31 Days of Summer (31 Days #2)
Read 31 Days of Summer (31 Days #2) Online
Authors: C.J. Fallowfield
Kindle Edition
Version 1E
ASIN: B00P5KLFNQ
Copyright © 2014 C. J.
Fallowfield
All Rights Reserved Worldwide
Any unauthorized reprint or use
of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
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without express written permission from the author
This book
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations and places
or events, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or
locales is entirely coincidental
Image Copyright © 2014
Edited by Karen J
Proofreading by Fallowettes
Cover Art by Kellie Dennis at
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Foreword
Thank you so much for buying
31 Days of Summer
.
This is book two of the
31 Days
duology
which should be read in sequence.
Find out more on my social media pages:
http://www.cjfallowfield.co.uk
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Chapters
Saturday 7
th
December
Dan
I picked up the manila
file that Ian had prepared for me, the same file he prepared for all tenants of
the boathouse. The moment I saw the photo of the smiling blonde with piercing
green eyes, I’d felt drawn to her. She was stunning. I’d been with loads of
stunning women in my life, but none of them drew any real emotion from me,
other than a sexual one, a need to dominate them in the bedroom. This Miss
Baxter intrigued me though. I sat at my desk and read her file, read what she’d
lost, how the men in her life had abused her trust and I was seething. She’d
been through enough, she didn’t deserve to be treated the way that last
arsehole had treated her. I never allowed bookings over the festive period, I
always gave my housekeepers the two weeks off, which meant if anyone stayed in
the boathouse I’d have to look after them, but it would do this girl good to
get away. I sat back in my chair as I held up her photo and looked at it again.
I was very selective with who came to stay on my
island, as CEO of Davenport Technologies, a company worth billions, I valued my
privacy. Very few people up here even knew my real name, they all knew me as “Dan”
the guy who lived on the island taking care of the property for his friend, not
Oliver Daniel Davenport, billionaire recluse and island owner. My housekeepers knew,
the management at the hotel I owned further up the loch, along with “Pete the
Pub” the manager of The Stag public house and Conn, his right hand guy. They
were sworn to secrecy. Since the car accident I’d gone to great lengths, at
great expense, to have my personal photo deleted from any company profile and
all articles on the internet or with major newspaper or TV archives. It was
amazing what money could buy you, especially at short notice. A detailed report
on tenants was essential. I had to ensure that it wasn’t a journalist who’d
sniffed out a lead coming to try and get a scoop since I’d disappeared three
and a bit years ago. I sighed as I remembered how my lack of discretion back
then had been my downfall.
I’d been arrogant and cocky, flashing my wealth
and status around, using it to help me bed a willing line of women in the city.
I’d come up to Scotland for Hogmanay one year, stayed at the hotel on the loch
and had spotted the pretty brunette working as a maid. I’d propositioned her
one morning and she’d declined me, saying it was against hotel policy to
fraternise with guests. That had pissed me off. I was used to getting what I
wanted. Within days I’d purchased the hotel and had called her into the office
to tell her that as I now owned the hotel the fraternisation policy had been
waived.
I should have realised then how stupid I was, the
minute she knew I had money she was all over me, but she kept teasing me,
telling me she was religious and wouldn’t have sex until she was married. I
didn’t want marriage, but no one turned me down, so she was a challenge and I
was determined to bed her. I’d flown up regularly from London, between seeing
other woman, convinced I’d wear her down. We’d got as far as third base when
she stopped me and told me if it meant that much to me she’d go on the pill and
I could take her virginity. When I returned in the summer I finally bedded her.
She seemed fairly relaxed for a virgin, but I was too pleased with myself to
see the warning signs. I spent a few weeks up here on a hiking and relaxation
break, keeping in touch with the office over the upgraded server I’d had
installed in the hotel. We slept together a few times, my usual limit with
women and I flew home with no intention of ever seeing her again, until I got
the call from her parents in September to say their daughter was pregnant and
was I going to make an honest woman of her?
I flew back up in shock and met with them. They
were understandably absolutely mortified. All the guilt I felt over the loss of
Rebecca and my son came flooding back. I’d never done the right thing by
marrying her, which my parents had been horrified at, and I’d lost the only
woman I’d ever loved and my child too. I felt so guilty over Moira’s
predicament, maybe I saw a chance at redemption, so I agreed and we started
making arrangements for an immediate wedding. When I saw the smile plastered
all over her face I realised she’d tricked me. She’d deliberately got pregnant
to snare me. I was so furious I never touched her sexually again. We had a
small private wedding ceremony in a closed room in the hotel, with only our
parents in attendance, much to her dismay, but I insisted it was to protect her
family from the shame if it got out that we weren’t married before she got
knocked up. I left her in the honeymoon suite and spent my wedding night drowning
my sorrows in The Stag. Pete had let me stay for a lock in and I spilled
everything and was surprised when he burst out laughing. It turned out my
“virgin bride” was the local go to girl if you wanted a leg over and she’d
always been on the lookout for a guy with money who could get her out of this
small village. Pete suggested I have a paternity test done, to see if the kid
was even mine, if it wasn’t I could try and annul the marriage. I’d dragged her
to get a test done in a private clinic the next day, as well as having an STD
test myself, and was furious when I found out her pregnancy was the one thing
she hadn’t lied about. I drove back in a temper and told her our marriage was a
fake, but for the sake of our child I’d make it work, but she was going to have
to move to London. She’d started yelling at me, I’d yelled back and must have
taken my eyes off the road for a fraction of a second too long. I shuddered as
the memory of her screams as the car left the road and flipped down a ravine
came back to me. I could remember every moment of it as we rolled and I was tossed
around like a rag doll with the noise of crunching metal and breaking glass
piercing my ears, along with excruciating pain in my side.
I’d woken up in the hospital with cuts and
contusions, concussion, a broken leg and a nasty laceration from where the
jagged metal of the car door had ripped my side open and smaller scars from
where pieces of glass and gravel had embedded in my skin. I’d got off lightly.
Moira had ironically refused to put her seatbelt on, in case it hurt the baby.
She’d been catapulted through the windscreen as we’d left the road and had
suffered a broken back and neck, a punctured lung from her broken ribs, lost
the baby and had gone into a coma and been put on a ventilator. We were lucky,
so I was told. Another car had been following us and had called emergency
services, we’d both have died if we’d been down there for any length of time,
though in Moria’s case death might have been preferable, for all of us. I was
surprised at the sense of loss I felt for my second unborn child. I’d been
furious when I’d found out she was pregnant, as it meant I was going to have to
stay married to her, but the moment I’d discovered it was mine and phoned my mother
to tell her from the hospital, I’d been overwhelmed with emotion. It was like I
was being given a second chance. She’d made me promise to stand by Moira, she
was religious herself and believed in family values. It was the least I could
do.
While I recovered in the private hospital, with
Moira next door, I insisted on being wheel chaired in to sit with her during
afternoon visiting hours. I didn’t know what to say to her, we barely knew each
other, but she was my wife, for better or worse, so I held her hand until I was
wheeled out again. The longer I spent with her, the more guilt I felt. I’d lost
focus as I’d been driving, the accident was my fault. The more my dreams were
interwoven with the nightmares of the accident, the more I began to wonder if I
was still drunk from the night before. Pete was the only one I shared that
with, he insisted that the alcohol would have been out of my system by the time
I’d driven, but I wasn’t convinced. The guilt ate away at me and when I was
discharged from the hospital, I’d withdrawn from my previous playboy lifestyle
and had put the wheels in motion to protect my identity and location so I could
hide out up here.
I purchased the island and lived at the hotel
while I had my house built and housed an even better server than I’d had
installed at the hotel, in a room sandwiched between the utility and cinema
room, so I could oversee my business from there. I recruited a local married
couple, Mr. and Mrs. McAdams to be my housekeeper, cook and maintenance team
and purchased a new house in town for Moira’s parents, with an annexe
especially for Moira. I paid for a rotating team of care specialists and
visited every day but Sunday, from two until four. Sitting with her for a few
hours every day alleviated some of my guilt and pain. Her parents kept trying
to talk me into letting her go and turning off the ventilator, but I couldn’t.
Despite experts telling me her brain showed no signs of activity and that she
wouldn’t wake up again, I knew if I gave approval to turn off that machine, I’d
be killing her for real this time. I wasn’t ready for that. I didn’t want to be
responsible for losing another woman who I’d let get too close to me.
Pete visited regularly and insisted I needed to
socialise more, that there was nothing wrong with moving on and having a life. I
disagreed. I went to the pub occasionally, but ignored the advances of all the women
and girls who batted their eyes at me. My cock obsession was what had got me
into this mess to start with, plus I was still married, I had some morals. I
made do with masturbating, often. When Pete’s daughter announced she was
getting married, she pleaded with me to let her have her honeymoon in the
boathouse, insisting they couldn’t afford to go abroad and that it would be a
romantic location. I couldn’t see it, the place was a shell, I’d offered to pay
to send them abroad, but she’d begged me to hear her out, she was scared of
flying and really wanted somewhere local. I’d ferried her over and she’d talked
me through her ideas of how I could rebuild it and make it into the perfect
romantic getaway. I gave in and had it converted and she was the first
occupant. Mr. and Mrs. McAdams told me that I didn’t keep them busy enough for
what I paid them, so suggested I rent out the boathouse all year around and
they’d look after it for me. I agreed on the condition that everyone was
thoroughly vetted and tasked Ian from my firm with the job. He could hack
virtually any computer system designed, the guy was a genius and provided me
with in depth reports on potential tenants and I’d decide if they could stay. I
never rented over the Christmas period, I had better things to do than wait on
other people when Mr. and Mrs. McAdams were on holiday. I had enough trouble
looking after myself, cooking wasn’t one of my talents.
My no Christmas bookings rule had been upheld until
I sat there looking at Ellie Baxter’s photograph after reading her file. She’d
been through enough, if anyone deserved to have some space to re-evaluate their
life it was her. I’d just have to suck it up and look after her and it would be
a great opportunity to see if a woman I was attracted to would like me for me,
not Ollie Davenport and all his wealth. I took a deep breath and rang her
number to tell her the news.
I put the phone down and frowned. I’d not felt
that alive in years, just from chatting to a damn woman over the phone. I
looked at her picture again. I liked this woman, really liked her. Looking at
her picture had made my cock jerk, if there was anyone I could see myself breaking
my vows for and fucking, it was her. I wanted to get to know her, properly. I
picked up the phone and dialled Ian and asked him to hack her account and find
out what hobbies she enjoyed, then arranged to have some of my things packed up
and moved to the boathouse. I didn’t have much in the way of personal effects,
so left most of my clothes in the wardrobe and just had my toiletries, laptop
and key paperwork moved down, then locked the remaining paperwork in the filing
cabinet and stuck my printer in there on top of Ellie’s file. I wanted to meet
this girl as “the help” to see if there was any real spark between us.
Ian called back and said she was into reading and
emailed me her eBook library. I rang the local bookstore and ordered copies of
each book on the list and another hundred books that they’d recommend based on
her reading history and offered a substantial financial incentive to have them
all delivered by Monday lunchtime. It was about time those shelves in my cinema
room were put to good use and if books made her happy, books she was going to
have.