It wasn’t until Sunday evening — when she came home, showered, and sat down with no TV, no computer, no music — that the numbness which had been protecting her finally cracked. And she realised exactly how hurt she was.
She’d opened herself up to him, and he’d betrayed that trust. He’d been using her all along. Somewhere beneath the fizz and excitement she’d known it, and ignored it anyway.
Idiot, she thought. I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot who only wants to cry.
Her throat tightened. She scrubbed her eyes with her fists and jumped when her phone pinged.
Him again.
After she’d read the first message, she’d ignored all the others because she didn’t want to read any more requests to meet up. Besides, what else was there for him to say? Sure, Lucy, I invited you to dinner, flirted with you, made you feel special, and persuaded you to stay the night… all because I need you on my side to get my project over the finish line.
She’d been hurt once before by a man who’d lied through his teeth about everything — including that he loved her, and that he was single. Turned out he only loved himself, and he was very much married. The only difference was that she had been very young then, and it had taken her a lot longer to discover what a liar Laurent had been. At least this time, the lies had been exposed before they could cut quite so deep.
But they still cut.
She blew out a breath and sat forward, elbows on her knees, fingers linked so tightly they ached.
Fine. If he’d used her, she’d use the hurt. She would hurt him. And she knew exactly how: he wanted something very badly. She’d make sure he didn’t get it. He needed to learn who he’d been playing with.
And she, she decided, needed to brush up on her business tactics.
* * *
Monday morning found Lucy steely in her resolve to pay Oliver Perry-Warnes back. With interest.
She knew her anger wasn’t only about being tricked for business purposes. Her pride was bruised too. She’d been really attracted to him. Despite her suspicions, she’d been far more invested in their date than she’d intended to be.
That just made her madder.
As soon as the morning rush was over, she left the café in the capable hands of others, checked she still had a library card in her bag and poked her head around the kitchen door.
‘Won’t be long. Call me if there’s a crisis.’
The chorus of derision made her roll her eyes as she stepped outside into the bright morning.
She glanced across at the Old Colonial Hotel. She’d grown up with that façade at the heart of the village. Apart from a few cottages hanging on by the skin of their asbestos-clad teeth, the hotel was the oldest building in the village centre. It had been beautiful once, with its ornate frontage. But time hadn’t been kind: the paint was peeling and dirty, and even the wooden sign had slipped and hung drunkenly like a promise.
Lucy tore her gaze away. She hated seeing things let go. Just as she’d hated how her mother had let the family house slide into disrepair. Although Kate had her reasons. Reasons she and her siblings were working on. The mystery surrounding the ownership of MacLeod’s Cottage would be solved. Lucy would make sure of that.
She’d also make sure Oliver Perry-Warnes was punished for trying to use her to help demolish the hotel. The hotel would not be destroyed. She’d make sure of that too.
She sighed. And Oliver had wondered what there was to do in a small village like MacLeod’s Cove.
She continued along the café side of the street, only crossing the road once she’d passed the hotel. She wasn’t ready to come face to face with Oliver yet. Not until she’d gathered ammunition.
It was only a two-minute walk from the central shops, past the bowling green at the rear of the hotel, to the tennis club. The gate creaked on its hinges as she entered the small garden, bright spring flowers overflowing the beds, and walked up onto the deck and into the clubrooms.
‘Off for a spot of tennis?’ called a young mum pushing a pram.
‘Maybe in another life,’ Lucy retorted.
It was well known she wasn’t keen on sports of any kind. Especially anything involving a ball and/or a racquet. The gym was out too, as was swimming, unless it was in the sea.
MacLeod’s Cove’s littlest library, as locals called it, was housed in the tennis clubrooms. And it was the library Lucy was here for today.
‘Augi! Hi-ya,’ she called, glancing over the portable bookshelves that were wheeled out three times a week for four hours, then rolled away again. It smelled of polished wood, books and coffee.
‘Lucy!’ greeted Augustini, part-time librarian, part-time researcher, and full-time mystery to MacLeod’s Cove. All anyone knew was that she was Greek and didn’t want to talk about her past. The regal bearing and faintly sad expression discouraged questions.
