The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (43 page)

“Great breakout area, don’t you think? Perfect for a pool
table, some sofas, a bit of music.” He said. She had her head buried in one of
the many wooden chests fixed along the walls. He strode to the far end of the
room, pushing back a screen on squeaky wheels.

“Hey, what’s this?”

She looked up. Half a dozen steps led up to a pair of narrow
doors. The doors were paned with glass but the glass had been blacked out. He
tried them.

“Stuck, or locked, or both.” He took a crowbar from the tool
bag, easing it into the gap, it made a loud crack and as he pushed the doors
open, moths and beetles scrabbled for cover. He brushed cobwebs away. The doors
led onto a patch of overgrown gravel, then a lower lawn, a grassy slice of beach
and then the shore.

“Come and see,” he called to her, amazed the house, so high
above the village, secretly slid down to the water once you were inside. He
looked up. “Hey, I’ve found a balcony, a tiny little Juliet balcony.” He pulled
at the strands of ivy, trailing down. “Romantic.”

“There hasn’t been much romance here in a long time,” she
said, beating dust off the drapes at the door with her clipboard.

“Come out here,” he demanded, taking her hand, pulling her
outside to stand on the gravel beside him looking down at the secret beach.

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “It’s like a little smuggler’s
cove.”

The sun was sliding towards the horizon, the sky cloudless
and bleached blue. They stood side by side, arms touching. They could feel the
heat. She dropped his hand and stepped back inside.

“Do you want to make a start on the painting, or have we
other jobs?” He called after her.

“The first coat’s not dry yet, that’s tomorrow’s job. Let’s
get stuck into these chests, see what we can sling or recycle.”

“Good plan.” He agreed, not moving from his lookout post.
The bewitching promise of a glorious sunset rooted him to the spot. “Look at
this.”

She was poking through a pile of files.

“There’s so much that should have been thrown away, medical
records from years ago.”

“Just bin them,” he advised. “Come and look at the sunset
woman.”

She had a headache, her feet hurt. She dropped the bin bag
and, kicking off her shoes, went to join him.

“At last,” he smiled into her face. A light breeze was
coming off the water, the air sweet and clean. They stood shoulder to shoulder
looking out. It stretched before them, a smooth of green, a rustle of blond and
then the sea; deep, dark and glistening. She shivered. He put an arm around her
shoulders.

She inhaled deeply and nestled into him, his scent mixing
pleasingly with the salt air. She put her head on his shoulder, he leaned down
to her, rubbing his cheek briefly on her hair, breathing her in. She lifted her
chin to speak, her lips almost touching the small, soft space of skin beneath
his ear. The sun had turned into a huge, orange orb.

“This is so beautiful,” he whispered, staring straight
ahead. “I could stay here, like this, forever.”

“Me too,” she replied, the breath from her words tickled his
skin. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close, a gentle, brotherly
embrace she was free to release herself at any point. She looked up at him, his
eyes were soft, kind, loving. She was suddenly tearful.

“Hey, hey,” he said cupping her chin in his hand. “You’re
too beautiful to be always so sad.”

She blinked the tears away, then standing on tiptoe she
kissed him, the lightest kiss, her mouth just brushing his lips and releasing
herself, she went back into the house. He turned to follow her and then
stopped. Pushing his hands into his pockets he frowned out towards the sea,
breathing deeply, willing the desire away. He watched the sun start to sink.

“Come inside,” she called out to him, “I’ve something to
show you.”

The room was gloomy now the sun had dipped, he went to
switch on the lights.

“Don’t, come here.” She said softly, her voice was coming
from behind the screen, near the drapes. He could not see her, he followed her
voice, his foot caught in something soft, he kicked it aside.

“Are you hiding?” He asked, with a smile in his voice. He
pulled the drapes aside. She stood there in the half light, her hair loose
around her shoulders, her blouse open to the waist, her breasts barely covered
by a sheer vest top. She had taken off her long chambray skirt and her smooth
legs shone like marble against the dark, full length curtains. She raised her
arms above her head, leaning back against the wall so he could see all of her,
every inch of her from head to toe. She was smiling, a low sweet smile, her
lips parted.

He was stunned, too shocked to speak. His eyes flickered as
his gaze swept over her. He tried to look away but his body was responding in a
way he had not felt for years. Seeing him struggle, she gasped and pulled her
blouse closed, stooping to collect her skirt.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice a rasp in her
throat.

“Oh God, don’t be.” He begged, taking her hand, letting the
skirt fall.

Literally dozens of fabulous people have put up with me
writing this book. I would like to thank you all, especially my fantastic
family, the folks, the sis, the other half and one’s aunts
Tricia
Broome
and
Alice Hall
; those
dear friends and colleagues who have listened, trying not to yawn, for your
unlimited patience, encouragement and support. Far too many to mention but you
know who you are.

A sincere and heartfelt thanks to those who helped make
it physically happen...
Jan Brigden
,
Julie Cohen
, Rebecca Connell,
Helen Corner and the participants in the 2010 Cornerstones Writing Women’s
Commercial Fiction Course,
Amanda Grange
, Sue Peebles and the wonderful
writers at the Arvon Centre in Inverness,
June Tate
, Michelle Tayton,
Natalie
Thew
and not forgetting
David Burton
, a far from token male!

My very special friends and colleagues in the Romantic
Novelists’ Association, and particularly the Leicester Chapter, including Jean
Chapman, Lynda Dunwell,
Margaret Kaine
, Cathy Mansell, Katharine Garbera
and Alex Gutteridge, they are one of the most amazing groups of talented and
feisty females I have ever encountered.

And last but not least, the New Romantics4,
Mags Cullingford
,
June Kearns
and
Lizzie Lamb
– a force to be reckoned with!

Adrienne Vaughan has been
making up stories since she could speak; primarily to entertain her sister
Reta, who from a very early age never allowed a plot or character to be
repeated –
tough
audience
. As soon as she could pick up a pen,
she started writing them down. It was no surprise she wanted to be a
journalist; ideally, the editor of a glossy music and fashion magazine, so she
could meet and marry a pop star –
some of that came true –
and in common
with so many, still holds the burning ambition to be a ‘
Bond Girl’!

She now runs a busy PR
practice and writes poems, short stories and ideas for books, in her spare
time. She is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and a founder
member of the indie publishing group The New Romantics4.

Adrienne lives in
Leicestershire with her husband, two cocker spaniels and a retired dressage
horse called Marco. The Hollow Heart is her debut novel. The sequel, A Change
of Heart