In Her Rival's Arms. Alison Roberts
Suddenly Nic wanted to change the subject but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he didn’t want to be reminded that she was vulnerable. That she’d been a frightened child. That this place was her home. Her refuge. Because it would give her an advantage in the conflict he knew was coming?
That was weird in itself. Nic didn’t let emotions sway business decisions.
This was hardly a business decision, though, was it? It couldn’t be more different from the luxury resorts he’d become known for designing and developing in recent years. And the impulsive decision to buy into Rata Avenue had unleashed so many personal memories. This had nothing to do with business, in fact. This was deeply personal. A step back in time to where he’d spent the most vulnerable years of his own life.
Was that why this house felt so much like home?
He cast another glance around the kitchen. No, this was nothing like the fragments of memory he still had. The kitchen in the cottage had been tiny and dark and it had taken a huge effort from Maman to keep it sparkling clean. There was something about this space that tugged hard at those memories, however. Some of those old utensils, perhaps—like the metal sieve that had holes in the shape of flowers? He dropped his gaze to the floor. To the fragments of the old china embedded in the tiles.
Blue and white were prominent but many had small flowers on them. Like that one, with a dusty pink rose. He almost didn’t recognise his own voice when he spoke.
‘Where did you say you got all the china?’
‘We dug it up. Some of it was in our own garden but most came from next door where the park is now. There was a cottage there that was even older than this place. The council acquired the land and demolished the cottage before I came here but it was a long time before the site was cleaned up so it was like a playground for me. I knew I wasn’t allowed to go too close to the river but once I started finding the pretty pieces of broken china, I didn’t want to. It was like a treasure hunt I could keep going back to. I think that was where my love of flowers came from.’
But Nic wasn’t listening to her words. He wasn’t even thinking of how musical that lilt in her voice was. He was thinking of a china cup that had pink rosebuds on it and a gold handle. He could see his mother’s hands cradling it—the way she had when she’d become lost in her sadness. He could see the look in her eyes above the gold rim of the cup that matched the handle. He could feel the sensation of being so lost. Not knowing what to do to make her smile again. To bring back the laughter and the music.
‘When I’m big, Mama, I’ll be rich. I’ll buy that big house next door for you.’
How could grief be so sharp when it had been totally buried for so many years?
Maybe it wasn’t Zanna’s vulnerability he needed to worry about at all. It was his own.
The pain was timely. He was here for a reason—to honour his parents—and he couldn’t let anyone else dilute that resolution. No matter how beautiful they were.
‘I should go.’ He glanced at his watch. How on earth had so much time passed? ‘It’s getting late.’
‘But didn’t you want to see the house?’ There was a faint note of alarm in Zanna’s voice. ‘There’s still time before it gets dark.’
‘Another time perhaps.’ Except the words didn’t quite leave his mouth because Nic made the mistake of looking up again.
The sun was much lower now and the light in the room had changed, becoming softer and warmer. Shards of colour caught in his peripheral vision as the light came through stained-glass panels and bounced off cut crystals that were hanging on silver wires.
It made that amazing colour of Zanna’s hair even more like flames. Glowing and so alive—like her eyes and skin, and that intriguing personality.
There was no point in seeing the rest of the house but he didn’t want to leave just yet. He might not get another time with her like this. Before she knew who he was or what he wanted. And being with her—here—might be the only way to get more of those poignant glimpses into his own past. As painful as they were, they were also treasure. Forgotten jewels.
Was it wrong to want more?
Quite possibly, but—heaven help him—he couldn’t resist.
‘Sure,’ he heard himself saying instead. ‘Why not?’
* * *
Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to give Nic a tour of the house.
It might have been better to let him wander around by himself. But how could she have known that he would pick out the features she loved most herself? That the feeling of connection would gain power with every passing room?
He commented on the graceful proportions of the huge downstairs rooms, the ornately carved fireplaces and the beautiful lead-light work of the stained-glass fanlights. He knew more than she did about old houses, too.
‘Those ceiling roses were more than a decorative feature.’ With his head tilted back to inspect the central light surround, the skin on his neck looked soft and vulnerable. Zanna could imagine all too easily how soft it would feel to her fingers. Or her lips...
‘They’re actually ventilators. Those gaps in the plasterwork were designed to let out hot air.’
‘Useful.’ Her murmur earned her a glance accentuated by a quirked eyebrow. Could he feel the heat coming from her body?
No. It definitely hadn’t been such a good idea to do this. Zanna froze for a moment at the bottom of the staircase. The rooms on the next level were far more personal. What would he say when he saw more of her handiwork? Could it take away that sweet pleasure that his reaction to the sunflower painting had given her?
He hadn’t stopped moving when she did so his body came within a hair’s breadth of bumping into hers. Her forward movement was an instinctive defence against such a powerful force and there was only one way to go.
Up the stairs.
Maggie’s room was safe enough. So were the spare bedrooms but the bathroom was next and she stood back to let Nic enter the room alone. Folding her arms around her body was an unconscious movement that was both a comfort and a defence.
* * *
So far, the features of this house had been expected. Period features that were valuable in their own right. Things that could be salvaged and recycled so they wouldn’t be lost and he wouldn’t need to feel guilty about their destruction.
But this...
Nic was speechless.
The fittings were in keeping with the house. The claw-foot bath, the pedestal hand basin and the ceramic toilet bowl and cistern with its chain flush, but everything had been painted with trails of ivy. The tiny leaves on the painted vines crept over the white tiled walls from the arched window, making it appear as though the growth had come naturally from outside the house. The floor was also tiled in white but there were small diamond-shaped insets in the same shade of green as the ivy. The interior of the antique bathtub was also painted the same dark green.
‘C’est si spécial...’
Reverting to the language of his heart only happened when something touched him deeply but he didn’t translate the phrase as he walked back past Zanna. She didn’t move so he kept going towards the last door that opened off this hallway.
Directly over the shop, this room shared the feature of a large bay window but here it had been inset with a window seat that followed the semi-circular line. A brass bed, probably as old as the house, had a central position and the colours in the patchwork quilt echoed those of the tiles in the nearby fireplace.
The walls were lined with tongue-and-groove timber that had been painted the palest shade of green. Dotted at random intervals, but no more than a few centimetres apart, were reproductions of flowerheads. Every imaginable flower could be found somewhere on these wooden walls.