Lottie glowered at him. ‘And why would he contact you?’
‘Because I am on his client list, of course. I’m surprised you don’t know that. But, then again, I guess it doesn’t matter any more.’
‘And presumably the only reason you were on his client list was because you were spying on me?’
Rafael gave a well, you know... sort of shrug. ‘Anyway, I took the opportunity to mention your name and that’s when I found out you were no longer in his employ.’
‘And did he tell you why?’
‘Funnily enough, he didn’t seem to want to discuss you.’
‘Then let me enlighten you. Ibrahim fired me because of this.’ Using both hands, Lottie gestured around her, ending with two index fingers pointing at herself. ‘He refused to give me any more time off. Sacked me on the spot.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes—so basically I have no job to go back to. But please don’t think that you have to feel guilty about it.’
‘I don’t.’
Everything about his easy reply told Lottie that her attempt at sarcasm was totally wasted.
‘I was actually thinking that it is one minor complication out of the way.’
Typical! Rafael had managed to turn what was a real worry for her—she had bills to pay, after all, and the rent on her flat for starters—into something to his advantage.
But the more Lottie thought about it the more thankful she actually was that she no longer worked for Ibrahim. She knew she would be able to get another job. If leaving Rafael had done one thing it had taught her independence, made her stand on her own two feet.
Arriving back in England with nothing but a suitcase and an alarmingly small amount of cash, she had made the decision to move to London. She needed a fresh start, away from all the memories that would inevitably haunt her in Oxford. She didn’t want Rafael to know where she was either—to track her down, demanding answers. Not that she’d needed to worry about that. Apart from that one email from his solicitors she had heard nothing from him at all. There had just been a big, fat hollow where that part of her life had been. The happiest and the saddest part.
Being alone in London had been horrendous to start with. It had seemed such a lonely place that first winter as she’d desperately tried to find a job and somewhere to live, eventually renting a depressing bedsit, feeding coins into a meter for the hissing gas fire, sleeping with her head under her pillow to try and block out the yelping screams and scary silences of her neighbours. She had thought that winter would never end.
But it had, and it had been followed by a particularly beautiful spring. Which had been even worse. Watching lovers in the park, lying on the grass kissing, parents proudly pushing buggies towards the swings, excited toddlers leading the way... It had felt as if the whole world was happy and in love, deliberately taunting her with its joyfulness.
But time had passed and she had made some friends and found a new job, which had meant she’d been able to afford a better apartment, and suddenly things had started looking up. Slowly, slowly, she’d realised that she was no longer waking to the sick feeling of dread any more. The job at the Ibrahim Gallery had provided her with a good salary, even if the boss had made her skin crawl, and suddenly she’d realised that she had moved on, grown up, was in control of her own life again.
Until she had received Rafael’s email. Until her old life had reappeared and thrown up the extraordinary situation that they were in now.
She watched Rafael as he leant away from the table, rocking his chair on to its back legs, stretching his arms behind his head. He turned to look out of the window and she could see his reflection in the glass. Dark, shuttered, deep in thought, but as intensely attractive as ever. He wore his beauty casually, as if he didn’t notice it even if everyone all around him did. He had no vanity, no interest in showing himself off to the world—just a confidence, an inner belief, an unconscious power that meant he had the ability to achieve whatever he wanted to achieve.
Until the accident.
Lottie was struck again by the enormity of how that must have affected him. She gazed at his chiselled profile, at the whiplash scar which, even though it could never disfigure his beautiful face, was a permanent reminder of what he had suffered.
Since that first day in the office at the palazzo he had never talked about the accident. Just as he never talked about anything that mattered. As Johnny Cash’s last gravelly note faded to silence she decided to try to get him to open up.
‘Tell me about the accident.’
She spoke softly and he swung round to look at her, his guarded expression melting her heart once again.