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She’d texted to tell him that her London agency had phoned and wanted her back urgently for an upcoming job she felt she could not turn down. She was booked on a flight out of JFK and en route to the airport.
Disbelievingly, Rafael stared at the words. Then, as if a blow had fallen, he took the full impact of her message. She was gone. Gone—just like that.
He felt winded, as if he’d been punched.
How could she just pick up and go like that? How could she?
Could she still be upset about Madeline, even after he’d assured her that there was nothing more between them—that all he felt for her was revulsion?
Urgency filled him. He had to go after Celeste right away!
I have to go to her—do whatever it takes to convince her that Madeline is nothing to me!
He called her number. He had to speak to her. But her phone went to voicemail. A crippling sense of déjà vu hit him.
His calls going to voicemail, answer machine...
Her abrupt disappearing acts...
The punch to his stomach came again.
With a razoring breath, he seized his laptop and minutes later had booked an evening flight to Heathrow, then he headed down to the pavement to his waiting car. ‘JFK,’ he instructed tersely, and got his phone out again, retrying Celeste’s number, then texting her his flight details.
Then, as if the devil were driving him, he sat back, staring out with bottled frustration at the rush-hour traffic jamming the roadways out of Manhattan.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE LOW HUM of the jet engines vibrated through the fuselage as Celeste reclined in her seat. Outside the night was dark mid-Atlantic. She was trying not to think, trying not to feel—trying not to be conscious at all. Willing herself to sleep. But sleep would not come.
By the time the plane landed she was living up to its reputation as the red-eye. She looked haggard, she knew, and if she really had got an assignment she would have needed a ton of make-up to disguise the fact. But she wasn’t going to a job—that had been her excuse for leaving New York.
Leaving Rafael.
No—she mustn’t think that. Mustn’t say it. Mustn’t allow it into her head. She must block it totally, completely. Because if she didn’t—
Claws tearing at her, talons ripping her, knives slicing her—shredding her to pieces, into bloodied rags of flesh.
She bit her lip, trying to stifle the pain. Forced herself to keep functioning even if she felt as if she was a walking corpse. A corpse coming through Immigration, walking out into the arrivals area. But not in Heathrow, nor any UK airport. The first plane leaving when she’d got to JFK the afternoon before had been for Frankfurt, and that was where she’d landed. And it was just as well. The unanswered—unanswerable—texts piling up on her mobile told her exactly what Rafael was doing.
Following her to London.
The pain came again. Pain for herself. Pain for him.
I don’t want to do this to him! The cry came from deep within her. I don’t want to do this to him—but I must...I must!
She knew with a sick dread that she could not flee for ever. Could not hide for ever. At some point, eventually, she would have to go back to London.
Face him.
An ordeal she would have given the world not to have to face. An ordeal she could not face yet.
I need time—just a few days...
A few days to accept what had happened.
To accept that everything between her and Rafael was over...
* * *
Rafael was in London. He hadn’t moved from his apartment there since the morning he’d arrived. The morning he’d arrived to find that Celeste had not gone to her flat. Had not gone to her agency. That her agency thought she was still in New York. That there was no urgent assignment they’d called her back for. That they had no idea where she was.
