LITMIR.BIZ

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was offering to drive you,’ he returned mildly. ‘You’re on your own in the fitting room.’ Then a slow smile lifted his features. ‘Belay that last remark. I’m more than happy to help with the hooks and eyes—’

      ‘Thanks, but you’ve forfeited any rights to play with my hooks and eyes. Besides, you’ve got plenty to keep you busy here. I called Crysse.’ Well, she had called her. It wasn’t a lie. Then, because she didn’t want him making a fuss, insisting on coming along, since she was so pale, she said, ‘She’s meeting me.’ Which was the biggest, fattest lie she’d ever told.

      ‘Crysse?’ he repeated dully, clearly far from reassured. She wished she’d said nothing, but it was too late now.

      ‘Who else?’ she demanded defensively.

      After a moment he stepped back to let her pass. ‘If you’re sure.’

      ‘I’m sure. And don’t worry about dinner,’ she said quickly as she clattered down the wooden stairs. ‘I’ll get a cooked ready meal to heat through. I may be useless at producing my own haute cuisine, but I’m an absolute whizz at heating through someone else’s.’

      ‘Willow…’ She turned at the foot of the stairs, made an impatient gesture when he hesitated. ‘It’s been a tough few days. Don’t do anything you might…’ He seemed lost for words.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Regret.’

      Regret? As far as he was concerned she was going to buy a new suit. If she regretted it, she’d change it. But he looked so tense…

      ‘Don’t worry, Mike. I think I demonstrated my capacity for avoidance of regret on Saturday. We both did.’ Her attempt at a careless laugh echoed around the unfurnished house, sounding brittle and unconvincing.

      ‘No.’ He joined her at the foot of the stairs. ‘I mean it. I’ve hurt you, I know that. I’d give anything to change what happened, to have done it all differently but, please, don’t make it worse by doing something stupid.’

      He sounded so serious that she shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about me, Michael. I’m in need of a little retail therapy, that’s all. Stupid will be restricted to the impulse purchase of a suede purple miniskirt when I should be buying something classic in black.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Wrong answer. You’re supposed to say “You’d look terrific in a purple miniskirt.”’

      ‘You’d look terrific in a purple miniskirt,’ he said, but he wasn’t laughing. ‘Just don’t get tempted by anything in black leather.’

      ‘I never wear—’ The words died in her throat as he reached out, cradled her cheek for a moment, his hand shaking slightly, or maybe she was the one who was shaking, as he slowly lowered his mouth to hers. It was like his first kiss. His first touch. Hesitant. Full of questions. Do you want this? Are you feeling this? As if we’re on the edge of an abyss and that, if we step off, there’ll be no going back.

      It was like that. But different. Tender and loving rather than the urgent, sensuous prelude to passion. His mouth was gentle, his kiss had a sweetness that left her on the edge of tears.

      ‘What was that all about?’ she demanded, blinking furiously, when after all too brief a moment he straightened, looked at her as if imprinting her face on his memory.

      ‘I want you to remember that what we had was special.’

      A dozen scathing remarks leapt to her lips, but she had the feeling that they were talking on different wavelengths. The one point of contact that remained was that kiss. It wasn’t much to keep her warm as she rose through the stratosphere to the icy heights of success.

      So she bit back the angry words and instead put her hand briefly over his. ‘Yes, Mike. It was.’ Then, as she realised they had both spoken in the past tense, she turned quickly and stumbled towards the kitchen. It was over. The trip to Maybridge was a waste of time. But she still had to know.

      The creamy soup slid, without too much difficulty, down a throat that felt as congested as the M25 in the rush hour. But she couldn’t manage the toast. Mike must have lost his appetite because he didn’t bother with it either.

      Mike watched her drive away in her little yellow car, then he took his cellphone from the rear pocket of his jeans and punched in a number. ‘Cal? Did you do what I asked?’ he demanded, before the man could speak. ‘Did they go?’

      ‘Eventually. Crysse was too distraught to make any kind of decision but Sean finally persuaded her that getting away would be a good idea. Where are you? How—’

      ‘I’ll call you later.’ Mike switched off. It wasn’t conversation he was looking for but confirmation. Willow had lied to him about shopping with Crysse. He’d known it. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it was true. His hand tightened around the telephone; he wanted to smash it against the wall, smash the shelves, smash the boxes.

      He was good at that. Smashing hopes, smashing dreams. This time he’d managed to do it to himself and now he knew how it felt.

      It hurt.

      He’d come after Willow with some crazy idea of starting over. Beginning again, showing her who he really was, convincing her that they could make it if they both tried. He still wanted her so much that it hurt.

      But, instead of telling her that, he was letting her drive away to spend the afternoon locked in the arms of a man whose seduction routine was as slick as his black leather biker gear.

      And worse was to come. She’d come back later, brittle and bright to hide her misery at what she’d done, or happy and contented as a kitten—he couldn’t begin to decide which would be worse—and pretend that nothing had happened. Chatter about shopping and how she just hadn’t been able to find a thing she liked.

      He dragged his hands over his face, pushed his fingers through his hair. He’d wanted to regain control of his life, give her back control of hers. But she hadn’t waited for him to act. She didn’t need him to give her anything. She’d taken it. Maybe he should accept that and leave before she returned.

      Willow stopped at the village store. Aunt Lucy would have a business directory. It took a while. Jake had warned her that the lady was born to talk; he hadn’t been kidding. But after promising to come back later in the week for a real talk, she finally got the information she was looking for and managed to escape.

      Mike wiped his arm across his forehead. He’d spent half an hour in a frenzy of activity, determined to finish the cabinet-making—anyone could paint the shelves and boxes—determined to forget about Willow and what she was doing. All he knew was that she hadn’t gone shopping with her cousin and that he didn’t want to be here when she came back with hot, shining eyes.

      He picked up a bottle of water, drank from it, then poured the rest over his head. It cooled him down.

      This was crazy. He was driving himself crazy. He had her tried and convicted without a shred of evidence that she’d gone to spend the afternoon with Jacob Hallam. Apart from their flirting at the pub. Apart from the fact that she’d locked herself in the bathroom before lunch to make a phone call.

      As Emily rounded the corner of the cottages, he headed for the four-by-four. ‘I’ve got to go out,’ he told her as she stopped alongside him.

      ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘Lock up if I’m not back. I’ve got a key.’

      He didn’t have time to explain. It was time to stop worrying about what he should do. He knew what he had to do. He had to catch his runaway bride and tell her that he loved her, that he’d always love her. Then, maybe, they could start working out a future that they could both live with.

      The old lady who ran the shop looked up as he burst through the door. ‘Yes, dear? Can I help you?’

      ‘Is Jacob Hallam

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