Pitch Imperfect(12)

Rob collected his jacket. It was pointless to dwell on losing the house, just as it was pointless to dwell on Anjuli.

On his way out, his mobile rang with a familiar tune and he bit back a curse, letting it go to voicemail. How many times had he asked Mrs. P. not to phone and remind him of his appointments? He wasn’t an irresponsible teenager for fuck’s sake.

In a bid to minimise his elderly secretary’s calls he’d bought her a smartphone and taught her how to text. “Why should I spend ten minutes punching in letters when I can talk to you, dear?” she’d asked.

A couple from Edinburgh wanted him to design and build a house like the one he’d built for himself in Halton Forest. The appointment was in an hour. Mrs. P. had told him three bloody times before he left the office for the wind-farm meeting and her voicemail made a fourth, along with a warning to be careful on the road. Why didn’t he hire a secretary who did as he asked and went home at 5:00 p.m.?

Because you love the old lady and she makes great oatcakes.

Ash looked at him enquiringly. “Y’okay?”

“Mrs. P.’s checking up on me again. I swear if she weren’t my godmother...”

Ash grinned. “It could be worse. She could pinch your cheeks and insist on sloppy kisses every morning. Or interrupt your meetings with embarrassing baby stories.”

Rob laughed and his mood lifted. Ash was a good sort, uncomplicated and kind. She ran the pub efficiently and supplied the village with an environment as warm and friendly as she was. He perused the Specials board and hid a grimace. He’d rather swallow raw haggis than choose any of her Monday night offerings, but her regular pub grub was pretty good.

Rob compared the low-ceilinged country pub to the sleek London bar where he’d bumped into Anjuli. Midnight Dawn was as far removed from the Heaverlock Arms as Buckingham Palace from a crofter’s cottage. The type of place where A-listers congregated away from the prying eyes of the press, rubbing shoulders with royalty and oil magnates.

He’d been invited there by chance. One of his table companions at the architect dinner—a supercilious arse married to a duke’s daughter—had coaxed him along with the promise of new business. He’d been about to decline when the man’s wife mentioned it was Anjuli Carver’s bar of choice. She was agog the reclusive celebrity had turned down the opportunity to sing the new Bond theme.

Rob scowled. As soon as he’d walked into the pretentious club he’d been annoyed at himself. Why should he care where his ex-fiancée went and with whom she associated? He’d looked at her poster, thinking it didn’t do her justice, before he’d become aware of being observed by the real thing. Her glossy brown hair was unkempt and her face pale, but she was just as mesmerising as he’d remembered.

He’d been immediately struck by her haunted expression. She’d looked desolate, as if her world had ended and she would soon follow. And she’d had too much to drink.

Unanswered questions had ricocheted in his mind. Why had she run away on their wedding day instead of talking to him? Surely he had merited more than a two-paragraph “Dear Rob” letter. Had her love for him been a lie? He’d wanted answers, and she was in no condition to give them.

He hadn’t known she could still hurt him, looking at him as if he were the only man in the world. Or how bitter he still was until he’d shaken her hand at the doorway. Her blatant desire had made him furious.

And turned him on.

He’d had a handful of relationships since Anjuli had left him, but nothing he’d ever allowed to last. He’d grown cynical, doubting the entire concept of “forever” despite Mac’s attempts to convince him that he would find it, someday.

Making love to Anjuli in London had reminded him of how it felt to believe in love, to feel complete. Her skin was as soft and supple as he’d remembered, her scent intoxicating and her pussy...it drove him wilder than any woman’s he’d ever slept with. More importantly, he’d felt as if he’d found what had been missing in his life. He’d forgiven her everything.

Then she’d yelled another man’s name, disparaged his performance and kicked him out. He was a bloody idiot. Anjuli had used him, treated him as if he were nothing more than the means to an end so why was he still thinking about her, remembering that night? Women like her only understood money and sex. Anjuli had plenty of money if she could buy Castle Manor outright, but her response to him in London was that of a woman who hadn’t made love—no, screwed—in a long time.

I never want to see you again, she’d said, yet here she was, needing his help so badly she’d seek him out in public. Wanting sex, also, judging by her loaded glances while he talked with Sarah. A quick, meaningless screw to ease her need. Hard and fast. His mouth tightened. If Anjuli could treat sex with him so nonchalantly then he could do the same. Show her how it felt to be used, then leave her wanting, aching...