8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams
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the tears wouldn’t come. There were some hurts that went too deep for tears and plainly this was one of them. What was going to become of him? What was going to become of her? Right now Liadan had no answers, only questions. Why hadn’t he stopped her from leaving? Surely he felt something for her other than physical attraction after what had transpired between them? Or was the man really as heartless and impossible to reach as he pretended?
Izzy came in through the cat-flap from the kitchen and leapt up on Liadan’s lap, clearly delighted to have her mistress home again. She automatically reached out her hand to stroke the whisper-soft fur, and tried to block out the memory of the face she had grown to love too well. Praying hard that whatever Adrian chose to do with his future it would make him a far happier man than now, Liadan shut her eyes and willed her aching heart to heal quickly. The thought of carrying around this dreadful pain for the rest of her life was surely too much for anyone to contemplate, no matter how stoic or determined.
‘What do you mean, you want an extension on your deadline?’ Lynne shrieked down the phone. ‘You never need extensions. You either deliver well in advance or dead on time. What’s going on, Adrian? Has all this horrendous business concerning you and Petra got you down? Is that what it is?’
His shoulders hunched over the telephone, his expression fearsome enough to frighten something wild, Adrian gritted his teeth and tried desperately to get to grips with the painful urge to break every piece of furniture in his study—including his damned computer! Right now he hated it. Just as he hated everything to do with his life—this house, this chair, this telephone, and most of all the gleaming grand piano that sat with such a superior air in the corner of the room and mocked him until he could barely stand it any longer. He would never play it again, he realised. Since Liadan’s fingers had caressed those keys and transported him to a peace and sanctuary that he’d never have believed possible, Adrian didn’t want to have anything to do with it. In fact, as soon as he got off the phone to his editor, he was going to ring a local dealer and get them to come and take it away as soon as possible.
How the hell was he supposed to work since she’d walked out on him? Turned her back on him as if the thought of him would never cross her mind again. And who could blame her? That was the thing. She had every right under the circumstances. He was hell on wheels to live with, he was bad-tempered and ungrateful, and to top it all—he’d buried himself too much in unhappy memories of his past, refusing to see the lustre of the glittering diamond that he had right under his nose…Liadan. Her name almost had him clutching his chest in torment at the pain of losing her.
‘It’s nothing to do with Petra or the press or anything like that. I just can’t work at the moment. I can’t think straight, never mind come up with some god-awful ending for the damned book!’
‘I thought you told me you already had the ending worked out?’ Lynne asked tolerantly, clearly deciding that getting anxious wasn’t going to get her the desired result. The publishing house made more money out of Alexander Jacobsen’s books than any other and the last thing she wanted to do was antagonise this particular golden goose.
‘I did.’ His expression ferocious, Adrian picked up a loose sheet of blank copy paper and screwed it up into a ball. ‘But I’ve changed my mind about it. I need some time to work something else out.’
‘Well, sure, Adrian, I can give you extra time, but just so long as you remember that your endings are your trademark. How about coming up to London to meet me for lunch? We can talk about things and it will do you good. You need to get out of that house more; you know that, don’t you?’
Yeah, he knew that. The last person who had told him that had been dead right but he’d been too damn belligerent to tell her so. What the hell did he think he was doing hiding away in this gigantic carbuncle of a house that would be better off as a museum than a home? It patently wasn’t a home. It was even less so now that Liadan had gone.
‘When did you want me to come?’ he asked wearily into the mouthpiece.
‘Tomorrow. Come tomorrow. I’ll book us a table for one o’clock. That all right with you?’
‘Fine. Tomorrow, then.’
True to his word, when Adrian got off the phone to Lynne he went restlessly in search of the Yellow Pages to get the number of a local dealer and hopefully get rid of his no-longer-wanted piano.
Scanning the newspaper in the little newsagents-cum-post-office in the village, Liadan frowned, unable to believe that she hadn’t been able to find anything about Adrian—let alone a picture—in any of the tabloid papers she’d diligently searched through. Could her heartfelt appeal for a little consideration have somehow sunk in with that photographer? Could he really have had an attack of conscience and let them go on their way without printing anything salacious about them? It had been a week since their outing to see La Bohème and…nothing. No story, no incriminating photograph of the writer Alexander Jacobsen and the woman who apparently bore a close resemblance to his dead fiancée. A week—and six days, nine hours and forty-five minutes to be exact since she’d walked out on Adrian.
Replacing the newspaper in the stand, Liadan went to the cluttered little counter, purchased some mints and a small packet of tissues, paid, then left the shop with the jangle of the doorbell sounding like the tinkling of a wind chime in her ears. Walking up the hill to meet the narrow lane where her cottage was situated, she dug her hands deep into her coat pockets and told herself she was pleased that Adrian would have one less thing to worry about since the press hadn’t printed the story of their outing to the opera. He’d be able to get on with his work free from the strain of media intrusion, even if he had to fend for himself until he could get another housekeeper in place.
Unable to hold back the tears that immediately sprang to her eyes at the thought, Liadan hurried on up the hill, welcoming the extra effort required in her legs and telling herself she was doing the right thing putting Drowsy Haunt up for sale. It would be far easier to find work in London than locally and, if she found a job in one of the big chain hotels, she might even be able to cut her costs by living in.
‘But you love this place, Liadan! Surely you don’t really want to sell it?’ Callum Willow, her tall, blond, handsome Adonis of a brother paced her diminutive front room and finally came to a restless standstill beside the fireplace. Somehow, Liadan found a smile. She’d been on her own for a fortnight now since leaving Adrian’s employ and, apart from her neighbour Jack, she’d spoken to no one. Not even Mel or Jennie. Both girls were on a winter skiing break in Italy—a holiday that Liadan had been adamant she couldn’t afford because she’d needed to find work instead. Jennie had urged her to come anyway—she had lost her business but she badly needed a break, she’d told Liadan. But the younger girl had declined. Her determination to hold onto her home come what may had been her prime motivation for staying put. Now, ironically, she was going to lose it anyway.
‘I can’t afford to keep it on any more, Cal. And I can’t get work around here, either. Believe me, I’ve tried.’ She’d briefly explained to her brother that she’d worked for a while as housekeeper to a writer, but that in the end things hadn’t worked out between them. Knowing her well and guessing there was a hell of a lot more that she wasn’t telling him, Callum had declined to press her for more details. When Liadan was ready she would tell him the full story, he was sure.
‘But London? It’s going to be a hell of a shock after this one-horse town.’
‘I’ll soon get used to it. Besides, you know what they say, a change is as good as a rest.’ If she said it often enough, she might convince herself. Except that she didn’t really want to go at all. Anywhere further than her little cottage was too far away from Adrian to bear thinking about…What was he doing right now? she speculated, chewing on her nails. Was he happy? Was his work going well? Did he ever think about her at all?
‘You look miles away,’ Callum chided, his blue eyes that were a shade darker than Liadan’s growing concerned. ‘What’s up, Liadan? We don’t have any secrets from each other, do we?’
He was right. She’d always been able to confide in her