Christy McKellen - Holiday with a Stranger

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Josie woke late the next morning.

After failing to resuscitate her laptop she’d scribbled down as much as she could remember from the tender document, trying not to let panic sink its teeth into her, before falling into a fitful sleep. Her senses had been on high alert following the run-in with Connor, and every creak and groan in the old property had made her jump. She’d finally dropped off just as the birds started their dawn chorus, exhaustion winning the battle over her adrenalised body.

She lay staring at the ceiling, cursing her bad luck. It hadn’t been the best few weeks ever and it didn’t look as though things were about to improve any time soon. Hopefully her computer would dry out and boot up again in a few hours, so she wouldn’t have to spend the next week reconstructing the whole document. If not—well, she’d have to find a repair shop somewhere and see if it was salvageable. More delays. Just what she didn’t need. Just what the business didn’t need.

And she had another problem now. Abigail’s brother was obviously annoyed to find someone else using his house—which was understandable; if she’d come home to find someone in her bed she’d have been totally thrown too—but she’d promised Abi that she’d have a proper break away after the whole humiliating debacle at work.

If only she hadn’t lost her cool and flipped out like that in front of everyone perhaps Abi would have taken her worries about the state of the business more seriously. She’d ended up looking like a total loon.

No wonder her business partner had been so firm about her staying here for a couple of weeks—in her words ‘to give everyone a chance to calm down and work things through’—and she hadn’t wanted to argue and strain their precarious relationship further. Agreeing to a couple of weeks here had seemed like a sensible compromise, but Connor wanting this place too had thrown a spanner in the works. She really didn’t need the hassle of finding some faceless hotel to stay in during peak season. Anyway, this place was just as much Abi’s as Connor’s, and she’d arrived here first.

With newfound determination she tossed back the covers and slipped out of bed, pausing for a moment to luxuriate in the feel of her toes digging into the soft Persian rug before going to the antique wardrobe to find some clothes. Grabbing a pair of jeans and a loose T-shirt, she pulled them on, then stripped the king-sized brass bed, bundling up the sheets ready to stick in the washing machine.

When she’d arrived a few days ago she’d been blown away by the beauty of the place. She’d expected a rundown holiday home in the middle of nowhere. Instead she’d found a characterful farmhouse a twenty-minute drive from Aix-en-Provence.

It had a large kitchen diner and a cosy, snug downstairs, complete with battered leather sofas and an old wood-burning stove. The air smelt delicious—like herbs and woodsmoke and sunshine. Nothing like the sanitised holiday lets her mother had used to scour with foul-smelling disinfectant when they first arrived on their interminable family vacations. Upstairs there was a large bathroom with an enormous claw-footed bath and a separate shower cubicle, along with a beautiful antique vanity unit. Worryingly, she remembered, of the three bedrooms only one was furnished: the one she was currently sleeping in. The others looked as though they were being used to store various strangely shaped equipment and large crates of goodness only knew what.

So only one bed.

She needed to talk to Abigail’s brother and find out his plans. Then, if he meant to stay, gently persuade him to change them. Or maybe not so gently, if it came to that. The last thing she needed was someone asking questions and spoiling her fragile peace. She was going to do her time here, prove to Abi that she was fit and rested enough to come back to work, then get on with advancing the business.

She was used to hard bargaining at work; compared to that, this ought to be a relatively easy battle to win.

Glancing at herself in the mirror, she was confronted with a scary sight. Her normally immaculate sweep of blonde hair was mussed and sticking out at odd angles after she’d slept on it wet and she had dark circles under her eyes.

Once she’d pulled a brush through her hair and tied it back in a tight bun she splashed her face with cold, reviving water from the white porcelain sink in the room. That would have to do for now. First breakfast, then a shower, then a confrontation with Connor Preston.

Descending the stairs, she was hit by the tantalising aromas of fresh coffee and bacon.

He was up already.

There was a mound of mud-splattered bags at the door and a pair of large hiking boots leant haphazardly against the wall in the hallway.

What big feet you have, Mr Preston.

Her memory of him was blurry this morning, as if she’d dreamed him.

No such luck.

He was standing at the stove with his back to her, but as she moved quietly into the kitchen he turned around. Her insides lurched as they made eye contact.

‘Good morning. I trust you found my bed comfortable?’

His voice was a low rumble, but a little friendlier than the previous night. And, yup, he was just as impressive as she remembered. An unwelcome tingle tickled the base of her spine.

Think of it as a business negotiation, Josie. Do not let him charm you. You are a strong, capable woman. Take control.

‘Yes, thanks,’ she replied lightly. She would not apologise for not budging last night. She didn’t want him to get the impression she was some sort of sappy push-over and lose any advantage she might have.

He gestured towards a seat at the table with a lazy flick of his hand. ‘Sit. I’ll get us some breakfast and we’ll talk.’

His commanding tone rankled, but she ignored it and took the seat opposite him, straightening her spine and leaning into the table, ready to fight her corner. She needed to choose her battles wisely here.

He had quite a presence. A big man, with a natural strength and a broad build, he certainly looked powerful, but not pumped up like a boxer or a body-builder. Intimidating.

She wasn’t used to feeling dwarfed. Her six-foot frame usually afforded her a sense of authority, but she wasn’t feeling the power of it with him around.

He took a break from stirring the eggs to run a hand through his shaggy blond hair, swiping the fringe out of his eyes. Something about this simple action sent a frisson of excitement through her. What the hell was wrong with her? Clearly she hadn’t had enough sleep. She laced her fingers together under the table to stop them twitching in her lap.

In a daze, she watched him pour coffee into large earthenware mugs and pile bacon and scrambled eggs onto plates. After sliding them onto the table he sat opposite her and began to shovel food into his mouth without even glancing her way.

It took him less than two minutes to clear his plate, and afterwards he leant back in his chair and waited patiently for her to finish. Josie could feel his gaze burning into her skin, but forced her eyes to look down at her plate, willing her hand to stay steady as she forked eggs into her mouth.

Finally, pushing her plate away, she picked up her coffee and looked at him. He continued to observe her without breaking his gaze. She could sense the force of his will, digging away at her defences. He clearly didn’t want her company any more than she wanted his.

Her heart played in quick time against her chest, but she didn’t look away.

This must be the way he wins his battles, Josie thought. By silent intimidation. He’d just wait for her to break and say she’d leave. She’d come across this strategy before at work. Being a woman in a high-powered position meant she had to deal with this kind of resistance a lot, and she’d become pretty good at fielding it, so instead of looking away she stared right back.