CHAPTER TWO
One month later
‘WHATDOYOUMEAN, I can’t drive to Cariad Cottage?’ Jack Wolfe stared incredulously at the old farmer, who was staring back at him as if he’d lost his mind.
Maybe he had. Why hadn’t he been able to forget the woman who had ruined all his best laid plans four long weeks ago now? So much so he’d finally hired a private detective to find her. And rearranged a ton of meetings first thing this morning to make a six-hour drive to the middle of nowhere just to confront her.
‘Not in that, boyo,’ the man said in a thick Welsh accent, glancing at the Mercedes Benz EQS convertible Jack had liberated from his garage at five o’clock that morning when he’d finally been given an address and discovered Little Red Riding Hooker was his ex-fiancée’s older sister.
‘You’d need a tractor, or a quad, maybe,’ the farmer added. ‘Or you could walk. Take about an hour—maybe two.’ He glanced down at Jack’s shoes. ‘But there’s a storm heading in.’
What storm? There had been no mention of a storm on his weather app. The sky above the treetops on the edge of the forest was startlingly blue, not a cloud in sight. Perhaps the guy was a friend of Katherine Medford—and was trying to head him off.
Well, you can forget that, mate.He had a score to settle with Miss Red.
He intended to get payback, not just for the broken engagement—which was now threatening to screw up the Smyth-Brown takeover—but for all the sleepless nights in the last month when he’d been woken from dreams of apple orchards and scantily clad wenches to find himself unbearably aroused.
Somehow, he’d become fixated on the woman. And he didn’t like being fixated on anyone or anything. It suggested a loss of control he would not tolerate.
She owed him.
‘Fine. I’ll walk,’ he said, tugging up the collar of his jacket and opening the muscle car’s boot. He toed off his designer loafers and stamped on brand-new walking boots. He threw the car keys to the farmer, who caught them one-handed.
‘There’s two hundred in it if you keep an eye on the car for me until I return,’ he said.
The man nodded, then asked, ‘You want me to send one of the lads with you for an additional price? So you don’t get lost.’
‘No, thanks,’ Jack said. ‘I won’t get lost.’
He had envisaged this meeting in his mind’s eye over four whole weeks and six long hours of driving. He didn’t want company.
The farmer didn’t look convinced. Jack ignored him and strode off along the rutted track into the shadow of the forest, the earthy scent of lichen and moss lightened by the fresh, heady perfume of wild spring blooms.
The storm hit forty-five minutes later, by which time his feet were already bloody from blisters, his face had been stung to pieces by midges and the phone signal had died, leaving him staggering about in the mud, trying to keep to the track.
The only thing still driving him on in his cold, wet, painful misery was the thought of finally locating Little Miss Riding Hooker again and wringing her neck.
Katie inhaled the lush, buttery aroma of chocolate and salted caramel as she lifted her latest batch of brownies from the oven.
She wiped floury hands on her apron. Only two more batches and she’d be ready to load the quad bike and drive her orders to the post office in Beddgelert. She frowned at the rain hammering against the cottage’s slate roof and battering the kitchen windows. That was if the spring thunderstorm which had begun an hour ago ever stopped.
Heavy thuds broke through the sound of hammering rain.
Someone had come to visit? In the middle of a storm? How odd.
Dumping the apron, she headed towards the sound which was coming from the cottage’s front door. Probably stranded hikers. It certainly wasn’t locals, as they knew to come to the kitchen door.
Poor things, they must be lost and completely soaked. She’d treat them to a cup of hot cocoa and ply them with cookies until the rain stopped—she had to take advantage of every sales opportunity at the moment, given the woeful state of her finances. Who knew installing an industrial-grade kitchen in an off-grid cottage would be so expensive?
The thuds got more demanding as she rushed through the cottage’s candlelit interior. The second-hand generator had died an hour ago. Thank goodness for her wood-powered Aga or her whole afternoon would have been a wash-out.
‘Open the door.’ The gruff, muffled demand sent a frisson of electricity through her. The memory flash—of a taut male body, translucent-blue, bloodshot eyes and a furious frown—was not wanted.
That was four weeks ago—in another life. Stop obsessing about your disastrous encounter with Jack Wolfe.
‘Just coming!’ she shouted as cheerfully as she could over the hammering.
Impatient, much?
But, when she flung open the heavy oak door with her best ‘come buy my cookies’ smile, the memory flash flared as if someone had chucked a gallon of petrol on it. And her smile dropped off a cliff.
‘Mr Wolfe?’ Her numb fingers fell from the door handle as shock reverberated through her system hot on the heels of the five-alarm fire.
Was the man of her wet dreams actually dripping a small lake onto her doorstep, his arms clasped around his waist, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold, his dark hair plastered to his head while he wore a designer business suit so drenched it clung to his muscular physique like a second skin?
Or was she having an out-of-body experience?
‘Mr? Really?’ he said, or rather growled, in that gruff tone that had a predictably incendiary effect on her abdomen. ‘Let’s not stand on ceremony, Red. After all, we’ve already shared a bed.’
What?
Horrified realisation dawned.
This is not a dream, Katie. Shut the stupid door.