The Billionaire and the Wild Man Page 8

  “Actually, Mum, I love Indian food. The hotter the better, in fact.” Just how I like my men as well. Flynn is the vindaloo of guys.

  “Oh, right. Well, I only like korma. Don’t want to blow my head off.”

  That’s only the start. Everything I pick up, Mum shoots down, and by the end there’s nothing in her trolley that she wouldn’t have chosen herself.

  “I’m going to grab a couple of bottles of wine. What color do you prefer?” I ask as she eyes up the queue lengths.

  “I don’t drink, dear. Horrid stuff, fruit of the devil.”

  “Okay, then, I’ll just get some for me.”

  “Alcohol, under my roof?” she snaps. “I don’t think so.”

  “Mother,” I sigh. “I am a grown woman. I fancy a tipple. I’m not going to down a bottle in one go.” Although it’s beginning to seem like an attractive prospect.

  “Well, you’ll have to go to the Devonshire Arms then. I’m not having dirty booze in my home.”

  I take in several deep breaths, as the doctor told me to. I’m still boiling with frustration but decide not to cause a scene. I think it might be personal growth. I hate it, it hurts. But flouncing off in the middle of an unknown town is never clever and Mum’s my lift home. I decide that I’ll take Flynn to the pub later for a drink or three. Fuck Mother and her stupid rules.

  Unfortunately, the pretty summer weather chooses Friday afternoon to desert me. Rain hammers against the French window as I sit in the corner of the sofa reading my book. I’d like to be in the garden, ready for a quick escape, but this will have to do. I just hope the bad weather won’t put Flynn off. I doubt it, though. I can’t see a bit of rain upsetting him.

  I expect to see Flynn appear at the bottom of the garden at any moment and have a plan. A trip to the village shop and the post office. As much as I’m not allowed technology, I am allowed to write to people. I haven’t actually written to anyone, having no one to send a missive to, but I have an envelope prepped with a fake address ready and raring to go slipped behind the clock on the mantelpiece. It’ll give me a good hour to spend with my lovely wild man without causing my mother any concern.

  Time drags past, and every minute past two increases my anxiety. It doesn’t seem like Flynn to be late, but as he’d been rather vague about the time we’d meet I keep my mind open. Until three o’clock ticks past, and there’s nothing two-ish about three. Hours march on and there’s no Flynn.

  I flick between being pissed off and concerned. I don’t know what’s happened, and I can’t just text him or something to find out. Maybe he’s decided I’m too complicated, that he can’t bear to be around me anymore. Maybe he’s fallen into a huge ditch and died a horrible death. Maybe my imagination is going crazy because there’s no way I can communicate with him. Minutes crawl past. I read the same line in my book over and over because I can’t concentrate on anything but the crushing panic of Flynn not being here.

  Even after the sun goes down I strain my eyes to see if he’s out there. Before I climb into bed I gaze out of my bedroom window, looking for a tall shadow beneath the tree. He’s not there, and I snuggle down in my bed and try to sleep. But dreams don’t come, just unpleasant thoughts and worries.

  My natural reaction is to accept he’s fobbed me off and just move on. But there is something deep in my gut that won’t let me. I can’t see Flynn being scared off by me. Yes, I’m nutso, but I’m also loaded and he’s clearly physically attracted to me. He’s a big man, and he’s been in the army. They don’t employ people who run away from trouble. So that raises the question—what’s happened to him to stop him coming to visit me?

  ****

  “Mum, do you have a map?” I ask the next morning as I enter the kitchen.

  “I have dozens, love. You’ll need to be more specific.”

  Mother’s busy poaching eggs, so I’m hitting her with questions to further my plan while she’s distracted.

  “Oh, of the local area, out to like, Newhaven or something. I fancy going for another hike, but I don’t want to get lost.”

  “Are you sure, honey? It’s dry now, but there’s more rain forecast for later.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a waterproof, I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, I’ll get you an OS map. And some bus timetables, you know, in case the heavens open and you just want to get home.”

  I doubt any bus would take me home to London, but I bite down on my retort. I need to get out to check on Flynn, so no pissing off Mother allowed. She places a plate piled with hot buttered toast and two eggs in front of me and swishes off into the living room. Food’s not attractive right now, but I pick up a few forkfuls to show willingness.

  “Here you go. Don’t try to go too far and if you get into trouble give me a ring and I’ll come and pick you up in the car.” She pops a map and her brick of a phone down on the table before me.

  “Thanks, Mum.” I smile, gritting my teeth. She’s already planning for me to fail. Typical. It’s a bloody good job I need to go out on a rescue mission today or I’d be mid-storming off right now.

  “Shall I pack you a lunch?”

  “Nah.” I quickly shake my head. “I’ll get something to eat when I get to Newhaven. I’ll just take some drinks with me.” I’ve no plans to get any food, I’m far too nervous to eat, but I can’t tell Mum that and I’m sure as hell not carrying one of her packed lunches with me—it’d break my back.

  “Fair enough, love. I’ll fill the water bottles while you finish your eggs.”

  Finally, after a little more fussing, I get out of the door and head towards my goal. I’d kill for Google Maps right now. That would make it so much easier to track down a large, derelict building. As it is I have a paper map and some general idea of which direction I’m going in.

  I look at the area around Newhaven on the map and at first draw a blank. Then I remember that Flynn once mentioned that the place he was staying in was right next to the main road. I presume he means the A515—there aren’t too many main roads in the Peak District. There’s a large-ish looking building on the map next to the A515. It’s not named, but given it appears that Newhaven is little more than a campsite and less than a handful of buildings, I have to assume that’s it. It’s a punt. Maybe it’s an actual proper hall with gardens and long corridors and National Trust status. Or maybe it’s an old building, falling down about itself and housing one hot wild man who needs rescuing. I go for the latter, as I suspect the National Trust would notice if one of their properties had a squatter.

  Studying the map some more, I figure out the walk to Newhaven is pretty straightforward. Or at least it looks it. Straight up past the youth hostel and follow that road until I reach Heathcote Mere. I’ve no idea what a mere is, but on the map it looks like a small body of water. From there, I take a public footpath to the right of the mere and carry on in a straight-ish line, cross a bridleway, continue to Stanedge Grange, pass it, and I should soon reach the A515. From there, Flynn’s squat should be visible, if I haven’t spotted it before then. It looks as though there’s bugger all else in the vicinity, so it should be obvious. Crossing my fingers, I set off.

  I walk as fast as I can without doing myself a mischief. Walking isn’t really my thing, not without Flynn anyway. But in spite of Mum’s bus timetables, I still reckon I’ll be faster on foot. In my limited experience, buses, if and when they turn up, go here, there, and everywhere, before reaching their destination. The last thing I want is to be cooped up in a giant tin can on wheels, riding willy-nilly around the villages of the Peak District when I’ve got somewhere I need to be. I’m anxious to get to Flynn, nervous too. Part of me hopes he’s completely healthy, because I don’t want him to be ill or injured, but how I’ll react to that I don’t know. At least if he’s got a leg missing he’ll have a decent excuse for standing me up, excuse the pun.

  It’s pretty, this walk, even though I’m on the road for a while. But I don’t have time to stand around admiring the scenery. I hav
e to get to Flynn, fast. I put one foot in front of the other, checking the map only when I get to bits I’m unsure about.

  Time passes, but I have no idea how much. I’m so intent on reaching my destination that I’m blinkered, shutting out everything else. Finally, the sound of traffic reaches my ears and I figure the main road is close. Rather than feeling relieved, though, I’m actually more anxious. He’s here somewhere. I just have to find him.

  The sun’s out, but it has a reluctant haze, like me after one glass to many of pinot noir on a night out. I think it’s going to give in and cuddle itself up in the soft, cuddly grey clouds that are bobbing around, casting cool shadows that scud past in their eagerness to envelop the hungover sun.

  At first glance the Old Newhaven Hotel looks pretty intact. In fact, I dismiss it as a real, proper building and therefore not the rundown old shack I’m actually looking for. But on closer inspection I pick out details like the rubbish dumped outside and the lack of any sign of life.

  It seems Flynn doesn’t do things by halves if this is his choice of hovel. It’s grand and imposing. Even now in its abandonment it stands proud in its surroundings, the slate grey and rose tinted bricks pulling your gaze from the green of the fields around it. I’m taken by the old-fashioned grandeur of a mansion that’s stood for centuries and isn’t planning to fall down any time soon. Sharp edged and blocky, it really is stylish. With some TLC it could be a beautiful hotel, like it used to be back in the day I’m sure.

  I don’t go in for sentimentality. My laptop is just a machine, my car carries me from A to B, my vacuum picks up dust. None of them have names, and I don’t feel affectionate towards inanimate objects. So it comes as a huge surprise when I find myself warming to the place. Smiling, even. Wondering if it’s for sale. What I would do with an abandoned old hotel in the middle of the Peak District, I don’t know. I do sleek city hotels, not countryside retreats, but this scruffy old place speaks to me. I want it even if I have no idea what I’d then do with it. But first, Flynn. He needs me.

  Getting to the front door, I’m surprised to find it unlocked. Flynn’s probably not the first squatter they’ve had, nor the last. But then, who squats in the middle of the countryside? My wild man excepted, of course.

  “Flynn?” I call, my voice echoing in the cold, dark void. The air clings to my skin with musty desperation for company. Dust motes dance around me in the stripes of sunlight let in through the dirty panes of glass, still with curtains hanging either side of them, somehow making the place more eerie.

  I call again, shivering in the chill. Maybe I’ve got the wrong place. Looking round I see Mother Nature gripping to every opportunity, trying to reassert her power in cracks, on fireplaces and through plaster.

  “Flynn, are you here? Flynn?”

  I hear a noise, a scuffling and a low moaning that may well be a wild beast preparing to rip my throat out. But I screw up my courage and stride towards the whimpering, ready to run like fuck if necessary. The door hangs limply to the frame by an old, rusted hinge so I dodge into the next room quick before it can fall on me.

  “Flynn!”

  “Carrie,” he whispers from his position on a pile of scrawny blankets and curtains in the corner of the room. “Is it you?”

  “Christ, what the hell’s happened to you?”

  I rush over, sling my backpack to the floor and run my hand over his sweaty brow. He’s roasting hot.

  “Dunno. Not well. So weak,” he moans, the words muffled and nasal.

  “Flu.” I nod. “It’s got to be. And the proper kind, too. Not that man version.” In my relief at finding him, ill, but ultimately in one piece, it seems my sense of humor is returning.

  I pull out one of the water bottles, twist open the lid and press it to his lips. He gulps eagerly, water dripping down his chin, spluttering from his mouth as he coughs explosively.

  “We need to get you out of here.” I wipe his face with the bottom of my t-shirt and put the water bottle down. “You need looking after.”

  “But … no … fine … here good.”

  “Sorry, Flynn, but I’m taking command now. You need to rest up, and you can’t do that here. You need fluids, medicine, and a comfy bed. You’re coming home with me right this minute.”

  Chapter Nine

  I wake up without the slightest idea where I am. Telling myself it can’t possibly be Iraq, Afghanistan, or somewhere equally dangerous, I relax a little, let my senses kick in and give me more information.

  Okay, I’m in an incredibly unusual location. A bed, which in itself is odd, as I haven’t slept in a proper bed for longer than I care to remember. Sitting up slowly, I wince. Everything bloody hurts. I feel like I’ve been run over. Repeatedly.

  Resting back on the pillows, I take deep breaths, try to force some oxygen to my brain, chivvy it along to catch up. The last thing I remember is bedding down at Newhaven, feeling utterly shitty. It had been an unpleasant day from beginning to end. First one of the farmhands I was dealing with was coughing, spluttering, and sneezing. Then, after I’d managed to get away from him, my work day had been constantly interrupted by rain showers, which grew heavier, eventually morphing into a hail storm. At that point I’d packed it in and headed home, but it was too late. Old Jimmy’s germs had obviously taken hold. Soaked to the skin, without an effective way of getting myself and my clothes dried out, I’d obviously succumbed to the flu.

  Looking around me, I decide a chintz monster must have abducted me. The wallpaper is cream-colored and covered in pink roses, with an insane flowery border bisecting it—as if the effect wasn’t busy enough on its own. The duvet on the single bed I’m tucked into is enough to make one think they’re on an acid trip. Closing my eyes, I groan. I’ve seen enough for now. I’m clearly still not back on form. And not in any immediate danger, I figure. After all, why would someone bring me to their home if they meant me harm? More than one someone, actually, it had to be. I’m not a small fella, so it’d take multiple people to carry me anywhere.

  The matter of my welfare being decided, I continue to try to work out where the hell I am. The butchery next door to the Old Newhaven Hotel, perhaps? I’ve seen the folk in passing occasionally, even done some work for them from time to time, and they’re nice. But why would they be in my home? Yeah, I know it’s not technically my anything, really, but I live there at the moment, so it’s home.

  Ugh, every thought is hard work. It’s like I’m trying to wade through treacle or something. I lie here in total silence, drawing a blank. The overwhelming stench of potpourri doesn’t add anything additional to my knowledge of the home owner. My ears pick up nothing but natural house noises—creaks and groans, the occasional clunk and hum from central heating. No water running, no voices, footsteps, nothing. I don’t even know what time it is. There’s light filtering through the curtains—flowery ones, of course—but that doesn’t help. It’s summer, so it could be one of any number of hours in the day.

  Sighing, I shuffle back down the bed and pull the covers over my head. Wherever I am, I’m safe, so I succumb to the sleep that’s been trying to reclaim me ever since I woke up.

  ****

  Voices rouse me once more. Loud voices. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but given the racket going on somewhere in the property I’m in, it doesn’t really matter. Finding out who my caregivers are and what the fuck they’re making so much noise about is much more important.

  The extra sleep has obviously helped me a little. Although I’m far from one hundred percent, I at least feel as though I can get out of bed now. It’s still light outside, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been asleep only a few hours—it could mean I’ve been out for an entire day. Anyway, forget that for now—if I can get myself in front of the homeowners, I can find out exactly what’s going on.

  Pulling back the covers, I see I’m wearing nothing but my boxer shorts, which, admittedly, have seen better days. I need to get into town and buy myself a few more pairs. And some socks. But with
out transport or much cash, that’s easier said than done. Mind you, I’m owed for the work I was doing when I caught the flu, so that’s a few quid in my pocket.

  Shaking my head, I realize I’m still fuzzier than I thought. Why, when I see I’m only in boxer shorts, do I think about buying more? My priority should have been to wonder who the hell stripped me down to my boxer shorts in the first place! Christ, I’m going to end up with a reputation: Flynn Gifford, embarrassing farmers’ wives everywhere.

  Looking around the room, I manage to get past the flowers that are so abundant I think I might be getting hay fever, and see that someone has put some clothes on a chair in the corner.

  Slowly turning around on the mattress and putting my feet on the floor, I gingerly put my weight on them. It seems I’m not going to fall flat on my face, so I head over to the chair and quickly see that they’re my clothes, but cleaner, less creased and smelling good. Some kind soul washed and ironed them.

  A wave of gratitude crashes over me. Whoever’s house I’m in, they’re good people, and it’s entirely possible I owe them my life.

  It’s then that the shouting begins again, and I remember that, although they’re good people, they’re clearly not very happy with each other.

  Dressing as quickly as I can in my still-weakened state, I look around for something to put on my feet. There’s not so much as a pair of socks. Bugger. Shrugging, I cross to the door and open it. I’ll just have to ask my caregivers where my socks and boots are.

  The voices are louder now I’ve opened the door, and I wince. I wouldn’t normally intrude on an argument, but in this situation, I have little choice.

  As soon as I step out onto the landing, I realize where I am. I’ve been here before—though not exactly with the permission of the owner.

  This is Carrie’s mum’s house. And, as I now deliberately listen to the shouting, I realize that Carrie and her mum are the ones arguing. About me. Fuck.

  They’ve obviously been going at it for some time.