More Than a Fling

TWELVE


Ally walked next to the pilot of the Bellechier Gulfstream jet and felt his brief touch on her back as he escorted her up the stairs into the luxurious cabin. She would never normally ask to use the jet and she fully intended to pay—eek!—for the privilege. But she’d pay the enormous costs just to get her sorry self out of the country, to stop her from running down the road and throwing her arms around Ross’s knees and begging him to...what?

Love her? Hold her? Take her heart?

Because that was exactly what she wanted to do but she was so damn scared. If she stayed in Cape Town she would run to him. So last night, in between her sobs, she’d called Sabine and asked for the jet to collect her. Sabine, bless her, had agreed immediately and said nothing more.

Ally dumped her bag on one of the cream-coloured leather seats and rubbed her hands across her face.

‘We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes, Miss Jones.’

‘Thanks, Paul.’ Ally turned as the door to the bathroom opened and her jaw dropped as Sabine, dressed in designer jeans and a silk top, stepped out.

‘Sabine, what are you doing here?’ Ally asked, her eyes welling as she hurried to her and stepped into her open arms. She buried her face in Sabine’s sweet-smelling neck and felt the tears build again.

‘When my daughter calls in the middle of the night with a broken heart and asks to be collected I come too.’ Sabine brushed Ally’s hair off her face. ‘Oh, baby girl, what happened?’

‘It’s a long story.’

Ally managed to get the words out as Sabine pulled her to a seat, sat her down and pulled the seatbelt across her lap. Settling herself in the chair next to Ally, she clicked her own belt shut and turned in her seat, holding Ally’s hand in hers.

‘The best stories always are,’ Sabine replied as the engines rumbled below them.

Ally was dimly aware of the plane taxiing towards the runway but her head was on Sabine’s shoulder and she felt...safe.

Her mum was here and she felt safe. Sabine wasn’t her birth mother but, unlike her real mother, who’d never given a damn, she’d commandeered the plane in the middle of a cold Swiss night, dropped everything and come for her.

Ally was stunned at this demonstration of her love, but habit had her protesting.

‘You didn’t have to come for me. I’m fine,’ Ally whispered. She lifted her head and wiped her eyes with the tips of her fingers. Then a tissue appeared, as if by magic, between Sabine’s fingers and Ally grabbed it gratefully.

‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ Sabine shook her head, her eyes deep and dark with love.

‘Get what?’ Ally asked, confused.

‘How much I love you.’

Ally closed her eyes. ‘But how could you? You’re not my mother.’

‘What did you say to me?’ Sabine asked in French.

Oh, crap. She recognised that tone. All her kids knew that when Sabine switched to French midconversation it was a massive clue that she was at the end of her patience.

‘I was your mother from the day you slid your hand into mine in that hotel room in Phuket. Who sat with you night after night in hospital as you struggled with pneumonia? Who dressed you and fed you and did hours of brain-numbing homework with you? How dare you utter those words to me?’

Ally wanted cover her head with her arms. ‘Sabine—’

‘I’m not finished. Even before your dad died who took you to school and kissed your grazes better? Bought you your first puppy and Barbie and iPod? I explained the birds and the bees to you and I kept your father and brothers off your back when you went on dates with loser boys.’

Oh, if love was action then Sabine had always showed her how much she loved her. Ally tried to speak, to apologise, but Sabine didn’t give her a gap to jump in.

‘Who took you to your first spa treatment, made you extra-chocolatey ice cream sundaes, picked you and your friends up from a party at three in the morning and told your father that you were home by eleven? Who wouldn’t go back to work because she thought it was more important to raise you? It was me, you ungrateful brat! And what have you given me in return?’

‘I’ve worked hard... I’ve tried to do well!’ Ally said in a little voice. ‘I wanted to show you how grateful I am.’

Sabine slumped back in her chair. ‘I never wanted your gratitude, Alyssa. I wanted you. I wanted you to talk to me, to let me in, to share your soul. I wanted to be your mama, to be there for you.’ Sabine sent her a piercing look. ‘I wanted—I want to be allowed to love you. And, by the way, if you are hurting nothing will stop me from running to you, and if someone has hurt you then I will hunt them down and kill them.’ Sabine thought for a moment. ‘Or at least hire someone to do it.’

Ally hiccupped a small laugh. Sabine—no, her mum—would be relentless in her pursuit of revenge. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

‘Pfft.’ And in the blink of an eye, her anger was replaced with concern. ‘So who has hurt you, baby? Ross?’

Ally shook her head, twisted her fingers back into her mum’s smaller hand and put her head on her shoulder. ‘I did. I hurt myself. I am my own worst enemy.’

Sabine stroked her head. ‘Tell me.’

Who else could she talk to about this? Nobody. Who else did she want to talk to about this? Nobody. It was time to let her in.

‘We have a connection...a big one,’ Ally admitted. ‘I’m in love with him and I think that he might be in love with me.’

Ally didn’t see Sabine’s very satisfied smile. ‘That’s a good start.’

Ally looked past Sabine’s shoulder and out of the window and dimly realised that they were in the air. She hadn’t even realised that they had taken off.


‘It’s crazy—we haven’t known each other that long and he’s talking about trying to keep this...this thing going.’

‘Good for him. How?’

Ally sat up, undid her seatbelt and sat cross-legged in the big chair. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t let him get that far. I said that everything I love is in Geneva and that I can’t sacrifice my career for him.’

‘L’imbecile...’ Sabine murmured, but gently.

‘I know.’ Ally looked down at her hands. ‘I’m scared. I’ve been scared for a long, long time.’

‘Of what?’

Could she say this? Did she dare?

‘Of being left alone. Of experiencing love and losing it. Of not being wanted. But mostly of being left alone. It terrifies me, but—’

‘But?’

‘But I’m almost more afraid of not being with him than I am of being alone’ Ally admitted. ‘And I’m so ashamed that I’ve left him thinking that I don’t love him.’

‘You did that?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Then I repeat: you’re an idiot,’ Sabine said on a loving smile. ‘Do you want me to get the plane turned around?’

Ally looked at her in shock. ‘What? Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know...so that you can go back and tell him the truth?’

She might be tired of being scared but she wasn’t that brave. She needed to take some time to think this through...

‘It would be too easy, and I don’t know if he’d believe me,’ Ally said quietly. ‘I think I need a little time.’

‘To do what?’

Ally half smiled, although her heart still felt as if it was breaking. ‘To learn how to be a better daughter, friend, lover. I need to be a better listener, to gain control of my fear. I need time, Maman.’

It was the first time she’d called Sabine by that name and she liked the sound of it on her lips. Judging by Sabine’s wobbly lower lip, she did too.

‘You risk losing him if you take too much time, ma petite.’

Ally nodded. ‘I know. But I won’t go back to him as half a person, living in fear. If I go back—when I go back—it’ll be because I’m strong enough to be his lover. He doesn’t deserve anything less.’

Sabine didn’t say anything for a long time. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

‘Thanks.’ Ally slumped back in her chair. ‘Now can you take the pain away?’

Sabine raised one shoulder in that very Gallic way. ‘The pain is the proof that you can love. Own it—be proud of it.’

‘It sucks,’ she muttered inelegantly.

* * *

Ally stood behind her family in the media room on the Bellechier estate and held her breath as Luc inserted a CD into the system so that they could watch the final cuts for the four Bellechier commercials. Her heart was firmly in her throat.

Ross jumped out of the screen, his eyes inviting the viewers to step into his world.

The camera loved Ross and had captured his innate charisma and his love of life. Norm had done a great job, incorporating the craziness and funkiness of the open offices of RBM, and they’d all agreed to call the new Bellechier line Win!. Whether he was standing on the top of Table Mountain at sunset or flinging his Ducati around the tight corners of Chapman’s Peak Drive, every frame made you want to live his life, be part of his life, wear his clothes...be just like him.

Or, if you were female, be with him.

Mission accomplished, Ally thought, shoving her fist into that space just beneath her ribs. Her heartburn was back—an ailment she hadn’t experienced in Cape Town. Probably because after a hard day’s work she’d destressed by having Ross’s hands on her body, his mouth on hers, him taking her every which way to Sunday.

She’d been back in Geneva for a week and she felt as if she was walking around with half of her brain and all of her heart in Cape Town. Ally pulled her bottom lip with her thumb and forefinger as the still photographs of Ross flashed up on the screen. There was the one of him sitting on the couch in his office, half smiling up at her as he told her to trust the people around her.

She’d taken that image, had it printed, and it was sitting on her bedside table. She’d spent many, many hours not sleeping and looking at him...

She didn’t want to look at his photograph for the rest of her life when she could be looking at the real thing. She didn’t want to struggle to remember what his hands felt like on her skin. She wanted to feel, experience, live.

Dear God, she wanted to live...with him.

Ross’s face faded from the massive TV screen and Ally didn’t hear the conversation around her—didn’t take in the effusive praise, barely felt the kisses on her cheek, the arms around her shoulder squeezing her.

‘I’m resigning,’ she said quietly, and then with more force, ‘I’ve got to leave.’

Luc turned around as the conversation tapered off and folded his arms across his broad chest. ‘What did you say?’

Ally threw up her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry...and after all you’ve done for me! I’m so grateful for the job, and the responsibility of being Brand and Image Director, but I can’t any more.’ She placed her hands on her face. ‘I know it’s ungrateful, and it’s terrible timing, and that you’ll hate me for it, but I need to go back to Cape Town. I need to be there.’

Ally felt Luc step forward, inhaled his cologne and allowed him to peel her fingers off her face. As always, his expression was kind and understanding.

Ally opened her mouth to talk again but Luc shook his head. ‘Shut up, kid.’

Ally blinked away tears as Luc looked at his father and Patric. ‘You two owe me a hundred each. She didn’t last two weeks.’

As Justin and Patric reached into their wallets and looked for cash Luc’s words started to make sense. ‘You bet on me?’

‘Sure.’ Patric ruffled her hair after he’d handed his cash to Luc.

‘Shame on you!’ Sabine chastised them, sliding her hand around Ally’s waist. ‘Peegs!’

Justin grinned. ‘Oh, you’re not innocent either, my angel. We had a side bet going too.’

Ally narrowed her eyes at her mother. ‘Et tu...?’

Sabine shrugged, and then grinned. ‘We all knew that you would go back to Cape Town if you could just stop being so stubborn and admit that you wanted more than just your career.’

Luc shoved the cash into his wallet as Ally rubbed the back of her neck, conscious that she now had knots on her knots. ‘About my job...’


Luc shrugged. ‘There’s no reason why you can’t work from Cape Town—maybe spending a week here every six weeks or so. Ally, you have some very well-paid, well-educated and talented people in your team and it’s about time that they earned the huge salaries we’re paying them. Create the vision, create the direction and then let them get on with it. Pick the projects you want to get involved in or not. Direct, delegate, advise.’ Luc grinned. ‘What do you think I do all day?’

‘Mess about online and chat to your bimbos,’ Patric grumbled. ‘I would like to point out that I am the only one who, as the designer, actually does any work in this place.’

Ally flashed him a smile. ‘But you are the heart of Bellechier, Patric.’

‘I so am.’

Luc rolled his eyes at Ally. ‘So, are you staying or going?’

It didn’t take Ally more than a millisecond to make up her mind. She loved her job, and she’d need something to do in Cape Town or she’d drive Ross to drink. ‘Staying at Bellechier. Going to Cape Town.’

‘And I presume you’d like the plane?’ Luc said.

Ally flashed her dimples at him. ‘Yes, please.’

Luc wrapped his arm around her neck and hauled her into his chest. ‘Go get him, Pork Chop.’

‘He might not want me anymore,’ Ally muttered into his collarbone.

‘Then he’d be an idiot, and I’ve very good reports that he is anything but.’ Luc pulled back to look down into her face. ‘But if he hurts you he’ll have your brothers rearranging his face.’

‘And me,’ Justin added.

Ally sent them a watery smile as she reached out and took Sabine’s hand. ‘Thanks, but he should be more scared of Maman.’

‘Damn right,’ Sabine agreed. ‘Nobody messes with my girl.’

* * *

Ross slouched into the chair on his fully dark veranda and propped his bare feet up onto the corner of the long wooden table. When he couldn’t sleep—which was all the time—he’d taken to sitting here in this chair and staring into the dark. Above him the stars in the southern hemisphere sky were partially obscured by light cloud and below him the waves used the beach as a punch bag.

He closed his eyes, saw Ally in every shadow in his mind and quickly opened them again. Frickin’ hell, he simply couldn’t get her out of his head. She was there in the early morning as he tried to run off his frustration and his sadness on the beach; he found himself reaching for his mobile to see if she’d sent him an e-mail or a text during meetings; she was there when he finally crawled into bed at night.

He’d tried so hard to stop loving her, to stop thinking about her, but everywhere he went she was on his mind. He so badly wanted her to fade from his memory but just as badly he wanted to recollect every minute he’d spent with her.

He’d become the basket case he’d accused her of being. Ross rubbed his jaw, hearing the rasp of his beard. He couldn’t remember when last he’d shaved, when last he’d eaten something he’d actually tasted, and when he did manage to doze off his dreams all starred Ally. He couldn’t decide if he hated or loved them.

A million thoughts scurried in and out of his brain but a few were lodged front and centre. They’d been so damn close to finding something special, to clicking in the way that poets and songwriters wrote of. So damn close... Had he said enough? Had he reacted too early? Had he forced her into a corner and boxed her in?

Each question twisted the long, cold spear lodged in his heart. He’d still had so much to say to her but instead he’d just watched her walk away.

Then again, he’d asked her if she loved him and she hadn’t had an answer. And even he knew, stupid as he was when it came to women, that her non-answer meant that she didn’t. And he’d have to have had the IQ of a fence pole to forget that she’d warned him that she didn’t do messy emotions or attachments. Why the frig hadn’t he listened?

And under the desperation, the ache for her, he was constantly, chronically angry. They could have had, could have been, something special. When she forgot to be closed off and walled up she was funny and sensitive and so damn sexy it took his breath away. And she adored his dog...

‘Arf!’ Pic barked, as if he knew exactly what Ross was thinking.

‘Yeah, yeah—she loved you far more than she loved me. No need to rub it in.’

Pic gave him a look that suggested he grow a pair and stop whining. It wasn’t a bad idea, Ross thought, but he rather liked wallowing—especially when there was no one to witness it except for Pic. And who was he going to tell?

‘Arf, arf, arf!’ Pic bark-shouted again, his tone suggesting that Ross should not test his powers.

‘I’m talking to a damned dog,’ he murmured, rolling his head to try and ease the tension that had become his favourite companion—not counting the four-legged sarcasm machine at his feet.

So tomorrow he’d get up, get dressed, go to work, he thought. Just as he’d done every day since she’d left. Maybe tomorrow he’d recapture the joy he felt in his work; hopefully he wouldn’t spend another day just going through the motions.

Maybe he’d call up a few mates, have them round for a barbecue, surf later and throw back a few beers, pretend everything was back to normal.

Or maybe—and this was far more likely—he’d sit here again tomorrow night, alone and miserable, with a whisky bottle close to his elbow and an empty, throbbing soul.