Love to Hate You (31 page)

He laughs at my embarrassment. “Do you want to calm down?” he mumbles as he moves closer and kisses me.

When he's finished, he backs away, a satisfied look on his face.

“A lifetime being chased by women, and I've ended up with you! Pretty ironic, wouldn't you say?” he asks, with a hint of a smile.

“Poetic justice,” says George, looking at us curiously.

“Looks that way,” agrees a resigned Ian. He takes my hand and we set off toward the restaurant.

Tamara and George follow us, arm in arm.

*

You think better on a full stomach, I reflect as I return from lunch. When we get back to our floor, Ian winks goodbye and I'm about to cross the threshold of my office when Mary, the receptionist, blocks my way.

“Jenny, there's a gentleman in your office,” she tells me, sounding almost agitated. “He demanded to wait inside and I couldn't talk him out of it. He didn't even introduce himself. I would have called security, but he looks… important. And I thought it might be some weirdo client of yours.”

I can't really tell her she's wrong – rich people actually
are
pretty weird.

“No problem,” I re-assure her. It sounds like whoever this person is, they have a nasty temper.

“If you need anything, call me,” she tells me before disappearing. Who is
this
going to be? I stride confidently in and am faced with a tall man with white hair who is staring at me with blue eyes, clearly frustrated at having had to wait. I recognize him instantly – it's Ian's grandfather.

“Good afternoon, duke,” I greet him cordially, “are you sure you haven't got the wrong office?” I ask, as I approach.

“Miss Percy,” he greets me, rising from his chair and shaking my hand. “I am in absolutely the right office,” he says with conviction.

Too bad – I was hoping he really had got the wrong room.

“In that case, please make yourself comfortable.” Meanwhile, I sit down in front of him. “To what do I owe this visit?” I ask, trying to maintain a formal tone.

He looks at me thoughtfully. “You look happy,” he says, glumly.

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask with a hint of irony.

He doesn't answer. “You also look as though you are in love,” he adds even more gloomily, after having carefully observed me for a few moments.

“I doubt that,” I say in annoyance. Where the hell is this going?

“I note with very little pleasure that you have not followed my advice in the least.”

This conversation is really starting to get on my nerves. “What exactly are we talking about?” I ask sharply.

“About you, and Ian, and your relationship,” he answers, as though it were obvious.

“Not that it is any of your business, but there is no relationship.”

The Duke looks at me defiantly. “Do not make fun of me, Miss Percy. You are bright, very bright, I will give you that, but now you are going too far.” His tone of voice does not invite discussion, but unfortunately for him I am the kind of person who isn't easily intimidated. In fact, if possible, this type of thing only makes me even less willing to listen to advice.

“To what exactly are you referring?” I ask in exasperation.

“Ian has asked me to give him his grandmother's engagement ring. It does not require a genius to work out what his intentions are,” he answers coldly.

What? Did I hear that right? I must have gone as white as a sheet.

“I can assure you that he does
not
want to marry me,” I reply, but more hesitantly than I would like because suddenly I'm not sure of anything.

“You are absolutely sure?” asks the Duke scornfully.

I remain silent for a moment before whispering, “Tell me that you didn't give it to him.”

My heart is beating like crazy at the idea that Ian could even have considered doing such a thing, but I force the thought to one side and try to focus on reality.

He observes me in what looks like surprise. “And how could I not give it to him?” he complains. “He threatened that he would buy an even bigger one if I didn't! And we are talking about a five-carat diamond—”

Oh my goodness.

“I'm sure I'm not the intended recipient of such a gift,” I repeat, as I try to regain my composure. Ian's not totally out of his mind.

“I understand the relationship with you to be my grandson's only serious relationship. If we exclude the one from junior school,” he retorts sarcastically.

“What the hell is the matter with all of you?” I explode. “Ian and I are seeing each other, ok, but we're not a couple and we've never spoken about a future or anything serious!”

“Because
you
will not
let
him,” interrupts the Duke. How the hell does he know that?

“My grandson thinks – I cannot judge whether rightly or wrongly – that he is in love, and since he is unaccustomed to such a thing, he reacts impulsively. But marriage is really too big a thing, Miss Percy.”

On this we are in complete agreement.

“Are you in love with him?” he asks finally, when he realises that I am absolutely speechless.

Here is the question that I have been avoiding even thinking about for six months now – the question that brings me out in a cold sweat.

“Does that matter?” I ask.

He looks at me, beaten. “So unfortunately, you are—” he states, looking into my eyes. “It would have been easier otherwise.”

“You don't choose who you fall in love with!”

“No, I imagine not—” he confirms thoughtfully.

We sit in silence for a few moments.

“It is clear, however, that you cannot marry him,” he says.

I sigh in annoyance. “I know that very well, thank you. I know, really I do. And I still believe that he will never ask me. He'd have to be mad!”

The Duke looks at me calmly. “I may be of a certain age, but even I remember that when one is in love, one
is
mad.”

He's probably right too, because I feel as though I've completely lost my mind since all this began.

“So do I have your promise that you will not say yes?” he insists.

“Really, he will never ask—”

“But do I have it in any case?” he asks again.

“If it makes you feel better, all right, you have it,” I reply in exasperation at his insistence. What a stubborn old man! He's almost as bad as his grandson!

Satisfied at having extorted this promise from me, the Duke rises to his feet and holds out his hand in farewell.

“Very well, I will let you return to your work.”

“Thanks,” I reply doubtfully, “Good day.” And I watch him walk out of my office.

It's Friday evening, and Ian has manoeuvred me into having dinner at his place. We manage to cook something together before ending up sprawled across his lovely sofa, exhausted after a week of unrelenting work.

“Stay over tonight,” he tries to persuade me, rubbing my back.

I can't say I'm not very tempted, but I must hold out.

“No, you know my rules,” I reply, in a voice that's very much influenced by his hands.

“Oh, to hell with your rules,” he says, kissing me.

He knows that there are some things I can't resist, and so he always tries to win these arguments by making me lose my head. And in general it's a tactic that works, unfortunately. He would have been a great military strategist.

“You're not playing fair,” I moan breathlessly, much later. He looks at me, obviously not feeling at all guilty.

“Each of us uses the means at our disposal,” he says sagely.

“Please, don't insist,” I plead again, seriously this time, and he raises his hands in surrender.

“Ok, if you don't want to sleep at your boyfriend's house it means that your boyfriend will just have to sleep at yours,” he tells me calmly.

“Ian—” I say plaintively, in an attempt to dissuade him. When he's in the mood, he certainly knows how to be really stubborn.

“Yes?” he asks with perfect innocence.

I sigh in annoyance. “Ok, I'll stay here, then. But let's get one thing straight, you're not my boyfriend,” I say. I don't have many defences against him, and I have to keep a tight grip on the ones I've got.

He nods in satisfaction, managing not to gloat too much and totally ignoring my last statement.

“Can we talk about something serious for a minute?” I ask.

Ian picks up the change in my tone. “Sure,” he answers, trying not sound alarmed.

“I know we've never spoken about it, but what exactly do you feel for me?” I ask him.

Ian looks at me in amazement – it's clear that it wasn't the type of question he was expecting. “What is this, the moment of truth?” he asks, trying to make a joke out of it. Typical man.

“That's one way of looking at it,” I answer, smiling.

“I'll answer honestly if you do you too,” he says calmly, after a short pause.

“Ok—” I agree, unsure as to how to wriggle out of it.

He takes my hand and starts to play with it. “Well—” he begins nervously, more to himself than to me, “where shall I start?”

I don't say a word as I wait for his answer. I don't know what to expect, honest to God.

“Err, to be honest, I think I'm in love with you,” he confesses after a few moments. “As I imagine you've realised—” he adds, laughing nervously. “Did you need to hear me say it? I mean, because, you know, I'm not exactly brilliant at expressing my feelings, but—”

I stop him. “No, that's enough,” I say, my heart beating furiously. “Really.”

The embarrassment of both is evident. “What about you?” he asks, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

Here it is – the million dollar question.

“Seeing as everybody else keeps telling me I am, I suppose that I must be too,” I confess. In the end, his grandfather is convinced, Laura and Vera are convinced and even my family suspect it. It's obvious that it must be so. I have indeed fallen for this bizarre man, even though I try not to think about it too much and I avoid admitting it to myself altogether.

“I was thinking,” he says then, “that if, despite all our misgivings, we're in love, how about moving in together?”

Am I hearing things? I glare at him.

“What?” I say incredulously. “You can't really be asking me to go and live with you, knowing full well that I don't even really consider you my boyfriend.”

“Yes you
do
consider me your boyfriend, you just don't like giving in when you've set your mind on something. We could make the leap straight from being from colleagues to flatmates. That way you wouldn't have to worry too much about what to call me,” he offers half seriously.

“Don't talk rubbish,” I snap.

Ian's expression changes completely and becomes frosty. “Frankly these obsessions of yours are starting to get on my nerves a bit. I've been waiting six months now for you to accept this change in our relationship, and I'm getting a bit sick of it,” he says, frowning.

“Exactly! And I've got an awful temper. You'd actually want to
live
with someone like me?” I ask in an attempt to talk him round.

But it doesn't seem as though Ian has been rational for about six months now, if I'm honest.

He snorts. “As if I didn't already know,” he says, offended. “But despite that, and despite knowing you pretty well, I want to live with you
anyway.
I stress the 'anyway'.”

“Ian, it would be a nightmare,” I say. I really think it would. Living together is a balancing act, and we're like two bulls in a very small china shop.

“No, it wouldn't,” he replies stubbornly.

“And how would we manage all our differences?” I ask worriedly.

“What differences? I don't see all these huge differences,” he says, folding his arms.

“We've both got very short tempers, and if we lived together it would be very stormy, to say the least,” I confess sincerely. “Not to mention the fact that we move in different social circles, we have different interests, different hobbies—”

“What hobbies!? We're always stuck in the bloody office and we never have time to do anything,” he blurts out.

“Actually—” I begin, but am immediately interrupted. Ian moves closer and puts his hands on his knees.

“Can you stop for a moment?” he asks sweetly.

I nod, losing myself in his deep blue eyes. He ought to be a hypnotist.

“I understand that the idea of living together is scary. But we're not two little kids. And you'll keep being elusive and distrustful of me if I don't find a way to convince you to come and live with me. I warn you that I'm not going to give in. I'll be a pain, I'll go on and on about it, and I will not let up,” he says, smiling. He sounds sincere but determined.

I emit a strangled sound. How the hell can I get out of a situation like this?

“You're the most absurd, stubborn person I've ever met.”

“I know,” he answers, almost cheerfully. Clearly, for Ian that's a compliment.

But when soon after he starts kissing me again and drags me off towards the bedroom, I have to admit that, strangely, much of my frustration has subsided.

At this rate, I'm doomed for sure.

Michael is back in England, on his usual one week vacation away from the disaster areas of the world. My brother's a hero – what he does is a proper job, I reflect as I scroll down a seemingly endless file on the screen of my PC.

I'm seeing him for lunch, and it's going to be embarrassing, considering what happened last time we saw each other all those months ago. Or rather, given what's happened
since
then.

There is not even a vague hope that he'll accept what I have to tell him without an argument.

I hate confessions.

Ian even offered to go with me. It's not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but my brother's pretty good at being difficult when he wants to be. I fear it's a gene that has been passed down in my family for many generations.