The Return of Mrs Jones
Jessica Gilmore
The woman he never forgot… Of all the places, Lawrie didn’t expect to be celebrating her thirtieth birthday in the seaside town where she grew up. And she certainly didn’t expect to be celebrating it with her estranged husband, Jonas Jones…. But life is full of surprises. His devastating smile and edgy good looks still have the power to send her heart racing! Seeing Lawrie again intrigues Jonas—while he hasn’t forgiven her, he can’t say he’s forgotten her, either. And while they may not be teenagers anymore, there’s no denying the sparks that still fly between them….
‘It wasn’t all bad, though. Being a crazy teen.’
The cream had returned to his voice. His tone was low, almost whispered, and she felt herself swaying towards him.
‘No, of course not. That was the happiest time of my life. The happiest time,’ she whispered, so low she hoped he hadn’t heard her.
Just one little step—that was all it took. One little step and she was touching him, looking up at him. Her breasts brushed against his chest, and just that one small touch set her achingly aware nerves on fire; she felt the jolt of desire shock through her, buzzing through to her fingers, to her toes, pooling deep within her.
Jonas’s head was tilted down and the full focus of his disconcertingly intense eyes was on her. Lawrie swallowed and licked suddenly dry lips, her nails cutting into her palms as she curled them into tight fists. The urge to grab him and pull him close was suddenly almost overwhelming.
‘Jonas …?’
An entreaty? A question? Lawrie didn’t know what she was asking him, begging him for. All she knew was that it was her birthday. And that she hadn’t felt this alive for a long, long time.
The Return of Mrs Jones
Jessica Gilmore
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
After learning to read aged just two, JESSICA GILMORE spent every childhood party hiding in bedrooms in case the birthday girl had a book or two she hadn’t read yet. Discovering Mills & Boon on a family holiday, Jessica realised that romance-writing was her true vocation and proceeded to spend her maths lessons practising her art: creating a Dynasty-inspired series starring herself and Morten Harket’s cheekbones. Writing for Mills & Boon really is a dream come true!
An ex-au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and Scarborough seafront trader selling rock from under a sign that said ‘Cheapest on the Front', Jessica now works as Membership Manager for a regional environmental charity. Sadly she spends most of her time chained to her desk, wrestling with databases, but she likes to sneak out to one of their beautiful reserves whenever she gets a chance. Married to an extremely patient man, Jessica lives in the beautiful and historic city of York with one daughter, one very fluffy dog, two dog-loathing cats and a goldfish called Bob.
On the rare occasions when she is not writing, working, taking her daughter to activities or Tweeting, Jessica likes to plan holidays—and uses her favourite locations in her books. She writes deeply emotional romance with a hint of humour, a splash of sunshine and usually a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes.
For Dan.
Thanks for giving me the time to write and always believing that I would make it.
I couldn’t have done it without you. x
Special thanks must also go to my amazing critique group, Jane, Julia and Maggie, for three years of pep talks, brainstorming and patience, to Merilyn for making writing fun and to Fiona Harper and Jessica Hart for all their encouragement and support.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u3cd55ce5-2796-5fc7-98c7-7546795d6fe4)
CHAPTER TWO (#uc72f1912-dd06-5366-adbd-dbf5e2e77e01)
CHAPTER THREE (#u316eb6bd-08d1-5e63-acbe-45ea3ae229bd)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
‘YOU CAN COME in, you know. Or do you city folk wear coffee patches and bypass the actual drinking process now?’
Lawrie Bennett jumped as the mocking tones jolted her out of her stunned contemplation of the ultra-modern building clinging to the harbour’s edge. Turning, half convinced she had conjured up his voice along with her memories, she saw him lounging against the arty driftwood sign, the same crooked smile lurking in familiar blue eyes.
‘Jonas?’
No, not a ghost. Subtle changes showed the passage of time: the surfer-blond hair was a little shorter, and a few lines round the eyes added new character to the tanned face.
Embarrassment, guilt, humiliation. Lawrie could take her pick of any of that ugly trio. Being caught hanging around outside her ex-husband’s business like a gauche teenager with a crush was bad enough. To have been caught by her ex-husband really was a fitting end to what had been a truly terrible few weeks.
Trying to summon up an illusion of control, Lawrie switched on her best social smile—the one that had seen her through numerous meetings and charity balls. But her eyes hadn’t got the ‘cool and collected’ memo, and flicked quickly up and down the lean body facing her.
The black tailored trousers and short-sleeved charcoal shirt were a startling change from the cut-off jeans and band T-shirt uniform of her memories, but the body underneath the sharp lines was as surfer-fit as she remembered. He still looked irritatingly good. And even worse—judging by the smirk that flared briefly in the cool eyes—he was fully aware of both her perusal and approval.
So much for control.
Jonas quirked an eyebrow. ‘So, are you...planning to come in?’
How, after all this time, could his voice be so familiar? It was such a long time since she had heard those deep, measured tones tempered with a slight Cornish burr. Yet they sounded like home.
‘I was just wondering if I was in the right place,’ she said, gesturing at the wood and glass building behind him; so shiny and new, so unfamiliar. ‘Everything’s different.’
And that, Lawrie thought, was the understatement of the century.
‘I’ve made some changes. What do you think?’ There was pride in his voice underneath the laid-back drawl.
‘Impressive,’ she said. And it was. But she missed the peeling, ramshackle old building. The picturesque setting for her first job, her first kiss. Her first love. ‘Did you demolish the boathouse?’
Her heart speeded up as she waited for his answer. It mattered, she realised with a shock. She hadn’t set foot in the small Cornish village for nine years. Hadn’t seen this man for nine years. But it still mattered.
It was her history.
‘I had it relocated. It was the start of everything, after all. Demolishing the old girl would have been pretty poor thanks. And we kept the name and brand, of course.’
‘Everything?’ Was he talking about her? Get a grip, she told herself. Walking down the hill and along the harbour might have sent her spinning back in time, brought all those carefully buried memories abruptly to the surface, but by the look of the building in front of her Jonas had moved on long ago.
‘So, are you coming in or not?’ He ignored her question, pushing himself off the sign with the languid grace only hours balancing on a board in the rough Cornish sea could achieve. ‘The coffee’s excellent and the cake is even better. On the house for an ex member of staff, of course.’
Lawrie opened her mouth to refuse, to point out that the building wasn’t the only thing to have changed—that, actually, she hadn’t touched caffeine or refined sugar in years—but she caught a quizzical gleam in his eye and changed her mind. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Besides, clean living hadn’t got her very far, had it? This enforced time out was about new experiences, trying new things. There were worse places to start than a good cup of coffee brewed the way only Jonas could.
‘Thank you,’ she said instead.
‘This way, then.’ And Jonas moved to the double glass doors, holding one open for her with exaggerated gallantry. ‘And, Lawrie,’ he murmured as she walked past him, ‘Happy Birthday.’
Lawrie froze. Just half an hour ago she had reached the sad conclusion that you couldn’t get more pathetic than spending your thirtieth birthday on your own—not unless you were unemployed, single and alone on your thirtieth.
Lawrie was all three.
Adding an encounter with her ex really was the cherry on top of the icing on her non-existent birthday cake. She should have listened to her instincts and stayed indoors and sulked. Damn her conscience for pushing her out to get fresh air and exercise. Both were clearly overrated.
‘This is where you say thank you.’
He had moved away from the door and was leading her towards a small table tucked away at the back, clearly at his ease.
‘Sorry?’ What was he talking about? Maybe she was in some surrealist dream, where conversation made no sense. Any second now she’d be viewing the world in black and white, possibly through the medium of mime.
‘I know you’ve been in the city for a while...’ there was an unexpected teasing note in his voice ‘...but back in the real world when someone wishes you a Happy Birthday it’s usual to acknowledge them—often with a thank you.’
For the first time in over a week Lawrie felt the heaviness lift slightly, a lessening of the burden. ‘Thank you,’ she said with careful emphasis. ‘Of course I might be trying to forget this particular birthday.’
‘Oh, yes, the big three oh.’ He laughed as she grimaced. ‘It’s really no big deal, once you get used to the back ache and the knee twinges.’
‘I hoped it might be like the tree falling in the woods—if no one knows it’s happening then is it real?’
‘I know,’ he reminded her.
‘Thereby foiling my cunning plan.’
A smile curved the corner of his mouth but it didn’t reach his eyes. They radiated concern. For her. She didn’t need the stab of her conscience to tell her she didn’t deserve his concern.
‘Well, now it’s out in the open you have to celebrate. How about a slice of my signature carrot cake with chocolate icing? Unless, now you’re a Londoner, you prefer elaborate cupcakes? Pretty frosting but no real substance?’
Lawrie looked up sharply. Was that some kind of cake metaphor?
‘Or would you rather wait till your fiancé joins you?’
And just like that the heaviness engulfed her again. Lawrie searched for the right words, the right tone. ‘Hugo and I parted ways. It seemed time for a new beginning.’
‘Again?’
There was a lifetime of history in that one word. More than Lawrie could cope with this day, this week. At all.
Coming back had been a mistake. But she had nowhere else to go.
Lawrie hadn’t exactly spent the last nine years planning how she’d react if she bumped into her ex-husband, but if she had spent time imagining every possible scenario she doubted—short of falling at his feet—that she could have come up with a situation as humiliating as this.
She looked around, desperately searching for a change of subject. ‘The café looks amazing.’
It really did. She was standing in an open-plan space, with the driftwood counter along its far end and the blue walls a reminder of the ever-present sea. The real thing was a stunning backdrop framed through dramatic floor-length windows. It was all very stylish—beautiful, even—but once again Lawrie felt a pang of nostalgia for the small, homespun bar she had known.
The season was not yet fully started, but the café was buzzing with mothers and small children, groups of friends and the ubiquitous surfers. There were no menus. The day’s choices were chalked up on boards displayed around the spacious room and notices proclaimed the café’s values—local, organic and sustainably sourced food.
A flare of pride hit her: he’s done it—he’s realised his dreams. Long before celebrity chefs had made local food trendy Jonas had been evangelical about quality ingredients, sourcing from local farms, and using only free-range eggs in his legendary fry-ups.
‘I’m glad you approve. So, what will it be?’
For one second Lawrie wanted to startle him, order something he wouldn’t expect. Prove that actually she had changed in nine years—changed a lot. But the temptation to sink into the comfort of the past was too much. ‘Skinny latte with cinnamon, please. And if you have the carrot cake in...?’ She peered up at the menu board, running her eyes over the long list of tasty-looking treats.
‘Of course I have it in.’
Jonas turned away to deliver her order, but Lawrie could have sworn she heard him say, ‘It is your birthday after all.’
* * *
She was still there. Jonas tried to keep his concentration on the screen in front of him but all his attention was on the cake-eating occupant at the small table below.
The mezzanine floor that housed his office was situated directly over the kitchens, shielded from the café with blue-tinted glass that gave him privacy whilst allowing him to look out. Some days he was so busy that he completely forgot where he was, and he would look up and notice the chattering people tucking in below in complete surprise. There were bigger offices at his hotel but he preferred it here. Where it had all begun.
‘Jonas? Are you listening to me?’
He jumped. ‘Of course,’ he lied.
‘You didn’t even hear me come in! Honestly, Jonas, if I want to be ignored I’ll stay at home and ask my husband to clean.’
‘Sorry, Fliss, I was engrossed in this email.’
Fliss peered over his shoulder. ‘I can see why. It’s not every day you get offered a million pounds just for letting somebody borrow your bank account, is it?’
Damn spam. ‘The spam filter should be picking these up. I was just wondering why it’s not working.’
She shot him a sceptical look. ‘Delete that and turn your formidable mind to a real problem for a change. Suzy has been ordered to keep her feet up for the rest of her pregnancy and won’t be able to project-manage Wave Fest for us.’
‘Pregnancy?’ He looked up in shock. ‘I didn’t know Suzy was expecting.’
‘I expect she was keeping it a secret from you, knowing your less than enlightened views on working mothers,’ Fliss said drily.
Jonas raised an eyebrow for one long moment, watching her colour with some satisfaction. ‘I have no view on working mothers—or on working fathers, for that matter, I just expect my employees to pull their weight at work—not be at home with their feet up. Damn! There’s only a month to go and we’ll never get anyone to take over at this short notice. Fliss, is there any way you can take this on?’
‘I don’t think so.’ The petite redhead was contrite. ‘I still have a lot to do with the last café you bought, and if you do take over The Laurels I’ll need to start on the rebrand there too. I can help with the PR—I usually do most of that anyway—but I cannot project-manage an entire festival. Suzy has all the information written out and timetabled, so at least all we need is someone to step in and run it.’
Jonas acknowledged the truth of Fliss’s statement. Her workload was pretty full-on right now. He pushed his chair back and swivelled round, staring down sightlessly on the room below. ‘Think, Fliss—is there anyone, any summer jobber, who’s capable of taking this on?’
She stood lost in thought, concentration on her face, then shook her head. ‘Nobody springs to mind.’
Jonas grimaced. ‘We’ll just have to bite the bullet and get a temp in—though that’s far from ideal.’
It had been hard enough handing the festival over to Suzy when it and the rest of the business had got too big for him to manage comfortably alone, even with Fliss’s support. Letting a stranger loose on such an important event was impossible to imagine.
But he couldn’t see another way.
Fliss was obviously thinking along the same lines. ‘A temp? That will take at least a week, and cost a fortune in agency fees.’
‘Bringing outsiders in is never easy, but it looks like we have no choice. You and I will have to keep it all ticking over until we find somebody. We managed the first three, after all...’
She flashed a conspiratorial grin at him. ‘Goodness knows how. But we were young and optimistic then—and they were a lot smaller affairs; we are victims of our own success. But, okay, I’ll let Dave know I’m working late so he’d better come here for dinner. Again. We were going to come back for Open Mic Night anyway.’
‘Great. You drive straight over to Suzy’s and go over all those lists and spreadsheets with her. We’ll divvy up tasks later. Have another think about anyone internally, and if there really is nobody I’ll call a couple of agencies later today.’
A sense of satisfaction ran through him as he made the decision. He was a hands-on boss—too hands-on, some said—but he liked to know exactly how everything was handled, from salad prep to food sourcing. It was his name over the door after all.
Fliss saluted. ‘Yes, Boss,’ she said, then turned round to leave the room, only to stop with a strangled cry. ‘Jonas! Look—in that corner over there.’
‘Why exactly are you whispering?’ Although he knew exactly what—exactly who—she had seen. He cocked an eyebrow at her, aiming for a nonchalance he didn’t feel. Lawrie’s unexpected presence was no big deal. He had no intention of letting it become one.
Fliss obviously had other ideas. Her eyes were alight with excitement. ‘It’s Lawrie. Look, Jonas.’
‘I know it’s Lawrie, but I still don’t know why you’re whispering. She can’t hear you, you know.’
‘Of course she can’t, but...’ Her voice turned accusatory. ‘You knew she was here and didn’t tell me?’
‘It slipped my mind—and it’s obviously slipped yours that we were discussing a rather pressing work matter.’ His tone was cool. ‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’
‘Five minutes?’ Fliss gave him a pleading look. ‘I can’t not say hello.’
To Jonas’s certain knowledge Fliss hadn’t seen or spoken to Lawrie in nine years. What difference would a few hours make? But his second-in-command, oldest employee and, despite his best efforts to keep her out, best friend was looking so hopeful he couldn’t disappoint her.
He wasn’t the only person Lawrie had walked out on.
‘Five minutes,’ he allowed, adding warningly, ‘But, Fliss, we have a lot to do.’
‘I know. I’ll be quick—thank you.’ Fliss rushed from the room, casting him a grateful glance over her shoulder as she did so. Less than a minute later she had arrived at Lawrie’s table, falling on her in a breathless heap.
Jonas watched as Fliss sat down at the table. He saw Lawrie look up in slight confusion, her puzzled expression quickly change to one of happiness, and the mobile features light up with enthusiasm as she greeted her friend.
When they both looked up at the office he looked away, despite knowing that they couldn’t see through the tinted glass; he had far too much to do to watch them catch up.
Jonas pulled up a report he had commissioned on the small chain of restaurants in Somerset he was considering taking over and read it.
After ten minutes he was still on the first page.
He glanced over at the window. They were still yakking away. What on earth had they got to talk about for so long?
Typical Lawrie. Turning everything upside down without even trying.
When he had seen her standing outside, looking so uncharacteristically unsure, he had seized the opportunity. As soon as he’d known she was back—heard through the village grapevine that she was here to stay, that she was alone—their moment of meeting had been inevitable. Trengarth was too small for a run-in not to be a certainty, but when it came he’d wanted it to be on his terms.
After all, their parting had been on hers.
Inviting her in had felt like the right thing to do. The mature thing. Maybe he should have left her outside after all.
He looked back at the computer screen and started again on the first line. It was gobbledygook.
Jonas’s jaw set in determination. If Fliss had forgotten that she had a lot to do, he hadn’t—and he was going to go down there and tell her. Right now.
* * *
At first Lawrie hadn’t recognised the small redhead hurtling towards her. Nine years ago Fliss had sported a pink bob and multiple piercings and wouldn’t have been seen dead in the smart black trousers and blouse she was wearing today, but the generous smile and the mischievous twinkle in the hazel eyes were just the same. After five minutes’ excited chatter it was as if they were still teenage waitresses, hanging out after work, although so many things had changed Lawrie could barely keep up.
‘You’ve been working for Jonas all this time?’ Try as she might, she couldn’t keep the incredulous tone out of her voice. ‘What about acting and RADA?’
‘Turns out I am a great amateur.’
Lawrie looked sharply at her but Fliss was still smiling, and there was no hint of disappointment in the candid eyes. ‘I am also a great brand and marketing manager—who would have thought it?’
‘But you wanted to do so much—had so many plans.’
‘I have so much! Wait till you meet Dave. He moved here after you left, came for a week’s surfing and never left.’
The two girls giggled conspiratorially.
‘I have my drama group, and I love my job. I may not have done the travelling or the big city thing, but I have everything I need and want. I’m a lucky girl. But your plans sound exciting. New York! I have always wanted to live there—starring on Broadway, of course.’
So she might have made New York sound like a done deal rather than a possibility, but Lawrie had had to salvage pride from somewhere.
She was considering her reply when a shadow fell across the table. Glancing up, she saw a stern-looking Jonas standing there, a frown marring the handsome face. An unexpected flutter pulled at Lawrie’s stomach, one she’d thought long dead, and she took a hurried gulp of her coffee, avoiding both his eye and Fliss’s sudden speculative gleam.
‘I thought you were off to see Suzy?’ His attention was all on Fliss.
‘I am,’ Fliss protested. ‘But I have just had a brainwave. How about Lawrie?’
Lawrie’s grip tightened on her cup. She could feel her cheeks heating up.
‘How about Lawrie, what?’ Jonas asked impatiently.
It was odd, being back with the two of them and yet apart, now an outsider. Lawrie took a deep breath and leant back in her chair, affecting a confidence she was far from feeling.
‘For Wave Fest, of course. No—listen,’ Fliss said, jumping to her feet and grabbing Jonas’s arm as he turned dismissively away. ‘She’s on gardening leave for the rest of the summer.’
‘Gardening what?’ He stopped and looked back at the table, catching Lawrie’s eye, a sudden glint of a humour in the stern blue eyes.
She knew exactly what he was thinking—knew that he was remembering her ability to kill every plant with a mixture of forgetful indifference and remorseful over-watering.
‘Is this some sort of corporate environmental thing? Time to learn how to garden?’
‘No, it’s a set period time to serve out your notice away from the office,’ Lawrie said, her own eyes warming in response to his and her pulse speeding up as his amused gaze continued to bore into her. ‘I’m on paid leave until the end of September.’
‘And she’s planning to stay in Cornwall most of that time,’ Fliss interjected.
‘Well, yes. I am. But I’m arranging my next move. I’ll be travelling back and forth to London a lot—possibly overseas. What’s Wave Fest, anyway?’
‘Oh, Lawrie, you remember the festival Jonas and I started, don’t you?’
‘Actually, Fliss, Lawrie was never at Wave Fest. She was on work placements for the first two.’
The humour had left Jonas’s face. It was as if the sun had unexpectedly disappeared behind a cloud. He didn’t say the words she knew he was thinking. She had left before the third.
‘I know we’re desperate, but Lawrie’s a solicitor, not a project manager—and she knows nothing about festivals.’
‘But we need someone organised who can get things done and she can do that all right. Plus, she’s here and she’s available.’
‘Fliss, you said yourself that at this time of year organising Wave Fest is a full-time job. If Lawrie’s got to sort out a move—’ the sharp blue eyes regarded Lawrie for an intent moment before flicking away ‘—she won’t be able to dedicate the time we need to it.’
‘Yes, for me it would be full time, because I have a neglected husband and the work of three people to do anyway, but Lawrie’s used to city hours—this will be a relaxing break for her!’
It was almost amusing, listening to them bicker over her as if she wasn’t there. Lawrie took another sip of her coffee, letting the words wash over her. After the shock of the last week it felt nice to be wanted, even if it was for a small-time job she had no intention of doing.
Suddenly she was aware of an extended silence and looked up to find two pairs of eyes fixed on her expectantly.
‘What?’
‘I was just asking why you are on leave?’ Jonas said, with the exaggerated patience of somebody who had asked a question several times already. ‘If “gardening leave” means you’re serving out your notice then you must be leaving your firm—why?’
The all too familiar sense of panic rose up inside her, filling her chest with an aching, squeezing tension. None of this was real. It was some kind of terrible dream and she would soon wake up and find Hugo snoring beside her and her pressed suit hung on the wardrobe door opposite, ready for another day at work, doing a job she was darned good at.
‘I felt like a change,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘They were offering good severance deals and I thought, what with turning thirty and everything, that this could be a good opportunity for a new start. After all, it seems silly to specialise in international law and never spend time abroad. I have lots of contacts in New York, so that seems like the logical choice.’
She had repeated the words so often to herself that she almost believed them now.
‘That sounds amazing,’ breathed Fliss, but Jonas looked more sceptical.
‘You deviated from that all-important ten-point plan? Wasn’t thirty the year you should have made partner?’
He remembered the plan. Of course he remembered it—she had gone over it with him enough, been teased about it enough. ‘Lawrie needs to make a plan before we go out for a walk,’ he used to tell people.
She took a deep breath and forced a casual tone into her voice. ‘People change, Jonas. I followed the plan for long enough, and it was very successful, but I decided that now I’m single again it might be time to see something of the world and enhance my career at the same time. It’s no big deal.’
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t pursue the point.
‘But you won’t be able to start your new job until after September so you are free to help out with Wave Fest.’ Fliss wasn’t giving up.
‘Fliss, Lawrie isn’t interested in the festival; she has a job to find. Plus, if she’s still being paid by her firm then she won’t be able to work for us—will you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘It’s not law, so it’s not a conflict of interest, but I don’t think I can take paid work whilst on gardening leave. I’ll have to check the contract, but it would be unusual if it was allowed.’
‘Volunteer! We could pay your expenses and it would look great on your CV, using your time to help out with a charity event. Come on, Lawrie. It’s total serendipity, you being here just when we need you. You can’t argue with fate!’
‘Fliss!’
Jonas was sounding annoyed, but the word ‘volunteer’ had struck a chord with Lawrie. She tuned the pair out.
She liked to keep busy, and the thought of spending the forseeable future with nothing to do but job-hunt terrified her. Besides, her CV was already with the best recruiters in the business, so there was little she could do until they got in touch. Most importantly she had been racking her brains, searching for a likely explanation for her sudden departure from Forrest, Gable & Garner that prospective employers would find acceptable—laudable, even. If she could tell them that she’d taken the opportunity of severance to help out with a charity festival surely that would stand her in good stead? Every company liked a bit of free CSR in these straitened times.
Okay, it wasn’t part of the ten-point plan, but which part of the last few weeks had been? Not finding Hugo labouring over his naked secretary, not watching the senior partners close ranks as they took his side and forced her out with a nice settlement and a good reference for keeping her mouth shut.
She had returned to Trengarth to lick her wounds, to regroup. Why not wring something positive out of her situation?
‘Please?’ Fliss looked pleading. ‘Come on, Lawrie, you’ll be perfect.’
‘I’ll do it.’ The words left her mouth before she knew exactly what she was going to say.
Fliss squealed and flung her arms around Lawrie, but Jonas took a step back, his mouth tight, his eyes unreadable.
What have I done?
‘If that’s okay with you, of course, Jonas,’ she added, not entirely sure what she wanted his answer to be—whether he would give her a get-out clause she didn’t even know she needed. But he didn’t answer—just continued to look at her with the same cool, steady regard.
Fliss jumped in before the silence stretched too far, got too awkward. ‘It’s fine, isn’t it, Jonas? This is fantastic! I was going to get all the stuff from Suzy today, but why don’t you come with me and meet her? Is tomorrow okay? Oh, Lawrie, it’ll be just like old times, us working together.’
Fliss beamed at Lawrie, who couldn’t help but smile back. Her old friend’s joy was infectious.
‘It looks like that’s settled, then.’ Jonas’s face was still blank, his voice cool and professional. ‘Lawrie, I’ll chat to you tomorrow and go over the work involved, discuss how this will work as a volunteering role. Be sure this is something you can take on, though. Wave Fest raises tens of thousands for local charities. If you can’t manage it it’s imperative you let us know sooner rather than later.’
He sounded dismissive—as if he was expecting her to fail, to walk away.
How dared he? She’d negotiated million-pound contracts, painstakingly going over every single word, scrutinising each clause, routinely working sixty-hour weeks, often on short notice. One month sorting out a small local event would hardly tax her.
She lifted her head and looked straight at him, matching him cool glance for cool glance, every bit the professional, well-trained lawyer. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage. I like to see things through.’
He kept her gaze, scorn filling the blue eyes, turning them ice-cold. ‘I’m sure you’ve grown up,’ he said. ‘But if there’s a chance you’ll get a job and leave before the contract ends I need to know. Promises aren’t enough.’
She swallowed down her rage. If she had learnt anything from long hours of negotiating complex contracts it was how to keep her temper, no matter what the provocation. If he wanted to judge her on events that had happened nine years ago, so be it.
But she had promised to love him till death did them part. And that promise she had broken.
Did she actually need this hassle? The sensible thing would be to walk away, right now, lock up the cottage and go back to London. But then what? She had nowhere to live, nothing to do. At least in Cornwall she had a house, and now a way to occupy her time whilst finding the perfect job, getting her life back to the calm, ordered way it was supposed to be. And if that meant showing Jonas Jones that he was wrong—that the past wasn’t as clear-cut as he obviously thought—well, that was just a bonus.
She smiled sweetly into the freezing eyes.
‘I’ll need to take time to sort out my move, of course,’ she said, proud that her voice was steady. ‘And there is a chance that I may need to travel abroad for interviews. But there will be plenty of notice. There shouldn’t—there won’t be a problem.’
‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow.’
The interview was clearly over.
‘Enjoy the rest of your birthday.’
Fliss looked up in shock. ‘It’s your birthday? Here I am, thinking about spreadsheets and emails and offices, and what I should be doing is ordering you a cocktail to go with that cake. What are you doing later? I’m sure you have plans, but we could meet here for cocktails first?’
Lawrie’s first instinct was to lie—to claim company, plans, unavailability. But Jonas had stopped, turned, was listening, and she couldn’t let him know she was ashamed of her lone state. ‘Actually, Fliss, I was planning a quiet one this year. I have a nice bottle of red and a good book saved up.’
It was the truth, and she had been looking forward to indulging in both. So why did it feel like a confession?
‘A good book? I know you’ve been gone a long time, but nobody changes that much. Of course we’re going to celebrate. I’ll see you here for cocktails at seven, and then there’s Open Mic Night later. Perfect! Jonas, you can pick her up. We don’t want the birthday girl to be late.’
‘Honestly—’ Lawrie began, not sure what panicked her more: Jonas picking her up like old times, the chance that she might let her guard down after a cocktail, or spending her thirtieth birthday with the same people who had celebrated her eighteenth. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Jonas’s expression was indecipherable, his voice emotionless. ‘Fliss is right. You can’t spend your birthday alone. Besides, you used to enjoy singing. It’ll be just like old times.’
And that, thought Lawrie, was exactly what she was afraid of.
CHAPTER TWO
‘SO THIS IS where you’re hiding.’
Jonas looked far too at home as he rounded the corner of Gran’s cottage. And far too attractive in a pair of worn jeans that hugged his legs in all the right places, and a plain grey T-shirt emphasising his lean strength. ‘I thought you had run away.’
‘I thought about it,’ Lawrie admitted, tugging at the hem of her skirt self-consciously.
It shouldn’t take a grown woman two hours to get ready for a few drinks and some badly played guitar, and yet Lawrie had found herself paralysed by indecision. Her clothes were too conservative, too expensive, more suited to a discreet yet expensive restaurant or a professional conference than a small Cornish village.
In the end she had decided on a dress that was several years old—and several inches shorter than she usually wore.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled her hands away from the skirt and tried to remember the speech she had painstakingly prepared earlier, rehearsed at length in the shower.
‘Thanks for coming to collect me—it’s very nice of you. I know Fliss kind of forced your hand—’ Lawrie stopped, her cheeks warm, the speech gone. ‘Actually, she forced your hand in several ways earlier, and I should have thought... If you don’t want me around—if it’s awkward, I mean—then I’ll tell her I can’t do it.’ She stumbled to a stop.
Great—in her former life fluency had been one of her trademarks. It looked as if she had lost that along with everything else.
‘Fliss thinks she gets her own way, but if I didn’t want you working for us you wouldn’t be.’ The blue eyes held hers for a moment. ‘She’s right. You’ll do a good job—and, let’s face it, we are a bit desperate. Beggars can’t be choosers.’
Charming. It wasn’t the most ringing endorsement she’d ever heard.
‘I just don’t want our past relationship to be an issue.’ Lawrie was aware of how pompous she sounded. She’d been trying for offhand. A smirk at the corner of his mouth confirmed she had failed.
‘We’re both mature adults,’ Jonas pointed out. ‘At least I am. And it’s your significant birthday we’re celebrating, so hopefully you are too. I’m sure we can work together without too much bloodshed. In fact...’ He moved away from the cottage and sauntered gracefully over the lawn towards her, a flat tissue-wrapped square in his hand. ‘Happy Birthday.’
Lawrie stared at the proffered parcel in shock.
‘Take it. It won’t bite,’ he teased. ‘I promise. Think of it as a peace offering and a birthday present in one.’
He moved closer until he was standing next to her, leaning against the balcony, looking down on the curve of beach and sea below.
After a moment’s hesitation Lawrie took the present, taking a moment to enjoy the thrill of the unknown. It was her only present, after all.
‘Your gran always had the best view in the village,’ Jonas said. ‘It’s so peaceful up here.’ He shot her a glance. ‘I meant to write after she died, send a card... But I didn’t really know what to say. I’m sorry.’
She turned the parcel round in her hands. ‘That’s okay. I think people were upset we had the funeral so far away, but she wanted to be buried next to Grandpa...’ Her voice trailed away and there was a sudden lump in her throat. It had been six months since the funeral but the pain of loss still cut deep. ‘I wish I had telephoned more, visited more.’
‘She was very proud of you.’
Lawrie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Swallowing back the tears, she turned her attention to the present, wanting to change the subject.
She slid her finger along the fold in the tissue, pulling the tape off slowly as she went, carefully opening the paper out to reveal a silk scarf the colour of the sea below. ‘It’s beautiful!’
His voice was offhand. ‘It always used to be your favourite colour.’
‘It still is.’ She looked over at him, ridiculously overcome despite his casualness. He’d remembered. ‘You really didn’t need to, but thank you, Jonas.’
‘No problem.’ The blue eyes swept over her assessingly. ‘It matches your dress.’
‘I’ll go and put it on. I won’t be long.’
Walking through the back door, Lawrie felt yet again as if she had gone back in time—as if she was once again her sixteen-year-old self, skipping in to say goodbye to Gran before heading out on a date, full of possibilities, full of life and desperately, achingly in love.
Only there was no Gran.
And the world no longer felt full of possibilities. She was all too aware of her limits.
Oh, to be sixteen again, walking on the beach at night after her shift ended, unable to believe that her handsome boss had asked her if she fancied a stroll. She still remembered the electric shock that had run through her when his hand had first bumped against hers. The tightness in her stomach when his long, cool caressing fingers had encased hers. The almost unbearable anticipation drying out her throat, weakening her knees, setting every single nerve-end ablaze as she waited for him to kiss her. And, oh...! The almost unbearable sweetness when he finally, oh so slowly, lowered his mouth to hers as the waves crashed against the shore.
It had been Lawrie’s first kiss and for five years she hadn’t thought she would ever kiss anyone else.
I haven’t thought about that in years. She pushed the memory of vivid, haunting dreams filled with waves, passion and familiar blue eyes firmly to one side.
She glanced up at the wall, where a framed photo hung. A much younger Lawrie looked out from it, her hair whipped by the wind and framing her face in a dark, tangled cloud, laughing, her eyes squinting against the sun. Jonas had taken it twelve years ago, on her eighteenth birthday—their wedding day.
It was all such a long time ago. Who would have thought then that they would end up like this? Apart, near-strangers, exchanging polite remarks and stiff smiles. If she’d known what lay ahead would she have made the same choices...the same mistakes?
Lawrie shook her head wildly, trying to clear the questions from her mind. She couldn’t allow this temporary setback to derail her, to make her question her choices, her past. It was time to face her future—and if the plan had gone awry...well, she would tweak it.
But first her birthday. She needed—she deserved some fun. Maybe she could relax—just a little, just for a short while. Maybe Lawrie Bennett was allowed to let go for just one evening.
* * *
It was one of Jonas’s favourite things, watching the Boat House being transformed from a family-friendly, light and airy café to an intimate bar. It was more than the deepening dusk outside the dramatic picture windows, more than the tea lights on the tables, more than the bottles of beer and wine replacing the skinny lattes, the tapas in place of cream teas.
It was the way the atmosphere changed. Grew heavier, darker. Full of infinite possibilities.
Tonight was the monthly Open Mic Night—a tradition carried through from the earliest days. Before he’d held a bar licence he used to invite friends over to the café after-hours to jam; he’d always fancied himself as a pretty mean guitarist. Once he’d licensed the premises it had become more of an organised event, yet still with a laid-back, spontaneous feel.
Folk violinists rattling out notes at an impossible speed, grungy rock wannabes, slow and sweet soul singers—there were no exclusions. If you had an instrument and you wanted to play, you could sign up. There was a magic about Open Mic Night, even after all these years. The room might be full of regulars but there were usually one or two surprises.
And yet tonight he was wound tight, the tension straining across his shoulders and neck. Even the familiar feel of the sharp strings under his fingertips, the crowded tables, the appreciative applause, the melding and blending of notes and beats and voices couldn’t relax him.
His eyes, his focus, were pulled to the small table in the corner where Lawrie perched, toying with a glass of champagne, her head resting on her hand, her eyes dreamy as she listened. The dim lighting softened her; she looked like his teen bride again, her dark hair loose, curling against her shoulders, her huge grey eyes fixed unseeingly on the stage.
On him.
A reluctant tug of desire pulled deep down. It was definitely the memories, the nostalgia, he told himself grimly. Why was she back? Why had Lawrie Bennett, the girl who put her work, her career, her plans before everything and everyone, given up her job and moved back?
And why did she look so scared and vulnerable?
It was none of his business—she was none of his business. She had made that clear a long time ago. Whatever trouble Lawrie was in she could handle it herself. She always had.
Resolutely he tore his gaze away, focussed on the room as a whole, plastering on a smile as the song ended and the room erupted into applause. Jonas exchanged an amused look with his fellow musicians as they took an ironic bow before vacating the stage for the next musicians—a local sixth form experimental rock band whose main influences seemed to be a jarring mixture of eighties New Romanticism and Death Metal.
Maybe he was getting old, Jonas thought as he made his way back to the bar. It just sounded like noise to him.
* * *
‘I should be getting home.’ Lawrie got to her feet and began automatically to gather the glasses and bottles. Just like old times. She stilled her hands, looking around to see if anybody had noticed.
‘Don’t be silly—the night is just beginning,’ Fliss said in surprise.
Lawrie looked pointedly at the people heading for the door, at the musicians packing away their instruments, at vaguely familiar faces patting Jonas on the back with murmurs about babysitters, getting up for work and school runs. Since when had most of his friends had babysitters and office hours to contend with? The surf-mad mates of his youth had matured into fathers, husbands and workers. The night might feel like a step back in time, but everything had changed.
‘This is the fun bit,’ Fliss said, grabbing a tray filled with lurid-coloured drinks from the bar and handing a neon blue one to Lawrie. ‘We get to hog the stage. What do you want to start with?’
Several pairs of eyes turned expectantly to Lawrie and she swallowed, her mouth dry. She took a sip of the cocktail, grimacing at the sweet yet almost medicinal taste. ‘You go ahead without me. I don’t really sing.’
‘Of course you sing! You always used to.’
‘That was a long time ago. Honestly, Fliss, I’d rather not.’
‘But...’
‘I thought all lawyers sang,’ Jonas interceded.
Lawrie shot him a grateful glance. Fliss was evidently not going to let the point go.
‘Didn’t you have a karaoke bar under your office?’
‘Sadly I didn’t work with Ally McBeal.’ Lawrie shook her head, but she was smiling now. ‘The only singing I have done for years is in the shower. I’d really rather listen.’
‘You heard her. And she is the birthday girl.’
‘Which is why she shouldn’t be sitting there alone,’ Fliss argued. She turned to Lawrie pleadingly. ‘Just do some backing vocals, then. Hum along. This is the fun part of the night—no more enduring schoolboy experiments or prog rock guitar solos. Thank goodness we limit each act to fifteen minutes or I reckon he would still be living out his Pink Floyd fantasies right now. There’s only us here.’
Lawrie hesitated. It had been such a long time—part of the life she had done her best to pack away and forget about. Small intimate venues, guitars and set lists had no place in the ordered world she had chosen. Could she even hold a tune any more? Pick up the rhythm?
Once they had been a well-oiled machine—Fliss’s voice, rich, emotive and powerful, trained for the West End career she had dreamed of, filling the room, and Lawrie’s softer vocals, which shouldn’t really have registered at all. And then there had been Jonas. Always there, keeping time. There’d been times when she had got lost in the music, blindly following where he led.
The thought of returning there was terrifying. Lawrie shivered, goosebumps rippling up her bare arms, and yet she acknowledged that it was exciting too. On this night of memory and nostalgia, this moment out of time.
And how lost could she get if she stuck closely to backing vocals? Stayed near Fliss, away from Jonas and that unreadable expression on his face? Did he wish she would just leave? Stay? Or did he simply not care?
Not that there was any reason for him to care. She had made sure of that.
She took another sip of her cocktail, noticing with some astonishment that the glass was nearly empty. She should be thinking about Hugo, Lawrie told herself. Mourning him, remembering their relationship so very recently and brutally ended—not mooning over her teenage mistakes. If she was going to work here, survive here, she couldn’t allow her past to intimidate her.
‘Okay,’ she said, putting the now empty glass down on the table and reaching for another of Fliss’s concoctions—this time a sickly green. ‘Backing vocals only. Let’s do it.’
* * *
She was seated on the other side of the stage, angled towards the tables, so that all he could see was the fall of her hair, the curve of her cheek.Not that he was attracted to her—he knew her too well. Even after all this time. It was just that she seemed a little lost, a little vulnerable...
And there had been a time when Jonas Jones had been a sucker for dark-haired, big-eyed, vulnerable types.
He’d learned his lesson the hard way, but a man didn’t want to take too many chances—not on a night filled with ghosts. He looked around, half expecting to see the creamy painted wooden slats of the old boathouse, the rough floorboards, the mismatched tables. But a twinge in his fingers brought him back to the present, reminding him that he was no longer nineteen and that, although thirty-two was certainly not old, he was too old to be playing all night on a work night.
His mouth twitched wryly. Once a work night had meant nothing. His hobbies and his job had blended into one perfect hedonistic existence: the bar, the music, the surf. He didn’t know what had infuriated his parents more. How successful his beach shack had quickly become or how effortless he had made it look.
But in those days it had been effortless.
It wasn’t that easy any more. Would his parents be proud or smug if they knew how many of the things he loved he had given up for success? Or would they still think it was not enough.
Maudlin thoughts. A definite sign that it was late, or that he’d allowed Fliss to make the cocktails again.
Time to wrap things up.
Only Fliss had started another song, carefully picking out the tune on her guitar. The breath caught in his throat. His heart was a painful lump blocking its passage.
Not this song. Not this night. Not on what could have been, should have been, their twelfth wedding anniversary.
There was only so much nostalgia a man could take.
And then Lawrie picked up the tune and he was plunged into a whole other level of memory. Her voice wasn’t the strongest—nothing in comparison to Fliss’s—yet it had a true, wistful quality that tore at him, hooked him in, wringing truth out of the plaintive words.
Despite it all Jonas found himself playing the harmony, his hands surely and smoothly finding the right notes. They hadn’t forgotten. He still knew—still felt every note, every beat, every word. How long was it since he had played this song? Not since Lawrie had left. Not even in the last desperate year of their marriage as he had watched her retreat further and further away, her eyes, her focus, firmly fixed on the gleaming spires of Oxford.
Suddenly simple folk tunes hadn’t been her thing at all.
Yet she still knew all the words.
* * *
It was as if her whole body thrummed with the music. Her blood, her heartbeat, the pulses at her neck and her wrists. Long after the guitars had been packed away, the last few glasses cleared, the final lurid cocktail poured away—no one had felt able to risk the neon orange, not at past one in the morning—the beat still possessed her.
How had she managed to spend the last nine years without music? Had they even had music in the house? Music to listen to simply for the thrill it evoked deep down inside? There had been a stylish digital radio permanently tuned in to Radio Four, occasionally switched to Classic FM when they entertained. And Lawrie had attended concerts for corporate purposes—just as she had been to countless sporting events, black tie galas, charity auctions.
After a while they all blended together.
There was so much she had expunged from her life. Colour, impulsiveness, walking along a beach at dusk with the wind blowing salt-tinged tendrils of hair into her face. Enjoying the here and now.
She might have chosen a controlled, sleek, beige, stone and black existence. It didn’t mean that she hadn’t occasionally hungered after something a little more vibrant. But vibrancy had a price she hadn’t been prepared to pay.
In the end control was worth it. It allowed you to plan, to achieve.
But, damn, the music had felt good. The right here, right now felt good. Even those ridiculously bright cocktails had been—well, not good, exactly but surprisingly palatable. Maybe coming back wasn’t such a terrible thing after all.
‘How are you getting back?’
Lawrie jumped, every sense suddenly on high alert. She didn’t want to look Jonas in the eyes in case he read the conflicting emotions there. There had been a time when he’d been able to read her all too easily.
‘I was planning to walk,’ she said.
‘Alone?’
‘Unless there are suddenly bloodthirsty smugglers patrolling the dark streets of Trengarth I think I’ll manage the mile home okay.’
‘There’s no lighting on your gran’s road. I’d better walk you back.’
Lawrie opened her mouth to refuse—then shut it again, unsure what to say. Whether to make a joke out of it, point out that after negotiating London streets for the past few years she thought she could manage a few twisty Cornish lanes. Whether to just say thank you.
Jonas took her silence for acquiescence and strode off towards the door. Lawrie stood indecisively, torn between a childish need to stand her ground, insist she was fine, and a sudden hankering for company—any company—on the walk back up the steep hill.
She had been all too alone these last weeks.
Without thought, almost impulsively, she followed him.
The night was warm, despite the breeze that blew in from the sea and the lack of cloud, and lit up by stars shining so brightly Lawrie could only stand and stare, her neck tilted back almost to the point of pain as she tried to take in the vast expanse of constellation-strewn night sky.
‘Have you discovered a new planet?’
Lawrie ignored the sarcastic tone. ‘I’m not sure I’d realise if I had,’ she said. ‘It’s just you never see the sky like this in London. I had almost forgotten what it was like.’
Another reclaimed memory to add to the list. Just how much had she shut out over the last nine years?
And how much could she bear to remember? To feel?
The shocking ache of memory—the whispers of ‘what might have been’. If she hadn’t walked in on Hugo she would still be in London, with Trengarth a million miles away from her thoughts, her ambitions, her dreams.
It was all so familiar. The dimly lit windy street, the harbour wall on one side and the shops on the other—a trendy mixture of surf-hire, arty boutiques and posh grub for the upmarket tourists who sailed or stayed in the village throughout the summer.
As they turned up the steep, hilly road that led to Lawrie’s gran’s house the shops became more prosaic: post office, grocer’s, buckets and spades and souvenirs.
She stole a glance at the man strolling along by her side, walking up the hill with ease. He too was still the same in so many ways, and yet there was something harder, edgier. His very silence was spiky, and she had an urge to break it. To soften the mood.
‘So...’ Was that her voice? So tentative? She coughed nervously and tried again—this time loud, abrasive. More suited to a confrontation than casual conversation. ‘Are you married? Any children?’
He didn’t break stride or look at her. Just gave a quick shake of the head. ‘Nope.’
‘Anyone special?’
‘Not at the moment.’
So there had been. What did you expect? she asked herself fiercely. That he’s been living like a monk for the last nine years? Would you even want that?
She wasn’t entirely sure of her answer.
‘A couple of times I thought maybe that there was potential. But it was never quite enough. I’m an old-fashioned guy.’ He slanted a glance at her, cold, unreadable. ‘Marriage should be for ever. Failing once was bad enough...’
‘We didn’t fail.’ But her words had no conviction. Lawrie tried again. ‘We just wanted different things.’
‘If that’s the way you want to remember it.’
Now this was familiar. The flush of anger, the ache of frustration as they stood on either side of a very deep chasm. No, Lawrie told herself. Don’t say anything. What was the point in dredging up old arguments, conflict that should be dead and buried?
Only she had never been able to resist the opportunity to fight her corner.
‘It’s the way it was.’ Cool, calm. As if it didn’t matter. And of course it didn’t. It was history.
Only it was her history. Theirs.
It was her job, knowing when to argue a point, knowing when to let it lie. There was nothing to gain from rehashing the same old themes and yet she felt compelled to go on.
‘There’s no shame in admitting something isn’t working, in moving on,’ she persisted as they reached the top of the hill and turned down the hedge-lined lane that led to the cottage. The bumpy road ahead was hard to make out, lit just by the brilliant stars and the occasional light marking out driveways and gates. ‘I couldn’t stay here, you wouldn’t move—what else could we do? It all seems to have worked out for you, though. You seem to have done well for yourself.’
‘Surprised?’ The mocking tone was back. ‘You always did underestimate me, Lawrie.’
‘I didn’t! I never underestimated you!’ Her whole body flushed, first with embarrassment, then with indignation. ‘We grew apart, that’s all. I didn’t think...’
‘Didn’t think what?’
How could those smooth, cream-rich tones turn so icy?
‘That I was too naïve, too small-town for your new Oxbridge friends?’
‘Wow—way to rewrite history! You hated Oxford, hated London, disliked my friends, and refused to even consider moving away from Cornwall. It wasn’t all me, Jonas. You wouldn’t compromise on anything.’
He laughed softly. ‘Compromise suggests some kind of give and take, Lawrie. Remind me again what you were willing to give up for me?’
‘That’s unfair.’ She felt tired, defeated. She had just presided over the death of one relationship—did she really have to do the post mortem on this one too?
‘Is it?’
The worst part was how uninterested he sounded. As if they were talking about complete strangers and not their hopeful younger selves.
‘Actually, I should thank you.’
She peered at him through the star-lit darkness. ‘Thank me?’
‘For forcing me to grow up. To prove you, my parents, everyone who thought I was a worthless, surfing bum wrong.’
‘I never thought that,’ she whispered.
An image flashed through her head. A younger, softer Jonas, his wetsuit half peeled off, moulded to muscular thighs. Naked broad shoulders tapering down to a taut, perfectly defined stomach. Water glistening on golden tanned skin. Slicked-back wet hair. Board under one arm, a wicked smile on his mouth, an invitation in his eyes. A sudden yearning for the carefree boy he had been ran through her, making her shiver with longing. How had he turned into this cold, cynical man? Had she done this to him?
He laughed again, the humourless sound jarring her over-wrought nerves.
‘Oh, Lawrie, does any of it matter? It was a long time ago—we were practically children. Getting married in our teens...we must have been crazy—it was always going to end in tears.’
‘I suppose it was.’ Her voice was tentative.
Was it? Once she’d thought they would be together for ever, that they were two halves of one whole. Hearing him reduce their passion to the actions of two irresponsible teenagers nearly undid her. She fought against the lump in her throat, fought for composure, desperate to change the subject, lighten the mood which had turned as dark as night.
‘Here you are.’
He stopped at the gate that led into the small driveway and Lawrie skidded to an abrupt stop—close, but not touching him. She was achingly aware of his proximity, and the knowledge that if she reached out just an infinitesimal amount she would be able to touch him made her shiver with longing, with desire, with fear. She wanted to look away but found herself caught in his moonlit gaze, the blue eyes silvered by the starlight.
‘It wasn’t all bad, though. Being a crazy teen.’
The cream had returned to his voice. His tone was low, almost whispered, and she felt herself swaying towards him.
‘No, of course not. That was the happiest time of my life.’
Damn, she hadn’t meant to admit that—not to him, not to herself. It must be the cocktails talking. But as the words left her mouth she realised their truth.
‘The happiest time,’ she whispered, so low she hoped he hadn’t heard her.
Just one little step—that was all it took. One little step and she was touching him, looking up at him. Her breasts brushed against his chest and just that one small touch set her achingly aware nerves on fire. She felt the jolt of desire shock through her, buzzing through to her fingers, to her toes, pooling deep within her.
Jonas’s head was tilted down. The full focus of his disconcertingly intense eyes on her. Lawrie swallowed and licked suddenly dry lips, her nails cutting into her palms as she curled them into tight fists. The urge to grab him and pull him close was suddenly almost overwhelming.
‘Jonas?’
An entreaty? A question? Lawrie didn’t know what she was asking him, what she was begging him for. All she knew was that it was her birthday. And that she hadn’t felt this alive for a long, long time.
‘Jonas...’
He stayed still for a long second, his eyes still fixed on hers, their expression unreadable.
And then he took a step back. The sudden space between them was a yawning chasm. ‘Goodnight, Lawrie. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t be late—there’s a lot to go through.’
Lawrie suppressed a shudder. It was suddenly so cold. ‘I’m never late.’
‘Good.’
She stood by the gate, watching as he turned and began to stride down the path, ruthlessly suppressing the part of her that wanted to call after him, run after him. Yet she couldn’t ignore the odd skip her heart gave as he stopped and looked back.
‘Oh, and, Lawrie... Happy Birthday.’
And then he was gone. Swallowed up by the velvety blackness like the ghost of birthdays past.
Lawrie sagged against the gatepost, an unwelcome mixture of frustrated desire and loneliness pulsing through her. If this was how one night with Jonas could make her feel, how on earth was she going to manage a whole summer?
She forced herself upright. She was vulnerable right now, that was all. She would just have to toughen up even more—harden herself.
And stay as far away from Jonas Jones as she possibly could, boss or not.
CHAPTER THREE
LAWRIE WAS DETERMINED to be early.
‘Don’t be late’ indeed.
Even if she had gone to bed long after one a.m., and even if she had spent half the night lying awake in a frustrated tangle of hot sheets and even hotter regrets, there was no way she was giving him the satisfaction.
Besides, she might be in Trengarth, not Hampstead, and in her old, narrow single bed and not the lumbar-adjusted super-king-size one she had shared with Hugo, but it was nice to retrieve a little of her old routine from the wreckage of the last week.
She’d been up at six sharp, showered and ready to go by seven.
So why was she still standing irresolutely in the kitchen at ten past seven, fingering the scarf Jonas had bought her? It looked good teamed with her crisp white shirt and grey pencil skirt, softening the severe corporate lines of her London work wardrobe, and yet she didn’t want to give Jonas the wrong idea—come into work brandishing his colours.
She began to unknot it for the third time, then caught sight of herself in the mirror. Face drawn, anxious.
It’s just a scarf, she thought impatiently, pulling the door shut and locking it behind her. Not an engagement ring. She looked down at her left hand, the third finger bare—bare of Hugo’s exquisite princess cut diamond solitaire, of Jonas’s antique amethyst twist.
Two engagement rings before turning thirty. Not bad for someone who had vowed to remain independent. Her mother had been married three times before thirty; maybe Lawrie wasn’t doing so badly after all.
It was another beautiful day, with the sun already shining down from a deep blue sky completely undisturbed by any hint of cloud, and the light breeze a refreshing contrast to the deepening heat. This was Cornwall at its best—this was what she had missed on those dusty, summer days in London: the sun glancing off the sea, the vibrancy of the colours, the smell of grass, salt and beach. The smell of home.
Don’t get too used to it, Lawrie told herself as she walked along the lane—a brighter, far less intimate and yet lonelier walk in the early-morning light. This is just an interlude. It was time to start focussing on her next step, giving those recruitment agencies a quick nudge. After all, they’d had her CV for nearly a week now. She should have plenty of free time. How much work could organising a few bands be?
* * *
Five hours later, after an incredibly long and detailed hand-over by the sofa-bound Suzy, Lawrie was severely revising her estimate of the work involved. Just when had Wave Fest turned from a few guitars and a barbecue on a beach to a three-night extravaganza?
Walking back into Jonas’s office, files piled high in her arms, her head was so busy buzzing with the endless stream of information Suzy had supplied that Lawrie had almost forgotten the ending to the night before—forgotten the unexpected desire that had flared up so hotly, despite thinking about nothing else as Fliss drove her through the narrow country lanes to Suzy’s village home.
But walking back into the Boat House brought the memory flooding back. She had wanted him to kiss her.
It wasn’t real. This was Jonas Jones. She had been there, done that, moved on. Besides, Lawrie told herself firmly, she couldn’t afford any emotional ties. She was already mentally spinning this volunteer role into a positive on her CV. This could be the way to set her aside from all the other ambitious thirty-somethings hungry for the next, more prestigious role.
Volunteering to manage a high-profile project raising money for charity—an environmental charity, at that—would add to her Oxford degree and her eight successful years at an old City firm and she would be a very promising candidate indeed. She might even have her pick of jobs.
Only, Lawrie thought as she clasped the large, heavy files more firmly, negotiating contracts was a very different skill from organising a festival. She was used to representing multiple companies who thought they had first dibs on her time all the time, but at least there was uniformity to the work, making it simpler to switch between clients. This was more like running an entire law firm single-handed, handling everything from divorces to company takeovers.
There didn’t seem to be an aspect of Wave Fest that Suzy hadn’t been in charge of—that Lawrie was now in charge of—from budgets to booking bands, from health and safety forms and risk assessment to portaloo hire.
And there was a file for each task.
Jonas was hard at work as she staggered into the office, but he swung his chair round as she dumped the heavy pile on the round conference table with a bang. His face was guarded, although she could have sworn she saw a fleeting smirk as he took in the large amount of paperwork she had lugged in.
‘Changed your mind now you know what’s in store?’
It was said lightly, but a muscle beating at the side of his jaw betrayed some tension. Maybe he wasn’t as indifferent to her as he seemed. Or maybe it was another dig at her lack of commitment.
Stop trying to second-guess him, Lawrie. It was probably just a throwaway comment.
‘No, but it’s more daunting than I imagined,’ she admitted honestly. ‘This lot—’ she gestured at the files behind her ‘—is just invoices, purchase orders, health and safety certificates, insurance documents. The actual work is being emailed as we speak.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘It’s different to my usual line, and my secretary would have taken care of most of the admin-related work—but, yes, I can do it. I’ll need to spend a couple of days reading this lot, though.’
‘Here?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you intending to work here?’
Lawrie looked up, confused. Where else would she work?
Her eyes caught his. Held them. And for several long seconds she was aware of nothing but the intense blue, the flicker of heat at the heart of his gaze. She caught her breath, an ache suddenly hollowing in her chest, need mingling with the excitement clenching at her stomach. She dragged her eyes reluctantly away, loss unexpectedly consuming her as she stepped back, self-consciously pulling at a folder, looking anywhere but at him, doing her best to ignore the sudden flare of desire, her total awareness of every inch of him.
His shirt matched his eyes, was open at his throat, exposing a small triangle of tanned chest; his long legs were encased in perfectly cut charcoal trousers.
She smiled at him, making it light, trying to keep her sudden nerves hidden, her voice steady. For goodness’ sake, Lawrie, you’re a professional. ‘I was planning on it. I could work at home, but it will be easier to get answers to my questions if I’m on site.’
He nodded shortly. ‘I agree. That’s why I thought you might be better off based at the hotel.’
‘The hotel?’ For goodness’ sake, she sounded like an echo.
‘Coombe End. I appreciate it’s not as convenient as here—you won’t be able to walk to work—but as it’s the venue for Wave Fest it makes a lot of sense for you to spend most of your time there.’
His smile was pure politeness. He might have been talking to a complete stranger.
Lawrie shook her head, trying to clear some of the confusion. ‘You hold the festival at Coombe End? Your parents let you?’
She knew things had changed, but if Richard and Caroline Jones were allowing rock music and campers through the gates of Coombe End then she hadn’t come back to the Trengarth she remembered. She had entered a parallel universe.
‘No.’ His eyes caught hers again, proud and challenging. ‘They don’t. I allow it. Coombe End belongs to me. I own it now.’
She stared at him, a surge of delight running through her, shocking her with its strength. So his parents had finally shown some belief in him.
‘They gave you Coombe End? Oh, Jonas that’s wonderful.’
He shook his head, his face dark, forbidding. ‘They gave me nothing. I bought it. And I paid handsomely for every brick and every blade of grass.’
He had bought Coombe End? Lawrie looked around at the immaculately styled office, at the glass separating them from the café below, at the smooth polished wooden floor, the gleaming tiles, the low, comfortable sofas and designer chairs and tables. The whole building shouted out taste, sophistication. It shouted investment and money. She knew things had grown, changed, but how much? Whatever Jonas was doing now it was certainly more than serving up coffee and cakes to friends.
A lot more.
‘That’s great,’ she said lamely, wanting to ask a million questions but not knowing where to start.
Besides, it wasn’t any of her business. It hadn’t been for a long time.
‘I was planning to head over there this afternoon, so I could show you around, introduce you to the rest of the office staff. It’ll probably be a couple of hours before I’m ready to leave, though, is that okay?’
Lawrie shook her head, her mind still turning over the ‘rest of the office staff’ comment. How many people did he employ?
‘No problem. I want to go through this lot and make some notes, anyway.’
‘If you’re hungry just pop downstairs. Carl will make you anything you want.’
And he turned back to his computer screen, instantly absorbed in the document he was reading.
She had been dismissed. It shouldn’t rankle—this was hard enough without his constant attention. But it did.
Lawrie sat down at the table and pulled the first file towards her, groaning inwardly at the thick stack of insurance documents inside. Deciphering the indecipherable, crafting the impenetrable—those were the tools of her trade and she was excellent at it—but today her eyes were skidding over each dense sentence, unable to make sense of them. She was trying to focus all her attention on the words dancing on the page in front of her but she was all too aware of Jonas’s every move—the rustle as he shifted posture, the tap of his long, capable fingers on the keyboard.
Despite herself she let her eyes wander over to him, watching him work. She tried to pull her gaze away from his hands but she was paralysed, intent, as his fingers caressed the keyboard, pressing decisively on each key.
He had always been so very good with his hands.
‘Did you say something?’
‘No,’ she lied, hoping he hadn’t turned round, hadn’t seen her blush.
Please, she prayed silently, she hadn’t just moaned out loud, had she? For goodness’ sake she was a grown woman—not a teenager at the mercy of her hormones. At least she’d thought she was.
It was coming home. She had been away too long and this sudden return at a time of stress had released some sort of sensory memory, turning her back into the weak-kneed teenager crushing so deeply on her boss that every nerve had been finely tuned to his every word and movement. It was science, that was all.
Science, but still rather uncomfortable.
‘I’m thirsty,’ she announced. ‘I’ll just go and get some water.’
His satirical gaze uncomfortably upon her, she slid out of the door, heading for the kitchens beneath, relieved to be released from his proximity. If she didn’t get a handle on her hormones soon then she was in for a very uncomfortable few weeks.
Walking down the stairs, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, automatically checking it for messages. Just the simple act of holding it created a much-needed sense of purpose, of control.
Nothing. Not from her old colleagues, not from her friends in London, not from Hugo. It was as if they had closed the gap her absence had created so seamlessly that nobody knew she had gone. Or if they did they simply didn’t care. Yesterday had been her thirtieth birthday. She was supposed to have been having dinner with twenty of their closest friends. Other professional couples. How had Hugo explained her absence?
Or had he taken his secretary instead? His lover. After all, they had been his friends first.
This was the year she had been going to get around to finally organising their wedding.
This was the year they’d been going to discuss children. Not have them yet, obviously, but start timetabling them in.
They were supposed to have been spending the rest of their lives together, and yet Hugo had let her go without a word, without a gesture. Just as Jonas had all those years ago. Just as her mother had.
She just wasn’t worth holding on to.
Lawrie leant against the wall, grateful for the chill of the tiles on her suddenly hot face. Don’t cry, she told herself, willing away the pressure behind her eyelids. Never cry. You don’t need them—you don’t need anybody.
* * *
A large glass of iced water and some fresh air helped Lawrie recover some of her equilibrium and she returned to the office feeling a great deal better. Turning her back determinedly on Jonas, she called on all her professional resources and buried herself in the insurance folder, finding a strange calm in returning to the legalese so recently denied her. Pulling a notebook close, she began to scribble notes, looking at expiry dates, costs, and jotting down anything that needed immediate attention, losing herself in the work.
‘Lawrie...? Lawrie?’ Jonas was standing behind her, an amused glint in the blue eyes. ‘Fascinating, are they?’ He gestured at the folders.
‘A little,’ she agreed, pulling herself out of the work reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry—do you need me?’
‘I’m heading off to Coombe End. Do you still want me to show you around?’
Did she? What she really wanted was more time alone—more time to get lost in the work and let the real world carry on without her.
But it would be a lot easier tomorrow if she knew what to expect.
‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ She pushed her chair back and began to pile the folders and her closely covered sheets of paper together. ‘I’ll just...’ She gestured at the files spread all over the table and began to pull them together, bracing herself ready to scoop them up.
‘Here—let me.’
Jonas leant over and picked up the large pile, his arm brushing hers and sending a tingle from her wrist shooting through her body straight down to her toes. She leapt back.
‘If you’re ready?’
‘Absolutely, I’ll just get my bag—give me two minutes.’
‘I’ll meet you at the car; it’s just out front.’
‘Okay.’
The door closed behind him and Lawrie sank back into her seat with a sigh. She had to pull herself together. Stop acting like the gauche schoolgirl she’d outgrown years ago.
* * *
Jonas pulled his car round to the front of the restaurant, idling the engine as he waited for Lawrie. Their first day working together was going well. He’d had a productive two hours’ work just then, not thinking about and not even noticing the exposed nape of her neck, her long, bare legs, not at all aware of every rustle, every slight movement.
Well, maybe just a little aware. But they were just physical things. And Cornwall in summer was full of attractive women—beautiful women, even.
And yet during the last two hours the room he had designed, the room that had evoked light and space, had felt small, claustrophobic, airless. How could someone as slight as Lawrie take up so much space?
Jonas looked over at the Boat House impatiently, just as Lawrie emerged through the front door, a carefully blank, slightly snooty look on her face—the expression that had used to mean she was unsure of the situation. Did it still mean that? He used to be able to read her every shifting emotion, no matter how she tried to hide them.
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