down the stairs, along the landing and down the main staircase, swept forward by rolling waves of righteous anger.
Get out, Emma.
Get out, Emma.
Those words rang in her ears and she set her teeth and walked faster.
Well, she was getting out. She couldn’t get out fast enough.
She consoled herself that at least her conscience was clear. She’d done her job. She’d given him the file. No one could accuse her of behaving unprofessionally. Now she could relax and enjoy the holidays with Jamie without suffering a nagging worry that she should have done more. Lucas had made it clear that his personal life was his own business and that was just fine with her.
Her footsteps echoed in the magnificent hallway as she stormed towards the door. There was still no sign of anyone else and she wondered why a party would have finished so early.
I told you to get out!
His words played over and over again in her head. Who had he told to get out?
Telling herself that his manners were none of her business, she pulled open the door. The cold slammed into her and she gasped and huddled into her damp coat. Even in the comparatively short time she’d been inside, the weather had turned seriously ugly. The snow was falling twice as heavily. Already her footprints were covered and her car was an amorphous white blob.
Her head still aching from her last unscheduled contact with the ground, Emma picked her way gingerly to her car and knocked the worst of the snow off the windscreen with her glove. If that much snow had fallen since she’d been in the house then the bridge she’d crossed to get here would pretty soon be impassable. Her little car wouldn’t be able to cope with the combination of the snow and the gradient.
With that thought in her head, she was about to slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine when something about the smooth, untouched mound of snow on the roof made her think of the cake. And thinking of the cake made her realise what it was that had been bothering her. The cake was untouched. Whole. It hadn’t been cut. Not a single slice had been taken from it.
Emma stood for a moment, one leg in the car, the other on the snowy ground, wondering about that. The celebration, whatever it was, had obviously stopped before they’d reached the part with the cake.
I told you to get out.
She tightened her lips and slid into the car. It wasn’t any of her business. Wrapping her freezing fingers around the key, she started the engine. Maybe he didn’t like cake. Maybe he didn’t have a sweet tooth. Maybe—
‘Drat and bother.’ Switching off the engine, she thumped her head back against the seat. He’d told her to get out. If she had any sense she’d do just that.
Slowly she turned her head and looked back at the house.
He’d said he wanted to be alone so that was exactly what she should do. Leave him alone.
She tightened her hands on the wheel.
Whatever was wrong with Lucas Jackson wasn’t any of her business.
* * *
Lucas stared blindly into the dying flames of the fire. He was drunk, but nowhere near as drunk as he wanted to be. The pain was as acute as ever. It was like lying down on the business end of a saw, feeling the teeth digging into every single part of him. Nothing he did could ease it.
Standing up, he walked to the basket of logs by the fire and pulled one out.
‘You shouldn’t be doing that. You’ll burn the whole place down if you’re not careful.’ A female voice came from the doorway and he turned, wondering if he were hallucinating.
Emma stood there. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, snowflakes sparkled and clung to her dark hair and her eyes were frosty. He wasn’t sure if he was seeing anger or defiance but he knew he was looking at trouble and he straightened slowly.
‘I thought I told you—’
‘—to get out. Yes, you did, which was very rude of you actually.’ Her tone was brisk. ‘For future reference, you deserve to be left on your own if that is the way you speak to people.’ She lifted her hand and unwound her scarf from around her neck, sending snow fluttering onto the thick rug that covered the floor of the turret bedroom.
‘That’s what I want,’ Lucas said slowly. ‘I want to be left on my own.’ He enunciated every syllable, aware that his emotions were dangerously close to the surface. ‘I thought I’d made that clear.’
‘You did.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Sticking my nose into your business.’ She tugged off a soaking-wet glove. ‘For selfish reasons. I’m about to go on holiday. I don’t want to spend that time worrying that you’ve fallen into the fire in a drunken stupor.’
‘Why would that bother you?’
‘If something happens to you I’d have to look for a new job and it’s rubbish out there right now.’
‘You don’t have to worry.’ Lucas tightened his hand on the log and felt the rough bark cut into his palm. ‘I’m not that drunk, although I’m working on it.’
‘Which is why I can’t leave. When you stop “working on it” I’ll be able to go.’ The other glove went the same way as the first, the soaked fabric clinging to her skin. ‘In the meantime, I don’t want your death on my conscience.’
‘I am not about to die.’ He heard the anger in his voice and wondered why she couldn’t hear it too. ‘You can leave with a clear conscience. If you have any sense you’ll do it. Right now.’
‘I’m not leaving until you’ve told me why there seems to have been a party downstairs but you’re on your own in the house.’
‘Despite all my best attempts, I am not alone. You’re here. And frankly I don’t understand why. I’ve been rude to you. If you have any self-respect you should probably punch me and resign on the spot.’
‘That only happens in the movies. In real life no one can afford to resign on the spot and only someone with your wealth would even suggest such a rash course of action.’ Shivering, she unbuttoned her soaking coat and stepped closer to the fire. ‘And self-respect means different things to different people. Dramatic overreaction isn’t really my style, but if I walked away from someone in trouble then I’d lose all self-respect.’
‘Emma—’
‘And although it’s true that you do lack empathy and certain human characteristics like a conscience, you are actually a reasonable person to work for most of the time so resigning would be a pretty stupid thing to do. Truth is, I love my job. And as for punching you—I’ve never punched anyone or anything in my life, although I did come close in the supermarket last week but that’s another story. And anyway, my hands are so cold from scraping snow from the car I don’t think I can even form a fist.’ She flexed her fingers experimentally while Lucas watched with mounting exasperation.
Apparently wealth and success couldn’t buy a man time
