Free Ruthless by Jessie Keane Page B

Losing himself in London, then in Paris and deeper in the heart of France, the flight into Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Tenerife – running and running until the weariness overcame him, and with it the need to touch the soil of home once more.
    ‘I’ve been travelling.’ He shrugged. ‘Here and there, you know. Europe. Paris. You’d love it there.’
    ‘Would I?’
    ‘I’m sure you would.’
    ‘Well, one day I must go.’ She smiled her sad, secretive smile.
    ‘I’ll take you,’ he said, looking into her beautiful eyes.
    Orla didn’t answer. She drained her whisky, and stood up. ‘I’m off to bed. You can find your way to your room all right?’
    She’d sorted him out earlier with the room he’d slept in as a boy, put clean linen on the bed, made it comfortable for him.
    ‘Yes. Thank you.’
    ‘Sleep well then, Rufus.’
    Just like that. He sat there in the empty kitchen for a long time, wondering had he misread those smiles, her evident joy at seeing him again. Perhaps it was wrong, a sin to think of a cousin in that way, but he would be her lover in the blink of an eye, given the chance. She knew that. He believed that she had always known it. He finished his whisky and went upstairs to his allotted room – which took him past Orla’s.
    He stopped there outside the closed door, and thought, This is stupid. I want her. She wants me. Doesn’t she?
    The thought of her in there, her silken skin, her hair on the pillow, inflamed him. He’d loved her so long, mourned her, and she was alive, she was his. He reached out a hand to open the door. Turned the handle.
    It didn’t open.
    The door was locked.
    He stepped back in surprise.
    Who the hell has a lock on their bedroom door? he wondered, frowning.
    He tried once more. Yes, it was locked. And no word came from within, she didn’t ask who it was, she didn’t come running, throw the door wide.
    Confused, he walked on to his own room.
    Orla sat up in bed and watched the handle turn. Once. Twice. Her heart beating fast, her limbs frozen in fear, she clutched the sheets against her. Then she heard him move on, and go into his own room.
    Slowly, inch by inch, she relaxed.
    But after that, she couldn’t sleep.

20
    London, 1985
    ‘I don’t think I’m up to this,’ said Annie to herself in the mirror.
    No? Well, you’ve committed yourself to it now, so tough. Get on with it.
    She stared at her reflection. She was wearing a vintage black lace Dior gown, with her hair swept up on top of her head. Before she set off this evening she had accentuated her eyes with flicked-up black eyeliner, outlined her mouth in her usual scarlet red. She looked sophisticated, worldly. Beautiful even. But she was shit-scared.
    However, when she left the powder room and re-entered the busy restaurant her fear didn’t show. She sat down, and smiled across at her date. He smiled back. He was an attractive man with straight dark hair and expressive brown eyes. He wore a bespoke suit, navy blue. He looked good and smelled even better.
    This was their second date. On their first one, he hadn’t tried to so much as kiss her goodnight, thank God. On this one, he just might. Annie wondered how she felt about that. Answer – she hadn’t a clue. She had met him through a connection of Dolly’s. He was divorced too. And a banker, so not sniffing round after her money: he had plenty of his own. Layla had no idea her mum had been on two dates: she’d been away for the first one and Annie had made damned sure she didn’t find out about this one either.
    Annie had moved on, and she was proud of herself for that. After the divorce, she had crumbled. She knew she had. Good friends had helped her pull through a very tough, painful time. A time in which her daughter had completely blanked her. A time during which some days she couldn’t even get out of bed, comb her hair or clean her teeth, she felt so low.
    Bad, bad days.
    But she’d come through all that. She had slowly, surely, rebuilt