pins-and-needles feeling.  Six foot two.  Eyes of blue.  Looking like an Armani ad for its casual clothing line.

To keep from ogling, Lou whirled toward the river.  “So you should probably go.”

She waited for another lightning-fast retort until the silence made her wonder if Kip had actually gone.  As the pins and needles changed to a traitorous wave of panic, Lou peeked over one shoulder.

“Well, that’s quite good, isn’t it?”  Standing between the two easels, Kip admired Beryl’s painting.  He had set the basket and wine on the quilt like he was staking his claim.  “Who are your influences?  Monet?”

“Turner also.  And Renoir.”  Beryl’s tone lacked its typical effervescence.

“Do you often paint
en plein air
?”

“Whenever the weather permits.”

If Kip’s Art-101 knowledge impressed her, Beryl didn’t let on.  She was one of the warmest people Lou knew.  She was also among the most cautious.  With her chin lowered, she peered at Kip over the rims of her tie-dye reading glasses.

While Moggie seemed completely at ease with the weekend’s weird turn of events, Beryl had been apprehensive from the moment she learned about Lydia’s one-and-done deal.  Although Beryl could find the good in everyone, she guarded Lou like a swan did its cygnets, and Kip had his work cut out for him.

Uncertain of whether she wanted him to succeed, Lou joined them at the easels.  “Kip’s mama bought a Renoir last night.”

“So I hear.”  Beryl scrutinized her sheep with a critical gaze.  “Does she maintain a private collection?”

“Quite the opposite,” Kip answered.  “She buys from private collections and loans the paintings to museums and galleries, preferably those free to the public.  Charity events, like last night’s gala, delight her even more.  The theater receives financial support, and a masterpiece receives what attention it deserves.”

Lou couldn’t imagine Lydia Richmond acting delighted about anything.  Or anyone.  Or the fact that her son had tracked down Lou yet again.  This time it couldn’t be pure chance or even a lucky guess.  Not two days in a row.

Kip shifted toward Lou’s excuse for a painting.  “And this is…?”

Lou stepped between him and the canvas.  “About to be thrown in the river.” 

Easing nearer, he offered a wily grin.  “Everyone needs a hobby.”

“But this one doesn’t need me.”  Although no part of her touched Kip, Lou felt as entangled as she’d been on Saturday night.  They were like a pair of magnets.  Or alley cats.  Or cottontail rabbits in May.  If her crusade to hate Kip Richmond was going to succeed, she would need to leave room for the Holy Ghost no matter what they were doing.

When Beryl cleared her throat, Lou stepped aside.  Pivoting, she snatched the canvas from its easel and carried it to the willow tree.  She was done for the day even if Beryl wasn’t.  Now she just had to figure out how to get home without Kip trailing her like a hungry stray.  He’d disrupted her Sunday and invaded her day off.

The carefree part of her rejoiced.  The rest checked the bushes for lurking photographers.  Or Lydia.  Or her bodyguard whose size rivaled a Mack truck.  He couldn’t even hide behind a tree.

The sound of wind chimes overwhelmed the chirp of birds.  Apologizing, Beryl answered her phone.  More than once her gaze flicked toward Kip.  She murmured a few monotone yeses, then hung up.

“Moggie’s wanting to have lunch,” Beryl shared.  “Leave the easels, duck, and we’ll collect them later.”

“Please thank her for the dinner,” Kip said.  “It was delicious.”

“I’ll pass that along.”  Grabbing the recyclable bag that served as her purse, Beryl gave Lou an admonishing look.  “Are we still on for tomorrow?  Do I need a Plan B?”

“No Plan B,” Lou promised.  “It’s Plan L all the way.  You know tomorrow’s my favorite day of the week.”

“What happens tomorrow?” Kip asked as he sat down on the quilt.

Lou decided to be evasive.  “Details.  So how did you know?”

“Know what?”  His expression was half innocent, half mischievous, and all adorable as he opened the basket to remove its contents.  Plastic containers of food.  Two bottles of water.  Two stemless wine glasses.  Paper plates, cloth serviettes, and actual silverware.

“Know I’d be here today.”  She held up a bottle of Bordeaux Blanc, one she could never afford.  Either Kip was the world’s best guesser or he had a source on the inside.  “Know what kind of wine I like.  Who tipped you off?  Moggie?”

Kip reached into the picnic basket and pulled out one of the café’s comment cards.  It was filled out in Moggie’s handwriting.  The answers did not match its questions.

How did you find your meal?

south bank of the Avon, across from Holy Trinity Church

How did you find your service?

between 10 and 1

Any additional comments?

TSB on Ely St

chicken or lobster salad, stilton or brie

flatbread, White Bordeaux, strawberries

Lou thrust the card in Kip’s direction like she issued him a ticket for breaking the law.  “This is flat-out cheating!  And I hate cheaters.”

“Oh dear.”  He tucked it away.  “Just this once then.”

Just this once.  It was becoming Lou’s new motto.  Just one gala.  Just one kiss.  Just one conversation over scones and tea.  Just one picnic beside the river on a summer afternoon.

So much for one and done.  Or had she found her own loophole in Lydia’s deal?

As she opened both bottles of water, Lou surveyed the spread.  Kip had purchased everything on Moggie’s list.  Both salads.  Both cheeses.  And apparently all the strawberries in Warwickshire.  The Starving Bard was Stratford’s ultra-gourmet take-away bistro where locals splurged and tourists indulged.  Thanks to Kip, the Bard’s week was off to a profitable start.

Accepting a glass of wine, Lou reminded herself to sip slowly.  “No bodyguard today?”

“He’s still in London with my mother.”  As he recorked the bottle, Kip frowned.  “Does Yannick bother you?  He doesn’t spy on me, if that’s your worry.  I always know when he’s about, and I would tell you if he were.”

“I’m not bothered,” Lou said.  “I’m curious.  Why do you need him in the first place?”

“My brother Ben was kidnapped for ransom once, whilst he was in primary school.  For years after that, we had private security everywhere we went.  Mother finally relaxed when I finished Sixth Form, and since then it’s been only Yannick.”

“Is your brother okay?”

“Oh yes.  Ben’s resilient.  It takes a lot to rattle his cage.”

Setting down her wine, Lou helped Kip peel the lids off the containers of food.  He’d bought enough to feel a small army – or a giant bodyguard.  What Lou made in a week, Kip had spent on one meal.

The Richmonds were wealthier than the Queen of England, but was that really an advantage?  More than women hunted Kip for his money.  Any stranger on the street, any guest at a gala, could be a potential threat.  How would Kip, or his brother, know who to trust?  Who to befriend, and who to love?

Lou felt tempted to explain her own situation, to let Kip know that she understood.  But Lou wasn’t sure she should trust him.  She was supposed to be hating Kip Richmond, not be feeling the reverse.

Accepting a plate when he offered it, Lou stuck to a safer subject.  “Don’t you have to go back to work at some point?  Report to an office?  Fly to India?”

“Eventually.  A lot of what I do happens off site.  Speeches.  Presentations.  Appeals for donations.  Appearances at ground-breakings and company meetings.”

“Shaking hands.  Kissing babies.”

Kip chuckled as he filled his plate.  “I’m in public relations, not politics.  I’ve no interest in standing for election, and I doubt that I’d qualify.”

“Why not?  Most politicians are snakes.”  Lou froze.  “Not that you’re a snake.  I didn’t mean that.  You’re just…”

“Just someone you hate?” he finished with a wink.  “People may be quite forgiving, but some labels become permanent, perhaps because they should.  Not even families can ignore them, perhaps because they shouldn’t.”

Lou felt like they were dancing again – this time around a topic.  She decided to deal with it American-style.  “Were you really addicted to drugs?” she asked bluntly.

To his credit Kip didn’t skip a beat.  “Painkillers.  Right after I graduated uni, I broke my ankle whilst competing in a charity football match.”

Kip raised the right leg of his khaki slacks.  Scars crisscrossed both sides of his ankle.

“It’s more metal than bone down there now.  I can still play some sports, and jog in limited amounts, but my doctor has banned me from football.  Opioids are also off the table.  Heaven help me if I break anything else.  It’s Paracetamol or nothing.”

Lou realized she was wincing.  “I’m sorry you can’t play soccer anymore.”

“As you’ve already mentioned, I’m a cheater.  From time to time, when no one’s looking, I might sneak a few minutes on the pitch.”  His grin was boyishly naughty.

“So you went to rehab?”

Kip just nodded.

“But you can drink alcohol?”

“With caution, yes.  It doesn’t seem to be a trigger.  It doesn’t give me that sense of escape.”

“What were you escaping?”

“Nothing in particular.”  Kip picked up an unused tea spoon and spun it between his fingers.  “I just liked the way I felt when I was high.  Unaccountable.  Detached.  Transformed, really.  I also forgot to eat.  Or shower.  Didn’t report to work or leave my flat.  I was pretty far gone before my family stepped in.”

“But you’re better now?”

“Yes,” he assured her.  “I can never let my guard down, but yes.  I’m better now.  And you’ve just heard what is quite possibly the worst thing I could share with anyone – especially someone who hates me.  But all you have to do is google my name, and those stories will pop right up.”

Lou inhaled as she recalled Lydia’s words from their bizarre negotiation in the court. 
His life has been easy, but it has not been kind.
  Impulsively she rested her hand on top of Kip’s.

“You went through all that in plain view of everyone.”

“Which, believe me, makes you want to escape all the more.”

Kip turned his hand so that their fingers threaded together.  Lou didn’t try to pull away.  She wasn’t a sucker for broken men, a Miss Fix-It like her sister, and Kip was anything but defective.  He didn’t talk like a victim or blame others for his troubles.  He seemed at ease with them.  And with her.