Page 71 of Coming Home to Sturcombe Bay
She shook her head. “Don’t be. It’s nobody’s fault. These things either work or they don’t. You can’t force it. It was probably silly of me to try to push it along by coming down here.”
“No, it was . . . I’ve enjoyed your company.”
“But nothing more. It’s okay,” she assured him. “I could see it in your eyes from the start. Or rather, I couldn’t. I know howa man looks at me when he’s hooked, and you’ve never looked at me like that.”
“I should have.” He smiled. “You’re very beautiful.”
“I know.” She laughed dryly. “Good for me. I get paid a great deal of money to be beautiful.”
“You’re also a very nice person.”
“So are you.” Her eyes were warm. “You’ve tried very hard to pretend that you were feeling something when you weren’t, just to make me feel okay. Thank you for that — even though it really wasn’t necessary.” She took another sip of her wine. “My agency rang this afternoon. They’ve lined me up a shoot in Edinburgh on Friday. I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Oh. I . . . don’t really know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything, except goodbye.” She put down her empty wine glass and rose to her feet. “I hope you’ll find someone who is right for you – you really deserve to be happy.” She leaned over and kissed him briefly on the lips. “Goodnight – and goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
He watched her walk away, then leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. So that was that. It had been a mistake to let himself get tangled up with her in the first place.
Finishing his coffee, he rose to his feet and strolled across the reception hall. Pete was at the desk, working through the night audit, so he stopped to say goodnight.
“So she’s leaving then, your friend?” Pete was an inveterate gossip.
“That’s right. She was only here for a few days. She’s got a photoshoot in Edinburgh.”
“Ah. Pretty girl.”
“Yes.” Liam smiled. “Very pretty.”
“Young Cassie’s left, too — with that Australian chappie. Big lad, blond hair. Name of Douglas Lee Campbell the Third. Donewell for herself there. Billionaire, he is. Owns a whole string of water-sports resorts and things down Australia and New Zealand. Went off this morning, early, in that fancy car of his. Don’t suppose we’ll be seeing her back here now.”
“No . . . I don’t suppose we will. ’Night, Pete.”
He thrust his hands in his pockets and strolled out into the night. So Cassie had gone — as he’d known she would. It was probably just as well that she had left — before Robyn got too close to her.
Well, at least he was sure of one thing now. He wasn’t going to let himself get involved with any other women, not for a long time. From now on it would just be him and Robyn, and his family. That was enough.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and found the app for the dating site he had used, and scrubbed it. There — gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Cassie stood on the balcony of their suite, gazing out over the jumbled rooftops of London. Though it was almost one o’clock in the morning it wasn’t quiet. The noise of traffic drifted up from the streets below — the heavy grind of a refuse truck clearing the black rubbish bags from the shop doorways, occasional bursts of voices and laughter from late-night revellers.
They had reached London in record time. Cassie could only hope that if they got stopped for speeding, Dougie would be able to use his Aussie charm to wheedle his way out of a ticket.
The London traffic didn’t faze him at all — he just ploughed his way through, though fortunately consenting to stop for traffic lights.
She might have guessed that he would book a suite at one of London’s most exclusive hotels, all Art Deco and immaculate staff. She had barely had time to dump her bag when he had dragged her out to grab a bite to eat then called up an Uber to take them to the Tower of London.
He’d been fascinated by everything, listening avidly to the yeoman who conducted their tour with tales of imprisonments and executions, gawping at the Crown Jewels, admiring the sleek, glossy ravens. And, of course, his favourite was the armoury, particularly the chance to draw a real longbow.
Then they’d walked down to the riverside, and he’d been as excited as a five-year-old kid when the huge bascules that carried the road across Tower Bridge had risen to let a tall sailing barge through.
How could you not love a man like that?
They’d arrived back at the hotel with time for a quick shower and change of clothes before dinner. Fortunately Cassie had found a pair of smart black trousers among the things hangingin her old wardrobe, and a nice black-and-white silk top, so she hadn’t felt too out of place in the opulent restaurant.
