When I recalled the way in which the conversation Nick and I had had earlier had ended, I was swamped with remorse and mortification. I didn’t think I’d ever forget the glimpse of stark shock I’d caught before he’d retreated behind a wall of stone. For a split second, he’d looked as if I’d struck him, somehow wounded, but then why wouldn’t he? For all his imperviousness towards me, he had to havesomesort of feelings and my words had been harsh.
That I’d been thrown off balance by shameful memories and the discovery that he’d pitied me was no excuse. Once again backed into a corner and on the attack, I’d let my emotions get the better of me and lashed out. I’d laid waste to the veneer of civility we’d always maintained and been unpardonably rude, while he—with the exception of the odd pointed comment or two—had been nothing but supportive. He hadn’t had to agree to help me with my fortune. He hadn’t had to rescue me from Zanzibar. And yet I’d told him I resented it all.
What on earth had I been thinking? I wondered as I took a breather and stood on a promontory from which I could see for miles. Had I completely lost my mind? Until a contract was signed, Nick could withdraw from the deal at any moment, leaving me in as vulnerable and exposed a position as before. What if he sent me packing and to hell with the press attention back home? I’d only have myself to blame. But more importantly, I wasn’t that person any more. I wasn’t reckless and rash and I didn’t speak without thinking.
Burning up with shame and the need to put things right—and not just because I did, in fact, need his help—I returned to the villa with far less regard for the scenery than I’d had when I set out.
By following the mouth-watering scents of ginger and garlic, I found Nick this time in the kitchen. He was standing at the hob that was embedded in the island, agitating a frying pan. His hair was wet and he’d changed clothes, which suggested he’d taken a shower, but judging by the tension radiating off him and the rigidity of his jaw it hadn’t been a relaxing one.
Bracing myself for a hostile reception—inevitable, given the chill with which he’d sent me off on my walk, and totally deserved given my inability to get a grip on my emotional volatility—I took a deep breath and tried not to think about the unpleasant way my dress was sticking to my skin.
‘Something smells good,’ I said, nerves nevertheless tangling in my stomach as I advanced towards him.
He glanced up at me, his eyes shuttered, his expression unfathomable. ‘How was your walk?’
‘Breezy.’
‘You were gone a long time.’
‘It’s a beautiful island.’
‘It is.’
‘I came across a boathouse.’
‘Did you?’
‘Are all the boards and boats and other things in it yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you use them?’
‘When I’m not working.’
All too easily I could see him kayaking around the island and kite-surfing across the sea—no wonder he had muscles and a tan—and it was with quite some effort that I hauled my thoughts into line. I was on a mission and I would not be derailed.
‘I’m sorry for what I said earlier,’ I said, hopping onto a stool and battling back a fresh wave of remorse at the memory of it. ‘All those things about charity and favours and about hating the fact that you’re having to help me. I haven’t had to rely on anyone for eight years and it’s taking some getting used to. And then there’s the stress I’ve been under lately, what with everything that’s been going on. Nevertheless, none of that is any excuse. I overreacted. I was rude. I apologise.’
Not a muscle flickered in response to my words, which was disappointing but not entirely unexpected when he’d never made it easy for me to apologise. ‘I’ve emailed you a contract,’ he said, abandoning the pan and wiping his hands with a cloth. ‘And details of my fees.’
‘Thank you. I’ll take a look later.’
‘Drink?’ He tossed the cloth into the sink then nodded in the direction of the tall glass in front of me that looked to be a gin and tonic, judging by the cubes of ice and the sprig of rosemary.
‘You must have read my mind.’ I half expected a flash of alarm to skitter across his face, but he remained as taciturn as ever. ‘However, I’m glad you can’t,’ I added, reaching for the glass as if it were a lifeline. ‘My mind is a mess.’ I took a fortifying sip of my drink and sighed in appreciation as the fragrant scent of rosemary wafted into my head and the alcohol hit my blood. ‘This, on the other hand,’ I said, putting the glass back down, ‘is perfect. My favourite combination.’
‘I’m not solely driven by money, Amelia.’
In surprise, I jerked my gaze to his and found him looking at me with an intriguing intensity. Had I hit a nerve? Was that a hint of vulnerability I could hear? How interesting. ‘It would be understandable if you were.’
‘Because of where I come from?’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘I’m not. The circumstances in which I grew up were wholly beyond my control. Shame stems from things that have been done badly and could have been done differently. Things over which youdohave control.’
Yes, well, I knew all about that, and I had the feeling that he knew I knew. ‘Believe me,’ I said, shifting on the stool to ease my sudden discomfort, ‘if I could go back and do my time again, there are many things I’d do differently.’