And the door shut, firmly, in his face.
Chapter Seven
From the way that his eyes, heavy with desire, had been fixed to her mouth and, damn, pretty hot, she’d known he wanted to kiss her. His spurt of anger told her just how much.
A kiss would probably have been a bad idea. For all kinds of reasons.
Like Stef. Stef. And . . . Stef.
She could have told him that she and Stef were living separate lives but right now a man in her life, particularly an angry man with barriers against married women, would complicate her already knotty situation. And she knew little about Martyn Mayfair other than that he kept turning up in shining armour to rescue her from dragons — well, sunburn and thunderstorms — and he had a stalker, which was sad and, as she was pretty freaked by the whole Robina thing, an out-of-left-field complication.
There was no reason for her to feel affronted that Martyn had thrust her from him like a dog that had rolled in something stinky.
So she should just stop.
She sighed. Well, stop then, Honor.
But, before he’d turned so harsh and unforgiving, she’d been all set to drown in those dark eyes and let his lips make real the connection they were obviously both feeling. And as for that incredibly English way he said ‘bastard’ — barzstard. Not basstard. Cute . . . She shook herself. Stop! Really, stop. Not going to happen.
A long soak in a hot bath went some way to easing her stiff muscles. Then, after a quick lunch, she fired up her laptop and resolved to work through her inbox to punish herself for wishfully thinking herself kissed by a specimen of almost perfect male physical beauty. First the mail she’d let build up fromfriends and recently ex-coworkers demanding to be told exactly what the hell she thought she was doing, pinging back the same breezy paragraph to each:Hi! I’m fine, just enjoying a little time out before deciding where I go from here. Be sure to see you sometime.
But the concern from loved ones was harder to deal with. She clicked first onZach:
Hey Honor, you OK? Dad’s stressing. He rang me, checking whether you were hanging with me down in Texas but I told him no. But if you do want to hang here, I’ll still tell him no, if you want. Zach
PS I keep hearing that everyone back in Hamilton Drives is so amazed. I knew Stef’s stunt would make it hard for you but you kind of took people by surprise by leaving.
She moved on toJessamine:
Honor, I saw Stef and he’s totally subdued, wishing he was back in the days when his worst crime was blowing up a mailbox. He says to tell you that he loves you and knows he deserves to be punished but he misses you like crazy and wishes you’d go see him. Love you, sis. Jessie xxx
Honor smiled, picturing Jessie, the image of blonde, pretty Karen, throwing her arms around Honor and delivering those kisses, heavy on the lip gloss.
She left the hardest till last.Dad:
Honor, honey, I’m not going to pretend that I’m in favour of you hiding out from your erranthusband but I guess that’s a conversation for another day. Until you’ve got this fit out of your system, can we please continue to check in with one another? Regularly? Karen says Hi.
I love you.
She returned,I love you, too. I’m really fine, Dad.
When she’d conquered her inbox, restless emotions and incipient muscle stiffness sent her to put up her hair and slap on her sun block and walk out to explore Eastingdean while the sunshine lasted.
Most commercial activity in Eastingdean was centred on The Butts, a broad road, off Marine Drive, of pubs, fascinating stores and places to linger. Honor suppressed a childish snicker at the idea of a street named The Butts. The British didn’t use the word ‘butt’ in quite the same way as Americans but if she were ever to open a shop here it would have to, justhaveto, sell panties and boxer shorts. She could call itCover Your Butts. OrBeautiful Butts. The Butts for butts. The Butts Store.
On the first corner of The Butts was a block of shops called Starboard Walk, studded with enormous pebbles row on row on row. The rest of the stores — no,shops —that lined The Butts were an eclectic mixture of more flint, plain red brick, rendered and painted in white or cream with the occasional pink, or the cross between a house and a zebra that was mock-Tudor.
The butcher’s shop and the one that sold fruit and vegetables were worthy only of a glance and she noted the fish and chip shop for when she hadn’t just eaten. Across the road from the Eastingdean Teapot, the tearoom that Martyn had said belonged to his stalker, she browsed happily around a leafy, peaty garden shop that sold spotted Wellington boots, neat packs of seed, and baskets of hanging plants swinging gently as they waited to be bought.
Her favourite, though, she found at the point where the shops were petering out — Pretty Old. The shop front was stained dark, the bevelled glass windows shone, and the air smelled of dust and beeswax as she stepped inside. From somewhere in the recesses she thought she could hear a radio but, although a tinkling bell announced her as she closed the door, nobody emerged to help her.
It wasn’t exactly an antique store, not like those she’d seen in London’s Chelsea. In Hamilton Drives the sign over the door would have said something about ‘collectibles’.
But, wow. It was crammed with cool stuff.
In cabinets crouched old telephones, from froggy-looking examples in two shades of green to brittle black, dials yellowed with age and a funny cord that looked as if it had been covered in cotton.
Then came the photographs. Faded photographs in tones of grey or shades of sepia; weddings and christenings, parades, family groups and solemn babies in long gowns, all framed in tarnished silver or wood smoothed by age. Even better was an album of postcards that were embroidered in faded silks and sometimes edged with lace.
