‘You have all you need?’
‘Thank you for everything,’ she offered quietly once he’d escorted her to the departure gate.
Words weren’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.
‘Thanks are not necessary.’ For just a second he hesitated. Her heart fluttered with the hope he might say for her to go with him instead. Or that he’d say he’d meet up with her in England. Or that he might kiss her again.
But he did none of those things. He stepped back. ‘Go well.’
As she got to the corner of the air bridge she glanced back, but he’d already turned and was walking back through the busy airport.
It was over.
* * *
She’d spent the entire flight to London terrified she’d get turned back at Customs or something. But she hadn’t been. She’d made her way north—choosing to go away from where her parents had lived because she never wanted her uncle to find her. She’d changed her surname for that reason too. She’d found a cheap bedsit near the centre of the town. That dream of studying patisserie in Paris had faded to the realistic aim of working in a café while studying at the local technical institute. Alone and with the resources to become fully independent.
Finally. And only thanks to Tomas.
But she’d wanted to use as little as necessary of his money because since that kiss, and their too-brief conversations, he’d become something more to her than just a source of escape.
Pushing away the painful memories, she curled up in the vast bed with its rich coverlets and luxury sheets. She didn’t think she’d ever fall asleep, she was too wired. But sleep came—shockingly sudden and deep.
She had no idea of the time when she woke. She quickly got out of bed and pulled back the curtains to see how light it was and what the day was like.
The rain had stopped but the sky was covered in purplish, snow-heavy clouds. The world seemed eerily still as if on pause, waiting for the weather bomb. The clouds threatened that the worst was yet to come.
As she looked from the sky to the ground, the magnificence of her bedroom paled as she took in the marvel that was outlaid before her. Now she understood what Tomas had meant when he’d said the gardens had been closed to the public, for even in the heart of winter these were show gardens.
With a high brick wall around the perimeter, immaculate rows of precise hedges divided the garden into four separate formal ‘rooms’—each decorated with fountains and immaculately patterned beds that even in this desolate weather were verdant and beautiful. And in the centre of the four sections stood the masterpiece—a perfectly maintained Victorian glasshouse. A third of the size of the manor itself, it was constructed of pristine white-painted ironwork and a myriad of gleaming windows through which she could see deep green exotic foliage. The whole vista was a beautiful, bountiful secret that only those in the manor—or those invited—would see.
It was a shame they were no longer open for people to enjoy because they were incredible. And someone maintained them to this perfection.
As she gazed in awe Tomas stepped out of the glasshouse into the centre of garden.
Zara froze, unable to stop herself staring. He wore shorts and a thin T-shirt and running trainers. Even from this distance she could see the jagged marks on his thigh. It had to have been a horrendous injury to have left such scarring, yet he had a barely noticeable limp. That was down to his sheer determination, she was sure. He’d clearly been working out—and by the look of him, he did that every day.
What other injuries had he worked hard to overcome? And what of his memory? Was his amnesia complete or did he have some memories still? Would those he’d lost ever return?
‘Why did you do this?’
She’d finally got the courage to ask Tomas when Jasper had got out of the car to arrange the hotel room just after they’d left her uncle at the marina.
He’d helped her. He didn’t have to. He could have just walked away leaving her uncle to fester in his own failure, leaving her there to cope with whatever onslaught and repercussions the man dealt. People turned a blind eye all the time. But Tomas had chosen to take action. He’d married her.
* * *
He sighed and turned in his seat to look at her directly.
‘I dislike bullies.’
He gazed intently at her.
‘You do understand there’s nothing I want from you? I know what it’s like to feel trapped.’
Silently she stared back at him.
‘And I know what it’s like not to be wanted.’
Tears burned her eyes but she couldn’t blink. She couldn’t tear her gaze from him...not even for a tenth of a second.
* * *
For that endless moment she’d looked just as intently back at him and she swore she’d glimpsed a once lonely youth beneath that confident, driven exterior.
Everyone had a past, everyone had hurts and suddenly she’d known that he’d done what he had because he’d been there himself. Abandoned. Afraid. Alone. The flash of insight hurt.
‘We should get inside.’
He’d turned away from her. The moment had been broken.
She stared—here he was now, back from broken. But still wounded? He’d clearly fought so hard.
Her mouth dried as she got sidetracked by the visual of just how strong he was. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, only a sheen of sweat over his skin, emphasising the defined muscled beneath. She’d never seen him so exposed and he was more gorgeous than she’d ever imagined. Unthinking, she inched closer to the window.
He looked up. For a second her gaze clashed with his—even from this distance she felt the burn in his eyes. Embarrassed, she stepped back, her skin all but blistering from being caught—ogling like some immature fangirl.
When she finally made it down to the kitchen twenty minutes later, he was already there. He’d showered and dressed in jeans and T-shirt and looked outrageously handsome with his hair still damp and his jaw unshaven.
That hot accusation in his eyes was still there too.
She tried to dodge it—hoping she could breeze through her embarrassment and that he hadn’t read the raw attraction in her own eyes—by adopting a smile and avoiding meeting his gaze. ‘What can I make you for breakfast?’ she asked.
‘I’ve already eaten,’ he answered brusquely, turning his back to her.
Her smile became fixed. Of course he had. ‘A drink, then—tea? Coffee?’
He shook his head.
‘Then what would you like for lunch?’ she asked, determined not to let his mood destroy her own.
He shrugged.
‘You have no preference?’ she persisted. ‘None at all?’
‘No.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Tomas, help me out a little. I’m only trying to do my job.’
‘Cook whatever you want and I’ll eat it. I have more important things to think about.’
‘Good,’ she snapped back. ‘Go get on with that, then.’ Suddenly she couldn’t wait to get rid of him.
A startled expression flashed across his face but she could be tetchy too, if that was how he wanted it. And if he didn’t want her cooking much for him that was fine too. She’d make what she enjoyed and he could eat it or not. The rest of the time she could test her recipes. She didn’t exist purely to serve him, she had her own plans to be getting on with and his you’re here under my sufferance attitude meant she now had some time to be getting on with them. And she wasn’t going to feel guilty about it.
Even so, the first thing she did once he’d left was defrost one of the meals his housekeeper had left for him. She wrinkled her nose as she sampled it. While it was okay, she could see why he wasn’t that enthused—nutritious but bland, it could do with some p
ep.
She surveyed the pantry again. There was no way she was going to be able to make anything decent without a trip to the shops. She was going to have to go to the nearest town and stock up.
* * *
Tomas sat at his desk and stared sightlessly at the screen. He couldn’t muster any attention to read the reports that had landed in his inbox first thing. He’d been rude and he regretted it. Which annoyed him even more because she—and what she thought of him—shouldn’t matter at all. But she’d worked her way under his skin already—and the way she looked at him?
It was exactly the way he tried not to look at her—with raw interest. That sensual awareness that was simply impossible. He had no need, time or desire for any kind of relationship. Not even the temporary, physical satisfaction kind.
He’d learned early on relationships weren’t worth the risk—not if you wanted to survive and succeed. The only way to operate was alone. The only guarantee he had was his own.
He pulled out the thick leather-bound book that he always kept on his desk. The specialist had suggested he keep a daily journal but Tomas wasn’t about to write about his ‘feelings’. Rather he kept a record of each day’s activities—his exercise regime, his reading, his work decisions and reasons.
If he lost more of his memory, he’d have that record as his reminder.
He’d had to retrain so much—had to read and concentrate round the clock to regain the confidence and knowledge he needed to lead his company again. He couldn’t let anyone decimate his focus now. Especially not a young woman in a thin T-shirt and skinny jeans and an oversized apron. But last night was the first journal entry he’d missed in months. He didn’t quite know how to classify Zara.
All he wanted to know was what she was doing right now.
It seemed his legendary focus was shot. Grimacing at his weakness, he pushed back his seat and quietly walked down to the kitchen.
She had her back to him as she leaned over the bench. He angled his head and saw she was rifling through a recipe book, but he was distracted from reading the title by her circling jeans-clad hips. He froze for a second, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth as he watched the rhythmic undulations of those sweet curves. It took him a second to realise she had earbuds in and that she was partly dancing as she read. He zoned into the melodic strains leaking from the buds. It was familiar but he didn’t recognise it. Of course he didn’t.