Pitch Imperfect (23 page)

“No!”

Could he believe her? Rob raked his gaze over her dress, noting the top button was still undone. His heart felt like a piece of lead. She had taken her clothes off for Damien, allowed him to rub his hands over her body, kiss her, even after what they had shared last night. The intimacy this morning. Did she care for him so little?

“I panicked after you told me about the cancer,” she said earnestly. “I was confused. Scared. All I could think of was how I wouldn’t be able to cope with losing you like I did Chloe. Then Damien came over and saw that I was tense. He offered a massage, and promised not to try anything funny.”

Of all the reactions she could have had to his revelation, accepting a massage from the village playboy was not what he’d imagined. Tears, yes; half-naked intimacy with Damien, no.

“Were you going to use him to push me away?”

She looked at the floor. “I thought about it.” Her head came up and her eyes were direct and clear. “But I’m not that woman anymore. I would have talked to you tonight, made you understand I can’t have a future with you. Not now, not ever.”

“And if I disagreed?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I would have—”

Rob’s voice was deceptively quiet. “You would have screamed Damien’s name when I fucked you.”

He hated the angry, crude words that had left his mouth and the hurt expression on her face. Mac and Ben were right; Anjuli wasn’t good for him. He became either a hormonal teenager or a violent primitive whenever he was around her.

He had to calm down, but all he could see in his mind was the image of Damien’s mouth on hers, his hands reaching around to cup her breasts.

Bloody fucking hell!

Why was he still thinking of Anjuli with Damien when the real issue ran leagues deeper that any kiss or caress they may have shared? It transcended the sexual and lay at the foundation of any future they might have together. It was what would allow him to forget what he’d seen, take her into his arms and make love to her.

Or walk away forever like she’d told him countless times was what she wanted.

“Do you love me?”

A simple question requiring a simple answer.

“I...I...”

The silence stretched. And continued. Rob’s entire body felt as though it was a house built on shifting sands, slowly sinking, taking with it all hopes that his love would ever be enough for her. He’d seen the trapped expression on her face too many times not to recognise it.

“You can’t even say it, can you?”

Tears slid from her eyes. “Isn’t it enough that I don’t want any man but you?”

No.

Rob scanned the poem on the wall, using it to recover his control. “I’m jealous as hell right now and so angry I can barely see straight. I almost wish you’d had sex with Damien, that our being together was as simple as making love to you and erasing him or any other man from your mind. But it’s not.”

She had no rejoinder for that, trembling so badly it took every ounce of control he had not to go to her. Maybe she loved him and maybe she didn’t. One thing was sure: she wanted to save herself future pain, and it was time he did the same.

“Love is about risk,” he said steadily. “A risk I refuse to take on a woman who is too afraid to love me the way I deserve. A woman who’ll run away at the first hurdle and regret her life with me.”

“I—”

“Tell me you’ll love me even if I get ill again. Tell me it doesn’t matter, that what we have is worth the risk. I can make that vow to you, Anjuli Carver, unequivocally.”

Anjuli’s voice cracked. “You said you’d be patient, that you would understand and wait for me.”

“Maybe I was wrong, maybe seeing you with Damien changed my mind.”

Tentatively, she placed her hands on his rigid shoulders and stood on tiptoe so she could kiss him. He remained immobile. Her lips trembled as she pressed them into his, hesitantly at first and then with a growing confidence that took his breath away. Slowly, his mouth opened under hers and his arms went around her waist to crush her to his chest. She might protest his language, but she was “his woman.” And to prove it to her he would take her to bed, love her like he wanted to and then—

And as soon as he was gone her fears and doubts would come rushing back. His love for her would be underpinned by the worry that she would have other, worse reactions to any obstacles in their future. He could make love to her until the sun stopped rising, but it wouldn’t be enough. Anjuli would never break through the barriers keeping her a prisoner of her fears. She couldn’t sing and she couldn’t love; she had told him as much, but he hadn’t wanted to believe her.

Sex and fondness may have been enough in his other relationships, but would never be enough from Anjuli. With her it was all or nothing. He knew that now. Trusting her with his heart was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make again. She didn’t love him enough to stay at his side, no matter what.

Avoidance. Abandonment. That’s what awaited him if he gave in to his love for her.

Rob unclasped Anjuli’s arms from around his neck. “You win, it’s time to leave the past where it belongs.”

“Can’t we take it one day at a time, see how it goes, if I can...love you?”

“No.”

“Why?” she cried, stricken.

“Because there are a lot of things I want to experience with you, but getting left at the altar again isn’t one of them.”

Anjuli lowered her eyes and nodded. Tears streamed from her eyes but she made no protest, no attempt to convince him that leaving him again wouldn’t happen. Proof that he should accept that it was over. Rob forced himself to walk to the front door. Once there he paused, his hand on the doorknob. If Anjuli called him back, told him she loved him and wanted him no matter what, he would never leave her side.

The house was silent.

Chapter Nineteen

Anjuli’s Victorian hospital dream was different this time; more frustrating than sorrowful. And bloody painful. Shouting, she woke up in a sweat. The night was dark, and Reiver was curled up at her feet, sleeping. These days the old nightmare took her past the peaceful little rose bush into a sequence that involved running aimlessly through brown mist, followed by pummelling her fists on Heaverlock Castle.

Dream Anjuli was as stupid as the real woman. She knew the order of events by heart but she didn’t slacken her pace until she smacked into a stone wall. Every time. Then the mist would clear. It was sunny over the ruin and she could see a man on the forbidden parapet, back turned, looking down as if searching for something. She would shout that she was coming and search for an elusive entrance to the castle.

Then came the oh-so-intelligent banging of flesh on stone.

She’d hit the ruined walls and they would crumble, only to reform and whack her in the face the second she tried to enter the castle. And every time she found an open door it slammed shut in her face, echoing the sound of her front door shutting behind Rob that awful day.

Anjuli rubbed her nose. Dreams weren’t supposed to feel real, were they? And couldn’t hers have been a little more enigmatic? How about pink bunnies spouting riddles while dancing samba in Iceland, or a drag queen Mona Lisa who took her on a psychedelic trip along with the Ghost of Concerts Past?

Well, she needed neither whack nor quack to get the picture. She should conquer her fears and rescue the prince. Throw in a galloping horse...blah, blah...happily ever after. Except this wasn’t a fairy tale. The prince wasn’t supposed to turn his back. He wasn’t supposed to look through her as if she didn’t exist and leave her. Alone.

Hadn’t Rob said he was a patient man? What happened to understanding her guilt over Chloe? Or how difficult it was to face an uncertain future? He wanted her to say she loved him and she couldn’t. The words had stuck in her throat, refusing to be uttered. So now she screamed at her dream castle three or four times a week. Wedged between her feelings for Rob and a dark sense of foreboding, she went through the bright summer days on autopilot, checking her phone for messages, lifting her head every time a punter walked into the pub and staring at her computer screen in case it pinged with an email.

The only time she’d seen Rob in the past three weeks had been at the pub, at a follow up windmill meeting. She had been worked off her feet and he had left without a single word to her. Not once had he spared her a glance or smiled in her direction.

Composing the email to tell him about her finances the day after he’d caught her with Damien had taken several excruciating hours. At the end she had sent it and cried herself to sleep. Anxiously she waited for his answer, but when he responded she wished that he hadn’t. That way she could have preserved the illusion that his indifference towards her would pass.

She knew every dry, clipped word of his return message by heart.

Further to your communication regarding payment of invoice number 7564 and your financial situation, may I suggest the following: I will purchase Castle Manor from you for the amount you paid and reimburse you for the monies you have expended on the restoration to date.

If you are amenable please contact my solicitor to discuss, details below.

That was it. No “dear” or “yours truly” or even “best regards.” No sign that Rob felt anything other than contempt for her. Nevertheless, she’d gotten lost trying to locate his house in Halton Forest, only to get there and find that he was out. The scribbled note she’d pushed under the door had been ignored. Rob had made his decision about her, and it was final. He wanted the manor, not the lady.

Selling Castle Manor would be akin to losing a good friend; two, if she included Heaverlock Castle. She had only herself to blame for her predicament, of course, but that didn’t stop her from railing against her misfortune.

“The mafia would have put out a hit on Brendan by now,” Ash had said sourly, after her shift that afternoon. “He’d be coughing up the money he owes you—literally.”

Anjuli grimaced. “Maybe I should phone Mum and ask if we have any Italian relatives.”

Mrs. P. was at the other end of the bar. “Good reiver blood would lend you the fierceness you need.”

Did she listen in on every conversation in the village?

Ash escaped to her office, leaving Anjuli to Mrs. P.’s stories of her heroic and bloodthirsty ancestors. “Of course, with a surname like Carver I would imagine your family has its fair share of fighters and—”

“Would you give Rob a message for me?” Anjuli interrupted.

“That’s impossible, dear.”

“Impossible?”

Mrs. P. patted her stomach. “I find a small sherry suits my digestion at this time of day.”

Anjuli poured her a measure of Fino Seco. “On the house.”

A few dainty sips later, Mrs. P. sighed contentedly “Rob is in Boston, signing his contracts. He’s going to build schools in America.”

Rob had gone overseas without telling her?
Her heart sank to her feet, a well-worn trajectory these days. “So it’s definite then? He’s leaving Heaverlock?”

Mrs. P. frowned. “I’ve done all I can to convince him to stay, but changing his mind is like trying to cancel the Common Riding Festival. I blame that sister of his. She put it into his head to leave.”

No
,
it hadn’t been Mac.

Anjuli listened to Mrs. P.’s ramble about Rob’s move to America until she was glassy-eyed. Why had she poured her such a large measure? The smile she’d fixed to her face felt like a dental prong, stretching her lips into a grotesque facsimile of happiness while inside she was writhing in pain.

Finally, Mrs. P. heaved herself off the barstool. “I really must be going.”

“If Rob phones could you ask him to call me? I need to discuss Castle Manor. In person. We could meet here when he gets back or he could come to the house...if he wants to.”

Mrs. P. patted her hand. “Of course, dear. Rob’s agreed to a September start date in Boston. He doesn’t want to leave Mac until she’s on her feet. After that there will be nothing to keep him here, will there?”

Anjuli hiccupped, trying to catch her sobs before they escaped. Viking saw her and looked away, embarrassed. Damn it, she’d gone from being unable to cry to joining the weepy women club. All she had to do was will herself not to blubber and she was sobbing.

And suffocating.

Her head had somehow ended up in Mrs. P.’s hibiscus-scented bosom and her nostrils were crushed against the big plastic buttons of her cardigan.

“You can still win him back, dear,” Mrs. P. soothed. “My bet has never changed. ‘Donald,’ I said, ‘those two will be together by the end of the summer.’ But you’re running out of time, and I hate losing. Maybe you should put out. That is the right term, isn’t it?”

Anjuli half laughed, half sobbed. She accepted Mrs. P.’s lacy handkerchief and blew her nose. “It’s too late for us. I ruined everything.”

“Then maybe it’s time for some restoration work.”

* * *

But Anjuli found that she couldn’t restore anything, much less herself. The only way to fix what was wrong was if she destroyed the blasted walls she kept screaming at in her dreams. How do you force yourself not to fear? Not to feel guilt or remorse? Was there a magic pill she could take? A panacea for heartache? If she told Rob she wasn’t afraid to love him it would be a lie, and no matter how much she missed him she wouldn’t do that.

Maybe she would have this dream she was battling through forever, see herself punching through castle walls only for them to spring up again. The man on the parapet wouldn’t see or hear her shouts; the brown mist would get as murky as exhaust fumes and she would end up choking on it. Her lungs would fill with loss while the castle moved farther and farther away.

Her only companion would be Reiver, barking loudly in her ear and sinking his teeth into her leg. Anjuli jolted awake. She tried to breathe and filled her lungs with acrid smoke.

Her house was on fire.

Her chest felt as if it was bursting and her throat was closing over. Reiver barked and whined, nipping at her legs while she coughed. Anjuli dropped to the floor, where the air was thinner. The wood felt like hot coals under her palms.

In the distance she heard a siren and, low to the ground, she summoned the willpower to move. She couldn’t tell if the entire bottom floor was on fire, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Adrenaline kept her going, made her grab Chloe’s album from her bedside table and soak her dressing gown in water from the bedroom basin. Thank God for listed buildings that didn’t allow tearing out period basins. She threw the towel over her face and followed Reiver’s lead. Black smoke billowed up from the sitting room, and she tried to hold her breath, but couldn’t make it to the front door without breathing in the burning air.

Once outside and at a safe distance, Anjuli collapsed, retching and struggling for breath, then fell onto her back. The sky was starless, unforgiving black. Maybe there were no stars when you died; maybe they blinked out along with your soul. Oh God, was this it? Was this how she died?

She was going to suffocate and Rob would never know how she felt about him. Anjuli reached out to emptiness as black as Rob’s hair, seeing him instead of the smoke, wanting to tell him she loved him, but he slipped through her fingers. She tried to get up so she could follow, fell and cracked her skull on something hard before total darkness overtook her.

* * *

Smoke inhalation.

Concussion.

Broken heart.

Nothing the doctor could do about the last one, but after two days in hospital she no longer felt as if her nostrils were burning with every breath and her chest was free of fumes. She was being released in the afternoon, waiting for Ash and Viking to pick her up and writing an email to her parents, telling them she was fine and the police were investigating the fire, treating it as arson.

And her like a criminal. Ben had dropped by to question her, though it had felt more like an interrogation.

“Any other injuries?” he’d asked, lifting his brow when she told him Reiver had woken her up.

“Lucky.”

What the hell did he mean by that? “Yeah, it was,” she answered.

“We found your stolen building materials last night. They were on Angus Buchanan’s farm. A few of his farmhands hid them under a tarpaulin in a cow shed. We also found spray paint the same colour as the graffiti.”

Anjuli digested the information slowly. Her head ached, and finding out that the orchestrator was someone she knew was making it worse. “I knew the man was a jerk but I never thought he was a criminal jerk. I want him fined to within an inch of his misogynistic, xenophobic arse or better yet, put away for life. Failing that, I’ll consider capital punishment.”

“He’s denying it, saying he doesn’t know why the materials were on his farm.”

“Bastard!” she cried.

Ouch
. One should avoid loud outbursts after near-death experiences, lest one’s head explode. “Do you mind if I shut my eyes?”

She couldn’t look at him without thinking of Rob.

A few tapping noises on his tablet. “Is Castle Manor insured?”

She nodded, hoping he wouldn’t ask to see the policy. Then he’d note the enrolment date and tell Rob it was after the materials had been stolen. She might have come clean to him about her finances but she didn’t have to reveal all her stupid mistakes, did she? She’d spoken to the insurers that morning, answering their pedantic questions. No, she hadn’t left a burning log in the fireplace, lit a sparkler indoors or fallen asleep with candles burning. She’d had no visitors who’d acted negligently. Yes, she had a pet but he restricted his smoking habit to the great outdoors.

Her exasperated comment hadn’t gone down so well.

The good news: the fire brigade had arrived in time to contain the flames to the sitting room and library, and not all her furniture or books had burned. The bad: everything else about her life. Every. Bloody. Thing.

At least she’d sold her piano; losing it to flames would have been hard to bear, but not nearly as hard as the loss of one small, crystal sparrow. Ash had found the broken, blackened figurine on the floor, perhaps knocked over by a burning book. When she got out of hospital she would bury the shards in the garden or trek to Jamie’s Iron Age hillfort.

“Were you alone?” Ben said.

His disembodied voice sounded faintly accusing. What did it matter if she was alone? She’d almost got burnt to crispy crackling. Wasn’t that more important?

“Damien Mitchell came over for a little while. We had dinner and then he left.”

“I see.”

Anjuli controlled her irritation, counting the seconds as they ticked by. Fifteen...eighteen...Ben was a master at creating pregnant silences and then pushing out a ten-pound sentence at the end of them.

“I spoke to Rob last night. He told me you’ve been having some financial problems.”

Anjuli’s eyes popped open. Had Ben told him about the fire? Had he asked about her? Would he phone, and what would she say to him if he did? Slowly, Ben’s suspicious tone worked its way to her brain, and Anjuli sat up and scowled. A mistake, as she had to wait for three blurry Bens to merge into one.

He looked down at her impassively, seemingly alert to her every gesture and expression. “Anything you want to tell me?”

Well
,
you take the high road and I’ll take the low
,
and hopefully never the two shall meet again.
“I didn’t set fire to my own house, if that’s what you mean. The only incendiary tendencies I have involve people, not property. I’m the victim, remember? Ash said that somebody made an anonymous call from somewhere outside Heaverlock.”

A curt nod.

“Then it’s obviously that person who started the fire. How could I phone it in while I busy inhaling smoke, almost dying?”

“Not impossible.”

“Do you honestly believe I would do such a thing?”

His silence was answer enough.