Transplanting Holly Oakwood (19 page)

From the bathroom Tom’s baritone rang out over the hiss of the steaming shower. He was an early riser and no doubt planned to bring her breakfast in bed like he used to at home. This morning she’d surprise him and turn the tables. She got up and walked into the kitchen.

She opened the fridge and stared at the empty shelves. She’d meant to go shopping on the way home last night, but had forgotten in the excitement of Tom’s arrival. Hopefully there’d be bread in the freezer. She took out two slices, popped them into the toaster, and walked into the dining room.

Tom’s things were on the table – the keys to his rental car, his lighter, a soft black leather wallet and his mobile. She picked up the phone, chiding herself for her nosiness. The phone vibrated, and a text pinged in the silent apartment. Tom was still in the shower, and surely it wouldn’t do any harm to see who it was from? It could be something important.

She flipped the mobile open, and read the text with a sinking heart.

TWENTY-SIX

Holly

Went to bed thinking of u and woke up horny 2day. Can’t wait 2 c u day after 2moro. Hope Blackpool weekend with boys fun but u missing me 2. Sonia xxx

As she closed the mobile, Tom walked into the kitchen still damp from his shower, a fluffy white towel wrapped around his lean body. She stared at him in a daze, the previous night’s passion all but forgotten. Hatred welled up in her, and she swallowed it with difficulty.

He moved behind her and nuzzled her neck. “Let’s go back to bed for a quickie. We’ve got all weekend to go sightseeing, and anyway, I’m not here for that. We’ve got a lot of bonking to catch up on.”

She ignored the lump in her throat and tried to keep her tone upbeat. “Okay.” She took his hand, and led him back to the bedroom, where she pushed him onto the bed and straddled him.

“You’re bringing me up,” Tom said, his voice syrupy with lust.

She leant over, teasing him with her tongue, her nipples hardening despite her anger. She sucked his neck, knowing the love bite would arouse him to a fever pitch. He groaned, pulled the towel off, and guided her hand to his erection. She kissed him, then lowered herself onto him.

“God, that’s intense.”

“Mmmm, hold on. I want to enjoy this as long as I can.” She moved slowly, admiring the angry red imprints of her teeth on his neck. The sight of them fuelled her excitement and she slammed against him, until spent, she slumped over.

“Was that good, sweetheart?” Tom rolled her onto her back, his erection purple against the white of the linen. He spread her legs to slide into her, but she wriggled away.

“Let’s have breakfast first,” she said, jumping out of bed and moving to the kitchen. “Fancy an omelette?”

She reached for the only egg in the basket, cracked it into a bowl and whisked it with gusto.

“Omelette will be fine,” Tom said, “but let’s go back to bed. I haven’t finished with you yet.”

“Oh but we are finished. I’ve fucked you,” she said, pouring the frothy, cold egg over his rapidly deflating penis, “and now you can fuck off.”

She woke early, roused by the chatter of birds in the trees outside. Morning sunlight dappled the curtains, and they danced in the light breeze. In London the weather would have been cool, but here in LA the promise of summer was apparent. She lay on her back on top of the light sheets, grateful she hadn’t packed up and gone back to London with Tom.

Like the breeze, she was restless. She’d been crying since she’d kicked Tom out. Her eyes were puffy, her nose was red, and her head pounded. How could she have trusted Tom after what he did to her last time? She hated him, and hated Sonia too. She should ring Sonia and tell her she’d shagged Tom, but she couldn’t be bothered.

She got up and ambled into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, then surveyed the contents of the fridge in disgust. Damn, she’d wasted the only egg on Tom, and there was nothing left but a lone pop tart. She slid it into the toaster, flicked on the radio, and listened to the news vacantly. Two minutes later the smell of charred pop tart filled the kitchen. Cursing, she pulled it out of the toaster and picked at it before forcing herself into the shower.

As she was dressing the front door opened and a cheery voice rang out. “Morning, Holly.”

“Hi, Tessa, back already? Weren’t you planning to stay in Santa Barbara all weekend?”

“Yes, but I got a call to say I’ve got an audition this morning. You’re up early.”

“Didn’t sleep well. I’m going shopping at the mall past the airport. Shame you’re busy.”

She backed the Chevy into the quiet Santa Monica street and drove between the majestic palm trees which fringed the sidewalks. Looping back to Washington, she drove east, and fifteen minutes later approached LAX, where glistening capsules lined up to taxi down the runway, a reminder of her recent arrival in the city. A jet took off and the roar of its engine drowned out the music from the radio.

She raised the volume, belting along to
Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?
The beat of the music lifted her spirits and she pumped the accelerator, feeling back in charge of her out-of-control life. She was in California, the sun was shining, she was driving a red Chevy, and planning serious damage on her credit card. She didn’t care about Tom, the bastard, or Guy for that matter.

Her spirits rose as she warbled the final chorus. With a roar the car entered the underpass and she craned her neck to check the overhead direction signs, then glanced in the rear view mirror. She flicked her indicator to move into the left lane but the car behind mirrored her movements. She shook her head in irritation; if she didn’t move quickly she’d feed onto the wrong freeway, so she planted her foot and accelerated. The other car, a large black sedan, did the same.

The shriek of metal scraping metal pierced the air and her tyres screeched as she braked. The Chevy spun across two lanes of traffic and came to a sudden standstill halfway off the verge of the freeway onramp, facing the oncoming traffic.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Holly

She sat paralysed, heart pounding, panic and shock pumping through her veins. God, what had just happened? She peered out the window. Was one of the cars flying past at breakneck speed going to crash into hers? Was it possible to be in a head-on collision while she wasn’t moving? She clutched the steering wheel and gulped in deep breaths, trying to still her mind and think. But every nerve in her body was in motion and she couldn’t clear her head. Slowly she brought her hand up to her forehead, to see if she was injured. The act of moving her hand focused her. Was it dangerous to stay in the car? Would it explode? Or was it dangerous to get out, in case she got run over?

Deciding on the lesser of two unpalatable alternatives, she dragged herself out of her inertia and scrambled out of the Chevy to stand on the roadside. A car slowed and as the driver honked, relief flooded through her. The driver yelled and sped away, and she stared at the retreating car. A second car approached and slowed to a crawl. “Get off the road, you silly bitch,” the driver shouted, his face black with fury.

White heat built inside her and fury replaced the fuzziness. Why didn’t these people stop and help her, instead of yelling obscenities? Were they stupid enough to think she’d done this on purpose to ruin their Sunday drives? She climbed back into the car, unsure what to do, then slumped forward, put her head on the dashboard, and prayed for help.

When she looked back up the other driver was standing across the onramp, signalling to her. She waved back, climbed out of the car again, and walked around the Chevy. She couldn’t see any damage or smell petrol, thank goodness. She’d better try and get the car back on the road, but it wouldn’t be easy given the car was facing in the wrong direction. She clambered back into the driver’s seat, smoothed back her hair and took a deep breath before sliding the key in the ignition and pumping the gas.

Silence.

She prayed, then tried again.

Nothing.

With a groan she rested her head against the steering wheel, frustration overwhelming her.

“Ma’am, can I help you?” asked a voice, and she wondered if she was dreaming, her prayers had been so well answered. Erik Estrada, or was it Wilmer Valderrama, was standing by her window, an expression of concern on his chiselled features.

“Oh, officer, I’m delighted to see you. I’ve been involved in an accident with the car over there,” she said, pointing. “My car isn’t damaged but I can’t get it going.”

“Would you mind if I tried?” asked Erik, opening the car door with tanned and muscular arms. He slid behind the wheel, pumped the gas and the Chevy roared to life. “It was in gear,” he said, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling with mirth. “Wait here for a moment, ma’am.”

Two police cars were parked on the verge, loaded with uniformed men as handsome as Erik, and a German Shepherd so huge it would scare a criminal into becoming a man of God. Erik strutted over to confer with the cops, and peals of laughter carried on the still day. Then one of the cars drove across the freeway with its siren blaring and pulled up beside the other driver.

Erik sauntered back to her. “I’ll turn your car around and you can follow us down the freeway. We’d like to chat to both of you and check your cars for damage.”

“That sounds good,” she said, not ready to let this gorgeous black-haired hunk in his painted-on-uniform out of her sight.

The cars pulled away from the onramp in convoy – squad car with tracker dog, the other driver, Erik, then her. No one was tooting and yelling at her now, instead they were probably wondering if she was a TV star filming a police drama, or a glamorous criminal who’d been captured after a high-speed cross-country chase.

She pulled up behind Erik in a lay-by. The other car was parked and a cop was circling it, checking for damage, while a second officer talked to the driver through the open window. Her pulse thrummed and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. The accident hadn’t been her fault, but it would be easier to drive away and forget the whole thing, instead of having to recount the incident to Brittany.

“You’re lucky, ma’am, minimal damage to the other car, a minor scrape on the side.” She let her breath out with a whoosh as he checked hers. “Just a tiny nick on yours. What do you folks want to do?”

“I’m happy to drive away,” said the other driver in a genial tone, running a pudgy finger over the small scratch on the Chevy. “These paint scratches will buff right off.”

“What do you think, ma’am?” asked Erik. “Give the paperwork a miss?”

“Yes. I’d be delighted to do that.” With her luck she could’ve had an officious idiot who preferred to keep both insurance companies busy.

“Glad you folks could work this out amicably,” said Erik, posturing against the car and showing off his tight trousers to their best advantage. “Most folks get real het up after accidents and want to throw blame around.” He glanced at the gleaming timepiece on his thick wrist. “It sure makes our job easier too. We won’t have to file an accident report.”

She watched wistfully as Erik and the other cops piled into their cars and left, churning up a dust storm as they drove out of the lay-by.

“You’re a tourist?” the other driver asked her.

“No,” she said, “I’ve been living in LA a couple of months.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a worn wallet, and extracted a dog-eared business card, which he presented with a flourish. “I’m Eugene Cornelius. Do you have a card?”

“Um yes, I do,” she said, returning to the car to grab her handbag. She rummaged through it: lipsticks, comb, notebook, scraps of paper, chocolate bar and finally her wallet. She pulled out a card and handed it to him proudly. Her first American business card, it was elegant and refined and screamed good taste.

“You work in the New Zealand Consulate?” Mr Cornelius asked, raising an eyebrow. “You sound English.”

“I came here from London, but originally I’m from New Zealand. I’m with the Trade Office.”

“Enjoying it?”

“Love it. I’m meeting loads of interesting people.”