Playing With Fire

‘“And then” involves me thinking up new and creative ways to keep you distracted from your own thoughts for a very, very long time.’ He lowered his head again and this time let his lips linger against hers. ‘So long that by the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be passed out cold.’

He kissed her a third time, the press firmer. His tongue playing along the seam of her lips in a velvety caress that had her opening to him. The arms holding her tightened, pulling her flush up against his body as he deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth with yearning hunger.

And Annabel was lost. She couldn’t fight the desire he roused in her, even if she wanted to. She raised her hands and sank them into the cool, silky strands of his hair. Worn slightly too long and slightly too tousled, the style hid the fine six-inch line of scar tissue that curved down over his scalp a little behind his ear. Her fingers found it now, that permanent mark of the lifesaving operation he’d had following the stroke she’d learned he’d suffered only a few years back.

With his body pressed against hers, so warm, so vital, so straight and strong, it was hard to imagine that he’d been so ill, paralysed and helpless, his muscles wasting as he lay confined to a bed. The only physical evidence that remained of such a traumatic event was the scar and the slightly lopsided smile that had never righted itself.

That he was here today as he was proved that Aidan Flynn was a fighter. A self-professed dirty one at times, but nevertheless a fighter who was offering to help battle her nightmares with her.

With all that on offer, quite frankly, the argument could wait until morning.

‘Take me to bed, then,’ she murmured against his lips.

He did. And it wasn’t until a long, long time later that they found out whether his plan worked.

Annabel managed a solid four hours of exhausted sleep before the terror of another nightmare woke them both.

Chapter Six (#ulink_a6fc08ad-d79e-545c-8fe6-eca0a2f48063)

Good luck.

Annabel read the text message that came through from Aidan. Even though he was busy in Ireland he apparently could still find time to remember, almost to the very minute, her appointment today.

His thoughtfulness made something warm and cosy unfurl within her chest; a sensation that felt much scarier than it sounded, especially as it seemed to be happening more and more often, and there was no way for her to control or protect herself from it.

Thanks, she sent in reply before switching the phone to silent and sliding it back into the bag sitting on her lap. Clasping her hands together atop the leather, she aimed her gaze at the framed print of a generic pastel landscape on the wall opposite. This wasn’t the time or place to let thoughts of Aidan Flynn unsettle her nerves.

Because, much to her own surprise, this was the second time in as many weeks she’d found herself waiting in the carefully decorated blandness of her local Victim Support offices. Following the sneaky ambush Aidan had sprung on the night he’d come to pick her up from her flat, she’d known that neither he nor her mother would give up on the subject of getting the help they thought she needed for her nightmares. She’d figured the easiest way to get them off her back, or to stop them going behind it and setting up something themselves, was to agree to make an appointment.

By taking the initiative, at least she got to stay in charge and make the choices that seemed right for herself. And, after weighing up various options, she’d decided that the Victim Support service sounded most suited to her needs, not least because the terminology they used sounded so normal. There was no counselling this, or therapist that, no sessions, nothing to imply that she was in any way mentally weak or unstable. There were just nice, straightforward-sounding visits with volunteers.

Aidan had insisted on delivering her here for her first visit, which she found pretty hypocritical of him considering the way he went on about her supposed issues with trust. But again, for the sake of getting this whole unnecessary exercise over and done with as quickly and easily as possible, she’d decided to go along with it, even though it had meant cutting off any chance she’d had of ducking out. She’d figured she’d only need to get through an hour, after all, to satisfy everyone’s concern. After that she’d insist that one session was enough and she could regain control of her life. And not a moment too soon. It seemed she was doing a lot of giving in to other people’s demands, all of a sudden.

In the event, giving into this particular demand had turned out nowhere near as bad as she’d feared. She’d been introduced to Susan, a friendly, practical woman of around her own age whose fashion sense ran to smart urban without a string of hippy beads or pair of woven hemp sandals in sight. Thankfully, there’d been none of the touchy-feely New Age jargon she’d been dreading either.

Nevertheless, walking into the meeting room she’d been as uncomfortable as she’d ever been. No doubt sensing Annabel’s initial reticence from her stiff, monosyllabic answers, Susan had allowed her time to unbend by turning the spotlight on herself. Filling what would otherwise have been a series of awkward silences with a little of her own background, she’d explained that she was also a survivor of an assault, who’d been inspired to become a volunteer after the help she’d received from the service.

Annabel had been surprised enough by Susan’s candid manner to forget about her own self-consciousness long enough to start talking. And once she’d started, it turned out she had quite a bit to say. Verbalising the events of the attack hadn’t caused anywhere near as much upset or panic as she’d envisaged. In fact, taking the time to inspect the half-hazy memories in order to lay them out in sequence actually helped her view them more calmly, feel more in control. That’s why, when her hour had ended before she’d known it and Susan had asked whether she’d like to make another appointment, she’d agreed to come back.

It had all been surprisingly easy. As was her budding ‘go slow’ relationship with Aidan, despite all his overbearing tendencies. A part of her at least was beginning to recognise that he did things because he cared, and an even smaller part was beginning to learn to grudgingly accept that. Used as she was to being alone, it wasn’t always easy, but, with Aidan’s unique brand of ruthless patience, she felt she might eventually get there.

Between her work commitments and Aidan’s numerous trips to Ireland, they’d found the opportunity to squeeze in a few more dates over the past couple of weeks. They’d ticked the boxes marked ‘dinner’ and ‘show’ and had even been ice-skating. And the week after next, to coincide with her scheduled double day off work and Aidan’s return from his latest trip to Ireland, they were graduating to a night away.

‘Annabel?’ At the sound of her name she looked up to see Susan making her way across the waiting room with a warm smile. ‘Lovely to see you again. Would you like to come through?’

Noting the short, printed skirt teamed with a great-fitting cashmere sweater and knee-high black suede boots, all of which reaffirmed her first impression of young, fashionable, normal, Annabel felt the nervousness she’d been trying to ignore suddenly ease. She stood and shook the proffered hand. She could do this.

* * *

A fortnight later, Annabel and Aidan set out from London in weather that, for a late March morning, was glorious. An early spring sun shone down from a cloudless, powder-blue sky, lending an unseasonable warmth to the air.

With the heat of that sun on her shoulders, and the wind tugging at the ends of her braided hair, Annabel felt lighter, happier than she could remember being in … well, in far too long.

It wasn’t only the bright weather lifting her spirits, she knew. It was also the bike that surged powerfully beneath her, the sense of freedom and excitement the sleek black and chrome Triumph Thunderbird inspired as it sped her away from her everyday life.

And, yes, being wrapped around the fine, leather-clad figure of Aidan Flynn definitely didn’t hurt. Closing her eyes against the outer-city scenery streaming by, she tightened her hold around his waist and nestled closer against his back, resting her helmeted head between the blades of his broad shoulders. With the world shut out, it was easy to feel every movement he made – each breath inflating his chest, every shift of weight pulling the flat planes of his stomach taut as he navigated skilfully through the mid-morning traffic with a natural confidence that left her feeling relaxed, trusting. Not only was Aidan Flynn irresistibly sex-on-a-stick lickable, he was starting to feel … safe.

He was also a man of his word. Keeping to his promise of dating her properly, he’d arranged a night away in a luxury country-house spa hotel somewhere near the city of Bath. In honour of the occasion – a first for her – she’d bought a new dress and swimsuit, which were currently stowed with the rest of her gear in one of the bike’s panniers.

Joining the M4 motorway, they left London behind at speed. They stopped after about an hour for coffee and refuelled before resuming their journey on more scenic A and B roads.

It had been a while since she’d been outside the capital, and more than twenty years since she’d ventured so far to the South West. As much as she enjoyed the journey and sightseeing, she was so looking forward to being wined and dined and pampered that she found herself counting down the miles on the road signs they passed.

When they reached a major roundabout and continued past the first exit signposted to Bath, she guessed they were drawing near to their destination. However, when they merged onto a fast-moving A road heading north, and sped along it towards Gloucester, a new alertness started to seep into her carefree mood.

Where exactly were they headed? Thinking back on their discussions, she realised she had no idea of the specifics beyond Aidan’s vague mention of Bath and his more animated description of the innovative biodynamic kitchen garden the hotel used to supply the in-house restaurant, from which he hoped to garner some ideas for incorporating a similar scheme into his Tulaí venture.

But, whizzing along in the fast lane with the throttle open, she noted they were heading well away from Bath and showing no signs of slowing down. She felt a twinge of unease as the road signs on their new route began to feature names she recognised from a long time ago, names like Malmesbury and Stroud that told her they were heading north, towards the heart of the Cotswolds.

Surely, with the entire South of England countryside to choose from, he couldn’t have happened to choose the one area she never wanted to see again as long as she lived? An area filled with too many heartbreaking memories. What were the chances of that?

The slightly sick feeling of apprehension rising in her stomach told her she couldn’t take the risk of waiting to see. She needed to find out exactly where they were headed. But with little traffic to slow them down on the long stretches of country road, Aidan seemed lost in the pleasure of putting the bike through its paces, keeping their speed high enough to make communicating difficult.

Realising the danger of distracting him too suddenly, she tried to get his attention by squeezing him around his waist. After a couple of attempts, she felt their speed drop a little, felt Aidan shift as one of his gloved hands covered hers and squeezed back. Relief had barely begun to register before he leaned forward to grip the handlebars again and, with a renewed kick of power, the bike surged forward once more.

What? No. He’d misunderstood and now they were going even faster than before. She tried squeezing him a few more times, but the action was obviously failing to convey her urgency as they kept motoring along regardless. As the name Tetbury began to appear with increasing regularity her alertness grew into apprehension – that was a place that really was too close to the past for comfort.

Cautiously, she loosened one of her arms and tried to get Aidan’s attention by tapping him on the ribs.

Thank God that seemed to work. She felt the power throttle back and the bike begin to slow. Aidan’s hand covered hers again, giving a brief pat of acknowledgement. Ahead, she saw a crossroad junction and realised they were slowing their approach. Good, that would give her the opportunity to tell him to pull over, turn around. And not a moment too soon, she realised with a lurch of panic. With the signs ahead pointing left to Wootton-under-Edge and right to Tetbury, Annabel suddenly realised precisely where they were.

As they rolled to a slow speed, she began to loosen her hold around Aidan’s waist, prepared to flip up her visor to shout at him, or take the opportunity to dismount if necessary. But she found herself stopped by a sudden firm grip encasing her wrists, trapping them in place. Before she could even think to pull herself free, the grip was gone and the bike jumped forward again, throwing her off balance and leaving her instinctively to grab on tight.

Her heart leaped into her throat as she realised they were turning right. No. This couldn’t be happening. Panic took hold, desperate, helpless panic, as though she were racing head-on towards a cliff edge with no way to stop, no way to turn, no way to get off.

She fought the rising sense of light-headedness that had little to do with the sudden twists and turns of the narrow country lane as it wound through hedgerow-fringed fields and into the dappled shade of a small wood. Even before they rounded the final turn that would take them out of the trees, she knew what she’d find. The small roadside sign announcing that they were entering the village of Marton Chilbury, and just beyond that …

She thought about closing her eyes as they rode past, figuring that, if she didn’t look, she could pretend it wasn’t there. Yet when they rounded the bend, she found her eyes drawn to the exact spot she wanted to avoid. There, on the lefthand side of the road, where it had stood for hundreds of years, was an old thatched coaching inn. The place she’d once called home. The White Harte.

A cry of disbelief escaped her when she registered that Aidan was slowing the bike and pulling into the entrance of the carpark. She realised she’d been holding her breath for too long when her vision blurred and a rush of dizziness assaulted her, making her feel like she was going to throw up, or pass out. Or quite possibly both.

She tried to fill her lungs but within the close confines of her helmet she couldn’t seem to find enough air. What had happened to all the oxygen? She began to gasp, but that only made the dry, tight feeling in her chest grow worse.

She couldn’t breathe. She needed to get the helmet off or she was going to suffocate.

Barely waiting for the bike to stop, she jumped off, stumbling in her haste and nearly ending up flat on her face. Her knees felt too weak to hold her up so she let herself drop to them as she fought to pull the helmet off.

Her sense of panic increased as she realised it was stuck. Holding it tightly between her hands she tugged harder. It was only then she remembered the chinstrap. She tilted her head back, finding herself blinded by the sun shining on her visor, the rasping sound of her sobbing gasps filling the confined space as her gloved fingers, numb and clumsy, scrabbled to release the strap.