Page 51 of One More Sleepless Night

Whatever it was that was coursing through him right now it couldn’t possibly be something serious like hurt or disappointment or regret or anything. It was simply shock at the abruptness of her departure, that was all. And if he did feel a tiny pang of loss, well, that was only natural given the intensity and passion that their affair had had.

Like everything, recovering from it would simply be a question of patience and time, and with a bit of both he’d soon come to appreciate the lucky escape he’d had.

FOURTEEN

Nicky’s anger sustained her throughout the entire horrendous journey back to Paris. She bristled and fumed her way through the tiresome process of handing back her hire car, the booking of a last-minute, excruciatingly expensive flight, and, what with a three hour delay and a diversion to Orly, staying furious hadn’t taken all that much effort.

The teeth-grinding frustration of international travel notwithstanding, all she had to do was remember how she’d laid her heart, her feelings, everything she had on the line and how Rafael had trampled all over them, and it rose up inside her all ove

r again. She’d mentally called him every filthy name she could think of in both English and French, and told herself over and over again that she was well shot of him.

But the minute she closed her front door behind her the adrenalin and energy drained right away sweeping up all her anger and strength with it, and with a low anguished moan she crumpled into a heap on the floor.

As despair and misery filled the gaping hole left inside her, she finally gave in to the wretchedness and tears spilled down her cheeks because she might be well shot of him but she was still crazy about him. Her heart felt as if it were being wrenched from her chest. Her head pounded, her throat burned and she ached all over.

Oh, how could it all hurt so much? And why was she crying like this? She never cried. Now, though, it seemed she couldn’t stop.

Burying her head in her hands as yet more tears welled up, Nicky reran the whole horrible conversation and with her anger at Rafael’s reaction all burned out she now helplessly charged off down the road of self-recrimination.

Why, oh, why had she had to say anything? Why had she had to go and tell him she loved him? Why couldn’t she just have kept it to herself?

She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked as regret spun through her. How could she have let rip at him like that? What gave her the right to fire all that stuff about his issues at him? And as for telling him he loved her, well, who the hell was she to assume that that was the case? He’d never given her that impression, had he? No, her common sense had been shot to pieces by everything that had happened in the previous half an hour and she’d jumped to that ridiculous conclusion all by herself.

She’d lost all control and because of it she’d never see him again. Her throat ached and her eyes stung all over again and she let out a quiet anguished moan as what little was left of her heart shattered.

God, if this was love then she was lucky to have escaped it for the past twenty-nine years because she’d never known agony like it. Never felt hopelessness like it, not even when she’d been at rock-bottom.

How long she sat there, crying and tormenting herself with what ifs and if onlys, she had no idea. All she knew was that by the time she was all wrung out and had no tears left, long silvery grey fingers of daylight were inching through the slats in her blinds.

With a deep sigh, Nicky wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat, sniffed unattractively and pulled herself together. This wasn’t doing her any good, was it? She might be feeling battered and bruised but she couldn’t stay here wallowing in self-pity for ever.

Groggily she got to her feet. She swayed a little and had to lean against the wall for support. Her limbs felt like jelly and she hurt everywhere but she gritted her teeth and made it into the kitchen because maybe things would look a bit brighter after coffee.

There was something remarkably restful about going through the motions of filling the pot with water, adding the coffee grounds to the filter and then screwing the top on. Something comfortably familiar, and as she put the pot on the hob, lit the gas and then leaned back against the counter to let it do its thing she determinedly rallied her spirits.

She might have screwed up whatever she and Rafael had had by recklessly telling him she loved him, but one good thing had come out of that whole mess of a conversation, and that was that she’d been right about wanting to settle down.

Despite the considerable progress she’d made she still—frustratingly—wasn’t one hundred per cent back to her old self, so maybe she did need a bit of permanency to give herself the chance and time to focus on her.

And she might not have Rafael to settle down with but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it anyway, did it?

Of course she could. She might love him, but she didn’t need him. Even before she’d realised she loved him, she’d been toying with the idea of making changes to her life, and she was perfectly capable of making those changes on her own. In fact with no one else to consult, with no one to offer an opinion and advice, it would probably be easier.

She’d start now, she thought, pouring a cup of coffee and taking a hot fortifying sip. Thinking positively was the thing. Staying buoyant and remaining focused. And in the process she was bound to forget all about him.

*

This was getting ridiculous.

Rafael was sitting at his desk again, ignoring the files piled up in front of him again and staring blankly into space. Again.

With a growl of frustration he pushed his chair back, stalked over to the window and scowled down at the city spreading far below. What the hell was this? Why couldn’t he focus? And where had this incessant restlessness and edginess come from?

He’d been back in Madrid for a week now, and every single minute of it had been diabolically awful.

He should have been fine. God knew he had plenty to occupy himself. The new job he’d taken on—sorting out a company whose management structure was so top heavy that it was in danger of toppling over—gave him enough work to keep him busy for months. But to his intense irritation he wasn’t fine.

He couldn’t concentrate on anything. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and it was driving him nuts. He was cross, tired, hungry and frustrated, which, as he never usually got cross, tired, hungry or frustrated, only made it all ten times worse.

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