Pitch Imperfect(4)
The glamorous-looking couple pointed at the bar, where a large poster of Anjuli held pride of place. It had been taken during the height of her career, when she had toured with Adele and won a Grammy for Best Album of the Year. But what goes up must come down and her arse still hurt from the fall.
Her singing days might be over but she still came to Midnight Dawn to escape her silent, lonely flat. Her favourite drinking hole was an exclusive, members-only bar, well hidden from the prying eyes of the paparazzi.
Not that they’d been hounding her of late. Rumours about her still surfaced occasionally, but Anjuli didn’t care. In fact, she didn’t care much about anything these days. Not since...A familiar, sharp pain struck her chest and she tried to dull it with the rest of her drink.
The black-haired man looked at the poster, then swivelled and surveyed the room, giving her an unobstructed view of his face. Bloody hell, it was Rob Douglas, and he looked exactly the same as he had eight years ago. No, he looked better. Even through the haze of alcohol she could see as much. More mature, more confident. More irresistible. Her mind buzzed, but not because her head was full of whisky fumes.
What the hell was her ex-fiancé doing in London?
She used to wonder how she’d feel if she ever saw him again. Would the sight of his muscular frame and swarthy skin still have the power to twist her insides into a tornado? Now she knew that it would, that the years hadn’t dulled his effect on her.
Anjuli flattened herself against the low sofa. Don’t see me like this. Turn your back and talk to your elegant friends.
Ten seconds later he was standing in front of the sofa.
“How are you, Anjuli?”
Devastated. Lost. Suicidal. “Great.”
Anjuli stood too quickly, swayed and tripped. Oh no, that wasn’t her giggling, was it? She was drunk as a skunk and the bloody floor was moving. Strong arms steadied her at the waist and she grabbed onto them dizzily, waiting for the room to right itself. Her nose was stuck in Rob’s collarbone—not good, since his spicy scent entered her bloodstream like a whisky chaser.
“Sorry, I must be tired,” she mumbled.
A low chuckle. “Is that what they call it across the border, lass?”
His husky Scottish brogue rippled across her cheek and she looked up. Rob searched her face intently, as if seeking a trace of the woman he used to know, then his expression lost its humour and hardened, and he released her.
Anjuli stiffened her spine. Well, she tried to anyway. Spine-stiffening was rather hard when her bones felt like mush. Weathering his stare, she braced herself for a torrent of recriminations.
“I’ll see you home.”
She must be drunker than she thought. “There’s no need. I live down the road.”
Rob picked up her coat and headed towards the exit, not bothering to see whether she followed. Anjuli heaved an annoyed sigh, looked around and gave up trying to exit discreetly. Rob’s friends were staring at her, lips moving, and so were a few others. Even in exclusive clubs there were gossipmongers.
Outside it was snowing lightly, and the glistening layer on the pavement crunched underneath Anjuli’s boots, turning her toes into little blocks of ice. Somebody, somewhere inside the flats they passed, was listening to a Bach cantata and the music followed them as they walked.
Anjuli glanced at Rob. Were they going to pretend they were strangers? Comment on the weather and forget they’d once been so much more? Should she tell him what her life had been like since leaving Heaverlock? Would he care?
The record of their past played in Anjuli’s mind like the notes on a stave, until it reached a crescendo that made her want to scream.
None of the same turmoil was apparent in Rob. He was in London for an architectural award ceremony, he told her, and would be heading back to Heaverlock the following afternoon. His tone was the one he’d take with a polite acquaintance, as if he hadn’t just held her the way he used to. He looked serene, with no pent-up regrets or excuses waiting to burst from his chest.
Anjuli had been tipsy at the bar, but by the time they reached her flat she felt intoxicated, alive for the first time in months. She wanted Rob to be drunk also, wanted him as dizzy as she was, so affected by seeing her he’d put his arms around her again.
“This is it,” she said, pointing at a Victorian conversion.
Her flat was on the ground floor and—damn it, why couldn’t she open the thing? While she’d been at the bar her upstairs neighbour must have changed the simple lock to something straight out of Mission: Impossible. Nervously, she fumbled with the key and Rob took over, opening the door and stepping back to allow her inside. A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only indication that he was in any way disturbed.