Strong enough to hate the man she’d once loved.
Because hate him she did. There was no doubt about that. No doubt in her mind whatsoever.
He treated you like dirt—and then he came back to treat you even worse than dirt!
All the arguments that she’d poured out at Imogen’s that long, nightmare day when she’d fled to her friend’s house, churning with emotion, sounded again in her head. Imogen had let her pour them out, let her purge herself, and then, making her a large, hot, strong mug of tea, she’d run through all the options that presented themselves.
This cottage in the middle of winter, in the middle of nowhere, had not been top of Imogen’s list. Top of her list, Alexa knew, was simply changing the locks on Alexa’s flat, changing her mobile and landline number, paying a solicitor to write to Guy de Rochemont informing him not to attempt any further contact with his client, and then, as a perfect remedy to all of Alexa’s ills, going out with Richard Saxonby as often as it took for her to realise he was a perfect match, then moving in with him, settling down and, best of all, marrying him.
‘He’s absolutely ideal for you!’ Imogen had waxed lyrical, running through, yet again, all the reasons why he was such a wonderful man and perfect for Alexa.
But Alexa knew that his main attraction, for her friend, was that he was not Guy. That was all that really mattered to Imogen. Keeping Guy away from Alexa, keeping him out of her life. Out of her head. Most importantly of all, out of her heart.
‘Thank goodness he’s shown his true colours—not that I was ever in doubt anyway,’ she seethed. ‘But now even you, blind as you were to him, have seen him for what he is!’
To Imogen it was obvious, Alexa could see, that the way to rid herself of Guy de Rochemont was by replacing him with Richard. But for Alexa it was not that simple.
‘It wouldn’t be fair on Richard,’ she said. ‘And anyway…’ her chest heaved ‘…I don’t want to be in London. It’s too—’
Dangerous—that was what she meant to say. Too dangerous. Oh, she could change her locks and her telephone numbers, but that wouldn’t make her feel safe.
Safe from Guy—safe from what he wanted of her.
Memory burned like a flame, licking over her flesh. It was agony—and worse, far worse, than agony….
She shut her eyes, trying to stamp out the flame, stamp out the memory imprinted onto her body. Her body fusing with his, melding, becoming one, becoming whole…
Desperately she tore her mind away, forcing her eyes to open again. Imogen was talking, immediately sympathetic. ‘I agree—a change of scene is exactly what you need. Somewhere completely different. A holiday—you haven’t had one in ages. Somewhere tropical—the Caribbean, the Maldives, the Seychelles!’ Seeing her friend’s expression, she hurried on. ‘We’ll go together. I can rearrange my diary today—there’s nothing I can’t get out of—then we’ll hit the internet and book online. We can be at the airport tomorrow!’
‘I don’t think—’ Alexa started hesitantly. What Imogen was suggesting was the very last thing she would possibly want.
‘It’s just what you need,’ Imogen repeated. ‘A complete change of scene, total relaxation. Getting away from everything—especially that adulterous bastard!’
Alexa shook her head. ‘I want to move out of London,’ she said.
Imogen was aghast. ‘You can’t run away! Why should you? He’s the one that’s been a despicable rat. Why should you have to go? What about your commissions?’
‘I’ve nearly finished the current one, and you’ll just have to cancel anything else.’
Imogen bit her lip. ‘I won’t let you mess up your career for that creep.’
Alexa just looked at her. ‘I’ve no heart for it any more. I don’t want anything more to do with that world. All those rich, powerful men… It…it reminds me too much…’
‘OK,’ Imogen allowed, hearing the shaky note in Alexa’s voice. ‘Well, why not go on some kind of art-break, or something, for the rest of the winter? Move to Morocco, or Brazil, somewhere you can just paint your own stuff for a couple of months? I’ll postpone any bookings and say you’ve gone somewhere warm for your health for the time being.’
Alexa nodded slowly, murmuring agreement, and Imogen was reassured. But she was aghast when she discovered just what Alexa had decided on.
‘No, no, no, no!’ she cried. ‘That’s just not what you need. Holing up in some godforsaken hovel in the wilds of Devon in the middle of winter!’
But her objections fell on deaf ears. Alexa packed her suitcase, and enough of her art materials to keep her going, put away the personal effects in her apartment, and handed it over to an estate agent to let it for six months. Then she hired a car, loaded it up, and set off.
‘The estate agent has my contact details, but I’ve told him not to let you have them unless it’s a genuine life or death emergency,’ she told an appalled Imogen.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ Imogen said disbelievingly.
‘I need to do it.’ It was all Alexa could manage to say.
It had been true, and was true still, she knew, despite the drear, cheerless countryside—or because of it. The leafless trees, the cold, raw weather, the grey, lowering skies and bare, muddy fields tuned in exactly with what she felt.