HAD BEEN for less than two days and it had been total madness. But it had been real. They’d married.
She should try again to remind him outright, but she was too mortified. That year’s worth of imaginings, of meeting him again and hoping to change his first impression of her? That she could show she was no longer that weak woman who’d needed rescuing—that she was strong and capable and going places—that kernel of hope that he might see her in a different light?
She’d been so stupid.
She had to get away from him—from here—immediately.
She stepped towards the still-open doorway, but before she got there he closed it and faced her, blocking the exit.
‘You’ll stay here for the night and travel on in the morning when the weather has eased,’ he said.
His dictatorial tone checked her momentarily, but she held her ground. ‘And if it hasn’t eased?’
‘You’ll at least be able to see in the light.’
‘My car has good headlights, I think it’s better if I leave now.’ The last thing she wanted was to stay here.
‘No.’ His tone brooked no argument.
She remembered that implacable decisiveness and the air of authority so very well. Once he’d made his mind up that was it. Done. He couldn’t be crossed or fought. She’d seen that when he’d dispatched the argument of her uncle with an icy blade. And there was that weak part of her that still wanted his recognition to come.
‘If you’d care to show me the kitchen,’ she said coldly. ‘The least I can do is make some supper for us both.’
And she’d be on the phone to Jasper as soon as she was alone.
‘I don’t need anything, but please help yourself to anything you may like,’ he replied equally coolly.
He refrained from indulging in a smile of satisfaction, but that obvious restraint made her all the more annoyed. He was too used to getting his own way.
‘You must be hungry after your journey,’ he added formally.
He was determined to reject her assistance in any way, yet was insistent she accept his help. It was an arrogantly unfair power play. He’d ensured she was reliant on him, yet he refused any assistance or even kindness from her.
One day she’d make him accept it somehow, some time. Just for once she didn’t want to be the weak one.
She followed him down the long cold corridor. In the light she now noticed a very slight limp as he walked.
‘My office is on the second floor, but the kitchen is this way,’ he explained briefly. ‘Where have you driven from today, Zara?’
‘Up north,’ she answered carefully.
She was hyper aware of the latent strength in his lean physique as she followed him. He seemed more ruthless, he smiled a whole lot less, but he was still breathtaking. She’d forgotten just how much he fascinated her. Fortunately he didn’t appear to realise the effect he had on her. Thank goodness. He’d never noticed how he made her feel.
Her heart thudded at the strangeness of this arrangement. She shouldn’t have agreed to come. He didn’t need her help at all—what had Jasper been worrying about?
‘I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you,’ she said politely, still trying to get over the smarting hurt that he’d not remembered her.
‘I will ensure there is a room ready for you,’ he replied and left her.
She watched as he left. Not big on small talk, was he?
The kitchen was beautiful and scrupulously clean and she realised she needed food. She’d think better if she warmed up. She’d prepare something and then speak to Jasper.
She checked the cupboards. There were barely the staples in the pantry. She opened the freezer and found a stack of containers—single-serve portions—labelled with the dish and the date it had been made, but also the date for him to eat. Someone had prepared enough for him to last the next few days. Who had done that, when Jasper had insisted that Tomas’s housekeeper had walked out suddenly, leaving him in the lurch?
Someone had organised this for him. She frowned. So why had Jasper been so insistent she come then, if he’d already been taken care of?
Her frown deepened as she looked in the fridge. There was milk and another—uneaten—prepared whole meal, but no raw ingredients.
But the meal he was supposed to have eaten last night was still in there. So was the container labelled as his lunch. She glanced at the counter and the sink again; there wasn’t even a drop of water from the tap in the bottom of the sink. If he’d prepared anything for himself, he’d not left a single sign of it.
She shrugged, telling herself not to care. But she would make herself—and him—something to warm up.
She took off her jacket and scrabbled round in the bottom of her shoulder bag and found the bar of plain chocolate she had there. Thank goodness she’d not eaten it on the drive down. She found a copper pan and gently warmed the milk on the stovetop and grated the chocolate in. As she stirred it to melt the slivers she couldn’t stop the memories from tormenting her. She’d made him coffee that morning, served it with her special lemon-slice cake—that first recipe she’d ever tweaked.
‘He’s here to invest in the casino—don’t screw it up. Stay out of sight as much as possible.’
By then she’d got good at staying out of sight. Her uncle’s temper had been worsening by the day and she was the easiest person for him to vent it on. So she knew when to avoid him, but that day he’d needed her skills.
She’d been the only child of doting parents who’d died when she was just twelve. Her only living relative had flown in to console her. Uncle Charles had said he lived on a luxury yacht in Antigua and ran a casino. He’d sold her parents’ home and told her she’d love it on his boat, with his glamorous second wife.
But that wife had walked out ten months later, fed up with the chauvinistic abuse he served up twenty-four-seven. She’d left teenaged Zara there alone to witness the drinking and womanising and gambling and sleaze.
Her uncle had blamed her for his wife’s departure. In the end everything was her fault. That flashy ‘home’ had offered no relief from isolation and grief—it only exacerbated it, because she didn’t fit the mould.
She’d been nothing but a disappointment to her uncle and he’d let her know it. She’d been so scared and lonely she’d let him stomp all over her—had shut herself away like some sad Cinderella. She’d been so stupidly quiet and shy.
She’d never been able to live up to the expectations he had of her. He’d told her time and time again she was useless. He refused to send her to school and begrudged the correspondence-school paperwork she requested.
She’d retreated below deck. Len, the Scottish chef he employed, became her one true friend and mentor. Over the next few years he’d taught her everything he knew. But then Charles sacked Len and told Zara to take over the food prep full
