features, but she could feel an old familiar panic rise up.
Caleb is not Tom…
She closed the front door behind her. ‘I went to the cinema, Caleb. You can’t lock me in here every day—’
‘Oh, can’t I?’ he said threateningly as he advanced on her. The colour leached from her face, stopping him in his tracks. Her eyes were huge. He forced himself to calm down. She was back. She was here. Had he really thought she’d try and leave once the contract was signed? But he had…for a moment.
He thrust a hand through his hair. ‘Maggie, look…Of course I can’t lock you in here. I got back and you were gone…I don’t know, I guess I thought…’He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just call me next time…’
Maggie couldn’t believe it, slowly allowing herself to calm again. He actually looked…almost shaken. Had he really thought she’d run away? As if! She had no doubt that if she had even tried anything like that, he’d have reneged on the agreement, contract or no.
‘I don’t actually have your mobile number,’ she said dryly.
‘Well, let’s remedy that now.’ He took her bag with proprietary ease and fished out her phone. She looked on, bemused, as he punched in his number and handed it back.
‘You don’t need mine?’
He looked addled. ‘Yes, I do.’
He handed her his phone and she put in her number and handed it back. Somehow, she felt a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Was it hysteria? Who cared? Suddenly a lightness was bubbling up and she couldn’t hold it in. Caleb caught her rapidly contorting face and frowned for a second. ‘What—?’
She couldn’t stop it; laughter bubbled out and she gasped with the effort to control it. ‘I’m sorry…it’s…just…a bit…’
‘After the fact?’ he asked with a twitch on his mouth too. He watched as she tried to control herself, felt her lightness reach out to touch him. She gasped in big breaths and wiped at the tears that had sprung from her eyes. He reached out a finger and trailed it over one cheek, saying almost wonderingly, ‘You’re even more beautiful when you laugh…You should do it more often.’
Her belly quivered at his touch, then she hiccuped, ‘Well, I haven’t had much cause lately.’
Or ever…
Something dark crossed Caleb’s face and she could see him close up again. No! she wanted to say. Stay with me. He dropped his finger; she felt bereft. She controlled herself again. They were still standing just inside the door.
‘I’ve put on some chicken…how does that sound?’
‘You cook?’ she asked inanely.
His mouth quirked. ‘Apparently quite well.’
She shrugged, trying not to look too impressed, finding herself inordinately relieved to be eating in. They’d eaten out every other night so far, each restaurant more glittering and exclusive than the last, and Maggie was tired. ‘The proof will be in the eating,’ she quipped quickly, not wanting him to see her relief.
‘Ouch.’ He winced and started to head back towards the kitchen. ‘Not all of us were trained by chefs; some of us had to learn the hard way.’
She followed him into the sparkling, brand new kitchen, curious. ‘So where did you learn, then?’
As she watched, he seemed to know what he was doing, tossing a salad with fluid ease. It would be just like the man to be able to do everything perfectly.
‘My mother can’t cook to save her life, or my father, and in lean times, when Dad became bankrupt and when Mother left to tout for her next rich ticket, I had to cook for them or we’d all have gone hungry.’
Maggie gasped, ‘But you were only a child!’
He shrugged negligently. ‘Once my mother married again in Brazil, we had a housekeeper, but I still used to cook for Dad in England. I enjoyed it, even if I was one of the only boys doing home economics when I went to school there in my teens.’
She shook her head; something flipped over in her at this more human side to him. ‘Wow, that was pretty brave! I remember the ribbing we used to give the boys in our school.’
She thought of his words then and remembered something that Michael Murphy had said that day of the funeral. ‘You said your dad became bankrupt…was…is that why you don’t go after your enemies with total ruthlessness?’
He looked up, his eyes narrowed sharply on hers. She flushed—what was she doing? They’d been actually getting along.
He wouldn’t let her escape, lifting a brow.
‘What I mean is…Mr Murphy said something about you not being known for being…so merciless,’ she finished lamely.
He stopped what he was doing and leant both hands on the counter top. ‘And yet I was merciless to you and your family…?’
She nodded miserably, desperately wishing she hadn’t opened her mouth.
‘I only fight back when provoked beyond reason…and you and your stepfather did that, Maggie. You can spare me the armchair psychoanalysis.’
He had retreated back behind the cool front. She backed away from the door. ‘I’ll just have a quick shower.’
He looked at the empty doorway for a long time. For a few moments there, they’d shared a lightness he rarely encountered with anyone. And then, with that one comment…she’d actually pinpointed something that was so fundamental about the way he lived, did business, something that no one else had ever picked up on. Not the broadsheets, tabloids, reporters…and they had done their best over the years to figure out the Cameron phenomenon. The way he’d built his fortune from next to nothing, first in Rio and London, then encompassing the world. All by the age of thirty-six.
The truth was, the way he conducted his business life was inextricably bound up with his past experiences. Seeing his father comprehensively ruined, become a shell of a man, only to be deserted by his tempestuous wife as soon as the money was gone, had left deep wounds. Somewhere deep down, he’d vowed that would never happen to him. His hands had curled to fists and he just noticed them now, consciously un-curling them. He willed the dark memories away. Maggie was just trying to push his buttons…and he wouldn’t let her.
‘What can I do?’ Maggie’s chin was tilted, her voice almost defiant as she spoke from the doorway. She was determined not to let Caleb see how his shut-down had affected her. His face was still grim. He flicked her a glance, taking in the damp hair that coiled down past her shoulders, a soft V-neck cashmere sweater that clung to her curves. Couldn’t help but notice the shadow of something—was it hurt?—that lit her eyes an intense green. Distracted by that and how it made him feel, he listed off abstractedly, ‘Set the table, get some cutlery, glasses…’
‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered under her breath and started opening cupboards. She would not let him see how hurt she was but it was still there, just under her skin like a wound. What had she expected, after all? She shook her head at herself and stretched up to look for plates.
Suddenly
