was that all about?’ she demanded, blinking furiously, when after all too brief a moment he straightened, looked at her as if imprinting her face on his memory.
‘I want you to remember that what we had was special.’
A dozen scathing remarks leapt to her lips, but she had the feeling that they were talking on different wavelengths. The one point of contact that remained was that kiss. It wasn’t much to keep her warm as she rose through the stratosphere to the icy heights of success.
So she bit back the angry words and instead put her hand briefly over his. ‘Yes, Mike. It was.’ Then, as she realised they had both spoken in the past tense, she turned quickly and stumbled towards the kitchen. It was over. The trip to Maybridge was a waste of time. But she still had to know.
The creamy soup slid, without too much difficulty, down a throat that felt as congested as the M25 in the rush hour. But she couldn’t manage the toast. Mike must have lost his appetite because he didn’t bother with it either.
Mike watched her drive away in her little yellow car, then he took his cellphone from the rear pocket of his jeans and punched in a number. ‘Cal? Did you do what I asked?’ he demanded, before the man could speak. ‘Did they go?’
‘Eventually. Crysse was too distraught to make any kind of decision but Sean finally persuaded her that getting away would be a good idea. Where are you? How—’
‘I’ll call you later.’ Mike switched off. It wasn’t conversation he was looking for but confirmation. Willow had lied to him about shopping with Crysse. He’d known it. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it was true. His hand tightened around the telephone; he wanted to smash it against the wall, smash the shelves, smash the boxes.
He was good at that. Smashing hopes, smashing dreams. This time he’d managed to do it to himself and now he knew how it felt.
It hurt.
He’d come after Willow with some crazy idea of starting over. Beginning again, showing her who he really was, convincing her that they could make it if they both tried. He still wanted her so much that it hurt.
But, instead of telling her that, he was letting her drive away to spend the afternoon locked in the arms of a man whose seduction routine was as slick as his black leather biker gear.
And worse was to come. She’d come back later, brittle and bright to hide her misery at what she’d done, or happy and contented as a kitten—he couldn’t begin to decide which would be worse—and pretend that nothing had happened. Chatter about shopping and how she just hadn’t been able to find a thing she liked.
He dragged his hands over his face, pushed his fingers through his hair. He’d wanted to regain control of his life, give her back control of hers. But she hadn’t waited for him to act. She didn’t need him to give her anything. She’d taken it. Maybe he should accept that and leave before she returned.
Willow stopped at the village store. Aunt Lucy would have a business directory. It took a while. Jake had warned her that the lady was born to talk; he hadn’t been kidding. But after promising to come back later in the week for a real talk, she finally got the information she was looking for and managed to escape.
Mike wiped his arm across his forehead. He’d spent half an hour in a frenzy of activity, determined to finish the cabinet-making—anyone could paint the shelves and boxes—determined to forget about Willow and what she was doing. All he knew was that she hadn’t gone shopping with her cousin and that he didn’t want to be here when she came back with hot, shining eyes.
He picked up a bottle of water, drank from it, then poured the rest over his head. It cooled him down.
This was crazy. He was driving himself crazy. He had her tried and convicted without a shred of evidence that she’d gone to spend the afternoon with Jacob Hallam. Apart from their flirting at the pub. Apart from the fact that she’d locked herself in the bathroom before lunch to make a phone call.
As Emily rounded the corner of the cottages, he headed for the four-by-four. ‘I’ve got to go out,’ he told her as she stopped alongside him.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Lock up if I’m not back. I’ve got a key.’
He didn’t have time to explain. It was time to stop worrying about what he should do. He knew what he had to do. He had to catch his runaway bride and tell her that he loved her, that he’d always love her. Then, maybe, they could start working out a future that they could both live with.
The old lady who ran the shop looked up as he burst through the door. ‘Yes, dear? Can I help you?’
‘Is Jacob Hallam here?’
‘Oh, no, I’m sorry, but you’ve missed him.’
His chest tightened painfully. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘London. A board meeting. He’s such a busy lad these days, dashing about on that bike of his. But he promised me he wouldn’t go over the speed limit.’ Mike thought she was living in cloud-cuckoo-land if she believed anyone with a motorbike that could do a hundred and thirty miles an hour would be keeping to seventy on the motorway. But he didn’t disillusion her. ‘He’ll be back later though. He’s going to give that nice young lady a hand painting her house.’
‘Willow?’
‘Oh, do you know her, too? I was telling her just now, Jacob was a bit of bad lad in his youth, but I knew all he needed was a chance.’ She smiled fondly. ‘These days he’s all heart.’
‘Willow was here?’
‘Yes, dear. She’s going to write an article about the shop. I can’t think who’d be interested, but she seemed very keen. Not that she had time to talk today. She just stopped by to check something in my business directory.’ It was still open on the counter and Mike put his hand on it before she could close it and put it away. It was open at ‘A’ and there was a tiny spot of ink where Willow had grounded her pen. Right alongside the listing for Michael Armstrong Designs.
Maybridge was a lively town with a booming industrial techno-park, but it had a much older heart left over from its market-town agricultural beginnings. Willow pulled into the parking area at the rear of a vast rambling building that had once been an old coaching inn, but which had now been converted into accommodation for small craft shops, with office accommodation above. This was it?
She looked at the long list of occupants on the board in the main entrance but Mike’s name wasn’t there. She turned to the receptionist. ‘I’m looking for Michael Armstrong Designs,’ she said.
‘Outside, through the carriage arch.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But he’s not there. The workshop’s closed—’ the girl called after her. Willow waved her acknowledgement. She knew he wasn’t there. It was all she did know and as she followed the arrow, her heart was booming like a kettledrum.
Her first impression was of flowers. Hanging baskets trailing lush and brilliant summer flowers. And in the corner, a flower shop spilled out into the courtyard with buckets of lilies and roses that lit up the shady corner.
There
