Pitch Imperfect(50)

Panting from her exertion, she leaned against a ruined wall and let her body slide to the grass. She rested her head against the cracked wall and sniffed the cold stone behind her, inhaling deeply. Heaverlock Castle smelled of must and rain, rock and earth. Of secrets and sorrow.

The discordant screech of tired brake pads echoed across the valley. It was 8:00 a.m. and another delivery was coming up the road even though it was Saturday, just as Connor had promised. Her luck was in. The Steinway—six foot ten of black mahogany, handcrafted and custom built in Hamburg had fetched £25,000, minus Chappell of Bond Street’s commission. She’d hated lying to Rob, pretending she had shares to sell, money to manage. Her bank balance was like the subsidence Connor had discovered in the south wing, a sliding scale threatening to take her with it.

Money received, she’d immediately phoned Mrs. P. and advised her she’d be making another payment, for all the good that would do. Until the bank gave her the loan, she wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.

Mrs. P. had been delighted. “Rob’s client terms and conditions are generous but I’m so pleased you aren’t taking advantage. Very refreshing, but then, it must be wonderful to have millions at your disposal,” she’d gushed. “‘Donald,’ I said, right after he came back from the chiropractor, ‘Anjuli Carver is proof of what hard work and talent can achieve.’ I commend you my dear, you’re the epitome of success.”

“I’ve hardly got millions.”

Or hundreds, for that matter, and she wasn’t the epitome of success either; she was a poster girl for middle-class poverty. Her finger had paused over Send Payment so long she almost got a cramp. Ash might go on about how normal people wouldn’t consider her situation one of deprivation, but how many of them had once possessed a fortune in excess of twenty million pounds?

When she thought of how much she used to spend on bling for so-called friends it made her sick. Now she had to scrimp to buy another type of stone entirely. And she was turning into a serial liar. She writhed in agony every time she allowed Rob to fork out money for the house. It wouldn’t be forever, she promised herself. How much longer could the bank take for a decision that should have been quick? Once they finished hemming and hawing over the new business plan she’d submitted—corrected and improved, surprisingly, by Viking—she would breathe more easily.

Sodden earth squelched under her feet as she ran to the bridge to unhook the chain and let the vans and workmen across. She and Rob had discussed the intricate cornices and replacing the missing Victorian fireplaces last Tuesday. Salvage from an architectural yard or order custom-made replacements? Salvage, she’d agreed enthusiastically. The ecologically friendly option, right?

Perversely, she’d been piqued that Rob had stayed only long enough to agree to the new radiator positions and give Connor instructions. Stupid woman, just because he’d chopped her wood and then implied she wanted his company, did not mean he was going to pester her with lustful demands.

A twinge of worry crept across her heart. Was Rob really overexerting himself to finish her restoration, as rumour had it? The last time he’d been into the pub, he’d had stress lines around his eyes, shadows that had made her want to smooth them away.

He’d barely looked at her, leaving with nothing more than a polite farewell. Disappointed at his haste, she’d stared after him until Ash had stepped on her foot. Others had noted his indifference. And what did she care if he ignored her? It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? There was no reason to feel miffed. Rob had accepted there would be no repeat of that night in London. No hot, passionate, mind-blowing—

Stop it! Anjuli stomped the dirt from her soles, greeted Connor and went to the kitchen. Absently, she set out fifteen mugs for the men’s break. If only she could line up her feelings for Rob as neatly. He was going to the ceilidh with Sarah Brunel, and no matter Mac’s thoughts on the matter, she seemed to be the only woman he wanted to spend time with. The rumour mill had ground to a halt on them though, changing direction to focus on her and Damien.

Contrary to his reputation and his occasional attempts to steal a kiss, Damien hadn’t so far tried to seduce her, though they’d been alone at Castle Manor several times. He seemed to enjoy playing up his flirtation in public, to feed gossipy villagers’ interest, but when alone he was quieter. Still charming, but he didn’t make outrageous statements about wooing her or joke about dying alone and heartbroken if she didn’t allow his advances. A puzzling conundrum.

But it wasn’t Damien occupying her thoughts, pitting her guilt against her longing, making her heart race at the prospect of seeing him that night. And it wasn’t Damien she looked for the second she arrived at the Town Hall.