His stomach dropped. He’d given Molly strict instructions to forward all calls but one to Jeremy in his absence. That meant he couldn’t ignore this call—no matter how rude it seemed to answer, or how badly timed.
He stepped back enough to fish the device from his pocket, keeping one arm banded around Libby’s waist.
‘Mother.’
A pause. Acid surged into the back of his throat.
‘Zander? Is that you?’
Hairs prickled on his neck. He knew that wobble in her voice. Dreaded it. Eight in the morning and she’d likely drunk so much she couldn’t remember who she was calling. Or she’d suffered one of her ‘spells’, during which she could barely function, shutting herself away for days on end.
‘Where’s Clive?’
His mother’s second husband protected Alex from the worst of his mother’s issues—something he was grateful for and felt guilty about in equal measure.
‘Golf. I just wanted to say I’ll see you Saturday, at the wedding…’ Her voice trailed off but the line stayed connected.
Fuck.
‘Mother? Maman?’
He’d have to go to her. What if she’d drunk herself into a coma? What if she’d taken something?
Firing a text to Clive, he swore under his breath.
Releasing Libby, he turned and spoke to the pilot.
‘Is something wrong?’
Libby touched his arm, dragging him back to the present, away from a past that refused to lessen its hold on him no matter what he did.
‘I need to visit my mother. She’s…unwell.’
Still grieving for Jenny, all these years later. Reminding them of their loss with her bouts of depression and her periods of drinking too much. Fanning the flames of his guilt for his own shortcomings.
He could have been a better brother. A better son. It might not have saved Jenny—he wasn’t to blame for her death after all—but it might have made all their lives a little easier. Salvaged his parents’ marriage. Made Jenny’s short life happier.
The balloon began its descent, taking the atmosphere with it. Libby paled, as if her own fears, her own demons, had resurfaced with his ill-timed family interruption.
‘It’s not serious.’ He gripped her cold fingers. ‘I just need to make sure she’s okay, wait with her until her husband gets home.’
Or organise another stay at the rehab facility where his mother practically had her own room, she’d been there so many times.
Libby nodded, her fingers squeezing his in a display of affection that seemed to shock them both. He gripped them, reluctant to let go of the tenuous trust they’d established.
‘I’ll arrange a car to take you back to the hotel.’
He’d have to cancel seeing Jack, and Libby’s tour of his state-of-the-art respite complex.
His spirits plummeted to the ground with the soft landing of the balloon, his thoughts traversing well-worn pathways of self-doubt. Would he ever be good enough to compensate for Jenny’s death?
Libby pulled the black velvet ring box from her purse and wrapped her fingers around it, enjoying the familiar comfort of it filling her palm. She still carried it everywhere, even after three years. She didn’t need to open the lid. The contents—an exquisite princess-cut diamond solitaire—were a symbol of her life before the motorbike accident that had killed her fiancé a week before their wedding.
The ring itself, whilst precious, represented a happier time of her life. A carefree time when she’d believed anything was possible and life with Callum had stretched before her in an adventure akin to those Alex planned for his clients. The adventures he insisted on showing her.
Libby placed the box back inside her bag without opening it. Normally she stared at the ring’s beauty as if it were a talisman to ward off the image of Callum dying in her arms on the hard, unforgiving asphalt. When she thought of him, the ring helped her to remember him alive and vibrant, with excitement lighting his eyes as he’d proposed. But today her handsome fiancé’s face was a little harder to recall, his image blurry, as if photographed out of focus.
She pulled out her phone, firing a text to Alex. She barely knew him outside the physical intimacies they’d shared and their brief working relationship. But the defeated slump to his shoulders as he’d walked away earlier had stirred something in her. Feelings she’d thought long-ago abolished. Dangerous feelings that teetered too close to the edge of caring.
Hope your mother is okay. Thanks for the ride today. I can see why Able-Active clients will love it.
She opened her laptop, picking up on the work she’d begun last night and continued that morning when sleep had had no use for her.
On the surface, the marketing strategy for Able-Active presented little challenge for Libby. Secure corporate sponsorship, launch a national campaign to publicise the charity to a clearly targeted audience and streamline the charity’s website and social media presence with an online sign-up form.
But Alex’s passion for the work had spilled over, infecting her. It meant so much to him on a personal level. She wanted to do the best job she could. Make it the success he hoped for.
Her phone buzzed. Alex.
Thank you. She’s fine. I’m sorry I had to rush out on you.
His answer left her strangely hollow. The ache that had begun when he’d been buried deep inside her last night intensified. The game of getting-to-know-you they’d started was frustratingly incomplete. Game-playing with Alex fed something in her she hadn’t known was starving.
Her fingers hovered above the screen of her phone, desire and denial warring for control.
What do you want?
She was playing with fire. But the flames flushed her body with energy. Irresistible. Her days here were limited. How much harm could one week do? And she could be called home at any second, their time together cut short, if Sonya’s baby decided to put in an early appearance.
He took several minutes before his reply, as if the answer wouldn’t come. Minutes in which Libby was certain she’d lost him. That he no longer wanted to play.
I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to undo your hair and wrap it around my hand. I don’t want to make you come. What do you want?
His reply brought a smile to her lips. He’d fully embraced the rules, turning them against her. Clever man.
With trembling fingers and clenched thighs, Libby fired a response that had her breathing fast.
I want you to stay away.
She dropped the phone and rushed to the en-suite bathroom. She had no idea where he was or how long it would take him to get here. But she knew he’d come.
She took a quick shower, taking extra care to fasten her hair securely into a severe French pleat, no strand left free. It seemed he had a penchant for her hair. His hints and requests were glimpses into his desire to see it wild and free, which only intensified her need to push him until he couldn’t help but undo her hard work.
She slipped on fresh underwear and her favourite comfortable jeans and sweater. She’d barely had time to slick some gloss onto her lips and wave a mascara wand over her lashes before there was a knock at the door.
He’d aged. Wearing the same charcoal-grey T-shirt and jeans he’d worn that morning, he slouched in her doorway, one muscular arm braced on the doorframe. His intense stare was hooded, his mouth tight, and whilst his hunger