Pitch Imperfect(67)
Why hadn’t she carted that box upstairs where it belonged? And why did Rob think he had the right to tidy her house and make himself at home in her kitchen? Irritation at his presumption competed with pleasure at his initiative, resulting in nervous anticipation, the sense he was seducing her with something more powerful than sex.
She picked up the delicate, crystal sparrow on top of the windowsill. “Morning,” she whispered, and took it with her to the sitting room.
The fireplace had been cleaned and a new fire laid. Just how long had Rob stayed last night? Anjuli flopped on the sofa and gazed at the empty armchair. Snippets of their conversation zigzagged across her mind. Talk of Rob’s architectural designs, her restoration, the first Common Riding event. It was the first of June and the monthlong festival had started, but what else had they talked about? Huge gaps garbled what she remembered and what she’d rather forget was as clear as the bright blue sky.
She’d wanted sex and he’d carried her upstairs. Then he’d left her there.
Alone.
Unsatisfied.
No, she didn’t feel piqued and no, she wasn’t disappointed. Well, maybe she was, a little, but she was thankful he hadn’t acted on her demands. Maybe they really could be friends and nothing more. She might have wanted sex last night, but listening to Rob’s husky brogue, seeing his eyes light up when he talked about the project in America had filled her with another kind of pleasure. And pride, although she had no right to feel that way.
Anjuli stared at the fireplace, wishing nothing remained of her love for Rob except the cinders, easily swept away.
Crystal sparrow in hand, Anjuli walked to the bridge, taking deep, filling breaths of crisp morning air. Pensively, she eyed Heaverlock Castle as she approached, comparing its dark grey stone with the distant peaks of Colters Craggs. Had the fortress’s walls once seemed a safe refuge? How stupid of her not to have taken into account its cracks and fissures. The scattered slabs in the courtyard, fallen from arches or walls, or the crumbling, uneven stairs jutting straight out of the wall. The unreachable north tower. Her tower, she liked to think, though the glaring keep-out sign and thick metal door cut her off from it and the parapet beyond
As a teenager she’d wanted to break down the door and sit in the tower, peer out of the Elizabethan window and envisage the world it had been built for. She’d wanted to walk along the parapet and project her voice into the moors, see if its echo would reach into the past. Fanciful thinking—wishful too, as were so many other things she wanted. Anjuli opened her palm and raised the small crystal sparrow, showing it the view. The glass was warm in her hand, reflecting grass-green and stone-grey as she glided it through the air.
Her mobile rang and she looked at the screen, stifling the urge to reject the call. One must always answer phone calls from friends, especially after they put your drunken arse to bed.
“I’m about to take off for Boston,” Rob said. “How’s your head?”
It wasn’t her head that worried her, but her insides, melting into a mass of quivering goo. She cleared her throat. “Sorry about last night.”
His voice was low and husky. “I enjoyed it.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“No’ when you’re drunk.”
“Sorry? Can’t hear you. Reception’s rubbish today.”
He was not supposed to chuckle.
“I hope it goes well and you sign the contract,” she said primly.
A long pause, then, “You do?”
No! “I think it’s a great opportunity and Boston is a fantastic city. It’s very sophisticated and has lots of things we lack in Heaverlock—great restaurants, theatres, an international music scene,” she babbled, enumerating its attractive features.
“There’s only one thing I’m lacking, lass, and that’s—”
“The women are thin and beautiful,” Anjuli interrupted hastily. “Maybe you’ll meet a fantastic Bostonian and like living over there so much you’ll settle down. Get married, two point four kids, a dog—”
“You’ve got it all figured out, have you?”
Anjuli aimed for firm and decisive. It works with animals...and people. “I’m encouraging you to do something that’ll be good for your career. We’re friends, remember, like we agreed at the ceilidh.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to anything,” he said, matching her tone. “You’re hiding something and you’re lying to me like you did in London. When I come back you’re going to tell me why and then we’re going to be whatever the hell you want to call it as long as I make you come.”