Snowflakes at Lavender Bay. Sarah Bennett
I get a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses for me and Beth please, Annie? We’re celebrating her inheriting the emporium.’
Owen suppressed a grin as he watched the pixie try her best to ignore him while she chatted with Mrs Barnes as she served her. She might be only a slip of a thing, but she seemed to contain enough energy for a woman twice her size. If he held his hands towards her, he’d expect to see a current arcing from her towards his fingers, like one of those plasma energy balls. Though she did her best to pretend she was ignoring him, he couldn’t miss the way her eyes flicked in his direction every few seconds. This might get interesting, after all.
He let his gaze trace the pixie from the tips of her black boots to the peacock shock of her hair before leaning into her space a touch closer than was strictly polite. ‘You were wrong in what you said about arse-biting, you know. I’ve always found it very charming.’ That bright red flush mottled her cheeks once more, and he wondered if he’d miscalculated. It had been a harmless bit of flirtation, something that came as easily to him as breathing. Her bold appearance and brash words had given the impression of an experienced woman. The blush told a different story, however.
Clutching the ice bucket holding her bottle of champagne like a shield before her, she started to edge past him before stopping to stare up at him through her thickly mascaraed lashes. ‘What did you want with the emporium anyway? I hope you weren’t planning to sling up a load of ugly apartments like they did at the other end of the prom. They’re a dreadful eyesore, and not the kind of thing we need around here at all.’
The disdain in her tone shattered any sympathy he might have been harbouring towards her—and any other kind of feelings for that matter. The fact she’d hit the nail on the head about the kind of project he was interested in didn’t help either. Owen bristled. ‘Those flats bring a much-needed touch of class to the prom. People want more than donkey rides and kiss-me-quick hats, these days. This place is dying on its feet. You should be grateful anyone wants to invest in a provincial little backwater like Lavender Bay!’
Shock widened her azure eyes, and in their depths he read a deeper emotion, almost like pain. Expecting her to lash back, he squared his shoulders in preparation. When she spoke, instead of sharp and spikey, her voice was soft and full of disappointment. ‘I was right, you’re definitely not from around here.’ With a shake of her head, the pixie walked across the bar and out of his life.
If she’d slid a knife up under his ribs, she couldn’t have scored a more fatal blow. Turning his back, Owen gripped the edge of the bar as her words ricocheted around his brain. Not from around here. Myriad insults and accusations from the past swelled up to join them, forming a tortuous chorus. Bad blood will out. Rotten little bastard. No wonder your mother dumped you. Get back to where you belong. That last one was ironic to the extreme because Owen didn’t belong anywhere. Not in any of the foster homes he’d passed through, and most definitely not in this one-horse excuse for a town.
Bile burned the back of his throat and he swallowed it down with the last dregs of his pint. It was just as well the deal to buy the emporium had gone nowhere. Whatever he’d thought he was doing coming down here—looking for his bloody roots or some such bollocks—it had been a mistake. The only person he had ever been able to rely on was himself and he had the bitter experience to prove it.
Having slammed his empty glass down, Owen marched from the bar. Sod Lavender Bay, and sod big-mouthed pixies who didn’t know a good thing when they saw it. The sooner he got away from this godforsaken little town, the better.
A few weeks after his impulsive visit to Butterfly Cove, Owen was finally starting to feel back on track. Things were running smoothly at CCC—Coburn Construction Contractors—the company he’d built from the ground up. Who needed a grotty old shop in some old-fashioned seaside town when he could be inches away from a securing a client that could propel the business to the next level? After eighteen months of submitting unsuccessful bids to them, one of London’s most prestigious property developers was seriously considering CCC for part of their overall conversion package for a huge disused warehouse area. If Owen could get a foot in the door with Taylors, he’d be made for life.
Feeling pretty bloody pleased with himself, he decided an early celebration was on the cards and put in a call to Claire, a woman he’d been seeing. They’d been out for drinks a couple of times and now seemed like the perfect time to up the ante with a date at Fabiano’s, one of the most exclusive restaurants in his local area. Taylors wasn’t the only deal he was hoping to secure that night.
Placing a hand on Claire’s back a few inches below the end of the glossy blonde mane flowing over her shoulders, Owen steered her through the front door. As a server helped his date out of her jacket, Owen let himself appreciate the way her neutral-toned designer dress clung to every curve. Owen wasn’t on top of the latest female fashion trends, but he knew quality when he saw it. The logo on the handbag hanging from her arm was large enough to be seen from space. Good for her. If you’ve got it, sweetheart, flaunt it.
A couple waiting at the bar for a table turned at their entrance, the man’s eyes lingering on Claire for a few more seconds than was strictly polite. To Owen’s satisfaction, Claire made a point of slipping her free arm through his as she leaned into him, making it clear who she was with. There was no hiding the little smile on her face, though, but that was all right. There was nothing wrong with a woman enjoying being admired; if he hadn’t already been with her, Owen would’ve taken a second glance himself.
‘You have a reservation, signore?’ The maître d’ asked.
‘Coburn. Eight o’clock. I believe you have a corner booth for us?’ Owen slipped the man a tip large enough to make his eyes gleam.
‘Most certainly, let me escort you to your seats.’
They’d just got settled when Owen’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Alex, his second-in-command at CCC had promised to let him know the moment they heard anything from Taylors. Owen glanced across the table to where the maître d’ had been replaced by a waiter who was fussing and fluttering over Claire. Figuring he had a couple of minutes’ grace, he slipped out his phone and opened his emails.
‘Owen? Owen?’
‘Hmm? Whatever you want to order is fine with me.’ He glanced up from the email response he was hesitating over and caught Claire’s exasperated glare. His fingers clenched around the phone. Contrary to his expectations, the news from Taylors wasn’t good. Far from offering to sign on the dotted line, they were demanding a fifteen per cent reduction on a contract already pared down to the bone. Swallowing down his frustration, Owen gave his companion his most winning smile. ‘I’m being rude. Forgive me?’
The ice around her eyes melted a fraction. ‘You’ve not heard a word I’ve said, have you?’ He stared across the corner booth at his dinner date. The perfectly made-up face he’d first admired at a local networking event was currently twisted into a disappointed pout. Owen bit back a sigh. One of the things he’d found attractive about her was that she ran her own business and would therefore—he’d assumed—understand his erratic schedule. Apparently not.
Eyes on the prize, mate. Reaching over, Owen took one of her hands and raised it to his lips in a calculated gesture he’d melted many a frosty heart with in the past. ‘I’m sorry, Claire. I just need a couple of minutes to resolve a work problem, and then you’ll have my undivided attention, I promise.’
As expected, her pout transformed into a delighted smile. Nails lacquered in the same café au lait shade as her lipstick dug briefly into his palm as she squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t mind me, I’ve just been looking forward to this evening ever since you told me you’d booked us a table here.’
Booking Fabiano’s gave the right message to a woman like Claire who valued symbols and linked them to her own sense of self. She’d worked hard for those rewards, and he understood the desire