Sophie's idea wasn't working.
Sophie.
It had been over three weeks since she'd left. Three fiercely frustrating weeks where he lay in bed at night and remembered how Sophie had looked on their last evening together. How she'd felt beside him-smooth and sexy and silky.
Three long lean weeks where he didn't sleep, couldn't eat. Where he clocked up a ridiculous number of hours in the office and still his workload increased-no surprise there because his efficiency was decreasing.
He yanked open the filing cabinet beside his desk. Maybe he'd filed that report himself without reading it. Nope. He slammed the drawer shut again.
Sophie.
She'd smelled like summer and he found himself breathing deeply, as if he might conjure up the fragrance.
He hadn't contacted her but he knew she'd arrived safely because Pam had informed him. That had been a damn difficult day. It could only get better, right?
Wrong.
She'd left him. Them. There wasn't a them, he reminded himself. He'd had his chance to tell her how he felt. Days. Weeks, even. He'd always known she was leaving, she'd always been open about her plans.
She'd been honest about everything, except, it seemed, what mattered most.
She loved him.
She'd told him she loved him in the same breath she'd told him she couldn't have children. His silence had hurt her, he knew. But how was a man supposed to get his head around that bomb two minutes before she left for the other side of the world?
His open palm connected solidly with his desk. The registered packet that he'd signed for earlier today slipped a bit and caught his eye. He reached for it. The compact book slid out, he flipped to the first page and studied his photo. He'd never had a passport. Never needed one.
Pam appeared in the doorway and she didn't look happy. 'Impeccable timing,' he told her, leaning back in his chair, hands braced on the edge of his desk. 'Shut the door, I want to talk to you.'
'Good, because I have a few things to say to you too.' In a firm but businesslike manner she closed the door and sat down opposite him. Shoved a hand through her unruly brown locks. 'Does the word "resignation" mean anything to you?'
He barked out a humourless laugh. Then stared at her. She hadn't moved. Her mouth was flat, her eyes steady on his. 'You're serious.' Straightening, he rolled his chair nearer and placed his hands on the desk.
'Maybe I am. If you don't sort yourself out, I won't be the only one requesting that form.'
A strange feeling slid through him and his heart thumped hard in his chest.
'Excuses, stalling, evading,' she went on. 'They've never cut it with you, Jared, and they won't cut it with me. You're my friend as well as my boss, and Sophie's as close as a sister.'
She ran out of breath but he was the one who sat back as if he'd just run a marathon. He slid the legal document across the desk. 'So what do you say to this, then? How would you like to try out the boss's chair for a while?'
She met his eyes. 'Fine by me, but I'll need a raise.'
'You got it.'
She nodded, a smile chasing away the worry lines. 'That's the Jared I know.' Rising, she kissed him on the cheek and closed the door softly behind her on her way out.
He sat there and made lists, contacted clients, postponed projects while the sky turned from blue to apricot rose to aqua. He was still there when lavender had long turned indigo and a shimmering gold staircase on the sea pointed the way to a full moon rising.
Then he picked up the phone and called Liss. 'I know it's an imposition but I was wondering if you could stay over at the house for a bit and look after Angus. I'm taking a trip.'
When Sophie clicked into her inbox after her late shift a couple of nights later she saw the email she'd hoped for, waited for, dreaded. Her hands stilled on the keyboard, her breath hitched and everything, everything seemed to stop. Why now after all these weeks?
She blinked to make sure she hadn't imagined it, but there it was. 'Jared Sanderson' in bold black print. Flagged as high priority with a document with the enigmatic title of 'rustymag-pie' attached.
Torn between elation and despair, she chewed on her lip while one finger trembled above the delete key. She could kill it with one click of a button. Any contact would jab at the still-raw wound in her heart and set her back by weeks.
Just this unopened email had the power to hurt simply by its very existence. Because she loved him and she'd opened her heart and told him everything and he'd rejected her. It could only be rejection, because he'd made no attempt to contact her. Nor did she expect him to. She'd not been honest with him until too late. She'd wanted him close as long as she could have him. Selfish. Thoughtless. No better than Bianca.
But like a chocoholic craving her next double-dipped dark-chocolate rum truffle, she clicked on his name. There was no message in the body of the email. She opened the attachment.
A rainbow of watercolours bled onto the screen as the file loaded. There was music, soft and sweet and low, a song about Sophie's presence still lingering there and not leaving him alone …
She knuckled moisture away from her eyes. Oh, he sure knew how to make her tear up. She should have deleted it. And yet … and yet … why would he do this?
The music finished and words scrolled onto the screen in a romantically flowing script:
Last night I had a dream. It was Tuesday morning. Ten o'clock-I remember because somewhere I heard a clock chime the hour. And I was standing at the Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace. Waiting for you. Charcoal clouds sagged, their underbellies like Spanish moss above the sculptured marble statues and Victory's gold wings. But still it was a magical place, just like you said.
And I made a wish. And in the way of dreams, the clouds dissolved and then the whole world was shining and golden and I turned and you were walking towards me with such a smile that I could barely breathe …
Sophie's breath caught. Now she was the one who could barely breathe. She concentrated on drawing air in, filling her lungs as far as she could. Letting it out slowly.
Tomorrow was Tuesday …
The realisation smacked her upright. No. No, no, no. She slammed the machine shut. Slid it to the bottom of her bed. Not possible. Jared was not in London and he was definitely not going to be waiting for her in front of the Victoria Memorial tomorrow morning. Never gonna happen. Lies. All lies, designed to make her … what?
She wanted to cry and scream and pull her hair out. And dare to hope? The best she could do was to drag the thin quilt over her head and pretend she'd never read it.
But of course she couldn't sleep. And she couldn't pretend. She sniffed under the cover of darkness and tried to sift through her jumbled thoughts and emotions. At ten o'clock tomorrow morning she was going to make sure she was sightseeing at Windsor Castle or Oxford or somewhere well away from Buckingham Palace.
Except … that was the coward's way out and if he really was here … he was here to see her … and what was that telling her? Had he really left his business and come all this way around the world just to see her?
You didn't come all the way around the world just to see someone. Her heart throbbed harder. Not ordinary people anyway.
Maybe it was just an email after all. To tell her … what … ? Little shivers rippled up and down her body. What if … ?
Jared stopped pacing a groove around the Victoria Memorial to check his watch for the third time in two minutes. If she didn't turn up soon he was going to wear a rut in the pavement.
He fisted his hands in the pockets of his coat. Positive thoughts. He was a positive kind of guy, wasn't he? Tourists swirled around him, snapping photos, enjoying London's brisk morning. It smelled of autumn and fresh-turned earth from the garden beds nearby. A couple of kids chased up and down the shallow steps.
Had she even read his email? he wondered for the millionth time. Maybe she didn't check daily … Maybe she hadn't understood the message.
Maybe she'd simply deleted it unread.
She'd be here.
And as if those words had conjured her up, there she was. Walking towards the memorial, her hands in the pockets of a rust-coloured coat. She wore black boots and a cream beret on her dark hair. Looking at her was like looking at a cream cupcake when you've been on a life-long diet.
When she passed the Buckingham Palace gates she caught sight of him and their gazes collided. Fused. He had to breathe in deep because suddenly he'd forgotten how. She appeared to falter, then picked up the pace again. Moving swiftly.
He moved too, dodging a group of noisy schoolkids on an excursion and for a moment he lost sight of her behind a tall robust man but then, there she was, smiling at him and he could smell her familiar fragrance before he could reach out and cup her face between his hands and lose himself in those dewy amber eyes.