God, the memory of what had happened that day was still enough to turn his bowels to liquid. He’d never forget the moment he stormed in to find Annabel on the floor, bloody and barely conscious, fighting for her life while Tony Maplin, in a drunken rage, straddled her, one hand clenched around her throat, the other clutching a gin bottle aloft ready to smash it down into her face.
If Aidan had been haunted by that horrific scene replaying in his head countless times, gripped by the fear of what would have happened if he’d been even a split second later, how much worse must it be for her?
And she’d been trying to tough things out without any support? He would never have believed it, not even of the obstinate Ms Frost, but now that the knowledge sat like a sickening weight in his gut there was no way he was going to leave her to face her nightmares alone. Not tonight.
‘Six weeks neither of us wants to go through again.’ He ducked his head and pressed his lips gently to the hard line of her mouth. ‘Forget the coffee and the TV and come back to bed. Seeing as we’re both awake, I’ve got a better idea how we can pass the time.’
Standing in the chilly afternoon shadows that stretched over the Soho pavement, Aidan watched through the glass pane of Cluny’s front door as Tim, the assistant manager, came towards him. Chewing a mouthful of food and grinning, the fair-haired Australian threw the lock.
‘G’day, mate!’ he cried in his distinctive twang as he swung the door open. ‘Good to see ya.’
‘You, too,’ Aidan said, stepping into the welcoming, aroma-infused warmth of the restaurant. With a classic décor of polished wood and shiny fittings, Cluny’s was a successful, well-respected London establishment. It was also owned by his uncle, and it had been through that family connection that Aidan had found himself temporarily working there six months earlier. Bored by his long recovery from the stroke and eager to feel useful and self-sufficient again, he’d jumped at the chance to fill the shoes of the head barman who’d walked out without notice. Even though he’d been there a relatively short time before the breakup with Annabel had precipitated the end of his stand-in role, the timeless elegance of the European-style interior felt instantly familiar.
He dropped his overnight bag by the coat-rack and shook Tim’s hand as a hail of greetings came from deeper inside. Seated around several tables that had been pushed together, an assembled group of employees were tucking into their staff meal ahead of the upcoming evening service.
Following Tim across the room, Aidan spied Annabel seated at one end of the table, her expression a mask of stiff silence amid a sea of smiles as she stared back at him. He’d been fully expecting this unscheduled visit to catch her unawares, but he’d bet her surprise was no match for his own at seeing her sitting there. From what he’d learned from his time working for her, Ms Frost had never joined in with the daily staff meal. She’d preferred to keep a professional distance by eating alone in her office, and, with her fearsome reputation as an ice queen, the staff had been only too happy not to have her spoiling their appetites.
Although he wouldn’t go so far as to say the scene in front of him now painted a picture of perfect, cosy contentment, things had obviously started to change since she’d returned to work after the attack. Maybe, with both sides showing a bit more understanding and compassion for the other, Annabel’s frosty outer layers were starting to thaw.
Approaching the table, Aidan said hello to old faces including sweet-natured Donna, the waitress, Jon, the junior barman, and Stu, who’d been taken on as Aidan’s permanent replacement.
‘How come you’ve been such a stranger?’ Tim asked with a theatrical pout as he retook his seat and swiped a hunk of crusty bread around his bowl to collect the last of the thick dark sauce clinging to the sides. ‘You haven’t been in to see us once since you left. Have you moved back to Ireland already and become Lord of the Pile, or do you just not love us any more?’
In his peripheral vision, Aidan could see Annabel still sitting as if frozen. From the moment they’d first met, she’d made it clear that one of her rules was never to mix her business and personal life. What’s more, she’d particularly disapproved of workplace attachments. As a gambling man, he’d found the challenge of trying to make her break her own rules irresistibly attractive, of course, and had relished every moment of the campaign he’d undertaken to make it happen. Some of the tactics he’d employed had been far from fair, he’d be the first to admit, but, no matter how dirty he’d been prepared to play in private, he’d always respected her need for professional discretion. Was their relationship still her guilty little secret, he wondered, even though their circumstances had now changed?
‘Lord of the Rubble Pile, maybe,’ he said. ‘And no, I haven’t moved back yet, but I’ve not been in London much either. Getting this renovation project off the ground hasn’t left me with much time for anything but filling out forms and jumping through planning hoops.’
‘Then sit with us for a moment, mon ami,’ Anton Dubois, Cluny’s award-winning head chef, invited in his thick French accent. He reached to take the lid off a large casserole dish in the centre of the table with a flourish. ‘Have some bourguignon and tell us all your news.’
Aidan shook his head in regret. ‘As delicious as it looks and smells, no, thanks. I’m actually on my way to catch a flight back to Cork now. I had to stop by to see Annabel about something.’ They didn’t need to know that the something was, in fact, nothing; that, rather than heading straight to the airport as he’d intended, he’d given in to a compulsion to come by for no other reason than to see her before taking off for Ireland.
Annabel all but leaped to her feet. ‘Why don’t you come through to the office?’ she said, looking eager to hustle him out of there.
Leaving the rest of the staff to finish their meal, he followed as she took off towards the kitchens as fast as the narrow fit of her pencil skirt would allow. It had been a week since their reconciliation, and during those seven days they’d managed to meet a few times, though not nearly as often as he’d have liked. Trying to work a social life around the long shifts typical of the restaurant trade was bad enough, but with someone as driven as Annabel – who worked over and above what was expected in order to keep up with her own exacting standards – it was harder yet. Still, determined as he was to stick to his promise of dating her properly, he’d managed to pin her down one morning for an early brunch, taken her to a movie on her night off and, as a chance to grab some precious time together before he had to head back to Ireland today, he’d met her for a nightcap at the end of her shift last night.
What they hadn’t managed to do at any point in the week was spend another entire night together. Following the nightmare incident at her place, Annabel had thrown out all sorts of excuses as a way of ensuring they’d both ended up sleeping alone each night in their respective beds. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was actively avoiding the situation for fear of risking a repeat performance.
Ahead of him, she pushed through the doors into the kitchens without breaking her stride. Once he was through, leaving the doors to swing to behind him, Aidan closed the distance between them and reached out to rest his hand at the small of her back as he fell into step beside her.
Annabel sprang away from the touch as though jabbed with a hot poker.
‘Not here,’ she muttered, casting a look back over her shoulder. ‘What if someone sees?’
Well, there was his answer to the question of guilty secrets, then. He tried not to take it personally. ‘Ashamed of me?’ he teased.
‘No.’ Annabel cast him a flustered look. ‘It’s … it doesn’t feel comfortable.’
It was hard to keep remembering that even relatively