Run Rosie Run (33 page)

‘Scared?’

‘Bloody terrified.’

‘Love will do that to a person.’

He pulled her onto his knee.

‘I always thought it would be easy. Fall in love, marry, children. But I hadn’t reckoned with Rosie.’

Bronte gave a small laugh.

‘I feel your pain. Nico was right for me. We fit. And Rosie is the right person for you.’

‘I’ve always been confident with women.’ When she gave a snort of derision he grinned. ‘It’s true. I’ve always been able to read them. But with Rosie, even though I thought I knew her inside out, I’m confident of nothing.’

‘You’re crazy about her, madly in love with her. And I think it stops a person thinking clearly.’

‘Okay. She’s your best friend. But I’m your brother. Give me some pointers. What do I do when she comes back. If she comes back.’

Bronte rose to her feet, wandered back to her chair, sat and thought for a moment before she smiled.

‘Easy. The more you push, the more desperate you become, the faster she’ll run.’

And that, Alexander decided, was as clear as mud.

‘Let her go,’ Bronte told him.

He didn’t like the sound of that, not one little bit.

He frowned.

‘I’m never letting her go. And she’ll just have to suck it up.’

His sister just shook her head and stood to leave.

‘Can’t say I didn’t try. If you hear from her...’

‘I’ll call you.’

He worked until his eyes bled from staring at the screen and his brain was fried.

And he was just considering calling it a night when Nico and Josh entered his office.

‘We’ve been sent by Bronte,’ Josh said and plonked himself on the couch.

Nico moved to the cupboard.

Alexander stretched his arms above his head.

‘To do what?’

Nico set a bottle of Scotch whisky on the table and broke the seal.

‘To cheer you up.’ He poured a generous helping into three shot glasses. ‘And I have not to show my face in my own home until I have done it.’

Alexander eyed the glass Nico placed in front of him.

‘There’s no need. I’m about to turn in.’

Nico sat next to Josh, held up his glass in a ‘cheers’ gesture and took a sip.

‘I cannot, as an Italian, permit my best friend to wallow in abject misery on his own. So we will share your misery as we enjoy a bottle of ‘Glenfiddich.’’

Alexander eyed the bottle as he ran his tongue over his teeth.

‘I’m to get piss faced am I?’

He hadn’t thought of that.

‘My wonderful wife has not been able to sort it.’ Nico lifted his glass. ‘So I have been told to fix it.’ He waited until Josh and Alexander lifted theirs. ‘To women.’

Alexander simply glowered at them before lifting his glass.

‘Fuck it.’ He downed it in one. ‘I hope you brought more than one bottle.’

Josh stood, slapped him on the back and poured the next round.

When the bottle was two thirds gone, Alexander was feeling all loose and limber.

A temporary fix for idiots.

But he felt like a complete idiot.

‘You know what’s wrong with you?’ Josh asked him. ‘You need to tell her who’s boss.’

With a grunt, Alexander tossed back another shot.

‘I should call you Mr. Oprah.’

With a lusty sigh of a contented man happy with his lot in life Nico leaned back on the couch and stretched out jean clad legs.

‘When they get you by the balls, you are finished.’

Alexander closed his eyes then opened them fast when the room spun.

‘That’s the trouble, she’s not laid a finger on them for days.’

Josh roared out a laugh.

‘She’s a wonderful woman.’

Relaxing in a warm bath of appreciation and love, Alexander plopped his feet on the desk and tilted his chair at a dangerous angle.

‘She’s something else, isn’t she? Rosemary Margaret Gordon. Stubborn as a fucking mule and the love of my life.’

He filled up his glass until the whisky quivered at the rim.

‘I might regret this in the morning. Stuff it.’ He drank half of it. ‘Thank you for sharing my pain. To the best pals a man ever had.’

Josh eyed his glass through one eye.

‘I hope there’s room at the inn?’

Nico grinned.

‘All sorted.’

Alexander blinked at him.

‘You can’t drive. How’re you getting home?’

‘Gotta special dispensation. I am staying here too.’

Amazed, Alexander felt overwhelmed for a moment. Almost misty-eyed in fact.

He lifted his glass.

‘To my sister. A wonderful woman.’

Being best pals they heaved Alexander into bed in a spare guest room when the bottle was empty. And gave each other a high five. Mission accomplished.

Next evening, a very different Rosie Gordon drove through town.

The inhabitants stopped to stare and she could hardly blame them.

Jumpy nerves in her belly wound even tighter as she parked outside of Sweet Sensationss. Guilt battled for domination over her emotions. But she ruthlessly shut it down.

She’d needed the time away to clear her head, find her bearings. In many ways, to find herself and that was something she acknowledged she should have done a very long time ago.

Entering the annexe, she picked up a pile of mail left on a table, flicked through it before tossing it aside.

The scent of furniture polish along with cleaning materials hung in the air. It looked as if Bronte’s cleaner had done a search and destroy on every speck of dust.

Rosie moved to the French doors and opened them wide to take a deep cleansing breath. The weather was cooler, fresher, and she lifted her face to a light breeze.

Someone had watered her plants, cut the patch of grass.

Digging her cell phone out of her bag, she plugged it into the charger.

The only person she’d spoken to in seven days had been her mother who’d offered to fly over, keep her company. But her daughter needed her own space and for once her mother had accepted it without argument. How amazing was that?

Her mother hadn’t judged her.

She’d just let her talk for hours in the middle of every sleepless night.

At Rosie’s request she’d not asked any questions. And knowing her mother that must have cost her.

She knew people would be worried about her, but she’d left a note for Bronte. And she’d left a message on Alexander’s voice mail that he wasn’t to worry because she just needed space and time to work out her feelings.

The fist hammering at her door made her jump, but she’d known it wouldn’t take him long to hear she was back.

One thing she’d learned the hard way over the past few days was that Bronte was absolutely right, even if she’d gone to Pluto her feelings were right there with her.

And Alexander was entitled to closure.

At the very least she owed him that.

But the nerves in her gut wound too tight as she opened the door wide and took a step back.

Alexander’s green eyes, bloodshot and too dark with a stunned disbelief widened as he stared at her for an endless moment before stepping into the house.

The scent of his signature cologne, shampoo and soap spun around her heightened senses.

He wore battered jeans that hung too loose on his hips and a polo shirt that had seen better days. His hair was damp, uncombed as if he’d towel dried it in a hurry.

That wonderful face appeared too lean, the strong jaw unshaven and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week.

Rosie closed the door and took a careful breath as she acknowledged just how much she’d missed him.

She went to speak but he simply held up a finger, shook his head.

‘I promised myself that if you came back I’d tell you immediately that I love you. How much I love you and that I can’t fucking live without you in my life.’

The beautiful resonant timbre of his voice shook with the force of his emotions.

The sincerity, the pain, in those eyes made hers sting.

She’d never wanted him to suffer like this.

‘
Yes, you did,’
her conscience said and for good measure gave her a quick dig in the ribs.

Alexander loved her?

Hearing those words said with honesty, said with truth, made her want to throw herself into his arms.

However she couldn’t do it.

Hadn’t she’d promised herself to tell him nothing but the truth?

He didn’t know the real Rosie, did he? He didn’t know the thief, the stalker, the woman who was jealous of her friend, did he?

She moved away from him, stepped behind the breakfast bar to put a distance between them and saw the hurt, the disappointment in those fabulous eyes.

Her eyes clung to his, she opened her mouth to speak.

But again he held up a finger.

His cell phone was in his hand, he jabbed the screen.

He sank to a couch as if his legs wouldn’t hold him, closed his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose and squeezed.

‘She’s back,’ he said.

His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. He opened his eyes and simply stared at her with a raw hunger that caught her breath.

‘No. Gimme time, please, Bronte. Okay, yeah, I’ll tell her.’

He stared at her for unremitting seconds before taking a deep breath.

‘Where did you go?’

‘York.’

He blinked.

‘The ancient English city of York?’

She’d sworn to be honest with him.

‘I’ve always wanted to go to York.’

‘Does York have a problem with cell phone communication?’

‘No.’

‘Did you lose your cell?’

‘No.’

‘Did you turn off your cell?’

She nodded, watched him run his tongue over his top teeth.

‘Where did you stay?’

‘The Cavendish. My room had a balcony overlooking the river.’

‘Was the food crap?’

Now she frowned, blinked.

‘No, the food was excellent. Why?’

‘You’ve lost weight. So, what did you do in York?’

His tone might be perfectly reasonable, but the way the questions were delivered like gunshots made beads of perspiration prickle her top lip.

Rosie licked the salty taste, ran damp palms down her pants.

‘Well, I got a haircut.’

‘I noticed. What else did you do?’

Now the tone annoyed her.

He didn’t like her hair?

It was her hair, if she wanted to cut it, she would cut it. She didn’t tell him the stylist spent over an hour trying to talk her out of it, even plying her with a glass of wine. But she’d insisted and had cried a river throughout the whole experience. But she felt so liberated, as if an enormous weight had been taken from her shoulders. And it was so easy to keep. She loved it and if he didn’t like it then that was just too bad, wasn’t it?

Annoyance steamrolled over any guilt.

And made her voice bitchy.

‘I went on the river every day. On a cruise. It was very relaxing.’

He said nothing for two heartbeats, three.

‘So, you went to York, switched off your phone, stayed at the Cavendish, ate fuck all, cut your hair, went cruising down the fucking river. What else did you do?’

‘I bought an iPad.’

Blink blink.

‘You bought an iPad?’

‘Yes, I always wanted one.’ She tilted her chin, saw his eyes narrow. ‘I’ve been reading, listening to music, chilling out.’

Those eyes held hers.

‘So, while you’ve been reading, listening to music and chilling out. Wanna know what I’ve been doing?’

She couldn’t, wouldn’t look at him.

Instead, she grabbed a tea towel, started to polish the shiny granite work surface.

‘I’m sure you’ve been very busy with... stuff.’

Very slowly he nodded his head.

‘I nearly beat the shit out of Jonathan for starters.’

Now her eyes flew to his.

‘He had his hands on you. Do you really think I’m going to just stand by while the man who made my sister’s life a misery went after you like that?’

She opened her mouth but his finger point trapped the words in her throat.

‘Don’t you say a fucking word. Then I went to Cyprus. I’ve always loved your mother, but I love your mother so much now that if she was twenty years younger, I’d dump you for her. Your father and I got pissed faced. Seriously, if it wasn’t for your mother I’d be in a mental institution under sedation. She didn’t tell me where you were but she called me every single day after you’d rung her.’

When she simply stared at him and saw the raw anguish in those eyes, her heart threatened to escape out of her ribs.

On shaky legs, she moved to a chair and sat on the edge, all the while wringing the tea towel between her hands.

‘You went to Cyprus?’

‘Yeah. Bronte’s cried for seven days. Of course Nico is not happy about that and wants to spank your arse. I told him to get in line because I’m first. And Josh is not happy with you either since he seems to believe you and he are ‘best friends.’ And Janine is devastated too because she thinks you might have believed the crap being whispered that she’s moved into my house. When in fact she’s moved into my old apartment at The Hall.’

His eyes narrowed into slits as he watched the way guilt burned a scorching path up her neck and into her cheeks.

‘But I told her you were too smart to think that. Apparently, I was wrong.’

Omigod.

‘But I left a message. And I left a note for Bronte too.’

He tugged a crumpled piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans.

‘This note? The one that says,
‘I need space, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’

His voice cracked again.

He ran a trembling hand through his hair.

‘Are you trying to kill me?’

Her eyes filled as she understood the depth of the wound she’d inflicted upon the man she loved more than life.

‘I’m sorry you were worried,’ she whispered and knew she’d never be able to make it up to him.

Now those eyes flashed, as he repeated her words,

‘You’re
sorry
we were worried sick? Can I ask you one question?’