Second Chance At Sea

‘That’s unfair.’ She felt tired, defeated. She had just presided over the death of one relationship—did she really have to do the post mortem on this one too?

‘Is it?’

The worst part was how uninterested he sounded. As if they were talking about complete strangers and not their hopeful younger selves.

‘Actually, I should thank you.’

She peered at him through the star-lit darkness. ‘Thank me?’

‘For forcing me to grow up. To prove you, my parents, everyone who thought I was a worthless, surfing bum wrong.’

‘I never thought that,’ she whispered.

An image flashed through her head. A younger, softer Jonas, his wetsuit half peeled off, moulded to muscular thighs. Naked broad shoulders tapering down to a taut, perfectly defined stomach. Water glistening on golden tanned skin. Slicked-back wet hair. Board under one arm, a wicked smile on his mouth, an invitation in his eyes. A sudden yearning for the carefree boy he had been ran through her, making her shiver with longing. How had he turned into this cold, cynical man? Had she done this to him?

He laughed again, the humourless sound jarring her over-wrought nerves.

‘Oh, Lawrie, does any of it matter? It was a long time ago—we were practically children. Getting married in our teens...we must have been crazy—it was always going to end in tears.’

‘I suppose it was.’ Her voice was tentative.

Was it? Once she’d thought they would be together for ever, that they were two halves of one whole. Hearing him reduce their passion to the actions of two irresponsible teenagers nearly undid her. She fought against the lump in her throat, fought for composure, desperate to change the subject, lighten the mood which had turned as dark as night.

‘Here you are.’

He stopped at the gate that led into the small driveway and Lawrie skidded to an abrupt stop—close, but not touching him. She was achingly aware of his proximity, and the knowledge that if she reached out just an infinitesimal amount she would be able to touch him made her shiver with longing, with desire, with fear. She wanted to look away but found herself caught in his moonlit gaze, the blue eyes silvered by the starlight.

‘It wasn’t all bad, though. Being a crazy teen.’

The cream had returned to his voice. His tone was low, almost whispered, and she felt herself swaying towards him.

‘No, of course not. That was the happiest time of my life.’

Damn, she hadn’t meant to admit that—not to him, not to herself. It must be the cocktails talking. But as the words left her mouth she realised their truth.

‘The happiest time,’ she whispered, so low she hoped he hadn’t heard her.

Just one little step—that was all it took. One little step and she was touching him, looking up at him. Her breasts brushed against his chest and just that one small touch set her achingly aware nerves on fire. She felt the jolt of desire shock through her, buzzing through to her fingers, to her toes, pooling deep within her.

Jonas’s head was tilted down. The full focus of his disconcertingly intense eyes on her. Lawrie swallowed and licked suddenly dry lips, her nails cutting into her palms as she curled them into tight fists. The urge to grab him and pull him close was suddenly almost overwhelming.

‘Jonas?’

An entreaty? A question? Lawrie didn’t know what she was asking him, what she was begging him for. All she knew was that it was her birthday. And that she hadn’t felt this alive for a long, long time.

‘Jonas...’

He stayed still for a long second, his eyes still fixed on hers, their expression unreadable.

And then he took a step back. The sudden space between them was a yawning chasm. ‘Goodnight, Lawrie. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t be late—there’s a lot to go through.’

Lawrie suppressed a shudder. It was suddenly so cold. ‘I’m never late.’

‘Good.’

She stood by the gate, watching as he turned and began to stride down the path, ruthlessly suppressing the part of her that wanted to call after him, run after him. Yet she couldn’t ignore the odd skip her heart gave as he stopped and looked back.

‘Oh, and, Lawrie... Happy Birthday.’

And then he was gone. Swallowed up by the velvety blackness like the ghost of birthdays past.

Lawrie sagged against the gatepost, an unwelcome mixture of frustrated desire and loneliness pulsing through her. If this was how one night with Jonas could make her feel, how on earth was she going to manage a whole summer?

She forced herself upright. She was vulnerable right now, that was all. She would just have to toughen up even more—harden herself.

And stay as far away from Jonas Jones as she possibly could, boss or not.

CHAPTER THREE

LAWRIE WAS DETERMINED to be early.

‘Don’t be late’ indeed.

Even if she had gone to bed long after one a.m., and even if she had spent half the night lying awake in a frustrated tangle of hot sheets and even hotter regrets, there was no way she was giving him the satisfaction.

Besides, she might be in Trengarth, not Hampstead, and in her old, narrow single bed and not the lumbar-adjusted super-king-size one she had shared with Hugo, but it was nice to retrieve a little of her old routine from the wreckage of the last week.

She’d been up at six sharp, showered and ready to go by seven.

So why was she still standing irresolutely in the kitchen at ten past seven, fingering the scarf Jonas had bought her? It looked good teamed with her crisp white shirt and grey pencil skirt, softening the severe corporate lines of her London work wardrobe, and yet she didn’t want to give Jonas the wrong idea—come into work brandishing his colours.

She began to unknot it for the third time, then caught sight of herself in the mirror. Face drawn, anxious.

It’s just a scarf, she thought impatiently, pulling the door shut and locking it behind her. Not an engagement ring. She looked down at her left hand, the third finger bare—bare of Hugo’s exquisite princess cut diamond solitaire, of Jonas’s antique amethyst twist.

Two engagement rings before turning thirty. Not bad for someone who had vowed to remain independent. Her mother had been married three times before thirty; maybe Lawrie wasn’t doing so badly after all.

It was another beautiful day, with the sun already shining down from a deep blue sky completely undisturbed by any hint of cloud, and the light breeze a refreshing contrast to the deepening heat. This was Cornwall at its best—this was what she had missed on those dusty, summer days in London: the sun glancing off the sea, the vibrancy of the colours, the smell of grass, salt and beach. The smell of home.

Don’t get too used to it, Lawrie told herself as she walked along the lane—a brighter, far less intimate and yet lonelier walk in the early-morning light. This is just an interlude. It was time to start focussing on her next step, giving those recruitment agencies a quick nudge. After all, they’d had her CV for nearly a week now. She should have plenty of free time. How much work could organising a few bands be?

* * *

Five hours later, after an incredibly long and detailed hand-over by the sofa-bound Suzy, Lawrie was severely revising her estimate of the work involved. Just when had Wave Fest turned from a few guitars and a barbecue on a beach to a three-night extravaganza?

Walking back into Jonas’s office, files piled high in her arms, her head was so busy buzzing with the endless stream of information Suzy had supplied that Lawrie had almost forgotten the ending to the night before—forgotten the unexpected desire that had flared up so hotly, despite thinking about nothing else as Fliss drove her through the narrow country lanes to Suzy’s village home.

But walking back into the Boat House brought the memory flooding back. She had wanted him to kiss her.

It wasn’t real. This was Jonas Jones. She had been there, done that, moved on. Besides, Lawrie told herself firmly, she couldn’t afford any emotional ties. She was already mentally spinning this volunteer role into a positive on her CV. This could be the way to set her aside from all the other ambitious thirty-somethings hungry for the next, more prestigious role.

Volunteering to manage a high-profile project raising money for charity—an environmental charity, at that—would add to her Oxford degree and her eight successful years at an old City firm and she would be a very promising candidate indeed. She might even have her pick of jobs.

Only, Lawrie thought as she clasped the large, heavy files more firmly, negotiating contracts was a very different skill from organising a festival. She was used to representing multiple companies who thought they had first dibs on her time all the time, but at least there was uniformity to the work, making it simpler to switch between clients. This was more like running an entire law firm single-handed, handling everything from divorces to company takeovers.

There didn’t seem to be an aspect of Wave Fest that Suzy hadn’t been in charge of—that Lawrie was now in charge of—from budgets to booking bands, from health and safety forms and risk assessment to portaloo hire.

And there was a file for each task.

Jonas was hard at work as she staggered into the office, but he swung his chair round as she dumped the heavy pile on the round conference table with a bang. His face was guarded, although she could have sworn she saw a fleeting smirk as he took in the large amount of paperwork she had lugged in.

‘Changed your mind now you know what’s in store?’

It was said lightly, but a muscle beating at the side of his jaw betrayed some tension. Maybe he wasn’t as indifferent to her as he seemed. Or maybe it was another dig at her lack of commitment.

Stop trying to second-guess him, Lawrie. It was probably just a throwaway comment.

‘No, but it’s more daunting than I imagined,’ she admitted honestly. ‘This lot—’ she gestured at the files behind her ‘—is just invoices, purchase orders, health and safety certificates, insurance documents. The actual work is being emailed as we speak.’

‘Can you do it?’

‘It’s different to my usual line, and my secretary would have taken care of most of the admin-related work—but, yes, I can do it. I’ll need to spend a couple of days reading this lot, though.’

‘Here?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you intending to work here?’

Lawrie looked up, confused. Where else would she work?

Her eyes caught his. Held them. And for several long seconds she was aware of nothing but the intense blue, the flicker of heat at the heart of his gaze. She caught her breath, an ache suddenly hollowing in her chest, need mingling with the excitement clenching at her stomach. She dragged her eyes reluctantly away, loss unexpectedly consuming her as she stepped back, self-consciously pulling at a folder, looking anywhere but at him, doing her best to ignore the sudden flare of desire, her total awareness of every inch of him.

His shirt matched his eyes, was open at his throat, exposing a small triangle of tanned chest; his long legs were encased in perfectly cut charcoal trousers.

She smiled at him, making it light, trying to keep her sudden nerves hidden, her voice steady. For goodness’ sake, Lawrie, you’re a professional. ‘I was planning on it. I could work at home, but it will be easier to get answers to my questions if I’m on site.’

He nodded shortly. ‘I agree. That’s why I thought you might be better off based at the hotel.’

‘The hotel?’ For goodness’ sake, she sounded like an echo.

‘Coombe End. I appreciate it’s not as convenient as here—you won’t be able to walk to work—but as it’s the venue for Wave Fest it makes a lot of sense for you to spend most of your time there.’

His smile was pure politeness. He might have been talking to a complete stranger.

Lawrie shook her head, trying to clear some of the confusion. ‘You hold the festival at Coombe End? Your parents let you?’

She knew things had changed, but if Richard and Caroline Jones were allowing rock music and campers through the gates of Coombe End then she hadn’t come back to the Trengarth she remembered. She had entered a parallel universe.

‘No.’ His eyes caught hers again, proud and challenging. ‘They don’t. I allow it. Coombe End belongs to me. I own it now.’

She stared at him, a surge of delight running through her, shocking her with its strength. So his parents had finally shown some belief in him.

‘They gave you Coombe End? Oh, Jonas that’s wonderful.’

He shook his head, his face dark, forbidding. ‘They gave me nothing. I bought it. And I paid handsomely for every brick and every blade of grass.’

He had bought Coombe End? Lawrie looked around at the immaculately styled office, at the glass separating them from the café below, at the smooth polished wooden floor, the gleaming tiles, the low, comfortable sofas and designer chairs and tables. The whole building shouted out taste, sophistication. It shouted investment and money. She knew things had grown, changed, but how much? Whatever Jonas was doing now it was certainly more than serving up coffee and cakes to friends.

A lot more.

‘That’s great,’ she said lamely, wanting to ask a million questions but not knowing where to start.

Besides, it wasn’t any of her business. It hadn’t been for a long time.

‘I was planning to head over there this afternoon, so I could show you around, introduce you to the rest of the office staff. It’ll probably be a couple of hours before I’m ready to leave, though, is that okay?’

Lawrie shook her head, her mind still turning over the ‘rest of the office staff’ comment. How many people did he employ?

‘No problem. I want to go through this lot and make some notes, anyway.’

‘If you’re hungry just pop downstairs. Carl will make you anything you want.’

And he turned back to his computer screen, instantly absorbed in the document he was reading.

She had been dismissed. It shouldn’t rankle—this was hard enough without his constant attention. But it did.

Lawrie sat down at the table and pulled the first file towards her, groaning inwardly at the thick stack of insurance documents inside. Deciphering the indecipherable, crafting the impenetrable—those were the tools of her trade and she was excellent at it—but today her eyes were skidding over each dense sentence, unable to make sense of them. She was trying to focus all her attention on the words dancing on the page in front of her but she was all too aware of Jonas’s every move—the rustle as he shifted posture, the tap of his long, capable fingers on the keyboard.

Despite herself she let her eyes wander over to him, watching him work. She tried to pull her gaze away from his hands but she was paralysed, intent, as his fingers caressed the keyboard, pressing decisively on each key.

He had always been so very good with his hands.

‘Did you say something?’

‘No,’ she lied, hoping he hadn’t turned round, hadn’t seen her blush.

Please, she prayed silently, she hadn’t just moaned out loud, had she? For goodness’ sake she was a grown woman—not a teenager at the mercy of her hormones. At least she’d thought she was.

It was coming home. She had been away too long and this sudden return at a time of stress had released some sort of sensory memory, turning her back into the weak-kneed teenager crushing so deeply on her boss that every nerve had been finely tuned to his every word and movement. It was science, that was all.

Science, but still rather uncomfortable.

‘I’m thirsty,’ she announced. ‘I’ll just go and get some water.’

His satirical gaze uncomfortably upon her, she slid out of the door, heading for the kitchens beneath, relieved to be released from his proximity. If she didn’t get a handle on her hormones soon then she was in for a very uncomfortable few weeks.

Walking down the stairs, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, automatically checking it for messages. Just the simple act of holding it created a much-needed sense of purpose, of control.

Nothing. Not from her old colleagues, not from her friends in London, not from Hugo. It was as if they had closed the gap her absence had created so seamlessly that nobody knew she had gone. Or if they did they simply didn’t care. Yesterday had been her thirtieth birthday. She was supposed to have been having dinner with twenty of their closest friends. Other professional couples. How had Hugo explained her absence?

Or had he taken his secretary instead? His lover. After all, they had been his friends first.

This was the year she had been going to get around to finally organising their wedding.

This was the year they’d been going to discuss children. Not have them yet, obviously, but start timetabling them in.

They were supposed to have been spending the rest of their lives together, and yet Hugo had let her go without a word, without a gesture. Just as Jonas had all those years ago. Just as her mother had.

She just wasn’t worth holding on to.

Lawrie leant against the wall, grateful for the chill of the tiles on her suddenly hot face. Don’t cry, she told herself, willing away the pressure behind her eyelids. Never cry. You don’t need them—you don’t need anybody.

* * *

A large glass of iced water and some fresh air helped Lawrie recover some of her equilibrium and she returned to the office feeling a great deal better. Turning her back determinedly on Jonas, she called on all her professional resources and buried herself in the insurance folder, finding a strange calm in returning to the legalese so recently denied her. Pulling a notebook close, she began to scribble notes, looking at expiry dates, costs, and jotting down anything that needed immediate attention, losing herself in the work.

‘Lawrie...? Lawrie?’ Jonas was standing behind her, an amused glint in the blue eyes. ‘Fascinating, are they?’ He gestured at the folders.

‘A little,’ she agreed, pulling herself out of the work reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry—do you need me?’

‘I’m heading off to Coombe End. Do you still want me to show you around?’

Did she? What she really wanted was more time alone—more time to get lost in the work and let the real world carry on without her.

But it would be a lot easier tomorrow if she knew what to expect.

‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ She pushed her chair back and began to pile the folders and her closely covered sheets of paper together. ‘I’ll just...’ She gestured at the files spread all over the table and began to pull them together, bracing herself ready to scoop them up.

‘Here—let me.’

Jonas leant over and picked up the large pile, his arm brushing hers and sending a tingle from her wrist shooting through her body straight down to her toes. She leapt back.

‘If you’re ready?’

‘Absolutely, I’ll just get my bag—give me two minutes.’

‘I’ll meet you at the car; it’s just out front.’

‘Okay.’

The door closed behind him and Lawrie sank back into her seat with a sigh. She had to pull herself together. Stop acting like the gauche schoolgirl she’d outgrown years ago.

* * *

Jonas pulled his car round to the front of the restaurant, idling the engine as he waited for Lawrie. Their first day working together was going well. He’d had a productive two hours’ work just then, not thinking about and not even noticing the exposed nape of her neck, her long, bare legs, not at all aware of every rustle, every slight movement.

Well, maybe just a little aware. But they were just physical things. And Cornwall in summer was full of attractive women—beautiful women, even.

And yet during the last two hours the room he had designed, the room that had evoked light and space, had felt small, claustrophobic, airless. How could someone as slight as Lawrie take up so much space?

Jonas looked over at the Boat House impatiently, just as Lawrie emerged through the front door, a carefully blank, slightly snooty look on her face—the expression that had used to mean she was unsure of the situation. Did it still mean that? He used to be able to read her every shifting emotion, no matter how she tried to hide them.

Then one day he simply couldn’t read her at all.

She stopped at the gate, peering down the road, puzzled.

What was she looking for? He half raised one hand to wave at her, then quickly lowered it, leaning on the horn instead, with a little more emphasis than needed. He allowed himself a fleeting moment of amusement as she jumped at the noise and then, obviously flustered, crossed the harbour road, walking slowly towards the car.

He leant across to open the passenger door, sitting back as she slid in, looking straight ahead, trying not to watch her legs slide down over the seat, her round, firm bottom wriggling down over the padded leather, the sudden definition as the seatbelt tightened against her chest.

‘Nice,’ she said appreciatively, putting a hand out to stroke the walnut dashboard as Jonas pulled the low, sleek car away from the kerb. ‘I have to say I hadn’t pegged you as a sports car man. I was looking for the camper van.’

‘Oh, this is just a runabout. I still have the camper. There’s no way I could get a board in here.’

He laughed as she grimaced.

‘You and your boards,’ she said. ‘If they’re that important you should have gone for a sensible people carrier rather than this midlife crisis on wheels.’

‘Midlife crisis?’ he mock-huffed. There was no way he was going to admit the secret pride he took in the car.

Jonas didn’t care too much what people said, what people thought of him, but he allowed himself a little smirk of satisfaction every time he passed one of his parents’ cronies and saw them clock the car and the driver and, for one grudging moment, admit to themselves that that no-good boy had done well.

‘At least this has a real engine in it. I’ve seen that dainty little convertible you call a car. Do you actually put flowers in that holder?’

She shook her head, smiling. ‘You have to admit it’s convenient for parking. But I can see why you like this—she goes like a dream,’ she said as he turned the corner onto the main road and the car began purring up the steep climb. ‘And at least she isn’t red, so not a total cliché! I’m glad that you kept the camper, though. I was always fond of the old girl. What?’ she asked as he slid her a sly smile.

‘I’m glad you’ve finally acknowledged that she’s a she—you’ll call her by her name next,’ he teased.

‘I will never call a twenty-year-old rusty van by such a ridiculous name—by any name. A car is not a person,’ she said with a haughty flick of her ponytail.

But Jonas could hear the laughter in her voice as he deftly swung the car round the corner and along the narrow lanes that led to the hotel, just two coves away.

‘Go on—say it,’ he coaxed her.

It had been a long time since he had seen Lawrie laugh. Judging by the wounded, defensive look in her eyes it was a long time since she had laughed.

‘I’ll help. Bar... Barb...’

‘No!’ But she was definitely trying not to laugh, and there was a dimple at the corner of her lush, full mouth. ‘What about this one? What have you named her?’

‘Nice escape, Ms Bennett. But I will get you to say her name before you leave.’

‘We’ll see.’

The words were dismissive but she still sounded amused. Jonas sneaked a glance at his passenger and saw her face was more relaxed, her posture less rigid.

‘So go on—surprise me. What’s she called?’

‘Ah,’ he said lightly. ‘This baby doesn’t have a name. It’d be disloyal to the camper.’

This time she did laugh—slightly croaky, as if she were unused to making the sound, but as deep and rich, as infectious as Jonas remembered.

‘We wouldn’t want to hurt the feelings of a rusting old van, would we?’

‘I assure her every day that I only bought this to spare her tired old axles, but I’m not sure she believes me.’

‘Nobody likes being replaced by a younger model.’

There was a dark undercurrent to her tone and he glanced at her sharply, but her face was as impassive as ever, the laughter gone as if it had never been, replaced by that cool mask she always put on.

It had been her coolness that had first attracted him—the innocent look on her face as she said the most outrageous things a stark contrast to the noisy beach bums he’d been surrounded by. It had been the unexpected moments when she’d opened up that had made him fall head over heels in love with her—the moments when her mask had dropped and she’d lit up with laughter, with indignation, with passion.

Dangerous memories. His hands tightened on the wheel as he navigated the narrow bends, the hedgerows high beside them as if they were driving through a dark, tree-lined tunnel.

‘I’m glad you’re driving. I’m not sure I’d find my way by road,’ Lawrie said conversationally, as if she were discussing the weather.

As beautifully mannered as ever, Jonas thought.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Coombe End. I can’t imagine it without your parents there—how are they?’

There were a million and one responses he could give to that. Jonas settled for the most polite. ‘Retired.’

Lawrie made an incredulous noise. ‘Retired? Seriously? I didn’t think the word was even in their vocabulary.’

‘It wasn’t. It took a heart attack to make them even talk about it, and a second one to make them do it.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. What are they doing now?’

Jonas’s mouth twisted wryly. Making sure he knew just how much they regretted it. Just how much it hurt to see their profligate son undo all their hard work. Not that any of that was Lawrie’s business. Not any more.

‘Living in a respectable villa, in a respectable village in Dorset, and taking an inordinate amount of cruises—which they mostly complain about, of course. Still, every retiree needs a hobby.’

Lawrie looked at him, concern in the deep grey eyes. Of course she knew more about his relationship with his parents than anyone else. He wasn’t used to that—to people seeing behind his flippant tone. He made damn sure that nobody did.

‘I can’t imagine it—your parents, of all people, taking it easy on cruise liners. How long since you bought them out?’

‘Coming up to four years.’ Jonas kept his answer short, terse.

‘Are they still involved?’

‘Now that, Lawrie dear, would mean them communicating with me.’ All this talk of his parents—his least favourite subject. It was time to turn the tables. ‘Talking about difficult relations,’ Jonas said, ‘how is your mother? Still in Spain?’

Lawrie twisted in her seat and stared at him. ‘How did you know she was in Spain?’

Jonas grinned to himself, allowing his fingers to beat out a tune on the leather of the steering wheel. Nice deflection, Jones. ‘I met her when she was over from Spain, introducing her new husband...John, isn’t it? He seemed like a nice bloke. Didn’t she come to London? She said she wanted to see you.’

Lawrie’s mouth had thinned; the relaxed posture was gone. Any straighter and he could use her back as a ruler.

‘I was busy.’

Jonas shrugged. ‘I think this one might be different. She seemed settled, happy.’

Lawrie was radiating disapproval. ‘Maybe five is her lucky number.’

‘People make mistakes. Your mother certainly did. But she’s so proud of you.’

‘She has no right to be proud of me—she doesn’t know me. And if she was so keen to see me she should have come back for Gran’s funeral.’

‘Didn’t she?’

He should have been at the funeral too. He’d said his own private goodbye to Gran on the day, alone at the cottage. But he should have gone.

‘She was on a retreat.’ It was Lawrie’s turn to be terse.

Maybe it had been too successful a deflection. Jonas searched for a response but couldn’t find one. Lawrie had every right to be angry, but at least her mother wanted to make amends.

His parents wouldn’t have known what they were expected to make amends for—as far as they were concerned any problems in their relationship were all down to him.

He was their eternal disappointment.

There was an awkward silence for a few long minutes, with Jonas concentrating on the narrow road, pulling over several times as tractors lumbered past, and Lawrie staring out of the window.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m glad she’s happy—that five husbands and goodness knows how many boyfriends later she’s settled. But it’s thirty years too late for me.’

‘I know.’

And he did. He knew it all. He knew how bitter Lawrie was about her mother’s desertion, how angry. He knew how vulnerable years of moving around, adapting to new homes, new schools, new stepfathers had made her.

He knew how difficult it was for her to trust, to rely on anyone. It was something he couldn’t ever allow himself to forget.

When it all got too much Lawrie Bennett ran away. Like mother, like daughter. Not caring who or what she left behind.

This time he was not getting to get left in her destructive wake.