Manser.
Instinctively her hand went to her hair; she was uncomfortably aware it hung damp and limp about her face. She’d have known him anywhere. He hadn’t altered at all. Or perhaps he had a little. He was slightly thinner. Tired-looking. Slightly worn at the edges. But he was still sexy. Very sexy indeed.
‘Thank you,’ she managed.
She could remember, all too clearly, what a complete and utter fool she’d made of herself when he’d first arrived on the island. At seventeen she’d thought he was the most gorgeous thing to have ever walked the planet—and she couldn’t have made it much plainer.
He was older than her. Much older. A top London chef who’d lived in France and Italy. He’d had all the glamour and sophistication her young heart had craved. Just thinking about how she’d behaved made her long to curl up in a ball and howl with humiliation.
Strangely he didn’t seem so old to her now. With the magic of adulthood she seemed to have caught him up. Kate straightened her shoulders. ‘It’s Gideon, isn’t it?’ Kate hesitated. ‘Gideon Manser? Do you remember me? I’m Kate. Kate Simmonds? Well, I was always called Katie. You perhaps don’t remember me. I—’
Shut up. Just shut up. Stop babbling on, she thought desperately. It would be better if he didn’t remember her.
She bit down on her lip. He probably wouldn’t remember. Why should he? He hadn’t been interested in her. They must have laughed at her—him and Laura. Or felt sorry for her—which would be worse.
‘Of course I remember you,’ he said, stretching out his hand.
Hell! She felt a flush mottle her neck as she stretched out her own hand.
‘It would be difficult not to.’ He smiled and his fingers wrapped around hers. ‘Babs has…had,’ he corrected swiftly, ‘photographs of you everywhere and Debbie made sure everyone knew you were on the television now. Half the island is fascinated by your reports from the States each week. You’re a celebrity. A local girl made good.’
Kate looked down at her boots. ‘Oh, right.’ She should have guessed she’d be a minor celebrity on the Isle of Wight. Debbie had just loved it when she’d landed the job as LA correspondent and started making weekly television reports. Couldn’t hear enough of who was doing what and with whom.
And Aunt Babs had just been proud. The thought speared her with guilt. She should have come back to the island before now. It would have meant so much to the woman who’d changed her life so dramatically.
Gideon looked across at the other queue. ‘We’d better get in line or there won’t be time to have a coffee.’
‘I suppose not.’
She felt her stomach twist in a nervous flutter. Gideon Manser. Why did he have this effect on her still? She was twenty-eight years old, for heaven’s sake. Her world was peopled with sexy men. She’d interviewed most of them. He wasn’t anything special.
And yet…
She fiddled with the strap of her handbag. It was probably the place. It brought back memories she hadn’t thought of in years. Rocked her off balance. Or maybe Gideon was just a symbol of what she couldn’t have. Something else she couldn’t have, she amended silently.
She looked back at him. His jacket collar was pulled up against the cold, his jeans were dark and his hands were…well, they were beautiful.
He reached across for the tray. ‘Debbie said you’d be coming home for the funeral.’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Was it difficult to get away?’ Kate reached across for a tray of her own but he stopped her. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll get these.’
‘You don’t have to. I—’ She broke off and let her hand fall back. ‘Thank you.’
‘So—’ he turned to smile at her ‘—was it difficult?’
His smile was like a gateway to a time tunnel. She felt as if she was shooting back through the years at the speed of light. So many memories flashing by. The kind that came up to bite you when you were least expecting it.
At seventeen she’d fantasized about what it would be like to kiss him. At night she’d closed her eyes and pretended he was her pillow and imagined his voice telling her how much he loved her. She pulled her gaze away from his lips, embarrassed.
She’d been an idiot. It wasn’t surprising a man of twenty-six hadn’t been interested in an adolescent seventeen.
‘Did you find it difficult to get away for the funeral? Debbie thought you might be too busy. Not be able to make it.’
Kate stuffed her hands down into the depths of her coat pockets. ‘Oh, no.’
‘No?’ he repeated.
He seemed to be watching her critically. Probably wondering why she couldn’t have visited Aunt Babs and Debbie more often if it were so simple.
On the surface she’d just packed her bags and left without a backward glance. Only a few very special people knew why. And they wouldn’t have told a soul.
‘How long are you staying for?’ he asked.
‘Until Wednesday. Not long. I’ve got to get back to London…’ The line moved forward and Kate reached for a china cup. It was good to have something sensible to do with her hands. She rested it on the metal grid and pushed the ‘coffee white decaf’ button.
‘Not going back to the States immediately, then?’
‘No.’ She put the cup down on a saucer and made an effort to relax. ‘And how are you?’ She watched his strong hands go through the same procedure as she’d done.
‘Good.’ He hesitated. ‘You heard about Laura, I suppose?’
Her stomach did a somersault as the floor appeared to disappear beneath her feet. Damn it! She had heard.
With crushing clarity she remembered Debbie’s tearful phone call. The shock of hearing that Laura was dead. How could she have been so thoughtless? ‘Yes, I—’
‘She died.’
‘Y-yes, I know. I’m so sorry.’ She pulled her hand through her hair. ‘I meant to write at the time but…’ She trailed off weakly.
But…she’d been busy with her own trauma. Her own grief had been so intense when Richard left that she’d struggled to believe anyone could be hurting as much as she was. She’d had no compassion left for anyone but herself.
Not even Debbie, who’d been distraught at having lost her friend. With a pang she realised she’d scarcely given Gideon a thought.
She looked up at his face. His pain was there. Etched on his face. In his eyes. And there was nothing she could really say to help him. How did you even begin to say something sensible to a man who’d lost the wife he’d loved?
His smile was tight. Forced. ‘Two years ago. Not long after Tilly
