Swept Into The Rich Man's World. Katrina Cudmore
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sentence and a look of annoyance flashed across his face. His tone now cooler, he said, ‘You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. I’ll walk you back to your room.’
He called to the dogs and led them back to their beds in the cloakroom.
As they approached the bottom of the stairs she gave him a smile and offered him her hand. ‘Thank you for tonight.’ A surprising lump of something had formed in her throat, and her voice was croaky when she finally managed to continue to speak. ‘Thank you for taking me in. I plan on leaving early tomorrow, so in case I don’t see you then, it was nice to meet you.’
Tension seemed to bounce off the surrounding walls and she felt dizzy when his hand took hers. ‘I wake before dawn, so the security alarm will be disabled after that.’ With a quick nod he added, ‘Take care of yourself.’
He walked away, back towards the main entrance hall.
She walked up the stairs slowly, her head spinning. What on earth had possessed her to tell him so much? And why on earth did the thought that she might never see him again make her feel sad? The man obviously didn’t want her in his house.
As she lay in bed the memory of his incredible blue eyes and quiet but assured presence left her twisting and tumbling and wishing the hours away so she could leave for home. Where she could lose herself in her work again.
And when sleep finally started to pull her into oblivion her tired mind replayed on a loop his deep voice saying, ‘You’re safe. That’s all that matters.’ Words he would probably say to anyone. But when he had said them to her, he had looked at her with such intensity it had felt as though he was tattooing them on her heart.
PATRICK TORE ALONG the bridle path that cut through the woods, pushing his horse harder and harder. Soft ground underfoot, branches whizzing by, the flash of vivid, almost purple patches of bluebells, calm cool air beating against his skin...
When they reached the edge of the woods they raced through the parkland’s glistening green grass. They leapt time and time again over the ditches separating the fields. Adrenaline pumped in both man and mare.
They followed the ancient pathway that hugged the coast and galloped in the steps of the medieval pilgrims who had come to Mooncoyne abbey.
The rising sun slatted its thick rays of sunlight through the window openings and he pulled the horse to a halt by the entrance. He dismounted and walked into the nave.
He hadn’t managed to get back to sleep again last night. Instead he had lain awake, wondering how his conversation with Aideen Ryan had become so personal so quickly. It had unsettled him. That wasn’t how he operated. He didn’t open up to anyone.
For crying out loud, he had almost suggested to her that she travel with him to Paris. His guess was that it wasn’t just pride standing in her way of going, but also financial difficulties. In the end he had ended the conversation, been glad when she’d made her own way to bed, because he hadn’t been able to handle how good it was to talk to someone else, to actually connect with them.
And, despite himself, he was deeply attracted to her.
All of which was dangerous.
He threw his head back and stared up into the endless depths of the blue sky.
Hadn’t he already proved he wasn’t capable of having effective relationships? He had a string of exes who had been beautiful but superficial. A sister who wouldn’t talk to him. And a nephew or niece he would never get to know.
The baby would be born in the next month. He should be there. Supporting Orla. At least she was willing to accept his financial support. If she had refused to do so then he really would have been out of his mind, worrying about how she was going to cope.
His call to Hong Kong earlier had gone well. If he kept up the pressure for the remainder of the day, with the rest of his acquisition teams, then the deal would go through later tonight. It would be strange for it all to be over. For months he had worked day and night to see it happen.
A strange emptiness sat in his chest. What would he do once the project was over?
The slow tendrils of an idea had formed in his mind but he kept pushing them away. But as he walked through the ruins of the abbey the idea came back, stronger and more insistent this time.
He should help Aideen. It was what any good neighbour would do. It was what his father would have done.
But would he be crazy to do it? Last night he had lowered his guard around her. He couldn’t allow that again. If he was to help then it would have to be done on a strictly business basis. He could help her re-establish her business, mentor her if required. He knew what it was like to throw your heart and soul into a business. And he knew only too well the pain of failure.
He would help her. And it would all be professional and uncomplicated.
* * *
The memory of a deep voice snaked through Aideen’s brain. She gave a small sigh, smiled to herself, and stretched out on the bed.
But then her eyes popped open and she looked around, disorientated. Small shafts of daylight sneaked under drawn curtains.
Slowly she remembered where she was. And what she had to face today.
Dreaming about Patrick Fitzsimon was the last thing she should be doing.
The cottage. Deadlines.
For a few seconds she pulled the duvet up over her head. Maybe she could just stay here in this warm and dark cocoon for a few days.
With a groan she pushed back the cover. Time to rise and shine. And face what the day had to bring.
Anyway, it couldn’t be any worse than being forced out of the business she’d once created. She had survived the past year, so she would survive this.
She pulled the curtains apart and winced as daylight flooded the room.
The view out of her window was breathtaking. Below her, formal box gardens led down to a gigantic fountain that sprayed a sprout of water so vigorously upwards it was as though it was trying to defy gravity. Rose gardens lay beyond the fountain, and then a long rolling meadow, rich in rain-drenched emerald green grass, ran all the way down to the faraway sea.
Though the sun was still low in the sky the light was dazzling, thanks to a startlingly clear blue sky.
Had last night’s storm been in her imagination? How could such furious weather be followed by such a beautiful day?
She could almost convince herself maybe her cottage hadn’t flooded. That the weather was a good omen. But she had seen the ferocity of the sea. There was no way her cottage had got away with avoiding that angry swell.
When she had come to view the property she had fallen in love with the old cottage and its outbuildings, arranged around a courtyard garden. Fuchsia had dangled from the hedgerows and fading old roses had tumbled from its walls. It had seemed the perfect solution then.
But now her income was sparser and more sporadic than she had projected, and sometimes she wondered whether she could make this work. That was one of the worst consequences of losing her business: the vulnerability and constant questioning of whether she was doing the right thing, making the right decisions.
But a burning passion for her work along with a heavy dose of pride got her through most days. She would sacrifice everything to make this business a success.
Her heart was a different matter, though. It felt bruised. To think that once upon a time she had thought her ex had loved her...
Pressing the edges of her palms against her eyes, she drew in a deep breath.
A quick shower, an even quicker coffee, and she would head home to start sorting out whatever was waiting for her.
She mightn’t