Kiss a Falling Star Page 2

  What the hell did they want him to do? Give people scourges and lie down so they could whip him?

  “You could smile a bit more,” his mother whispered.

  He had nothing smile about. No job, no prospect of one, no future.

  “Do you want people to think you’re sponging off us?” his father asked.

  Caspar glowered. “I don’t give a fuck what people think.” Which was a lie. He’d had to accept money from his father when he came back to the UK and hated that he’d been forced into it.

  “You ungrateful little sod,” his father hissed, coming up to the boil.

  “Caspar’s trying hard to find a job,” his mother said. “Aren’t you, darling?”

  Caspar shot her a grim smile.

  “Not bloody hard enough,” growled his father. “He’s been lounging around on his backside for months now, doing bugger all.”

  He found plenty to do while he lay on his backside but nothing he wanted to share with his parents. Caspar fought to keep his voice level. “You were the one who insisted I come up here. There’s no work, nothing to do.”

  “From what I’ve heard, you’ve found a way to occupy yourself,” his father muttered under his breath.

  Caspar opened his mouth and shut it again. He’d have been in the same mess whether he lived in London or Derbyshire, full of anger and guilt, unable to move on.

  “You think I should have funded your profligate lifestyle in London? I want you here where I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t slip back into your old ways.”

  It hurt more than he could say that his father believed so little of him, that he neither understood nor trusted him. Caspar had long given up hoping for anything more from his intractable parent.

  “If any women come here telling me they’re pregnant, I’ll disown you,” his father said.

  “If any women come here telling you I made them pregnant, they’d be lying. I’m not stupid.”

  Caspar pressed his fingers into his thighs. His father glared at him from the end of the table. Caspar glared back. He’d learned from a master.

  “We have some news,” his mother blurted, and cast an anxious look at his father. “We had an inquiry from the BBC several months ago about filming in the house and grounds. They’ve decided to use Wyndale Hall for a television adaptation of Jane Eyre.”

  “Much against my better judgment,” his father muttered.

  Caspar held back his groan. He’d come to Wyndale to lick his wounds in private. He didn’t want a load of media people wandering around, kicking up dirt. He ate faster.

  “They’ll start arriving tomorrow.” His mother gave him a nervous smile. “Maybe you could get involved in some way.”

  Maybe he could hide.

  “The last time Caspar was onstage was at school. Back legs of a donkey, weren’t you?” His father smirked.

  Caspar smirked back.

  “We’re moving into the rear of the house and letting them have the main rooms,” his mother said. “I wanted to go on holiday, but your father doesn’t trust them to take care of the place.”

  “I could—”

  “You think I’d trust you with this house?”

  “Leonard!” His mother’s voice echoed around the room.

  Caspar’s fingers tightened on the stem of his recently refilled wineglass.

  “Be sensible, Elinor. He’s done nothing to show he deserves to be trusted since he came back. Brawling in public, drunk most nights, playing stupid pranks, sleeping with a succession of women. I’m ashamed he’s my son.”

  Casper counted to five. Ten was too much to ask. He stared straight at his father and rose to his feet. “Thank you for dinner.” He drained his glass in one gulp, nodded to his mother and walked out. He’d thought about stuffing the last piece of tender steak in his mouth, but in a choice between that and good-quality alcohol, the wine had won.

  Caspar grabbed his coat from the hands of the butler and stormed out of the house. He did not have to tolerate this crap. He was thirty-three, not thirteen. He fastened the buttons of his long, black woolen coat and turned up the collar as he strode down the drive toward the Gatehouse.

  His home and his fucking prison.

  The small house at the entrance to the drive of Wyndale Hall had been bequeathed to him by his grandfather, except Caspar couldn’t sell it because it was part of the Lynham estate. He didn’t really want to sell it, but he did need the money. He’d starve before he took another penny from his parents, but he grew hungrier by the day.

  Casting a single glance at his cold, empty house, Caspar carried on walking toward the village. He might find temporary happiness in a bottle of house red at the Wyndale Arms. Maybe Suz, the middle-aged barmaid, would look more appetizing when he was drunk. He’d long ago broken his rule about not fucking women who lived on his doorstep, though not the one about never fucking the same woman twice. Caspar treated women like new toys he’d been given for Christmas. He loved them to bits once they were unwrapped but quickly lost interest after he’d played with them. There was always something new on the horizon to attract his attention.

  * * * * *

  By the time Ally’s taxi pulled up outside Stone Cottage, it was almost nine in the evening and she was shattered. She shivered under her thin coat in the September chill. It seemed a lot colder here than in London.

  Wyndale nestled in a valley below Curber Edge, a popular area for walkers and climbers. Her brother Finn loved climbing, while Ally freaked out going up a ladder. She’d been to Wyndale once before, over a year ago, when Finn invited her for the weekend to see his new house. It had rained the entire time and Ally had curled up on the couch with a thick book and not moved while her brother raced around getting filthy on his mountain bike.

  Stone Cottage was the end property of a group of five situated on a hill on the outskirts of the village. Constructed of grayish-white Derbyshire limestone, the two-and-three bedroom cottages looked stark from the front, but very stylish at the rear with lots of glass that opened onto woodland. They were arranged around a shared courtyard covered with limestone chippings, and judging by the lack of vehicles and lights, no one was home.

  Ally unlocked the door, had a belated thought about a burglar alarm and exhaled when nothing beeped. She dragged her cases inside, sighed with relief again when a flick turned the lights on and sighed once more when water flowed from the taps. Once she’d washed her hands, Ally turned up the central heating, restored the electricity supply to the empty fridge and checked the kitchen cupboards. She hadn’t wanted to eat earlier, but now that the adrenaline had worn off, she was starving. Unfortunately, Finn hadn’t even left a tin of baked beans.

  Before she abandoned the house in search of food, Ally repaired her makeup to ensure the bruise on her cheek was covered, changed into her pale pink pants and matching jacket, and put a smile on her face. She pinned her shoulder-length hair into an untidy knot at the back of her head and slipped on her pink high heels, because, despite everything, her Cinderella complex insisted without the right shoes, she wouldn’t find the right man. Any single girl who said she wasn’t always looking was lying.

  As Ally trekked down the hill into the village, a bitter wind twirled around her, finding the gaps in her clothing and licking her skin with an icy tongue. She should have worn her coat over her jacket, but if she went back, she’d stay home and think about what had happened. The bright lights of a pub beckoned, but Ally kept walking. More important to buy coffee for tomorrow.

  By the time she reached the other side of the village, she hadn’t found a single shop open. Used to the twenty-four-hour lifestyle of London, Ally had forgotten people here went to bed when she’d be getting ready to go out.

  She couldn’t face the trek back without eating something and sitting down for a while. Not only was the thin jacket a mistake, so were the heels. Her toes were freezing. When Ally walked into the Wyndale Arms and every head turned, followed by a collective dropping of jaws, she realized
her whole outfit was a mistake.

  In trendy and crowded London pubs, she could dissolve into the crowd like sugar in coffee, but here, Ally stood out—a strawberry in a bowl of blackcurrants. Not a woman in sight. Damn. She refused to leave without food. Even peanuts would do.

  A group of boisterous men on the far side of the bar resumed their game of darts and another quick glance showed Ally the only other occupant of the dingy room was a dark-haired guy who sat alone at a table by an open fire. Head down, he nursed a glass of wine, rocking it in his hand.

  Ally walked up to the empty bar and a wide-eyed redhead popped up like a jack-in-the-box. Ally squealed and jumped back.

  “Sorry. What can I get you?” the barmaid asked.

  A new set of nerves? “Do you serve food?”

  “Not after nine thirty.”

  Ally glanced at her watch. Nine thirty-two. Grrrr. “A glass of red wine, please. Sure there’s no food? I’d eat almost anything.” She tried her pleading look, hoping she wouldn’t have to resort to tears or settle for the peanuts.

  The barmaid laughed and poured Ally’s drink. “The chef could probably manage a bowl of chili.”

  “Brilliant,” Ally said. “Thank you.”

  “Wait until you taste it.”

  The deep and distinctive cultured voice came from right behind her. Ally turned and looked up into the thin, drawn face of the guy from the fire, and it was as though a storm broke in her body. He needed a shave and a comb pulled through his untidy hair, but thunder rumbled in her heart and lightning fizzled along her veins. His gray eyes, rimmed with thick, black lashes were underlined by dark shadows.

  He looked haunted.

  She wanted to hug him.

  “Another,” he said to the barmaid, and put a handful of change and his empty glass on the counter.

  Wine poured, he walked back to his table without giving Ally another glance. Damn. Her heart continued to hiccup in a way it hadn’t for ages. Well over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a lovely backside encased in faded black denim—he was gorgeous. The countryside was looking better and better.

  “No please or thank you?” Ally whispered.

  “He’s the local grouch,” the barmaid said. “Sit down and I’ll bring the chili over.”

  Ally would have liked to have taken a chair near the fire, but Mr. Misery’s brooding presence overwhelmed that part of the room, plus she didn’t want to look too keen, so she chose a table nearer the darts players. She’d hardly settled before the chili arrived. One mouthful and she sucked in a breath. Hot, hot, hot. Her eyes watered, and when she slurped at her wine, she heard a quiet chuckle behind her.

  “I did warn you,” he said.

  She turned. “You did, but it was either this or eat my own arm.”

  His mouth twitched. “You made the wrong choice.”

  After a few forkfuls, her lips went numb, followed by her tongue. When Ally thought about what that level of spice might be doing to her stomach, she pushed the half-eaten chili aside. The wine calmed the burn, though not much. It did help to make her head fuzzy. Maybe getting a little drunk was a good idea.

  She listened to the guys playing darts trying to persuade one of the four to stay longer. Instead, the man pulled on his coat and finished his pint.

  “We need to practice,” said the youngest one.

  “Sorry, but I promised I’d be back by ten.”

  “She’s got you pussy whipped, Bill,” called a squat, bald man.

  “Maybe I like it,” he said as he opened the door.

  “We always knew you were kinky,” said a tall, brown-haired guy.

  Ally watched the gaze of the three remaining men pass over Mr. Moody sitting by the fire and settle on her. An elbow in the ribs of the youngest by the bald one and he sidled over to her table. “We need a fourth. Like to play?”

  Ally’s eyes widened. “I’m not very good.” As in, I’m terrible. She started to turn. “You could ask—”

  “That’s okay. We like a challenge. You can be on my team.” The lank-haired youth smiled at her.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ally muttered.

  She carried her wine over. The guys introduced themselves as Neil, Tom and Mike. Mike was the youngest. Neil was in his forties. Tom looked to be a few years older than Ally, handsome but too smooth for her.

  “I’m Ally.”

  “Not from round here, are you?” Neil looked her up and down. “You’re a bit—flamboyant for these parts.”

  Ally smiled. “I’m from London.”

  “Ah, bad luck,” Neil said.

  Tom handed her a dart. “We won’t bother with a warm-up. One throw each. Nearest the bull starts.”

  That wouldn’t be her then. Ally’s dart landed in the wall two feet away from the board and she cringed but the guys chuckled.

  When it was her turn to play, her first dart was on target but bounced off the board and nearly hit Mike. The second hit the board and stuck in eight. Ally began to jump up and down, clapping her hands in delight. The dart drooped and then fell off.

  “Damn,” Ally said. “Does that count?”

  Neil shook his head. “Has to stay in for five seconds after the last dart is thrown.”

  Ally huffed. She launched the third dart and it landed in the ceiling. The guys stared up in disbelief.

  “That fly never stood a chance,” Ally said, and they roared with laughter.

  Her gaze flickered to the guy by the fire and she saw him smiling into his wine. Three wishes, thought Ally, and conjured up the image of a shooting star.

  Let him be single.

  Let him be a good guy.

  Let him want me.

  Chapter Three

  From the moment the leggy, pink chick had walked into the pub, Caspar was mesmerized. He thought she’d take one snooty glance and walk out again, but she hadn’t. She looked like a gangly flamingo, her blonde hair fastened up in a messy swirl at the back of her head with some fluffy pink thing. She had a cute nose and take-me-to-bed eyes, but he didn’t think much of the crap she’d smeared over her face. Lipstick was the only makeup he liked, particularly when it ended up on his cock.

  Her yelp when Suz had jumped up from behind the bar had almost made Caspar spill his wine. Nervy? Therefore not his type, but when his gaze dropped to her tight pink pants, he changed his mind. She had a fabulous backside, round and firm, and Caspar wanted to squeeze it, kiss it, lick it— Oh fuck it. Blood rushed south and he edged his chair closer to the table. The grating noise drew gazes in his direction, and Caspar took a swig of wine.

  So she was called Ally. Short for Alice? Allegra? Alley cat?

  She was the worst darts player he’d ever seen. Caspar didn’t think he’d heard anyone say “sorry” so many times. Except maybe him.

  The dart in the ceiling was a first and had even tugged a smile from him he’d promptly hidden in his glass. He watched the guys trying not to laugh at her unusual technique, the way she launched the dart from way over her shoulder as if hurling a javelin. Yet thank fuck for that, because every time it was her turn, she had to bend over to pick up at least two wayward darts.

  Caspar wasn’t the only one who’d noticed her lovely backside and those fuck-me heels. While Neil gave her pointers in how to throw—which made not a jot of difference—Tom and Mike sidled around to get a better view of her butt. When she reached down, a ribbon of tanned flesh lay exposed across her lower back and, once, Caspar caught sight of a narrow strip of pink lace. Oh God.

  It took a tremendous feat of willpower to stop his cock from bursting through his zipper. Every time she laughed, the damn thing grew a little thicker, a little harder. Caspar became consumed by the desire to drag her outside, yank down her pants and slide into her slick warmth. Every time she said “sorry”, he wanted to bend her over a table and thrust inside her. Every time she laughed, he wanted to press his cock to her lips and spill into her mouth. His body flooded with heat and he jerked his chair back from the fire. M
ore stares in his direction from guys who’d generally rather ignore him.

  “That sudden noise put you off?” Tom asked Ally, and glared at Caspar over her shoulder. Caspar glared back.

  “Nothing puts me off.” Ally’s next dart almost hit Mike’s foot.

  Her appearance this evening was enough to make Caspar believe in the devil. Just as he’d almost talked himself into a period of celibacy, totally unconnected with the way Suz had rolled her eyes at him when he’d flirted, this pink cloudburst of temptation waltzed in. And she hadn’t even smiled at him—yet.

  There was still time.

  Neil’s wife waited at home. Caspar suspected Mike’s widowed mother would be listening out for her nineteen-year-old son’s return, but Tom was a different matter. Tom was good-looking, solvent, well-dressed, unattached and had a decent haircut. He ran a residential adventure center to which businesses sent teams of employees to learn what to do if they got caught out in the middle of nowhere with a compass but no mobile phone. Very likely. Tom had been a friend once and could easily have given Caspar a job but hadn’t. The courses raised self-awareness and self-esteem and tested issues of trust and teamwork. Maybe Caspar needed to go on a course.

  Ally laughed at something Tom said, and Caspar took a mouthful of wine to prevent a possessive growl escaping his lips. Sex-maniac-in-training that he was, he didn’t remember ever feeling this level of lust for anyone—an overwhelming compulsion to have her. Except Caspar wasn’t too drunk to register it was probably his mind playing tricks on him—again. When he told himself he couldn’t have something, he wanted it even more. After spending four years desperate for a pint of beer, a roast dinner, a cliff to climb, a kind face to smile at him, Caspar was an expert in unrequited longing. Now he detested feeling so needy and hated that it made him weak.

  He listened intently to the conversation coming from the other side of the room, but Ally revealed little about herself, deftly turning topics away from her and onto village life. At least with Caspar sitting, listening, they didn’t tell her about Wyndale’s notorious black sheep—he cast a wry glance at his black woolen coat—but it could only be a matter of time before he was damned in her eyes.