Playing With Fire. Kat Black
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one shorter, less patient than the one a minute ago.
What was his problem? If anyone had the right to be getting shirty with this midnight interrogation, surely it was her.
‘You know you’re dealing with issues here that run deeper than merely physical,’ he said. ‘Stop pretending otherwise.’
She put the mugs down on the worktop and closed the cupboard. ‘I’m not pretending anything. I’m getting on with my life just fine.’ She opened the cutlery drawer and took out a teaspoon before pushing it shut again. ‘That psychobabble stuff is for victim-y victims – people who can’t cope.’
‘Is that right? So tell me, Ms I-Don’t-Need-Help, have you always had to sleep with the lights on, or is that a recent thing?’
Oh – she froze as she picked up the jar of coffee – she didn’t like that tone at all.
She turned to face him. ‘I don’t know, Mr Stick-My-Nose-In-Where-It’s-Not-Wanted, do you always invite yourself to stay places and then go fiddling with things that aren’t yours?’
He looked at her with the strangest expression, as though he couldn’t quite make sense of what he was seeing. And then he shook his head. ‘I’ve never met anyone so intent on making life as hard as possible for themselves!’ he said, the exasperation in his tone stabbing into a raw nerve.
She slammed the coffee jar back down. ‘You know what?’ She pointed the spoon in his face. ‘This is such shit. You don’t get to walk back into my life and judge me.’
His hand closed around hers and, with gentle but firm pressure, lowered it between them. ‘This isn’t judgement, Annabel,’ he said, his voice striving to convey patience that was at odds with the frustration in his gaze. ‘It’s concern.’
She knew that was probably supposed to make her feel better, but in reality it made things worse. It brought home how little experience she had of handling somebody else’s emotions. She was used to thinking and acting only for herself. That was why trying to get involved with him was a mistake. She didn’t have the first clue how to do relationships.
Both his gaze and his voice softened. ‘If we’re to make this work, you’re going to have to allow me to care about you, a mhuirnín.’
The Gaelic endearment rolled off his tongue like a verbal caress. Sweetheart, he’d told her it meant. But it was the rest of the sentence that thrilled and terrified her in equal measure. She had the feeling this man could turn her inside out if she let him, leaving exposed the hidden parts she’d been keeping safe and secure from harm since childhood. Parts that, if broken, couldn’t simply be reset and healed like her bones. While Tony Maplin wasn’t able to hurt her any more except in her dreams, she suspected that Aidan Flynn could inflict a different kind of suffering. Deeper and more damaging. How was she supposed to let him close and safeguard herself all at the same time?
Maybe she shouldn’t even be trying. ‘You’re the one who insisted on barging back into my life,’ she grumbled, pulling her hand from his. ‘If you don’t like what you’ve found, you know what you can do.’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it. And I won’t let you push me away. I’ve only just got you back. I’m not going anywhere.’
He sounded as sure and confident as ever, and that really grated because she knew it wasn’t the truth. He was going somewhere; that’s what had scared her off him in the first place. She called bullshit on the barefaced lie. ‘That’s not true, is it? You’re going back to Ireland.’
* * *
The accusation – which, from the tone of Annabel’s delivery, was undeniably what it was – caught Aidan by surprise. In the context of their current discussion, the reference to Ireland had been the last thing he’d expected.
They’d spoken a bit about his restoration of the Tulaí estate and distillery over coffee earlier in the evening. It had been a childhood dream of his to renovate the derelict manor house that sat perched on a clifftop overlooking the little coastal village of Carriglea in County Cork where he’d grown up. A dream that had been all but forgotten when the path to adulthood had led him to a successful financial career in the City of London. It hadn’t been until he’d found himself back in his parents’ house, on the long road to recovery from the stroke caused by the pressures of that high-flying career, that he’d started to think on it again; started wondering whether the silly City money he’d made could be used to turn the dream into a reality. Rather than give in to the frustration and self-pity brought on by his painfully slow rehabilitation and restricted physical abilities, he’d begun pursuing the idea from his sickbed, giving himself something other than despair to aim for.
In the end, the process had turned out to be every bit as difficult as his recovery. With a longstanding family feud hanging over the property, the purchase negotiations had been drawn out and fragile, under constant threat of collapse. It wasn’t until after his health had recovered and he’d returned to London and met Annabel that he’d learned of his success in acquiring the estate. She’d discovered his plans before he’d had a chance to tell her himself, and that had been the catalyst that had sent her running away from him.
Earlier this evening, he’d taken care to explain to her that the project was still largely in the planning stages, that it would be a couple of years before the house was up and running as an exclusive hotel and required him to be there full-time. The fact that she was throwing it up as an issue now told him a lot about the undercurrents swirling beneath her display of bravado.
It also gave him hope. Because, if the thought of him leaving bothered her that much, it meant she cared, too – even though she was currently doing her damnedest to protect herself by pretending she didn’t.
It took a herculean effort not to grin like a madman.
Not that he didn’t have a sackful of his own concerns. He couldn’t deny that the timing was truly awful. Even at her easiest, Annabel Frost was more trouble than he’d come across before in his life, and the scale of the commitment he was already having to put into making the hotel venture work was immense. Splitting his attention successfully between two such demanding, high-intensity tasks was going to be no mean feat. Especially when, for the sake of his continuing good health, he needed to keep his life as stress-free as possible, ease back up to his pre-stroke speed. How he was going to manage that when he was already screeching away from the starting line with his foot on the floor he had no idea, but he’d find a way. He’d have to. Because choosing one or the other wasn’t an option; he wanted both things equally badly, and he intended doing whatever it took to ensure he got to have both …
Starting right now with convincing the complex and complicated Ms Frost that despite her fears she wanted him every bit as badly. And, rather than waste a moment more getting nowhere with this current war of words, he could think of a much more satisfying way for them to express their feelings.
‘Eventually,’ he said, reaching out to remove the spoon from her fingers and setting it on the worktop before retaking her hand. ‘But not tonight.’
He saw her eyes widen a fraction as they registered the new intent in his. Before she could even think about retreating, he used the hand he held to pull her to him and slid his other arm around her waist.
She was resistant, raising her free hand between them to press her palm against his chest. ‘I think you should go home.’
‘I’m not leaving you like this.’ And by that he meant he doubted he could physically force himself to do so. Not with her cries of her distress still ringing in his ears. The sounds she made in her sleep had been heart-wrenching, spine-chilling. ‘Don’t ask me to.’
‘Why not?’ she huffed. ‘I’ve managed on my own for the past six weeks.’
It was a fair comment only because she had no idea how hard it had been for him to let her go when she’d run out on him. How hard he’d had to fight himself to let her have the time and space to calm down, in the hope she’d regret her actions,