The image is so entrancing that I drift off in a daydream. Damn, Daddy.
“Dree? What did you think of him?”
Shit, I’m supposed to be talking to Jasminta. I take a hasty sip of my coffee. “Over-styled. A total poser with dyed hair and a purple contact lens.”
“Oh? I heard that was just his eyes. Anyway, He must have done something to charm you after that Striker effing Jones mess.”
Panic bolts down my spine as it always does when I hear Striker’s name. Time to get off the phone. I can’t risk showing up to this meeting feeling fragile. “Yeah, he offered me lots and lots of money. My stop’s coming up. I’d better go.”
Jasminta makes me promise to call her the second I know more about the job, and I hang up. There’s still another hour before I have to change trains at Birmingham New Street. I spend it gazing out the train window.
I miss choreography work. This is all I’ve wanted to do since I was a teenager, and last year I thought my dream had shattered beyond repair. Either Rush doesn’t believe what Striker said about me, or he doesn’t care.
I care, though. I don’t want to go through that hell ever again. I must be mad contemplating taking this job for Striker Jones’ archrival.
He must have done something to charm you.
Hating Striker is pretty charming in my book. I cross my legs the other way. I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, but Rush did charm me. Not with his smile and his body. With his ability to dance and his thoughtfulness. I hadn’t expected that from someone like him.
But maybe I’m being unfair, judging him without really knowing him. There’s too much Striker in my head, which is another sign I shouldn’t take this job.
After changing trains, I board a smaller, two-carriage diesel train that chugs its way toward Wales. Just before we reach the border, I get off the train at Weddon-on-Leam, a tiny little station in the middle of nowhere.
No one gets off the train with me. The platform is deserted.
When I head out the open ticket gate, there are no cabs waiting, as I assumed there would be. A tiny, empty parking lot greets me. Beyond the laneway, there are only fields and silence. No shops, and the ticket office is closed.
“What the fuck,” I whisper to myself.
I open the ride app on my phone and see that are no cars available nearby. Of course there aren’t. The map on my phone tells me it’s a three-mile walk to the address that Thomas gave me.
Feeling like a stupid city girl, I pick up my overnight case and start walking.
It’s a sunny spring morning and the laneway is lined with fresh green grass and wildflowers. Not one car passes me. Far across a field, I can see a tractor ploughing, the only sign of life apart from the birds twittering overhead. This really is the middle of nowhere. Good thing I wore sneakers and not high heels.
I pass a pub that’s not open yet and round a corner. A huge stone archway marks the entrance to a long, sweeping drive, and at the far end, I see Blithe Manor. This is the place. The house in the distance is huge.
I get out my phone. The map says to keep walking around the lane for another mile and a half to reach the main entrance, but if this is Rush’s house I could just enter here. I hesitate for a moment, wondering what to do.
My case is heavy. I go in. I walk for several minutes, but the house doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. I look around at the sweeping lawns, the Victorian folly in the distance shrouded by willows, the lake on the eastern side of the mansion.
I’m looking idly around me when I hear an engine. A black Land Rover is coming down the long drive toward me. I feel a pang of apprehension. This is probably the caretaker or something. I’m about to be accused of being a trespassing Saint Cyprian fangirl.
The car stops beside me and the driver’s window glides down. Rush Osman smiles out at me. His silver hair gleams in the morning sunlight and he looks freshly shaved and about forty percent too amused. “Need a lift?”
I push my hair off my face, feeling flustered and annoyed. “I thought there’d be cabs at the station.”
“Not around here.” He gets out of his car, takes my case from me and puts it on the back seat. Then he goes around to the passenger side and opens the door for me. “Don’t get out of London much, do you?”
Hardly ever. I’ve barely been farther than my apartment lately.
I get into the car. In his black ankle boots, black jeans and denim shirt, he doesn’t exactly scream countryside himself. Rush is still smiling.