ignored the words. Looked her over slowly again and seemed to come to an abrupt decision.
‘Seeing as you seem to be on the wrong side of the gate now…’ He paused. Wrong side, right side, depends on whose saying the words, mate. ‘You might as well come and explain in the house.’ He picked her rucksack up, swung it over one shoulder as though it was feather-light (which she knew for a fact it wasn’t as she’d hauled it across half of Europe, frequently cursing the fact that it was crammed full with most of her worldly goods) and she made a grab for her guitar, which he seemed to know was off limits. Then he walked off with an effortless stride that ate up the ground silently.
She felt like a dog scampering after him, trying to keep up, across a yard she barely had time to take in, except for the fact that it had to be the cleanest yard she’d ever seen. Down a path between immaculate flowerbeds that led to a slightly faded, but obviously once-imposing, farmhouse.
He slowed briefly, to push the large oak door open wider, and had marched across the worn flagstones, dropped the rucksack and was pouring coffee before she’d even had chance to get her bearings. Or catch her breath.
‘So?’ He passed her a mug, then placed his own on the table between them and waited. For an explanation. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Thing was, why did she have to explain at all? He obviously lived here, and he obviously, from his reaction, knew Marie. But now she had her hands wrapped around a warm mug and her heart rate had returned to normal she was beginning to feel that hate, well, dislike, again. Who did he think he was? At least at this distance, with a table between them, the intensity had dwindled to a gentle simmer.
‘I run the business with Dan and Marie.’
Ah, he was a mind-reader. His long, slim finger stroked around the rim of the mug. She took a moment to look at him properly. He was lean, toned rather than muscled-up, and every part of him seemed to be essential, nothing wasted, nothing extra. His arms were defined, as an artist would define their model. He seemed to possess a quiet strength, holding back, contained and yet on the edge, as though a single command could unleash his power. His hair was dark to the point of black, as were his eyes – it hadn’t been a trick of the failing light, even here under the artificial glare there was an almost unnatural depth to the colour. His features were aquiline. Enigmatic, hidden. She felt that shudder again and decided to stop examining him so closely.
‘Marie offered me a job.’ She took a sip, concentrating on the steam rising from the liquid. ‘So, I’m here.’
‘And she’s not.’ His voice was gentle, as though he didn’t want to frighten her.
‘She’s not?’
‘Nope.’ He leaned back, and she was aware of him stretching his legs out under the table, closer to her own. She crossed her ankles under the chair, scrunching up into a smaller space.
He smiled. ‘Marie and Dan are away, everyone is away. I’m here looking after the horses, and we’re shut for the summer, so I’m afraid there isn’t a job.’
‘But, she said, she promised.’ Kezia reached for her rucksack. She needed this job, needed money, more to the point. She was stuck here in the middle of nowhere, down to her last few pounds and with nowhere else to go. ‘Look, I’ll ring her if you don’t believe me.’ When she could find her phone, why the hell could she never find things? It was in the side pocket, it was always…. No, it was in the top.
‘Don’t worry. Leave it. You can stay here tonight and then in the morning…’
‘No, I’m staying here. You’ve got to give me a job.’
His eyes narrowed a touch. Ignore it. ‘Marie promised. Here.’ She grabbed at her phone triumphantly and pulled up the list of contacts.
His hand came down over hers before she could search.
‘I said, leave it.’ The voice was still as soft, but there was that edge again. The edge that made her stomach clench with strange anticipation. She dragged her fingers away from the heat of his touch. Put her hands under the table.
‘No.’ Whatever spell he was used to casting over women, it wasn’t going to work on her. She’d met loads of weirdos over the years; you always did when you led the nomadic kind of lifestyle her family had enjoyed. Not that ‘enjoyed’ was always the most appropriate word. But she’d learned how to deal with them. Look them in the eye, be firm. Or if that failed, you keep your eyes down and scarper.
‘Yes.’ His tone was even, firm, his gaze met hers and it was her that broke the contact first, looking down to stare into the murky depths of her coffee. ‘You’re tired. I’ll show you to one of the guest rooms and we’ll sort this in the morning. I’ll talk to Marie, work out what we owe you.’
‘I don’t want to be owed something, I want a job.’ She needed a job. This was supposed to be the start of a new life, of moving on. She was on her own now, and the time for crying was over. Now she was going to take control of her life, make something of herself. Stop running. Achieve something she could be proud of. And it was meant to start here. It was meant to start now.
When she’d met Marie at the yoga retreat in Italy, something had immediately drawn her to the older woman. Marie might have been the rich client, and she, Kezia, might have been tasked with the most menial jobs, but there was some recognition between the two women. A recognition of something shared that made them stop and talk, something that told Kezia it was okay to unburden herself. She’d told Marie things she’d never told anyone about her life, things that she never imagined she could trust a stranger with, but she’d known she wouldn’t be judged by her. And before Marie left she gave Kezia her details, making her promise to come to England when her work ran out at the start of the summer and the Italians went away. She assured her that there would be a job, a place she could settle in. A future.
Kezia suddenly realised that he had picked up her bag and was walking towards the staircase. She followed, suddenly tired. Tomorrow she’d feel better. Tomorrow the jetlag would be gone, along with the desperate feeling of loneliness, and she’d give this guy hell. Give her what she was owed, sod that.
He pushed open a door, grinning a teasing grin that made her heart jump. ‘I’m James, by the way.’ And then he was gone so quickly she wondered if she had imagined him even being in the room.
She sat down on the bed. Bounced once or twice. Comfy. Not like some of the beds she’d slept in over the last few years. The curtains were drawn, but she went over to the window and pulled them open, dimly making out the outlines of trees, fences, the ghostly shadow-like horses on the horizon. Maybe the middle of nowhere was a good place for her to be right now. Well, it would be perfect if it wasn’t for him. Why did there always have to be someone intent on spoiling things?
Her fingers were drawn to the battered guitar case and she hesitated for a moment before unzipping it, pulling out the instrument and running her fingers over the polished wood. The one thing of any value that she had, the one thing that had the power to nourish her soul. The one constant left in her life, her companion. The corners of her mouth twitched, she sounded like a soppy, sorry-for-herself idiot. A good job it was all in her head and not out loud for macho-man James to hear.
She perched on the corner of the bed, then slowly started plucking at the strings, watching her reflection in the dressing-table mirror as her fingers moved. She did look a mess. He must have thought she was a right drop-out. Which she was in a way. She’d been called hippy chick, weirdo, gyppo and worse in her time. That’s what being brought up by parents with different
