In the Boss's Castle Page 18

  ‘Yes, of course!’ she said brightly. ‘When life throws problems at you, you have to do whatever you can to make the best of a situation.’ She produced a firm smile. ‘Anyway, what kind of a woman would I be to send an exhausted man out into the night to sleep on the streets in such a beautiful designer suit?’

  He looked at her intently for another few seconds, as if giving her the chance to change her mind, and when she resolutely kept her mouth shut he gave a sharp nod.

  ‘Okay, but you take the bedroom so you can lock the door; that way you have no reason to feel unsafe. I’ll take the sofa. I’ll be up and out early in the morning so I won’t be in your way.’ Without waiting for her response, he bent down to scoop up his luggage.

  ‘I’m getting up early myself,’ she said to the top of his head, her cheeks heating a little as she realised how defiant that sounded. For some reason she didn’t want him to think she was some kind of lazy slob.

  ‘Then we’ll each have to pretend the other doesn’t exist,’ he said with a flash of droll humour in his eyes as he looked back up at her, pushing a hand through his hair as he righted himself.

  An impossible feat, Indigo thought, her eyes following the movement of his long fingers and the way his hair fell perfectly back into place, as if it didn’t dare defy him. There was no way a man like this could ever be ignored.

  Turning back to the receptionist, he held out his passport. ‘If you’ll give us two key cards we’ll find our own way up to the room.’

  With an air of sombre apology, the receptionist checked the passport, then picked up Indigo’s—which was still lying on the reception desk—and tapped something into her computer. After swiping a couple of key cards through a machine, she handed everything back to the Frenchman. ‘There are extra blankets and pillows in the wardrobes. I hope you will be comfortable,’ she said sheepishly, before scurrying away to serve someone who had just arrived at the other end of the desk.

  Handing Indigo her passport and key card, he turned abruptly on his heel and, without another word, strode away from her, bags swinging from his hand.

  Clearly he was a leader, not a follower.

  Indigo paused for a moment, staring after him, suddenly feeling a little unsure of herself.

  Had she really just offered to share a suite with a complete stranger?

  She was so used to figuring out quick fixes at work it hadn’t struck her exactly what she’d committed to until it was too late to back out of it.

  As she watched him reach the elevator and jab the button to call it, exhaustion from the mad scramble to get her community café in good shape so she didn’t have to worry about it whilst she was away hit her like a wallop to the gut. The last three months had been tough, filled with worry about whether the funding she’d applied for in order to keep it running would materialise, and it all seemed to be catching up with her now.

  Ironically, this week away was supposed to be a break from the stress of it. Initially it had struck her as ridiculous to come on holiday when she had the possibility of losing everything hanging over her head, but she’d dropped the ball and made a few silly mistakes recently that, while fixable, had meant she’d cost the café some money it could ill afford. As her friend Lacey had jokingly pointed out, it would probably do both her and the café some good to have some time apart.

  Added to which, all the travel and accommodation for this week had already been paid for and was non-refundable, so it would have been a waste of money not to come.

  Wastage was something she felt very strongly about.

  Anyway, it was too late to change her mind now—even if she let the Frenchman have the suite to himself. She didn’t have the money to pay for a room in another hotel, let alone the energy to face the monumental task of finding one.

  This was her only option.

  Hurrying after him, she caught him up just as the elevator door opened with a smooth swish.

  ‘Okay, let’s do this,’ she said, her words coming out a little breathlessly after her dash across the room.

  He just smiled in a perplexed sort of way that made the skin prickle on the back of her neck, and gestured for her to walk into the elevator before him.

  ‘No, no, after you,’ she said, sweeping her own hand in an exaggerated arc towards the centre of the car.

  Shaking his head in amusement, he stepped inside and moved to the back to allow her plenty of room to follow him in.

  Once she was safely past the doors, he hit the button for their floor and the doors closed on them with another gentle swish.

  Heavy silence fell between them.

  Indigo shifted from one foot to the other.

  Well, this is awkward.

  ‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves, since we’re going to be suite-mates,’ she said, raising a questioning eyebrow at him. ‘I’m Indigo. Indigo Hughes.’

  ‘Julien Moreaux,’ he replied, catching her off guard by stepping forwards and kissing her gently on both cheeks.

  Being English, she’d forgotten about this traditional French greeting and almost jumped away in shock, only managing to hold her nerve at the last second. His scent hit her nose again, even more intensely this time due to his proximity, and instinctively she breathed him in, intuiting cool nights after hot days, the crisp tang of cold wine in the sunshine and the musky scent of warm skin.

  Delicious.

  After he’d stepped back it took her a full couple of seconds to pull herself together again. She gave him a friendly smile, but what she really wanted to do was pull him back towards her, bury her face in the scoop of his neck and drag his scent deep into her lungs again.

  What was wrong with her? She’d never had this kind of visceral response to a complete stranger before, but there was something so commanding about this man. He made her feel safe, somehow.

  Oh, get a grip, Indigo!

  The honeymoon suite was exquisite, decorated in those amazing heritage colours that Italians employed so effortlessly, the furniture simple but refined, with an art deco theme tying the room together. Romantic aspiration seemed to ooze from the walls, as if they’d been infused with the happiness of all the newlyweds that had stayed there over the years. She felt sure this place had to have been included in every World’s Best Honeymoon Suites article written for the glossy magazines she judiciously avoided buying these days.

  After thoroughly investigating the suite with her eyes, she turned to look at Julien and realised that he hadn’t even glanced around him and was instead staring down at the screen of his phone.

  Clearly he was already au fait with the finer things in life.

  Shaking her head at his lack of interest, she went to explore the bedroom, which was just as overwhelmingly beautiful as the rest of the suite. This whole experience was like stepping into a fantasy.

  Despite her protests about it being a waste of money, Gavin, her ex, had insisted on booking the first night of their stay in this expensive hotel—he’d wanted to start the holiday in style—before spending the rest of the week moving between smaller, more basic places. So this would be her only chance for luxurious pampering.

  She was going to have to make the most of it.

  After grabbing a blanket and pillow for Julien from the wardrobe, she floated back out of the bedroom and dumped them on the sofa before turning to find he was still staring down at his phone, lost in his own world.

  ‘Stay in the honeymoon suite a lot, do you?’ she asked, edging her voice with dry amusement.

  He glanced up at her and for a split second a dark expression flickered across his face. ‘Only once.’

  His change in demeanour unsettled her. ‘You’re married?’ she asked to cover her discomfort.

  ‘Not any more.’

  She could have sworn the temperature dropped a few degrees.

&nbs
p; ‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’

  He flipped her his teasing grin again, breaking the tension. ‘You English are always sorry for something.’

  ‘I was just being polite,’ she said, bristling.

  His grin deepened.

  She cocked an eyebrow back at him.

  He looked at her for a moment longer with amusement in his eyes before turning away to drop his bags next to a mosaic-tiled coffee table in the middle of the room. ‘Well, I’m going to—what do you English say?—crash out,’ he said.

  That was her cue to leave. And not a moment too soon. Her whole body felt hot and tingly with the awareness of being alone with him.

  ‘Me too,’ Indigo said, backing towards the bedroom. ‘So I guess I won’t see you in the morning.’

  ‘Probably not,’ he said, flopping down on to the sofa and stretching his arms above his head.

  She came to a halt in the doorway and watched with fascination as he put everything he had into the stretch, the pleasure of it rippling across his face as he released the tension in his muscles. Forcing herself not to run her eyes up and down the powerful length of his body, she gave a stiff bob of her head, then turned to walk into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her, pushing away the ridiculous urge to lie down on top of him—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—just to feel the solid strength of him beneath her.

  It brought it home to her how much she’d missed being touched, being held, just being physically close to someone since Gavin had left her. Now she had the time and space to think about it, the after-effects seemed to be coming out in the strangest of ways.

  She turned the key decisively in the lock, hearing it click.

  Flinging herself at Julien was definitely not the way to deal with things.

  Okay, time to put the sexy Frenchman out of her mind and get practical.

  Striding purposefully away from the door, she dropped the small rucksack she’d used as hand luggage on to the bed. Thank goodness she’d had the forethought to pack a few essentials into it for just such an occurrence.

  Even so, after spending a lot of time planning for this trip, it was unnerving to find herself without all her carefully thought-out trekking gear. She didn’t even have her walking boots with her, so she would have to walk for at least five hours each day in the trainers she’d changed into at the last second at the airport because her feet were so hot. What an unfortunate decision that had been.

  Hopefully the airline would find her bag soon and send it to one of the hotels on the route. She’d left her details and itinerary with the lost luggage desk at the airport and they’d promised—after what seemed like hours of form-filling—to send it on once it had been located.

  The biggest problem she faced was that she’d put half of her money and her emergency credit card into the lost backpack too, not wanting to carry it all in her hand luggage in case that was stolen. At least her breakfasts were already paid for, so she could eat heartily in the morning and maybe skip lunch in order to eke out what little cash she had to feed herself in the evenings. Just until her backpack turned up. Which would be okay. She was used to budgeting and eating frugally.

  It would all be part of the adventure.

  Emptying out her rucksack on to the bedspread, she took an inventory of what she had with her: one extra pair of knickers and one pair of socks—that she’d have to alternate with the ones she had on and wash each day—a toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste, a spare T-shirt and a short cotton skirt which she’d interchange with the shorts and vest she had on, a pack of mints, a mascara that promised to give you ‘Hollywood eyes’ and her trusty liquid eyeliner, a packet of painkillers, her wallet and passport and a book on walking the Amalfi coast. She didn’t even have her mobile phone with her, she realised with a lurch, because she’d packed that into her missing luggage too, determined to only use it for emergencies on the trip so that she’d make the most of the scenery and social life and not be constantly diverted by the online world.

  After packing everything carefully back into the bag, she took a refreshing shower in the floor-to-ceiling marble bathroom, lathering herself with the zingy-smelling complimentary shower gel, before sliding between the crisp cotton sheets of the bed.

  What luxury!

  Stretching herself into a starfish shape, she brushed her fingertips over the smooth mahogany headboard and sighed hard, painfully aware of how much empty space there was on either side of her.

  The cruel irony of staying in the honeymoon suite had not been lost on her.

  In a parallel universe—where Gavin hadn’t fallen in love with another woman—she’d be tumbling into bed with him right about now.

  What would he have said about staying in this room? She pictured them laughing about it, ribbing each other about how much sex they should be having to keep up with all the former inhabitants. Out of nowhere a feeling of utter desolation hit her right in the chest. It had been three months since they’d split up and she’d not allowed herself to fall apart since the day it had happened, keeping herself busy and using this holiday as a bright spot to look forward to when she felt glum. But the realisation that this was it—that she was here now, on her own, and this was the reality of her situation suddenly brought her low.

  She thumped the mattress on either side of her. She was not going to let it get her down.

  As she’d learnt from an early age, crying and whinging didn’t get you anywhere. That was what growing up in an all-male household and having four smart, alpha, and now highly successful older brothers would teach you. She’d never won an argument or topped a challenge by turning on the waterworks or asking for special dispensation, and that was the way she preferred it. Everything she’d achieved had been on her own merits. She’d fought just as hard—if not harder—than her brothers for her successes and she was proud of what she’d achieved.

  Unfortunately, Gavin hadn’t understood that drive to succeed on her own, and had cited her desire to pour too much time and energy into making her café a success and ‘excluding him from parts of her life where he wasn’t necessary’ as the catalyst for their breakup. According to him, she treated him like one of her projects and acted as if she had more love for the strangers who frequented the café than for him. That had been particularly gutting to hear because she liked to think of herself as a perceptive and caring partner.

  Pushing away the threatening gloom, she sat up and punched her pillows back into shape before flopping back down and wriggling further into the sumptuous bed.

  Well, from this point on she was looking after herself.

  Whilst she was here she was going to get some fresh air and exercise, meet people outside of her small sphere of work and recharge her batteries before returning home feeling refreshed and more positive about her future.

  As she lay there, willing away the lingering tight feeling in her chest, something about her earlier head-to-head with Julien suddenly occurred to her. He’d conducted his whole conversation, even the bit with the receptionist, in English. Had he done that so as not to exclude her? Or was he just better at English than Italian? From her experience with him so far, she got the impression he’d be good at everything he did—he certainly exuded that kind of confidence.

  Except for that moment when he’d talked about how intense his day had been. There had been a vulnerability to his voice that hadn’t been there for the rest of the time.

  Whatever could have affected him so deeply? Could it have something to do with his failed marriage?

  Perhaps he, too, was here to get a new perspective on life after a bad breakup.

  She knew first-hand how demoralising it could be going through a divorce. Gavin, her ex, had been an utter mess when he’d first moved into her spare room—which she’d offered to him as a favour to a friend of a friend after his wife demanded they separate. At that poin
t it had been six months since her father had passed away and she was finding it very lonely living in their empty family home without him, so it had been nice to have the company.

  She’d found comfort in taking care of Gavin: making him healthy meals when she discovered he wasn’t eating properly and sitting with him, listening to him talk through his pain and humiliation for hours and hours.

  At the time, she hadn’t anticipated it turning into a relationship, but there it was. In retrospect, it seemed inevitable now that something more would have developed between them, especially when they’d grown so emotionally close.

  A prickle of disquiet ran up her spine.

  She really should have asked Julien if he was okay when he’d mentioned his divorce. In her experience, whenever people brought up things like that it was usually because they wanted to talk to someone about it, but she’d blithely ignored his prompt, more concerned about rebutting his teasing. It was possible she could use her experience to help him out in some way, though. As one concerned human being to another. Considering he was here on his own, she wouldn’t be surprised to find he didn’t have anyone at home he could talk to about what he was going through.

  Turning over and letting out a huge yawn, she told herself that if she saw Julien again on the walk she’d make an effort to check that he was okay, just to set her mind at rest. But that would be it. The whole experience with Gavin had made her very wary of getting romantically involved with a divorcee again—she never wanted to be someone’s rebound relationship ever again.

  So for now, she was going to put the sexy Frenchman—unnervingly close on the other side of the door—out of her mind.

  Copyright © 2016 by Christy McKellen

  ISBN-13: 9781488003059

  In the Boss’s Castle

  Copyright © 2016 by Jessica Gilmore

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