How I Found You Page 3

  But my respite was short lived.

  There was a bash against the bathroom door. It was as though something, or someone, had fallen against it.

  I held my breath, listening carefully for any noise. But all I could hear was the patter of water as it splashed against the base of the cubicle.

  “Hello?” I called.

  There was no response.

  I fumbled to turn off the taps. The final drips fell from above as I hopped out onto the cold floor tiles.

  Wrapping my towel securely around myself, I edged across the bathroom and pressed my ear to the door.

  I quickly pulled the bolt across and flung the door open.

  Nobody there.

  The hallway was deserted, just as I had left it. Not that I was unfairly accusing anyone, but I glanced over to the guest bedroom at end of the corridor.

  Caicus and Oscar’s room.

  Their door was closed.

  It was feasible that I’d imagined the whole thing. Old houses like this one were full of creaks and groans. Or maybe it was a mouse. A giant mouse.

  Alone in a dim, empty corridor, I wasn’t particularly keen to dwell on the incident, so I bundled my clothes together and made for my bedroom.

  Given that I hadn’t finished unpacking, I was able to occupy myself with that for a while. Finding space for my clothes proved to be the most challenging task. I hadn’t brought much with me, but the only storage space was the small pine chest of drawers and the narrow wardrobe. I did my best to cram my clothes into the three shallow drawers, keeping aside a pair of jeans and a beige top to wear that day.

  Outside the sun was still quite low, meaning that the others would probably still be sleeping. Having done everything I could think of to pass the time—including dressing and blow-drying my hair—I decided to head downstairs.

  It was hard to cross that house without disturbing anyone – like I said, creaks and moans – but I successfully accomplished it. I tiptoed all the way to the ground floor and ducked through the first door I came across.

  That door happened to lead into the conservatory – a quaint, airy room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest, a mahogany bookcase, and a coffee table encircled by salmon-pink armchairs.

  I strolled over to the bookcase and skimmed the selection. There was every genre imaginable, ranging from classic literature to romance novels and political biographies. Admittedly, I’d already read most of them at least once over the past few years, including the cringe-worthy trashy novel, Amour in Paris, as well as the brick-sized Biography of Winston Churchill, which, ironically, was rather exciting—though I would never divulge that secret out loud.

  With some deliberation I eased out a leather-bound copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. It seemed like a safe bet.

  Book in hand, I retreated to one of the armchairs and tucked my legs up on the soft pink cushion. Once I was sufficiently comfortable, I began leafing through the dog-eared pages. I doubted that I would actually read it, not cover to cover anyway, but it was something to do all the same.

  As it happened, my initial cynicism was proved wrong and I found myself engrossed in a chapter entitled Sonnets. I was about halfway through the chapter when a voice behind me made me jump out of my skin.

  “Ah,” breathed Oscar Valero in his smooth, sultry tone. He peered over my shoulder and read aloud from the open page. His warm breath brushed against my neck as he recited, “All days are nights to see till I see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.” He reached over my shoulder and tapped the page. “Significant, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I was stunned. So stunned that I didn’t even hear what he had said. The words themselves were lost on me; all I took from them was the breath that brushed my ear.

  I slammed the book shut. “I didn’t hear you come in.” My speech sounded stammered.

  Oscar meandered around the coffee table and took a seat in one of the vacant armchairs. He stretched his arms up over his head and yawned loudly.

  I watched him from across the table. “Can I help you?” I asked curtly.

  “No, thank you.” He smiled.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” I said again, fortunately more in control of my voice this time.

  After adjusting to the initial shock of his materialisation, I realised that what baffled me most of all was the fact that I hadn’t heard the door open, nor had I felt the breath on the back of my neck until he had spoken.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?” I stared at him, mystified.

  “Okay, you didn’t hear me come in,” he replied casually.

  My eyes narrowed. “How long were you standing behind me?”

  Oscar shrugged. “I’ve forgotten. It was a while ago now.” He sat perfectly still, his arms resting on either side of the chair. He wore a black shirt that was open over a deep red T-shirt, and the same jeans that he had been wearing the night before. His dark hair fell with effortless style and he seemed to be smirking, though his mouth was indifferent.

  Much to my irritation, I realised that I was blushing. I was ashamed to admit it, but I was blushing because he was so attractive.

  But, good looks aside, there was something else that drew my focus back to him. As odd as it might have sounded, I simply couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew him. It was uncanny. I felt like I knew everything about him—every thought and feeling he’d ever had, the good, the bad, I knew it all. And yet, I’d never met him before in my life.

  He returned my gaze with his warm, russet eyes. Eyes that were animated with a lifetime of secrets and mystery. They were utterly disarming.

  Trying to maintain my last shred of composure, I looked away, returning my attention to The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

  “How’s the book?” Oscar enquired lightly, now exhibiting a much more obvious smirk.

  “Fine.” I refrained from looking up, pretending to be absorbed in a randomly selected page.

  “Which is your favourite?”

  “Which is my favourite what?”

  “Sonnet. Which is your favourite sonnet?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. I like them all.”

  That wasn’t true. I had favourites.

  Oscar bent forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. A few strands of ebony hair fell in front of his eyes. “Recite one for me. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

  Now my cheeks reddened even further. “No.” I turned the page, bluntly illustrating the fact that I was reading. Well, pretending to read.

  “Then I’ll recite one to you.” He reached across the coffee table.

  “No!” I clutched the book to my chest, out of his reach.

  “Hmm.” Oscar sat back down in his seat. “Possessive.”

  “I’m not possessive. I’m…” I fumbled for a feasible defence. “Reading!” I finished.

  “Oh. Would you rather I let you read in peace?”

  “Yes, please.”

  We were silent for a minute or two. Oscar sat, pensively looking out at the garden while I pretended to read.

  Then he spoke again. “This is boring.”

  I exhaled loudly. “Not my problem. Where’s your brother?” My voice had a cold edge to it. “Shouldn’t it be his job to entertain you?”

  “Caicus is sleeping. Otherwise he would be entertaining me. But instead, I’ve got you. Or you’ve got me, if you prefer.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “I don’t really prefer either.”

  Oscar shot me a playful grin. “You’re hurting my feelings.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get over it,” I replied, wryly.

  He reclined in his seat with a contented sigh. “Yes. I can’t imagine it’ll be hard.”

  I went back to ignoring him and gazed out of one of the windows. It was light out now, so I could clearly see the meadow garden leading down to the evergreen forest. A few wood pigeons fluttered around the tree tops, rustling the leaves as they flapped their wings.


  “What are you looking at?” Oscar demanded, following my line of vision. I was beginning to get used to his unpredictable manner of speaking—his tone would constantly switch between blunt and smooth. It was hard to tell which would be next.

  “The birds,” I told him.

  He craned his neck to get a better view. “Pigeons?” He made a noise of revulsion. “Pigeons aren’t birds. They’re rats with wings.” Blunt.

  “I like pigeons,” I said.

  “No. There’s nothing to them.” Smooth.

  “I didn’t say you had to like them. I said I liked them.” It was hard to be diplomatic with Oscar; he made you want to argue.

  “Well, you shouldn’t like them.” Blunt. “They’re just… there. Now, an eagle on the other hand, that’s a bird. A true predator.” Smooth.

  “Just because they’re a bird of prey, doesn’t make them better.”

  Oh God, he’s sucked me in. I’m arguing about birds!

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Oscar told me. “Predators aren’t just better, they’re the best. Every species needs one. Without hunters, the world would be bedlam. Total chaos. And sure as hell they get the better deal. The thrill of the hunt is…” he searched for an apt description. “Well, it’s exhilarating.”

  I frowned. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

  “Nope,” Oscar answered simply. “I’m just an excellent spokesman for the eagle.” He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing toned, muscular forearms. “Do you play?” he asked suddenly, nodding down at the coffee table.

  Imprinted onto the varnished mahogany surface was a decorative chess board.

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Do you want to play?” Oscar rephrased his question.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “I’ll teach you,” Oscar decided.

  “I said I didn’t want to play!”

  He stood up and walked over to the bookcase. Without even searching, he took a small leather box from the top shelf and brought it back to his seat. Opening the lid, he emptied the contents onto the coffee table: thirty-two carved wood chess pieces.

  Okay. That was weird. He’d only arrived at the house last night, and yet he already knew the whereabouts of the chess pieces? Even I didn’t know the whereabouts of the chess pieces!

  My eyes narrowed. “How did you know where to find them?”

  Oscar kept his concentration on the board, which he began preparing for the game. “I’m intuitive. It’s a gift.”

  I stared at him. “Intuitive?” I echoed.

  “Yes.” He looked up at me, a glint of sunlight catching in his russet eyes. “Intuitive. When it comes to the important things.”

  “Chess pieces?”

  “Yes.” Oscar resumed the board arrangement. “Chess is important to me.”

  “So important that you were able to guess where the pieces were?”

  “Yep.” He spun a rook between his first two fingers and then placed it on the board.

  “Well, if you ask me, you’re either massively deluded or a bad liar.”

  Oscar leaned back in his chair with a conceited sneer. “Maybe I’m both.”

  “You probably are,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Right then.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Are you ready?”

  “No,” I grumbled.

  Oscar’s delighted smile could have lit up the room.

  “Let the lesson begin.” All of a sudden his expression grew serious. “Now, please try to keep up. There are a lot of rules in chess—”

  “Sounds like fun,” I remarked.

  Oscar glared at me. “There are a lot of rules in chess,” he repeated, “but personally I like to play by two in particular. Rule number one,” he held up an index finger, “don’t let your king get into checkmate.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “By playing well.”

  “Sounds like hard work.”

  “Rule number two,” Oscar went on, “protect the queen.”

  I made a half-hearted attempt to examine the assortment of pieces. “Which one is the queen?”

  “You can work that out for yourself,” Oscar scoffed.

  I wrinkled my nose. “They all kind of look like they could be the queen. Except the little ones in the front—” I prodded at the front row.

  “The pawns.” Oscar swiped my hand away. He didn’t like me touching the board.

  “And I suppose that one’s a horse—”

  “Knight,” he corrected wearily.

  “Ah-ha!” I isolated one of the larger centre pieces and lifted it up for closer inspection. “Found her.” I held the queen-shaped piece high and made her dance in the air.

  “Okay. You can put it back now. It’s not a toy.”

  I dropped it back down onto the board, deliberately nudging the two pieces on either side of it. I imagined that would be the most fun I’d have all game.

  He grimaced.

  I smiled. “So, protect the queen—”

  “Because she’s your best player.”

  “And don’t let the king get into checkmate.”

  “No.”

  I hesitated. “And why is that important?”

  Oscar’s mouth twitched in irritation. “Because once you’re in checkmate, you lose.”

  “I see. So, how can I avoid that?”

  “Always watch your back,” he elaborated. “If your opponent is on the attack, make sure you have an escape route. Don’t get caged in from all angles. That’s checkmate.”

  From across the room, the conservatory door rattled open.

  How did I not notice that when Oscar came in?

  I swivelled around to see my aunt standing in the open doorway, wearing a lavender dressing gown and carrying a green watering can. Her short, strawberry blonde hair was pinned up in rollers.

  “Good morning!” Mary sang out.

  “Morning,” I replied. I sat up straighter in my chair as if I’d been caught misbehaving.

  “Good morning,” said Oscar in a strained voice.

  “Oh, you’re playing chess,” Mary observed. She wandered around the room, watering her collection of house plants. “Who’s winning?”

  “I am,” Oscar answered immediately. He gave me an enigmatic smile.

  “Actually,” I shot back, “the game hasn’t started yet.”

  Oscar seemed impressed by my response, because his smile broadened. “I don’t need to play to know I’m going to win,” he retorted in a low whisper, quiet enough to go unheard by Mary.

  Instinctively I drew back from him. What was that supposed to mean?

  Mary finished with her plants and wiped her damp hands on her dressing gown. “Who wants breakfast? I’m making eggs Benedict,” she cajoled.

  Oscar clasped his hands together and made an exaggerated show of enthusiasm.

  The falseness of his sentiment was clearly lost on Mary, because she toddled off towards the kitchen with a jolly smile on her lips.

  But it wasn’t lost on me. And it really, really riled me.

  I stood up and glowered at him. “That was rude.”

  “What?” He blinked up at me with doe-eyed innocence.

  “Don’t play dumb! You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Oscar cocked his head to one side. “What?”

  “You’re obnoxious and rude!”

  “And?” he said, challenging me. “I can’t change who I am just to please you, Rose,” he spat out my name with contempt.

  I folded my arms. “I don’t know why you’re here, but I think you should leave. Get your brother and go.”

  All of a sudden, Oscar’s eyes blazed. “That’s not your decision to make. It’s not your house.”

  “You may have fooled my aunt and uncle, but you won’t fool me. You’re bad news, I can feel it.”

  Oscar rose to his feet and side-stepped around the coffee table until there were just inches between us.

  He st
ood over me, his lips pressed together tightly. The intoxicating scent of his skin contaminated the air that I breathed.

  I didn’t flinch.

  “You’re right,” he murmured darkly, “I am bad news.”

  His presence didn’t scare me. It should have, but it didn’t.

  “I’m going to get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do,” I warned him.

  He smirked back at me. “Interesting choice of words.”

  A shiver moved over my skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The unexpected sound of someone clearing their throat cut through the icy atmosphere.

  Caicus hovered in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on Oscar. “Breakfast is ready,” he said in a silken voice.

  Oscar backed away from me and the boys locked eyes with each other for a long, bated moment.

  At last, Oscar broke the silence. “Breakfast, of course. I’ll be right there.” He smiled pleasantly.

  Once Caicus had disappeared back into the hallway, Oscar picked up The Complete Works of William Shakespeare and returned it to the bookcase.

  “Do you want to know my favourite sonnet?” he asked, his voice gentle, as though the altercation had never happened.

  When I didn’t respond, he glanced over his shoulder at me. “Well, do you?” he pressed.

  I swallowed. My throat felt as dry as sandpaper. “Not really. But I’ve got a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  Oscar slipped the book back without glimpsing at its pages. He touched the hard spine as he spoke, “When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste.”

  Hutton Ridge

  AFTER BREAKFAST, ROGER DEPARTED FOR his habitual golf day and Mary formulated a plan to take me shopping. Millwood wasn’t much in the way of retail therapy—unless you were after a pint of milk or half a dozen eggs—so we decided to drive to the next town over, Hutton Ridge.

  “Make sure you’re wearing comfy shoes,” Mary joked. “We’re going to shop till we drop!”

  I forced a weak smile. Shopping wasn’t exactly number one on my list of favourite things to do. I had an incredibly low threshold when it came to the much-dreaded shopper’s fatigue, and I guessed that I would be dropping a lot more than I would be shopping.