her skin was so fair. Purple smudges beneath blue eyes. Intelligent eyes. Guarded.
Hurt.
He recognised that because he’d felt it. There was always an unspoken connection between people who knew what it was to suffer.
Daniel shook his head. An affinity between two souls who knew life wasn’t perfect. Could never be perfect. And for some reason he knew this carefully packaged blonde understood that. She knew it with the same bone-deep certainty he did.
‘If we’re going to be sitting here a while, shall I bring us out a couple of coffees?’
‘No.’ Then, as though some semblance of politeness was dragged out of her, ‘I’m not thirsty, but that’s no reason for you not to go and get one for yourself if you’re determined to babysit me.’ She stood up and tapped her foot against the tarmac.
Daniel’s eyes travelled to the caramel suede of her boot, the impatient movement of her foot. ‘No problem. I’ll just sit here and wait with you.’
‘How long have you known my grandmother?’
The question surprised him. Or rather the antagonistic tone of it did. He shrugged. ‘A few years—’
‘How come?’
His eyes moved back up to her face, taking in the pinched look. Daniel sat back as far as the wall would allow. What exactly was her problem? Something had really got under her skin. And that something appeared to be him.
Maybe she was the possessive sort? Perhaps she wasn’t happy to discover Margaret had filled the void left by her family, if not well at least adequately?
‘Margaret takes an interest in other people’s lives,’ he said slowly. ‘People like her for it.’ He watched her process that—make some kind of judgement. Her foot moved again, and she spun round so he couldn’t see her face.
‘How much longer is this Bob going to be? This is completely stupid.’
‘That’ll depend on how difficult Pete’s been to find.’
Her head snapped round, her long earrings swinging. ‘I’ve got things I need to be doing.’
Daniel felt a smile twitch at the side of his mouth. Unreasonable and spoilt was the only way to describe Freya Anthony’s behaviour.
Very similar, in fact, to the way his daughter behaved when he vetoed something or other ‘everyone else’ was doing. Only Mia was fifteen, and had considerably more excuse for behaving like a brat than a woman in her late twenties…however beautiful.
Oh, hell! The thought of his daughter had him reaching inside his coat pocket for his phone. He’d forgotten to turn it back on, which meant her school wouldn’t have been able to contact him if…
What did he mean if they tried to call? Given the morning they’d had, it was an inevitability. It was a little over three years since Anna had died, and he’d never missed his wife as much as he did right now.
Anna would have known what to do. She’d have had one of those mother/daughter chats the ‘How to Deal with your Teenager’ books suggested.
But Mia might not have been behaving the way she was if Anna hadn’t died… Daniel closed his eyes against the thought. Things were the way they were. They just had to be got through in the best way possible.
It wasn’t what he’d have chosen. None of it was as he’d chosen—
A bleep alerted him to a missed call. Damn it!
He looked up, and Freya waved an impatient hand towards him. A fatalistic sense of foreboding settled on him as he pushed the button that would let him hear the message. It was brief, and very much to the point. Daniel pulled a hand across the back of his neck.
‘Trouble?’
He turned. ‘I need to make a call.’ Cold wind whipped at the fine blonde hair she’d loosely clipped up. He shouldn’t really leave her sitting here alone, waiting for goodness only knew how long. Daniel hesitated before his priorities slipped into their habitual pattern. ‘I’m sorry, I really do—’
‘It’s fine.’
His hand bounced his phone. ‘It’s my daughter’s school—’
‘It’s fine,’ she repeated, and for the first time her eyes lost their hard, combative edge.
It was so dramatic a change that it cut through his preoccupation.
‘If I have to wait for Pete to finish his break, then that’s what I’ll have to do.’
Daniel studied her eyes, looking for some kind of explanation for such an abrupt change of manner. ‘I’ll—’
‘See you at five,’ she finished for him, returning to sit uncomfortably on the wall.
‘Thank you. I really appreciate that.’
Freya climbed into the driver’s seat and leant across to reach into the glove compartment of her car, pulling out some lip balm.
She hadn’t done that well. Any of it. Not only had she not really been able to gauge what sort of man Daniel Ramsay was, she’d probably done more harm than good. After witnessing her behaviour today, he probably thought her grandmother needed protection from her.
Nothing about this visit was going as she’d planned. She unclipped the twisted silver barrette, throwing it on the passenger seat, and ran her fingers through her hair. What exactly was she so cross about anyway?
For all she knew Daniel Ramsay was a genuinely kind man, trying to make a go of a small country auction house. He’d seemed kind. After all, how many men in her London circle would drop everything to go running when their daughter’s school rang?
That didn’t take very much thinking about. None. She didn’t know anyone like that.
She shut the glove compartment with a hard shove. It was the fault of this wretched place. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from behaving badly. Maybe because that was what everyone was expecting from her? Who knew what the psychology was? Whatever it was, she was certainly living down to their expectations.
Steve, the driver of the white van, walked past her car, sparing her only the briefest of glances. No doubt this morning’s performance would be added to the canon of her supposed misdemeanours. Only in this case she was more than a little guilty.
Freya bit her lip. Why had she ever thought coming back here was a good idea? Okay, so she’d thought her physical presence might deter her dad more effectively than the knowledge she was watching from a distance, but there was more to it than that.
So many complex reasons bound up together. The fact was, this whole approaching thirty thing had taken on a life of itself. It felt almost like a life crisis. At least it would if she didn’t hope to live considerably longer than sixty years.
Now she had something to prove—to herself if no one else. She would not run back to London like a dog with its tail between its legs simply because other people didn’t like her. Been there, done that, had the battle
