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No man got to waltz into her life, waltz back out again, turn her into a basket case and then kick her while she was down.
She’d invented the man she thought he was. The sensitive, traumatised boy who’d become a man of such rigid control that he’d closed himself off from even the possibility of love.
That had all been an illusion brought about by sex and emotion and a lack of sleep—and her own stupidity. Callum Westmore wasn’t the troubled, turbulent man she’d discovered over that long-lost summer weekend. She’d always been impulsive, passionate, and reckless—and in Callum she’d met a man who knew how to exploit that, by giving her an out-of-body experience in bed. Probably not unlike the man who had once made her mother forget the man she loved for one night of thoughtless passion.
She closed her fist over the cheque, stabbed the button again, ready to throw the offending scrap of paper in his face when he opened the door.
But, he didn’t.
Damn, he wasn’t in.
The letterhead on his note had included an address in Lincoln’s Inn, one of the prestigious Inns of Court in central London. Forcing her mind to engage, she flagged down a cab.
He must have his chambers there, and on a Friday morning he was probably working. She was in no condition to drive—and she needed to stay in one piece until she confronted Cal and told him where he could stick his insulting offer.
When she arrived at the hallowed oasis of historic buildings and manicured garden squares tucked behind the Strand, the imposing eighteenth-century façade of red stone and leaded gla
ss only fuelled her temper. Was it any surprise that Cal would never be able to appreciate what she had to offer? They came from two different worlds—he righted wrongs for a living and she baked cupcakes. The connection she’d felt so strongly in Cornwall seemed a million miles away in the lofty legal environs where Callum Westmore QC had forged a meteoric legal career.
She had led with her emotions instead of her intellect and she supposed she deserved to be punished for that, but she didn’t intend to be the only one suffering.
It took her ten minutes more to find the building that housed the chambers referred to in Callum’s letter. Polished oak panelling and centuries-old stone masonry made the place reek of gravity and importance—doing nothing to quell the inadequacy twisting in Ruby’s stomach. Entering a large room full of men in suits, Ruby was directed to a fresh-faced young man sitting at a desk piled high with files.
‘I need to see Callum Westmore,’ she blurted out, grateful that her pitch was only slightly shrill.
The man’s gaze flicked down her figure and she realised she still had her flourstained pinny on. ‘You’ll have to make an appointment.’
She stifled the blush. ‘Is he here?’
‘He’s in court.’ The man glanced at his watch. ‘And he has another case at twelve. So he won’t be able to see you today.’
‘Could you please just contact him and say Ruby Delisantro is waiting? It’s personal.’
Hysteria bubbled under her breastbone at the thought that she couldn’t contact him herself. How could he have come to mean so much when his phone number wasn’t even programmed into her mobile? She clamped down on the urge to run, suddenly unsure and confused.
What was she even doing here? What did she hope to achieve? Was this really just some pathetic excuse to see him one more time? What had become of the smart, confident, self-assured woman she’d always believed herself to be?
The young man kept a watchful eye on her as he made the call in hushed tones. He put down the phone. ‘If you’d like to wait over there,’ he said coolly, indicating two leather armchairs placed at the corner of the office, ‘he’ll be here shortly.’
The rapid ticks of her heartbeat pummelled her ribs as she stood next to the chairs and watched the heavy oak entrance door—only too aware of the many pairs of eyes she could feel boring into her back. Clearly Lincoln’s Inn wasn’t often graced with irate pastry chefs on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Cal strode in moments later. A flowing black robe draped over his broad shoulders and billowed out behind him, accentuating his tall frame and dark, compelling features. The green gaze locked on hers. ‘Ruby?’
Her breath caught and for a second that seemed to last a lifetime she stood rooted to the spot.
His lips curved into a sensual smile as he crossed the carpeted lobby area towards her. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, the casual pleasantry given an erotic overtone by the rough murmur of his voice.
Ruby drew in a staggered breath.
How could the memory of those firm lips on hers, those long, talented fingers stroking heated flesh, still be so vivid? How come she could still recall the exact shape of his chin, the flecks of moss green in the emerald hue of his irises, the woodsy scent of his shampoo? How could the rough, steady tone of his voice still heat her insides like hot chocolate? She thrust her hand into the apron pocket before she gave in to the desire to plunge her fingers into his hair—and touched the cheque. Misery and fury tangled in her belly, right alongside the desire and the wistful tug of longing.
Closing her fist over the scrap of paper, she threw it at him. ‘I came to give you this.’
One dark brow winged up. Shifting his gaze to the floor, he bent to pick up the crumpled cheque. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m not your whore, that’s why,’ she snapped, the words remarkably calm and clear considering her throat had thickened so much it was blocking off her oxygen supply.
The other brow arched up his forehead. ‘When did I ever say you were?’
