She put her hand in his and the sensual jolt was like a bolt of lightning from Thor. The urge to retract was strong but the desire to keep holding was greater. Could he feel it too? As she was thinking that, he let go.
‘So, you are… completely independent?’ he asked, eyes meeting hers.
She swallowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean…’ he began. ‘What do I mean?’ He took a breath, vulnerability seeming to get in the way of that initial bravado. ‘I mean… even if you enjoy the trip today so I do not have to take you to the Blue Lagoon… would you like to go out somewhere with me some time? If you are… free.’
Her heart was pounding now and all the cold spray the waterfall was providing didn’t seem to be bringing the temperature down. If you are free. Was he asking her on a date? She didn’t date. It was too difficult and the end result was always going to be the same. Heartache.
‘Gosh! I’m soaking! Look at me!’
Chloe was prevented from answering as Kat arrived back, hair dripping wet, water droplets snaking down her face, coat saturated.
‘It looks like you turned into the waterfall,’ Gunnar said. ‘Bravo.’ He smiled at them both, professionalism back in place. ‘Remember, be back at the coach at half-past.’
And before Chloe could say anything else, Gunnar was walking away.
25
REYNISFJARA BLACK SAND BEACH
This place was somehow a perfect combination of beautiful, wild and rugged. From the black sand on the ground to the towering basalt columns and the sea stacks set against a bright blue sky it was a winter postcard waiting to be admired. And admired it was being, by all the passengers on the south coast tour being noisy, taking videos and getting much too close to the white ferocious froth Gunnar had warned them about. Chloe wondered what it would be like here completely alone, just her and the elements, hearing only the waves and the birds overhead. Then she contemplated how the Sinclairz Chairs group would fit here. Black volcanic sand did not mix with anything pale and she remembered Lincoln Sinclair was very much a cream chinos and Ralph Lauren kind of man…
‘What do you think, Kat?’ Chloe asked. ‘What could I do here for Sinclairz Chairs if we do cheese and mulled wine at the waterfall?’
‘Chocolate fondue,’ Kat said immediately, picking up a pebble from the beach. ‘Or, stack up mini cakes that look like those columns by the cave. Everyone loves cake. Ooo, how about Christmas cake?’
It was too much food and not enough pizzaz. If she was going to convince Michelle that she was partnership material then she needed something as dramatic as this backdrop. Fire.
‘What about some dancers doing a traditional dance with fire?’ Chloe suggested.
‘Oh… fire dancing… oh, I don’t know about that,’ Kat said, words seeming to get all caught up with each other. She dropped the pebble again.
‘Really? Because Iceland is all about fire and ice because of the landscape – the glaciers and the volcanos and?—’
‘I just, you know, fire dancing, it threw me for a minute. Ignore me.’
Kat was beaming now. Too much overplaying of happiness. And Chloe was suspicious.
‘Kat, what’s going on? You’re hiding something from me.’
‘No. No, I’m really not.’
Chloe didn’t need to say anything else, she let her expression and the folding of her arms do the talking.
‘Ugh! Why did you have to mention fire dancing? I mean, literally anything else and it would have been OK.’ She huffed an irritated sigh and let her feet sink into the black sand.
‘Whatever it is, just tell me because I can’t think of anything you could tell me that is going to ruin this wonderful trip,’ Chloe said with utter confidence.
‘You mustn’t let it, Chloe, OK?’
Now Kat wasn’t sounding like whatever she was about to say was not a trivial annoyance at all. She was sounding serious. Chloe pushed her hair back behind her ears and braced externally against the wind and internally for whatever was coming next.
‘Just, whatever it is, tell me,’ Chloe said.
‘OK,’ Kat said, taking a big breath. ‘So, it’s Michael.’
Chloe’s heart dropped like it was a boulder being hurled off the top of the cliff they were standing under. ‘He’s not… died has he?’
