Modern Romance July 2015 Books 1-4. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
wistful rather than provocative. And when he stopped to think about it, hadn’t there been a little catch in her voice as she’d said goodbye?
He hadn’t needed to read the few words she’d written on hotel notepaper to know that she wasn’t planning on coming back.
He stared at it.
Thanks.
He frowned. For what, exactly? The job or the sex?
I had a fabulous time in Venice, and I’m glad that the photos were such a success, but I’m missing Cornwall and I have a garden which is missing me.
Take good care of yourself, Loukas.
Jess.
She hadn’t even put a kiss, she’d just drawn one of those stupid, smiley faces and he screwed up the sheet of paper, crushing it viciously in the palm of his hand. She’d walked out on him. She’d turned her back on him. Again. She was arrogant, she was haughty and he didn’t need this.
He did not need this.
Stalking over to the drinks cabinet, he poured himself a glass of vodka and tossed it back in one deft mouthful, the way Dimitri had taught him.
Only the liquor didn’t do what it was supposed to do. It didn’t douse the fury which had started to flame inside him. It didn’t stop him from wanting to haul her into his arms and...what?
Have sex with her?
Yes. His mouth twisted. That was what he wanted.
All he wanted.
He paced around his suite, wondering why tonight it felt like a cage, despite the unparalleled luxury of the fixtures and fittings. Because he’d grown used to having her just along the corridor—was that it? And how the hell could that happen in such a short time?
Because it hadn’t been a short time, he realised. This had been bubbling away under the surface for years.
He forced himself to concentrate on work, losing himself in the negotiations to open a branch of Lulu in Singapore’s Orchard Road. And there was other good news which should have helped put Jessica Cartwright into the background of his mind. His sales team informed him excitedly that sales of precious stones in the London store alone had shot up by a staggering twenty-five per cent following the Valentine’s Day advert—and they were planning to use the same advertisement on a global basis. It really was going to be big.
He went to the gym every night for punishing workouts, which left his body exhausted but his mind still racing. He turned down dinner invitations and threw himself into his work, which for once did not provide its all-encompassing distractions.
But life went on and the press was still going crazy. Gabe Steel phoned to say that his agency had been fielding calls from media outlets ever since Jess’s piece had gone to press, since everyone was keen to discover how the sporty tennis star had transformed herself into such a vamp. Would she like to give an interview to one of the papers? Would she do a short slot on breakfast TV, or the even more popular mid-morning show? Were they planning to use her in another campaign any time soon?
‘And?’ bit out Loukas. ‘It was supposed to be a one-off.’
‘I know, but we’d be crazy not to capitalise on this,’ said Gabe. ‘The trouble is that nobody can get hold of her. She isn’t answering her phone, or her emails. I’m thinking of sending—’
‘No. Don’t bother doing that. I’ll go,’ said Loukas, and it wasn’t until he’d put the phone down that it occurred to him that Gabe hadn’t questioned why the company boss should be chasing down to the other end of the country after some random model.
He set off early in the morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise and the roads were empty, save for the occasional lorry. It was a long time since he’d been to Cornwall and it brought back memories of a different life. He remembered the first time he’d seen it. His Russian boss had owned huge chunks of land there, as well as mooring one of his boats in Padstow—and the summer he’d spent there had been the most glorious of his life. For a boy brought up in the crowded backstreets of Athens, it had felt like a different world to Loukas. The wildness and the beauty. The sense of being remote. The salty air and the crash of the ocean. As the roads began to narrow into lanes and he passed through picture-perfect little villages, he thought how little had really changed.
And wasn’t it funny how your feet automatically guided you to a place you hadn’t seen in eight long years? The Cartwright mansion could still be seen from a distance, like some shining citadel outlined against the crisp blue of the winter sky, with its mullioned windows and its soaring roofs, and the lavender-edged gardens which swept right down to the cliffs. Across to one side, where the land was flatter, was the footpath which passed the tennis court where once he had watched Jess practise.
But when he rang the doorbell, a woman in her thirties appeared—a small child hiding behind her legs. The woman smiled at him and automatically touched her hair.
‘Can I help you?’
He frowned, trying to work out who she could possibly be. ‘I’m looking for Jess. Jessica.’
‘Cartwright?’
‘That’s right.’
‘She doesn’t live here any more. We bought it from the people she sold it to. She’s up on Atlantic Terrace now—near the cliff path. The little house right on the end, the one with the crooked chimney—do you know it?’
He didn’t know it but he nodded, his mind working overtime as he thanked the woman and parked his car in the village, telling himself it was because he needed the exercise and not because he didn’t want to be seen by Jess as he approached.
But that wasn’t strictly true. His thoughts were reeling and he was trying to make some sense of them. Had she sold up to simplify her life, or because it was too big for her and her half-sister?
He found what was in fact a cottage and it was small. Very small. He rapped loudly on the door, but there was no reply and suddenly he wondered what he was going to do if she’d gone away. She could be anywhere. He didn’t know a single thing about her daily life, he realised. He’d imagined her life staying exactly the same, while his own had moved on. It had been part of his fixed image of Jess—the upper-class blonde in her country mansion. Because wasn’t it easier to be angry with a stereotype than with a real person?
He walked to the back of the property and that was where he found her, attacking the bare earth furiously with a spade. She didn’t hear him at first and as he found himself looking at the denim tightening over her buttocks, it was difficult not to appreciate the sheer grace of her movements.
She must have heard him, or sensed him, because suddenly she whirled round—her face growing through a whole series of emotions but so rapidly that he couldn’t make out a single one except for the one which settled there, and it was one which was distinctly unwelcoming.
She leant heavily on the spade as if she needed it for support. ‘What are you doing here, Loukas?’
‘Parakalo,’ he said sardonically. ‘Nice to see you, too.’
She seemed to remember herself and forced a cool smile.
‘Sorry. It just came as a bit of a shock, you creeping up on me like that.’
‘Creeping?’ he echoed.
‘You know what I mean.’ She shrugged, but the movement seemed to take a lot of effort. ‘I mean, obviously, you’re not just passing.’
‘Obviously.’
She looked at him with her eyebrows raised as if she wanted him to help her out, but something stubborn had taken residence inside him and he didn’t feel like helping her out.
‘So why are you here?’
It was a question