Page 6 of Enemies Under One Roof

He finally stopped and doubled over, his laboured breathing fracturing the silence as he sucked in lungsful of country air. When he raised his head, he barked out a mirthless laugh.

Had he meant to come this way?

Past the avenue of trees, in the middle of the meadow stood the folly. Set on a circular dais, twelve sandstone pillars met a domed brass roof, its sides open to the elements. Untouched by time, it was a reminder of a bygone era when follies had been a symbol of wealth and prestige. Built with no purpose other than beauty, intrigue and individuality. It had certainly captured his boyhood attention with its air of mystery and solitude, as well as the absolute perfection of its dimensions.

Slowly rising, he moved his hands to his hips and braced his legs, attempting to stare down the memories the space evoked. Yet they trickled past his defences. Hazel eyes that had inched closer until he no longer saw anything else, neither the fire-engine red lips that matched the silk 1920s dress, nor the dark straight hair adorned with a glittering flapper headpiece, framing a heart-shaped face. Instead, his other senses had roared to life as her softness had pressed against him. The touch of her lips on his, her taste flowing through him and an inexplicable connection that had felt stronger than lust—like he’d found something he hadn’t been aware he’d been searching for. He bit out a curse and turned his back on the folly and recalled the facts.

It had been acting for her and total idiocy for him, because that kiss had been staged by Ivy and her publicist.

When confronted, Ivy’s whole demeanour had changed, replaced with a femme fatale that had sent waves of disgust down his spine. The captivating woman he’d strolled the grounds with as they’d shared their favourite Ruby stories—the woman he’d discovered had a touching genuineness—had disappeared in an instant.

Along with any memory of how she’d behaved when she’d spotted Hercules, Ruby’s now-deceased dog, who’d been clearly lost and fretting. Ivy had picked him up and cradled him with no thought of her silk dress. On the spot she’d made up a hilariously sweet story about a brave chihuahua who’d been off fighting dragons, because she always told Hercules stories and he loved them. Hercules had stopped shaking and stared at Ivy like she’d hung the moon, and Ethan was sure he’d had the same idiotic look on his face, because she’d slipped beneath his defences and fascinated him. Soon after, a clearly relieved Mrs Goodchild, who’d inadvertently let Hercules out, had found them as they headed to the Manor to take him back. After that, Ethan had led Ivy to the folly, his favourite place on the estate, something he’d forever regret.

Lighten up, Ethan. Ivy had laughed away their kiss with a throaty chuckle he still heard in his nightmares and sashayed back to the Manor arm in arm with her publicist.

It had been a scene worthy of his mother.

He still had to bite back the howl of outrage at the horrific realisation that he’d been played. He’d been so duped by her loving attention to Ruby and Hercules, he’d only seen what he’d wanted to and not beneath the surface to the reality.

The tabloids, naturally, had had a field day with the comparisons to his late mother, as he’d been thrust unwillingly back onto the front pages locking lips with Ivy. And the infamous photo of him crying on his front doorstep the day his parents died had reappeared, bringing a whole gamut of unwanted feelings crashing back, thanks to Ivy. The devastation, the shock, as the burgeoning realisation had begun to sink in that he’d never see his parents again, that this time they’d left him for good.

To make it even more galling, the resulting press circus eight years ago had landed Ivy a role that had catapulted her into international stardom.

He headed to the house. Ivy may have played him perfectly then, but it would never happen again. He knew exactly the type of person she was and would never forget, no matter the result of today’s meeting.

* * *

Ivy paused outside Ruby’s study taking a moment to compose herself. The deep rumble of Ethan’s voice penetrating the closed door didn’t help as a ripple of awareness slid across her skin.

She’d barely seen him since last night. Not in person, anyway. She’d spied him heading out for a run when she’d huddled on the window seat in her usual bedroom to watch the sunrise. She’d tracked him until he’d disappeared from view.

Reaching into the pocket of her velvet trousers, she gripped the letter given to her by Les Peachey thirty minutes ago. The one she’d never anticipated receiving. The situation had been just as described. A share in WillowGlen. And six weeks there. Together.

Ruby had been short on reasons, but big on love. Now Ivy had a decision to make. Would she follow Ruby’s wishes, or deny her last request?

She rested her head on the door before calling on Ruby’s endless faith in her and pushing it open.

From his place on the sofa, Ethan’s gaze speared hers and something akin to concern flashed across his face.

‘Do you need more time?’ Ethan asked.

Goosebumps broke out along her skin and she rubbed at her arms, although a fire he’d lit earlier burned in the grate. The weather had turned cold and grey—yesterday’s unseasonably warm autumn day now a distant memory.

‘I’m ready,’ she lied, but no amount of stalling would change that Ruby was gone, and her Will needed to be read.

Even so, Ivy drew courage from the familiarity of Ruby’s study; it was like she was still here.

The fireplace with Mr Tabitha, the three-legged cat Ruby had rescued, asleep in his basket, as safely close to the antique fireguard as possible.

The jam-packed bookshelf, reflective of Ruby’s passion for reading—especially romance.

The family heirloom desk that, even today, she half expected to see Ruby sitting behind.

Her heart pinched and she pressed her palm against it till her gaze landed back on Ethan, who made no attempt to look anywhere else as she made her way across the room. Lowering her hand, she kept her steps steady as her stomach churned.

Ethan wore dark jeans and a light blue jumper that matched the colour of his eyes. She felt ridiculously overdressed in her couture velvet pantsuit and four-inch stilettoed boots. But it had become second nature to use clothing to portray an image that was far from true, and she wasn’t abandoning it today. Because Ivy only wore red, black and killer heels. Ivy adored designer labels, plunging necklines and clingy clothing. Still, today, in deference to their meeting, she’d worn a black silk shirt underneath her jacket, so her bra wouldn’t show.

Sitting next to Ethan on the sofa, a body width between them, she was aware of every inch of him. Calling on all her acting skills, she remained outwardly calm and composed, although internally she wanted to huddle in the corner. Even better, run from the room and pretend this wasn’t happening.