Simon hadn’t purchased it. She’d put it on her credit card and he was meant to repay her but somehow never did. Another clue he hadn’t truly loved her.
Why hadn’t she realised that until now?
‘Well, if you don’t want it, give it to me,’ Joanne said. ‘I’m not against gorgeous men buying me expensive jewellery. What did he want to speak to you about?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Try me.’
Tillie let out a gust of a breath. ‘He wants to settle all of my debts in exchange for me pretending to be his fiancée for a month.’
‘You’re right. I don’t believe you.’
‘He’s the most arrogant man I’ve ever met,’ Tillie said. ‘The hide of him marching in here expecting me to say yes to such a ridiculous farce. Who would believe it anyway? Me engaged to someone like him?’
Joanne’s smooth brow crinkled in thought. ‘I don’t know... I think you’re a little hard on yourself. I mean, I know you’re not big on fashion but if you wore a bit more colour and a bit of make-up you’d look awesome. And you’ve got great boobs but you never show any cleavage.’
Tillie sat down with a thump on her desk chair. ‘Yes, well, Simon didn’t like it when women paraded their assets.’
And how could I have spent money on clothes and make-up while saving for the wedding?
‘Simon was born in the wrong century,’ Joanne said with a roll of her eyes. ‘I reckon you’re better off without him. He never even took you out dancing, for pity’s sake. You deserve someone much more dynamic than him. He’s too bland. Blake McClelland, on the other hand, is capital D dynamite.’
Blake McClelland was too darn everything.
Tillie eyed the ring box again, curling her fingers into her palms like hooks to stop herself reaching for it. ‘I’m going to take it to Mrs Fisher’s second-hand shop.’
Joanne couldn’t have look more shocked than if she’d said she was going to flush it down the toilet. ‘Surely you’re not serious?’
Tillie left the ring box where it was and pushed back from her desk. ‘I’m deadly serious.’
* * *
Blake drove the few kilometres out from the village to his family’s estate in rural Wiltshire. He had driven past a few times over the years after leaving flowers at his mother’s grave at the cemetery in the village, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to stop and survey the estate in any detail. To stare at the home that used to belong in his family had always been too painful, like jabbing at a wound that had never properly healed.
The bank had repossessed the estate after his father’s breakdown. As a ten-year-old child it had been devastating enough to lose his mother, but to see his father crumple emotionally, to cease to function other than on a level not much higher than breathing, was terrifying. His mother’s death from a brain aneurysm had shattered him and his father. The cruel unexpectedness of it. The blunt shock of having her laughing and smiling one minute and then slurring her speech and then stumbling and falling the next. Ten days in hospital on life support until the doctors had given them the devastating news there was no longer any hope.
The mother he’d adored and who had made his and his father’s life so perfect and happy had gone.
Irretrievably gone.
But somehow some measure of childhood resilience had kicked in and he’d become the parent during the long years of his father’s slow climb out of the abyss of despair. His dad had never remarried or re-partnered. Hadn’t even dated.
But after his dad’s recent health scare, Blake was determined to put this one wrong thing right; no matter what the cost or the effort. McClelland Park was the key to his father’s full recovery.
He knew it in his blood. He knew it in his bones. He knew it at a cellular level.
His dad felt enormous guilt and shame about losing the property that had been passed down through the generations. Blake suspected his dad’s inability to move on with his life was tied up in the loss of the estate. His dad would literally die a slow and painful death without it being returned to him.
It was up to Blake to get McClelland Park back and get it back he would.
He smiled when he thought of Matilda Toppington. Colour him every shade of confident but he knew he had this in the bag with a big satin ribbon tied around it. She was exactly the woman for the job. Old man Pendleton wouldn’t stop gushing about her—how kind and considerate she was, all the charitable work she did in the local community, the way she took care of everyone. He’d seen it himself each time he’d been in the shop. Freebies for the kids, special treats for the elderly, home deliveries for the infirm. Tillie was such a do-gooder; he was surprised she hadn’t sprouted a pair of wings and didn’t carry a harp under her arm. When pressed on the aborted wedding, the old man had more or less hinted he was relieved it hadn’t gone ahead. Apparently so was everyone else in the village, although, according to Maude Rosethorne at the bed and breakfast, most weren’t game enough to say it to Tillie’s face.
But Blake was certain Tillie would say yes to him about the pretend engagement, if not yes to sleeping with him. When had a woman ever said no? He was the package most women wanted: wealth, status, looks and skill in bed. Besides, he was giving her the perfect tool to get back at her ex by showing off a new lover.
And becoming Tillie Toppington’s lover was something he was seriously tempted to do. From the first moment he’d met her gaze he’d been intrigued by her. She wasn’t his usual type but he was up for a change. The way she’d blushed when he’d first spoken to her made him do it all the more. She pretended to dislike him but he knew she was interested. All the signs were there. She was responding to him the way he responded to her—with good old-fashioned, clothes-ripping lust.
Okay, so call him vain, but no woman had ever complained about not having a good time in his bed. Not that he let them spend much time in it. He had a policy of no longer than a month. After that things got tricky. Women started measuring him for a morning suit. They started dropping hints about engagement rings or started dragging their heels while going past jewellery shop windows.
The estate came into view and a boulder landed in Blake’s gut. The silver-birch-lined driveway leading to the house brought back a rush of memories. The screaming siren of the ambulance as his mother was rushed to hospital. The drive home with his father, the night his mother died. The empty front passenger seat where his mother should have been sitting. How he had stared at that seat with his eyes burning and his stomach churning and his head pounding with a silent scream.
The horrible silence.
The silence that gouged a hole in his chest that had never properly closed. If he closed his eyes he could still hear the crunch of the car tyres on the gravel on that last drive out twenty-four years ago, that and the sound of his father’s quiet but no less heart-bludgeoning sobbing.
Blake braked but didn’t turn into the driveway. After a slow drive past his memories, he put his foot down and drove on with a roar of the engine.
He would wait until he heard from Tillie before he finally came home.
* * *
Tillie walked into her office to put another bill on the pile. She had kept out of there for most of the day, determined to resist peeking at the ring. And to avoid looking at the stack of bills on her desk. She put the overdue florist notice on top of the others and eyed the ring box as if it were a cockroach in cake batter. ‘You think I’m going to look at you, don’t you? You’ve been sitting there all day just waiting for me to break.’
Taking money from Mrs Fisher’s pawnshop for Blake’s ring was proving a little tricky for Tillie’s conscience. He had given it to her but it was hardly a no-strings gift. There were conditions attached. Conditions that involved what exactly? He’d said