Cold, Cold Heart
A Novel by Viviane Brentanos
Back Cover
Daniel Haynes has the world at his feet—fame, fortune, so why does he feel so empty inside? What is his interest in Rachel Warner, a girl from a quiet Home Counties English town? Why does she hold the key to his happiness?
But Rachel Warner is scared. Daniel's interest in her threatens her ordered yet unsatisfying life because she has to live with the shadow of her ex-father-in-law breathing over her shoulder. Can she let go of her fears?
Cold, Cold Heart
by Viviane Brentanos
Published by MuseItHOT Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Viviane Brentanos
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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 person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Acknowledgements
I have to acknowledge the wonderful music of Darren Hayes for inspiring me when writing this tale.
Prologue
“Get the bag!”
The boy squeezed back the tears. Needle sharp gravel dug deep into already bleeding knees and bit into stinging cheeks as merciless assailants grabbed hold of hair and twisted his neck to the side. He tasted dirt. A cruel smile spread across the ringleader's podgy face.
Still, the boy did not cry. Not wanting to give them the satisfaction, he did what he always did and shut off from the torment and humiliation. Retreating into a safe, secret world of music, he floated as the soothing notes of Chopin's “Nocturnes” carried him beyond the nightmare. In a few minutes, it would be over. It always was. He would get up, dust himself down, and stoically walk to the next lesson, one packed lunch and a pound coin lighter.
“Hey!”
The pummeling fists ceased.
“Come back 'ere, yew little bastards, and pick on someone yer own size! Yew wait 'til I get you in class, Tim Reynolds, yew fat prick!”
The boy looked up in time to see his oppressors run off, hotly pursued by a pair of skinny, blue-mottled legs, their owner swearing as she gave chase.
“Here, up you get. It's all right. They've gone.”
He stared up at this timely “Angel of Mercy,” and his tender heart beat a little faster. The world, which up until that moment had been shrouded in so much misery, turned radiant with happiness.
Chapter One
Rachel Warner glanced in her mirror at the forlorn boy huddled on the backseat. Once again, the nagging sense of guilt that too often plagued her reared its ugly head.
She cursed under her breath. It was almost eight thirty.
As usual, they were late. In their household, things never ran smoothly. Alex always misplaced his gym shoes. In fact, this latest battle between her and Alexander was over shoes. Or to be more precise, trainers: a hundred-quid worth of designer footwear she couldn’t afford, unless she chose to ignore the unpaid bill reminders pinned on the kitchen memo board.
Alexander vented frustration by kicking her seat.
“Stop it now, Alex.” She tried to act stern. Her heart wasn't in it. She’d learned from painful experience the effect peer pressure could have on a child's fragile psyche. Explaining to a seven-year-old who shared a classroom with fifteen precocious, designer kids that money and possessions didn't necessarily bring happiness—well, it was like trying to tell a dog that bones weren't good for him.
Alex didn't want to be reminded he was lucky to have good health and food on the table, unlike the starving and dying in Africa, when all he desired in the world was a PlayStation 3 and shoes like David Beckham.
The attack on her seat stopped. Alex slumped against the side of their battered Fiat. He didn't sulk for long. He was a good little boy; he understood she did her best.
He sat up straight and fidgeted with the Spiderman schoolbag straps. A lock of sandy-colored hair flopped across his forehead, reminding Rachel she needed to book him in for a haircut before Richard complained.
“We could ask Dad,” he mumbled.
Rachel snorted, swearing under her breath. She strained for a note of optimism. “I will if you want me to.”
“No.”
Alexander let out a long sigh; a sigh of resignation Rachel hated hearing.
“It's okay, Mum. You'd only be wasting your time. Besides,” he said with a grin, “Granddad would only make him buy me some girlie sandals or something just as naff.”
Rachel giggled at his astute take on Mr. Thompson senior. Her ex-father-in-law would rather turn Catholic than fork out for sportswear promoted by men he considered overpaid, sports degenerates. She sobered up quickly. “I'm sorry, darling.” Alex’s woebegone expression raised her guilt to level two. “Maybe next month.”
They both understood ‘next month’ would never come. Money, or the lack of it, was a permanent issue in their household. “Sometimes I hate you, Richard bloody Thompson,” she muttered. “Actually, make that all the time.”
* * * *
They pulled up in front of Wyeston Independent Church School just as the bell rang. Alex’s mouth formed into a sulky pout. He hated this school—the school her ex-father-in-law had chosen. Rachel hadn’t had much say in the matter.
“Cutting it fine this morning, aren't we?”
Lynn, Rachel's best friend of twenty-two years, opened the back door and bustled out a reluctant Alex. “Hurry up. Tanya's waiting and not happy about it.”
He ran off to join his honorary cousin, the one person who made school life bearable. The little girl waited impatiently by the gate, her Barbie bag clutched against her matching T-shirt, the princess mules she insisted on wearing tapping on the asphalt. Lynn totally ignored the headmaster’s threatening letters on the subject of uniform rules. She was adamant. No kid of hers was gonna dress like a lesbo.
Tanya presented a picture of innocence, hair tumbling around her shoulders in a halo of russet-red ringlets—until she opened her mouth. The sound that burst forth from her doll-like frame would have drowned out the Right Hon. Ian Paisley.
“Yer fecking late again.”
Shaking her own amber curls, Lynn sighed. “I don't know where I'm going wrong.” Her jade green eyes narrowed. “Tanya! If you don't get out of that fecking puddle, I'll brain yew!”
Rachel arched an eyebrow. “You were saying?”
Jill Holmes chose that moment to strut by, her over-lifted face trying, but failing, to frown at Lynn. Rachel was perfectly aware Jill and her band of gold-card-carrying friends thought Lynn O'Donnell-Hudson too vulgar for words.
“Tight-arsed bitch.” Lynn lit up a slim menthol cigarette and promptly raised her finger at the back of the retreating Jill in her good morning salute.
“You'd think all those smoothies and wheat germ muffins for breakfast would loosen her up a little, wouldn't you.” Rachel watched Jill step up into her state of the art people carrier. “God, I hate that woman and not only because she is Allison's friend.”
Turning back to Lynn, she studied her with amusement as she held a gold compact at arm's length while she revamped her already blood red lips. “For goodness’ sake, Lynn, is it necessary for you to come to school dressed as if you're about to audition for a 50 Cent video?”
“These shorts, I'll have you know, emphasize my killer arse and twenty-two-inch waist.” Lynn pouted at her reflection. “Which, apart from driving my daughter's young, rather sexy teacher crazy with lust for me, pisses them off big time.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the carpool of happy pill parents. “Besides which I have a class at ten. Fat and Over Forty.” She shuddered. “Jeesus, I'd kill myself if I ever got into that state.”
While hubby, John, slaved away over a hot desert, Lynn kept busy (and out of trouble) by running a dance and exercise school. John, putty in her hands, was only too happy to indulge her passion. He'd paid out a small fortune for the refurbishment of a church hall so she could realize her dream. Now Lynn mixed business with pleasure, compensation for ‘sacrificing’ a promising stage career for love.
“Talking of classes, Rach, don’t forget you promised to help me out with the seven o'clock tonight.” Lynn beamed at her.
Rachel groaned. It had completely slipped her mind. She didn't mind taking the occasional class for Lynn. The cash Lynn forced into her hand came in handy. But, for once, she could have done without it. The weekend had been a hectic round of swing-parks and sleepovers, and her house still suffered from Monday morning hangover.
“It's the show soon.” Lynn, noting her hesitation, pushed home her point. She could lay guilt trips big time. “Oh, come on, Rach. What's the alternative—an evening of Britain’s got Talent and Deal or No Deal? Alex can wait with Tan, and when we're done, I'll stand us all a double Whopper burger. Give the kid a break. It's got to beat seared chicken breasts and pita bread.”
“You never did fight fair, did you?” Rachel guessed Alex would be in complete agreement with his she's-more-fun-than-you aunt. “Okay.” She slipped behind the wheel before Lynn coerced her into anything else. “I'll do it, although God knows what shape I'll be in by tonight. We've got new arrivals today. Some mega pop star from America, I think. He's here for three days, and he's bound to be a pain in the bloody arse—or should I say 'butt'? Spoilt and demanding as hell. They usually are what?”
Lynn turned a peculiar shade of purple. “Not Daniel Haines? Don't tell me that the Daniel Haines is coming to The Country House?”
“Yes, the Daniel. Should I be impressed?”
Lynn’s mouth hung open in goldfish mode. “You've got to be kidding me. Even you must have heard of Daniel Haines. Duh. He's only the biggest thing to hit the scene since Elvis.”
Rachel dripped sarcasm. “And there's me thinking it was Robbie.”
“You are lame. Robbie is so last year.”
“Oh? And does Mr. Williams know?”
Grimacing at her lack of savvy, Lynn leaned against the car door as Rachel tried to close it.
“Daniel is young, dynamic, and American, and so so well, let's just say that I could do things for him.”
“Which you can't because you're a twenty-seven-year-old married woman with a daughter, a mortgage, and a budgie, so forget it.”
“A girl can dream, can't she?” Lynn pouted.
Rachel sighed. She was used to Lynn's crushes which, although endearing in a twelve-year-old, were rather tedious in a not-too-far-off thirty. She, on the other hand, in her position of assistant to the manager of the exclusive hotel, had met her fair share of celebrities and found them wanting. Actually, not all. To be fair, the Death Metal band, The Rotting Corpses of Salem, had been the epitome of good manners and charm. Which was more than could be said for that hip-hop artist, Mr. Blow (Or was it Blow Me?). Rachel shuddered at the memory. He'd given new meaning to the word vomit.
“Hel-lo?”
Lynn rapping on her skull brought her back to the present.
“I said any chance of tickets for one of his gigs? Saturday would work for me.”
“No and no. Besides, you know the hotel policy. The staff is not allowed to harass the guests.”
“Who's talking harassment?” Lynn rotated her hips in a lewd manner. “A quick shag behind the kitchens would do.”
“Oh, grow up.”
“Ooooh, someone's in a bad mood this morning.” Picking up a strand of Rachel's hair between her fingers, Lynn frowned. “Your color needs doing, and as for the cut, well, if that’s your attempt at boho chic, forget it. It's more like boohoo chicken.”
Rachel slapped her hand away. “My color is fine, thank you.” She gathered her honey shoulder-length locks and wound them into a precarious knot at the back of her head. “I have no desire to return to my bimbo past. Some of us have moved on.”
“Don't knock it, sweetie. It bagged me a man in oil, didn't it?” Lynn screwed up her eyes. “Okay, I'll be serious. What's up? Has Rick the Prick been hassling you?”
“No, not yet, although the day is young.” Rachel frowned. “It's Alexander. We had the trainer discussion again. It's his birthday soon and….”
“And you're broke.” Lynn clicked in exasperation. “God, Rach. You can be one stubborn cow. I told you I would lend you the money. What's the point of me having a wealthy husband if I can't let my friend use him from time to time?”
Rachel shook her head. Sometimes Lynn's take on life was a little off the wall. “You know why I can't accept your offer, dear friend. I see no point in introducing Alex to expensive designer goods when I can't afford to buy them for him. It would be unfair to tempt him.”
Lynn folded her arms and regarded her with mild disbelief. “Sometimes you are so righteous it's sickening. It must be all that Sunday School.”
“Hah, you can talk.”
“Ah yes, but we Irish Catholics know how to do decadence and fun. We simply repent afterwards. Three Hail Marys and it's sorted. Now, back to Daniel Haines….”
Rachel turned the key and the engine spluttered to life. “I'm off. My head is killing me, and you are not helping. And I am sooo late!”
Chapter Two
Rachel skulked through the heavy brass revolving doors and into the opulent Art Deco reception area. She was hot, bothered, and in no mood for Chantelle.
“Late again?” The high-maintenance twenty-year-old blonde arched a plucked eyebrow in mock surprise. “It's so not like you.”
Gritting her teeth, Rachel let the sarcasm wash over her. She had no desire to go head-to-head so early in the day. Smiling sweetly, she opened the door to the manager's office. “Oh you know me, Chantelle. My hectic social life keeps me out so late.” She closed the door behind her, cutting off Chantelle's Californian “whatever.” The Gisele wannabe was perfectly aware she stayed home every night with only a seven-year-old and Yu-gi-oh for company. In Chantelle's vacuous mind, being twenty-seven was so unbelievably gross.
“Sorry….” Rachel opened her mouth to apologize. Brian waved her to silence, pressing a mug of coffee into her hand. She took it with feigned gratitude because Brian's coffee tasted awful. God, she couldn't wait to escape to her own lair and get her Columbian on the go.
“A frenzied start to the day?” Oblivious to her grimace, Brian smiled at her.
His wide, beaming face reminded her of a Teletubby. She smiled back. “Alex was impossible this morning.” She put her mug down on the cluttered desk, pushing it behind an outmoded computer.
Brian chortled. “That sweet little boy? Impossible.”
“You spoil him.” Rachel tried to sound disapproving but couldn’t. Alex needed all the spoiling he could get. His father certainly shortchanged him. She pushed all thoughts of her ex from her mind. “Anyway, enough of my domestic trials and tribulations. What time is the royal entourage expected to arrive?”
“Actually—now, don't panic.” Brian gave a cough of apology. “They are here.”
“You're kidding me, right?” Rachel stared at him in dismay. “And I can see you are not. Don't tell me, Chantelle? Oh, God. But I haven't had time to check the special requests.”
“Er…well….” Brian said. “That's because there aren't any. Apart from getting the arrival time wrong, it seems our dear receptionist's brain was overtaxed, and she forgot to include the form with the confirmation details.”
“Again? Well, isn't that just great.” Rachel’s headache grew worse. She conjured up a satisfying image of the ibuprofen lurking at the back of her desk drawer. “Can you please tell me what I am supposed to do now?”
“You'll muddle through, you always do. Just have a word with his personal assistant…a Miss Mai Owa…Owega…something like that. Don't fret. You will handle it just fine, as always.”
“I'd better.” Rachel picked up the empty file. “Or someone is going to die.” She turned back at the door. “And, Brian, flattery will get you nowhere.”
As the lift carried her up to the second-but-top floor, Rachel scowled at her reflection in the mirrored wall. One of these days she was going to throttle Miss-Clubber-of-the-Year. Chantelle too often ‘forgot’ to do her job. Now she faced the dire task of extracting information from this Mai Owa-whatever. Bitter experience told her it wouldn't be easy. PAs to the stars were notoriously difficult when it came to delivering the goods on whomever they assisted. They guarded their wards jealously.
Opening the door to her office, Rachel gazed at the black leather chair behind her desk. She wished she could sink into it and grab a few minutes of much-needed sleep. Throwing the file onto her cluttered desk, she leaned over and flicked the switch on the chrome coffeemaker. Dear old Brian. He appreciated her need for an early morning caffeine fix. Every morning he let himself into her office and set up the machine.
Watching the water drip through, she smiled, wondering what she would have done without his kindness and support. He had saved her from the long, desperate ranks of the unemployed. He’d offered her the personal assistant job, a position which he, in fact, created for her.
After four years as Brian's right-hand woman, Rachel was indifferent to the many TV personalities, film stars, and divas who frequented the hallowed corridors of the hotel. In her opinion, most celebrities, particularly those in the music industry, behaved like spoiled children. She often joked to Lynn that her place of work was not much different than home: all temper-tantrums and petulance.
For the most part, however, her job remained tedious, hardly the fun-filled, exciting work Lynn imagined. Brian, with her help, ran a tight ship. Complaints were few and far between—except when Chantelle screwed up, leaving her to smooth ruffled feathers and bolster already too-inflated egos…which was exactly what she was going to have to do today. She stared in regret at the coffee jug. Her fix would have to wait. Thanks to Chantelle, she was off to do battle, unprepared and unarmed. So much for Know Thine Enemy! Unlike Lynn, she did not spend most of her day glued to MTV and VH1. She didn't even know what this Daniel Haines looked like. With a heavy sigh, she tucked the empty file under her arm and headed for the lift. * * * *
The lift jerked to a halt, and the door glided open. Faced with silence, she wondered if she was on the wrong floor. She cocked her head to one side. Maybe, even by rock band standards, it was too early in the day for debauched revelry. Experience told her it was never too early. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door of the master suite.
And knocked and knocked. About to give up, she turned when the door flew open. An unusually tall, anorexic-looking Japanese girl glared at her with catlike eyes.
“Yes? May I help you?” The crimson-painted mouth narrowed into a hard line.
Rachel blinked. Bloody hell. Kill Bill Volume One. With one eye on the woman's lethal-looking talons, she held out her hand. “Good morning. On behalf of the management, I would like to welcome you to The Country House. May I come in? I would like to go over a few details concerning Mr…er…Mr….” Furtively, she glanced down at the lone page inside the file. God, how embarrassing. She'd forgotten his name. She breathed easier. Disco Dimwit had at least managed to write that down. “Em...Mr. Haines.”
Black eyes stared back at her from beneath thick false lashes, making Rachel feel like something spewed up from an overflowing drain. Better not to wait for an answer. Her golden rule was never be intimidated by the PA even under threat of a karate chop from this Charlie's Angel wannabe. She stepped into the room.
“Ex-cuse me.”
Ignoring the frosty glare, Rachel cast a surreptitious glance across the squashy ivory leather chairs and sofas. Two pony-tailed men with tattooed torsos sat, lost in their own world as they strummed together on acoustic guitars. A shaven-headed mountain of a man, cross-legged on the floor, wore nothing more than a pair of cycling shorts that left little to the imagination. In a zombie-like trance, he stared at the wall-to-wall television while he pushed fast and furiously on a console control, absorbed by Lara Croft. Rachel supposed he moved his fingers at such speed because of all the guitar playing or drumming he must do. By the size of him, she pegged him for a drummer.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of yet another body in similar state of undress. This man lay sprawled, fast asleep, buried in the pile of wool off-white carpet, head resting in the lap of a stunning blonde. She leaned over him, busy painting her toenails. She seemed unperturbed that she dripped silver varnish all over his bronzed and toned chest. Rachel winced, hoping the drips would not stray. Brian's blood pressure was already too high. Oh, what a familiar tableau: ‘Rock Band at Rest.’ She wondered which one was Daniel Haines? She hoped not the scary one with the PlayStation.
Rachel turned her attention back to the leather-clad predator who waited, talons poised like an eagle's, ready to swoop down for the kill. “You must be Miss Owgawa,” Rachel said in her best BBC pre-Thames-Estuary-era voice. “I'm afraid there seems to have been an oversight on our part. You see—”
“Look, Miss Whoever-you-are, I take care of all of Daniel's needs, thank you. So why don't you go back to your cleaning, or whatever it is you do.”
The PA took a step forward, her yellow jumpsuit crackling. Her eyes widened to the point that she could have auditioned for a part in Dragonball. By now a few heads rose, and Rachel found herself the subject of bemused curiosity. Her uninvited audience was captivated by the floorshow.
Under normal circumstances, Rachel would have backed off, content if the guests stayed happy. But this young woman standing in front of her, a superior smile stretched across her porcelain face, annoyed her. She'd had a bad day from the moment the alarm failed to go off. Tired and irritable, she felt her head pounding louder than an AC/DC drum roll. In fact, she was seriously pissed off. She prepared for battle. “While I am certain Mr. Haines is more than satisfied with your 'services,' it is, however, hotel policy that I deal directly with our guests.”
A faint titter came from the blonde with the nail polish.
The dealing directly with guests part wasn't exactly true, but she was beyond caring. “I demand to speak to Mr. Haines.” Rachel mentally crossed her fingers, hoping the elusive Daniel wasn't already in the room, otherwise, she would look ridiculous.
Miss Owgawa raised herself up to her intimidating height of five-foot-ten, making Rachel think anyone who thought Japanese girls dainty didn't know much. She took a cautious step back, preparing for a quick round of kickboxing before lunch.
“I reiterate: I and I alone am responsible for Mr. Haines' well-being. Now please leave, or I shall be forced to speak to the management.”
Rachel blinked at the venom in her tone. Racking her brains, she tried to remember the moves from the local constabulary self-defense course. “I am the management, so if you please—”
“Would it be too much trouble for someone to tell me what all the shouting is about? I was trying to sleep? What's going on here, Mai?”
Rachel spun around and came face to face with whom could only be Daniel Haines. Momentarily lost for words, she studied Lynn's latest object of desire. He stood about five-ten, five-eleven. Under the black jeans and black long-sleeved T-shirt, she detected lean muscle, the muscle of a natural athlete as opposed to an iron-pumping steroid popper.
He wore almost black hair closely cropped, drawing attention to a well-sculptured profile. He was good-looking but not in a male model almost-too-perfect way nor did he possess a boy band laugh-you-into-bed cheekiness. Daniel Haynes was more the boy-next-door type, the kind of boy whose mother dressed him in Thomas the Tank Engine jumpers until age twelve.
He turned from Mai to look at her. Her breath caught. Daniel Haines had the most beautiful, luminous, deep blue eyes. Eyes big and soulful, fringed by the longest lashes Rachel had ever seen on a man. But it was the way he looked at her that sent her heart fluttering. His gaze seemed to penetrate deep into her soul—as if he could read her innermost thoughts, feel her every mood. Extremely unnerving.
He smiled, full, sensuous lips parting to reveal a set of perfect American white teeth. Rachel revised her opinion from cute to amazing. An insane thought flashed through her mind—what would it be like to kiss that mouth?
“I'm Daniel. Daniel Haines.” The cultured New England accent floated over her, caressing her as he took her hand. “How do you do. And you are?”
He pressed her fingers, and still his gaze wouldn't leave hers. She wished he would look away because she couldn't function. He was sucking all reason from her. In the end, she looked away and pulled herself together. After all, she'd dealt with drunken metal heads. This should be a walk in the park. “My name is Rachel. Rachel Warner. Em…I am the personal assistant to the hotel manager. I….”
“Oh?” He arched one well-shaped eyebrow. “And just how do you 'personally' assist him?”
Rachel caught the hint of a smile. She decided he wasn't that cute after all. Just another pampered, overpriced, bigheaded singer—or whatever he did in the band. She still wasn't sure. But then she looked into those eyes again and saw they crinkled with warm humor—which was more than could be said for Miss “Sushi.” Her feline optics gleamed with malice, thrilled by what she perceived to be her boss' putdown.
“You can personally 'assist' me anytime, suga.”
Rachel turned just in time to catch one of the ponytails flash her a lewd wink. Any other day, she'd have laughed it off. God knows she'd put up with a lot worse, but she'd reached the end of her tether. “Here.” She pushed the file into Mr. Haines' hand. “If there is anything you need, please don't hesitate to contact me. My office is on the floor below. Enjoy your stay.” Turning on her heel, she walked out and slammed the door. As soon as she did it, she realized her mistake. She hurried to the lift, the sound of laughter and wolf-whistles reverberating through the corridor. God, how she wished it was Friday!
Chapter Three
Rachel reached the relative safety of her office just as the phone rang. She lunged for it. Mr. Haines couldn't have complained about her so quickly.
“I'm calling to let you know I can't have Alexander this Sunday.”
Rachel slumped into her chair. A cozy morning tête-à-tête with Richard was the last thing she needed. Arrogant as always, he hadn't even bothered to wish her good morning. He just dropped the little bombshell on her.
“How surprising,” she said. “What does that make it, three in a row?”
“It can't be helped.”
Tone indifferent, he'd no thought for the little boy he would let down. Alexander didn't enjoy spending time at the Thompson family home, but Richard had promised to take him to Silverstone to watch Lewis Hamilton race.
“You are such a pig, Richard.” Picturing her son's disappointed face, tears of frustration welled. “What's the excuse this time? A weekend in Paris? Allison needs to replenish her wardrobe, I suppose?”
“Now, now. Don't be bitchy. It doesn't suit you. In any case, what Allison and I choose to do with our time is hardly your concern, is it?”
Rachel clenched the receiver, wishing she had the guts to tell him to go to hell, and he'd never see Alex again. Instead, she counted to ten and held her temper in check. “While you are on the phone, I'd like to remind you it's Alex's birthday next week.”
“I'm not a complete idiot.”
Rachel didn't agree but resisted the urge to tell him so. “Well….” She crossed her fingers. “It's just that he's desperate for these trainers and—”
“My father has already chosen Alexander's present, thank you.”
Lost for words, she stared at the dead phone in her hand. With a howl of rage, she slammed it down. Swiveling her chair around, she laid her head on the desk as angry, silent tears fell.
“You are not having a good day, are you?”
She sat up, ramrod-straight. Daniel Haines leaned against the open door, his arms folded and gaze fixed on her, probing once more.
“Do you always eavesdrop on private conversations?” Rachel rubbed at her eyes, grateful she'd been in too much of a hurry to bother with mascara.
“The door was open,” he replied in that Yankee tone. “I apologize….” He made a point of knocking loudly. “May I come in?”
Without waiting for her answer, he walked into the room, sat down in the chair on the other side of her desk and stretched out long legs before crossing them at the ankles.
“Make yourself at home…I would,” Rachel muttered. She pulled herself together. He was, after all, a hotel guest and a very important one at that.
For one long moment, he did nothing but stare at her, an unfathomable expression on his face. Then he said quietly, “You shouldn't allow him to intimidate you, you know.”
At first Rachel thought she'd misheard him. “Are you always so presumptuous?” she managed to blurt out.
“No.” He smiled at her. “I'm only concerned.”
A frisson of unease ran down her spine.
He leaned across the desk. “Actually, I've come to apologize for Mai. She can be real possessive at times.”
“Possessive?” Rachel tried not to laugh. “Obsessed more like. I mean I know she's beautiful and probably very obliging, but how can you stand to be smothered like that?”
“Excuse me?” He sat up. “Now who's being presumptuous?”
Guilt caused her cheek to grow hot. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply….”
He waved her apology aside. “Forget it. You are free to think what you want. As I said, I'm here because I believe my crew treated you with less than professional courtesy. Sometimes the guys get carried away. Try and understand. It's hard being cooped up in hotel rooms for weeks on end.”
Rachel couldn't hold back her grimace. Here it comes, the I'm-so-misunderstood-my-life-is-not-my-own sob story. She'd heard it a hundred times over and usually following a night of drunken excess and loutish behavior that prompted a host of complaints from the hotel cleaning staff.
“Interesting.” The smile disappeared. “You're skeptical. Are you judging me? You see me as an underworked, overpaid, and probably oversexed musician. I don't impress you much, do I?”
Her mouth fell open at the astute appraisal.
“You don't know anything about me, Miss…or is it Mrs? I seem to recall a child being mentioned.”
Rachel’s hackles went back up. “It doesn't state anywhere in my job description that I have to discuss my personal life with the guests, Mr. Haines. I….” The words died in her throat. Reaching out to her, he pushed aside a lock of hair that strayed from her ragged chignon. Warm fingertips brushed against her cheek. She shrank back, her reaction born out of habit and her dislike of physical intimacy. She only felt comfortable hugging and touching Alex.
“Please.” His tone caressed. “Call me Daniel.”
“No.” The word left her lips before she had time to think. “I…I couldn't. It wouldn't be professional.” She looked away, heat creeping up her neck and rising to her cheeks. To her relief, he sat back, arms folded.
“You are so wound up.” Amusement etched tiny lines around his eyes. “You do need to chill.”
“I am perfectly 'chilled,' thank you.” She sniffed, more than a trifle irked.
“I think not. You're stressed. I can tell.”
“Mr. Haines, just why exactly are you here?” She was in no mood for American psycho-babble. She shuffled the papers on her desk, feigning efficiency.
“If you must know….” He folded his arms behind his head and the black T-shirt rose up, affording Rachel a glimpse of well-toned, tanned stomach muscles. “I've come to return your form. I know, I could have sent Mai, but I didn't want to be responsible for a blood bath. Quite honestly, I don't know who is scarier, you or Mai. Okay, okay, stop glaring.” He made the sign of the cross. “I'm kidding. Seriously, I couldn't think of anything to write. There’s nothing I need. We are all very comfortable here. My compliments to the man.” Gaze drifting to the shelf behind her head, he sniffed the air. “However…that coffee smells real good. I've changed my mind. There is something I need. A cup of that would just hit the spot. The stuff room service delivers is pretty damn weak. You can put that in the complaints section, if you like.”
Rachel swallowed. He wanted a cup of her coffee? The entire interlude was too surreal for words.
“Do you mind?” The blue eyes probed her thoughts again. “Only if it's not too much trouble….”
“Mind? Oh…no…of course not. Excuse me one moment, please. I'll just...em...find another mug.” Dropping to her knees, she rummaged through the cupboard under her desk for an unchipped mug.
Pushing aside four years' worth of debris, she wished the green hotel uniform had a longer, not-so-tight fitting skirt.
“Having trouble down there?”
Rachel sat on her haunches, her face flushed, cream blouse in disarray. “No.” Clutching a stained cup to her palpitating chest, she got to her feet, stumbling as her thighs protested. “Milk, sugar?” She turned to the machine. By now, she felt hot and bothered and more unruly strands of hair escaped the hairpins.
“I'm hurt. Isn't it your job to know these things? Aren't you supposed to be acquainted with my every like and dislike?”
Rachel spun round, sharp retort at the ready, but then she saw the sparkle in his eyes.
He laughed at her pique. “You really don't know anything about me, do you? Oh, but don't apologize. It's really refreshing.”
Flustered beyond words, she overfilled the mug. “As I said earlier,” she replied with as much dignity as possible with a large coffee stain spreading across the front of her blouse, “there was a breakdown in communication.”
“Don't sweat it, honey. Two sugars, please. Okay, ask away.”
“Pardon?” Rachel blinked as she handed him the mug.
“I'll give you all my details now. What do you need to know? Tell you what….” He sipped at the coffee. “Mmm…great. I'll make it easy for you. A quick, personal bio of Daniel Haines coming up. Here goes…I was born April 12, 1975. That makes me twenty-five and an Aries, if you're into that kind of thing.”
Rachel suppressed a smirk, her Gayometer on full alert.
“No, I'm not gay.”
Rachel squirmed. No but you’re bloody psychic.
“Anyway, where was I? Ah yes….born in Boston, Massachusetts. My mother died when I was seven, but I have a stepmother whom I absolutely do not hate. In fact, we get on well together. My father, the revered David Haines….”
Icy sarcasm hit her full on.
“…is a banker and very, very wealthy. I'm sorry to deviate from the stereotype, but no, I am not trailer trash. To be honest, I don't think I've ever seen inside a trailer, never mind spent time in one. But yet again, I digress. Okay, my childhood. I had a private tutor until the time my mother died and then….”
His eyes clouded over as if he hit on painful memories.
“My father decided I should attend a state school. I was seventeen when I won a scholarship to Juilliard in New York where I studied piano. I graduated with honors, but then, much to my father's dismay, I turned my back, in a fashion, on my classical training and turned to songwriting. I couldn't find anyone interested enough in my stuff, so I put a band together, found I had a voice people liked, and the rest, as they say, is history.
“My personal life. Well, I don't drink—much. I don't smoke, and I don't do drugs, although I did smoke some weed in college but then, doesn't everyone?”
He paused to take a breath. Rachel watched him play with the small, gold ear loop. She didn't like men to wear earrings, but on him, it looked sexy.
He caught her staring and tilted his head to the side, making him look so boyish—and too charming.
“My love life…hmmm.” He rubbed at the faint chin stubble. “I have to confess I am a disappointment to the paparazzi. I tend to behave myself. I do not have a supermodel girlfriend, although I have in the past, but generally I do not screw around. I love kids, and I'm kind to animals, and I never forget birthdays. So you see, Miss Warner”—he met her gaze and he smiled—”I'm just your average, all-around nice, American guy. There, I'm done. Your turn now.”
Rachel spluttered as hot liquid went down the wrong way. “Me? Why on earth would you want to know about me?” Goodness, he was presumptuous.”Oh, you know.” The lazy smile slid back in place. “Quid pro quo and so on. I'm interested, honest. I sense you have quite a story to tell.”
Rachel dragged her gaze away from those hypnotic eyes. “I'm sorry, Mr. Haines, but unlike you, I am not in the habit of discussing my personal life with complete strangers. Besides, there's nothing to tell. I—”
“Okay.” He silenced her objections with a casual flick of the wrist. “No problem, honey.” He drained his mug and stood. “I guess I should be going. Mai will be freaking out. I do believe I have a photo shoot in….” He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “Hell…like five minutes ago. See you around. Chin up, as you Brits say. It can only get better, and don't forget, it's Daniel.”
Before Rachel could utter a word, he was gone. She stared at the chair he’d just vacated, wondering if it had all been a dream. In all her time at the hotel, she had never known celebs, not even a minor one, to grace her office with their exalted presence. Daniel Haines was one strange character.
Jerking open the top drawer of her desk, she rummaged through the collection of pens, rubber bands and general rubbish for her excuse of a makeup mirror. Wiping it clean with a sleeve already edged with dried Marmite, she peered into the cracked glass. God, what a mess. Lynn was right. She needed to do something about her hair. Hard as she tried, she could never manage a perfect chignon. Even when she’d been a ballet student, her teachers had given up on her.
She frowned at the dark shadows beneath tired, hazel eyes, eyes that told her she could have done with an extra couple of hours in bed that morning. Actually, make that days.
Rachel threw the mirror to the back of the drawer and slammed it shut. She might be only twenty-seven, but she felt fifty. Whatever had drawn the illustrious Mr. Haines to her office, it wasn’t her youthful beauty.
* * * *
Daniel stared out of the huge window that stretched from one end of the room to the other. It afforded him a panoramic view of the peaceful Berkshire countryside, but he barely noticed it.
Mai droned on and on, reciting the itinerary of the day—as if he didn't know the routine inside out. Press conferences, photo shoots, sound checks, and so it went. Why she felt she had to hammer out the finer points with him he didn't know. He'd been touring on and off for three years. He didn't need the constant babysitting. Sometimes Mai's efficiency irked him.
“Daniel!” She broke into his not-so-happy thoughts. “Have you heard a word I've said? Parkinson's people are waiting for an answer.”
“Mmm…?” Leaning back against the soft upholstery, feet up on the rosewood coffee table, he scattered her typed lists. At that moment, he couldn't have cared less about Parkinson. Thoughts fixed on the young woman downstairs, his earlier good mood vanished, shattered by fragments of the phone call he'd inadvertently overheard. “Bastard!”
“Daniel.” Mai's eyes widened in surprise. “What is wrong with you today?”
“Don't push me, Mai.” He turned on her. “You're always pushing me.”
Mai jerked her head back as if he'd slapped her while the crew looked up in shock at this uncustomary loss of temper.
“Sorry, guys…Mai. I’m tired, okay?
Chapter Four
Four o'clock. Rachel yearned for home and a cold shower. England suffered in the throes of an unexpected heat wave, but it was hardly Mykonos. Not that she'd ever be able to compare. Her fear of flying was the stuff of legends.
But now, as the lift carried her to the ground floor, the thought of a white, stucco Grecian villa with aquamarine swimming pool was tempting. Even with the air-conditioning on full blast, her blouse stuck to her back, and not for the first time, she wondered why the owners insisted the staff wear their blazers in the summer.
“Well?” Lucy, the evening shift receptionist, leaned across her desk, hungry for information. “Have you met him yet?”
“Met who?” Feigning ignorance, Rachel gave her a list of the following week's important arrivals.
“Aren't we cool?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “Who indeed. Daniel Haines, of course. Come on then, what's he like? Oh, my God.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Here he comes.”
Rachel turned in time to see Mr. Haines walk through the foyer, surrounded by a frenzied barrage of reporters barking out questions while cameras flashed nonstop. Two black giants of men with no necks and bad haircuts flanked him. Their expressions remained blank, but their shark eyes shone deadly. Rachel wondered how she could have missed these menacing bodyguards. She doubted they'd been hiding under the bed. They made Mike Tyson look positively childlike.
Daniel Haines’s expression remained indifferent as the shouting and pushing crowds devoured him into their midst He seemed to take it all in his stride, this way of life, but Mai and minders looked angry. Heads were going to roll. Brian prided himself on his staff's discretion. Someone had made a huge boo-boo. Rachel's money was on Chantelle. She'd probably cut a deal with the tabloids, lured by the promise of a page three contract.
As Mr. Haines stopped to sign autographs, she studied him. Once again he was dressed in black, but he’d swapped the scruffy street bum look for catwalk chic. He wore smart, tailored trousers and knee-length coat. Ever practical, Rachel sniffed scornfully. “Bet he's baking,” she muttered.
At that moment he looked over. Without thinking, she raised her hand and wriggled her fingers, only to drop them again. His gaze bore no trace of recognition nor did he smile in acknowledgement.
Well, she thought, that's put me in my place. She told herself she didn't care. So why did she feel he'd doused her in a cold bucket of water. Whatever possessed her to wave at him?
“He must think I'm a complete and utter unsophisticated idiot,” she mumbled, cheeks burning. But it was more than that. His coldness rankled her. “Oh well, I guess my coffee can’t be that good.”
“What are you wittering on about?” Lucy sighed, resting her cheek on her hand. “How can you think of coffee at a time like this? Oh, what I'd do for a night in bed with him. He is sooo hot. I could just squeeze him to death.”
Rachel let out a snort. “Be my guest.”
* * * *
Rachel opened the door to her two-bedroom, terrace home to be assaulted by Scooby Doo's mournful doggy chatter. The delicious aroma of pasta sauce wafted over from the lemon Shaker-style kitchen, invading her nostrils with the fragrance of basil and garlic. Rachel groaned. Amidst the chaos of the day, she'd completely forgotten her promise to Lynn.
Throwing her bag down on the worn sofa, she bent down to plant a kiss on Alexander's head. He grimaced in that way particular to seven-year-old boys trying to act cool, but then he smiled.
“I got all my sums right today, Mum.” Tiny freckles joined up as the smile broadened into a grin, revealing tooth gaps in all their glory.
“Quite a little Einstein we have here.” Her mum stepped from her culinary domain, wiping flour-covered hands on her apron. “Have you had a good day, love?” She kissed Rachel on the cheek. “You look wasted.”
Alex giggled at the Americanism. Gran was a great fan of Sky One afternoon soaps.
“I've had better,” Rachel replied, not returning the embrace because she didn't do touchy-feely. Sometimes her mum’s mother hen role overwhelmed. At once, guilt reared its head. Rachel thanked God every day for her loving and understanding parents. Without their support, holding down a job would have been difficult, to say the least. They collected Alex from school and watched him until she returned. Not only did they provide free babysitting service, but Rachel always came home to find everything neatly scrubbed and in its place, a delicious meal simmering on the stove.
“Why don't you go upstairs and change?” Ellen brushed an imaginary smut from Rachel's cheek. “I'll dish up my delicious lasagna and pour you a glass of wine. That is, if your father hasn't polished it off.”
Rachel wanted nothing more than to put her feet up with a nice glass of chilled white. “Oh, Mum, I should have called. I'm sorry, but I promised Lynn I would help out tonight. She's picking us up at six-thirty, and then she's promised the kids a burger after class.”
“Wicked!” Alex gave a cheer of relief. He hated lasagna.
“Well….” Her mum raised her hands in defeat. “I suppose it does get you out, although that rubbish is not a proper meal for a growing boy.” She beamed at her grandson. “Still, Gran will pop the lasagna in the fridge. You can eat it tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mum, you're the best. And thanks for vacuuming.”
“It doesn't take me two minutes, dear. It's hardly Buckingham Palace, is it?”
No palace, but it was home. Casting her eye over the plumped-up cushions and polished furniture, Rachel was thankful for small mercies. Despite her troubles with the Thompsons, she owed them her home. She shuddered to think where she and Alex might have ended up. Probably in some halfway house, waiting to set out on the slow and torturous crawl up the council housing list.
“Right.” Her mother interrupted that train of thought. “I'm off now.” She looked past Rachel's shoulder out the back window. “The grass needs cutting again. I expect Dad will do it on Sunday. And Alex's swing needs fixing, by the looks of things. What does he do on it?”
“It's not a swing,” Alex informed her, not looking up from SpongeBob. “It's my spaceship.”
“Well, if your granddad doesn't take a spot-welder to it, your spaceship is going to crash and burn, Captain Kirk. Bye, darling.” She blew him a kiss. “Be good.”
Alex remained too caught up with Mr. Square Pants to pay any heed.
“Oh, no.” Rachel pushed the off button on the remote. “I am not your Gran. That's enough telly for one day. You've one hour until Lynn gets here, so go upstairs and start your homework, or there will be no funpack.” Alex didn't have to be told twice.
* * * *
“Okay, spill the beans.” With the children safely installed in the corner of the dance studio, heads huddled together while they scrutinized Lynn’s National Enquirer, Lynn launched the attack.
“What beans?” Rachel changed into her leotard and dance slippers.
“Don't play the dumb blonde. It doesn't suit you. Daniel. Daniel Haines. Did you get to meet him?”
“We-ll.” Rachel concentrated on tying her ribbons. “In a way—”
“What d'ya mean, in a way?” Lynn was the proverbial Jack Russell with a rat between its teeth. “Either you did or you didn't.”
“Okay.” Rachel straightened up. “I'll come clean. I did but only briefly.” No way was she going to give an account of her bizarre little tête-à-tête with the mega-star. “Anyway, you know I only deal with the PAs, and this one is horrendous, believe me. She makes Lucretia Borgia seem positively sweet.”
Lynn waved this off. “But is he hot? Tell me now before I kill you. Is he as shaggable as he looks on telly? Are his eyes that blue, or is it all photo touch-up?”
“No. It's not touch-up. They are pretty nice eyes, and yes, I suppose he is quite good-looking.”
“Nice? Good-looking? Oh, pul-lease.” Lynn stood at the barre and pliéd. “Oops, but I forgot. I'm talking to the woman who thinks James Blunt is sexy.”
“Well, yes,” Rachel retorted. “I admit it. I think James has a certain charm.”
“Get real. I bet a cup of Horlicks would be more exciting.”
Rachel joined her at the barre, and soon her muscles protested against their overdue flirtation with exercise.
“So…?” Lynn grabbed hold of her left leg and stretched it high above her head.
“So what? Ouch, that hurts.”
“Well, what did he say? Duh.”
Before Rachel could fabricate a credible response, their girls began to file in.
“Saved by the bell.”
* * * *
“The question is,” Lynn mumbled between bites of her cheeseburger, “…y…as…tickets?”
“Must you speak with your mouth full?” Rachel brushed a piece of gherkin from her T-shirt. “No, I didn't, and no, I 'm not going to, so just forget it. If you want to go so much, then buy a ticket like everyone else who is as sad as you.”
“What fecking planet are yew on?” Lynn wiped at the blob of mayonnaise dribbling down her chin. “All three shows were sold out months ago.”
“Aw, shame. You won't be going then, will you?”
“Oh, well.” Her friend gave a resigned shrug of her shoulders. “I suppose I'll just have to make do with the DVD and get me trusty rabbit out. By the way, what do you think of the music change I made? It's his new single. Too wicked, eh?”
“Lynn O'Donnell-Hudson.” Rachel shook her head. “You are seriously scary. Aren't you a little too old to be a teeny-bopper?”
“Screw that. You are never too old. Pass the ketchup.”
Chapter Five
They were late again. Her fault, of course. She shouldn't have allowed Lynn to bully her with her constant cry of “Give the kid a break.” After overdosing on chocolate sundaes, Alex had been sick twice in the night.
“Do I have to go to school today?” he grumbled from the backseat. They pulled up outside the school gates where the children were already lined up for assembly.
“Yes, you do.” Rachel remained firm. “You are much better now.”
“Ooooh!” He contorted with exaggerated pain. “But my tummy hurts!”
Rachel remained unimpressed by such thespian talents. “It serves you right. I told you not to go for seconds.”
“But Tan had three,” he wailed, hand hovering on the door handle, hoping for a reprieve.
“Tanya is a walking waste-disposal unit. Now go on. And, Alex, don't swap your lunch with her. A Snickers bar and a bag of Frazzles are not worth a tuna and salad pita bread.”
“Oh, they so are….” Alex muttered.
* * * *
“Coffee coffee coffee.” Rachel threw her bag on the office floor. She was in a good mood; no arrivals today. “I'm-going-to-have-my-coffee-and-nothing's-going-to-stop-me.”
She sang along to the music Lynn had chosen for the dance routine. “Hey, I'm a poet, and I didn't know it.” Giggling, she poured out a cup of her drug.
“You have a nice voice. Great tune, by the way.”
Rachel nearly dropped the coffee jug. She whirled around to find Daniel Haines, once again leaning in her doorway, arms folded, studying her with the same intense look.
“Don't you ever knock?” The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. She hadn't forgiven the previous afternoon’s slight, although she didn't understand why.
“Don't you ever close your door?”
He walked in and shut the door behind him before lowering a well-sculpted form into the chair. In the words of AC/DC, he was “back in black,” jeans and T-shirt, making her wonder if he was in mourning.
“I couldn't resist the smell.” Clutching his breast, he then pointed at the hissing machine. “Your coffee has ruined me for any other.”
“Perhaps I should get a job at Starbucks.” She made her tone as curt as she dared without getting fired. “Two sugars, wasn't it?”
“You remembered. I'm touched.” He took the mug from her. “Thank you. But tell me; are you always so bad-tempered in the morning?”
Rachel scowled. Superstar or not, he had no right intruding on her space. “Actually, I was in a very good mood.”
“Oh really? So it's me, then.” Putting down his mug, he leaned across the desk. “Look, if it's about yesterday, I apologize. But I didn't think it would be clever to wave back. Too many tabloid vultures hovering, you know. Can't you just see the headlines? Daniel Haines in secret love tryst with beautiful divorcee.”
“Oh….” Rachel bit her lip, feeling stupid for being naïve and, at the same time, embarrassed because her pique had been so visible. Again she made the mistake of looking into the beautiful eyes. She couldn't tear herself away.
This time he lowered his gaze. Leaning back, he tapped fingers together. “Anyway, where did we get to yesterday? Ah yes, you were just about to tell me all about yourself.”
“I was?” Rachel dragged her gaze away from his long, slim fingers. She'd been imagining them caressing her, but his statement brought her back to reality. Bloody nerve of him. Was the life of a superstar so tedious he felt the need to come to her for light entertainment?
“So?” He grinned, flashing those perfect, ring of confidence, teeth. “What's it to be? I believe you were reluctant to talk to me yesterday because I was, and I quote, 'a perfect stranger.' Well, now I'm not. You've known me for what…” he pretended to consider, “…at least twenty-four hours, would you say? I guess that means you could call us friends.”
The light in his eyes seemed to change, the color intensifying to deep indigo. The smile was gone, replaced by a mask of…hurt, as if she'd wounded him. But that was ridiculous.
“Tell me….” The whisper brushed her ear. “Did you love him?”
The question stunned her. “I…I beg your pardon.”
“I asked you if you loved your husband when you married him.”
“Look, Mr. Haines, I don't—”
“Please…just answer my question. You can throw me out of your office after, if you like. I promise I won't complain to your boss, but I'd like to know.”
Speechless, Rachel thought he must be seriously disturbed and that he'd lied about the drugs. The hard glint faded as quickly as it appeared, and he smiled. She must have imagined it. Her stomach did a merry Riverdance jig. No, it couldn't be. He fluttered his eyelashes at her! Talk about sexual exploitation. Puss from Shrek had nothing on him. Oh, what the hell.
“I...” She cleared her throat, looking away before he drove her crazy. “I don't remember. It’s hard now for me to believe I could ever have had feelings for that…for Richard. But then—”
“Did you have to marry him?”
At this point, Rachel gave up on being offended; the conversation was so bizarre anyway. “I wasn't pregnant, if that's what you're implying. Alexander was born two years after we married.”
“Pity.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well.” He sat up straight. “At least that would have been a reasonable excuse.”
Now he sounded creepy. “I suppose that's one way of looking at it.”
“So, what was it then?”
She hesitated before answering; the hard edge to his tone further confused her. “Infatuation, maybe.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose I was impressed by the fact he was older, more sophisticated, or so he appeared to me. I was a silly young girl from the estate while he…well, he seemed to have it all: great looks, charm. His parents had money, you see. The family business keeps half of this town in work, including my father. Until he got rid of him, but that's another story. But don't think I ran after him for money.”
“Far be it for me to judge.” He sounded as warm as a Moscow high-rise in winter. “You were saying…good looks, charm, et cetera.”
Could he be mocking her? She decided not, but she couldn't quite put her finger on his odd expression. Something about him compelled her to continue. “I'd had a crush on him since Year Ten. All the girls did. Not that he moved in our circles, of course. I mean he never came down to the youth club or anything, so you can imagine how bowled over I was when he turned up at our school party and asked me to dance.”
“Yes. I can imagine.” He echoed her words. “What a catch!”
“You are mocking me.”
“I am?” He looked as if he wanted to say something but then obviously thought better of it. He stood. “Well, as riveting as this is, I must be going. Thanks for the coffee.”
With that curt dismissal, he left. Rachel stared after him. She had the niggling feeling he’d wanted to slam the door. “Well,” she said out loud. “He is one weird guy.” The telephone rang, making her jump.