The Unexpected Consequences of Love (17 page)

It was earlier than he'd usually be up, but Josh had offered to drive the Carter-Laings to Newquay airport to catch their flight back to Edinburgh. As they'd been leaving the hotel, Griff had jumped out of his basket and followed them out to the car, whining and pleading to be allowed along for the ride. Which had seemed like a decent enough idea; after dropping off the Carter-Laings, he could take the dog for a proper run along the beach before breakfast.

But as he'd been heading back along the coast road, Josh had come across something unexpected: there was Sophie's car, parked up in a lay-by in the middle of nowhere behind a dark gray Toyota Corolla.

Did this mean it had been stolen? Was that likely? Had she broken down? Where was she and what could she be doing at this time of the morning? Puzzled, Josh parked in front of the Toyota and switched off the ignition. It was the sheer oddness of the situation that propelled him to push open the driver's door. He had to know for sure that Sophie was all right.

As he made his way across the wet grass with Griff bounding joyfully along at his heels, Josh took out his phone and called Sophie's cell phone. When it rang and rang and wasn't picked up, his level of concern ramped up a couple more notches. Had a deranged killer flagged her down, dragged her out of the car, and thrown her off the edge of the cliff onto the rocks below?

He sped up, blinking rain out of his eyes. It had to be over a decade since he'd last visited Mizzen Cove; it was too much like hard work for all but the most hardy and determined beach finder. The thought that something sinister could have happened to Sophie was making his mouth dry…

Josh held his breath as they approached the cliff edge, needing to know but not wanting to look. The next moment he heard a shriek of laughter and saw her.

Sophie, wearing no clothes, none at all. She had her back to him but it was unmistakably her, dancing across the golden sand with her arms stretched wide and her blond hair streaming behind her. Jesus, thank goodness she was alive…and look at her,
just
look…

Relief at not finding an inert body lying broken on the rocks instantly gave way to admiration; basically, the last thing he'd expected to see was Sophie dancing naked on the beach, being photographed by a plump older woman who was similarly unclothed.

Josh smiled at the incongruous sight of the two of them. He had no idea what the photos might be in aid of, but the fact that Sophie was up for such an adventure was enough to make his day complete. And who knew, this could be a regular thing; maybe these days Mizzen Cove was a designated naturist beach and people came here every week to shed their clothes and their inhibitions.

“Woof woof woof-woof WOOF!” Pricking his ears up, Griff wriggled with delight as he recognized Sophie. The next moment he'd launched himself down the steep zigzagging path, eager to join the fun being had by the naked people on the beach below.

Shit…

Looking up and spotting him, Sophie appeared to share the sentiment. She let out a muffled shriek and attempted to cover herself with her hands. As she turned away, he saw the blue-gray bruise on her back from last week's fall. Griff, scrabbling down the last bit of the overgrown path, reached the bottom and raced across the sand, leaping around her in wriggly circles and yapping like a lunatic.

“Oh my God, Griff,
go
away
,” Sophie wailed. Which had the exact opposite effect; tail wagging furiously, he attempted to launch himself into her arms.

Josh yelled, “GRIFF! COME HERE THIS MINUTE.” Which, predictably, had no effect whatsoever.

The other woman on the beach stood with her hands on her hips and called up, “If you can't control your dog, young man, you really should keep it on a leash.”

Mental images of Griff rampaging around the all-white room at the hotel the other week flickered through Josh's brain. Talk about déjà vu.

“I would have if I'd known I needed to.” The woman had the in-control manner of a teacher and had just called him
young
man
. “I saw Sophie's car back there and wanted to make sure she was okay. I was worried about her,” he insisted, because the woman was giving him a raised-eyebrow look.

“I'm here because I'm
working
,” Sophie protested. Having moved like lightning, she was now back in her denim shorts and buttoning up her blue shirt.

“Of course you are. Sorry.” Josh managed to keep a straight face. “For some reason it didn't occur to me that you wouldn't have any clothes on.” Unable to resist it, he added, “Again.”

Sophie shot him a look. “Okay, okay. You can come and get Griff now. Actually, no.” She turned to her companion. “Do you want to get dressed first?”

The plump woman beamed, utterly unfazed. “Don't worry; I'm fine as I am.”

Griff continued cavorting around with a carefree gleam in his eye and a long strand of seaweed trailing from his mouth. As Josh climbed down to beach level, he noticed Sophie wince with pain as she knelt and discreetly stuffed her bra and panties into her camera case. Eventually he persuaded Griff to return to him and give up the prized tangle of seaweed.

“So,” said the woman, who'd been eyeing him with interest, “you and Sophie know each other.”

“We do.” He tucked Griff securely into the crook of his arm.

“I'm Elizabeth, by the way.” Stepping forward, she held out a hand for him to shake. “Good to meet you.”

“Josh. Nice to meet you too.” Her remaining breast jiggled as they shook hands.

Her tone conversational, Elizabeth said, “Ever seen a mastectomy scar up close before, Josh?”

“Er, well… No, can't say I have.”

“And does it look horrendous?”

Okay, if she could be this up front about it, so could he. Josh studied her chest and shook his head. “No, not horrendous. It's just scar tissue. It's fine.”

Elizabeth beamed. “Thank you. They offered me a falsie—you know, reconstruction—but I don't think I'm going to bother.”

“Good for you.” Josh smiled; she might be as mad as a box of rabbits, but there was something refreshingly honest about her.

“We came here to do the photographs because we thought we'd be uninterrupted. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about a stranger seeing me in the buff like this—a civilian, I mean, not one of the medical staff at the hospital.” She shrugged, smiled, and spread her hands. “But now it's happened; you're here. And it's no problem at all!”

“Excellent,” said Josh. “Happy to help.”

“Ever done it yourself?” Her head was tilted inquiringly to one side.

“Run around naked on a beach? Not since I was two years old.”

“You should give it a try. Really. It's wonderful!”

“I'm sure it is.” She was definitely mad.

“You could do it now,” said Elizabeth.

“No, I definitely couldn't.”

“Oh, go on,” Sophie chimed in, braver now she had her own clothes back on. Innocently she said, “I could take photos of you. I'd be discreet.”

“Is this how she got you to do it?”

Sophie smiled. “Yes. And it actually
was
great, until you came along. The rain on your skin, the feeling of freedom. Being at one with nature.” Up close, her gray eyes were flecked with silver and danced with mischief. “I dare you.”

Griff was gazing up at him too, his tail wagging in encouraging collusion. It was definitely time to get out of here. Josh said, “Thanks for the kind offer, but not in a million years.”

***

Sophie and Elizabeth watched as Josh and Griff made their way back up the steep path, reached the top, and disappeared from view. A minute or so later, they heard the sound of his car driving away.

“Well,” said Elizabeth. “
He's
rather gorgeous.”

Sophie grinned at the look on her face. “You think?”

“Hey, just because I'm a single-breasted, middle-aged history teacher doesn't mean I don't notice these things.” Elizabeth did a playful hip shimmy followed by jazz hands. “I'm not dead yet.”

Tula was working in the restaurant serving breakfast. She did a double take when she glanced out of the window and saw one of the gardeners mowing the lawn at the rear of the hotel.

Except it wasn't one of the gardeners; it was Riley. Which was a bit like being wheeled into the operating theatre to have a kidney removed and discovering your surgeon was the guy who worked behind the counter at the post office.

Spotting her in the window watching him, Riley nodded briefly and carried on mowing, the effect only slightly spoiled by a near miss with the old stone sundial in the center of the lawn.

What
the
hell?

By the time breakfast was finished, Riley had moved on to the weed whacker and was enthusiastically trimming the edges of the lawn. As well as quite a few of the flowers in the borders that had strayed too close to the edge.

Tula headed outside and said, “What are you doing?”

Riley switched off the weed whacker. “What does it look like I'm doing?”

“Murdering poor defenseless flowers, mainly.”

“Shhh, only one or two.” Leaning over, he scooped up a handful of decapitated heads and dropped them behind a clump of foxgloves.

“Where's Edward?” Edward was the real gardener.

“Over on the other side. Doing some mulching. Whatever that may be.”

Tula said suspiciously, “Do Josh and Dot know you're here?”

“Of course.”

“But why? I don't understand what's going on.”

“Oh my God, I can't
believe
I have a crush on a girl who's so dumb. Think about it,” said Riley. “You said you couldn't respect someone who didn't have a proper job. So this is me, doing a proper job.”

Tula eyed him with suspicion. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” In an ostentatious gesture he wiped the perspiration from his forehead and heaved a long-suffering sigh. “If you want, you could look more impressed.”

“You're working here?”

“Since eight o'clock this morning. I set my alarm for
seven
.” This was said in the manner of someone only distantly acquainted with the purpose of alarm clocks.

“You absolute hero. But why would Dot pay you to do the job when she could get someone who actually knows what they're doing?”

“I'm going to stop surfing and messing around and wasting my days flirting with girls in bikinis,” said Riley. “I'm just going to work here instead. Prove to you that I can do it.”

“You didn't answer my question,” Tula prompted.

He exhaled. “Okay. She's not paying me.”

“You're doing it for free. That's not a proper job.”

“Hey, I happen to think that makes it better than a proper job. I'm not doing it for money,” said Riley. “I'm doing it for you.”

Which would be
so
romantic if it were anyone else saying it.

“Okay, great. Anyway,” said Tula, “I have to get back now.”

Riley looked hopeful. “Want to meet up for a drink this evening?”

Honestly, he had the attention span of a toddler. Tula said, “To be honest, if you're going to be gardening all day, you'll be too shattered to want to go anywhere tonight.” She turned and waved. “But good luck with the job!”

***

By five o'clock Riley was indeed shattered. Considering he regarded himself as pretty fit and a day of surfing was no effort at all, this came as a shock. Bloody hell, though, gardening was a lot less fun. He was hot and dusty, and his hands were stained green. There were blisters on his fingers from using the various clippery things, huge lethal shears, and vicious pruning shears. The worms in the soil had repulsed him. He'd come
this
close to lawn-mowering a frog. The sheer number of insects flying and crawling around made him squirm. Even chopping down an old tree had only been fun for the first fifteen minutes, then all the sawdust had gotten really irritating, flying into his eyes and throat.

All in all, gardening definitely wasn't his thing. It was disgusting in every way and so
dull
.

He found Tula upstairs in the staff kitchen, off duty now. Barefoot and changed into denim cut-offs, she was eating custard creams and flicking through a magazine while she waited for the kettle to boil.

“Hi.” God, just the sight of her had the most bizarre adrenaliney effect on him. “I did it.”

“Good for you.”

“Nine hours, pretty much nonstop.
Look!”
He held out his grass-stained hands.

Tula glanced at them. “It's like you're a superhero.”

But she was saying it with a smile. Encouraged, Riley said, “And I'm still awake. So, want to come out with me tonight?”

“Because you worked for one whole day?” Tula shook her head in disbelief. “You see? This is what you're like. Do the job for a year and I might be impressed.”

A whole
year
? She'd be lucky.

“So it's a no?”

“It's a definite, solid-gold no.”

Damn. Nine hours of work for nothing. What a waste of time
that
had been.

“Fine, then.” Riley examined his scratched, dusty forearms. He needed to go home, get in the shower, and scrub himself clean. “In that case, may as well go out and get laid.”

***

“Nice jacket,” said Dot.

“Thank you.” Lawrence brushed the lapel of the midnight-blue Jaeger jacket, possibly the smartest item of clothing he owned.

“Chosen by someone with impeccable taste.”

Lawrence smiled but experienced an inner pang; she'd bought it for him twenty years ago while they'd been spending a long weekend up in London. At the time, he'd balked at the price and received a lecture from Dot on the subject of cut, quality, and false economies. Good things were more than worth the extra cost, she'd explained, and he'd thought it was a load of bull, an argument evolved over time by women who weren't happy unless they were paying eye-watering amounts for the clothes in their wardrobe. But two decades later, the Jaeger jacket continued to garner compliments.

Yet again, she'd been right and he'd been wrong.

“It still looks as good as new,” said Dot.

“Unlike its owner.” Lawrence pulled a face.

“Can I just say something? A white shirt would have been better than a brown one.”

“Would it? Damn.” Matching colors had never been his strong point; all those years spent married to a style guru, and none of it had managed to rub off.

“Where are you going?”

“Over to Moor Court. Marguerite's invited me for dinner.” This was the reason he'd popped into the hotel for a quick drink beforehand, so he could casually tell someone who'd then tell Dot. Bumping into her himself had been even better.

“Oh.” Dot looked suitably impressed. “Big dinner party? How many going?”

“Small dinner party. Just the two of us.”

“
Oh
.” Her eyebrows went up.

Lawrence shrugged. “Apparently she's a very good cook.”

“Really? Well, I never.” Amused, Dot said, “So what's this about? You and Marguerite.”

Yes. She was curious
.

“Just dinner.” Another shrug. “Who knows?”

“Didn't think she was your type.”

“Maybe I've changed my mind.”

“You used to call her Bloody Scary Spice.”

Dammit, he had
.

“Look, she's a very successful, very attractive woman. She invited me to fly up to Edinburgh with her,” Lawrence added recklessly. “To go to a literary thing.”

“Well, if you're going to start going along to things with people who are good with words,” said Dot, “you'd probably be better off learning not to call them
things
.”

She might be hiding it well, but she was rattled, he could tell. Having achieved what he'd come here to do—and feeling simultaneously mean and relieved—Lawrence finished his drink. “Well, me and my wrong-colored clothes had better be making a move. How was Gidleigh Park, by the way?”

“Wonderful. We had some pretty good champagne.” Dot smiled slightly.

“I should hope so too. Nothing but the best for you, sweetheart.”

An infinitesimal shake of the head and a sigh. “Don't call me sweetheart.”

“Sorry, just slipped out. Anyway, how's Antoine?” He said it in a last-minute, throwaway fashion.

“Very well.”

“I bet he'd never be seen in public in a blue jacket and a brown shirt.”

“No,” Dot said evenly. “He would not.”

***

He'd never seen Marguerite in dressed-down mode before. She'd always been wearing her look-at-me clothes.

“Come in, come in.” She opened the door wide and greeted him with a kiss on each cheek. Instead of vibrant, flowing silk, she had on a pale gray plain jersey top and matching casual trousers. Her feet were bare, the jewelry was minimal; even the perfume hadn't been sprayed on with its usual force. She was still wearing makeup, just far less of it. It made her seem softer and less intimidating. More attractive.

“I know,” said Marguerite, evidently reading his mind. “Shocking, isn't it?”

“You look great.”

“Without my armor. Not many people get to see me like this. Thank you.” She took the bottle of wine he was holding toward her. “Come on through to the kitchen. Do you want to take off your jacket?”

“Probably best. I've just been told it doesn't go with my shirt.”

Marguerite's dark eyes glittered with amusement. “Who said that?”

“Dot.”

“Of course. And is she a good cook?”

“Not bad.”

“Hmm, sounds as if I might be better. I'm excellent.”

She wasn't kidding. For the next two hours, they sat at the kitchen table drinking red wine and talking and laughing their way through garlic mushrooms followed by cottage pie and vegetables.

And if it sounded ludicrously simple, it wasn't; every last mouthful was sublime. Marveling at her skills, Lawrence said, “How did you learn to cook food like this?”

“I was poor before I was rich. I had plenty of practice in my early days. And I'm good at most things I turn my hand to.”

“Well, this has been a treat.” He genuinely meant it. “I can't cook to save my life.”

As a door opened and closed elsewhere in the house, Marguerite smiled and said, “You're like Riley. He's hopeless too. The last time I went away, he lived on takeout, toast, and Cheerios.”

“I smell food.” The kitchen door opened and Riley came in, wearing an old T-shirt and jeans. “Hope there's some left for me.”

“Of course.” Marguerite watched fondly as he helped himself to a massive portion of cottage pie. Lawrence, who'd secretly harbored hopes of being allowed to take the leftovers home with him, inwardly cursed her lazy nephew's gargantuan appetite.

“I didn't realize you were here.” He kept his tone jovial. “What are you doing this evening, then?”

“Having a night in for a change.” Riley showered ground pepper over the mountain of food on his plate. “Watching
Star
Wars
.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“All of them.”

“He's seen them so many times,” Marguerite marveled, as if it were a wonderful achievement.

“Has to be done.” Grabbing a can of beer from the giant fridge, Riley winked at them. “See ya later. Be good!”

“Do you need me to tell you how spoiled that boy is?” said Lawrence when Riley had left the kitchen.

“No. But he's the light of my life. And he's not hurting anyone.”

“Apart from all those girls whose hearts he's broken.”

“That's their problem. If Riley weren't around, they'd find someone else to break their hearts.”

“He should be working.”

“He's my personal assistant. Anyway,” said Marguerite, “don't criticize. I don't want him to move away. I'd rather let him have an easy life here than a proper job in some other part of the world. I'd never get to see him.”

“I know, but he needs to learn to stand on his own two feet.” Much as he liked Riley, who possessed charm by the bucket load, Lawrence felt compelled to say it.

“You don't understand. He's my only sister's only son. I need an assistant to help me run my life, and I'd rather employ Riley than some complete stranger. It works out well for both of us. So that's what I do.”

She wasn't angry, simply stating her opinion. Any criticism rolled off her like Teflon. Lawrence said, “Okay, fair enough,” and thought how nice it was to see Marguerite without her meet-the-public face on. Impulsively he said, “I'm having a good time. I like you better like this.”

“Like what?”

“When you aren't being a bestselling author.” He accompanied the phrase with jazz hands.

Her mouth twitched. “Have you ever read any of my books, Lawrence?”

“No.” Except…did that sound rude? Hastily he added, “I did try one once, but I only managed a couple pages.
Ach
, that's probably the wrong thing to say too.”

But Marguerite was choking with laughter, in danger of spluttering red wine across the table. When it was safely swallowed, she said, “I like it that you haven't read my books. I wouldn't expect you to. Not that they aren't fantastic, you understand…”

“And you're writing one at the moment?” Eager to redeem himself for what had surely been a faux pas, he changed the subject to her side of the business.

“Always,” said Marguerite. “The machine never stops turning. As soon as I finish one book, I make a start on the next. My fans demand it. They're inexhaustible. I get letters every day from people begging me to write faster.”

“How did you start?”