Chapter Twenty-Seven

Christmas Day, Night

Drew rubbed his hands through his hair and down over his face. The stubble – which was fast becoming a beard – was itching again. Weariness was pressing on his shoulders. He sat on the edge of the bed, yawning. They’d settled the house for the night and Lori had gone to her room with her head down, barely looking at him.

His skin felt raw in a way that had nothing to do with the beard and the bloody fingernails. Exposed. They’d sat in the dark and watched the stars like lovers. He’d felt closer to Lori, there in the darkness, than he had to women who had shared his bed. It had felt wonderfully scarily right.

He rubbed harder. Felt, felt, felt. God, he was losing it, big time. He’d known the woman for twenty-four hours. He pulled himself further onto the bed, breathing deeply and evenly. He had to focus, to centre himself. He was a loner. He travelled. He didn’t do long-term domesticity and commitment. So why were frightening words like that tumbling through his head? Stress. It was simply stress. He would sleep and in the morning everything would look different. With a groan he dragged himself upright and began to unbutton his shirt.

An hour later, Drew lay on his back, looking up at the beams of the barn, where they disappeared into the dark shadows of the roof. He’d thought he was too tired to think, but now here he was, awake and staring at the ceiling. After sleeping all night and then napping for a chunk of the afternoon, maybe it wasn’t so surprising that he was wide awake now, his mind relentlessly ticking over.

He was still hollowed out from his episode in the hut – he knew that.

Normally he took time to decompress after one of what Clint called his ‘experiences’. Rest, eat, make notes.

You want to make notes now, about being chained up for three days with a bag of seeds and a bucket?

No … well … okay, maybe. But not right now.

He’d spent the day celebrating Christmas. Something he’d run a mile from for years. And it hadn’t been what he’d expected. You did it. Christmas.

And playing with a child.

He could cope around kids. Lots of his friends had families and their kids seemed to like him. And Misty was awesome – four, going on forty. There was a story there. It was clear from her chatter as they’d assembled the castle that she’d seen Disney – Paris and the US. Lori had taken pictures of opening parcels and painting pictures, but those seemed to have been for Daddy, not Mummy.

A well-travelled four-year-old, who wasn’t spending Christmas with her mother or her father.

And then there was her aunt. Her gorgeous, mysterious aunt.

His breath hitched. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had such a powerful attraction to a woman. A woman you know nothing about – except that she’s a great cook and good with kids.

Kids and cooking? My, my, what a male chauvinist pig you are, Mr Vitruvius.

He grimaced – yeah, well. He couldn’t deny that the idea of Lori cooking in his kitchen and then afterwards, being in his bed …

Groaning, Drew resisted the impulse to bury his head in the pillow. Do not go there.

It had to be mixed up with his depleted state, and the fact that she was the one to get him out of that hell-hole. Obligingly the chain on his arm clinked a reminder as he moved. Back to the new version of Stockholm Syndrome. Falling in love with your rescuer.

Hell, wait a minute, who’s mentioning the L word!

Whatever it was, he had to keep control of it. He couldn’t abuse her hospitality and generosity by coming on to her. Although a couple of times he’d thought … When she’d taken his hand … And then on the landing …

Do not go there.

Lori seemed to be a private person. Although they’d spent the day together, he’d learned very little about her. And he’d respect that. Respect her. Once he was out of here …

He looked over at the window. He’d pulled the curtain back, so he could see out. He could still see the stars. The freak snow-storm had passed.

Tomorrow he might have a chance to hike out of here. Next day for sure.

A shiver went down his spine. He had to get out, in case someone went to the hut. Although it was sufficiently isolated to keep a prisoner, the hut wasn’t that far away, as the crow flew. If they found him gone, would they check the local properties?

Mr Right and Lefty, posing as carol singers?

Well maybe not that, but stranded motorists? That would work.

It was safe for the moment. Nothing much was moving in the snow. He couldn’t envisage pursuers tramping here through the drifts, acting casual.

But once the world started to turn again …

He had to leave. If there was a Christmas gift he could give Lori and Misty it was that.

Lori lay on her side, listening to Misty’s soft breathing. The day had gone quite well, considering. Drew Vitruvius had been an easy guest. A surprising one. Not the man you thought he would be.

Quieter and more subdued. What would you expect after being chained up for a few days in the dark and damp?

Lori chewed her lip for a moment, wondering if he should have had medical attention. He’d seemed okay. Just exhausted. They’d had a good day. And she was proud of herself. She’d kept information about herself and Misty to a minimum. Nothing about writing ambitions and famous relatives.

And the time they’d spent in the Cwtch, looking at the stars …

He’d be gone soon. Back to his real life. And they could go on with theirs.

A Christmas interlude with an attractive man.

Attractive? Is that the best you can do?

Alright, drop dead gorgeous, sex on a stick.

With a grunt. Lori thumped her pillow into a more comfortable shape.

Drew Vitruvius was famous, sought after, poles apart from her world. And someone in his world really doesn’t like him.

Stay well away from Drew Vitruvius.