Pitch Imperfect (14 page)

Stubborn lass, but he wanted to kiss her anyway, convince her she needed him. He stared at her lips. “I think a woman could need much more.”

She froze, then lowered her eyes to his unfinished coffee. “Not to your taste?”

Rob pulled on his shirt. Much as he wanted to stay, if he didn’t meet the Hendersons for a congratulatory completion dinner they would be disappointed. “I’ve got a dinner date in forty-five minutes.”

Anjuli followed him to the door. “With Sarah?”

He stopped, hand on the doorknob. Her chin was set, eyes flashing. “Would you rather it was with you?”

“No!”

“Sure about that?”

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not phoning or texting you for sex, ever. I only asked about your date so you can pass on a message.”

“Really,” he drawled.

“Of course. Please tell Sarah now that the restoration has progressed she can come by any time to take her pictures, no need to ring first, but there will be no interview. I...I hope you have a lovely dinner.”

“I’m no’ going—” Why should he explain himself? “You can tell Sarah about the pictures at the ceilidh.”

She crossed her arms. “Fine.”

No, it bloody hell wasn’t.

Chapter Eleven

Anjuli pounded the heather as she ran towards Heaverlock Castle. It was her day off, and the ceilidh was in the evening. She’d risen early and done a longer circuit than her usual twenty-five-minute run, getting up early and jogging two and a half miles to the Iron Age hillfort towards Halton. Once there, she’d laid white roses for Jamie on the highest mound. It had been his favourite spot, where he’d most liked to write his poetry. Black hair shaggy, brown eyes serious. Today his white roses would be joined by a single pink bud.

Since Chloe’s death she’d had a recurring, traumatic nightmare, but last night it had suddenly changed. The first part was the same: as she ran down the sepia corridors of an abandoned Victorian hospital, she’d heard the loud cries of a baby. It was the infant she never found, no matter how many wards she rushed through or how many empty cots she frantically searched. But this time she’d bypassed the wards and done no frantic searching. Instead, she’d run out of the hospital into the late evening sun.

Chunks of pine lay stacked before her, piled higher than her head, a silver birch tree growing on top. She’d clambered over and on the other side found a dried-up hedge maze, interspersed with dead rose bushes. In the dream, she’d pushed her way through clawlike branches and thorny stems until she was at the centre of the maze. Panting with exhaustion, she’d rested on a bench in front of a single rose bush with one pink bud. She smelled it and it turned into a sparrow, and flew away.

Anjuli swore as she ran. She didn’t need Dr. Coren to interpret her dream; the meaning was obvious. It meant loss. Letting go. Acceptance. Blah, blah, and all that pat psychobabble she hated. She hit a large section of bracken, hammering into it the way each of the supposed stages of grief had hammered their way into her. Shock and denial, pain and guilt and loneliness and—the list went on and on. Why did they say there were only seven, all neatly tied up with definable characteristics? Hers certainly weren’t.

She knew it was maudlin, useless even, but she’d woken up with an uncontrollable desire to take a pink rose to the Iron Age hillfort for Chloe.

And a request.

If there was a God, if there was an afterlife and a happy forever after, then she hoped that Jamie would find Chloe and take care of her. Of course, she had once asked God to perform a miracle and it hadn’t happened. But was it too much to ask that Chloe be cared for by Jamie until she could do it herself?

Anjuli stopped at the bottom of the hill and grasped her knees, breathing in short, sharp gasps. What an idiot she was. She’d had her chance and blown it. Why did she think she’d be given another opportunity after she died? With a burst of energy, she ran the rest of the way to the castle and across the moat, only stopping once she’d reached the low, square entrance.

Panting from her exertion, she leaned against a ruined wall and let her body slide to the grass. She rested her head against the cracked wall and sniffed the cold stone behind her, inhaling deeply. Heaverlock Castle smelled of must and rain, rock and earth. Of secrets and sorrow.

The discordant screech of tired brake pads echoed across the valley. It was 8:00 a.m. and another delivery was coming up the road even though it was Saturday, just as Connor had promised. Her luck was in. The Steinway—six foot ten of black mahogany, handcrafted and custom built in Hamburg had fetched £25,000, minus Chappell of Bond Street’s commission. She’d hated lying to Rob, pretending she had shares to sell, money to manage. Her bank balance was like the subsidence Connor had discovered in the south wing, a sliding scale threatening to take her with it.

Money received, she’d immediately phoned Mrs. P. and advised her she’d be making another payment, for all the good that would do. Until the bank gave her the loan, she wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.

Mrs. P. had been delighted. “Rob’s client terms and conditions are generous but I’m
so
pleased you aren’t taking advantage. Very refreshing, but then, it must be wonderful to have millions at your disposal,” she’d gushed. “‘Donald,’ I said, right after he came back from the chiropractor, ‘Anjuli Carver is proof of what hard work and talent can achieve.’ I commend you my dear, you’re the epitome of success.”

“I’ve hardly got millions.”

Or hundreds, for that matter, and she wasn’t the epitome of success either; she was a poster girl for middle-class poverty. Her finger had paused over Send Payment so long she almost got a cramp. Ash might go on about how normal people wouldn’t consider her situation one of deprivation, but how many of them had once possessed a fortune in excess of twenty million pounds?

When she thought of how much she used to spend on bling for so-called friends it made her sick. Now she had to scrimp to buy another type of stone entirely. And she was turning into a serial liar. She writhed in agony every time she allowed Rob to fork out money for the house. It wouldn’t be forever, she promised herself. How much longer could the bank take for a decision that should have been quick? Once they finished hemming and hawing over the new business plan she’d submitted—corrected and improved, surprisingly, by Viking—she would breathe more easily.

Sodden earth squelched under her feet as she ran to the bridge to unhook the chain and let the vans and workmen across. She and Rob had discussed the intricate cornices and replacing the missing Victorian fireplaces last Tuesday. Salvage from an architectural yard or order custom-made replacements? Salvage, she’d agreed enthusiastically. The ecologically friendly option, right?

Perversely, she’d been piqued that Rob had stayed only long enough to agree to the new radiator positions and give Connor instructions. Stupid woman, just because he’d chopped her wood and then implied she wanted his company, did not mean he was going to pester her with lustful demands.

A twinge of worry crept across her heart. Was Rob really overexerting himself to finish her restoration, as rumour had it? The last time he’d been into the pub, he’d had stress lines around his eyes, shadows that had made her want to smooth them away.

He’d barely looked at her, leaving with nothing more than a polite farewell. Disappointed at his haste, she’d stared after him until Ash had stepped on her foot. Others had noted his indifference. And what did she care if he ignored her? It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? There was no reason to feel miffed. Rob had accepted there would be no repeat of that night in London. No hot, passionate, mind-blowing—

Stop it!
Anjuli stomped the dirt from her soles, greeted Connor and went to the kitchen. Absently, she set out fifteen mugs for the men’s break. If only she could line up her feelings for Rob as neatly. He was going to the ceilidh with Sarah Brunel, and no matter Mac’s thoughts on the matter, she seemed to be the only woman he wanted to spend time with. The rumour mill had ground to a halt on them though, changing direction to focus on her and Damien.

Contrary to his reputation and his occasional attempts to steal a kiss, Damien hadn’t so far tried to seduce her, though they’d been alone at Castle Manor several times. He seemed to enjoy playing up his flirtation in public, to feed gossipy villagers’ interest, but when alone he was quieter. Still charming, but he didn’t make outrageous statements about wooing her or joke about dying alone and heartbroken if she didn’t allow his advances. A puzzling conundrum.

But it wasn’t Damien occupying her thoughts, pitting her guilt against her longing, making her heart race at the prospect of seeing him that night. And it wasn’t Damien she looked for the second she arrived at the Town Hall.

* * *

Anjuli watched the dancers from a corner of the large ballroom and took another sip of water. It hadn’t always been like this. She hadn’t always felt so alone, so detached from her surroundings. Once, she’d laughed and danced with the rest of them. Once, she’d been free to love a man who had loved her in return.

And once upon a time in a land far, far away, she’d had a child. The End.

She scanned the tables, an automatic smile on her face as she returned a few waves and nods. Thankfully, Rob had left the hall. All night she’d been conscious of his steady gaze and she felt as if she could now breathe more easily. Sort of. Before leaving Castle Manor, Connor had mentioned that Rob was flying to London in the morning. No explanation except that everything was under control and that “the boss” would be in touch while he was away. And how long would that be? Why hadn’t Rob told her? It was rude not to communicate with his client, wasn’t it? She tapped her fingers against her thighs, eyes on his table. Was Sarah going with him?

A few people asked after Ash, interrupting her thoughts, and she told them her sister had been too tired for Gay Gordons or strasthpeys. This late into her pregnancy, it was understandable, though Anjuli knew she found it increasingly difficult to handle the curiosity of seemingly well-meaning villagers, probing into her child’s paternity, and suspected the headache she’d mentioned had been an excuse to cry off and avoid difficult questions.

Anjuli pulled up her dress. The purple frock Reiver had cocked his head at was fitted at her bust, with a low V-neck and thin spaghetti straps. Damn it, her tummy refused to flatten. Cheap chocolate was just as fattening as the gourmet kind.

Damien came up from behind and put his hand around her waist. “A pot of gold for your thoughts, gorgeous.”

Anjuli sighed. “There would have to be a rainbow in order to find the gold, wouldn’t there?” At his puzzled look, she apologised for her moodiness. “I’m worried about Reiver’s operation on Monday. I’m relieved you found the tumour, but he’s just a young thing and...”

Damien softly shushed her. “Reiver will be fine, you’ll see. He’s strong and healthy in every other way. I do these ops all the time and he’ll be as good as new. We’ll go over it in detail before the surgery. But enough of that. What you need, beautiful lady, is to dance.”

Moor O’ Lass were on a set break and a DJ played love songs for those still standing after the reel. Damien drew Anjuli into his arms, right hand at her waist as they swayed to the music. Her tall, blond and bodilicious date looked every inch the heartbreaker in a dark suit and tie, but it was Rob she couldn’t take her eyes off.

He’d come back, drinks in hand.

She’d wished Rob would cover up the day he’d chopped her wood, but he hadn’t and she’d been conscious of every inch of his exposed chest and arms. Well, tonight she’d got her wish. He was wearing his kilt, with a crisp white shirt and an Argyle jacket that emphasised his broad shoulders. The Douglas tartan fell in pleated panels to midknee and his long legs were covered in thick wool hose. In total, she could see about three inches of flesh other than his hands, face and neck.

Fat lot that helped.

There was nothing tired-looking about Rob tonight, nothing tense or broody. Anjuli hated stereotypes, but she had to admit he looked the epitome of Scottish masculinity. Someone should throw him a caber so he could toss it around the room. Toss
her
onto a bed and...

Still flushed from dancing, Rob fanned himself with his shirt and undid the top buttons, displaying a tantalising view of his chest. Tanned, taut and oh so hard. Her heart rate sped up as she watched him adjust the wide belt across his waist. Was that a lump underneath the sporran, pushing it out like that?

Oh God.
Twenty-eight-year-old women do not mentally undress men during village ceilidhs.

Anjuli jerked her eyes up only to find Rob watching her. Actually, he was more than watching her; he was studying her, an amused look in his eyes. Was she that transparent? Sarah Brunel certainly was. From the way she’d monopolised Rob’s attention all night it was clear she was keen on conquest.

Sarah did look beautiful though, in a dark green dress that matched perfectly with the Douglas plaid over her shoulders. Modest neckline. The reporter should have worn something black and slutty so she could fit
her
stereotype.

Anjuli looked at her hands, expecting to see a wolverine’s claws instead of nails. Sarah said something to Mac and laughed, looking bubbly and carefree. And thin.

“There’s no justice in the world,” Anjuli said, turning her face into Damien’s shoulder.

“True,” he said heavily, then recovered his usual nonchalance. “Here I am, dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room and she’s miles away.”

How could she be so rude? It was Damien she’d come to the dance with and he was more than just a lighthearted flirtation to her; he had become a friend. The lighting dimmed and the music changed to a slower, more romantic song. By the time Carly Simon began singing, Damien had slipped both of his hands around Anjuli’s waist and she’d laced hers around the back of his neck.

“Careful, gorgeous, if you get any closer the tongues will start wagging.”

“I promise I won’t compromise you.”

Damien’s concern for her reputation was sweet and rather old-fashioned, considering his other attitudes. So what if people thought they were having sex? The more Anjuli thought about the wagging tongues, the more irritated she became. Living in such a close-knit community again was generally great, but it had its negatives also.

It was as Ash always said:
small town
,
big hell
. Well, she was tired of worrying about people’s opinions. Of looking over her shoulder in case somebody was watching her, and measuring her words in case they were misinterpreted. If she wanted to slow dance with a handsome man, flirt and enjoy herself, then she bloody well would.

“I’ve had enough of living my life according to other people’s codes of behaviour,” Anjuli declared. “When I was famous the internet, the fans, the neighbour and his dog...everybody had something to say about me. I’m free of that world now and I’m not about to replace it with Heaverlock Village.” She lifted her chin. “Give me a whirl and hold me tight because I’m taking off the restraints.”

Damien laughed and twirled her before fitting her snugly against his chest. “Welcome to the dark side.”

Anjuli circled his waist with her hands, bringing their bodies as close as some of the other, more romantic couples. Her strap slipped off her left shoulder and, feeling reckless, she didn’t fix it. Damien’s quick intake of breath told her he’d noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra.