

When I See Your Face

Published by Devika Fernando at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Devika Fernando

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

About the Author

Prologue

"Enough is enough," Cathy thought, looking at her bruised reflection in the mirror.

She wiped at the tears streaming down her face, one side swollen and sporting a rainbow of colors from old and new bruises.

The eyes staring back at her were hollow, lifeless. Two dark holes of suffering, silence, fear.

She didn't need the mirror to remind her of the latest beating. It was all too vivid on her mind. For a second, she allowed herself to remember the pain and humiliation, hoping it might somehow give her the strength to move on.

* * *

"How long does it take to boil a goddamn egg for breakfast, woman? It's not like you need to lay it first."

Mark's voice made her jump, and Cathy narrowly avoided cutting her finger. She set the knife down carefully, pretending the tears welling in her eyes were only from chopping onions and not from the terror his belligerent tone unleashed.

Trying for a timid smile, she turned around slowly to face her husband, standing in the doorframe with his arms crossed. He was dressed in a neatly pressed white button-down shirt and black trousers. His impeccable attire only made the sneer and the cruel look in his eyes worse.

"It'll be ready in just a minute," she said, adding a meek "I'm sorry". She seemed to be spending most of her days apologizing, almost always for something that she hadn't done or that wasn't in her control.

With a muttered curse, Mark strode closer, scowling at her.

"How many years have you been boiling my eggs now?"

She shrank back against the cupboard behind her, blinking. "I... I don't know. Quite a few."

His eyes narrowed. "And still you don't know to time it just right to have them ready for me? Do you think I can laze around like you all day, without a care in the world?" He leaned closer, spitting the words into her face. "I have a job to do, woman. Every minute of my day is precious, so don't you dare waste it with your foolish antics."

Cathy flinched and nodded, her head bobbing up and down like a puppet's.

The kitchen timer dinged, and it sounded like the sweetest thing on earth.

She hurried over and took the egg out, nearly burning her hands while fumbling with the hot water. Forcing herself to take deep breaths and steady her hands despite her husband hovering close by and radiating aggression, she peeled the egg and cut it into even slices, exactly the way he liked it so he could place them on his toast.

"What the hell is this?" His voice boomed, startling her into dropping a slice of egg onto the kitchen floor.

All the blood drained from her face. Mark advanced and picked up one of the pieces, the yolk not exactly runny but not hard-boiled either.

"It's...it's your egg," she stuttered. When the hell had she become so defensive, so spineless?

"I don't eat my eggs like that," he said, frowning at the food as if it had grown greenish hairs of mildew.

Cathy gulped. It was a blatant lie.

Over the years of their miserable marriage, she'd learned to prepare food exactly the way he preferred it, trying to appease the beast in him. But lately, he'd started complaining, driving her out of her mind with fear and loathing.

"Bitch," Mark roared when she merely stared at him.

He flung the plate into the sink where it shattered. The remains of his meal exploded all over the stainless steel counter.

Before she could react, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her closer. Holding a whimper in with all her might, Cathy bit her lip and waited for the first slap to come. Making a sound would rile him up even more.

When his fist made contact with her cheek, missing her eye by a hair's breadth, she saw stars, but swallowed her scream.

Mark pushed her away so she stumbled and hit her hip on the corner of the counter.

"I don't know why I bother with you at all," he muttered, seething with the rage that seized him so suddenly these days. "You're bloody useless. I should divorce you and hire a house maid."

With a look of disgust, he wheeled around and stormed away.

Cathy sagged in short-lived relief, a hand rising to rub her bruised hip. Oh, how she wished he would indeed divorce her. Even living on the street without a penny would be better than this.

Where was the suave, sophisticated man who could charm the pants off the Queen, who'd gifted her flowers every day and made her feel special? Sometimes, he broke through the rough surface even now. Mark would bring her a sleek designer dress or a shiny new pair of high heels she could barely walk in, vowing remorsefully that he would never lay a hand on her again.

But she had learned the hard way not to believe him.

Cathy stayed in the kitchen until she heard her husband close the front door. After his car had left, she poured herself a glass of water, downed it and held some ice to her swelling cheek.

He would never divorce her. It was too much fun for him to make her life hell.

Closing her eyes, she tried to calm her errant heart beat and the mutinous voices inside her head.

Why wait for him to make the move? Hadn't he done more than enough damage?

* * *

Cathy lifted her chin, willing herself to look more determined in the mirror's reflection.

Today, she would change everything. She'd finally do the unspeakable and leave.

Sniffling quietly, she started piling her clothes into a suitcase that was as medium-sized as her life. Whatever she could lay her hands on wandered into the bag until it was half full. She selected two pairs of summer sandals and threw them on top of the clothes pile. Mechanically, like a toy soldier wound tight and confined to tiny, practiced movements, she dumped the suitcase onto her bed, walked over to her dressing table and grabbed a handful of items for her cosmetic bag.

This time, nothing would be able to stop her. Not her guilty conscience. Not her insecurity. Not the physical and emotional pain. Not the shiny wedding ring with the tiny diamond. Not the snoring from downstairs that was audible whenever she ceased sobbing.

Her crying had subsided by the time she had closed the suitcase. Six steps across the room brought her to the desk where she packed her laptop into its richly embroidered case, slid her phone into her handbag. As an afterthought, she took a notepad and pen out of the upper drawer. She poised the pen to write, but her hand hovered uselessly above the blank paper.

What to say? There was nothing she felt like telling him. No word or sentence that could sum up what she felt right now and didn't want to feel anymore.

After a few moments of hesitation, Cathy took a deep breath. She dropped the pen onto the desk and turned around to look at her room. It was impossible to figure out whether she had taken everything important or when and how she would get what had been left behind. Actually, it was impossible to think at all. Better to act as long as that strange determination still held her captive.

She slung her handbag over one shoulder and hefted the bag off the bed. She left without a backward glance, turning the light switch with an elbow and softly kicking the door shut with her heel. As mechanically as before, she padded down the stairs into the foyer. The snoring from the living-room followed her, like the ominous growl of a tiger lying in wait.

Cathy was halfway down when the rhythmic sound stopped, so abruptly that she froze with one foot lifted.

Dear God, don't let him be awake, she prayed silently, fervently. If he finds me like this, he'll kill me.

Her pulse beat so wildly she thought she might faint. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Should she dart upstairs to safety? No, she was bound to make a noise. Like a dear caught in the headlights of a speeding truck, she stood stock still.

Deceptively soft sounds traveled up to her. The creak and groan of the couch springs and leather. A grunt as Mark presumably shifted his position.

Would he get up for a glass of water? Yell for her?

Please God, no.

Cathy was gripping her baggage so hard her knuckles turned white. She barely dared to breathe.

After agonizing minutes, the reassuring sounds of sleep recommenced. She took a deep breath and forced herself to count to ten, then to twenty.

Shaking like a leaf, she walked the rest of the way and slipped into a pair of comfortable sneakers. Her handbag brushed against the wall with a dull thud, making her freeze again and hold her breath.

The snoring stopped.

No! She was so close. So damn close to freedom.

After five more seconds that seemed like an eternity, the snoring continued.

As if her feet had a will of their own, they carried her through the front door and all the way down the driveway to the gate. It was there that Cathy turned and spared the house a last glance. A place that had never really been her home but rather a prison, especially for the past few months. An elegant façade and a grand exterior, holding nothing but deceit, cruelty, despair and a failed marriage.

With a gesture speaking of true determination for the first time, and of finality, Cathy let the big black, cast-iron gate click shut behind her. Her heart beating in her throat, she all but ran to the station.
Chapter 1

Cathy took a moment to feast her eyes on the view before her.

Neat little houses with gabled roofs and flower-filled gardens. Further out, rolling green hills and fields against the backdrop of an impossibly blue sky. The contrast to the glittering high-rises and crowded streets that had been her view for so long couldn't be bigger. She hung some hand-washed clothes over the railing of the balcony that her small apartment in the guesthouse was blessed with. When she caught herself whistling, she nearly dropped the last top onto her foot.

My God, when was the last time she had actually whistled? Or felt happy and carefree enough to whistle? She honestly couldn't remember, though she would bet her newly washed clothes that it must have been in the blissfully ignorant first weeks after the wedding. Now, roughly 17 months and at least twice as many bruises later, things had changed so much that whistling seemed a sacrilege, something the Cathy of a past life might have done, but not her. Living with an abusive husband had a certain dulling effect on spontaneous displays of happiness like whistling.

With a sigh, she walked back inside. More than seven days had passed since that fateful night when she had left her home and her husband. More than seven days since Mark had slapped her cheek so hard that her head spun for minutes, since he had kissed her forcefully until her lips were sore and finally passed out drunk on the couch before anything more dreadful could happen. More than seven days since she had packed part of her belongings and resolved to start life over again, without a husband who didn't love her and whom she had grown to fear and avoid, if not hate. During that span of a week, she had taken a train and a long-distance bus to put several hundred miles between Mark and her, between her old life and her timid budding dreams.

On the second day, she had stumbled upon this charming village almost in the middle of nowhere that was full of kind but all too inquisitive people, old-fashioned buildings and sun-filled lanes with hardly a car in sight, and had decided that this would be the ideal place to open a new chapter in her life. The first days of terror—Would he find her? Would somebody guess? Was she doing something wrong? How would she cope alone?—had made it impossible to leave the room and to think a clear thought. Yesterday, however, some sort of haze had lifted. She had decided that there was absolutely nothing to prevent her from settling down right here. All those generous amounts of money that Mark had been transferring to her account month after month meant that she was in no hurry to find a job and could stay in this holiday apartment to plan the details of her future.

She had to do something, keep herself occupied, and refrain from remembering and doubting and feeling guilty. But what was there to do? There was nobody she would want to call and talk to, her so-called friends having abandoned her shortly after her marriage because they had thought her foolish or because she had never answered their calls. She had blocked Mark's number on her mobile phone and hadn't dared to check her email account for fear of having a message from him. See, there was something that would keep her occupied for a while: Face her fears head-on and get over them.

When she fired up her laptop and checked her inbox, there were two messages waiting for her. One was clearly spam. The other one came from an all too familiar email address. It had no subject line and no signature and was only one sentence long.

I am filing for divorce.

Gulping, Cathy realized she was gripping her mouse much too tightly. She let go of it and instead brought both her hands to her forehead, pressing her fingers into her throbbing temples. Well, if that didn't take things forward considerably. She let out a shaky breath and was amazed to find that she wasn't crying. Fine, he'd get what he wanted from her, for the last time in his life. Because she wanted it too, that final cutting of bonds that would set her free and prove to her and him once and for all that she was better off without a husband who knew how to make her suffer, but not how to make her feel loved or even acknowledged.

She clicked away at the keyboard in determination. There was much to keep her occupied now, what with having to find a lawyer and informing herself about divorce procedures.

A knock at the door interrupted her concentration. She blinked and looked around, feeling disoriented as though she had surfaced from a long diving trip in the murky waters of a jungle lake.

"Ms. Nolan? Ms. Nolan, are you in there? I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I've brought you something."

That must be Mrs. Grindle, the kind old lady who ran the guesthouse and had bestowed many a warm smile on Cathy right since the day she had booked in.

She got up and hastily opened the door.

"Mrs. Grindle, I'm sorry for letting you wait at the door for so long. Please, do come in."

The stout, short, white-haired landlady beamed at her.

"I was wondering whether you had fallen asleep," she said, stepping into the room while balancing a full tray on her hands.

Cathy smiled an embarrassed smile and closed the door.

"Oh no. I was...I had...I guess I was lost in my thoughts," she answered, not willing to let a cloud overshadow all the sunshine this lovable old woman had brought with her.

Mrs. Grindle bustled busily into the kitchen.

"No dark thoughts, I hope?"

"Actually, I'm not so sure about that," she surprised herself by replying.

The old lady put the tray down on the kitchen counter carefully and patted her on the arm like one would maybe pat a dog on his head.

"Even better then that I have decided to disturb your privacy. You haven't had your lunch yet, I hope?"

She shook her head, intimidated by all that kindness and directness.

"Perfect!"

Mrs. Grindle all but glowed with satisfaction and lifted off the lids of the various bowls on the tray.

"I thought you might like a bite or two of home-made food, so I've brought you a share of my lunch. Typical village food, nothing sophisticated enough for a posh townswoman like you, Miss Nolan, but much healthier than your normal choice of meal, I'd say."

One after the other, delicious smells rose into the kitchen air, making her stomach rumble audibly.

"This looks absolutely delightful, Mrs. Grindle! But why did you go to so much trouble?"

"Nonsense, my child, it was no trouble at all. You had better eat it while it's still hot. Oh, and do call me Aunt Grindle, everyone here does and I feel so high and mighty being called Mrs."

Cathy couldn't remember the last time somebody had been so kind to her. Sure, once people had got to know that she was the famous real estate manager Mark Nolan's wife, they had all but fallen over themselves to gain her favor, but nobody had ever been genuine like this formidable lady with her flowered frock and probably self-knit cardigan.

"Then please call me Cathy," she said. "I'd rather not be Ms. Nolan."

"Perfect. Now, you'd better eat up and get some fat on those slim limbs of yours, dear. Make sure you eat the dessert too."

Before she knew it, she had asked Mrs. Grindle to stay and her new-found Aunt was chattering away happily while Cathy lustily devoured her lunch with more appetite than during the past 17 months taken together.

* * *

Today really was one of her better days.

She had gone out for some afternoon shopping. Automatically, she returned the smile that the cashier gave her when she reached the counter with her full basket.

"Found all you need?" the unpretentious middle-aged lady behind the counter asked her.

"Yes, thanks," Cathy replied.

Things were so different here. All throughout high school, college and marriage, she must have lived on another planet. A few hundred miles of travelling had apparently brought her into another world. She could already feel herself loosening up. Remembering less and living more. She still dreamt of her husband every night, waking up screaming from an all too vivid nightmare, but during daytime she managed to keep him out of her thoughts. There was never a fond memory or longing or regret, only self-induced guilt and fear of the future. However, hope was starting to grow inside her, a timid, light green shoot reaching a slim arm out of the soil and into the sunlight. Maybe this wasn't so difficult after all.

The tinkling of a bell announced another customer entering the shop. Both of them turned to look.

It was...Mark.

There, standing in the doorway in blue jeans and a blue T-shirt—since when was he wearing casual clothes out of home?—was her husband, the very person she was striving so hard to forget. He was looking at them with an unreadable expression on his face, holding a bouquet of yellow roses in his hands as if it were the most normal thing in the world for him and he belonged right here. As if she hadn't run away from him and he hadn't notified her that he would file for divorce.

Something snapped in her at that instant, with a loud, hard, whipping, energy-charged sound that she could hear clearly. Before she knew it, she had stormed toward him, raising herself to her full height and nearly bursting with feelings.

"You...you deceitful bastard of a man! What do you think you're doing here, bringing me a bunch of freaking roses?! Do you think flowers will make up for making me suffer for almost two years? Are you honestly so full of yourself that you think I'll return to you? Or have you gotten down from your mighty high horse because you've realized that your life is nothing—nothing—without me?"

She was screaming at the top of her voice. Forgotten were the cashier lady and the other people inside the shop. Forgotten was the fact that she had never during their marriage dared to raise her voice to her husband. He was standing there with his mouth hanging open like a ridiculous comic book caricature of himself, the bouquet having dropped from his hands to the floor.

"Don't you dare to keep a hold on me! Let me live my life and you go and live your dreary, shameful life of yours that I don't want to be a part of anymore!"

While she caught her breath to let loose another tirade, Mark tried to say something. His words barely registered with her, so hurt and angry and determined was she.

"Miss...this...this must be a misunderstanding. I..."

That did it. She exploded.

"Leave me alone!" she shouted.

Shoving at him with both hands, she pushed past him and through the door. Running aimlessly as far away from the shop as possible and as fast as her legs would carry her, she fled her nightmare come alive. When after some time, there was a stitch in her chest and she had to slow down, she realized that she was crying. Stopping and steadying herself with a shoulder against some house's whitewashed wall in one of the many side streets, she tried to catch her breath and come to her senses. Sob after sob escaped her. Everything was a blur in front of her eyes and she felt so weak, she thought she would collapse right then and there. Slowly, with jerky movements like a puppet on a string, she leaned her back against the wall and lowered herself to the ground. Bringing her knees up, resting her head on top of them and encircling herself with her arms, she cried and cried until no more tears would come.

He had found her. He had come after her. There would be no escape, no future, and no happiness for her.

Why? Why could he not go through with the divorce, now that she had also hired a lawyer and was more than ready to leave it all behind? How cruel could he be?

It was useless, it was all useless. She raised her head and fished in her pockets for a handkerchief to dry her face before she remembered that all her groceries were forgotten at the shop. And where was the shop?

She looked around bleakly, trying to distinguish the lane from all the other similar-looking ones in the village, trying to judge how far she had run. The shop building was nowhere to be seen. For nothing in the world did she want to retrace her steps and confront anyone there or be faced with her husband again.

With shaky legs—for how many months had her legs been shaky now?—she got up and tried to get a grip on herself. She would go wherever this street was leading until she recognized the area from her walks through the village. After all, there wasn't much space to get lost in. She'd make her way back to her apartment—oh shit! What if Mark had inquired where she stayed and would be waiting for her there? No, she shouldn't go back to her room and like a dumb fish willingly swim into the net that her husband had surely cast. What else was there to do?

* * *

It was close to midnight on her watch when Cathy returned to the guesthouse. She had spent the better half of the day out in the fields surrounding the village, switching between crouching in the grass and fretting, and walking up and down hills, actually enjoying all the natural beauty around her. Despite the anxiety that would hit her once an hour as though on a hidden schedule, the afternoon in the countryside had helped to soothe her nerves. Amidst ankle-high to knee-high grass, butterflies, bees and the odd bird, she had fallen to repeating to herself: I can do this. I will manage. I can do this.

In between, she had given in to memories. Dusk had settled in and made her feel uncomfortable, on edge. She had felt cold inside. Hollow, as though somebody had cut off her head neatly at the neck, dipped a huge soup ladle into it and scooped out all that was her, that could make her happy or at least make her function.

This time of the day had always been her nemesis, much more so than the night, which she dreaded too. It was the time when she half wished for and half feared that Mark might come home and actually notice her. The time when she couldn't forget herself in sleep yet and the hold of the day with its routine got too loose to keep her busy.

For a minute, she dwelt on what might happen now if she were still at home. She heard the front door open and close softly and her husband call out to her. "Darling, be a good doll and fetch me something to eat right away. I've brought us some champagne for dinner." He'd be in that suspiciously good mood of his because he had landed another big deal with the rich and beautiful of the city. It meant having to sit by his side for hours while he consumed plateful after plateful of choice food and drank even more champagne. He would fondle her thigh under the dinner table or maybe try to feed her before the alcohol got the better of him and he'd right out drag her into his bedroom and have his way with her.

Or else, the door might slam shut, accompanied by a muttered curse. Her husband would plonk himself on the couch in the living-room with a half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand and his tie loose around his neck. She wouldn't hear from him the whole evening, but had to listen to him wander around the house muttering curses under his breath and punching a wall here and there or stumbling over his unlaced leather shoes. The end of the evening would be much the same in this case, unless he had already come home drunk and passed out before he remembered her as a way of cheap gratification, hiding in her dark bedroom upstairs.

Snapping out of these recollections with difficulty, she had collected all the courage she could muster and turned back on the long walk into the village.

After more anxiety and two wrong turns, she had approached the guesthouse, cautious and suspicious. Was there any glimpse of her husband waiting for her to put her foot into the trap? Did she hear anything out of the ordinary? It was all she could do to keep herself from hugging the corners, stalking the shades and crawling along the ground like the detective in a movie.

A few steps short of the main door, she pressed herself against a wall and waited with baited breath. There was nobody to be seen, as always in this village once the darkness of evening settled in and everyone presumably stuffed themselves with hearty country food in the middle of a big and boisterous family circle.

Squaring her shoulders, she grabbed the key inside her pocket tighter and hurried up the three steps to the door. It was unlocked, as usual. If it wasn't locked, that meant that Mark could just walk in and make himself at home while waiting to pounce on her, didn't it? She spun around to scan her surroundings, found not a shape in sight and closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief. How she wished she could throw a bolt. Wanting to avoid a meeting with a concerned, no doubt knowing Aunt Grindle, she took the stairs two at a time, unlocked her apartment door in record time and leaned against it from inside, breathing hard as if after a race. And maybe it had been a race of sorts, one against her own fear more than against the possibility that Mark might be waiting for her.

She couldn't fathom what he wanted from her, how he had found her and what he would do next. Heck, she couldn't fathom what she would do next. One thing was clear: She would not go back to him. Somehow, she had to find the strength in herself to not give in to the considerable charm he possessed. It had tricked her one time, but she vowed to herself that it would be the last time. How did that saying go? Shame on you if you fool me once, shame on me if you fool me twice. She felt shame indeed, and she wasn't going to give herself more reason to be ashamed. She deserved better—even if better meant leading a lonely life as a single in a village, locked away from the world.

Locked away. Yes, she would remain in her room for some days without going out. That should get her message across, in case Mark stayed and tried to persuade her to do whatever it was that he wanted from her. If only she had today's groceries with her, she could last for quite some time. A glance into the fridge and the kitchen cupboards affirmed it: Even if she practically fasted, more than two days in hiding wouldn't be possible.

Unwilling to cry again or let her resolve crumble, Cathy made herself two cheese-and-ham sandwiches and ate them right there, standing in the kitchenette with the living-room lights off. Every single bite did its best to get stuck in her throat and tasted like sand, but she knew she needed some food inside her system after the shock and long walk in the hills. Washing the meal down with a glass of water and another one, she went into the attached bathroom and had a long, much too hot shower as if to cleanse herself not only from dust and sweat but also from today's events and a life's worth of bad memories.

Before going to bed, she told herself, "I will live on somehow. I won't give up and I won't listen to my stupid heart anymore—because I don't need a heart now. After all, nothing and no-one will ever make me fall in love again."
Chapter 2

"Cathy dear? I know you're in there. It's Aunt Grindle. Please open the door!"

God, why didn't she have it in her to ignore the old lady's pleading? Cathy swallowed hard, already half off the couch to answer the door.

More than a day had gone by since that incident in the shop. As she had resolved that evening, she hadn't left the house since, living on her last stock of food and not daring to approach the window or keep the lights on at night. Mrs. Grindle had been calling her at her door in the morning, at lunchtime and again in the evening, the last time obviously with an offering of food whose delicious smell had made her empty stomach do a few cartwheels. Each time, her voice had grown more worried and Cathy had grown more reluctant to keep silent. Now, on the morning of the second day, she didn't have the heart to refuse Mrs. Grindle. This was the one person who had shown her real kindness after months and months of being either ignored, flattered, laughed upon or abused.

"Cathy?"

"I'm coming," she called out, her voice rough with crying so much and not drinking enough.

She had at first been fearing that Mark might have charmed her landlady and would try to enter her room with her, but somehow, this seemed ridiculous to her now. All she wanted was to look upon that kind, wrinkled face and listen to Mrs. Grindle chatter away effortlessly. She had a feeling though, that quite some talking on her side—anything but effortlessly—would be warranted.

As soon as she had opened the door, she was enveloped in a hug that almost knocked her off her feet and brought a prickling of fresh tears to her eyes. Mrs. Grindle pressed her to her ample bosom for a quiet minute, held her away at arm's length, looker her over and clucked disapprovingly.

"My dear, how can you frighten me so? Look at your gaunt face and your red eyes! I was worried out of my wits! If you hadn't opened the door this time, I would have asked Mr. Beckhurst—he's the village policeman—to break the door in and check whether you're still alive."

The old lady's voice was shaking audibly and Cathy cringed with guilt.

"I'm...fine. I just needed some time alone."

"You're anything but fine, my dear. Have you been starving yourself? Now you sit down right here and don't move a finger. Aunt Grindle will hurry down and get you something to eat."

Before she could reply, Mrs. Grindle had pushed her down onto the couch in a no-nonsense manner and was shuffling out of the room with surprising speed.

She waited without moving, her heart pounding in her chest for fear that this might be a trap and that her landlady would return with Mark in tow or said policeman. When Aunt Grindle came back, though, she was loaded with a loaf of brown bread, a banana, a tub of yoghurt and a packet of sausages. She didn't let her protest, nor did she let her get up to cut the bread into slices and fry the sausages. Only when the young woman was chewing away on the improvised meal did the old lady calm down somewhat. She sat down next to her and for a while was content watching her eat. Finally, sitting up straighter, she broke the silence.

"I know we villagers tend to be rather snoopy and you townsfolk like to keep to themselves. However, there is something we should talk about."

She held up a hand when Cathy opened her mouth to answer, not quite knowing what to say but willing to appease her companion.

"As you probably know, I heard about what happened at the shop. Bertha, the cashier lady, told me so over the phone that same day when you never came back to pick up your groceries and she got worried what might have happened to you. I will not judge you, but I need you to answer some questions truthfully."

Here, Mrs. Grindle fixed her with a stern look that reminded her of a school teacher she had been quite scared of in her childhood. A nod was her only answer, though inside her head, a panicked voice was asking her to not reveal a thing, pack her belongings and leave before the situation got ugly for all.

"Why did you scream at...that man? What has he done to make you scold him so?"

There it was. She could break down sobbing now and confess her story of suffering or she could coldly tell the old lady to keep out of other people's business. In the end, she did neither.

"That was my husband," she said, adding with a coolness that surprised herself, "Hopefully to be my ex-husband soon."

Mrs. Grindle's eyebrows rose so high that they disappeared into her white hairline. For a second, she stared in astonishment almost palpable.

"Are you quite sure, my dear?" the old landlady finally asked.

Why couldn't she stop being so inquisitive?!

"Well, I should know what my own husband looks like, now shouldn't I?" Cathy snapped despite herself.

Aunt Grindle held up both hands in defense and seemed to ponder something.

"Cathy, I know this doesn't make sense to you, but I promise I'll explain myself in just another minute. Just one more thing: Do you by chance have a photo of your husband with you?"

Having no idea why the old lady wanted a photo, Cathy shook her head, deciding better not to snap at her again and hear her out. It was then that she remembered that she did have a photo.

She went to her handbag that was hanging by the door, fished out her embroidered cloth purse and took out the small picture of Mark that she had been carrying in it ever since their engagement. It was one of those photos he dealt out to the press when the time was ripe for another magazine interview with the nation's rising star on the real estate sky. Her husband was portrayed in a bust-sized black-and-white shot, in black suit jacket, white shirt and dark tie. He looked younger than his age of 37 and terribly handsome. With his tall, slim frame, his hard but well-proportioned facial features, his neatly gelled shock of black hair and his piercing gaze, he was a lady's man in the way that screamed certain words at you. Rich, self-confident, successful, cool, apparently focusing all his attention solely on the person looking at him.

She bit her lip looking at the photo for a moment, lost in happier memories of her pre-marriage relationship with Mark, lost in a time when her friends all envied her the perfect match. Tearing her gaze from his, she silently held out the photo.

The old landlady let out a small gasp and involuntarily grabbed the photo out of Cathy's hand, holding it closer to her eyes and staring at it as though there was a secret to be discovered. Swallowing audibly, she caught herself, mumbled an apology and placed the photo on the coffee table. During the next few sentences that she spoke very deliberately, her eyes strayed off to the photo a couple of times without her realizing it.

"So that is your husband."

It was more a statement than a question, and one filled with a strange kind of confusion.

Cathy nodded and forced herself to spit out the words she'd rather have kept secret.

"We have been married for more than a year, but I have only ever earned abuse. So some weeks ago, I left home and fled to this village to start a new life. I had received a message that my husband wants a divorce but then...then he turned up here to ruin everything."

As an afterthought, she added, "I'm sorry for causing a scene. I guess I lost it."

Mrs. Grindle's face softened, although she still looked more confused than would have been normal.

"Now please let me explain the whole thing to you. Don't interrupt, dear, or I won't be able to believe my own words."

She paused a second as if to collect herself, before she ploughed resolutely ahead.

"The man you have seen at the shop, the man you shouted at...he's not your husband."

When Cathy opened her mouth to protest, she held up both hands.

"No, wait, wait, you agreed to let me have my say. This man might look incredibly like your husband—in fact, I could swear they're long lost twins—but he is most definitely not the person you think he is."

When Cathy merely stared at her, she went on, "His name is Michael Newland. He has been living in our village for the past six to seven years. He's our gardener and an artist too. As far as I know, he has never been married. Even if you don't feel like believing that two people can look so similar, you will have to. Including me, there are several dozen people here who can vouch for his identity, let alone for the fact that he's been living here continuously for the past years and can't have led a double life with you someplace else."

The confusion in Mrs. Grindle's eyes belied the conviction in her voice. As for herself, she felt as though someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over her head. This couldn't be! Or could it? The man in the shop, not Mark... That meant she hadn't been discovered and the divorce would go through, didn't it? The small green shoot of the plant called hope that had sprung up inside her, only to be trampled upon, raised itself up again, leaf by tiny leaf. Not Mark but a certain Michael. The one in a million chance of somebody looking exactly like her husband and living at the very same village that she had chosen for her new start. It couldn't be true, and yet if the old lady said so and there was apparently a whole village population to back her up, it had to be true.

"Are you quite sure, Aunt Grindle?" she finally found herself asking, copying the older lady not only in wording but also in its tone of utter confusion.

It was her companion's turn to nod silently.

Cathy stared at Mark's photo on the table, at Mrs. Grindle's face, into blank space, trying hard and failing miserably at comprehending what seemed impossible.

"My dear, I'd best leave you to yourself to get to terms with this unbelievable information. But let me ask something of you—though I'm not in a position to ask you for favors."

With the young woman looking on, the landlady pressed ahead, laying a veined hand on the trembling one.

"You should...Could you apologize to Michael? He is a respectable person who's had the shock of his life. We all like him immensely and he has deserved an apology for being screamed and shoved at. Believe me, I absolutely don't blame you. However, if you could find the strength to face him and say one word of sorry, I'd be forever grateful."

With that, Mrs. Grindle gave her hand a last press, got up and left the room, not without a backward glance at Mark's photo on the table that stood out so clearly that it seemed to burn a hole into the wood.

Strength. If she could find the strength inside her to apologize... From where was she supposed to get any strength? She shook herself all over as though she had been doused with cold water. She took Mark's photo from the table and looked at it, hard and long. His features were small but all the more clear due to the black and white of the portrait. His high forehead that looked even higher due to the neat hairstyle, his grey-blue eyes that looked lighter due to the black of his hair. The thin lips that were set in a winning, toothy smile ever so slightly crooked at one corner. It was all so familiar to her. And yet, she had confused another man for him, her own husband alongside whom she had lived for roughly two years.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself to relive that shameful moment in the shop, trying to focus on the details, but realizing that she had been much too worked up to notice any details at all.

There were only two things that caught her attention and spoke for the truth of Aunt Grindle's words: There was the man's—she couldn't call him Michael, give him a name, and accept the fact yet—casual attire that her husband would never have chosen for leaving the house. And there was the look of bewilderment on his face that had barely registered with her alongside his stuttering. And hadn't he called her "Miss?" Coming to think of it, there was no way that Mark would have reacted like that. Especially not if he had planned on confronting her.

Shaking herself again, she sucked in a breath. There was no denying it, Mrs. Grindle must have told her the truth. Which meant that she had been worried for no reason. And which also meant that she had screamed at an innocent stranger in broad daylight in a shop full of villagers. Cringing, she remembered her landlady's request which had in fact been more of a plea. Would she ever be able to look her husband's double in the face and say a word she would never want to say to her husband?

* * *

Cathy picked listlessly at her breakfast. Appetite or plain hunger evaded her because she knew she would have to go out and face the world, such as the village and its inhabitants, again from today onwards. Sure, contrary to what she had feared, Mark hadn't sought her out and their divorce proceedings were most probably still rolling. Yet, there were people to confront whose opinion—she was astonished to realize it—did mean something to her. And there was an apology to make that made her sweat merely by thinking about it.

She swallowed the last piece of bread, rinsed her plate and knife, drank her coffee and grabbed her handbag from its hook. It was useless to prolong the inevitable. That was a lesson she had learned during the past few months, painful but helpful too.

Inside the shop, she held on fast to her shopping list as though it were her life vest. She gave the cashier lady a timid smile and felt ridiculously relieved when it was answered by a kinder, bigger smile. Bertha looked like she had a dozen things to say and ask, but Cathy fled into the heart of the shop, not quite ready for a game of Q&A yet. She was engrossed in replenishing her food stock and remembering what she had left behind during her last stint at the shop. Best to concentrate on the here and now and keep herself busy with small tasks than to fret about what she would have to face later.

When she rounded a bend and lifted her head to scan a shelf of tinned food, her gaze fell on the cashier counter. She nearly dropped her shopping basket, and seriously considered retracing her steps and hiding behind the shelves for a while. There, chatting to Bertha, was Mark's clone, the one person she was least ready to confront today.

While her instinct and her pounding heart told her to flee, a strange fascination kept her rooted to her spot, eyes never leaving the stranger that felt anything but strange.

Today, he was dressed in loose-fitting camouflage summer trousers, belted rather low on his lean hips, and a light yellow polo shirt. It made him look taller and his hair appear blacker. His hair: She now saw that unlike her husband, this Michael didn't care for gel or a comb. His hair was a little longer than Mark's and fell loosely over his forehead, so that once in a few minutes he gave a small toss of his head to prevent it from falling into his eyes while he spoke animatedly to the cashier lady.

He constantly used his hands while talking, emphasizing and illustrating in a way that her husband with his precise words and his linear mind had never needed. When Bertha must have said something funny, his face broke out into a grin full of brilliant white teeth that tugged at her heart painfully. Unlike the rest of his manner, it mirrored Mark to perfection.

A customer had stepped up to have his items scanned, which her husband's twin—she should stop calling him that—saw as a cue to walk into the shop and run his errands. He went exactly her way, head bent low and hands in his pockets, unaware of her standing there as if frozen in place, a deer in the headlights of a car speeding toward it.

Before she knew it, the man looked up and stopped dead in his tracks, only a couple of paces away from where she stood. He didn't look angry so much as confused and maybe guilty, though she had no idea why he should feel guilt, registering subconsciously that it was a look she had never seen on her husband's face and that it made his forehead crease as well as tiny wrinkles appear around his eyes.

He didn't say anything, so she summoned what little courage she had and decided to go through with her apology and make a run for it.

"I...I want to apologize for my behavior, Mr...Newland, is it?"

An almost imperceptible nod. He opened his mouth to speak and she cut him short by adding, "I realize it must have come as a shock to you. Believe me, it was a shock for me too. I would never have reacted like this, otherwise. I am sorry to have called you names and shouted at you."

Her voice was shaking and she was studiously avoiding to meet his eye, but inwardly she was proud for sounding so polite and for actually having said sorry when inside her head, scene after scene of her difficult life with Mark played like a movie with the sound switched off.

And now it would be better to leave because being this close to him made it difficult for her to breathe, bringing all the anxiety back. His next words stopped her.

"Well, let's say that you nearly knocked me off my feet with that emotional outburst. Anyway, I'm not somebody to hold grudges. At least I try not to because I learned the hard way that it's plain useless. So...Thanks for the apology. It's forgiven, though maybe not forgotten."

When she simply gawked at him as though she couldn't believe to be let off so easily, he scrunched up his face and went on, "Early this morning, Aunt Grindle gave me a call and explained the whole thing to me. After that, I felt like I had to say sorry for shocking you so much. It must have been hard."

There was something in his tone that made him sound utterly unlike Mark, although their voices were strikingly similar.

Cathy was so confused by this statement that she made the mistake to look up into his face. She was confronted by the full power of his gaze on her.

God, his eye color was the exact copy of her husband's, a cool, brilliant, light blue that had some grey to it and made it seem as though he could look right into her soul. It registered dimly with her that, like his voice, his face was full of honest kindness, openness and feeling. It was the contrast to what she had always witnessed when being around Mark that made it easier for her to speak.

"What has Aunt Grindle told you?" she asked, dread building inside her of what this stranger might already know about her private life.

Instead of being offended by her directness, he answered, "She told me that your husband looked exactly like me and that you weren't exactly on good terms with him. So your screaming at me makes perfect sense."

There was a short grin on his face that was as crooked at one corner of his mouth as Mark's. She wasn't sure whether she could believe what he had said. Then again, her shouts had been explicit enough to imagine what was going on and spin a bigger tale out of it. She had called him "bastard", hadn't she? Cringing inwardly, she felt the need to apologize again, although she couldn't exactly tell why.

"No seriously. I'm glad you understand, but I shouldn't have kept it up when you apparently reacted with such confusion. If there's anything I could do to make it up to you..."

An inexplicable look crossed his handsome face, as though he were hatching some sudden plan.

"Actually, there is. Are you busy today?"

His voice and manner, as compelling as Mark's when he was full of energy and enthusiasm—which usually only happened when the topic was business-related—held her captive, made her reactions impulsive.

"No. Why?"

"Do you have any experience with plants or gardening?"

"Erm...if you consider watering the orchids in our foyer as experience, then yes."

Where did that easy, almost joking, flirty manner of hers come from? Why did his eyes sparkle and his grin widen so appreciatively? And why did she feel like putty in his hands, as she had those days with Mark?

"Hm. Orchids do require a special kind of love."

The humor in his voice was something she wasn't used to. As was the way he looked intently straight at her with every word, as though she mattered. She was growing more confused—and, dare she admit it, attracted—by the minute.

"Anyway, never worry, I should have enough experience for both of us. Here's my suggestion: If you really want to make up for it, and if you would grant me the chance to have a second go at leaving a first impression, you could join me in my work today."

When he saw her shocked reaction flitter across her face, he hurried on with his words in a way that belied his show of easy confidence.

"There's much to do and it's decidedly more fun if I'm not alone but in charming company. What do you say, can you help me with gardening?"

Cathy was feeling dazed. Only certain words had registered with her first: Love, experience, fun, charming company. Charming? Did he mean her? No, he couldn't, though that twinkle in his eyes spoke of a man flirting and he had by now taken at least a step closer to her. Despite herself, even after the full meaning of his words had seeped in, she found herself answering, "Yes. Yes, I'd help you. The thing is, I don't think I'd be much good at it."

"Perfect!"

He was positively beaming like a high-wattage light bulb now, his toothy grin flashing at her and tugging at her heart strings.

"Let's get this shopping done with and get straight on with the work."

There was no stopping him. Before she knew it, he had possessively taken hold of her elbow and was steering her toward the cashier counter, not having bought anything he had come for and not asking whether she had all she needed.

She felt oddly as if having an out-of-body experience. She watched herself be tugged along wordlessly, confusion showing on her face. She watched herself smiling at Bertha again, who glanced at both of them and wasn't successful at hiding a rather satisfied look on her face while processing her goods. She watched as he packed her shopping into two bags which he took in one hand while his other was still holding on to her elbow as though he was afraid she'd go back on her word and run away.

Outside the shop, her brain kicked back in when he let go of her and pointed to a bicycle parked next to the sidewalk with a self-deprecating, lopsided grin that made him look way too attractive.

"I'm afraid my vehicle won't live up to your city life expectations, but I wasn't expecting to leave with a co-passenger. I'd say we walk to where I have work today, it isn't far. You don't mind, I hope?"

He turned to her and she barely managed to shake her head. It earned her another high-wattage smile, making her wonder dizzily whether Mark had ever smiled that much in the span of 17 months. Michael started walking, wheeling his bike with her shopping bags dangling from the handles along and looking so energetic that it felt contagious.

God, what had she done in agreeing to this? Would she live through this day without going through hell?
Chapter 3

After some minutes of walking in tense silence, Cathy dared to speak.

"Mr. Newland, what exactly will we do? And where?"

"Oh please, don't call me that. It makes me feel like some snobby real estate agent or your senior by decades. Can we stick to Michael?"

She certainly didn't feel like getting so familiar with this stranger so soon, as if it meant some commitment. On the other hand, addressing her husband's look-alike by his surname wasn't right, and they were going to spend hours working alongside each other.

"Okay. I'm Cathy."

He turned and held out his hand. "Great! Let's do this right. Hi Cathy, I'm Michael. Pleased to meet you."

Shaking the hand she meekly laid in his while automatically echoing his smile, he continued, "See, this is how our first meeting should have gone."

When there was no reply from her, he dropped her hand and strode onwards.

"It's better if I explain the work when you see it. Learning by doing, you know? To cut the long story short, Mr. Thackeray's garden needs a make-over and today's a good day to start. With your help, I think, the preliminary work will be done within a day instead of two."

He had a way of sounding enamored with his work that reminded her all too much of her husband. She recalled that he was the village gardener and wondered what the heck he wanted her to help with, while at the same time being quite relieved that he wasn't leading her to his home. What surprises would this day spring at her next?

* * *

As if the question she had asked herself had been heard by life itself or by some higher power, the day did its best to spring all too many surprises at her. Time flew by and the most surprising thing of them all was that she felt happy. Here she was in a stranger's backyard in a village she had spent only a few days in, with a man she had known for only several minutes, shoveling earth, uprooting weeds, sweeping fallen leaves—and actually enjoying it.

As soon as they had reached their destination, Michael had transformed. From being energetic, he had turned outright dedicated, full of authority and professionalism mixed in with a good amount of joy at what he was doing. Clearly, like Mark, he loved his job and saw it as his fulfilment, but on a slightly different level that seemed more passionate than consumed, more like he were the driving force and not the man taking the ride offered to him. It was contagious, like his smile, which pierced her like the thorny weeds that managed to prick through the garden gloves, only in a sweeter way and much deeper than she would admit it to herself.

Before long, she was sweating, had rolled her sleeves up her arms and knew her shoulder length, wavy, brownish-blonde hair must be decorating her head in unruly, wet tendrils and spikes. Her sneakers were caked in mud, her jeans liberally sprinkled with grass, clumps of dirt and the odd tiny pebble and her mouth was dry with exhaustion.

And yet, she felt good. She loved to be so active, something she had never been before or during her time with Mark. It was liberating to be working hard next to someone who expected her to do just that and did even more, someone who led the way and yet made her feel his equal by constantly filling her in on what they did and why they did it.

While turning over the soil and weeding what was to become rows and rows of orderly flower beds, he kept up a constant, never nagging stream of conversation which was purely centered on their efforts and his plans for the land they were working on. Mark had never talked about his work with her, rather talked at her about his successes. True, she had no real knowledge about or interest in his land sales and building contracts and stock market trading and investments. Neither did she have the faintest experience with gardening, and yet he held her interest for hours. She absorbed every word of his and felt incredibly useful, although she realized with chagrin that she was probably only managing a tenth of what he did.

He never once asked her anything and she was most content keeping silent and listening to him. And watching him.

For, if truth be told, the biggest reason for her not making much progress was probably not her lack of experience but the effort she put into watching him. Every gesture, every flicker of expression across his handsome face was registered and instantly compared to Mark's behavior.

And here lay many surprises too. The longer she worked alongside him and observed him, the more tiny differences did she discover between the two men who had at first looked like Siamese twins to her.

There was the physique itself. Where Mark had been thin in a sleek, angular, boyish way, Michael was slim and fit with subtle, fine-toned muscles that spoke of an active lifestyle. More often than was probably proper, she felt her eyes roam his body with the muscles rippling under the sweat-stained white singlet after he had unceremoniously slipped out of his polo shirt. It was plastered to his body and made him look much too attractive.

Sometimes, their arms would brush or their legs touch or his breath ruffle her hair when he came closer to instruct her. Instinctively, she flinched away from those moments of physical closeness. She wasn't sure whether it was fear, shyness, memories or a budding attraction that made her do so. He must have noticed, because there was a slight hitch in his breathing every time they touched and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly whenever she flinched.

His face wasn't a copy of her husband's either. There were fine lines around his eyes, on his forehead and around his mouth that deepened whenever he smiled, which he did unconsciously most of the time. This also gave him more depth, a more masculine and mature look than Mark. He was probably the more emotional of the two, not only the more active and open one.

Then there was his voice that fit perfectly to his stature and facial expressions, similar to Mark's yet somehow warmer and livelier. She suspected that this was also true for his character. And asked herself why on earth she would care about his character. For a minute or two, she would work diligently without so much as sparing him a glance, but before long that morbid interest—morbid because with her comparisons, she would inevitably conjure up recollections of Mark and their unhappy life—would kick back in and she would stare at him again.

After what felt like days and must have been several hours, Michael straightened up, tossed the spade to the side and stretched luxuriously like a wild cat after a nap. She felt her mouth go drier when his muscles seemed to spring at her while his wet singlet clung to his body. When he stretched his arms up, the singlet rid up his body to reveal an inch of skin around his stomach and hips, as sun-kissed as the rest of his upper body. Did that mean that he usually worked topless? The notion sent her heart beat on overdrive and made her shake herself all over when she caught herself all but drooling over this stranger that surely only attracted her because of his likeness to her husband.

It took her a second to realize that he was looking at her, that slightly crooked grin on his face that made her legs feel like jelly and did funny things to her breathing.

"Wow, we've worked real hard, haven't we? I'm sure it's past lunchtime. Give me a second while I charm Mr. Thackeray into rustling us something up to eat and drink. Be right back."

He was already half turning toward the house whose inhabitant hadn't once showed up to check in on their work. Pointing behind her, he added, "There's a tap at the back of the house. I'm afraid that'll have to do for now to clean yourself up and refresh after all the hard work."

He was gone in a manner of seconds, leaving her with a myriad of thoughts running through her head. How exactly did he think of charming that man into getting lunch for them? Who did that man think she was, especially in relation to Michael? Did she look so exhausted and dirty that he thought she needed a wash-up? It was the latter thought that sent her hurrying toward the promised tap.

For the 17 months spent alongside Mark, a spotless appearance that spoke of wealth and sophistication had been one of his demands of her. She wasn't allowed to leave the house without her makeup on even when she wanted to go to the supermarket. When there were events, which happened all too often, she had to play at dress-up and stand decoratively by his side or at the opposite corner of the room in high heels and elegant dresses and expensive jewelry with all the other wives that looked like copies of her in various ages.

She couldn't remember when she had last been covered in dust and sweating so profusely. Maybe during her childhood; certainly not in the past ten years or so. She faintly recalled Michael looking much dirtier, which actually made him sexy in a wildish, out-of-doors way. She must be a terrible sight to behold, though. With a sigh of frustration that turned into a longer sigh of exhaustion, she splashed her face and neck with the deliciously cool water and combed it through her hair and rinsed her arms up to the elbows. Now that she wasn't working and watching, her whole body was aching and her limbs were too heavy to lift.

When she walked back to their patch of land, Michael was spreading a sheet on the grass next to the future flower beds. He arranged a few items on it that she recognized as two plates, two glasses and food. Sandwich bread, cheese, a big, ripe tomato cut into equal halves, cucumbers, two cold chicken legs. Her stomach growled at the sight and she couldn't help but laugh at herself. What a difference exercise and charming company could make. She actually felt so hungry she could devour a whole buffet. As if he had read her thoughts, he turned to her and spread his arm across the improvised picnic in an exaggerated gesture.

"Madam, if you please, here's your buffet waiting for you. Choice left-overs from here and there and everywhere, specially prepared for hard working, starving gardeners. Please allow me to draw back your chair for you, madam. Oh, we don't have chairs. Please feel free to sit down on this rather coarse and much too small sheet in the grass and start gobbling before I steal all the food because I'm positively famished."

He looked so comical and the French accent that accompanied his words was so hilariously exaggerated that she found herself giggling like a schoolgirl, her hand over her mouth. When had she laughed or giggled the last time?

For a second, there was an unreadable expression on his face when he looked right at her laughing, defenseless face. What was it in his eyes, darkening them to a deep-sea blue with slate grey dots and burning into her? Desire? Her stomach was much too agitated for her mind to work properly, so she managed to tear her gaze from his and plonked down onto the sheet gracelessly.

The next half an hour passed in amiable silence while both of them helped themselves to the food and a bottle of mixed-fruit juice that wasn't nearly cold enough yet tasted like heaven to her. For once, he didn't talk at all and she didn't watch him—but whenever she lifted her head to scout for more food, she could swear that he was observing her from the corner of his eye. Still too occupied with her lunch to make much of it, she felt strangely content once more.

She was shaking off their meal's crumbs and folding the sheet when it happened. Out of the blue, his hand was on her upper arm, warm and not overly firm.

"Hold on a second," he said.

Cathy froze and her head shot up to meet his eyes.

Michael was standing right in front of her, surprisingly close. He was looking at her neck instead of her face. Slowly, his hand crept up from her arm, over her shoulder to the bare skin close to her neck. His touch set her on fire, kept her rooted to the spot and aching for more with the simple feel of his slightly calloused fingers—yet another difference between him and Mark—against her moist skin and the pulse hammering beneath his thumb. She had no idea what he was doing, but was dimly aware of her pulse on overdrive.

He seemed to have noticed because a moment later he did look into her eyes. There was that intense emotion again, like hunger and something else warring inside him and claiming her as his. It was a gaze that made her fantasize. They were locked like that for she didn't know how long. His face came closer and closer still, her breath stopping, his breath a faint breeze on her lips that had parted.

Would he kiss her now? Would she let him?

Part of her was sure that his kiss would send her reeling with desire and satisfaction. There was another part though, that pleaded with her to use her brain and remember that men who pretended to be interested in her only meant trouble.

There was an odd, faint movement on her collar bone and his finger moved right to that spot. It broke the magic. He took a step back and tore his eyes from her as though it were a colossal effort. While she tried to remember how to breathe and regain her senses, he brought his hand up in front of her face.

"Ladybug," he said in a voice that had gone deep and rough.

Still off balance from that moment of closeness and all that temptation boiling inside her, she didn't know how to react. He spared her from uttering some nonsense in a voice that she was sure would betray her inner turmoil by walking to a nearby shrub and tenderly placing the ladybug that was circling the nail of his thumb on a branch.

"We should get back to work," he said without looking at her, striding toward where he had left his spade. Mechanically, she followed and picked up the rake with which she had started to sweep weeds and fallen leaves together before their lunch break.

The rest of the afternoon passed in silence. He didn't talk this time and she didn't watch him. Things had changed. The silence didn't feel oppressive, however. It felt...private. There was plenty of work to keep them occupied until dusk set in and Michael straightened up yet again. He called it a day, collected all the tools, went into the house to speak about God knew what with Mr. Thackeray and came back out looking strangely reluctant.

"So. I guess this is it."

She nodded, knotting the garden gloves in her hands and feeling equally reluctant to tear herself away from this day, from him.

"I want to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart. There was no need to make anything up to me and yet you accepted the challenge and worked so hard. You helped me considerably and it was...it was fun," Michael said. For an instant, there was that look in his eyes again when he talked about fun, the one that made her ache for him in places that had been sleeping for months and grown cold and desolate. In the heart that Mark had cut out and stomped on.

"Yes, it was fun."

Cathy found she was actually smiling at him.

"There's no need to thank me. I had a nice day full of surprises."  
She bit her lip, realizing what she had blurted out. His look intensified.

"Surprises. Yes," she heard him mutter to himself.

He motioned for her to walk toward the tap with him and while they scrubbed away at their dirty hands, he said, "I will walk you back to your room."

It was a statement that allowed no protest. Oddly enough, protest was the last thing on her mind. They walked toward the guesthouse side by side, Michael wheeling his bike with her grocery bags, Cathy all fluttery inside while wondering how they would say goodbye.

In front of the steps leading to the door, they stopped and he handed her the two bags. They gazed at each other, long and longingly. He was struggling with something for a few moments, his face losing all the quiet confidence.

"Cathy?"

It was the first time he had used her name after they had agreed on skipping the surnames. His voice saying her name with an intimate warmth like a caress sent a delicious shiver down her spine and a shot of guilt through her mind. She wanted to hear him say her name again, moan it in pleasure, she wanted...

"Since you liked the day and don't think me a mean slave driver...would you...do you want to help me finish the work tomorrow?" he blurted out.

She stared at him for a moment, the sentence she had been dreading and wishing for ringing loudly inside her with all its delicious possibilities and uncertain shadows. Before he had the time to take his suggestion back or stutter some explanations, she nodded, hopefully not too eagerly.

A smile flashed across his face, brighter than all the smiles before and making her want to hug him. The urge was so strong that she actually took a step back. His gaze darted toward her feet and his expression lost some of its boyish enthusiasm.

"Great! See you tomorrow?"

"Yes. See you tomorrow."

He leaned forward a fraction, and she wondered whether he would kiss her goodnight. Her feet took another step back and she almost toppled backward because her heels met with the first step. During her ridiculous effort to regain her balance and stop blushing bright red, he shot out a steadying hand. It stayed on her arm a little longer than necessary. She wouldn't look up, afraid that he was laughing at her, equally afraid that his eyes would still look at her with such longing.

The spot where his hand had rested felt cold when he withdrew it. She felt cold all over when he stepped back, obviously ready to go. These village evenings sure got chilly all of a sudden.

"Bye," he half-whispered before he turned and walked away, picking up the bicycle he had leaned against a wall.

Uncertainty and something else that she couldn't put into words gripped her and made her call after him.

"Michael?"

He wheeled back toward her so fast that he was a blur of color, like a running dog yanked back by its leash. There was so much hope on his face that she felt all shaky inside again. How could a man's face express such emotions so openly? Why had Mark's face always been as clean as a white sheet and as unreadable as a closed book? Remembering Mark did the trick, as usual. She returned to her senses and asked, "I was wondering when and where we should meet tomorrow?"

A flicker of disappointment marred his face, or maybe it was an evening shadow and she was interpreting way too much into all this.

"Well, I didn't get a chance to buy my groceries today. So maybe today's time at the shop?"

She nodded. With a strange determination not to prolong this goodbye, she went up the stairs and opened the front door. When an inexplicable wish made her look over her shoulder, he was still standing where she had left him, gazing after her. He raised a hand and waved at her, a smile on his face. Then he turned and walked back the way he had come instead of riding his bicycle. She watched until he turned a corner and hastened to her room, a dozen different emotions warring inside her.
Chapter 4

She was dreaming. She must be, for she was sitting on that table in the office cafeteria where Mark had spoken to her for the first time. Here he was, entering the cafeteria with that utterly masculine confidence of his, head held high and shoes clicking on the tiled floor. She blushed just from looking at him, knowing how much she—and the majority of the girls in the room, heck, in the whole building—wanted him. He was scanning the tables until his gaze fell upon her. Magically, he walked right over to her table and sat down opposite her as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Mark Nolan, sitting down with her, opening his mouth to speak to her and not one of the other, more beautiful and more suitable women, and looking like the catch of the year in his black pin-striped suit and with his toothy million-dollar-smile. She remembered all too well what his first lines had been: "Hello. I'm Mark Nolan. Would you care to be my date this evening?" At that time, she had nearly fainted and been unable to answer with anything but a squeaky "What?"

Now, in her dream, he opened his mouth and said something totally else: "Remember me. We will meet again."

Out of the blue, his hand shot out and slapped her so hard across the face that she fell backward, her chair clattering loudly to the tiled floor and the back of her head hitting something hard with a dull crack.

* * *

Gasping for air like a fish out of the water, Cathy sat upright in her bed.

No, not another one of those nightmares! She rubbed the spot that she had hurt in the dream, reminding her of a time when Mark had indeed hit her so hard that she fell and cracked the back of her head against the floor, sporting a huge bump for days and struggling with a headache long afterward.

It had been in the early evening after returning from one of those luncheons she hated so much, where her husband was the center of attention, the food was pricey and tasteless, and she was supposed to be a smiling, silent doll sitting by his side. She always felt more like an accessory of his than his wife at such occasions.

That day, sometime early on in their marriage, she had made the mistake of breaking the rule by trying to make conversation with the woman seated at her other side. They had been talking listlessly about the weather when the woman had switched tracks and drilled her on her husband's latest deal, and the stuttering Cathy had been utterly lost for an appropriate reaction. Mark had saved the day by asking her to choose their dessert.

Hardly had they been at home when he started lecturing her in his cool, precise voice that everyone out there was hell-bent on stopping his success, which was why she was to keep her mouth shut on all outings. Something must have snapped inside him, maybe caused by the tears that had been falling from her eyes at the double humiliation. He had struck at her and she had fallen, staring up at the icy mask of his face through the red sparks behind her eyes.

She shivered and got out of bed, reluctant to dwell on this unhappy memory again.

It served her right to have another nightmare and remember the lessons she had learned for life. She had been all too interested in Michael yesterday, all too keen to please him, all too ready to deem him better than her husband. How could she look at this man and compare him to Mark or find him attractive? He was a stranger. And he should remain a stranger. She had gone through with her apology, which was only right, but why, oh why, had she accepted his offer to help him out again today?

Cursing herself and deciding not get carried away, she brushed her teeth rather vigorously and chose clothes fit for garden work. Her arms, her legs, her back and her neck where aching dully, her muscles were sore from the exertion. Good, today wasn't going to be all that rosy. All the better, all the easier for her to refrain from dreaming, for daydreams led to nightmares.

* * *

As it turned out, the second day was even more interesting than the first. There was the awkward first hour or so to get over when they both probably fought inner battles and remembered their parting the night before. As soon as they had set to working, though, it was as though they had done this for years. They settled into a rhythm that felt oddly familiar, Michael explaining in words and deeds and Cathy all too happy to follow, listen and watch.

Oh yes, she watched again. It was the details that she was looking for this time. Less for comparison and more for getting to know this man better. She noticed a faint, long, slightly ragged scar next to his left shoulder blade that had totally escaped her until now. This small imperfection did nothing to mar his attraction. Instead, it fuelled her curiosity, made her want to touch the scar and find out how it had come about.

Her love for things that were not normal had never gone well with her husband, who viewed perfection as the highest goal. She had never seen herself as perfect, as capable, as talented or as valuable. All throughout a childhood spent being different from the other children and throughout years of being the onlooker while others dated and climbed up the social as well as the career ladder, she had preferred her dream world to reality, books to movies, beautiful handcraft to luxuries, loneliness to falsehood.

Then Mark had come and bewitched her like the knight in shining armor. Being with him, having him sweep her off her feet and lavish his attention—as well as a good deal of money—on her had been enough to doubt everything she had thought to be important and right. With a few words here and there, some decisive gestures, some subtle pushing and simply being himself, Mark had changed her to a person that would suit his needs. She hadn't realized it, but she had lost herself somewhere along the way by trying to please somebody whom she had blindly entrusted with her life. Only now that she was away from his influence and dared to be herself did it dawn on her how much she had bent herself out of shape to fit a certain ideal.

Now, wearing what she wanted, eating what she wanted and living on her own, the possibilities seemed endless. It was terrifying. And it was gratifying. Take this moment, for example. How had she ended up spending her days alongside her husband's carbon copy, and with garden work at that? What would this all lead to?

She looked up from a bag of natural fertilizer, stole a glance at the stranger beside her and focused on her task again, her mind whirring.

Today, there was less hard work. Before meeting her at the shop, Michael had transported some sacks and plants to Mr. Thackeray's place. They dug out even-spaced holes in the soil and filled it with natural fertilizer. Afterward, to her delight, rose bushes were lowered carefully into their new resting places. He took his time to give her the exotic sounding names of the roses, explaining their shades of color and how they were to be taken care of and how they would fare with what kind of weather.

Halfway through their work, they took another lunch break. This time, he had packed a picnic basket of sorts for them, which made her embarrassed that she hadn't considered food and was eating what he had paid for.

He used their break to give her that intense, dark gaze whenever she dared to look up from her meal.

All of a sudden, he asked, "Cathy, might I get to know more about my apprentice?"

She felt a shiver of delight run through her when he said her name and didn't mind at all that he called her his apprentice. She did mind talking about herself, though. She should have known that he would be as inquisitive as the rest of the village's inhabitant she had so far briefly come in contact with. What would he want to know? Before he could start asking, she volunteered some information, keeping her voice brusque so as to discourage more questions.

"What do you want to know? There isn't much to tell. My name is Cathy...Nolan. I am 26 years old. Used to work as a secretary, currently unemployed. Hobbies: reading, baking cakes. Favorite color: purple. I think my height and my weight I'd better keep to myself."

For a second, she knew her biting tone was wrong. He looked as though she had hit him, but a moment later, a huge grin formed on his face.

"Well, you certainly know how to get to the point. I can see you must have been a good secretary, all practical and politically correct."

There was a joking, flirty tone to his voice that unsettled her. Why hadn't he taken the hint and kept things impersonal? It took the wind out of her sails, made her prone to being spontaneous and all too honest, like when she blurted out, "Oh, I'm not practical at all! When I get lost in a book or in a detail or when I bake a cake or I fall in love with artsy-crafty stuff, I'm not practical at all. And I wouldn't know how to fend for myself because I'm so focused on the impractical."

Tilting his head slightly, tossing his head to get some hair out of his eyes, he fixed her with his piercing gaze. All the humor had left his eyes and voice when he leaned closer and asked, "Why do you hold yourself in such low esteem? Why do you make it sound bad that you love reading and baking? How can you be sure that you can't fend for yourself?"

"Oh, believe me, you would know if you were told that at least once every other day!" she snapped, biting her tongue before more could slip out.

His eyes grew less blue, more grey, deeply emotional and unreadable.

"By your husband?"

He bit out the last word, with much more resentment than she thought natural. She nodded.

"Why do you let him have so much control over you? Still? Aunt Grindle told me that you're filing for divorce. Wouldn't it be correct to leave things behind now and define yourself anew, without all the restrictions of a husband who has obviously treated you wrong? You will never get on with life and be yourself if you keep looking back, if there are past values and experiences tainting the new ones."

He spoke with a heated conviction as if he knew exactly what he was talking about. Instead of taking offense that he was lecturing her on how to live her life from now on, she found herself replying, "That is much easier said than done."

"I know. Believe me. I've been through this myself. Maybe Aunt Grindle has told you that I've been living here for a few years now. I'm not from this village and I wasn't always a gardener. I used to live in the city and went to office from nine to five and after that, I went through hell, as well. And I overcame it. I have been able to start a new life because I cut all ties to my past. I am different now. I am a new me. You can be too. If you honestly want to."

The insistence in his voice had intensified, as though he took a personal interest in her making a new start. She felt shaken to her core because she knew he was absolutely right. More than ever, she was burning with curiosity to know more about Michael. Maybe that was the better way? To actually get to know him and thus stop comparing him to Mark, making it easier to forget one while letting herself get closer to the other?

It took her a second to realize that he was speaking again.

"Why don't you introduce yourself to me again? Tell me something about you that really is you, not a bland fact that you would fill into an application form."

Grinding her teeth and trying hard not to snap, she forced an answer out.

"Oh, are you an expert on application forms? You seriously are too full of yourself. Why do you think it matters what I tell you about myself. And has it ever entered your mind that I don't want to reveal anything else about myself to you?"

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her for a long minute, his jaw set as stubbornly as hers. Then, in a softer, almost apologetic voice, he said, "I thought it would help us to become friends."

She let that sink in. become friends? With him? With somebody who made it impossible to forget her horrible past? It sounded totally wrong. So, why did it also feel right? Why did her heart scoff at her head and beat faster at the thought of being friends with him?

They continued to stare at each other for a while, her expression softening gradually.

"Fine."

She huffed, hating to give in, yet at the same time wanting to.

"What do you want to know?"

"What do you want me to know?"

She wondered how their conversation had turned personal so quickly, how she could open up to someone after less than two days. Then she remembered how ready she had been to believe every word of Mark's when he had swept into her life and turned it upside down. How she had told him all about her and months later found out that most of it must have gone in one ear and straight out the other ear. How he had never been interested in her, only in having her and shaping her according to his needs. He hadn't loved her or seen her as someone to love him, but as a partner who would look good, fulfil all his requirements and be meek enough to stay beside him.

Well, she had proven that she wasn't so meek after all, hadn't she? Here she was, separated from him and looking forward to a divorce. And dangerously close from making the same mistake again.

She drew back and got up.

"Well, I can tell you that I am taking a liking to roses. Maybe you could tell me more about them?" she asked, trying hard to sound nonchalant.

He let the matter rest.

"Always glad to be at a lady's service," he joked and joined her in rinsing their plates off and repacking the picnic basket.

* * *

The rest of the day went by in a rush. Looking back on it, she couldn't remember anything particular. They were finished with the roses soon and started on the next job: trimming the evergreen hedge that ran along the front of Mr. Thackeray's property. He trimmed and she collected the fallen twigs and listened to him getting all enraptured with the plants again. When it grew dark, they packed up. He told her that their work was finished and thanked her for her help, his voice laced with an emotion that she couldn't put her finger on. Sadness?

Without asking, he accompanied her to the guesthouse again. He hadn't brought his bicycle this time, so he wasn't occupied with wheeling it. His hands swung freely by his side. Once they walked so closely that one of them brushed her arm. When she veered away, he stuffed both hands into his trouser pockets and she felt dejected.

At the same spot as the evening before, she turned and fished for the key to her room. She was at a loss for what to say, the fact sinking in that they wouldn't meet for gardening tomorrow and that the best and most natural thing for her to do now would be to avoid seeing him again and start thinking about what to do with her new life.

"I'd better go in."

Michael nodded.

"See you?"

He made it sound like a question, not like a way of saying goodbye.

"It's a small village," was all she managed to say, wanting and not wanting to answer with a yes.

Again, he nodded, pressing his lips together, the tiny lines in his sharply etched face deepening ever so slightly with some feeling or the other.

"Good night."

"Good night," she replied.

Her feet wouldn't move to carry her through the door and inside.

When he took a tentative step toward her, she didn't shy away. Slowly, he lifted his right hand and rested it against her cheek. It was cool and hard and strong and slightly rough, his palm putting soft pressure on her cheek and raising goose bumps on her skin. She wondered briefly why she couldn't move, didn't want to move, and then even wondering was out of her power because Michael had bridged the distance and she felt his lips against hers.

At first, his mouth brushed hers lightly, soft as a butterfly landing on a flower. When she didn't scream or flinch or shove at him, his other hand came up to cup her right cheek. He held her as softly as if she were made of glass, yet with such warmth and reassuring strength lingering beneath, that she wanted to anchor herself to his touch and never be apart from him again.

He withdrew a fraction, tilted her head up and claimed her trembling lips in a more insistent kiss. His lips were firm and cool, massaging and pressing, slightly open. Instinctively, her mouth answered his beckoning, their lips soon dancing with each other as though they did this all the time and were made for it.

Her eyes had fluttered shut at the first touch of his mouth, but when the tip of his tongue flicked out to brush over her lower lip, they flew open in surprise. She looked at him without actually seeing him, yet before her was a face all too familiar and the hardness of his lips against her mouth felt familiar, as well.

With a gasp, she drew back, her hand flying up to her mouth, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Michael looked dazed and slightly wounded as well as strangely angry when she stepped back hastily.

She stuttered, "I'm sorry. I...that shouldn't have happened. It's...I can't! When I see your face, I see him. I see my husband and it all comes back. I just can't, I can't let you in. I can't trust you!" She sounded close to frantic.

"I am not him," he ground out, and she was astonished to hear how much feeling he put into the sentence, as though the last thing in the world he wanted was to be associated with or taken for her husband. It hurt to see him so obviously affected by her words, and hurt even more that she had given in to this temporary weakness and let things come so far.

"I'm sorry," Cathy whispered, barely registering that once again, she had done something to him that called for an apology.

Without waiting for his reaction, she ran up the stairs, inside, up the next flight of stairs and into her apartment. Kicking the door shut behind her, she sank to her knees, buried her head in her arms and let the tears run freely. Somewhere at the back of the mind, she asked herself why she was crying so much now that she had left behind a home and husband that should have been much more cause for tears than what she was facing now.

* * *

Cathy had cried herself into sleep the previous night.

This time, no nightmare starring Mark in it or overwhelming her with memories woke her up. Instead, she dreamt of Michael and herself walking through a garden full of roses, holding hands. They came to a small pavilion with a fountain bubbling away happily, almost too idyllic to be true. He swept her off her feet, turned a quick pirouette with her in his arms and stood her back down before planting a firm, happy kiss on her lips.

"So, are you giving us a chance?" he asked.

Before her dream self was able to answer, she woke up.

She stared at the ceiling, her fingers rising to her lips where she could swear she felt his kiss. What was this? Was she falling in love with a man whom she knew hardly anything about and who looked like the one man she had probably ever been in love with and who had ruined her life?

For God's sake, she was nearly 30, had been married and was now planning a divorce! She should be able to get a much better grip on herself, should know better how to steer clear of new temptations that would only leave her bleeding.

She got out of bed and fired up her laptop. While it warmed to life, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. Her gaze settled on her face reflected in the bathroom mirror and she froze in place.

It was the first time after she had run away from Mark that she looked at herself in the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, a slightly dazed look in the eyes that were ordinarily brown and rather big for her fine-boned face. It was a commonplace face, neither beautiful nor ugly, somewhat delicate and more girly than feminine. Devoid of any makeup—oh, how she had hated painting a mask on her face for her husband all these days—and with her hair mussed from sleep, she certainly didn't look practical and confident. Not only were her eyes on the large side, but her full mouth seemed out of proportion too. It gave her that sense of vulnerability that had probably alerted Mark to her being easy prey. She remembered the many times those lips had been split by a slap of his or bitten until they bled while she fought with tears. And yesterday, they had been slightly swollen from Michael's kiss. The woman's eyes in the mirror widened in surprise and darkened in an emotion she didn't recognize.

What was it that this fascinating, forbidden stranger saw in her that made him desire her? For surely it must be physical desire that had made him kiss her. There was nothing attractive about her character and she hadn't exactly shown him her nicest side anyway.

Frowning at her reflection and deliberately raising her pointed chin, she resolved to seriously work on her future instead of letting past and present worries drag her down.

Hadn't Michael himself said that she should get a move on and learn to fend for herself? Well, she would prove to him and herself that she could, even if it meant forgetting the very person who had told her to start over.

Yes, never mind that inside her heart, she already cared for him more than she should. Never mind that her mind came up with too many things that made him different from Mark and thus provided a reason to get closer to him.

She was not in love. She would not fall in love.
Chapter 5

An hour later, Cathy was lost in a happy world of her own, encased in a soapy bubble in which she was floating, buoyed by timid hopes. She was lying on the couch on her stomach with her head propped up on her palms, transfixed by her laptop screen. After eating a quick breakfast, she had decided to indulge in one of her hobbies that she had kept buried for much too long: baking cakes. Next to reading, it was indeed one of her favorite pastimes, and one that she had learned to be ashamed of during her time with Mark when he had looked down upon or not noticed her cake creations, dismissing the effort and dedication behind them.

Now, a thought was forming in her, eager to break free but held in check because she was still unsure of herself and her future. What if she stayed right here in this village and founded her own little business, baking cakes of the special kind and selling them? She could see herself talking to the people to ask them about their traditional cake recipes and secret ingredients and incorporating them in new creations that she would decorate beautifully and deliver to the nearest town's bakeries. She could picture herself taking trips to a bigger city to hunt for exotic ingredients, for cake decoration and for specific baking forms. What if she invented a never before dared recipe or found enough energy and creativity inside her to break a previous baking record and draw everybody's attention? It would show her husband how much better off she was without him and how much brighter her light shone if he didn't constantly try his best to keep her locked in darkness.

Oh yes, she was dreaming again, after what felt like ages of nightmares where she was never the driving force but the absorber of someone else's force.

She was so completely lost in a website full of cupcakes with elaborate flowery designs that it took her several moments to realize that somebody was knocking at the door.

Her head whipped up.

"Yes?"

"Cathy dear? Am I disturbing you?" Aunt Grindle's kind voice drifted into her mind so loaded with plans and ideas and hopes. She smiled. Maybe her landlady could give her some practical tips and much needed encouragement!

"The door's unlocked, come on in, Aunt Grindle!" she called out, realizing that her voice had a light, happy ring to it that made it sound oddly unlike herself.

"Maybe you could..."

The words died in her throat when upon turning around, she beheld not the old lady alone but Michael hovering behind her, tall and handsome and with an inexplicable look on his face.

She almost fell off the couch in her hurry to straighten up and face them, all happiness gone as if someone had swept a sponge over chalk writing on a blackboard, feeling empty and uncertain once again.

"Michael here has stopped by to talk to you about something important or other. I'm afraid I can't stay or my beef stew will burn on the stove. I'll leave you two young ones to it and check back in later, dear."

With a cheerful wave, Mrs. Grindle backed out the door, closing it behind her and leaving her companion standing in the room, staring.

Her bubble burst with an audible popping sound and left her more vulnerable than ever.

Oh no, oh no, oh no. Why him, of all people, why now, when she was so positive that she could leave both of them, Mark and him, behind and move on?

She felt like crying inside. Soon, though, the despair turned into belligerence or a touch of anger.

"What are you doing here?" she asked coldly, folding her arms across her chest and blocking the view to her laptop screen.

There was no response. Michael was still looking at her as though he had seen a ghost. Irritated, she actually looked down at herself, and understanding began to dawn. So far, he had only seen her in her no-nonsense attire of plain jeans and long-sleeved sweatshirts or comfortable T-shirts, her hair open around her face. Today, because she needed a mood booster and because it sounded like the right thing to do while planning a new life, she had donned her favorite clothes, from the few times when she didn't mind being her artsy, girly, impractical self. She was wearing a light pink, knee-length cotton skirt with a ribbon at the hip and a white top with spaghetti straps that had a big purple rose printed across the front. Around her left wrist hung three pastel-colored, beaded bracelets and her hair was tied back in a high, careless ponytail, held together by a huge hairband with flower decoration. She must be looking like a different person altogether.

"You're so beautiful," his voice intruded on her self-inspection, rough and with a depth of feeling that made it sound like a caress. A thousand fingers barely touching her skin, running down from the nape of her neck over every bump and groove of her spine to the small of her back, sending a delicious shiver through her. His compliment sounded so sincere and awed that it made her blush. She steeled herself, though with what strength she didn't know.

"What are you doing here?" she asked again.

He snapped back to his senses. Without taking offense at her hostile tone and stance, he approached, digging a hand into one of his pockets and holding something out to her, like a peace offering of sorts, a magical weapon that could penetrate her shield of cool rejection.

"I came to give you what you deserve. This morning, Mr. Thackeray paid me for the garden work. As you played an important part in it, I thought you should have this. It's only a share of my meagre earnings, but it's a beginning."

For a moment, she thought she couldn't trust her ears any more.

"Are you telling me you brought me money?" she asked incredulously, her voice a near squeak on the last word.

Not only did he nod but he was still holding out the envelope to her.

"You have the cheek to pay me?! I am not some poor unemployed tramp girl that depends on your oh-so-meagre payment! I helped you out because I thought I had something to make up for it! I didn't do it for the bloody money! I don't want it! I don't need it! I don't need you to interfere in my life!"

She had shouted herself into a fit, trembling with the effort not to bodily throw him out of the room, full of righteous indignation and disappointment. So, to him she had been a hired helper, a means to finish his job faster, somebody to be paid and forgotten.

He looked wounded by her accusations but not willing to leave at all. In fact, he had the gall to carefully lay the envelope on the coffee table and sit down on the sofa opposite to where she was rooted to the spot shaking in anger.

"You misunderstand me," he replied calmly.

And like that, all her anger evaporated. Oh yes, misunderstandings. She had never been a person good at judging and reading other people, had she. Otherwise she should have seen through Mark, known his attention as a way to lure her, his promises as bait, his self-assuredness for a much too big ego. She plopped down on the couch and opened her mouth to protest feebly, but he cut her short.

"I know you helped me as a sort of pay-back and on the second day maybe as a favor, and that is exactly why I feel I should pay you. Because it was unfair of me to ask for your help in the first place. I knew and understood why you had acted toward me the way you did that first day. Still, I jumped at the possibility to use it as an excuse to have you near. To get to know you. And you helped me so willingly and did it so well though you had no previous experience. I think it's only fair that you should be compensated for the two days you spent working with me instead of focusing on your new life or whatever other important matters. I know you didn't do it for the money. I know you don't need me and most probably not my money either. However, I need you to accept it. It'd make me feel better, less guilty that I used you."

She had a real problem following his words. They sounded completely like he meant them, but they couldn't be true. Could a man think like that? And how was she to react to that?

They looked at each other for a minute full of meaning, though what meaning she had no idea. Out of nowhere, she heard herself saying, "I enjoyed garden work with you. I didn't have anything better to do."

A smile broke out on his face, radiating warmth right into her heart as though he were the sun and she the earth revolving around him. What was it with these two men and their toothy, sparkly, slightly crooked, damn attractive smiles?

"So, I didn't mortally offend you and ruin my last chance at getting to know you better?" he asked, a hint of flirtation in his voice.

"You did mortally offend me," she answered, muttering darkly, but unable to keep a giggle from escaping her at the end.

"What shall I do with this?" she wanted to know, her chin pointing toward the envelope. No way was she going to take his money though she had already forgiven him for offering it.

"I don't know."

He thought for a moment, tilted his head slightly and gave her one of those intense gazes that said, I can see right through you.

"Are you planning anything special with the new half of your life?"

His question made her remember that he had spoken with such emotion about having started life anew himself once and how she should forget the past and plan her future. All of a sudden, there was an urge inside her to reveal her plans to him, to get advice, share her hopes. She was afraid she wouldn't carry through with it otherwise. He had used her, or so he said, so why not use him now?

"Actually, I'm thinking of opening my own business. I want to bake extraordinary cakes, decorate them artistically and sell them locally, maybe regionally too."

There, it was out. She was waiting with baited breath for him to laugh, to at least raise his eyebrows full of skepticism or scorn, to think himself too high to be leading such a discussion. Instead, he continued to look at her in this unnerving way that made her blush. Something that looked like admiration was on his handsome face. She wasn't sure about that at all because she certainly hadn't ever seen this look on Mark's face.

"Do you like baking and decorating cakes?"

She nodded. "More than I can describe. It makes me...happy...makes me feel useful when I do anything cake-related." Somehow, she didn't feel shy confessing this, though she knew he couldn't possibly understand what she meant.

It was his turn to nod.

"It's exactly what I feel like when I deal with flowers or gardening," he said quietly, seriously.

Cathy couldn't believe it. He was taking her seriously. Maybe he did understand. Now that she thought about it, his attitude to gardening did mirror her attitude to baking.

"Are you good at baking and decorating cakes?"

She frowned. How should she answer this?

"I don't know. I think so. Some of my friends who went to campus with me thought the same. When I made cakes for our events or on special occasions, everyone always appreciated them, took photos, asked me for the recipe, that sort of thing. Yes, I guess I am good, and I could be better if I had more hands-on training in it. Oh, and I had almost forgotten: I followed a small cake-decorating course once during my teens and passed the certificate as the best of the class."

He listened attentively, his long, slender legs crossed, chin cupped in one hand, grey-blue eyes glued to her face as if she were the most fascinating person in the world to listen to. It made her want to explode with happiness and hide with mortification at the same time, her not being used to constituting someone else's center of attention. When she had finished, he got up and sat down next to her, close but not too close for comfort.

"Then let's get started on this business of yours. What you need first is an idea. Correction, not an idea but the idea, your idea. In the next step, we're going to form a business plan for you."

He sounded so absolutely in his element and so eager to help that she couldn't help it, she stared at him with wide eyes. At the moment, being near this confident man looking like a movie hero and treating her with so much attention, it felt as though she would willingly hand over her whole life into his hands. Which was exactly what she was doing, wasn't she? Silently and full of hope, she watched him reach over, pull her laptop closer and hack away at the keyboard. Somebody please pinch her. This couldn't be real. This wasn't happening. She actually pinched herself on her thigh and felt the pain of her nails against her flesh. So this was happening. Michael was about to help her with her future business. And she was about to fall in love with him.

* * *

Some hours later, delicious beef stew smells wafted in from the door when Mrs. Grindle knocked and bustled into the room with a laden tray of food. Both of them glanced up with a disoriented look on their faces that spoke of having immersed themselves totally in their task. They actually blinked, glanced at each other, back at the old landlady and at the laptop screen. Then they simultaneously burst out laughing and shot up to help Aunt Grindle with her load, working like a team in synchronization, Michael clearing the table and seats, Cathy bringing dishes and cutlery from the kitchenette.

She caught herself humming a tune while foraging for an additional plate in the cupboards. Her head was so full, she felt like bursting. But in a positive way that she had never known, full of purpose and hope.

They had spent the time with so many things she had never considered before starting her business yet could now see made perfect sense. First, they had researched whether it was profitable to live on cake making and decoration. Next, they had checked out existing businesses like that on the Internet, taking inspiration from the services offered, the reactions earned and the prices cited. Then he had told her to pick a niche for her business, not to see things too broadly and end up with a load of work without enough clients. He had asked her whether she couldn't specialize on some kind of cake or service. She hadn't found a solution to that. Instead, she had come up with an idea of her own: She could structure her creations by different themes such as vegan cakes, cakes with unusual ingredients and cakes with lavish decoration. He had agreed with that and suggested to include seasonal offers too, like cake designs for Halloween or untraditional Christmas cakes.

With his help, she had outlined a budget for starting, collected contacts and thought of people to enlist for help in the village, downloaded forms for registering the business and compiled a Word document with a to-do list and helpful tips. They had done some brainstorming on a name and tentatively settled for Cathy's Creative Cakes, thinking the logo should involve 3 C's with a connection to cakes.

Turning around with three plates in her hand and a water bottle under one arm, she observed him and Mrs. Grindle in conversation while arranging lunch, and the sight actually brought tears to her eyes. For a moment, she allowed herself to bask in the glory of having two new friends who showed her so much kindness. Michael turned to her and his eyes grew all intense and dark again when he scanned her from head to toe before giving her his killer smile—and she knew that the term friends wasn't all that correct.

Her heart skipping a beat, she joined them for lunch, feeling two feet taller and at the same time more unsure about her future than ever before.

* * *

It was evening. Mrs. Grindle had left after lunch, not before Michael had filled her in on their plan—he had actually called it "our plan" and not "Cathy's plan", which had caused her stomach to do a somersault—and the old lady had beamed with happiness and offered to test all of her creations and pressed her to use the downstairs kitchen because it was so much bigger and had a proper oven and all the dishes and items one needed for baking. They had plunged into more business planning.

Once again, it struck her how much in tune they were once they set out to work alongside each other, not only those two days when they were working for Mr. Thackeray, but also now when they outlined her future. It had been him the first half of the day who had known his way and given advice. In the afternoon, he had handed the reins to her and told her to familiarize herself more with the already existing cake businesses, to find out what she liked and didn't like about them, what she wanted to copy, what she could make better.

He had leaned back with one arm folded across the back of the couch and watched and listened while she worked her way through page after page and commented and collected information in another Word document. Sometimes, her head would brush his arm, sometimes their knees would touch and once he had actually reached out and tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear when she was in the middle of gesticulating wildly to prove some point or other. Their eyes had locked and she had felt the heat rise in her face and deep inside her belly, stopped in mid-word by the flutter of his finger against the side of her face. After a second, he had dropped his hand and urged her on, and she had forgotten the moment until now, when he stood at the door to leave and she wondered how to say goodbye.

"I guess you will be awfully busy the next few days?"

She nodded, butterflies dancing inside her at the physical closeness to him that was intensified by the emotional closeness that had formed during the day.

"You have my mobile number. Give me a ring if there's anything you need."

"Okay."

"Seriously, keep me updated."

Inside her, someone did a happy dance that he cared, wanted her to stay in touch, inform him about her way toward Cathy's Creative Cakes.

"Oh, and don't forget to invest my starting capital in the joint venture when you buy ingredients for the first time," he joked, motioning toward the forgotten envelope with money that had fallen to the floor during the day.

She groaned.

"Joint venture, my foot! Off you go before I make you take it back as payment for the business counselling you gave me today!"

Surprised that she could also joke, she caught herself shoving at him playfully, her hands striking against his firm, slightly muscular chest.

It brought them closer than close.

Her breath caught when his eyes grew dark with desire.

"You naughty little witch! You will keep that money, or else..."

His voice was a deep growl, so masculine and sensual despite the hint of humor. His scent hit her, a slight note of earth and grass and unobtrusive cologne that had enticed her since morning while having him sit next to her. It was so totally unlike Mark's clean after-shave smell or alcohol stench and fit so totally to Michael's character.

Before she knew it, he leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek, coming precariously close to one corner of her mouth.

Abruptly, he stepped back.

"See you," he said, that husky roughness to his voice again that tugged at her core.

"See you," she whispered breathlessly after he had already turned and walked down the stairs.

See him. Yes, she wanted to see him again. But should she?
Chapter 6

Doubt was on her mind. Doubt and a bag full of other emotions like anticipation, pride, hope, worry and determination.

It was afternoon and she was standing in front of Michael's front door with a covered tray in her hands, aromas of nuts, fruits, spices and sweet cream wafting up from time to time. She had spent the first half of the day in Aunt Grindle's kitchen, baking the first special cake out of a range of new recipes she had thought of and wanted to put to the test. The cake looked rather unspectacular, but her old landlady had been so taken with the taste that she had actually eaten two pieces instead of the one thin slice she had timidly accepted from her at first.

Cathy liked the cake. A lot, in fact. This was different, however. She was waiting for the verdict of somebody who played an unreasonably big part in her life by now. Judging from the way her palms sweated and her pulse raced and from how she had chosen her favorite blouse—turquoise with some lace at the collar and sleeves—and applied some light pink lipstick, she was caring too much for his opinion.

Maybe she shouldn't have come here?

There was no turning back. She had rung the door bell and could now distinctly hear footsteps approaching. Before she knew it, the door swung wide open and her mouth went completely dry.

As usual when she beheld his face, a stab of pain and guilt and fear and uncertainty pierced her heart. At first glance, these two men, who were so different in character, did look like twins. A second later, all these feelings were replaced by something warm and fuzzy spreading its wings inside her when Michael's face broke out into the handsomest of smiles, broader and toothier and more crooked than she had remembered it.

"Cathy!"

He sounded like a child on Christmas when it saw Santa Clause packed with gifts, she thought to herself, inwardly turning summersaults that seeing her could make him so obviously happy.

"Hi," she said meekly, and actually managed to tear her eyes off his flashing smile. When she did, she blushed to the tips of her hair, but couldn't help staring.

It was clear that Michael hadn't been expecting any visitors because he wasn't wearing anything apart form a pair of faded, paint-splattered, torn jeans. His feet were bare, and so was his torso. She admired the fine muscles of his chest that she had always guessed at while working alongside him and that looked more pronounced with the T-shirt off. His tanned chest was not broad but hard and sculpted. There was a faint trace of dark hair leading from his chest to his navel and into the waistband of his jeans, his stomach flat and hinting at a six pack. For a moment, she wondered whether the downy black hairs would feel as soft to her fingers as they looked, whether his body would be hard and cool or warm and inviting as was his earthy, masculine smell. Breathing became rather difficult.

With an effort of will, she somehow managed to lift her eyes from his naked chest to his face again, her blush deepening when she saw that he had caught her staring and seemed to enjoy it.

Without another word, she held up the tray in her hands and almost shoved it in his face.

"Here."

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Now let me guess what we have here." He scrunched up his face all funnily and pretended to ponder a weighty question. At length, he said, "Could it be a cake?"

She chuckled.

"Genius. Actually, it's only half a cake. Mrs. Grindle is salivating over the other half minus three pieces eaten by her and me."

"Salivating, is she? Well, let's get you and your half cake inside and give me a chance to drool too."

The way he said it made her laugh out loud. Trust this man to lighten the mood with one of these quips she had grown to love.

"As long as you don't drool on the whole cake..."

He stepped aside with a theatrical bow and sweep of his arm and she walked in, still giggling and feeling much more at ease now, though at the next moment she was acutely aware of brushing his bare chest with her arm in the narrow corridor, feeling as if the touch singed her and left a visible burn mark.

Michael led her into the living-room and hurried off to get some things from the kitchen. She placed the tray on a polished oak coffee table and looked at her surroundings, more than a little curious as to how he was living.

The room appeared huge compared to the confined, orderly spaces she was used to at the guest-house, probably because there was hardly any furniture. Next to an impossibly old-fashioned couch with flowery upholstering, sagging seats and faded satin cushions as well as two equally old armchairs stood one cupboard with glass doors. It was mostly empty. There was a low sideboard with a modern flat screen TV in one corner of the room and a high, plain shelf with books in the other corner.

That was it. Everything around her looked old, barely used in recent times but probably intensively used decades ago. There were no photos of anyone to be seen, only one huge, round, ornately decorated mirror right in the center of the longer wall. Strangely enough, there was not a potted plant or flower vase in sight. And that in the home of a gardener by profession and passion. If she were living here, she would—hold on, she was not living here and never would, so why should she let her thoughts wander like that?

Her musings as to what this room said about its inhabitant and as to why she was so interested in that were interrupted by Michael's teasing voice preceding his entrance.

"I feel so honored that you've brought me your first cake to taste. This is your first cake for the business, isn't it?"

"No need to feel honored, Mr. Newland. I haven't come here in search of your expert advice in culinary matters. I'd rather poison you than one of those sweet village folks, that's why I came here," she said, astonished at being in such a joking mood.

Laughing good-naturedly, he placed two intricately painted plates and two incongruously plain white coffee mugs on the table. He lifted the cover off the tray, sniffed at the cake and whistled in a low, appreciative way.

"I daresay this is how Adam must have felt with Eve. This cake of yours looks and smells so tempting, I wouldn't want to miss a bite even knowing it was chock full of poison. I'm defenseless against this temptation."

He gazed at her during those last words, his eyes dark and his voice full of a hidden meaning, making her feel as though she were the apple he felt tempted to take a not so innocent bite of. Shaking the feeling off, she cut a slice of the moist cake covered in white frosting and handed him the plate. She watched him take a hearty piece on his fork and eat it, actually biting her lower lip in anticipation. When his head came up to look at her, he opened his mouth and closed it again, eyes fixed on her mouth.

"You had better stop biting that lip, sugar. It's a lip that should be kissed and not bitten."

His voice had grown husky. The pet name that had slipped out so unexpectedly was a caress that was loaded with implications. For an instant, she remembered that evening when he had first kissed her, the white hot flash of desire that had shot through her, the almost painful longing. Her tooth dug deeper into her lip and the pain of it brought her back to reality.

"The cake," she prompted, sounding much too nonchalant to be true.

He grinned ruefully, looking like a schoolboy caught at some mischief or other, then ate another forkful.

"Do you want my honest opinion?" he asked.

She was full of trepidation again. She nodded, on tenterhooks. Why, oh why did it matter so much to her whether he liked her first cake?

"That's good, because I hate lying. I'm no good at telling lies."

He sounded strangely intense, as though there were a point to be proven.

"If you want the truth, here it is: This cake tastes awesome! Seriously, I have never tasted something like this before, but it's not too exotic to be absolutely tasty. What the hell did you put into it? Coconut? Some nuts? Tropical fruits? Wait, I know, there must be pineapple in there."

She beamed at him. She knew she must be grinning like mad with her happiness and relief, but she couldn't help it. He liked it! She actually felt like jumping up and down or high-fiving somebody. There was no mistaking that he liked it, seeing how he was already forking more of the cake into his mouth and had guessed most of its ingredients correctly.

Still smiling from ear to ear, she explained, "It's a sort of exotic cake indeed. I put ground roasted cashew nuts, coconut flakes, finely grated carrots, a pinch of crystallized ginger and cinnamon into the cake. And yes, there are pieces of canned pineapple in the cake. The frosting and filling between the layers is cream cheese with cream of coconut and some more nuts. Are you sure it's not overly outlandish and experimental?"

"Definitely not! I'd never have guessed this is a carrot cake!"

He shook his head, stared at the left-over slice of cake and continued to eat with gusto until his plate was empty.

Cathy was glowing with satisfaction. Oh yes, giving him her first cake to taste had been a good idea. If only he didn't look so bloody handsome without a shirt on, eating cake. She'd never been so physically attracted to someone, not even to Mark whose perfect face and slim body was every woman's dream, but who had lacked the emotion and substance behind the frame to have her long for him.

He had eaten his last morsel of cake. There was a tiny white smudge of frosting on the left corner of his mouth. Impulsively, she leaned forward and wiped it off with her index finger. For want of a tissue or serviette at hand, she brought the finger up to her mouth and licked the cream off. Only afterward did she realize what a provocative move that must have looked like. His gaze was as hot as fire, wandering from her finger to her lips and back to her finger. Did he think she had deliberately done this to flirt with him? She couldn't blink, couldn't say anything, felt like writhing under his gaze, waiting for his reaction.

A shrill shrieking sound had them both start and broke the magic of the moment.

"What...what the hell is that?" she asked, the sound feeling as though it wanted to match the alarm bells going off inside her head.

He looked dazed and glanced to where the sound came from, increasing in volume now.

"Dammit, the kettle," he shouted and darted off the couch to run into the kitchen. Apparently, he had put an old-fashioned kettle of water on the stove for making coffee. The whistling stopped and moments later, he carried a tray with coffee, milk and sugar into the room.

Time passed in silence while they prepared their coffee, Cathy wondering at how some of the things he surrounded himself with were so out of fashion and ornate and somehow feminine and how others looked like modern, bare necessities.

When they were sipping their steaming coffee and Michael was working his way through another slice of the cake, she decided to give in to her curiosity.

"So, is this your house?"

"Not exactly. I mean, I did buy it, but it feels like I live here on rent. It used to belong to a formidable old lady of Aunt Grindle's generation who was loved by everyone and loved everyone back. She died here shortly before I happened on this village and was looking for a place to stay. I couldn't find anything better, so I settled in. This house is not my home, though. It's bigger than needed and the furniture is too old and most of it I never use. Lots of her things I gave away or sold for a pittance, restocking with modern amenities I can't live without. It doesn't look like a bachelor's place, does it?"

"No, it doesn't. Why don't you make it your home? I'm sure with a bit of time and money invested and some shopping in the next big town, this place would look totally different and suit you more."

He shrugged and didn't seem to want to answer at first, then did so anyway.

"I have never felt the need to make it more of a home. Not the whole house, anyway. There are two rooms where I spend most of my life if I'm not outside working or enjoying nature, and these two feel more like me. I can't be bothered with the rest."

He paused and shot her a meaningful glance.

"Maybe it lacks a certain female touch. I've always thought it takes two people to make a house a home."

She let that sink in. Did he...No, he couldn't be meaning that he'd like to live here with her, as a couple! He was just stating something obvious, something general. To cover up the sudden fear that awoke in her because he was boldly flirting—and for God's sake, why couldn't he don a T-shirt already?—she asked him the next best thing that came to her mind.

"So what about the two rooms you live in? I had expected tons of plants inside your home. Do those rooms at least have some green in them?"

He smiled, finishing his second slice of cake and getting up with that energetic grace of his that made him look taller and fitter.

"Come and see for yourself!"

He was actually holding out his hand to her. After a moment's hesitation, she told the nagging voice inside her to shut up and not spoil the good mood. She put her hand in his and let him tow her out of the living-room and through a long corridor and up a staircase. Along the way, he jutted his chin to the left and right several times, calling out the names of the rooms they were passing. They didn't register with her, and neither did their surroundings, because she was much too focused on how right her hand felt in his strong, rough-skinned, slender fingers that were a shade darker than hers and held her in a warm, firm grip that felt natural and comfortable.

Immediately after taking the stairs, he turned left and tugged her after him into a big room that took her breath away.

In front of her was a wide room that might have once been a bedroom and now held no bed. The wall at the far end was taken up by floor-length windows leading onto a balcony with a white balustrade hung with creeping plants and flowers of all sorts.

That was not what caught her attention though. Everywhere, standing and lying on the floor, hanging on the walls and leaning against them, were paintings. Almost all of them were brightly colored, big close-ups of flowers and plants with vivid details that made the artwork come to life. Here and there, pencil drawings in smaller sizes were interspersed with the more vibrant art, begging for her to step closer and inspect. Where there were no paintings, there were painting tools of all sorts or newspaper and rags splashed with paint. Close to the French doors leading to the balcony stood an easel with a canvas on it that looked blank from where she was rooted to the spot in the doorway.

Dimly, she remembered that Aunt Grindle had mentioned that Michael was an artist as well as a gardener. Without realizing it, she gave his hand a squeeze before she let go and wandered from picture to picture. Completely oblivious to his presence, she took her time with each work of art, every flower and leaf and tree pulling her in with its unashamed display of color and its depth of detail. The drawings were totally different but just as elaborate, depicting landscapes and the odd house in clear, precise lines.

When she finally turned to face him, he was leaning against the door frame, watching her every step, arms folded across his naked chest. It made the muscles stand out beautifully yet also seemed defensive. The look on his face said he cared for her opinion on his art at least as much as she cared for his opinion on her cakes. If what she felt inside was anything to go by, her face must be showing surprise and admiration.

"You're an artist!" she blurted out, no better words to sum up her feelings to be found.

He gave an unwilling chuckle.

"Guilty as charged. Now tell me whether that's a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Good, of course!"

She found herself gesturing wildly at the paintings in the room.

"This is wonderful! They're all so beautiful, so full of life and energy! I would never have thought you'd be so talented."

He was beaming, clearly happy about her judgment. Finally entering the room himself and walking toward her, he asked in that joking tone of his that she adored so much, "Why wouldn't you have thought so? Don't I look like an artist? "

Caught off guard, she answered, "No, you don't."

"Then what do I look like? A gardener?"

There was real curiosity in his voice now.

She wanted to hit herself for her answer. Did he seriously want to know what he looked like to her? There were quite some words she could tell him—tempting, masculine, confident, handsome, charming, younger than he probably was, energetic—but none would do. Before she could prevent the words from stumbling out, a thought from the back of her mind pushed itself to the fore. "You look like someone I know."

All the expectation and underlying humor went out of his face as though someone had struck him. Although he couldn't possibly know what being compared to Mark actually meant, he clearly took it as an offense. She wanted to bite her tongue for saying such a stupid thing, for in truth she didn't think of her husband so much now when she looked at Michael.

After an awkward moment of silence, he drew himself up with a strange kind of determination.

"If you talk like that, you obviously haven't got to know me enough yet. Go ahead, feel free to nag me with any kind of question coming to your mind. I'm all yours to discover."

There was a huge temptation in him offering himself up to discovery. Her mind was full of ways in which she could discover him, mostly ways that sent shivers of desire through her, laced with shame and fear. When she shook those thoughts away, she saw that he had opened one of the huge windows and walked out onto the balcony, motioning for her to sit down on the one easy chair standing there among a clutter of blooming plants. He seemed to mean it, and some part of her wanted to jump at the opportunity to indeed get to know him better.

She joined him on the balcony, taking a moment to admire all the flowers there, not knowing a single one by name, and the view she had of the hills and fields stretching out, the house standing at the border of the village and being higher than the few buildings next to it. He was standing with his back leaning against the balcony's balustrade, arms again folded across his chest, chin jutting out.

"Go ahead, ask. I want you to get to know the real me and stop associating me with somebody else's image."

She cringed. She had certainly offended or hurt him with her careless words. And here was her opportunity to find out more about this one man she had ever felt real interest in.

She sat down in the easy chair, drawing her legs up and folding them underneath her.

"Why don't you introduce yourself to me like you asked me that day?"

"No, it's not going to work like that. You have to ask me," he insisted.

Finding all this slightly amusing and more than slightly confusing, she decided to play along.

"Have you always been an artist?"

He shook his head.

"No. I never knew I had it in me to paint and draw. I went through a difficult phase in my life and was striving hard to change or maybe to find myself. Killing time was impossible after I had spent the first 20 years of my life working from morning till evening and thinking of work at night."

For a moment he stared off into the distance before continuing with his story.

"By chance, I noticed the beauty of the village and its surroundings and one day simply picked up paper and a pencil. I began to sketch and there came a time when I didn't want to stop and I liked what I drew. And the plants begged for me to color them, to portray them. I had always felt close to plants although I never got a chance to live that side of me. So gardening and painting kind of happened on me at that time. I didn't choose to be an artist or spend my life with gardening, art and garden work chose me."

It was fascinating to listen to him, observing the subtle changes in his voice and face when he talked about sad and joyful things in his life. Mark's face and voice never veered away much from the image he wanted to portray. It was only now while watching Michael that Cathy realized this about her soon to be ex-husband. And she vowed to herself to forget him for a while and focus on Michael.

"What did you do those days? And what do you do now, day in, day out?"

A shadow crossed his face and there was something evasive about him for a moment when he answered, "Oh, you know, one of these dreadful, dreary office jobs at the top of the business sector in one of the country's many big cities. I'd bore you to hell with descriptions of my past life. And to be truthful, I don't like to remember it. I prefer the here and now."

Determination crept back into his voice.

"As for my life at present... As you know, I'm the village gardener. That's a broad term, actually. I do garden work for anyone here who wants or needs it. I'm also responsible for maintenance work and repairs and stuff like that, for cleaning the roads from snow in winter and for generally making sure that the village looks nice and decent. I do all kinds of odd jobs for the villagers too. Sometimes I help the farmers with the harvest. There's no high income from that, of course, but I don't need and want tons of money. Here I am in a big house that I don't use, without a car or expensive hobby."

He shrugged, sounding too careless about his situation, maybe torn between not minding it and wondering whether she minded.

Indeed it seemed odd to her that he lived like that now, especially when he made it sound as if he had been as busy and well off as Mark. Again, she wondered what had made him change his life, why he hated his old life and old self. Feeling shy to actually ask about that, she wanted to know something else, something that she wondered about herself in the future if she followed through with her plans.

"Are you happy?"

The surprise on his face made her regret her personal question, but she was still eagerly waiting for his reply. He looked at her for what felt like a long time and with that intensity that always made her feel so vulnerable yet at the same time so important. Then, in a voice that was thoughtful and somehow tender, he said, "I wasn't so sure about that before, but now I think I am happy."

He stressed the 'now' and looked at her pointedly.

Immediately, she heard alarm bells going off in her head. Part of her was overjoyed that she made him happy and acknowledged that he in turn made her happy; part of her felt that things were going too fast and that she didn't need him to complicate her new life like that. Unsure how to react, she unfolded her legs and got up from the chair.

"I don't think you should connect your happiness to now. To me."

There it was again, that wounded look that darkened his eyes and brought out the fine lines in his handsome face. She hated to be the cause of this, and hated herself for hating it.

"I'd better be going. I want to write down that cake recipe and my thoughts on it," she said, turning away because she didn't want his hurt to touch her and because she had to admit to herself that regret was boiling inside her.

"What, is the inquisition finished with its victim so soon? No more questions?"

He tried to lighten up the mood with the joke, but she could see that his heart was not in it. She offered him a smile, already turning to go.

"There's always time for that, isn't it? This is a tiny speck of a village. And I'm sure I have many more cakes I want to try out on you."

Had she just given herself a reason to visit him again?

Slowly, a smile formed on his face. He brushed past her, their shoulders touching quite deliberately.

"I'm always there if you need me," he answered, and something made her realize that he didn't mean only being there for tasting her cakes.

Would he always be there for her in a way she was secretly longing for?
Chapter 7

"This is so unfair!"

Cathy pressed the button to end the call and set her phone down on the coffee table rather roughly. For a moment, she wished she had taken the call from an old-fashioned land line and were able to slam the receiver down in frustration.

"The bastard!"

She buried her face in her hands and sighed. Lifting her head, she stared at her laptop screen showing her the ugly truth. Her bank account had a stunning balance of 54 Pounds. This morning when she had logged in before making an online purchase of several baking forms and a blender, the low balance had caught her eye. Her monthly instalment from her husband should have been transferred several days ago. With an uneasy feeling in her gut, she had decided to call her lawyer and tell him to check whether Mark might have stopped his habit. Just now, her lawyer had called back to confirm her suspicion, saying that Mr. Nolan would not pay her a single cent until the divorce case was decided with a court order about financial compensation. Apparently, since she had been the one leaving, he had every right to refuse paying for her expenses.

She sighed again. She was so damn naïve. Of course she should have known that he wouldn't continue to provide her with funds on a monthly basis, now that they were officially separated. After all, what good was she now to him, what duty had he to provide for her when she didn't wait for him at home, didn't accompany him to lunches and brunches and didn't consent to being abused? For a moment, she imagined him giving excuses or having to dish out the truth to all those who would gleefully jump on the opportunity to ask him where his charming wife was. Served him right. Equally it served her right that he had decided to keep her penniless.

What on earth should she do now? It could take months until the case went to court and she needed so much more money to get a head start on her business. There was equipment to buy, she would need all sorts of ingredients for her cakes, and there was money to pay for creating and hosting a website. Apart from that, how should she pay Mrs. Grindle for the room? Sure, she could try to bake some cakes from the few ingredients ready at hand and sell them to the local bakery or some villagers. However, they would have to be sold for a pittance until she had built her reputation and could move on to the more exceptional creations and target customers who were ready to pay a high price.

Slowly, she got up and went into the adjoining bedroom. She cast a look around at the open suitcase on the floor and her belongings on the nightstand. Was there anything she could sell? She thought of the few clothes in the wardrobe and her collection of well-read books and felt like crying.

For the first time, she regretted not having taken any of the expensive jewelry that Mark had always gifted her after incidents of domestic violence. If only she had thought of packing all those gold necklaces, sparkly bracelets and diamond-studded earrings! She could have pawned or sold them and survived on that money for at least some weeks, maybe some months if she reduced her cost of living drastically. She hadn't taken any of the fancy party dresses with her, only the clothes she had bought herself and felt comfortable wearing. Those were not enough, seeing how in a few weeks the weather would get colder with autumn hitting the countryside.

God, she was so stupid!

She sank down on the bed and stared at her bare feet, one thin silver anklet with a delicate unicorn pendant gleaming defiantly up at her. She hadn't planned a single thing, had she? She had reacted like any other dumb victim of dominant men, running away blindly without a single thought on the future.

Opening the drawer of the nightstand, she stared at her wedding ring lying all alone inside it. Looking at it brought no sentimental memories, no positive emotions, and no scruples of parting with it. In fact, the faster she got rid of it, the better. The ring was another reminder of her foolishness and of what she should leave behind her. It was a slim gold band with a ribbon of white gold and a tiny diamond in the middle. How much would she be able to get for this?

With a stab of regret, she bent down and untied the anklet, its weight next to nothing in her hand. Some more pounds to keep her stomach filled until a solution was at hand. There was no way she could part with her phone and laptop, but her watch and her leather purse might earn her another few pounds.

Her face set in grim determination, she tied her sneakers and grabbed her handbag. Shutting down her laptop, she mentally steeled herself for the difficult hours ahead and the even more difficult days and weeks to come. She had taken the decision to start a new life. Now it was on her to face that life instead of dreaming or wallowing in self-pity.

* * *

Only two days after the last time, she found herself standing in front of Michael's door, full of mixed emotions and preparing herself for a confrontation she dreaded but kind of looked forward to, as well.

Yesterday, she had spent most of the day in town. It had taken her roughly three hours by bus to get there and twice as much time rounding up shops that might accept her few valuables for cash. Along with her wedding ring, her anklet, her watch and her purse, she had sold two pairs of earrings for a pittance and managed to earn a handful of coins for her pair of summer sandals, which fortunately had been new and the latest fashion.

It hadn't been easy to find people who would actually buy these second-hand items, and even more difficult to step over her own shadow to actually approach them and bargain for a pound or two more. More than half of the newly acquired cash had been spent on two baking forms she absolutely needed and a denim jacket from a thrift shop. More money left her hands to buy a ticket back to the village where she planned to stock up on flour, butter, eggs, milk, sugar, ground almonds and raisins.

Eating only a sandwich in town, she had finally knocked on Mrs. Grindle's door and asked to have a share of her dinner. Telling the kind old lady that she would be a few days late with the weekly payment for the room had pained and shamed her more than thinking of her financial plight in general, though of course her new-found Aunt waved it all aside and pressed some more desert and tea on her.

Now, she had come to him for help. Somewhere inside, she knew he would help her indeed; another part of her, however, was reluctant to increase her dependence on him, get closer to him, and like him better.

Michael, once again shirtless, opened the door and beamed at her again, as if it meant the world to him to see her at his doorstep.

"Cathy, love! What a nice surprise! I had hoped I'd see you yesterday with another of your irresistible cake creations, but I guess being a baking queen takes some time."

She grinned half-heartedly, her courage almost leaving her then and there and her heart skipping a beat or two when it registered that he had called her 'love'.

"Actually, I haven't brought you a new cake to try. I want to talk to you."

Cocking his head to the side, he dropped his joking demeanor.

"Is everything all right?"

For a moment, she had to swallow back tears. The concern in his voice, the worry in his eyes—and the same feelings clearly displayed by Aunt Grindle last evening, though not voiced—shook her to her core. How could these people care for her so much after having known her for not even a month? Was it fair of her to act on that care? Why did it feel as though she were using the only two people who had ever shown any interest in her apart from her own parents? No, she'd better not think of her parents now or she'd really start crying.

"Can I come in? I won't keep you long, I promise."  
"Oh, come on in and stop it with those platitudes. You're not keeping me from anything but a new painting. And that can wait a lifetime if it means I can spend time with you."

She blushed and brushed past him into the house hurriedly, the meaning and depth of feeling in his words cutting her to the quick.

Some minutes later, they had shared a cup of fruit tea and chocolate chips cookies and she had told him about her latest predicament, trying her utmost not to sound defeated or helpless or anxious.

"The bastard!" he cursed under his breath before shooting her an apologetic glance.

"Sorry. It's so unfair. Then again, he has every right to act like that."

He still sounded disgusted with Mark's behavior, as though it touched him personally.

She nodded.

"Yes, it's a logical and perfectly understandable thing to do. It's my mistake that I didn't think of it earlier. Anyway, so my plan is this: Instead of venturing ahead with a business that I can't afford to start properly, I want to look for a job. I came to you to ask you for help with my job search. I thought you might know of any vacancy here. I bought the local paper yesterday and will of course check that, but I don't see any suitable vacancies for someone who has only half of a degree and a few months of working experience."

She knew she sounded bitter. She couldn't help it. All of her past life looked like such a failure to her now. As soon as she was on her own and had to face reality, she was totally incapable. She hated that, especially hated belittling herself in front of him because she so badly wanted to impress him.

He had sat back on the sofa, one arm resting on his knee, face propped up in his palm. Despite all the emotional turmoil, she couldn't stop her eyes from flickering over his body now and again, longing tying itself into knots inside her. This time, he caught her looking, making her blush.

"Uh, sorry for that. I was in the middle of painting. I usually do that without a T-shirt on because I hate getting paint stains on my clothes. Damn nuisance to wash and I have only a handful of T-shirts anyway."  
She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up his hand and got up. In the matter of a minute he was back with a lime green T-shirt on, his cut-offs with holes replaced by grey jeans. He sat down and ran his hands through his hair, turning it into a black mess that she itched to run her fingers through and brush back from his forehead.

"So. Let's get down to business. I'm glad you've asked me for help. I'll do anything I can. The thing is, with only a hundred or so people living here and everybody playing their part, there seriously aren't any jobs for you that I could think of."

She looked down at her hands, lying on her knees in a fake display of calm. She had thought as much, hadn't she?

"Cathy."

Looking up again, she had to swallow when she saw the concern on his face and heard the earnest wish to help her in his voice.

"You need to tell me more about your past life, so that I know what to look for, what you might be able to do to earn a living here."

Getting up from the couch and walking to his bookshelf, she sought to put some distance between him before starting to pour out the story of her life. She tried to keep to the facts, to what he needed to know, but once she had started, the words kept flowing and flowing as though a dam had broken. With his back to him, her fingers brushing aimlessly at the spines of books that her blurry eyes couldn't see, she talked and talked for what felt like ages.

She told him how she was the only child of a typical middle class city family. Of how her mother and father had both worked and never been able to spend much time with their daughter, who turned to books to find company and hide from real life.

She told him how her father worked himself into an early grave, his heart not being able to handle the pressure of a job that demanded all and then some. Of how she had left her mother to go to university, planning to find a job as soon as possible to support both of them. Of how, while she was still studying for her Bachelor in Business Administration and hating it, her mother had remarried and they had lost touch as though they had never been one family.

She told him of how she had found a job as a junior secretary in one of the glittering, glass-windowed high-rises in the financial district. Of how she had felt like an outsider while playing the part expected of her. Of how one day during lunch, Mark Nolan himself—one of the most famous real estate agents, manager of Nolan House & Property and heir to a family fortune—had sat down opposite her and asked her out for a date.

She fought hard at keeping any feelings out of her voice when she told him of how Mark had overpowered her with his charm, his confidence, his position and the promise of what a life with him could be like. After two dates and a load of flattering attention, he had proposed and she had accepted, not minding the age difference of more than ten years, not minding that his snobbish parents terrified her and that she didn't know how to behave around him, at that time lying to herself that she loved him.

She felt the first tears slide from her eyes when she related how Mark had told her to quit her job, quit her studies and stay at home, enjoying the luxuries of being his wife. Though she hadn't planned it and it couldn't be useful to him, she also told him of how after the marriage, Mark had quickly turned abusive on some days while being the impersonation of a perfect husband at other days.

Not knowing that by now her voice was trembling with her effort not to sob, she told him, "So, that's why I'm absolutely useless at everything. I never grew up. I never lived. I'm an introverted, talentless bookworm who was forced into studies she didn't like, a job she didn't like and later a marriage she wasn't suitable for. I wouldn't be good at any normal job now. I only like reading and baking cakes and now it looks like even the latter is something I can't do. I'm useless. Unlovable."

She stopped, the last word bordering on a shout, fighting the first sob that wanted to break out. She hadn't realized that Michael was standing right behind her. His arms came up around her and he pressed her to himself.

"My love."

His voice was rough with emotion, as though he felt like crying too. It was the push that sent her over the edge. Turning around and sinking against him helplessly, she broke into tears. She sobbed for the years when she had denied herself, the months spent being treated like a thing instead of a human being. For the recent days of freedom with all their joys and woes.

When her crying subsided, awareness of her situation slowly dawned. Michael's arms were wound tightly around her and it felt so perfectly right. He had tucked her head under his chin, one hand cupping the back of her neck in a protective gesture. The other hand rested against the small of her back, stroking softly and rhythmically. He hadn't spoken a word, none of those banalities that people were usually bound to mutter, that everything would be all right, or not to cry. His embrace filled her with warmth and care. She felt as though she belonged exactly to this spot, in this man's arms that were as strong as the person himself appeared to be. Sniffling quietly, she told herself that she should step away now, apologize, say something, do anything. She simply couldn't.

When he noticed that she had calmed down somewhat, he spoke for the first time in minutes.

"Thank you for telling me."

Now she did move back an inch, craning backward as well as upward to read his face. The expression on it was so serious bordering on grave. It spoke of pain.

"I shouldn't have. I'm sorry for whining and complaining. It's my life and my mess and now it's over anyway and I should forget it," she stuttered, now earnestly trying to get away from him. His grip around her didn't loosen, though. He looked at her, stared at her face as if he were seeing it in a new way.

"Don't say that. I needed to know this. You...we need this to move on."

"We?"

Her voice shook slightly, her heart beating faster while she waited for him to go on.

"Yes, we," he said.

And then his mouth was on hers and nothing else mattered.

His kiss was full of love, tender yet at the same time loaded with feeling. When she responded to him, stood on her toes and grabbed a hold of his T-shirt, he increased the pressure of his lips. They were cool and hard against her mouth, but didn't remind her for one second of other hard, cool lips that had kissed her not so long ago.

The kiss grew more urgent when he realized that she was kissing him back. His tongue begged for entrance, and she parted her lips. With a husky moan, he pulled her closer, the fingers of one hand tangling in her hair. When his other hand crept under the hem of her blouse and his fingers brushed over the bare skin of her back, she shivered with desire.

How strange that everything else was far away. That she lost herself in this, in him, like she had never lost herself in previous moments of physical closeness. She felt like floating and was glad that he was holding her so tightly because her legs were weak with desire.

His kiss grew more passionate and he nipped lightly at her lower lip. The tiny tingle of pain shot all the way down to where she hadn't felt a tingling for so long. Cathy pressed herself closer, wanted to freeze this moment and melt into him. She fisted her hands in his short hair and held him to her, vibrating with the need for more.

A hardly audible sound escaped her, answered by a low, guttural moan.

The sound seemed to bring him back to his senses, because all of a sudden, Michael let go of her and took a step back.

She was reeling, one hand rising to her lips, feeling colder and lonelier than ever with the loss of his closeness, warmth and touch.

His eyes were a deep, dark grey with hardly any blue sparks in them and his breathing was going as fast as hers. For a few seconds, they stared at each other. He slowly reached out and brushed his fingers across her wet cheek, wiping away the tears that had such a cleansing effect.

"Cathy, sugar, don't ever say that again, that you're unlovable. You're the loveliest and most lovable person on earth to me. I know that sounds crazy, but ever since I got to know you, I feel like I can't live without you anymore. I want you by my side. I want to get to know every part of you and want you to get to know me too."

When she made to say something, he lay a finger across her mouth, his eyes darkening another shade when she kissed it.

"I know you aren't ready for a new relationship and that I look exactly like the bastard who ruined your life. I'm not like him, I want you to know that. I would never take advantage of you!"

She nodded, overwhelmed. Was this wonderful man professing his love for her or was she dreaming?

Grabbing her by the arms rather firmly and speaking in a voice full of intensity, he continued, "I want you to know that you matter to me, that I care for you. I am not Mark. I don't use women to boost my non-existent self-esteem or pamper my over-grown ego. I love you."

He took a calming breath.

"And I understand your situation. There is much you don't know about me, so you have every right to be wary. And I don't want you to think that I'm using your emotional weakness and need for a supportive shoulder to get into your pants, though believe me, I'm interested in them too."

For a moment, he was his flirtatious, joking self and she couldn't help a giggle at his choice of words before it hit her: He had just told her that he loved her! Her eyes opening wide, she stared at him. Without realizing it, she blurted out, "You love me?"

He bent forward and pressed a hungry kiss to her lips that had opened in surprise. He let go of her arms and took some more steps away.

"I do," he said. "But I will not pressure you with it."

And before she had the chance to say something—though she was the last person in the world to know what she wanted to say—he turned and looked out of the living-room window. His whole body straightened, his hands flexing into fists and relaxing again. He was obviously trying to return back to normal. She stood rooted to the spot, her heart and head in turmoil. He loved her. Did she love him? He loved her!

Sounding so casual that it had a fake ring to it, he said, "The weather looks perfect for a stroll outside. Shall we walk through the hills and discuss your next steps? I've got so many ideas that won't break free inside this place. I need nature around me now."

She mentally and physically shook herself. Come on, girl, the world doesn't stop turning because Michael has told you they love you. Snap out of it already! It registered with her that he had spoken of her next steps and with that, reality and its worries bullied their way back into her brain.

"Shall we?"

He was already at the door. For a moment, she looked at him, noticing with a tinge of embarrassment that the front of his T-shirt was stained a darker green where she had soaked it through with her tears.

Enough crying and longing, there was a life to be lived.

"Let's go," she said, surprising herself with the realization that she actually looked forward to going for a walk with him and being surrounded by nature.
Chapter 8

As soon as they had left the last few houses of the village behind and were strolling through the green hills, Michael grabbed her hand. He continued walking, softly stroking his thumb over her hand. Each stroke sent a jolt of current through Cathy, making her aware again and again of how much she wanted this man, of how much she treasured his affection.

Despite her inner state of confusion, she made an effort to look at all the natural beauty surrounding her, indeed having the feeling that it calmed her down. Some of the trees were already preparing for autumn with their colorful leaves and off and on, a cool breeze ruffled the grass and swept her hair into her face.

They continued in silence. After some time, Michael took to pointing out trees, shrubs and flowers with his free hand, telling her their names and an interesting tit-bit of information about each. What this flower would smell like when she crushed it and rubbed it unto her skin. What time of the year this tree bore flowers and for how long. Where this long blade of grass got its name from. His voice had that casual, professional tone to it that she remembered from their work for Mr. Thackeray's garden. As had happened then, she found herself listening to him with real interest, trying to save the information for future use, hearing the love he had for his job in every word he uttered.

He bent and plucked a dandelion, holding it in front of her face.

"Make a wish and blow on this. Folklore has it that such wishes come true when they are carried away on the wind and are heard by fairies."

There was a faint grin on his lips, but his tone was more serious than the suggestion warranted it.

She had so many wishes crowding together in her head, jostling for a place at the front of the queue.

"Am I supposed to say it out loud or is it best kept secret?"

"Make your wish silently. I have always believed that thoughts are more potent in their magic than the spoken word."

She blinked. What kind of man had beliefs like that? How much was there to him to discover and revel in? How much more to make him so appealing that she could never find it in herself to resist him?

Drawing close to his hand, she closed her eyes. Frowning with concentration, she tried and tried to decide which wish to make. Sucking in a long breath, she opened her eyes again and blew hard at the fluffy white dandelion. Its seeds flew apart and sailed away on the air, like so many tiny parachutes carrying her wish to God knew where.

Straightening up, she looked after them with an almost painful longing.

"Do you think I'll be lucky? Will the fairies listen to me?" she asked, working hard at keeping her tone casual, and not succeeding.

He smiled his crooked, charming smile that got to her each and every time.

"I would if I were a fairy."

She heard the flirting in it and it felt like a caress to her.

"Don't you think it's my part to be the fairy?" she joked.

His smile widened and his eyes darkened.

"You'd make a wonderful fairy. I can just about imagine you in gauzy, loose clothes and diaphanous wings with flowers in your hair and bare feet, dancing lithely through the fields and making lone wanderers fall head over heels in love with you."

His voice was a sensual growl deep in his throat. His fingers brushed over the pulse hammering at her throat and strayed sideways, lifting a strand of her hair and twirling it round his index finger.

With her heart beating in her mouth, she made an effort at lightening the mood.

"If you had ever seen me dance, you wouldn't describe me as a lithe and graceful fairy. I am a clumsy wooden donkey with two left feet."

"Maybe you've had the wrong partner all along," he said, his voice full of meaning.

She swallowed.

"Maybe," she conceded.

They looked into each other's eyes for a long time, frozen in place, their minds full to the brim with possibilities and dreams and obstacles. It was Michael who snapped out of it first, though he let go of her hair with visible reluctance.

"Speaking about partnerships, I have some ideas how you could overcome your financial difficulties. I'm not sure at all that you'll like them. Promise me you'll hear me out and think before saying no."

Curious now, she nodded and automatically fell into place next to him when he started walking again.

"Right. So, I kept thinking how eager you are to start your own business. And I absolutely believe you should go on with that."

He shot her an intense sideway glance.

"Don't postpone and procrastinate, this is your chance and you've already begun with some important basics. I know you aren't going to make money with it soon enough and in high enough quantities, but I'm sure you're not doing it for the money alone anyway. Also, I am pretty certain that if you hung up some posters in the shop or went from door to door with a wagonload full of yummy cakes, the villagers would love to support you and buy some of your creations."

He talked himself into a near frenzy.

"Maybe you could ask them to part with their secret recipes and offer to bake those cakes in larger quantities and give it their name in your shop. That sounds like a good incentive to get them involved and interested enough to be willing to pay. In the meantime, because you need cash, here are two more suggestions: Whenever I have garden work or whatever is my duty here, I'll let you help and give you a share of my payment."

Seeing her mouth opening wide to protest, he gesticulated wildly.

"No, no, wait, don't protest, you said you'd hear me out! Sometimes, I do need somebody to help me to finish a job faster or take on a bigger project. There are some major tasks ahead now with autumn starting and you'll get a chance to work for what I pay you, so you don't have to feel dependent on me in any way. Your muscles will be sore and your clothes dirty and you'll know that you worked for the money and aren't receiving alms. The other thing is: I know that Aunt Grindle would be willing to wait for her rent or charge you a pittance, but I don't think it's fair on her and I don't think you'd feel good about it either. Why don't you move into my house? I..."

He stopped, clearly caught short by the expression on her face. Hastily putting up both hands, he ploughed on, "What I mean is this: The house is big and as you've seen, I only ever use two rooms or so, one being the atelier and one the bedroom that you haven't seen yet. There are three more rooms that are practically free. You could stay downstairs, so you don't have to see me all the time or share a bathroom with me. We could turn the house into two separate units, if you want. It'd be like two students sharing a flat. There's the kitchen, which is much bigger than the one in your guesthouse apartment and could be used more easily than Aunt Grindle's for your baking plans. And working together on gardening jobs would be easier. I promise, I don't suggest this to get you in my bed. It's so much more practical for everyone involved. You'd get to save lots of hard-earned money. You..."

This time, she actively stopped his flow of words, Michael tripping over his own tongue in his hurry to get his point across. She clasped his hands in hers and brought them down, actually entwining her fingers with his. God, how good that felt. How natural, how right.

"Hey, now let me have my say for a minute."

Scrutinizing her face, his eyes unreadable, he waited. She wasn't sure whether he was conscious of it that his thumbs were again softly stroking her hands.

"I think you're absolutely right. Especially what you said about marketing my cakes with the villagers sounds like a good thing to do. And you're correct, I wouldn't want to be indebted to Aunt Grindle. She was the first person in years to be honestly kind to me and accept me and support me, you being the second person. So yes, I will move in and I will help you with your garden work. Under one condition."

She paused and appealed to the courage she felt growing inside her with each day of her new life. His eyes, shining with happiness and something that looked suspiciously like love—though how was she to know, having no previous experience with real love—made it easier for her to continue.

"I want us to be partners in the true sense of the word. If I get to help you with gardening and you pay me for it, I also want you to get involved in my baking business and pay you for it. All the advice and cake testing and support shouldn't go unnoticed and I have a feeling you'll be of even more value once the business starts rolling and I need a helping hand with the bigger quantities of cakes and all that."

She held her breath as he must have held hers before. Please, let him agree. Please, let this decision of hers be the correct one. Please, luck, be on her side!

His eyes had got shinier. With one of those irresistible wide smiles that lit up her world, he gave her hands a firm squeeze.

"Thanks for not yelling at me or running away or telling me I've lost my mind," he said, chuckling.

She laughed, growing serious again within the matter of a second. This moment was too important for her to joke.

"And thank you for being there for me. It means the world to me," she said, so many more words on the tip of her tongue, holding them back, though she didn't know why.

Without a word, he pulled her in for a big hug. Stepping back although it felt wonderfully comfortable, she asked, "Partners?"

"Partners."

His voice made it sound as though he had much more on his mind than a business partnership, once again sending her heartbeat on overdrive and making a blush rise to her cheeks.

Grabbing a hold of her hand, Michael turned back and pulled her along, once more filled with so much positive energy that it was palpable in the air around him.

"Let's not waste a minute. We'll go get your things and set you up at my place. The quicker this is all solved, the quicker you can face your future."

* * *

It was roughly seven o'clock in the evening. Cathy was standing at the counter in Michael's kitchen, softly humming a half-forgotten ballad to herself while preparing a large bowl of mixed salad. The words to I Knew I Loved You Before I Met You by Savage Garden made much more sense now. Perhaps she had only fallen for Mark so easily and lived through hell with him so readily because deep down inside she knew that his look-alike, her real love, would wait for her at the other end of the struggle?

Cutting onions into thin rings, halving baby tomatoes, slicing a green bell pepper and washing huge salad leaves as well as dark olives felt like a surprisingly attractive pastime. Michael was in the upstairs bathroom, having a shower. The TV was on in the living-room. She wasn't listening. Rather, her thoughts were on today's happenings.

Infected by his energy, she had let him take over. They had gone to Aunt Grindle's place, telling her frankly about her situation and plans. The old lady had at first protested vehemently against her moving out, saying the guest apartment was empty anyway and she didn't want any rent for it. Together, they had persuaded her that his idea was better for all, going up to pack. In the few minutes that it had taken her to stuff her meagre belongings into the suitcase, Aunt Grindle and Michael had been murmuring to each other downstairs. Her landlady hadn't let them go before serving them two huge helpings of lunch and making Cathy promise that she would visit and share some of her cakes.

Their next stop had been the shop where he had loaded a basket full of provisions on his expense, swatting her hand away when she had wanted to pay. They had used the opportunity to check with Bertha whether they could put up some posters. He had also persuaded her to tell everybody she knew that Cathy would soon present her cake creations to them.

The rest of the afternoon had been spent with both of them cleaning the smaller of the two downstairs bedrooms, dusting and mopping and dressing the ornately carved four-poster bed that she loved from first sight. For the better part of the day, Michael had been whistling cheerfully and she had been filled with more energy than she had thought it possible after the bad financial news some days ago. Forgotten were the personal items she had had to sell, forgotten her gloom of giving up her business idea.

After showering, she had taken over the kitchen and shooed him away. He had clearly looked pleased to be excused from preparing dinner, saying that all he was good for was heating up ready-made food or making a vegetable soup, scrambled eggs and sandwiches.

With astonishing energy, she tossed the ingredients of the salad in olive oil and vinegar, added some salt and pepper and checked on the two steaks that were frying in a pan, sizzling away quietly. She had already boiled some potatoes and now surveyed their dinner critically. It would do. Pity they didn't have anything for dessert. She made a mental note to herself to grab some ice-cream, jelly and fruits from the shop the next time, standing on her tip-toes to search the overhead cupboards for a salad bowl.

A warm hand touched the small of her back, making her squeal and wheel around, balancing herself against the counter at the last moment.

"Jeez, did you have to scare me so?"

She laughed despite herself, her spine still tingling from where he had touched her. He grinned sheepishly, sniffing the air.

"Dinner smells promising."

She shrugged.

"It's nothing special."

"It is for me. It's been ages since I last had somebody over for dinner, or any meal for that matter. I wouldn't care if we had burned sausages and stale bread for dinner."

She smacked his arm playfully.

"Is that how highly you think of my cooking skills?"

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to offend you."

He leaned against the counter next to her, watching her stretch for the salad bowl again, wash it and fill it. She was aware of his eyes on her, but didn't feel nervous or shy. Strangely enough, being in his kitchen and sharing banters with him like this felt like the most normal thing in the world. It was as though they had known each other for a long time, as though they were a happily married couple in their home, hatching out future plans together.

When she caught herself thinking this, she actually blushed, hoping the hair falling into her face would hide it from him. She busied herself with searching for two bowls from which they could eat the salad.

Michael's eyes were still on her every move.

"Are you happy, love?"

His question hit her out of the blue. She actually froze with one glass bowl in her hand, arm in mid-air. Collecting her courage and looking him straight in the eye, she answered, "Happier than I have been in months."

He practically glowed at that response before, totally unexpected, his face darkened and there was a frown etched into his high forehead.

"Didn't your husband ever make you happy?"

She put the bowl down hard. She bit her lip, reluctant to chase the cloud of happiness and ease away.

"I don't know. No, I guess not. Maybe I was happy in the beginning, or at least I thought I was happy. Finally I woke up realized that I was living a life not meant for me."

The hurt on his face mirrored the hurt inside her, as though he could feel her pain.

"Isn't there anything good to say about him?"

"Oh, you know, I refuse to see him as a bad person in general. Granted, he's abusive. But don't we all have a bad or dark side to us? Apart from that, Mark's a charming man. Full of confidence and intelligence. He's an incredibly successful businessman, one of the stars in his field and admired by many, ladies and gents alike. He knew what a woman expects when being courted, though I dare say he had no idea what she expects after marriage."

He was staring at her as if she had grown a second head.

"Why in the hell would you defend him like that?! How could you mention his abusiveness in a passing sentence as though it were nothing?"

She cringed.

"Just because he didn't treat me nicely doesn't mean that he's a bad person in general, you know. He..."

Now he clearly looked angry.

"Didn't treat you nicely? Why are you so keen on polishing his image if he obviously ruined your life? Admit his wrongs! Admit the injustice done to you! Did he shout at you? Make you do things you didn't want to? Hit you?"

She felt herself growing smaller under his heated gaze and furious face. Why did she have the feeling that he was taking this much too personally? Was it because he loved her?

"Actually, all of that," she answered in a soft voice.

"Goddammit!"

His fist hit the counter, startling her. For a second, his angry face resembled her husband more than ever before, causing an uneasy feeling inside her, something not unlike foreboding.

"How can you try to find good sides to such a...a creature? This is not a man, it's a monster! Not only has he abused you physically and mentally, he has also stolen your chance at being who you are and is hindering you at becoming who you want to be. And don't mention his professional success or so-called intelligence to me! Those are not redeeming features to somebody who has to hit women in order to feel superior. And all that success comes from cheating anyway. I should know. I..."

He stopped, visibly pulled himself together and took a deep calming breath.

She couldn't understand his being so emotional and furious, but she felt her own anger and hurt intensify when he made so clear what she had always known, that Mark hadn't been any good for her and didn't deserve her guilt and doubts or her reluctance to be happy in a new relationships. And yet.

"Don't speak like that and get all worked up. Don't say you know when you're only guessing and assuming the worst," she quietly chided him, wearily eying the fist lying on the counter that conjured up pictures of a similar fist raised to punch something or someone, to punch her.

He shook his head tensely.

"Believe me, I know. More than you probably do. I told you I was part of that business world before I began anew here. And I still hate myself for it, hate those who pulled me into it and now couldn't care less."

"Don't hate when you can love instead," she said, surprising herself with this piece of wisdom and realizing at the same time that she had spoken not only to him but to herself. Yes, she was ready now to completely leave that shadowy, stormy past behind and walk into the sunshine with Michael. She hadn't deserved all the hurt.

When he gazed into her eyes, so many conflicting emotions flitting across his tense yet handsome face, the fist under her hand slowly uncurling, she smiled a shaky yet inwardly determined smile at him. Then, for the first time, she kissed him.

He sucked in a surprised breath when she timidly laid her lips over his. She applied more pressure and brought one hand up to his neck, trying to express with that one kiss that she appreciated his love for her, was willing to give him a chance, and maybe reciprocated his feelings. Perhaps he understood, for he pulled her flush against him, deepened the kiss and finally let her go, whispering her name against her ear.

"Cathy. My Cathy."

His breath tickled her ear and his lips behind her ear and on her earlobe sent arrows of desire through her body, setting her every nerve on fire. All too soon, he drew back and let her go, though his eyes never left hers.

"I love you."

Now it was her turn to suck in a breath of surprise. She felt her heart beating like a drum and her stomach feeling like a playground for a dozen butterflies. There, he had said it. Would she, could she?

Before she had resolved what to say, he took another step back and folded his arms across his chest, maybe bracing himself for her reply or her silence.

"I'm sorry," he said.

For a moment, she was torn between two emotions: relief at not having had to answer, sadness that he was apologizing for having confessed his love for her, a love that she had sensed all along. He continued and she was able to breathe again.

"I'm sorry that I keep making the mistake of forcing your past into the foreground or dwelling on my own past despite claiming the opposite. Now let's forget all the crap and live, shall we?"

The slightly joking tone was in his voice again, the sparkle back in his grey-blue eyes. She tucked a strand of hair behind the ear that was still tingling and picked up the salad bowl.

"What better way to start living than finally making yourself useful and carrying our dinner into the living-room?"

She indicated the steak, potatoes and dishes with her chin, grinning at him. He chuckled and obediently loaded his arms.

"I've told you before and I'm telling you again: Always at your service."

He emphasized the word "always" and she actually found herself looking forward to always having him at her side, in her heart.
Chapter 9

Cathy woke up, strangely alarmed, though at first not knowing why.

With bleary eyes, she gazed at the alarm clock on the bedside table, an old-fashioned, round metal construction without digital time. It was shortly past 10 o'clock. Reluctantly, she dragged herself up into a sitting position. Michael and her had devoured their first dinner together and snuggled up on the couch, watching a wildlife documentary and after that a 3-hour-long Bollywood romance into the middle of the night, feeling very much like a new couple in love.

She yawned through her smile and ran a hand through her hair, wondering again why she had felt so alarmed when waking up. Right at that moment, a voice cut through her sleepiness and sent her on edge. That sounded like—No, it couldn't be. Her ears must be clogged from sleeping too long or she must be disoriented by her unfamiliar surroundings. This voice belonged into the past. And yet. The man spoke again, this time louder. The coolness and harshness and especially the familiarity of it chilled her to the bone.

Hastily, she got up. Wrapping her blanket around her, she left the room and padded barefoot into the corridor from where she could now hear Michael's voice, also sounding oddly harsh and cool.

What she saw in the doorway made her freeze and for a second doubt her sanity.

Michael was standing with his back to her, clad in shorts and a white singlet. What shocked her, what pulled her eyes like a magnet and made her feel as though a giant black hole had opened under her feet to suck her in, was the sight of the person standing on the doorstep. A person looking like his clone. A person that she was 100 % sure had to be none other than her husband, Mark.

He was dressed smartly, as she remembered him, in pressed black trousers and a long-sleeved lavender shirt, as if on business. Had he come on business? That must be the only logical reason to show up here. My God, had he finally found her and come to cause her trouble or, worse yet, ask her to return?

She stared at his face, leaner than Michael's, the hair shorter and neatly gelled back, not a single line visible though he looked clearly displeased. She cringed, wanted to run and couldn't move a muscle.

She must be dreaming.

As if through cotton wool or underwater, she faintly heard his voice when he addressed Michael now, his manner of speech a well-known knife to her heart.

"Look, I'm not keen on seeing you again either, but I had no choice. Do you at least have the decency to let me into the house or does it boost your ego to have me standing outside and at your mercy, Michael? You do still go by your name, don't you? I'd have thought you creative enough to come up with some alias or other because God forbid that you could be associated with me, with us."

They knew each other! What...what was he saying, what did it mean?

With her mind reeling and feeling as though about to faint, she must have made some kind of sound because Mark's icy gaze was on her and Michael had whipped around to stare in her direction.

For a moment, her husband looked like a puppet straight out of a children's TV program, mouth drooping hilariously wide open, eyes almost bulging from their sockets. Clearly, he had recognized her immediately, despite the blanket that wasn't nearly enough of protection against things sliding out of control. When her eyes darted to Michael of their own will, she saw that his face was full of hurt and guilt and some other emotion she was in no fit state to analyze.

They both spoke at the same time.

"Cathy, I..."

That was Michael, full of chagrin, taking a half step in her direction.

"What the—?"

That was Mark, sounding and looking as though he had seen a ghost.

Her husband had stepped over the threshold and was advancing toward her, active despite all the confusion, shoving the other man out of the way when he feebly stretched out an arm as if to stop his advance.

"What the hell are you doing in my brother's house? And wrapped in a goddamn blanket at that?"

His cold grey eyes were boring into her, at once succeeding in making her feel as small and as wrong as those days.

Wait, what had he said?

"Brother?"

It came out as a squeak.

"Cathy, please..."

Michael's voice hardly registered with her, so stunned was she by this new revelation, so much held captive by Mark's forceful presence.

His eyes quickly moved from her to Michael and back and there was a calculating grin spreading on his face that almost made him ugly.

As usual, he was the quickest to grasp a situation, to make the most of it, to turn it into an advantage for him.

"I see," he drawled, as if relishing something that only he understood.

"You seriously don't know? This coward hasn't told you?"

Shaking uncontrollably, she fought hard to stand her ground, full of dread, a tiny voice at the back of her brain chanting a malicious chorus of I told you so all along, I told you so all along.

"What don't I know?"

God, she hated how weak and confused she sounded.

Mark made a small derisive sound in his throat and spared Michael another glance, who had sunk against the wall and was gazing at them with a pained expression that spoke of nothing so much as of guilt.

"Congratulations, old boy. Wouldn't have thought you capable of such deceit and cunning. You seriously succeeded in tracking down my wife and getting her to associate with you without suspecting a thing. Not that it takes much skill and experience to trick her."

Turning back to her after seeing Michael flinch from his words and open his mouth in silent protest, he continued, one hand thrown out toward his seeming clone, "May I introduce you to Michael Darren Nolan, my twin brother, though we both wish it were otherwise."

She actually swayed and swallowed hard with a throat as dry as parchment.

God, why has she been so blind?! He was right, she was so damn easy to trick!

Obviously enjoying their discomfort, Mark pressed on.

"I guess I should be offended that my soon to be ex-wife is in my disowned brother's house where she has clearly spent the night. But to be honest, I couldn't care less. I want neither of you in my life, so you're free to go ahead and jump all over each other. Tell me one thing though: How on earth did he manage to get you interested and gain your trust, ready as it may be?"

Despite her confusion and hurt, she somehow managed to draw herself up and face him. She would not let this man ruin her life again. She would not.

"That is none of your business," she spit back at him.

For an instant, he looked taken aback, before his face closed into the same cool sneering mask that had haunted her nightmares and once her days, as well.

"No need to go all high and mighty on me. Like I said, I couldn't care less. However, I wouldn't have thought you quite so gullible."

Facing Michael again, his tone changed, becoming icier still, and filled with the same hatred that had spoken out of his brother's mouth last evening.

"You. One word of advice: This woman is still officially married to me, but I am definitely going through with the divorce and it won't look rosy for her. If you nailed her because you're desperate for money, think again, as I don't plan on giving her a single cent if I can have it my way. Brothers by blood or not, don't you dare to pry your way back into our family or our fortune through her. You chose to cut off all ties and act as the goodie in a God-forsaken hamlet. Now live with your choices and never ever think of cheating your way in. At least I have enough backbone to stand up for what I do and believe in myself."

He tossed his head arrogantly.

"Anyway, it's useless to waste my time here. Whatever you're up to with my lovely wife, don't use her against us or for having your past with all its benefits back."

He turned toward Cathy again, who was still motionless and feeling more and more wounded, not the least because Michael didn't say a word in his or her defense. His arms were hanging lifelessly beside his body, his hands closing into fists and opening again rhythmically.

"And you. Let me tell you that you're throwing in your lot with a weakling and a cheater on a bigger scale than you can probably imagine. You should know better than to associate with somebody who has been to prison and cut all ties with his family and former life. Don't believe a single thing he's saying. If you have any respect for yourself, leave him like we would have left him if he hadn't run."

Now it was her turn to stare and be at a loss for words. Oh, how she wished she could run!

When she instinctively wrapped the blanket around herself more tightly, an odd look entered Mark's face, one that could have been regret. He gave her one last stare and strode to the door. In the doorway, he half turned to where they stood frozen like statues in a Greek tragedy. He pulled a folded document out of his back pocket and threw it at Michael's feet.

"Before I forget it, my dear brother. I came here because Grandfather Nolan has passed away. He mentioned you in his will and our family lawyer absolutely refused to give you the news in some less personal manner. As you had left your address with him for exactly the event of grandfather's death, he sent me here. I couldn't have been more reluctant to come. Now, however, I think it was worth the long journey."

His eyes shot from his brother to her and back before he composed his face into a mask free of any readable emotion. He left, calmly walking toward where he had parked his silver BMW and not stopping when Michael sprang to life and shouted questions after him as to how and when their grandfather had passed away.

She was still glued to the spot. She heard the car door shut, the engine purr to life and the vehicle drive off. Some seconds or maybe minutes later, she heard him walk back into the house and close the door. He bent down, picked up the document, stared at it as if it might bite him at any time and slowly lifted his head to look at her.

When he opened his mouth and said her name, in a voice that cut her as much as Mark's had before, she held up a hand, the other clutching the blanket to her as if her life depended on it.

"No."

She was surprised at how calm she sounded and that her arm wasn't shaking all that much. More surprising was that he snapped his mouth shut and continued staring at her instead of saying anything in his defense. If he had pleaded with her, tried an explanation, expressed some anger at his brother's behavior or the will to set things straight, she would have still been angry, hurt and disappointed but wouldn't have felt as empty as she was feeling now.

There was only one thought on her mind: Enough is enough.

Exactly like some weeks ago, she felt she'd lose her sanity, lose herself if she allowed herself to be hurt so much. Fighting hard against the moisture that seeped into her eyes and against what felt like her heart bleeding, she wheeled around and ran back into the room.

He called after her, but didn't follow. That was another sign that she was right and he was wrong, wasn't it?

She slammed the door shut behind her and sank to the floor like an inflatable toy robbed of all its air. Curling herself into a ball on the wooden floorboards, she gave in to the tears and cried her heart out. In the middle of all the anguish at having been used by another man she had thought she loved, it registered that Michael walked right up to the room door, stood in front of it for long minutes and walked away without a word.

When there were no more tears left to cry, she looked up, disoriented from exhaustion, an empty stomach and emotional pain. Her gaze hit the window that showed her an impossibly green landscape, a few brown-, yellow- and red-colored trees and a grey-blue, cloudless sky. It was as if the outside were calling to her.

Yes, there was a life for her out there. This had been the last time that she had cried. She didn't need Mark, didn't need Michael. She had never needed them. They had needed her, to trample on, to feed their egos on, to face their dismal lives. All of a sudden, anger and determination won over hurt and disillusionment.

She got up, walked over to the bed, stooped low and pulled out her suitcase. For a moment, seeing it and remembering the many times in the recent past that she had packed and unpacked it, she felt as though squeezed by a giant fist that wanted to drain her of her will. Stubbornly, she fought the invisible fetters tying her to another place she didn't belong to. With deliberately precise and controlled movements, she walked around the room and collected all the personal items she had only the day before put into their new place.

If there was one positive thing to learn from her husband, it was his ability to let nothing deter him from what he wanted and what he probably thought was right.

After she had packed all her clothes and books and changed from her nighty into cream-colored jeans and a sweatshirt with bright leopard print, she tied her hair back, closed her suitcase and grabbed her handbag.

Without looking back, she walked all the way to the front door. Putting the suitcase down and realizing that it had gotten somewhat lighter than the first time of escaping, she took her fur-collared parka from its hook and threw it on.

"Cathy? Cathy!"

With a will of iron, she forbid herself from turning to face Michael, who had come running down the stairs at the sound of her footsteps.

"Are you leaving?"

"What does it look like?"

Where did this confidence come from? How did she manage to stay so cool and appear so calm when all she wanted was to shout at him and pummel him and demand an explanation and be comforted by him and lie in his arms?

"Aren't you giving me a chance to explain? Do you think so little of me and so highly of him?"

There was some anger and lots of hurt in his voice. Every nerve of her being screamed at her to turn and give him a chance. Resolved, she stepped into her shoes and opened the door.

"Don't you think you had enough chances?" she asked, her voice breaking ever so slightly despite her determination not to show him how much he had hurt her and succeeded in whatever his cruel plan had been.

When there was no answer, she stepped over the threshold and walked down to the road, holding her head high.

Her new life was awaiting her.

* * *

Roughly an hour later, she rested her head against the window-pane of the bus putting a distance between herself and her second attempt at a happy life. Once again, she was in pain, leaning on something inanimate for support and relief that it certainly wouldn't give. Heck, what could a pane of dusty, comfortingly cool glass do against heartbreak? What the hell could she do against it?

Not caring where it would take her, she had spent her last bit of cash on a ticket to the final destination of the bus. The glass felt cool against her hot, slightly swollen and red face, the steady throbbing of the engine reassuring. As it had been the first time when travelling to the village, she had no eyes for the scenery passing by, alternating between villages and landscapes and here and there a somewhat bigger town. It felt like a colossal effort to keep her head leaning against the window and her eyes from closing.

What she needed now wasn't more time spent motionlessly, thinking aimlessly. She wanted to sleep, to sink into oblivion and wake up with new determination and at least an inkling of how to go on, how to pick up the shattered pieces that were her life and reassemble them in a way that would make more sense.

There was no sleep to be found. She was afraid to try during the bus ride, dreading the nightmares that would surely attack her and have her wake up screaming. Instead, she ducked deeper into the soft fur collar of her parka and studiously avoided making eye contact with the handful of other passengers in the bus.  
As there was no temporary relief of sleep, thoughts kept chasing each other in her head. Round and round, like a caged tiger in the zoo, prowling, sharpening its claws.

The memories were the worst. All the happy moments she had shared with Michael. Their kisses and promises of more bliss. Their garden work. The first dinner together. Snatches of conversation coming back and looking much clearer now. How angry he had always sounded at her mentioning Mark, how personally he had taken matters, how convinced he had been that her husband was wrong. And now it turned out he might have been even more wrong! Or was it her who was the most wrong of all, misjudging first one and then the other brother and attaching herself and her life to people who didn't deserve it.

How would she be able to forget this man who had within the span of a few days succeeded in becoming more dear and important to her than her husband of more than a year?
Chapter 10

4 months later

"Bye and thanks once again!"

She waved cheerfully and walked out of the bakery with an empty plastic crate under her arm, careful not to slip on the ice-covered pavement.

This was the third time in a row that the baker's wife had bought her cakes. The first time, roughly two weeks ago, she had offered the lady and her husband a free slice each of three of her best cakes. They had liked the taste and placed a tentative order of two cakes of each variety. Those had sold out in record time, so last week and the day before, they had ordered 4 of the same three cakes. The baker's wife had promised her that she would place the advertising leaflets on the counter. On those, Cathy offered a whole cake-on-demand of the slices available at the bakery if given one day's notice.

Standing at the bus halt, she went over her weekly schedule in her head. Tomorrow was Friday, which meant she had to deliver a set of 47 cupcakes to the IT company around the corner from where she lived.

A month ago, she had approached the cafeteria supervisor with some leaflets and a tray of cupcakes, trying her utmost to convince the young man that serving something nice and sweet at least once a week as a brunch or with the afternoon coffee would make a positive impression on the staff. The supervisor had referred her to the Office Manager and she had succeeded in letting her give a trial run. Her cupcakes, which she had colored blue and white and topped with a computer symbol made out of icing, had been a hit.

Ever since that day, once a week, she delivered a cupcake for each staff member to the cafeteria. The Customer Care Manageress had ordered a set of 60 cupcakes for her forthcoming birthday party, if possible decorated with a tiny cat on top of whipped cream. She had accepted and surprised herself with being bold enough to ask for an advance to buy all the ingredients.

Stepping from one foot onto the other in the cold and watching her breath create white clouds in the air, she made a mental list of ingredients she would need for the Santa-shaped Christmas cake that a kindergarten had ordered.

Business was growing, slowly but steadily. She was already making enough money to cover the cost for the ingredients and have a little spare cash at hand. On Saturdays and Sundays, she worked as a waitress at an Italian restaurant not far away, which gave her enough income to start paying back the loan she had taken.

The several thousand pounds she had managed to obtain from a private creditor after much to and fro and throwing around her weight by mentioning the Nolan company were allowing her to pay the rent and cover the food expenses as well as get started with her business by buying some important baking equipment. She had created and published her website, which had already provided her with one wedding cake order two months ago, and printed a set of leaflets. During the week, she spent her time travelling the neighborhood to approach potential customers with cake samples and distribute her flyers.

Much of what she did reminded her painfully of Michael's ideas and tips but felt exactly right.

The bus slid to a halt in front of her. She stepped aboard, found a seat at the back and dropped the crate to the floor. Taking her brightly striped gloves and her matching woolen hat off, she rubbed some life and warmth into her fingers and thought back on the past four months.

The bus in which she had fled the village had taken her to this big city that looked so much like the one she had left behind yet also provided her with what she needed for a new start. After pawning her mobile phone and using the money to pay for a bed in a group room in a youth hostel that had a breakfast buffet included in the fees, she had spent a whole day on a park bench, hugging herself and thinking hard.

The morning after, she had woken up to the noise of boisterous school children and been filled again with that strange determination to take things into her own hands. The following days had been spent researching on her laptop, tapping into the hostel's free Wi-Fi and cheering herself up with some nice cake photos whenever despair threatened again. With hardly a cent in hand—living on the generous breakfast, the rolls and odd apple or banana she pilfered from it and the water from the filter in the hostel's common room—she managed to survive. Deciding against a job search that would take too much time without getting her anywhere, she had approached several creditors and finally found an open ear and full purse to come to her aid.

The next steps had been comparatively easy. Buying a handful of warm clothes and the most important baking utensils, she had commenced baking and getting her business rolling. Within several days, she had been able to move out of the hostel and into a two-roomed apartment that she shared with a History student only three years younger than her. With the girl mostly sleeping over at her boyfriend's place, she had the kitchen mostly to herself and poured all her hope into baking.

She was waiting for a confirmation email from a catering service that was thinking of including personalized cakes for special events on their list. If she landed that deal, it would bring more financial stability.

What was missing in her life was not so much security and hope rather than someone to share it all with, someone who would care and support her whenever doubts paralyzed her again.

* * *

Cathy pulled two letters out of their common letter box and climbed the five flights up to the apartment, hoping that as usual, her flat mate wouldn't be at home. While climbing up, she scanned the envelopes of the letters. One was clearly some advertisement or other, touting from the front that she shouldn't miss the opportunity of her lifetime. The other looked more promising and felt quite heavy. At the front, her name and address were written in slanting cursive letters that looked somehow old-fashioned. Was that another customer? She turned the envelope over and stopped in mid-track, unable to breathe for a moment. Among an address, two words written on the back in the same neat print jumped out at her: Aunt Grindle.

She trembled, not sure whether it was from standing still in the unheated stairwell or from shock.

How had Mrs. Grindle, the kind old landlady at the village guest house, found her address? Why on earth would she write to her? Did she want to read the letter? Why should she bother?

Biting her lip, she continued her journey upwards, the letter now feeling heavier and the empty crate mocking her with all the hopes she was wasting on it.

Four months had gone by and she had partly succeeded in leaving her past behind. Her divorce case was running smoothly despite Mark doing his best to disentangle himself from any responsibility. Frankly, after the confrontation at Michael's doorstep, her husband hadn't much entered her thoughts at all. It was a chapter almost closed that had no hold on her present and future. What did have a hold on her, was embedded in her heart like a thorn from the many roses she had planted alongside Michael, was the love she still felt for him. Yes, love.

For, as much as she might try to convince herself of the opposite, she clearly still had feelings for him and she missed him. At night and on evenings huddled in a blanket in front of the TV, it didn't matter that he had lied to her, that he had probably planned on using her, that she shouldn't forgive him and that they didn't have a chance. It simply didn't matter in her heart of hearts, although her mind came up with page-long lists of pros and cons. She missed him, illogically and achingly, as though he were an integral part of her. She dreamt of him, sometimes happy dreams full of romance, sometimes nightmares full of remembered hurt.

Only recently had it felt easier to shake those feelings off and immerse herself in her cake future and in her new single life. She concentrated on how good it felt that with her own ideas and personal marketing campaigns, she was on her best way to acquire a steady clientele. She concentrated on how good it felt to not depend on anybody, to live in a city full of amenities and possibilities without being caged in an empty, richly decorated mansion like a bird by a husband who didn't make her feel like a wife.

Why? Why did this letter have to reach her now?

She unlocked the door to the flat, called out and was luckily rewarded with silence. She peeled herself out of the gloves, winter coat, scarf and knee-high boots and went into the kitchen. After putting down the empty crate and switching on the kettle to make herself a cup of coffee, she threw both envelopes into the dustbin and walked away. After a few steps, she raced back, took the letter addressed to her out and placed it on the kitchen counter. While waiting for the water to boil and preparing her cup of coffee, her eyes kept returning to the envelope, inconspicuous though it looked, a white rectangle against a reddish wooden counter top. Like a magnet, the letter drew her attention to it with its many possibilities and fears it created inside her.

She drank a scalding hot sip of coffee and went into her room with the cup and the letter. Locking the door behind her, which she had never done before, she sat down on the bed, eyed the letter wearily for what must have been several minutes and tore it open full of trepidation.

Cathy dear,

You must be wondering how I got your new address. It so happened that Bertha's son had gone into the city for a delivery and seen your leaflets in the supermarket. Knowing how much I was hoping from a word from you, he brought one back. It makes me glad to see that you are apparently keeping fine and on your way to making your business dream come true. I wish you wouldn't have left like that.

Don't let me waste time on these matters. As I so like to say, what happened in the past had better stay in the past.

And now let me break my own rule by dragging up a matter from the past that has sadly bullied its way into the present and that I feel might keep you from a happier future. I can only hope and pray that you will give yourself and others a chance by reading on and being open for the truth.

On the day that you left, Michael visited me and told me what had happened. Believe me, I can understand what a shock it must have been for you. I had no idea that he has a twin brother who is or was married to you. Do you remember how surprised I was when you showed me that photograph? Anyway, he explained why he had been hiding his past from you. I will give you a summary here because I think you deserve to know the truth although you might not want to know it. And I swear to you upon my honor: I have not been asked by Michael to tell you all this or contact you. He has no idea whatsoever that I am writing to you.

Apparently, Michael and Mark grew up together and were inseparable until about the age when they entered school. Soon, though they were both brilliant and liked the same subjects, their characters developed in different ways. During their teenage years, Mark was the leader, the charmer and the connection to the world and Michael would follow his lead and remain quiet on the inside. Grandfather Nolan, who had founded the house and property business and recruited his own son from the earliest time possible, soon decided to integrate the two promising twins in the family enterprise.

Both graduated from high school with flying colors and went to university, at the same time entering the company as trainees under their father's watchful eyes. Before he had finished his Master's Degree, Mark replaced his father as the Manager of the company when the doctors recommended to take things slow because of his heart problem. Michael worked alongside his brother all the time, but showed less and less enthusiasm for the business as time went on. After some years, Mark had succeeded in changing several things, modernizing the business and making it more known nationally as well as internationally.

There came a time—I don't know whether you remember it because you lived much closer to where things happened and were later to become Mark's wife—when the company lost one of their biggest customers. The media smelled a scandal and investigated, finding out that Nolan House & Property had apparently cheated on a huge scale. Before things could get ugly, Grandfather Nolan stepped in, threw his weight around and managed to silence the media more or less. Said customer filed a court case. Both brothers were accused of fraud. I don't know the details because I told Michael that I wouldn't understand them anyway and he looked about ready to die with shame and guilt.

To cut the long story short, the company's lawyers and the powerful Nolans managed to keep the damage as low as possible and wipe the company's name clean by blaming some minor employee and handing out wrong information to the media. Both brothers were sentenced to 12 months of prison and a high compensation payment. Mark wiggled out of this too, but Michael renounced himself from more cheating, broke all ties with his family and actually went to prison. He was released several months earlier due to perfect conduct and came out a changed person. Nobody of his family had ever contacted him apart from Grandfather Nolan, and even that in secret. Notifying the family's main lawyer of his plans and never looking back, Michael came to our village and started a new life on a different name.

He has made it very clear that he admits that he is to some extent guilty, but that he used to hate what he had to do and that he vowed at that time never to cheat anyone again. When he met you, he fell in love with you despite finding out that you were, of all people, his brother's soon-to-be ex-wife. His plan was to give you a chance to get to know the real him without being influenced by the past he has left behind and by his likeness to a brother he hates as much as you.

He had wanted to give you some weeks before he revealed everything to you, thinking of enlisting Grandfather Nolan's help if that meant he could earn your trust and affection, though he hadn't contacted any family member for years. Now, with Mark having presented the story in a slightly different, though essentially true, light and their grandfather not among the living, Michael's hopes have been shattered. He scolds himself for not coming clean right from the start and doesn't want to search for you, though he is still head over heels in love with you. I'm quite good at recognizing those things, although or maybe because I am an old village lady.

I am much less sure about your feelings. However, I have seen you two together and couldn't imagine a better pair. However, it is not my intention to bring you two back together. It is up to you both to sort out your lives. I have done what my heart tells me is my duty. Let me sign off with wishing you all the best, telling you that I would love to keep in touch and attaching something that might interest you.

With warm regards and high hopes,

Aunt Grindle

For a long time, Cathy sat rigid, the letter in her hand, staring into nothing.

She pictured Aunt Grindle and Michael, the handsome man's face more deeply lined than ever while pouring out his story, the old landlady shocked and at the same time trusting and trying to console him. Vividly, she could imagine Mark and Michael as boys and young men, the former always more forward, calculating and successful than the latter. She might have mistaken Michael for her husband in that first instant, but hadn't she noticed those small differences afterward?

The longer she had known him, the less she had been reminded of Mark. Surely she had fallen in love with him not because of his looks but because of the way he had treated her. After running away, every action of his seemed to confirm what Mark had spit out that day. She had been certain that Michael had deliberately concocted a story to associate with her, planning to wiggle his way back into the family or profit from the fortune he thought she would end up with after the divorce.

In the weeks following her hasty departure, she had slowly begun to doubt. People could be wrong about first impressions and generalizing and accepting half-truths, couldn't they? Hadn't she taken Mark for granted too many times and ruined her life with it? How was she to know whether he had spoken the truth?

Now, Aunt Grindle's letter fuelled all those doubts and her inner readiness to take Michael's side. Yes, he had made a huge mistake those days by involving himself in such business. However, he repented, and mistakes were human. Yes, he had made another huge mistake by hiding his identity from her. Then again, had he told her, she wouldn't have given him a single chance, would she?

Biting her lip and setting the letter down, she let out a deep sigh.

She couldn't get his face out of her thoughts, dreams and wishes. Maybe he had acted so guiltily before her running away precisely because he knew he had been wrong and wished so much that it were otherwise? Maybe that was what separated him most from his brother, that one thought he was always right and deserved the best and the other thought he didn't deserve the best and was doomed to be connected with what he had done wrong? Maybe he had renamed himself Newland because on the one hand it was closely related to Nolan and on the other hand it signified him stepping onto new land? Maybe she was ready for the relationship now that she was standing on her own feet and didn't feel like she depended on his help or that her new life was inseparably tied to him? Maybe...

She picked up the folded piece of paper that had been in the envelope and unfolded it to its considerable size. What she saw made her breath stop.

The paper was a poster advertising an art exhibition, in the very city where she now lived and by no other than Michael Newland. The exhibition was titled When I See Your Face and the poster displayed about ten different works as well as the date. What drew her eyes more than the splashes of color depicting flowers in the top row were the many pencil sketches that took up the most space on the poster. One was the hillside on the outskirts of the village. Right next to that was what looked like a fairy dancing through fields of flowers. It sent a jolt through her, remembering that afternoon walk where they had made future plans and kissed, remembering the bliss she had felt despite all the forebodings and doubts.

The rest of the drawings all showed the same person. Herself. She stared at the playing-card-sized prints. Her face laughing, next to a sun shining exuberantly. Her face all scrunched up in concentration. Her face half hidden behind a veil of hair, contemplative. A full-body portray of her leaning on a spade with tussled hair, dirt-streaked clothes and a tentative smile. One of a woman, who must also be her, crouching in the corner of a room with a shadowy man raised threateningly above her as if to strike out. The likeness was uncanny, the skill so much more than what she would have expected from the art she had seen with her own eyes.

Her heart beating on overdrive, Cathy took a decision.

* * *

Gripping the folded poster in one hand and all her courage in the other hand, she stepped into the lofty gallery that hosted Michael's exhibition. She remained standing close to the entrance and surveyed the situation from there, realizing that she wasn't so much filled with trepidation as with anticipation.

With every beat, her heart asked "yes? no? yes? no?" and her mind willed her to believe that the answer would be yes.

In front of her lay a room neither big nor small, devoid of any furniture and filled with maybe twenty people ambling around. His art hung on the walls, one long wall opposite her dedicated to the pencil sketches, vivid nature paintings displayed to the left and right of her. The drawings screamed at her to come closer and inspect them.

Cathy, who had kept her woolen hat and scarf on for fear of being recognized as the person portrayed, ducked her head lower and tried as hard as possible to walk at casual speed like the rest of the people in the room. She stopped close to the biggest picture, sitting prominently in the center of the wall and showing her face half covered in tresses of hair, looking deep in thought, somehow at the same time vulnerable and strong in a quiet, inward way, as if focused on something.

She stared and stared at the drawing, feeling as though he had looked right into her innermost sanctuary and known her for who she was at a time when she hadn't known herself.

And wasn't that what had drawn her to this man who physically incorporated all that she had learned to fear and loathe, but in behavior and character was her dream partner incarnate? In such a short time and with such awkward situations, he had seen through everything and managed to understand her better than anybody ever had, including herself, her parents and her former husband. Remembering him and their short, mostly happy time together sent her pulse racing and her heart aching with longing. As impossibly sentimental as it sounded, his soul and her soul must have connected. Which made it all the more hurtful that he had hidden the truth from her and that she had not given him a real chance. Talking about chances...

When she broke out of her reverie and moved on to the other portrays, all somewhat smaller but no less meaningful and beautiful, it slowly registered that people were whispering comments about the pictures. A word here and there got carried to her.

Inspirational.

Emotional.

Deep.

Dreamy.

Talented.

All words she would have used to describe the artist himself more than his work. Only in hindsight had she realized how difficult it must have been for Michael, knowing that he had feelings for his hated twin brother's ex-wife. The whole past that he had been so successful at forgetting must have come crashing back, just as he had looked like a demon from her past, and proven to be an angel leading the way into a better future.

How had it felt to grow attached to someone who could destroy all the peace for which he had paid such a dear price? How hard had it been for him to live with the knowledge that he was holding something back from her that might separate them forever? She had during all these months wondered about his side of the story so many times, and Aunt Grindle's letter had made her think some more. It had brought all the warmth back that his smile, his kindness, his intelligence and his confidence had awoken inside her at a time when she had felt frozen in place. Somehow, it was as though he had been the reason for her breaking out of her chrysalis and turning from a timid caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly testing out its fragile, yet shiny wings.

When she woke from her thoughts, she overheard a woman saying to her husband that the pictures spoke of a close bond between the artist and the model, and somehow, that filled her with an even deeper love and gave her more courage than she had thought she possessed. She turned around in a pirouette slowly, searching for Michael and spotting him in the opposite corner, explaining something to a guest under a big painting of a delicate orange-yellow rose surrounded by a lighter bud and a half-opened second rose.

As though he had sensed her gaze and felt her longing, he turned in her direction.

Their eyes met.

Time stood still.

It was impossible to identify the look on his face from the distance, but she clearly saw that he had stopped in mid-sentence and didn't know how to go on.

Cathy, her feet automatically starting to carry her closer to him, bumped into somebody. In the moment it took her to mutter an excuse without showing her face too clearly, he had moved. When she searched for him, she caught him walking out of a side door.

Feeling that there had never been anything more important in her life, she hastened after him. She went through the door and came out on a roof-top terrace that was covered in fluffy white snowflakes resting atop a hard sheet of frozen old snow. It was deserted but for Michael.

He was standing with his back to her, arms wound tightly around his torso and staring ahead. Simply being so close to him again sent her emotions on overdrive. She felt the overwhelming need to reach out and touch him, make sure that he was real and that this wasn't one of a million dreams she had reveled in ever since their separation. She wanted him to hold her and make her feel safe the way he had as soon as she had managed to look behind the face and see the real him. There were so many things to say. Most of all, she wanted to be sure that she was doing the right thing.

Something told her that nothing in life was ever as sure as people wanted it to be. It had felt like the right thing to do to come here, and now she would not go back. Whatever his reaction, her feelings for him were true. With every breath she took, she needed him, wanted him and loved him. This was her chance to make things right. Their second chance. How many people had the luck to be given second chances?

She stepped over the threshold, all inward and outward shaking gone.

At the sound of her boots crunching on the snow, Michael wheeled around, shot her one of those intense looks she remembered so vividly, opened his mouth and closed it again.

He had changed in the few months, as surely as she must have changed too. There was a slight gauntness to his face that had been slim and finely boned before. He looked as though he hadn't been very happy the past few months, the lines in his face slightly more pronounced now, his eyes deep and speaking of hurt in a way that she knew her eyes must have reflected those days. Her heart clenched at the thought that she must be the cause for his unhappiness, but then her spirits lifted because she was holding the key to be the cause for his happiness from now on. At least if she had interpreted all the signs correctly.

Part of her wanted to continue looking at him for some time, to feast her eyes on the face that had haunted her dreams and was inevitably connected to the rest of her life. She realized that he was staring at her in much the same manner, though probably with less hope in his heart and less determination in his mind. His eyes wandered over her as though he meant to memorize every detail of her appearance, for fear of losing her again and not having more than those fresh memories.

How she wished she knew what he was thinking and feeling right now!

Not wanting him to speak first, she gave herself a mental push and moved toward him, the few feet over crunching snow feeling like a mile-long trek across dangerous terrain. Extending a hand to him and smiling her brightest smile up into his for once unreadable, handsome face, she said, "You must be the artist whose works are displayed inside. They're wonderful, especially the portraits! By the way, my name is Cathy Langley. Pleased to meet you."

For a long second, there was only stunned silence, ringing loudly in her ears, but at the same time drowned out by the fierce hopeful beating of her heart.

"My Cathy," Michael whispered, his voice breaking with feeling.

"No, no, this won't do. Your line should have been, Pleased to meet you too. That is the way we should have met the first time. Better not to remember that messed up first time. This is our second chance. This is our new life," she said, her own voice just as croaky and on the verge of tears.

As an answer, he swept her off her feet and spun around with her in a circle, laughing and peppering her face with kisses.

The End

Thank you for buying this book! If you enjoyed it, please leave a review.

Read on for the first chapters of my second-chance novel Kaleidoscope of Hopes!

Kaleidoscope of Hopes

Published by Devika Fernando at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Devika Fernando

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Why did life always have to trample on the ones already lying broken on the ground?

Nadia crumpled the letter she was holding in one trembling hand, and tossed it to the ground. In an afterthought, she bent down, picked the letter up, smoothed out the crinkles, and stared at it.

Unlike the stark white paper with its ant-sized black letters spelling doom, her life was a mess which couldn't be ironed out with a simple gesture.

She was sitting on the steps to the apartment where she lived on rent, and her spirits were as low as they could be on a Saturday morning.

The official letter with its intimidating letterhead made it clear there was nothing to be happy about. Her life was a mess. She was on a puny wage with a mountain of debts to pay back. On top of that, they expected a new boss at office who had a reputation for letting heads roll to achieve maximum profit. At 32, she felt old and burdened and unloved, and had no hope for the future.

The icing on the cake?

Everything and everyone these days was hell-bent on rubbing her misfortune in her face. Take today, for example. When she had gone to check the letter box, commotion had caught her eye. The semi-luxury house next door, empty for so long, was finally welcoming new tenants. Wealthy tenants, if the furniture carried into the house was anything to go by. Add the shiny, black Mercedes Benz parked at the curb and the fact that the rent was about ten times higher than hers, and her new neighbors must be snobbish upper-class members sweating pearls instead of salt water.

What a wonderful way to make her feel even more worthless and unaccomplished.

Just when she had decided to stop wallowing in self-pity and have lunch, the first of her new neighbors made an appearance.

It was a little girl of maybe five or six years, dressed in a pink pair of overalls and a white T-shirt, her fair hair pulled back into a ponytail. The child was cradling a ball in her arms, and she was eying everything curiously. Her gaze fell on Nadia. The little girl smiled brightly before shyness overcame her and made her blush.

Nadia's mouth automatically curved to mirror the smile. Then the thought of having to deal with the probably stunningly beautiful mother let the smile fade away. Self-consciously she got up from the steps, and smoothed down her khaki woolen skirt.

Nobody followed the little girl out. She looked oddly lonely while playing with the ball, trying to dribble it more than once or twice on the stone path leading to the door.

Suddenly, the child squealed and ran after the ball...straight onto the road.

Nadia's throat went dry. This situation was beckoning for something to happen. She knew it.

Sure enough, the ball rolled into the middle of the road, and the girl followed behind. She picked it up and turned to go back to her new home, but something made her freeze and drop the ball.

When Nadia followed the direction of her gaze, a scream travelled up her throat but didn't make it out.

Ahead, on a usually quiet road, a white delivery van was speeding toward the girl, rooted to the spot in fear.

Without a conscious decision, Nadia was running at full speed to reach the spot where an accident looked inevitable, shouting for the driver to stop. In a blur of movements, she reached the child, pulled her back onto the curb, and tumbled to the ground in her haste of getting out of the van's way.

There was the overloud, fierce sound of the vehicle's engine, and a screech of tires on tar. A whoosh of air hit them, and she felt the hard ground scrape her arms in the reflexive move of rolling away from danger.

Deafening silence.

Coming back to her senses, she found herself lying on the sidewalk with the girl in her arms, half pinned beneath her. The van had come to a shuddering stop a few feet away from them.

What ensued next was a flurry of action. The van driver threw his door open to get out, and the two employees from the moving company ran out of the house. Shaking as badly as the small body in her arms, Nadia sat up slowly to make sure the child was all right. The girl was clinging to her, white-faced and wide-eyed, her fingers digging into Nadia's blouse. There was a ragged line of red against one of her short, pale, slim arms, but otherwise she was unharmed, more shocked than injured.

God, what if she hadn't been there to save the girl?

Nadia's surroundings came back to her gradually. There was the red-faced van driver, shouting accusations. There were the movers in their blue overalls, both foreigners and looking like brothers with their close-cropped hair and dark, frightened faces.

She got up on shaky legs, and pulled the child up with her. The small hands clung to her, but she gently peeled the fingers away and bent low to look into the girl's face.

"Hey. Are you all right?"

Big brown eyes stared back at her, swimming in unshed tears.

When she squatted down, placed her hands on the child's shoulders and repeated her question, she received a nod.

"No pain anywhere?"

The girl shook her head.

"My ball is broken," she said in a small voice.

Nadia looked at the spot where the van had run over the ball and squished it into an unrecognizable splotch of color. Her breath hitched when she imagined the child's body in its place.

"Don't worry, you'll get a new ball. Everything is fine."

She was turning to face the van driver's tirade when a voice cut through the commotion.

"Nothing is fine."

All of them wheeled toward the sound.

A man was approaching from the house, anger written all over his handsome face.

"What the devil has happened?" he demanded, looking from one to the other, radiating power.

The van driver almost stumbled over his words in his haste to explain the situation. He accused the child of running into the road, and the man of being an irresponsible parent.

"If your wife hadn't reacted so fast, nothing would be fine indeed. This isn't a bloody playground, you know."

"My wife?"

The man's voice had risen so high that Nadia felt a hysterical giggle bubble up in her throat, narrowly managing to keep it down. Must be the shock.

Clear, almost almond shaped, hazel brown eyes locked their gaze upon her face, checking her out, pulling her in.

The shock must have heightened her senses and made her focus shift, because all she could do was stare back and take in the beauty of his face.

With his square jaw, his expressive eyes, a firm, Roman nose, a high, lightly lined forehead and short, dark brown hair, he seemed taken right out of a glossy magazine. Add the man's silky voice and his tall body with a broad chest and slim hips, and she had every woman's dream standing in front of her, giving her the once over.

Their eyes met, and something passed between them, something inexplicable that sent a jolt of awareness through her and made her head spin.

Her new neighbor averted his eyes and looked down at the girl next to her, which made the haze lift.

Had the van driver just mistaken her for this man's wife? And had he let it pass without any correction?

"Melody Lauren Everett, what were you doing? Haven't I warned you about the dangers of the road?"

His stern voice hurt Nadia as much as it obviously hurt the girl. She stepped back and leaned against Nadia as if she trusted her unknown savior more than her scowling father.

"I...I'm sorry, Daddy. My ball..."

Nadia could feel the little body tremble, and automatically put her hands on the child's shoulders again.

"It wasn't her fault," she heard herself saying. "If the van hadn't been speeding, nothing would have happened."

The man's gaze shot back to her, and something in his face spoke of surprise before he glanced back at his daughter and held his hand out.

"Come here."

As the girl didn't move, Nadia gave her shoulders an encouraging squeeze. Surely her father should be relieved to see her unhurt, and not be about to scold her.

The girl—Melody, what a fantastic, rare name—walked hesitantly to her father, and took the outstretched hand. Despite the anger still clearly visible on the man's face, he didn't continue admonishing the child. Neither did he hug her or show profound relief, though.

"Are you hurt?"

For the first time, something like concern wound its way into his amazing voice.

"No, Daddy."

The little girl sounded more frightened than ever, hiding one arm behind her back.

Before she could bite her tongue, Nadia had blurted out, "Actually, I think she scraped her arm when I saved her. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to let her fall. It all happened so fast..."

Yet again, his gaze on her silenced and unsettled her. Finally behaving like a father, he stooped low and checked the child's arm, worry flickering across his face so fast she might have imagined it.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

Bravely, the girl shook her head again, but from where she stood, Nadia could see her lower lip quiver more and more.

"It's nothing big, I think, but you should wash and disinfect the wound."

Oh damn, why had she said that? Couldn't she let him take over when it was obvious he was used to wielding power and taking charge?

The look he gave her now was thoughtful. He was growing less angry by the minute.

"You're right, of course. The thing is, I haven't unpacked anything yet, and I have no idea where the first aid kit is."

"I take it I can be on my way now?"

They were interrupted by the van driver's belligerent voice, which turned the man's face into a mask of cold, haughty severity.

"Not so fast. Surely you don't expect to be let off the hook after you nearly killed my daughter?"

The chilly tone of his voice made both Nadia and the driver swallow, and had the movers slink farther into the background. His daughter shrank back, and the first tears spilled over.

Running her tongue over her dry lips, Nadia offered hesitantly, "I could take Melody up to my place and attend to her wound, if you don't mind. We'll be back in no time."

The full power of his gaze hit her, but she stood her ground. He nodded, and a little of the tension in his shoulders subsided.

"Will you go with the lady and let her take care of you?"

She feared the child would refuse, but her big, tear-filled eyes turned upon Nadia with more trust than she had ever seen from anyone. Sniffling quietly, the girl walked up to her and took her hand as if it were the most natural thing on earth. It tugged at her heart, while the expression of interest in the man's eyes made her pulse jump. Unable to stand the tension and awkwardness a second longer, she marched off to her apartment with a quietly crying Melody in tow, and her thoughts in a jumble.

Minutes later in her kitchen, she covered the small abrasion near the child's elbow with a plaster. The crying had stopped, and the child had let her clean and disinfect the scrape without any fuss.

"You're such a brave girl, Melody. In a minute or two it will stop hurting, and by tomorrow you won't remember you hurt your arm, I promise."

She was rewarded with a watery smile. Melody had obediently sat down in a kitchen chair, and was inspecting her surroundings with unconcealed interest. Nadia, in turn, was studying her. When she caught herself looking for similarities to her father's handsome looks and finding none, she frowned. Better not to get too involved with her new neighbors. They were way out of her league.

And for heck's sake, that man hadn't even had the decency to thank her for saving his daughter from being run over by a van!

It didn't keep her from liking little Melody, though. She always shared a special bond with children whenever she met them, and this silent stranger somehow tore at her heart strings. To go through such shock and not get a hug from her father...

For the umpteenth time, she wondered about the girl's mother, then stopped herself short.

It was none of her business.

"Do you want a cookie for being such an easy patient?"

Melody's smile brightened considerably, but her expression fell again.

"I don't know if I'm allowed to have a cookie," she said.

What a dragon of a father this darling must have.

"This is a special situation, isn't it? If you quickly eat it here, nobody will see it, and I won't tell."

She rummaged in a kitchen cupboard, opened a tin, and pulled out a chocolate chip cookie. Her patient munched on it with gusto, but mid-bite her expression grew serious and she asked, "What about your arm?"

"Why? What about my arm?"

"Who will put a plaster on it?"

Only when the girl explained herself did Nadia think to check on herself. As soon as she inspected her arm and saw two long but shallow scratches, the pain hit her. Great. She had hurt herself in the process of playing the heroine of the day. The abrasions had stopped bleeding, but there was a burning sensation along her left forearm.

"Oh, it's nothing. I'll be fine, don't worry," she assured Melody, who started chewing again. After swallowing, another question found its way out.

"Shall I ask Daddy to take care of your wound?"

The thought of the handsome, angry stranger applying non-alcoholic wipe to her arm or adorning her with a plaster was so outrageous it made her laugh.

"No, thanks. You can have another cookie while I attend to this, and then I'll get you back home."

When they walked out of the front door hand in hand, the scenery had changed so completely that she stopped to take it in.

The van was gone. The movers were presumably busy inside with the last of the furniture. Melody's father stood in the doorway with the squished ball in his hands, staring out into the road, still as a statue. His face spoke of such acute pain it felt like a punch to her gut. Was this the same man as moments ago?

Melody was walking toward him, tugging her along. When he heard their footsteps, his face closed, wiped blank like a computer screen after the shutdown. He looked from his daughter to her and back, his expression unreadable. As soon as they were close enough, she let go of the child's hand, but the girl didn't leave her side. Avoiding the man's gaze, Nadia said, "She'll be fine."

"Thank you."

Said quietly but with more depth of feeling than she would have expected, it sounded utterly honest and made her look at him despite her initial plan.

He came a few steps forward and extended his hand.

"Thank you. Not only for this, but for saving Melody's life or at least sparing her from far worse injury."

Automatically she let him shake her hand, realizing after a moment or two how strong his grip was, and that he hadn't yet let her hand go.

"Is there anything I can do to pay you back?"

His touch did funny things to her stomach and heart. In a slight daze, she shook her head. It brought her back to her senses, and she all but ripped her hand out of his firm grasp.

His eyes burning into hers, he continued, "I'm afraid my manners aren't what they used to be. I haven't introduced myself. My name is Lucas Everett. This is my daughter Melody. Please do let me know what I can do for you. We're very much indebted to you, Miss...?"

"Nadia. Anybody would have done what I did. Please don't feel...indebted to me in any way."

She knew she was blushing under his intense gaze and all the polite charm and sophistication he was lavishing upon her. What was it about this man?

"I'm afraid I can't invite you in for a cup of coffee until the house has been brought to order."

A self-deprecating grin flickered across his face and increased his handsomeness hundredfold. She held up her hands and took a step back reflexively.

"Please don't trouble yourself. I'm glad Melody is fine and I could help."

His gaze fell on her arm with its two plasters, and his eyes narrowed.

"You hurt yourself in the process. Now I really feel bad."

He sounded angry more than guilty or worried, though she had no idea why. Did he think she'd blame him or his daughter? Did he feel he owed her something?

"Nonsense."

Her remark came out a little too harsh, and his eyes narrowed even more, which gave him an almost dangerous air.

"I just did my neighborly duty," she joked in a desperate attempt to make up for it.

That brought a chuckle full of effortless, masculine charm from him.

He half turned, motioning for his daughter to follow him.

"If you'll excuse me. I have to supervise the movers before they turn the house into a lunatic asylum." Shooting a meaningful glance back over his shoulder which made her insides turn into knots, he added, "But I promise I'll be a better neighbor in the future."

Stunned, she stared after them before she turned and walked home mechanically, not able to wrap her head around what had happened, and full of foreboding.

Chapter 2

Goddammit, she couldn't have chosen a worse day to be late!

Cursing under her breath, Nadia stuffed her handbag under her desk and switched her computer on. She all but ran into the small staff kitchen to grab a vital cup of coffee. While she was pouring herself a cup of the steaming hot liquid and rummaging for sugar in the bowl, one of her colleagues walked in, eyebrows raised.

"You're more than ten minutes late. Where have you been? Abandoning the ship before it sinks?"

Nadia managed a half-hearted grin and decided to drink her coffee without sugar, adding some extra milk.

"Why? Did I miss anything special?"

"I'll say."

Lorraine leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed and the air of somebody who has secrets to divulge but wants some more prodding before giving in. Neither having patience nor time, Nadia said, "Tough luck. Serves me right for being late," and strode past her to her office at the end of the corridor.

Her coworker called after her, a little thorn embedded in her cheerful tone. "Our new boss wasn't too happy that a member of his staff was absent when he decided to give a roll call of sorts on his first day."

Nadia wheeled around so fast she almost spilled her coffee all over her pale pink blouse.

"He called the staff together?"

Lorraine nodded, a peculiar joy about being the one to announce the bad news noticeable on her sharp-boned, artificially tanned face.

"Strode in through the door, shouted at everyone to join him in the lobby, and gave a little speech about how he's the greatest and we're the lowest scum, and he'll have our heads rolling in no time."

Frowning, Nadia took a sip of the scalding coffee, her anxiety mounting by the minute.

"Don't dramatize everything. It couldn't have been that bad."

She earned herself a shrug. Half-way to her cubicle on her hair-thin, mile-high stilettos, Lorraine threw over her head, "Well, he made it clear things will change. He's strict as hell, and he doesn't think we're doing our work properly. He asked if all of us were present, fumed a little at your mention, muttered something darkly, and marched off to his grand office. If I were you, I'd go the extra mile to please him. Otherwise you might be the first to go. You know what they say about his reputation..."

Nadia stared at the retreating figure with her slim, angular body and shiny blonde hair. The coffee tasted bitter and stale.

How much truth was there to her colleague's remark? Probably a lot, although their TV ad expert did have a knack for exaggerating everything.

What a great Monday she was going to have after the equally great weekend!

* * *

Some hours later, she was brainstorming a slogan for a new toy for toddlers—a singing banana, no less—when her phone rang and indicated an internal call coming from the manager's office.

Her palms grew clammy. So far, she had been spared a confrontation with their infamous new superior, but others hadn't. She had seen them being summoned one by one and returning either with an all too forced, carefree smile or with an expression bordering on panic. Knowing she would be next, she had wracked her brain for a viable excuse, and tried her utmost to prepare herself for the scolding that was surely to come.

Yet now when the phone rang, all the words she had thought of vanished into thin air.

Nadia needed this job badly. Very badly.

Grabbing the receiver too tightly, she answered with a "hello" she hoped sounded more confident than she felt.

"Miss Wright. I'd like to see you in my office in 30 minutes from now. Kindly don't come late...again. Being punctual is a virtue I hold in high esteem."

His voice was icy and stern, enough to terrify her and make her stammer a "yes" before he hung up. She stared unseeingly at the computer screen and swallowed. There was something about his voice that rang a bell, but the feeling was vague and overshadowed by the dread building up inside her.

What should she do?

Impulsively, she lifted the receiver again and punched in the extension for Hannah. The cheerful elderly lady wasn't a friend per se, but out of the staff she liked her the most.

"Are you calling me to drill me about my meeting with the boss?" the woman's voice greeted her, sounding remarkably less cheerful than it usually did.

Swallowing again, Nadia tried to lighten the mood. "Since when can you read minds?"

"I can't. But now I wish I could."

"Was it so bad? Is he so bad?"

There was a short, meaning-laden silence at the other end.

"I wouldn't call him bad. But things have looked rosier around here. Our new boss is sharp as a knife and handsome as hell. He'll listen to you make a fool of yourself without doing a thing. And I don't think he's one for empty threats."

"Hannah, what am I going to say about being late today? He's definitely going to construe a trap out of it."

She hated how frightened she sounded.

"I guess being honest is your best chance. Good luck."

After hanging up, Nadia spent the rest of her 30 minutes watching the hands on the clock move forward in torturing slowness. When she had more than five minutes still to go, she got up, wiped her clammy palms against her jeans, and walked toward the biggest office of them all. It was the only one which had a window with a view of the quiet, shrub-filled backyard instead of the noisy, crowded road.

She rapped her knuckles against the door and steeled herself.

"Come in."

What was it about that voice?

Standing up straight and forcing a stray strand of reddish brown hair behind her ear, she walked into the office.

Her new boss was sitting bent over some paperwork, twirling an expensive-looking silver pen in his fingers. Dressed in a pin-stripe suit of dark grey as if he were the CEO of a sleek law firm and not a small, insignificant advertising company, he looked impressive but out of place in the cluttered room with its many memorabilia and colorful, old furniture. He didn't look up to acknowledge her.

She took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

"Sir, first I want to apologize for arriving late this morning. You can rest assured it won't happen again. I am never late, but today I had a small problem with my bicycle, so I couldn't make it on time."

There was the truth. It didn't matter that she revealed herself as obviously too poor to drive to work in her own car. And it was useless to say more. She didn't want to belittle herself when he seemed eager enough to do just that.

The overdressed man scanned the document a moment longer before he lifted his head, surely to reprimand her. But when he opened his mouth, no sound came out.

And she knew exactly what had halted him, her eyes growing as wide as his.

Jesus, their new boss was her wealthy neighbor!

Nadia had no idea how long they were staring at each other, her mind replaying every scene from the child's accident to his late words of gratitude. He composed his face and found his voice at about the same time she remembered her mouth was gaping open like a fish's. She closed it with an audible snap.

"Have a seat."

Huh, not the reaction she would have expected.

Deciding to keep her own mouth tightly shut, she sat down and kept her back ramrod straight. The new manager cleared his throat, laid his shiny pen down, and looked right into her eyes, his expression as cool and as confident as his voice.

"I usually keep business matters and private matters separate, and this will be no exception. Being neighbors doesn't change anything about our working situation, so I'm speaking to you strictly in my capacity as your superior."

"Yes, sir."

She sounded so clipped and obedient she almost hated herself for it and wondered if she would have saluted him if she had been a soldier and not an under-qualified, over-motivated employee in a struggling advertising firm. Something unreadable shot across his face, like a distant light flickering on once and dying.

"Then let me tell you again: Being late is something I can't and won't tolerate. If your bike broke down, you should have left it somewhere and used the next best means of transport to reach office in time. It is your duty to consider that such things might happen, and to keep enough extra time when you travel to work."

Inside she was seething and fuming. The self-righteous dandy. What did he know about pedaling all the way to office early every morning, weaving in and out of the rush-hour traffic and throngs of pedestrians? What did he know about being too poor to afford a season ticket for the bus?

Plastering what she hoped was a demure, calm smile on her face, Nadia remained silent, but she couldn't keep her hands from balling into fists in her lap.

"I'll keep it at this warning," he said. "The thing is, I am planning to implement a lot of changes here." He frowned, and his voice grew even colder. "This place has been run like a kindergarten for too long. We're constantly overusing our budget, we focus on the wrong clients, and we waste time, workforce and money on useless matters."

Hearing him speak of "we" was an odd contrast to the harshness in his tone, and to his accusations.

"I intend to lead this company to success. In the process, I will have to make several difficult decisions. Cutting down on the staff will be one of them."

Nadia felt her throat go dry. Looked like he was prepared to let heads roll.

"I have not selected anybody yet, of course. After analyzing the reports and watching all of you closely, a decision will be inevitable. As I have told the others before you, I want to let you know that in times like these, a single mistake can cost you dearly. I also want you to know I will act in the greater interest of the company and not let any personal reasons get involved."

He let it sit. Inside her an angry, high-pitched voice attacked him with insults and prodded her to defend herself and not be the dumb lamb willingly led to the butcher. Countering the little devil was a timid but insistent little angel telling her there was still hope. If she kept it together and didn't let her instant dislike—or her instant fear—show, she might be able to keep her life-saving job.

The heat of his gaze—could somebody with a cold demeanor radiate heat?—made her lower her head and stare at the worn, shoe-scuffed carpet. She couldn't find her tongue to make any reply, and wasn't sure one was expected.

"Do you have any questions?"

Not raising her eyes, she shook her head.

Bending toward his oh so important documents again, her new boss dismissed her.

"I will summon you again for another meeting after I have a clearer picture of your responsibilities as well as past and present projects. You'd better go back to your cubicle now."

As quickly as if the seat had burned her and as if that were the reason for her cheeks coloring, she got up and walked to the door. She was gripping the doorknob in her hand when his voice halted her.

"Nadia?"

She froze, unwilling to turn but astonished at how soft he could sound if he wanted to. He had used her name. Why?

"Yes?"

Her question was hardly more than a whisper.

"I trust your arm is not giving you any trouble?"

It took her a full three seconds to realize he must be meaning the scratches she had got while saving his daughter. Why in the hell did he ask about it if he had made it clear that she wasn't so much a human as an obstacle to maximum profit to him?

Ice and steel stole into her voice, mirroring his tone from moments ago.

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you."

Part of her wanted to ask about little Melody, but she couldn't jump over her shadow. When there was nothing more from his side, she pushed through the door and hurried back to her desk.

* * *

Nadia chewed half-heartedly at her home-made sandwich. She never ate at the canteen belonging to the whole building of offices anymore because she couldn't afford it.

Once in a while Hannah invited her for lunch. She had offered it today but neither of them was in the mood to eat. While the old lady was picking her way through her salad, they made several efforts at small talk, and gave them up almost immediately.

If their boss's intention had been to ruin their mood, he couldn't have been more successful.

Nadia was pondering for how long she would be able to last when Lorraine slid into the seat opposite her, not bothering to tug her leopard-print skirt down over her knees.

Automatically, Nadia laid the remainder of her sandwich down, the last imagined bit of appetite flying out the window. Even in her best of moods, she wasn't keen on being in her colleague's company. There was something about this overly confident woman with her attitude of "I'm sexy and I know it" that made her all too aware of her own unspectacular looks, her unfulfilled—heck, non-existent—love life and her general lack of self-appreciation.

Opening a large tub of non-fat yoghurt and managing to look delicate while spooning it into her coral-red mouth in record speed, Lorraine asked with the air of a conspirator, "Do you all know what I found out about our new boss?"

Part of Nadia wanted to know, part of her wanted to change the topic immediately. When Hannah said no, they were treated to their colleague leaning in and lowering her voice to a not so low whisper.

"He's a widower."

She let it hang for a moment. Nadia arranged her features into what she hoped was a face full of surprise. She had guessed as much, seeing no furniture with a female touch, and watching the interaction between father and daughter. But she'd rather die than let on she might know more about Mr. Everett than Lorraine, who launched eagerly into a flood of information.

"Not only that, but he has a child too. A small girl. It seems nobody knows who his wife was, and how she died. He has been moving around the country in regular intervals, never staying anywhere for long, and earning himself a reputation as a strict, emotionless businessman who doesn't have a life apart from office."

By now both of them were listening attentively, though probably for different reasons. Nadia mentally willed Lorraine to carry on, although she had no idea why she was so keen on getting to know more about him. Did it explain his behavior? Did it lessen the hurt? Did it make him more human? Probably a little of all.

"You girls know what I don't understand? He's been with all kinds of famous, top-notch companies and very promising enterprises in a crisis, and has steered them to success. But why on earth didn't he ever stay anywhere? He accepts a temporary contract, sets a time limit, achieves all his goals, saves the day, collects his paycheck, and vanishes into thin air. Sounds fishy, huh?"

Before she could stop herself, Nadia blurted out, "What I don't understand is why he chose our ad firm if he has such an impressive track record and all the world waiting for his heroic deeds. After all, what is dingy little Meaningful Life to somebody as powerful as him?"

Lorraine stared at her with her spoon half-way to her pouty mouth, as though this were the first time she had ever heard her utter an intelligent sentence.

"You know what, you're absolutely right. Beats me why he would accept such a job. I don't think he'll get paid much by our mother company although they're the big guys. They never spent a cent on us, so why would they now."

All three of them looked off into the distance speculatively before Lorraine took center stage again, a hard glint in her blue eyes.

"I definitely have to research more. And let me tell you something else. If he's all bad-ass, we should be too. I'm not going down without a fight. If it means I have to drag up the past and sift through his dirty laundry, then I'll do that gladly."

Both of them gasped. Hannah's fork hit the table with an unusually loud clatter, which drew them a few looks from others. Nadia narrowed her eyes at her colleague. Why was it that she didn't want this woman to dig in her superior's life, although she didn't like him and should admire her for not wanting to give in easily? Was she afraid of what skeletons he might be hiding in his closet?

"And just how are you going to fight?" she heard herself ask, her voice cooler than she had intended.

Shrugging her bony shoulders and exposing more cleavage than was decent, Lorraine got up with her finished yoghurt held before her like a weapon.

"I don't have a plan yet. But hey, he's a man and I'm a woman."

With that cryptic remark she sauntered away, hips swaying left-right, left-right as if to drive the point home.

Nadia's stomach clenched. For the second time in a couple of days, she was full of foreboding.

Chapter 3

It was Friday afternoon. The first working week under their new boss had come and gone. So far, no heads had rolled, but it was all too noticeable that heads were lowered. Every single member of their staff—an exact handful—knew the executioner's blade had been sharpened, possibly already lifted, and could at any moment whirr through the air to behead an innocent victim.

Mr. Everett had introduced something which Mickey from their IT department had dubbed the "daily dose of dread", a 10-minute roll call at the start of every day in which they had to listen about yet another fault their boss had dragged up from the files.

He was never short of mistakes to complain about, but what lessened the blow somewhat was his readiness to suggest an improvement. Whatever he criticized, he strove to have changed for the better. It seemed to be his only redeeming feature. That and his habit of being the first to and the last from office, hardly ever taking a lunch break and obviously working hard for whatever substantial sum he was paid.

Three big steps were being implemented at the moment. Wind of change blowing like a breeze but bringing with it the impending doom of a storm.

Their website was to be radically redesigned. SEO optimization, corporate identity, social media marketing and more multimedia elements had been ordered from above.

Each of them was to create and maintain a goal plan, a mix of a schedule with deadlines and things they wanted to achieve or had to succeed in.

They were supposed to come up with ways of attracting new customers instead of focusing on their small, not so eager to pay customer base. For this, they had been given three days' time. The manager had announced a meeting next Monday where he expected each of them to contribute with a feasible idea for their department.

The change in the atmosphere was palpable.

While most were simply afraid or angry, Nadia wasn't so sure things were all black, or only black and white. On the one hand, she missed their mostly cheerful, relaxed mood. On the other hand, she understood it could—in fact had—lead to laziness and thus to them losing out on part of the deal. She didn't like his cool aloofness and the way he treated them like machines or minions. But she admired that he didn't merely scold but gave valuable input, in all fields and with a determination to get things done.

It was as though they had been blind. A herd of bleating sheep with tangled, dusty, grubby, woolen coats which had finally been blessed with a fierce but well-trained shepherd dog that drove them barking and growling toward greener pastures. The only problem was that the weaker of them might not survive the journey.

Was she one of the sacrificial lambs, so to speak? She couldn't be sure, and the pressure had her on edge.

Each of them was handling the situation differently.

Kind-hearted, elderly Hannah was resigned to her fate. She kept saying she was too old anyway and only warming the seat for someone younger and more creative as well as apt to take over. Nadia's heart ached, not least because she knew her friend had a notoriously pregnant, lazy, unmarried daughter to support.

Mickey from IT liked having something to do, and couldn't help reluctantly praising the ideas he was told to put into action, although he clearly disliked being talked down to.

Sandra from the print media department had cut herself off from the rest, sulking in corners and muttering to herself. Rumor had it she was searching for a job somewhere else.

Lorraine had stayed true to her word. She was the least worried and most ambitious of the lot. Certain that she had the skill and past success stories to justify her position or that she would at least be able to make him oversee her weaknesses by using whatever trickery she could, she made the temperature in their working climate sink another notch or two.

As for Nadia, she was in limbo. Her thoughts raced during sleepless nights and crawled during less than productive days.

* * *

The phone rang. Nadia started guiltily, glancing down at the meaningless pen doodles on her notepad.

"Nadia?"

She swallowed.

"Yes, sir?"

What could he want from her? On a late Friday afternoon with the rest of the staff gone and the weekend perched on her desk?

"I want you in my office in ten minutes from now."

"Okay, sir."

All the fear and doubt and insecurity and anger were back. Did he have to be so unnerving? And look so handsome? And exude such mystery?

During the past few days, she had not met him outside office, but on two occasions she had spotted him leading his daughter to the car in the morning as well as inside the house in the evening. Yesterday evening when she had cast one of her furtive glances toward his place during her walk from the letter box to the staircase, she had seen Melody standing at the window, gazing forlornly outside with a doll hugged close to her chest. Their eyes had met, and the girl had waved at her with a smile which flickered on and off like a broken light bulb. Automatically waving back, Nadia had felt sorry for her innocent neighbor once again, wondering why Lucas Everett had to be as harsh to his own child as he was to his subordinates.

Always dressed to kill, never smiling and somehow living in a world of his own, he fascinated her, no matter how much she wanted to deny it.

She looked down at herself, dressed in grey jeans, scuffed beige flats from last summer's bargain sale and a plain mauve sweatshirt. Perfect for making a positive impression...not. If she were more like extrovert, flirty, aggressively beautiful Lorraine, would it increase her chances of survival or success?

Nadia shook her head at the thought. No, she didn't want to be like that particular colleague of hers, even if it would mean having his attention or saving her job.

With a deep breath, she walked to Mr. Everett's office, preparing herself for whatever was to come. Surely he wouldn't fire her before they had their first general meeting and he had waited a little to see whether their changes were fruitful?

After knocking and entering his office, she stopped short.

Everything looked different. Gone was the old-fashioned, over-used furniture thrown experimentally together, which had given the room such a homely feel. Gone were the ornate desk lamp and the meowing cuckoo clock one of their customers had gifted their former boss. Instead, she was faced with a black leather office chair, a new flat screen computer, a pin board and a flipchart, as well as a metal filing cabinet with lockable drawers.

The office had a professional, sterile look she could probably take as a hint at its inhabitant's character. Only the potted palm tree in the corner and the same old, colorful carpet remained as testimony to what they had lost.

What arrested and unsettled her more than the obvious changes was that Mr. Everett was not sitting at his desk like the busy bee he was supposed to be. His back turned to her, he was standing at the window, hands shoved into the pockets of his black trousers. His coat was slung over the chair's backrest, and his hair looked remarkably as if he had run his hands through it, probably several times and with some feeling.

Whatever was the matter with their slave driver?

After clearing her throat because she couldn't just stand there, she had to wait a few moments until he turned around. If she wasn't mistaken, he looked troubled, reluctant.

If he meant to fire her or at least admonish her, he'd delight in it and not worry about it, wouldn't he?

He motioned for her to take a seat, which she did, unconsciously crossing her legs and folding her hands as though this new behavior of his was more dangerous than his normal harshness.

His gaze bore into her with their usual intensity, but then the unthinkable happened, and he looked down at his hands on the desk instead, picking up his name-engraved pen to fiddle with.

This was getting stranger by the second.

"Do you remember me telling you on the first day that I don't mix private matters with business?"

"Yes, of course. Neither do I mix them."

Somehow his palpable uneasiness gave her more confidence.

He set the pen down heavily, put his palms flat against the polished wood, and returned his gaze to her eyes, something unreadable inside their chocolate-brown depths.

"Would you mind if I broke one of my own rules?"

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Other Titles by Devika Fernando

Saved in Sri Lanka

(Romance Round the World, Book 1)

Some people are destined to meet.  
It sure feels that way when Sri Lankan tour guide Sepalika meets Daniel. The mysterious tourist from Ireland steals his way into her heart and makes her question everything her life is built upon. Instant attraction turns to love – but does he feel the same? And what about the secret she's hiding from him?

Follow the two on their quest for a happy ending amid the beauty and wonders of the tropical island paradise of Sri Lanka.

 http://www.devikafernando.com/saved-in-sri-lanka.html

***

Seduced in Spain

(Romance Round the World, Book 2)

Sometimes all that two people need to make things right is a second chance...

Nine years ago, Alejandro broke Emily's heart, but a business trip to Spain forces her to be in his company again. Old wounds are reopened and new temptations complicate things even more. When life leaves her no choice, she realizes that sometimes the heart doesn't listen to the brain. Will Emily win the battle against her forbidden desire and Alejandro's charm, or will history repeat itself?

http://www.devikafernando.com/seduced-in-spain.html

***

Kaleidoscope of Hopes

High hopes mean big disappointments. Nadia has learned that lesson the hard way. Single, struggling to make ends meet, and hurt by the past, the last thing she needs is another complication. When her new boss – a handsome, secretive widower with a child – moves in next door, their worlds collide. Sweet hopes bloom again, but both of them are burdened by tragic secrets. Should she give love a second chance?

 http://www.devikafernando.com/kaleidoscope-of-hopes.html

***

When I See Your Face

Cathy has had enough. Having run away from her abusive husband, she tries to pick up the broken pieces of her life in a remote village, focusing on her dream to start her own cake business. Finding true love is the last thing on her mind. When she comes face to face with a man who looks exactly like the one she is struggling to forget, life throws the biggest challenge yet at her: Should she give in to his charm and care or is history going to repeat itself?

 http://www.devikafernando.com/when-i-see-your-face.html

***

The Prince's Special Bride

(Royal Romance, Book 1)

Marie doesn't believe in fairytales and needs no handsome prince to rescue her from misery – but everything changes when she falls in love with Crown Prince Christian of Taragonia. When his sister invites Marie to the palace, their lives collide and leave them both fighting their forbidden attraction.   
Prince Christian has no place in his life for love or for a woman who doesn't fit into the royal scheme of things. But vivacious Marie steals his heart and puts all he has lived for at stake. When the media gets wind of their affair, he has to make a difficult decision.   
Will the unlikely couple have a chance at a happy ending?

 http://www.devikafernando.com/the-princes-special-bride.html

***

The Prince's Stubborn Bride

(Royal Romance, Book 2)

Princess Olivia has just lost her husband. She is all alone in a foreign kingdom in desperate need of a ruler who can make it prosper again. Prince Sebastian is the only one who can help her prevent an uprising – but he has a reputation for being a loner and a rebel. Can she trust him when it seems that everyone else has a hidden agenda?

Prince Sebastian of Visteria once vowed to stay away from all royal obligations, but there's no way he'll leave his brother's young widow in the claws of scheming ministers fighting to bring the monarchy to its downfall and ruin the people's future. What he hasn't counted on is the instant attraction sparking between the two of them.

Is a happy ending possible for these two royals who are too blind to realize they're made for each other?

 http://www.devikafernando.com/the-princes-stubborn-bride.html

***

The Prince's Surprise Bride

(Royal Romance, Book 3)

When Jessica is accidentally involved in the kidnapping of the Crown Prince of Eirik, her life turns upside down. Not only does she start questioning everything she has taken for granted, but she also falls head over heels in love with the charming Norse royal. Reality returns with a vengeance after their short but exhilarating time together, and Jessica is forced to bury all hopes for a love-filled fairytale and fight for her future as well as her ailing father's health. But then Prince Erik makes her an offer too good to refuse. Should she listen to her heart or her head?

Prince Erik has always put his kingdom before himself, but that changes when fate tempts him with this amazing woman from Germany. He is determined to win Jessica over, even if it means opening up old wounds. When push comes to shove and not only his heart but also his country is at stake, will he find the strength to make love overcome all obstacles thrown into their path?

 http://www.devikafernando.com/the-princes-surprise-bride.html

***

Playing with Fire

(FIRE Trilogy, Book 1)

If you're playing with fire, prepare to get burned – or to fall in love.

Sparks fly when Felicia and Joshua meet. Discovering her inner fire and unleashing unimaginable powers makes her realize that all her life, she has been hiding her true self. When buildings burn and people are in danger, the tempting game of playing with fire becomes serious. Will their love and desperate struggle for control save her life, or will the fire magic turn itself against its mistress?

http://www.devikafernando.com/fire-trilogy.html

Dancing with Fire

Living with Fire

(FIRE Trilogy, Book 2 & Book 3)

Fire witch Felicia and ice wizard Joshua came to Iceland to flee from the law and build a new life. But they get no chance to enjoy their new-found freedom. Something seems to be wrong with Joshua, who is closing himself off from her. Felicia finds herself inexplicably drawn to Kyle, another outsider who's hoping for a new start in the remote wilderness. And while the three battle with their wilful emotions, Iceland is on the brink of a natural disaster that is unparalleled in history.

Can Felicia use her magic to save them all from doom? Torn between love and attraction, which man will she choose?

http://www.devikafernando.com/fire-trilogy.html

***

Forbidden (Romantic Thriller Series, coauthored with Mike Wells)

When Lady Eleanor Sotheby unexpectedly enters the life of Jayne Clark, a 23-year old waitress from Wichita, Kansas, Jayne's world is turned upside down. Not only is she welcomed into a family that she never knew, but she is thrust headlong into the highest strata of European society. Nothing is too grand in the fairy tale lives of the uber-rich--the spectacular seaside villas, the sleek, chauffeured limousines, the outrageously expensive designer clothes. When Jayne plays her part and learns to fit into this new world, she meets Robert Astor, the man of her dreams. But her feelings for Robert are forbidden. Jayne's heady new life begins to unravel into a dark web of deceit, domination and greed...and she ultimately finds herself confronting an evil that truly has no limits.

http://www.devikafernando.com/forbidden.html

About the Author

Almost as soon as Devika Fernando could write, she imagined stories and poems. After finishing her education in Germany and returning to her roots in Sri Lanka, she got a chance to turn her passion into her profession. Having lived in Germany and in Sri Lanka with her husband has made her experience the best (and the worst) of two totally different worlds – something that influences her writing. Her trademark is writing sweet, yet deeply emotional romance stories where the characters actually fall in love instead of merely falling in lust. What she loves most about being an author is the chance to create new worlds and send her protagonists on a journey full of ups and downs that will leave them changed. She draws inspiration from everyone and everything in life. Besides being a romance novel author, she works as a self-employed German web content writer, as a translator, and as a faithful servant to all the cats, dogs, fish and birds in her home. When she's not writing, she's reading or thinking about writing.

To find out more, check out the following links:

http://www.devikafernando.com

https://twitter.com/Author_Devika

https://www.facebook.com/devikafernandoauthor

