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The driver smiled and handed Jace a business card. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Mr Ryan. Just give me a call next time you’re in London.’
‘Sure.’ He gave the man a small salute as he drove off, then flicked the card into a nearby bin before walking into the terminal building.
He was never coming back to this godforsaken city again. Not if he could avoid it.
He’d taken a conference call with the buyers he’d chosen an hour ago and set the wheels in motion. Artisan would belong to someone else as soon as the markets opened tomorrow. He’d informed his PA to have his lawyer contact Helen’s solicitors to organise the transfer of funds for her shares. And he’d still have a cool twenty-five mill to invest in his next venture.
He strode through the large, state-of-the-art terminal building, slinging the leather holdall carrying his essential stuff over his shoulder. He’d finally left all those lingering associations from his past behind once and for all. He had no ties to London, no ties to his ex-wife, and no ties to the young, driven and wildly ambitious man who had been so desperate to escape his childhood he’d done things that he’d later been ashamed of.
He was free at last. The last traces of his old life, his old self, were gone. He could start afresh.
The picture of Cassie, her small frame rigid as she walked away from him, flashed into his brain and made his steps falter.
He stopped, shut his eyes, banishing the image for about the five-hundredth time in the last three hours, and ignored the stuttering beat of his heart, and the piercing pain in his chest.
Pull yourself together, Ryan.
She’d done him a favour. He should never have invited her to New York in the first place.
As soon as he got home, he’d be grateful that she wasn’t going to be with him. And he’d done her a favour too. If he’d taken her to stay in his place in the East Village, knowing how she felt—or rather thought she felt—about him, it would have been even tougher to let her down gently when the time came for her to leave.
But even as he scanned the departure hall, spotted the first-class check-in for his flight to JFK and negotiated the snaking queues of suitcase-laden travellers to get to it, the stupid pain refused to go away. He could feel it like a jagged blade, stabbing at his composure again, slicing through his control just as it had done when the door had shut behind her.
Stop it. Stop thinking about her. She was never more than a good lay.
But even as he said the words in his head the pain and panic rose up his throat like bile and called him a liar.
Standing at the desk, he chucked his bag on the conveyor. ‘Hi, my name’s Jacob Ryan, I’m on flight three five three,’ he said to the young check-in girl as he yanked his passport out of the inside pocket of his leather jacket, slapped it down on the desk. ‘My PA, Jeannie Martin, was dealing with the ticket details.’
Just get on the damn plane. Once you’re at fifty thousand feet the pain will be gone.
‘Yes, Mr Ryan,’ the check-in girl said perkily as she tapped his passport number into her computer, scanned it with easy efficiency.
But as hard as he tried to concentrate, on forgetting the memories, ignoring the pain, the sudden crippling sense of sadness, of loss and loneliness that he hadn’t felt since he’d last seen his mother, forced its way past the boulder lodged in his throat, releasing a stream of images that flooded his subconscious in quick succession.
Cassie’s wild hair and indignant pout as she’d hurled herself into his car; the determined frown as she tried to decide on the perfect gift for her best friend; the expectation on her face when she’d handed him the card she’d made—which was tucked in his jacket pocket because he’d been unable to throw it away while he packed; the soft weight of her lush little body curved against his side as they’d left the funfair; the sheen of tears, and the tenderness and understanding in her gaze when he’d told her about his stepfather; and the lilting hope in her voice when she’d announced she was falling in love.
If she’d only ever been a good lay, why wasn’t it the thought of all the really amazing sex he was going to be missing that hurt the most now?
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ryan. But we don’t have your travelling companion’s passport details. And the US Department of Homeland Security requires that—’
‘What travelling companion?’ he croaked, interrupting the stream of information.
‘Ms Cassidy Fitzgerald,’ she said, reading off the screen.
‘But I …’ Just the mention of her name out loud seemed to sharpen the pain unbearably. He swept his hand through his hair, feeling as if bits of him were being hacked off inside. ‘How did you know?’ he said dumbly. Was this some sort of weird alternative reality? Was he cracking up?
‘How did I know what, Mr Ryan?’
‘That she’s meant to be travelling with me?’
The woman sent him a curious smile, then directed her gaze back to the screen. ‘Ms Martin bought her ticket. Online at 1:30 a.m. last night London time. But we did email her to inform her that we would need …’
The woman’s words trailed off as Jace recalled keying in the brief text message to Jeannie the night before, telling her to check availability on today’s flight. And then the memory of the pleasure that had flooded his chest, that feeling of hope, of excitement, of rightness as he slung his mobile on the bedside table and watched Cassie step out of the bathroom. Her face soft and beautiful in the night light, her curves outlined through the wispy silk nightgown as she stood silhouetted in the doorway.
He’d taken her in the lobby as soon as they’d got back from the New Year’s celebration. The passion so hot and raw it had consumed them both. But then she’d rushed off to the bathroom, and he’d waited for her, stretched out on the bed, anticipating how much he was going to enjoy taking her so slowly she begged, now the edge of their hunger had been satisfied.
He’d been so arrogant, so sure, that she was going to say yes to his offer, he’d passed the time by texting Jeannie to let her know he was planning to bring Cassie to New York. And with her usual efficiency his PA had done the rest.
