Pitch Imperfect (10 page)

“Nothing, sweetie. A little cleavage is good for the soul and you, my luscious lass, are a double D dose of heaven.” Mac sighed and patted her plump stomach. “You’re lucky I’m your friend or I’d have to hate you.”

Anjuli glanced at the doorway. “You would have to join the queue.”

Chapter Eight

Anjuli walked into the offices of Robert J. Douglas Architects and Builders at promptly ten minutes past eleven the next morning. Well, it was prompt for her anyway, and she was pleased she’d been able to manage it. Viking had picked her up in plenty of time, but she’d asked him to stop at the pet shop and somehow a two-minute errand had turned into a twenty-minute conversation at the till.

The cashier had recommended a brand of dog food and a good flea treatment for Reiver. She’d also recommended Dr. Mitchell with a big smile and advised Anjuli to change her appointment to the last one on a Friday afternoon. Evidently the athletic vet played football after work and changed into his gear between his last two appointments.

Rob’s firm was in a converted mill on the banks of the River Redes, halfway between Heaverlock and Halton. The building had been restored sympathetically, retaining many features of its textile industry heyday. Original pieces of factory machinery were displayed in various corners and some of the old brickwork had been left exposed.

Charcoal drawings of historic Borders landmarks dotted the walls and a large drawing of the original mill held pride of place behind the reception desk. Plush black sofas formed a waiting area on the left, making the overall effect a tasteful fusion of Victorian memorabilia and twenty-first-century style.

The floor hummed underneath Anjuli’s feet. It was laid out in thick squares of semi-transparent glass over a section of the Redes. She could feel the water’s powerful vibration and hear the muted bubbling as it rushed below.

Mrs. P. sat at the reception desk, her corpulent frame spread over her domain. As soon as she saw Anjuli her broad face split into a delighted smile. Her incongruously dainty hands set down her tea mug and she stood, arms outstretched. She was a squeezer.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. P.,” Anjuli said when she got her breath back.

“It’s lovely that you’re back, my dear, and a famous singer now, imagine that. I’m so pleased you’re wasting no time.” Her smile turned coy and she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I cleared Rob’s schedule after your appointment so you two could catch up properly. He’s changed very little, but even so I’m sure you have a lot to say to each other. I’ll bring in bannock and tea and leave you two alone to talk things over.”

Anjuli blinked.
Oh no
,
no and no
. “The house is in a bit of a state,” she said stiffly.

“Well, that’s one way to put it, I suppose.” Mrs. P. sighed and gave Anjuli a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Not to worry, my dear, all will be restored as good as new. Rob can take you to lunch if you need to go over it in detail. There’s a lovely new tapas place in Halton, private and cosy.”

Anjuli groaned internally. One should always be cordial to well-meaning gossips. “I’m here on business and then I’m working at the pub.”

Mrs. P. sipped her tea, eyeing Anjuli as if she were the largest biscuit in the tin. “I knew you’d insist on Rob for the restoration. I told Mr. P. as much. ‘Donald,’ I said, ‘the lass will only want the best.’”

She stared at Anjuli’s ring finger. “None of the local lasses have caught Rob yet and now that you’re back they won’t have a chance. Brazen hussies, the lot of them. Of course, that Costa Rican he dated—” She hesitated, then gave Anjuli another pat. “Well, it was only to get over
you
, dear. That’s what we all thought or else why would he start seeing her only a week after you left? You had to follow the path to stardom, but men will be men.”

Anjuli’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand twitched and she resisted the urge to bring it to her face, sure that she’d find deep fissures spreading over its smooth façade. It had taken Rob only seven days to forget her? Sunday to Saturday. One week, not one month or even one year. No wonder Ash had been cagey when she’d asked about Rob’s reaction to her flight from Heaverlock. Her sister must not have wanted to add to her pain, but she was feeling it now. While she’d been crying herself to sleep at night Rob had been enjoying the company of a new girlfriend. She’d been hugging her pillow and he’d been hugging something much more comforting and—

She wasn’t going to think about it. Not now, not later, not ever.

Mrs. P. glared down the corridor. “Rob is being interviewed by that dreadful reporter who moved here from Edinburgh. Another brazen hussy, that one. Ethics of an African dictator, she’s got. What was wrong with Ethel Portree? She kept our gardens straight and never failed to mention my award-winning courgettes in the paper. This one’s a dragon dressed in Dior, breathing down Rob’s neck everywhere he goes. It’s a ring she’s wanting, not an article for her Borderland Persons of Note column.”

Anjuli looked at the sofas longingly. Soon the old busybody would be asking questions about
her
love life and whatever she answered would somehow become proof she was back in Heaverlock because of Rob. She had to get her to stop gossiping, but she could hardly be rude. Mrs. P. was a friend of her parents’ and in spite of her tongue-wagging tendencies she’d always been kind. Pushy, but kind.

Mrs. P. considered herself an expert in all things, from gardening to astronomy. You name the topic, Mary Peterson knew more about it than anybody else. She had a PhD in nosiness and many a villager had received her unsolicited advice, Anjuli included. However, Mrs. P. had been the first to recognise Anjuli’s singing talent. In a way, she had been her first fan, constantly praising her voice and pushing her to sing at everything from coffee mornings to village concerts. Her penchant for gossip though, was unforgivable.

“Make yourself at home, dear,” Mrs. P. said, gesturing to the waiting area. “Once you two are alone I’ll brew a fresh pot of tea and bring in some bannock, and my double-chocolate brownies.”

Anjuli’s mouth watered. Maybe Mrs. P. could be forgiven after all. She smiled and headed to the waiting area. The mirror showed a poised, confident woman ready for business, not a former singer worrying about stage fright when the time came to perform, or a woman who’d taken the whole night to decide what to wear only to agonise about it all over again the next morning.

She’d tried on her favourite clothes; twisted and turned, sucked in her tummy and discarded item after item, leaving her bed a bundled mess of rejects. Pressed for time, she’d gone with the ensemble Reiver had barked at the most. Anjuli smirked at her image. Years of celebrity stylists, and a stray dog was now her wardrobe advisor.

Was she sending the right signals? There was nothing sexy about Reiver’s silver-and-burgundy choice, at least she hoped not. The silky top had a square neckline and accentuated the curve of her breasts without screaming “look at these.” Yes, the skirt hugged her hips but all of her clothes did that. That’s what happens when your hips are wider than the Suez.

Anjuli fidgeted. She didn’t want Rob to get the wrong idea, especially after his blatant invitation in the car on Monday. His arrogant suggestion, tossed out like feed to a herd, still rankled. For three days she’d stewed over his insult, finally concluding that Rob had indeed wanted payback for wounding his ego.

Except Rob had never been the petty type. Anjuli stared down the opposite corridor. He hadn’t retracted his statement so maybe he’d changed. Maybe the solid, monogamous man she used to know had become a womanising bastard. Someone who nonchalantly handed out his number for no-strings-attached sex and promptly moved on to the next best thing.

Anjuli grabbed the visitor copy of
The Borders Chronicle
and used it to fan herself. No matter Rob’s comments, she couldn’t believe he lacked sex. Why would he? He was dangerously handsome and successful to boot. Women probably propositioned him all the time, like the reporter in his office was doing right now.

Eleven twenty-three...twenty-five.
What were they doing in there anyway? A throaty laugh and a whiff of expensive perfume preceded Sarah and Rob from the corridor. He said something and she ate it up as if she’d just come off the Cabbage Soup Diet. Not that she needed to diet.

Go away
, Anjuli told the pesky stab in her chest. She had no reason to feel jealous. She forced her fingers to uncurl, frowning at the small crescents her nails had dug into her palm. When Mrs. P. called Rob over to the reception desk, Sarah noticed Anjuli waiting and walked over.

“Sarah Brunel,” she said, extending her hand.

Anjuli stood and crossed her arms. She may have provided Sarah with an article and some Chardonnay she’d wished was laced with arsenic, but she’d be damned if she pretended to be happy about it.

Unperturbed, Sarah took out her mobile and tapped the screen. “We don’t get celebrities of your calibre in these parts very often, Miss Carver. You must allow me to interview you. Let me check my calendar to see when I’ve got a spot. I’m sure that everyone would love to know why you moved back to Heaverlock.”

“It’s my home,” Anjuli said coldly.

Sarah’s smile grew predatory. “Our quaint country ways must be difficult to adjust to after your incredible lifestyle. You could tell us what it’s like to live without staff or Michelin restaurants and designer shopping. Or how it feels to mix with the great unglamorous.”

Bitch
. “I’ve always found Heaverlock to be lacking in pretence if that’s what you mean about unglamorous,” Anjuli said smoothly. “Adjusting again will be a pleasure, especially with the help of family and friends.”

Sarah looked towards the reception desk. “I have very good friends here, some who’ve helped me adjust to the Borders with home-cooked dinners. Venison stew and succulent...Oh, I won’t go into details, but it was delish.”

Home cooked
? Anjuli stared at Rob, just as she suspected Sarah had intended. The Rob
she
knew could burn a piece of bread before it got to the toaster. What made the reporter so special she merited dead Bambi? He’d never cooked for
her
.

“There’s nothing like making new friends, is there?” Sarah asked, eyes wide and innocent. “New town, new beginnings.” Her nails tapped the screen again. “Perhaps our interview can focus on
your
new beginnings.”

Coolly, Anjuli returned her look. She wasn’t going to rise to the bait, of course, but,
uh-oh
, that thing twisting her lips did not feel like a serene, polite smile. “I can think of a few
old
friends I’ll be spending time with.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes and Anjuli wanted to slap her—and herself. What the hell was she doing? And was her voice really that catty? She wasn’t competition for Rob and instead of letting Sarah know that, she was doing the opposite.

Sarah snapped her phone shut. “Of course, we could think of another approach.”

Yeah
,
full frontal
. “Look, let’s cut to the chase. I don’t sing anymore and I don’t give interviews. I’m not interested in renewing romantic relationships or forming new ones, so why don’t we put the claws away? I’ve looked at your nails and you could do me some serious damage.”

Sarah’s mouth opened slightly and then she laughed. “Fair enough, but all’s fair in love and reporting, and I’m not giving up.”

“Giving up on what?”

Both women turned as Rob joined them.

Sarah tossed her hair. “On what I want, of course.”

Her flirtatious smile made Anjuli grind her teeth. “I would appreciate being left alone, no interviews and no hassle.”

“Never say never. Isn’t that right, Rob?”

He looked at Anjuli. “I don’t believe in never.”

Rob led Sarah to the revolving glass door. They would make a striking couple, no matter Mrs. P.’s opinion. Sarah’s pale beauty contrasted with Rob’s swarthiness and her willowy frame emphasised his muscular physique. Maybe Rob would fall in love with Sarah Brunel and share his life with her.

Share his children.

Anjuli’s neck tingled. Mrs. P. was staring at her, sporting a knowing smile. Well, of course she was, because here she stood, gazing dumbly at Sarah as if she were watching a thief run away with her handbag.

“There’s a lovely drawing of Castle Manor at the end of the corridor, dear,” Mrs. P. said. “Why don’t you have a look at it?”

Halfway down Anjuli stopped in front of a large illustration of Heaverlock Castle. The artist had captured everything about the ruin that made it special, including the forlorn quality of its isolation. She studied it for a few seconds before moving on to the charcoal of her new home. It was on the back wall, facing her as she approached. Cast in shadow, Castle Manor retained its abandoned air, seeming to melt into the moors behind it. The artist had added glass panes where they were missing, solid stone where there was plywood. He had cleared the debris and chopped down the silver birch on the roof. Anjuli stared at the drawing, gaining strength from seeing her home as it should be, elegant and gracious.

“I commissioned those a few years ago,” Rob said from behind her.

Anjuli jumped but didn’t turn around, keeping her eyes on the charcoal until Rob was barely a breath behind her. Did he think crowding her would make her swoon into his arms? She stood ramrod straight as he told her about the artist. On the surface Rob’s voice was pleasantly informative, but below its placid tones he layered it in challenge and seduction, daring her to pull away.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She would show him that he was just like any other man. His voice grew husky, and the more he talked the warmer her skin and the quicker her breath, until she felt as if she’d been running a marathon. Dizzy. Dwarfed by the broad shoulders and muscular body behind her. She wanted to sink into his chest, feel his hands on her hips and his mouth on her neck.

Anjuli almost tripped over her heels in her haste to get away. “Castle Manor will only look perfect in pictures if we don’t get down to it.”

His smile bordered on smug. “My sentiments exactly.”

Anjuli looked towards the exit. “I thought you had all the time in the world.”

“I apologise for keeping you waiting,” Rob said, his serious tone belying the spark of mischief in his eyes.