He threw open the door to a large bedroom. ‘The bathroom is through there,’ he said, pointing across the room. ‘Help yourself to whatever you need.’ He opened a wardrobe. ‘There are clothes in here.’ He gave her a quick, assessing look. ‘I’m sure you’ll find something that will fit.’
She glanced at the clothes. Expensive, fashionable clothes. ‘Whose are these? Your wife’s?’
He gave a half-smile. ‘No. If I had a wife, believe me she would not have her own room or her own bed. She’d share mine.’
‘She’d have to want to,’ she blurted out. Oh, God, why couldn’t she control her tongue?
His green eyes met hers. ‘Oh,’ he said slowly, meaningfully, ‘she’d want to.’
Against her will she had to admit that this was probably true. Disturbing images flooded her mind and she pushed them away with an effort. ‘Sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ she asked, putting a good dose of mockery in her voice.
He smiled. ‘Oh, very.’ He glanced around the room. ‘This is my—er—sister’s room.’
His—er—sister’s room. Sure it was. She gave him a sceptical look and his green eyes gleamed. He moved back to the door. ‘I’ll start breakfast. Do you have any particular dislikes or allergies?’
Yes, you, she wanted to say, but didn’t.
‘No. I like everything.’
‘A woman after my own heart,’ he said, and for the second time in minutes she was tempted to throw something at him. He closed the door and was gone.
‘All men are scum’, a fifteen-year-old cousin had told her not long ago, trying to sound important and world-wise. Well, Sky was beginning to think the kid was right. All men except Josh, she amended automatically as she glowered at the closed bedroom door. But Josh was dead. Josh had not been scum. Josh had been wonderful. They’d shared a marriage licence, a tiny apartment, a cosy bed, very little money and a wealth of dreams.
It would never be like that again. She was no longer the starry-eyed teenage bride. There would never be another Josh. She did not expect there to be, of course. She was older now, she had a career, and her life had moved on. The men she met were older and established in a career.
She glanced around. The bedroom that belonged to the—er—sister was beautiful. It was the sort of room you saw in expensive, glossy magazines. A huge canopy bed commanded the room, the bedlinen lacy and white. The furniture in the room was all antique and gleamed with good care and lots of polishing.
The bathroom was sumptuous with a gorgeous, claw-foot bath and shiny white tiles. An enormous, luxuriant fern cascaded down from a hanging pot. It looked so perfect, she had to touch it to see that it was real and not silk. It was real. Open shelving revealed stacks of fluffy cotton towels in pale jadegreen, soft rose and white. Bathroom toiletries abounded—expensive soaps, bubble bath, shampoos, talcum powder and body lotions.
Having a bath here would be no punishment; she might as well get to it.
As she sat in the steaming, fragrant water, she contemplated men, more specifically the men she had known since she had become a widow at nineteen. It was not encouraging. None of them had taken her career as a nature and wildlife photographer very seriously. It was a nice hobby and certainly it was nice that she earned a little money with it, but their own careers were so much more important and serious and so much more lucrative. The more money you made, the more prestige and status you had.
Well, she liked money well enough and earning more would not hurt her feelings, but she resented having her career being judged by some monetary value standard.
She’d known an architect, a business consultant and now Sean, who was the managing director of a computer-systems design firm. All of them had been nice and charming and had taken her out to lovely dinners and given her roses and wanted to sleep with her. All of them had thought she was beautiful and amusing and enjoyed her company. All of them had thought she took pretty pictures and why didn’t she move out of that rustic barn and into a decent town house somewhere closer to the civilised world like Washington or Richmond? Surely she could take pictures there? It would be so much more convenient.
Why did she always end up with the wrong men? It was a curse. She stared morosely at the bubbles. She was not going to find another man who was right for her. She should just give it up, stop hoping for the impossible. As a single woman she could live a rewarding life; the magazines said so. Marriage was not the only road to happiness. Sometimes it was the road to hell. She should keep that in mind, always.
She’d forget about men and focus all her energies on her career. Eventually she would be recognised for her exceptional work—her creative visions, her artistic interpretations. She would get big assignments and travel all around the world. She’d have exhibits in prestigious galleries. Her first exhibit was already behind her and had been very successful. Surely others would follow. This last year had been very promising.
She didn’t need a man in her life.
It sounded so brave, so in control.
But why didn’t she feel brave? Why did she feel alone and scared? Why was she sitting here in this warm, bubbly bath with the tears running down her face?
Half an hour later she emerged from the bathroom, fragrant and clean and back in control of her wayward emotions. She wrapped a dry towel around herself and went back into the bedroom in search of something to wear.
Inspecting the clothes a little more carefully, she tried to imagine the woman who owned them. There were clothes for every possible occasion, from evening gowns to jeans and leggings, all of them with very impressive labels—if that sort of thing impressed you. The owner of the clothes was young, no doubt beautiful and had great taste—classy but with an obvious touch of whimsy. She was also, miracles of miracles, small like Sky herself.
Sky selected a pair of white leggings and an oversized black T-shirt that hung halfway down her thighs. It obliterated most of her shape and the colour black seemed appropriate for the occasion. She slipped on a pair of black canvas trainers and glanced in the mirror. She looked casual enough for an overcast Saturday morning in May, and she had no desire to wear somebody else’s expensive silk shirt and designer jeans. She’d probably spill something on them and ruin them and then feel obliged to replace them, which would cost her a fortune she didn’t have.
Wonderful smells wafted forth as she opened the kitchen door—bacon, toast. She was ravenous.
Chase was standing at the stove and turned as he heard her come in. His gaze skimmed over her in amused surprise.
‘Black?’ he enquired. ‘After that exuberant parrot dress, you put on something black?’
‘I’m in mourning,’ she said and sat down.
His mouth quirked. ‘And for whom or what are you in mourning?’
‘The death of an illusion,’ she said theatrically. ‘I’m giving up men.’
One corner of his mouth turned up. ‘You do have a sense of the dramatic.’ He poured her a glass of orange juice. ‘Sean really got to you, didn’t he?’
‘It wasn’t just him. There were others just like him. I have a fifteen-year-old cousin who says all men are scum.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I’ve come to the sad conclusion she’s right.’
‘I can see it breaks your heart,’ he said, deadpan.
He had no idea what was in her heart, and she was going to leave it that way if she could help it. She took a drink from her orange juice. ‘Actually, come to think of it, it’s a great relief to finally come to that conclusion.’ She smiled breezily. ‘Now I can just put it all behind me and go on. No more men. Period. Tomorrow I will wear red and rejoice my freedom.’