Completely unable to speak, and sure that her face was showing everything, she watched as he walked swiftly to the door.
As it closed, she moved across the room on autopilot, locking it this time.
It’s over, she told herself.
Only this time she wasn’t talking about the ordeal of seeing him—she was talking about the tiny, involuntary hope that maybe, possibly, there might be a second chance for the two of them. That somehow she might manage to persuade him to try again.
Whatever had just passed between them had made it clear that it was too late. There was no hope. There would be no reprieve.
And she was going to have to live with that for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER THREE
PUTTING HIS FOOT down on the accelerator, Farlan eased the big car forward, his eyes tracking the low pale sun in the blue sky above the Cairngorms.
Having got used to the warm, sun-filled days of life in Los Angeles, he’d almost forgotten the fickle Scottish weather.
Four seasons in a day, his grandmother used to say.
And it was true. Right now the white clouds scudding above the heather-covered hills looked positively jaunty, but when he’d set off this morning it had been drizzly and dreary and grey—dreich, in other words.
Dreich.
Now, that was a word he hadn’t used in a long time.
No need for it, living in Los Angeles. Not that anyone would have known what he was saying anyway.
His mouth twisted up at the corner. When he’d first arrived in California it had been so difficult to get people to understand what he was saying. It hadn’t just been his accent, although that hadn’t helped. It had been all the words he’d used without thinking—like dreich and scunnered and clarty.
They had mostly slipped from his speech through lack of use, and his accent had softened over time. But other things had stayed as solid and immutable as the granite tors that reared up across the moorlands.
He felt his lungs tighten, so that he had to force himself to breathe.
Eyes narrowing, he slowed down and scooted past a racing cyclist in a glaringly luminous green jersey, then accelerated. He felt a childish but undeniable rush of satisfaction: the seven hundred and ten horsepower, four-litre twin turbo engine was explosively fast.
He wasn’t really fussed about the money he was making now. It was nice not to have to worry about it any more, and he liked being able to look after people. Mostly, though, he just liked the ‘convenience’ of being rich.
Doors really did open if you had a lot of money. Everything was faster, slicker, less stressful. There was never any waiting around for a table in a restaurant. When you wanted to leave a limo was always on hand to whisk you away. And you didn’t have to bother with shopping. People just sent you stuff. Clothes. Sunglasses. Smartphones.
He glanced at his wrist.
Watches.
Maybe that was why he hadn’t been tempted to go on a spending spree.
That could be about to change, though.
He glanced admiringly at the smooth leather and carbon fibre interior of the supercar that had been delivered to him this morning. Another perk of being Farlan Wilder, film director.
He had met the racing team last year, when he’d flown to Austin for the United States Grand Prix. As a VIP, he’d been invited into the paddock and told to get in touch if he ever wanted to test drive anything.
He’d just been waiting for the right moment.
And where better to put this incredible machine through its paces than these endless empty roads with their backdrop of stunningly beautiful scenery?
Thankfully, LA’s bumper-to-bumper gridlock didn’t seem to have impaired his driving skills.
He shifted in his seat. For him, being in a car had always been a means to escape reality, to suspend real life. His mother used to put on some music, and for however long it had taken to get where they were going all of them—he and his parents and his older brother, Cam—would act like a normal family.