The Right Side of Mr Wrong Page 11

  He was out of here.

  * * *

  ‘You mustn’t mind Brando. He hasn’t had it easy.’

  Mrs McCaul passed Shea a stack of towels, and she put them on the shelf.

  ‘I know. Edgerton would have been a huge responsibility for anyone at the age of twenty.’

  Mrs McCaul’s answer to Shea asking if there was any organising she could help with had been to take her along to help tidy a linen cupboard, and this morning Shea was desperate enough to take any distraction she could get.

  ‘There were other things too.’ Mrs McCaul’s voice dropped, ominously.

  Shea grimaced. She didn’t want details. She was grateful to Mrs McCaul for giving her a job to do, even if it was patently unnecessary, given they were sorting out a cupboard which was perfectly organised to start with, but she’d been hoping to wipe Brando out of her mind, not discuss him. She’d been so relieved when she discovered he’d left early for London, and spared her the huge embarrassment of waking up in bed with him. Even now she was finding it hard to handle the triple shivers that gripped her whenever she thought about last night. First, a shiver of horror at what she’d done, followed by double aftershock shivers at the recollection of the pure rip-roaring pleasure of it all. Hoping she had concealed her latest wobble behind a towel, Shea looked back to Mrs McCaul, who was waiting for her attention to continue.

  ‘Though you should know all about facing things when you’re young, as you were widowed so young … ’

  Shea lurched. The towel she’d been folding fell in a heap on her feet, and she clasped her hand to her mouth, suddenly fearing her breakfast was going to follow it onto the floor.

  All she needed.

  On top of the shame of last night, her secret wasn’t secret at all. Mrs McCaul knew about Greg. And suddenly this wasn’t a refuge where no-one knew about her past, where she was immune from the pitying glances. She was back in a place where people had preconceptions and expectations. How she hated the way people reacted to the twenty four year old widow, not to her.

  That was exactly what she’d been trying to escape from when she wrote her postcard. Wives, and weddings, two no-go areas for her, and she’d unexpectedly crashed into the room whilst her friends were up to their necks in both. And somehow, that evening, once they’d got over the shock of her unexpected arrival and they’d stopped cringing with guilt and come clean what they were doing they’d all had a laugh. Just for once they hadn’t tried to wrap her in cotton wool, and she hadn’t felt like they were tiptoeing around her. She’d had five wonderfully normal minutes. Which was why she’d grabbed at that perfect opportunity to show her friends she was ready to move on, to prove to them she was tough enough, healed enough. Up for a fresh start. No more walking on eggshells.

  Not that it had been that easy at home. Even after the postcard evening things hadn’t changed hugely. But when she’d come to Edgerton it had been blissful to be where nobody knew. Beyond blissful. She should have known it couldn’t last, that the luxury of being seen just for herself and not for her past could only ever be temporary.

  ‘I didn’t know you knew.’ Her voice wavered, despite her attempts to anchor it. That was it then. And with no work to do either, there was no point in prolonging her stay.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell Brando. Bryony thought it best to tell me.’ Mrs McCaul sounded concerned. ‘I think that’s why you can understand Brando. You’re good for him and he knows it. I’ve never seen him comfortable like … ’

  Shea cut in quickly and decisively, with a hint of desperation. ‘I won’t be staying, I’m sorry. I have to be busy. There’s nothing for me to do here.’ She sent Mrs McCaul a smile to reassure her she wasn’t responsible. ‘Perhaps when we’ve finished the linen cupboard we can ring Bryony and make arrangements for me to leave?’

  Chapter Eight

  The last thing Brando expected as he burst through the front door at Edgerton the next evening was to bang head-on into Shea, suitcase in hand.

  ‘And where the hell do you think you’re going?’

  She shot him a smile so distant it froze him. ‘I’m leaving, on the helicopter you’ve just arrived on. Bryony arranged it.’

  For a moment, his skull felt like it was going to explode. He’d just spent two days gnawing the heads off his staff in London, two days unable to see beyond her face etched on his brain, two days while his body baulked in frustration. One breath of her, and already he was feeling better. There was no way he was letting her go, not until this thing was burned out. Not until he was done.

  ‘Not so fast!’ Damn Bryony. Damn this woman. Damn the way she pulled him. ‘You can’t run out now!’

  ‘Oh, yes I can! I came to put my organisational skills to good use. There’s clearly nothing for me to do here. So now I need to go.’

  Snappy. Cold. Decided. He’d see about that.

  ‘We aren’t finished. Nothing’s finished. You’ve hardly started.’ He was floundering. He flinched as he heard the note of desperation in his own voice.

  ‘Rubbish, Brando!’ Her voice fell. ‘Even the attics here look like a tidy obsessive was already there. You don’t understand. I can’t not work. If I’m not busy I … ’

  Good. She had too many pre-occupations of her own to notice his state, his need.

  And she was wrong. He did understand, only too well. She needed to work, like he needed to run. To block things out. And after he’d run, he worked. And then he ran again. So that was it. His mind flashed back to her need to move on. Some guy must have cut her up good and proper. A flame rocketed through his gut. Fury? Jealousy? Why the hell was he jealous of some random guy for being with a woman he hardly knew?

  His mind raced, as he racked his brain to find her a job, some justification to stay.

  ‘Fine! You’ll have to sort out the ballroom then!’ The words were out before he could stop them.

  Damn it.

  When he’d closed it fourteen years ago, he’d vowed never to open the ballroom again. Ever. He tore his fingers through his hair in frustration. Whatever desperation had driven him to open it, it couldn’t be good. ‘Put that darned suitcase down, we’ll go and get the keys from Mrs McCaul.’

  In three strides he’d reached the office and burst in on his surprised housekeeper.

  ‘Hi, stating the obvious here, but I’m back!’

  Mrs McCaul looked up from her work at the desk, and surveyed him with an expression of satisfaction.

  ‘Grace us with your presence twice in a year we’re dancing, twice in a week, we’re picking ourselves up off the floor.’ She grinned past him to where Shea was arriving in the doorway. ‘I know you like to keep us guessing, Brando, but luckily for you, this time I guessed right. There’s a fire in your room, and there’s a cold supper ready for you in the fridge.’

  He glossed over the fact that she’d anticipated his arrival more than he had.

  ‘Great, thanks. And Shea will be staying on too.’ He noted Mrs McCaul’s affirming nod. ‘She’s going to sort out the ballroom, so we’ll need the keys please.’

  Mrs McCaul’s eyebrows shot skywards in astonishment as he said the word “ballroom”, but he didn’t acknowledge the fact. She crossed to the filing cabinet and pulled out a set of keys. She sent a satisfied smile in Shea’s direction as she pushed them towards Brando. ‘That should give you plenty to do whilst we’re away in London!’

  He snatched up the keys, pushed them into his pocket with a grimace, and turned to usher Shea out of the office. A slight brush of his thigh against her bottom zapped his simmering lust into overdrive. Shielding his growing erection, he shot a parting smirk over his shoulder at Mrs McCaul as they left. ‘She’s going to have a very busy time, I guarantee. Enjoy Mamma Mia! See you Tuesday!’

  If he was putting himself through the hell of revisiting that ballroom, he was going to make damned sure he made it worth his while. Whatever this crazy heat was with Shea, he needed to burn it up, put it behind him, and quickly. Starting t
he moment he got her up to his room.

  * * *

  ‘So, I can carry you, or your suitcases?’

  He leaned nonchalantly on the banister, determined not to show how quickly he needed to bundle her upstairs and rip off her shirt. ‘Sorry I can’t manage both.’

  ‘Neither’s necessary.’ Avoiding his eye, she bent to pick up her cases. ‘I’m perfectly capable of walking upstairs, and I always carry my own luggage.’ She was so stiff, it was a wonder she didn’t break.

  ‘Not this time, you don’t!’ Before she could react, he had snatched the cases from her, and bounded towards the stairs. ‘Race you to your room!’

  ‘I’m not playing, Brando!’

  No surprise there then. Ignoring her stern shout, he carried on climbing, determined to ensure that by the time she reached her room, he was already safely inside. As she drew to a halt behind him, he turned, and with one neat lunge he’d hooked her towards him. Suffocating her loud complaints, he bent and captured her open, protesting mouth, ravenously, with his own.

  Hot, sweet, deep.

  The taste of intoxication set his already kicking heart belting against his chest, and a bolt of pure lust came to a burning halt in his groin. His attempt to staunch his out of control erection by burying it in the warm curve of her stomach failed, but was answered by the taut thrust of her breasts against his chest. He traced a path across the soft nape of her neck with deft fingers, fumbled through the twists of her neatly clipped hair. Two pins, a shake, and her curls were freed, tumbling in a riot around her shoulders.

  ‘No, Brando! Stop!’

  She wrenched away, leaving a gaping chasm where her mouth had been, the hard-on of the century groaning against his jeans, and a roar of frustration ripping through his chest.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  She eyed him, aghast.

  ‘You can’t just start this, not again. Last time was a one-off. I thought you knew that?’

  The unexpected words doused him, like a bucket of cold water. What the hell was she here for if not this? What else was there?

  ‘You are joking?’ He rounded on her, his lip curling in a sneer of disbelief and disgust. ‘Why stop? You were enjoying that as much as me.’

  ‘I chose you because you were a playboy – guaranteed to play once and move on. You can’t come back for more! That wasn’t the deal.’

  He reeled. Reeled because she was right. He never did repeats. Until now. Not until this upstart of a woman had dropped into his life, turned his rules upside down and shot his libido into orbit. He felt a niggling tickle as his left cheek muscle twitched. He narrowed his eyes, contemplating his strategy. Whatever his initial intentions, she’d wormed her way under his skin. But only for now, and it didn’t worry him. He was a hundred percent confident it would be over, as soon as, and the only way forward was to hammer it out. He just had to smother his outrage, and convince her of that.

  ‘Some fires take longer to burn out than others. A couple more times should be enough to finish it.’ He shot her a rueful grin. ‘The five hour rule doesn’t always work you know, and hell, we might as well enjoy it whilst it lasts!’

  He liked his sex hot, but even he knew it didn’t usually come this sizzling.

  Bingo! He gave a sudden sigh as the tension in his shoulders eased. Why hadn’t he realised before? This was all about the spectacular sex. The only reason he was chasing it was the incredible scorching heat. Nothing more.

  She lowered her eyes. Shut him out altogether.

  ‘We’ll see.’ Quiet. Clipped. Dismissive.

  ‘I’ll take that as a maybe then.’ Another grin, designed to be winning. Another thought. ‘Remember no-one back home will ever know what goes on here, so long as you don’t parade it when the film crew is around.’

  Irresistible.

  Hell, he didn’t usually have this trouble. When had he ever had to work this hard? Quite simply – never.

  ‘So, if that’s all, I think I might settle down with a book … ’ She looked pointedly in the direction of the door.

  So she was giving him his marching orders?

  Nice try. Not so fast. ‘How about supper?’

  ‘Thanks, but I ate earlier.’ She was still refusing to meet his eye.

  Dammit. She was blocking him. He had an erection resembling the Empire State Building, and no chance of pushing things to their logical conclusion if he was in another room. And who in their right mind would want to sit and read a book? He switched his brain onto fast forward.

  ‘Why not come and take a look at the ballroom then, if you’re so obviously at a loose end?’ He watched her hesitation, hoping his casual, throwaway tone hid the fact that this was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He’d been dreading going there, even in the morning; the thought of the memories it was liable to disturb sent frozen chills spiralling down his spine.

  But if it was that or nothing …

  ‘It’s an idea.’ She took a deep breath, raised her eyebrows, if not her head.

  A chink of light! Capitalise!

  ‘Great! Grab a coat, it’ll be cold down there.’

  He tried not to think of the ghosts that were waiting for him there, and concentrated on following every squish of her bottom with his eyes as she crossed the room. She picked up the parka he’d bought her from the sofa and unfolded it. He noticed the cashmere cardigans he’d bought her were there too, neatly piled.

  ‘You weren’t taking those with you then?’ So much for his assessment of her as grasping.

  She shrugged, dismissively. ‘They didn’t feel like mine to take.’

  He sniffed. Felt his heart flip as she flicked her tongue over her lips, eyes still downcast. Dammit. She’d just thrown him again.

  He dragged the keys from his pocket, tossed them in the air nonchalantly, snatched them back, and gave her shoulder a nudge ten times more playful than he felt.

  ‘Come on then. Let’s go and have fun!’

  Not.

  Suddenly this didn’t feel like an easy game. But he knew now he’d come so far he’d be playing it to the end.

  * * *

  ‘Enough chaos for you?’

  Brando’s voice rang out harshly, as icy as the air in the lofty ballroom. He clicked the bank of light switches and the legion of glittering chandeliers rippled into life.

  ‘I guess.’ Shea’s eyes widened in disbelief as she advanced into the room. She wasn’t quite sure what had prompted this unexpected visit, but then with Brando she was never sure of anything. He was only predictable in his unpredictability. And he was making her unpredictable too. Right now, she should have been on a helicopter heading away from him, as fast as she could. But she wasn’t. She was still here. Asking herself what the hell she was playing at, she stifled an involuntary shiver as she took in the dusty sea of upturned chairs and tables, empty bottles, and yanked her parka closer trying to stop her teeth chattering. ‘I can’t say I haven’t asked for it. It must have been a heck of a party!’

  There were even guitars propped by a makeshift stage.

  She picked up a faded streamer, rubbed a cobweb off her nose, fought to get past whatever was chilling her more than the cold, and moved towards where Brando was standing stock still, oblivious, hands in pockets, square jaw rigid, his face milky beneath his tan.

  ‘Are you okay? You look … ’ She was about to say haunted but thought better of it. Before she’d found a more suitable word he sprang forward, grabbed a chair and hurled it away from them. She watched it slice through the air, crash into a speaker stack and splinter into pieces. A glass followed, smashing in an explosion of scattering shards, then another chair.

  ‘Whoah! That’s enough!’ As she dived to his side, she put a calming hand on his sleeve, but his arm trembled violently beneath her fingers.

  The bottle he’d grasped as his next missile hit the floor with an echoing clatter as he let it go, and his face contorted into a bitter grimace. ‘This isn’t the best place for me.’

/>   Master of the understatement, as usual. She needed to get him out of here. Grabbing his arm, she attempted to steer him towards the door, but he shrugged her off and span out of reach.

  ‘I’m off.’ He tossed his ragged explanation over his shoulder as he sprung across the room like an unleashed animal. ‘I need to run.’

  Before she had chance to react, he was through the door and had disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  ‘Fancy meeting you here!’

  Shea gave a violent start across the kitchen, almost dropping the milk bottle in her hand. Brando must have crept up on her. His gravelly greeting arrived by her ear.

  ‘Don’t do that to people!’ Her snapped protest was cut short as she inadvertently stepped backwards, and collided with the damp t-shirt he had screwed up in his hand, and a solid wall of muscle that threatened to blast her cool façade to pieces with flame-thrower efficiency.

  Evasive action needed, and fast!

  One dive, and she’d skewed across the chequered tiles to safety, and was gasping from a distance at the sight of his lithely muscled torso glistening under the bright lights of the kitchen. He dipped to grab a Coke, and the light from the fridge illuminated the fatigue lines on his sweat-streaked forehead.

  She checked her watch as she sloshed milk into the coffee she’d made. ‘Have you really been running for three hours?’

  ‘Yep.’ He grimaced at her. ‘When I run, I push myself beyond exhaustion to the point of oblivion, otherwise I don’t feel I’ve driven myself hard enough. I’m a high energy guy. I like to strive for extremes in every area of my life. That’s how I achieve.’

  Some mission statement! And an extraordinary level of fitness, which went some way to explaining his phenomenal sexual energy the other night. She blanked that thought as it arrived, but not quickly enough to prevent a flush from spreading across her cheeks.

  ‘And have you achieved oblivion?’ Anything to take his attention away from her blush, which was deepening hotly at the thought of the oblivion he’d sent her to. Except his eyes weren’t on her cheeks, they were raking up and down her body, hungrily, as if, given half a chance, he’d like to devour her. Pretty much whole. And her treacherous tingling body would so be up for it. Bad, bad thoughts. She shrank back at that one, drew her dressing gown more closely around her, suddenly feeling woefully under-dressed, and watched his throat, vulnerable and exposed, as he threw back his Coke. At least he’d lost his earlier pallor.