Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-1-77362-748-9
Kindle 978-1-77145-016-4
WEB 978-1-77362-749-6
Amazon Print 978-1-77362-750-2
Copyright 2012 by Sheila Claydon
Cover Art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
With apologies to all the tennis players in my family….
Kerry scowled at the telephone. Why did it always ring when she was up to her elbows in flour? She brushed her hands together and wiped them across the front of her T-shirt.
“Hello.”
“Kerry, can you stand in for me today? I’ve picked up some sort of stomach bug that’s keeping me chained to the bathroom.” Mel, joint owner of Melanie’s Kitchen, the catering service she and Kerry were running on a shoestring, sounded worried.
Kerry’s first reaction was one of amused disbelief. Workaholic Mel was never sick. She considered illness a self-indulgence that interfered with work and so didn’t allow it into her life. Concern followed quickly, however, because if Mel was prepared to admit defeat then she must be feeling pretty rough.
“What are you taking for it?” she demanded, mentally reviewing the contents of her own bathroom cabinet in case she had something suitable.
“I’ve given up eating,” her friend wasn’t interested in discussing how best to treat her symptoms. “Look Kerry, can you manage or not? Mum says to tell you she’ll collect the twins from the nursery, and Dad will bring the van and help at your end. It isn’t a big spread. Just the cold buffet for forty you prepared yesterday, followed by coffee.”
“Of course I can manage. Give me the details and then go back to bed,” Kerry seized a stub of pencil and a notepad, resolutely ignoring the weariness that a week of broken nights had stamped on her face.
“You’re a star!” She heard the relief in Mel’s voice.
“I’m also your junior partner so I’ve enough clout to insist you stay put until you’re completely better,” Kerry reminded her drily.
“Save your mothering for the twins and concentrate. The lunch is scheduled for one o’clock at Greenleas Country Club.”
“I didn’t know it was open yet,” Kerry said as she scribbled instructions.
“The pool and gym are being used but the hotel complex isn’t finished yet. It opens sometime next month I think. The conference rooms are ready to go though, so the manager has agreed to let our client use them as long as he brings in outside caterers. I guess the fact he’s running a big fitness drive for his executives helped. I expect the marketing people at Greenleas hope some of the conference delegates will be sufficiently inspired to join.”
“So that’s why fresh fruit and healthy options feature so prominently on the menu,” Kerry glanced at the week’s orders pinned to the notice board next to the telephone. Monday detailed a selection of cold meats, mixed salads, cheeses and seasonal fruit. It was very spartan by their normal buffet standards and it was already prepared and waiting in cooler containers in the hall.
Then, remembering what Mel had said about her father helping, she asked what time he would arrive.
“Ten minutes after you telephone him to say you’re ready to leave and…oh no! Sorry Kerry…I’ve got to go. Now!”
Realizing she was listening to the dial tone, Kerry slotted the telephone back into its receiver while absentmindedly dusting off a floury handprint with the edge of her T-shirt. Poor Mel! Poor Kerry for that matter! This would happen during a week when the twins, fractious from colds, had kept her up half the night. Still, it was only nine-thirty, so she had plenty of time to organize her day before she had to make the short journey to Greenleas Country Club. She hurried back to the kitchen, washed her hands, and then plunged them back into the half mixed bowl of pastry.
Thirty minutes of concentrated work saw four cheese flans cooking in the oven and all the dirty bowls and dishes stacked in the sink. Kerry crossed the last of the items off Tuesday’s list, wiped the flour from the counter, tossed the dishcloth onto the draining board, and returned to the telephone.
First she called the twin’s nursery to explain her change of plan and ask someone to tell Ben and Lauren that Mary, Mel’s mother, would collect them and take them back to her house. She smiled wryly as she did so, knowing they would be so excited by the prospect of a visit to the two people they loved best in the world next to Kerry, that they wouldn’t give her a second thought. Then she telephoned Mel’s parents.
Mary answered the first ring. “Kerry, I was just about to call you. George has to stand in as a volunteer driver for the hospital run because one of the other regulars hasn’t turned up. He says to tell you he’s really sorry but there’s no one else.”
“Not to worry. As long as you can collect the twins, I’ll manage.” Kerry forced herself to sound more confident than she felt about having to pile all the food into her own car and then lug it into the country club by herself.
“I’ll leave here in plenty of time, and I’ll walk them home through the park so they can feed the ducks. They’ll enjoy that. Don’t you worry about a thing. You know how I love to look after them.”
“And they love visiting you,” Kerry’s smile carried across the wires to the woman at the other end of the telephone. “I honestly don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“You’d manage,” Mary Parker hid her pleasure at Kerry’s words behind a brisk reply but Kerry was thoughtful as she hung up because she wasn’t at all sure she would manage without Mel and her parents.
Ever since the twins were tiny they had treated her like one of the family, including her in their Christmas and Easter celebrations, remembering birthdays, and always being available for babysitting. Mel teased her when she became sentimental about it, telling her the twins were the grandchildren she had no intention of providing herself, but Kerry knew she would never be able to repay the huge debt of gratitude she owed.
She continued to think about this as she tugged her T-shirt over her head, peeled off her jeans, and dropped them onto a bed that had seen more than its fair share of tears in the months following the twin’s birth. She remembered those dreadful first weeks with a shudder; the endless feeds, the continual crying; her only support an overworked health visitor. She had gone for days without speaking to a soul, her heart shriveled with bitterness, her love for her babies threatened by a growing depression. Then she’d seen the advertisement for a junior partner/cook in a fledgling catering business and, realizing it was something she would be good at and which she could do from home, she had talked Mel into employing her. Ambitious, reliable, practical Mel had viewed the twins with dismay and started to say no. Then she had taken a second look at Kerry’s set white face and given her the job.
Dismissing the painful memories with a frown, Kerry slipped her arms into a plain white blouse, zipped up her black skirt and then turned to the mirror to adjust her collar. The face that stared back at her was pale and tired with huge smoky-grey eyes and a tousle of chestnut colored hair. She pulled a face. White had never suited her. It made her look insipid.
In an effort to improve things she creamed her face and added blusher and a slick of pink lip-gloss. Her eyes, fringed with long curling lashes beneath a curve of dark brow, she left alone. Instead she used her hairbrush to good effect, smoothing her short hair into a gleaming cap as she brushed it behind her ears. Finally she added tiny gold earrings and stood back to view her reflection.
The blusher and lipstick went a long way towards camouflaging her tiredness and the earrings lent sophistication to a hairstyle that had been chosen for convenience rather than fashion. Only her hands let her down, the nails short and sensible, several of her fingers scarred with oven burns. She shrugged and turned away. It would have to do. If the client wanted glamour he would have to wait until Mel recovered.
* * *
Loading the car took longer than she’d anticipated because she had to remove the twin’s car seats to make some space for the food, and then she snagged her tights against one of the cooler boxes. By the time she had changed into a fresh pair and checked everything against her list it was almost eleven o’clock. She began to panic when she suddenly remembered there was a route diversion between her house and Greenleas Country Club because of road repairs. Mel had cut the call before she could ask about the kitchen arrangements at the venue too. Would she be on her own, or would there be extra help? Did Melanie’s Kitchen have to supply everything or would china and cutlery be available?
She contemplated telephoning her friend but was reluctant to disturb her in case she was asleep. After a moment’s deliberation, she pulled boxes of paper plates, plastic tumblers and cutlery out of an overflowing hall cupboard and piled some from each into an empty carton, adding paper napkins and several plastic trash bags as she headed towards the front door.
Her worst fears were realized and it was almost noon by the time she reached Greenleas. A huge pantechnicon blocked the car park, and the main reception area was full of packing cases, ladders and open toolboxes. There was no sign of a receptionist, nor of anyone else, so with no one to ask, and desperate, she abandoned her car outside the main entrance and began to unload.
A printed notice with a large red arrow pointed her in the direction of the conference annex and she soon found herself standing in the middle of a large dining area staring in dismay at the tables and chairs stacked around the walls. A lone boiler full of cold water waited forlornly on a side table near the door. With a shaky intake of breath she lowered her boxes to the floor. Mel must have agreed to set out the tables and chairs as well as provide the food, and now she had less than an hour to do everything.
She was on her sixth and final journey to the car when the heel of her shoe caught between two paving stones and wrenched right off. Left with no choice but to don a pair of old trainers she kept in the car, she hoped nobody would notice. If she hadn’t been so desperately worried about letting Mel down she might have seen the funny side and gone in search of the regular staff to rustle up some sympathetic help. As it was, she couldn’t think straight. All she could remember was Mel’s delight when she landed the Greenleas contract, and here she was, ruining it.
At ten minutes past one she was still putting the finishing touches to the buffet and thanking her lucky stars the conference was running late, when someone burst into the room behind her and fired a fusillade of abuse.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at blocking the reception area? We have a service entrance for contractors and if it’s not too much trouble I’d like you to move your car. Now!”
The sarcasm that lashed across the dining hall stopped Kerry in her tracks and drained the blood from her face until her eyes were two enormous holes in a dead white mask. For three years she had tried to forget that voice, the seductive Irish lilt that used to send shivers down her spine whenever it whispered in her ear. Her fingers became nerveless and her knees turned to jelly but she answered bravely, keeping her back turned, hoping against hope that the voice’s owner would go away.
“I’m sorry. I arrived late because of a route diversion and when I got here a furniture truck was blocking the service road. I meant to move the car as soon as I finished unloading but there was so much to do I didn’t have time. I’ll go and park it right away.”
“Make sure you do.” She heard him push against the door ready to exit but her relief was short lived because, as he turned to go, the delegates began to drift into the hall still discussing the conference as they made their way towards the buffet.
She heard his hiss of irritation as he crossed the floor. “For heaven’s sake! Are you coping with all this on your own or is there someone else who can take over before the car park grinds to a complete halt?”
“I’m on my own,” she still had her back to him as she rifled through her purse looking for her keys. “I’ll move my car as soon as I’ve finished serving.”
“Not on my watch you won’t,” he held out his hand for her car keys. It was a large, brown hand with the strong fingers and muscular forearm she remembered only too well. “Give them to me and I’ll move it. It’s bad enough having the car park blocked without the caterer abandoning post too!”
Kerry half turned and dropped the keys into his outstretched palm, praying that her short hair and practical clothes would stop him looking any closer. After all why should the great Pierce Simon be interested in the domestic help? It wasn’t exactly his style.
“Kerry!” The disbelief in his voice provoked the trace of a reluctant smile as, her prayers unanswered, she was finally forced to turn right around and face him.
“Hello Pierce. I didn’t think you’d recognize me,” she kept her voice cool, trying to ignore a sudden inner turmoil as her heart began to thud erratically against her ribs.
“Well you’re certainly different,” his startled blue glance took in everything from her strained expression to the shabby trainers on her feet. “What are you doing? Seeing how the other half lives?”
She flushed at the scorn in his voice. “As it happens I’m the junior partner in Melanie’s Kitchen.”
“Next stop the Ritz I suppose,” his half smile took some of the sting out of his words as he nodded towards her shabby trainers. Surprisingly she felt a bubble of laughter begin deep inside her as he nudged her sense of the ridiculous in the same way he used to do when he was the centre of her life. Hastily she quashed it and moved forward to supervise the buffet, determined not to place the Greenleas contract in any further jeopardy, and equally determined not to let him back into her nicely mended heart. His hand on her shoulder made her jump.
“I’ll see you later,” this time the smile was frosted as he acknowledged her deliberate cold shoulder. “Ask the receptionist to call me when you want your keys.”
She didn’t answer him as she began to dispense slices of meat and polite small talk to the delegates clustered around the buffet, and after a moment he shrugged and walked away.
She watched him go, seeing irritation in his swift stride and in his curt acknowledgment of the few people who recognized him. She tried to concentrate on that, on the part of him she disliked, the part of Pierce Simon that demanded constant attention and immediate gratification. Instead a more basic memory called to her so instead she found herself feasting on the length of his legs, his slim hips, his golden brown skin and his trademark tangle of sun streaked hair.
“Was that Pierce Simon?” a woman with long blonde hair asked as she spooned couscous salad onto her plate.
Kerry nodded silently as she abandoned an attempt to top up empty juice glasses with trembling hands.
“I thought so. He’s quite something isn’t he? I must say I haven’t enjoyed watching Wimbledon so much since he dropped out of the tennis scene.”
“That’s because you go for the legs instead of the backhand,” the man next to her in the queue teased.
“I never pretend to anything else,” she retorted with a grin. “I wonder what he’s doing here though? I would have expected California to be more his style.”
Me too. Kerry took some surreptitious deep breaths as she listened, trying in vain to quell the rosy blush that had begun to suffuse her body as she reacted to the lingering fragrance of Pierce’s aftershave.
“He owns Greenleas,” a younger man who looked as if he started every day with a five-mile jog explained. “Well he owns the whole estate actually. I think he’s having a house built somewhere in the grounds, and he has some grandiose plans for developing the country club once the initial renovations are complete.”
“You mean you actually know him?” As the blonde woman’s voice cut across the general remarks Kerry heard the familiar edge of excitement, the sexual frisson that Pierce’s presence seemed to engender in every woman he met.
“Sort of. I work out in the gym a couple of times a week and he’s often there too.”
His words evoked a provocative memory. Pierce in the tightest of Lycra shorts and vest, his chest and arms glistening with sweat, his hair drenched into tight curls as he pushed himself to physical limits. She remembered the ripple of his muscles and the sinuous length of his legs as he dipped and twisted in an agony of exercise, and then later the shower, hot and relaxing. She could almost feel the water cascading across her back as he pulled her in with him, ignoring her protests and pushing aside the heavy, wet strands of her long straight hair to kiss her neck and to…
Abruptly she surfaced as someone asked her for a knife, and then busied herself preparing coffee while the conversation continued to ebb and flow around her. It was mainly speculation about Pierce’s decision to leave the tennis circuit nearly two years earlier when he was still close to his peak.
Kerry listened, surprised at just how ignorant three years of struggling alone had made her. It had left no time for newspapers or magazines, no money for television, so that caught up in a daily round of dirty nappies and pureed carrot, she had missed his premature retirement. She had tried to distance herself of course, smashing her memories as viciously as he had once smashed tennis balls, so why should her main reaction be one of shock? After all it had to come one day, so why not before his fitness began to decline? By retiring early he’d escaped the ignominy of tired muscles and slower reactions as he faced ever younger opponents across the net.
“I wonder how old he is.” The blonde woman was still musing about his other attributes.
“Thirty-three,” the words were out before Kerry could stop herself and she blushed.
“You too!” The woman laughed. “Funny how that potent macho image gets to us all isn’t it, even whilst we all insist we’re fighting for equal rights. What else do you know about him?”
That he’s six foot and three inches tall, was born in November, has an Irish mother and an English father, likes jazz and fast cars, kisses like a dream, thinks he’s god’s gift to women, and is the most arrogant self-obsessed member of the opposite sex you are ever likely to meet! The words buzzed round and round, unuttered, in Kerry’s head as she gave a slight shrug and turned away. The woman would find out for herself soon enough anyway. From the way she was cross-questioning the young man who had claimed such a tenuous acquaintance with Pierce, she had every intention of following through. It was a syndrome Kerry knew well, and one that Pierce had never been averse to encouraging with a mild flirtation of his own.
* * *
By two-thirty Kerry was alone and she wrapped and stacked mechanically, tipping paper plates into two black trash bags and retrieving crumpled napkins and plastic cups from beneath tables and off windowsills. Finally everything was tidy and she knew she couldn’t put off the evil moment any longer. She needed her car keys so she had to find and face Pierce.
Leaving the boxes and cooler containers near the door she made her way to Reception. The area was clear now and a girl with purple nails and a matching lipstick was sitting behind a large wooden desk.
“I…would you call Mr. Simon for me please,” Kerry flushed with embarrassment as the receptionist looked her up and down and obviously found her wanting. “He has my car keys. My car was blocking the entrance,” she added hastily, hoping this was enough to disassociate her from any personal connection in the girl’s mind. Then she turned away and pretended to read the notices pinned to an adjacent board while the girl called Pierce’s cell phone.
He came almost immediately, striding across the high gloss floor while he rapped out a stream of instructions to a young man in a tracksuit who was jogging to keep up with him.
“Finished?” He broke away from his companion and came across to where Kerry was trying to look interested in a poster about a Yoga class.
“Yes thank you,” she held out her hand. “If you’ll give me my keys and tell me where you’ve parked my car, I’ll load it from the service entrance.”
“And then I suppose you’re going to push it home.” Pierce made no attempt to hand over the keys as he stood looking down at her, his arms folded across a broad expanse of chest.
She frowned at his words, wishing she wasn’t so affected by the tantalizing and far too familiar tang of his aftershave. “Of course not. Please give me my keys Pierce. I’m not in the mood for games.”
“Nor am I!” Without warning he took her arm and ignoring her protests, propelled her at speed across the reception area to a door marked private. Pushing her inside he closed it firmly behind him and flipped the lock before waving her towards a dark blue leather couch.
“Now we are guaranteed some privacy, you can listen to me. Your car won’t start. A mechanic is working on it at the moment so you’re not going anywhere yet, which suits me fine because I think you owe me some sort of explanation and I am quite prepared to stay here until I get one.”
Suddenly Kerry’s legs wouldn’t hold her and she folded onto the couch with an inward groan. It was all so unfair. She had always known she would have to face him again one day and she’d lived and relived this scene over and over again, except that in her imagination Pierce was the supplicant to her successful businesswoman. She’d always pictured herself elegantly dressed in a tailored suit and a designer blouse; in control of her emotions; cool and confident; prepared for the confrontation she knew was coming. She stared miserably at the scuffed trainers that made her slender legs look too thin and the smear of tomato relish on her white blouse. She might have known her dreams wouldn’t come true. They never had as far as Pierce was concerned, which was why she had walked out on him three years ago when she was two months pregnant; too proud to ask for his help; too vulnerable to risk his contempt.
He took advantage of her silence to use his cell phone to order coffee. It gave Kerry the breathing space she needed. By the time he’d finished her chin was up and she was ready to protect herself and the twins from the one person who should have been the centre of their lives.
“Explanation?” Her smile was carefully positioned, one eyebrow raised quizzically.
“Yes, explanation dammit!” His brows drew together in a familiar scowl as he crossed the room to sit next to her. “While I’m on court playing one of the most important matches of my life you pack up your wardrobe and disappear. No warning. No explanation. Nothing. I was out of my mind with worry until I found your note. Why did you do it Kerry? What happened to make you run away?”
She managed a nonchalant shrug, hating what she was about to do but unable to think of an alternative. “I told you in the note. I was fed up with following you around the tennis circuit. Fed up with not having a life of my own.”
“Well you sure as hell managed to hide your misery when you were buying up Paris and living the highlife in London and the States,” he drew his brows together again in a disbelieving frown. “There has to be something else, or was it someone else.”
She feigned a bored indifference as she met his puzzled blue gaze. “There was nothing…except I’d just had enough. All those hours of watching you play and then listening to you dissect your game…it was boring Pierce. So was only being able to socialize with other tennis players. I wanted more but you never listened to me. Not properly. It was always ‘we’ll talk about it later Kerry, after the next tournament’. In the end I’d had enough and besides, after nearly a year together, I wanted to leave good memories behind. If I’d told you I was going and why, there would have been arguments and bitterness.”
That bit at least was true she told herself, hoping against hope he would buy her story and lose interest. After all he’d only ever had to click his fingers for a bevy of beauties to come running, so why should he bother about an old flame who’d walked out on him three years ago, particularly one who had lost her looks and her fortune.
“Memories! I wanted more than memories Kerry, and I thought you did too. I thought we had a future together.” His voice bit into her thoughts as he leaned forward and grasped her wrist.
She dredged up every ounce of scorn she had in her and looked him squarely in the face, not flinching at his expression, ignoring the compelling draw of the deep blue eyes that had melted her so often in the past. “Don’t be ridiculous Pierce. A future is only possible in the real world, away from constant travel and a different hotel room every week. You never once asked me what I wanted in all the time we were together. You never even wondered how I filled my time while you trained and practiced for hours and hours each day. You never considered I might be bored. You never thought about the future except in terms of matches and tournaments. You just liked having some arm candy to fill in the gaps and add color to your publicity. I was just a pretty face on the terraces for the television cameras to pick out while you changed ends.”
He stared at her. “Is that what you really think or is it some sort of excuse?”
Before she could answer there was a tap on the door. Standing up abruptly, Pierce answered it. A girl in a pink overall carried in a tray with mugs, a coffee jug and cream set out neatly on a white cloth. At a growl from Pierce she placed it on the corner of the desk and then, with an anxious glance in his direction, scurried from the room. Kerry forced a light laugh.
“Still as gracious as ever I see. Haven’t you learned yet that an occasional thank you takes you a long way?”
For a moment she thought she had gone too far as the dark wings of his eyebrows drew together, but then he laughed. It was a sharp, humorless sound and his smile didn’t reach the cool blue of his eyes, but it deflected the tension between them.
He poured coffee into the two mugs. “Well! Well! You’ve changed in more than appearance haven’t you? Obviously the tennis circuit stifled the real Kerry Farrow. I had no idea your ditsy image was a cover up for the professional woman straining to get out.”
She winced; knowing how ridiculous she must seem but determined to make him believe tennis had driven her away. Pierce’s memories were of a slender twenty-year-old with long straight hair that hung like a silk curtain halfway down her back. A girl whose almond shaped nails were always polished and who only ever wore designer clothes, from the jeans stretched to the limit across an impudent butt, to the full-on glamour of a Versace evening dress. In those days even her belt would have cost twice as much as the whole outfit she was wearing now. She felt a momentary stab of self-pity as she smoothed the front of her cheap chain store skirt. It prompted an angry answer.
“Well at least this Kerry Farrow is more productive than the sort of accessory you demanded. There are more important things in life than boosting the male ego.”
“A sharp tongue too, but it wasn’t all bad was it? I seem to remember we had one or two mutual interests. ” He drained his mug and replaced it on the tray. Then he walked across the room and pulled her to her feet. “Remember this?”
She saw the kiss coming and tried to turn her head, drooping her eyelids against the heady nearness of his body, trying not to drown in the familiar musky scent of his skin. He laughed aloud, his teeth gleaming white against the golden tan of his face, and then his lips were pinned to hers, his tongue honey-sweet as it probed the moisture of her mouth.