Never.
Sibyl turned her face to the sun and let her thoughts wander in an attempt at procrastination.
She’d called him without thinking after she couldn’t wake Mallory the night of the break-in and he’d done exactly what she needed him to do. He took control and handled things while she coped with the bizarre and frightening situation.
But he’d gone beyond that, being possessively, even fiercely protective. When he’d crouched by Mallory and gently stroked him muttering a curse in a tone that exactly matched Sibyl’s mood, she’d nearly come undone. She wanted to hurl herself in his arms, promise to pay him back every penny if they could go back to the beginning and start new.
But she couldn’t do that. They couldn’t do that. That time had long since passed.
She simply had to take what she had for as long as was left and be happy with it.
The morning after the break-in, she’d stood in his bathroom brushing her teeth and thinking how different it was this time at Lacybourne. It was normal, he was normal (not even a hint of a personality disorder). It felt safe. It felt right. It felt pleasantly, weirdly and wonderfully like she was home.
Helping it to be more pleasant and wonderful, Colin had come up behind her, kissed her shoulder and turned her into his arms.
“I like you in my bathroom,” he’d whispered in a voice so hot, his eyes blazing with intensity; she instantly relaxed in his loose embrace.
As if this wasn’t enough, he went on. “And in my kitchen,” already reduced to goo in his arms, those arms tightened and his face came close before he finished, “And in my bed.”
He then gave her a hard, closed-mouthed kiss (even though her mouth was filled with toothpaste foam) and he’d walked away, carelessly wiping the back of his hand across his lips to swipe away her foam.
It took her at least five minutes of holding the sink basin to recover from this heated yet tender barrage and every bit of self-control she possessed not to rush into the bedroom and pounce on him like a demented wanton.
Her teeth had gone a whole shade whiter.
The day after the cottage break-in, Colin sent a locksmith to put new locks on the front door and the backdoor. Not happy with this, he also sent out an alarm specialist to see to putting in an alarm. However, as the cottage was a listed building, everything would need to be approved by the heritage council before it was installed. Since Colin knew seventeen North Somerset Councillors (he reminded her rather arrogantly, as was, she’d learned, his way) this would not be a difficult proposition.
“But Colin, I can’t pay for an alarm system,” she informed him at the time.
“I’m hardly going to allow you to live at Brightrose when there’s a lunatic running around with a tranquilliser gun,” he replied like it was as simple as that.
“But Colin, I can’t afford an alarm system,” she somewhat repeated, thinking the different word might permeate his dictatorial brain.
“You aren’t paying for it, I am.”
“But Colin –”
“It’s either that or live at Lacybourne with me.”
At that alarming juncture in the conversation, she’d given in though not gracefully.
He’d also, to her surprise (and hidden delight) had a survey done of the Community Centre and had some builder “pop ‘round” to look at building an office extension for her.
The oldies were beside themselves with delight and Kyle couldn’t believe his luck at the possibility of no more patched wire jobs and blocked toilets.
When she approached Colin about this he’d said, “The place is a health hazard. If something isn’t done, it’ll crumble down on your head and I happen to like your head as it is.”
Well. How could she respond to that?
She didn’t know so she didn’t respond at all and couldn’t, really, since he’d brushed his lips to hers, turned from her and walked into the kitchen.
Furthermore, a rubbish truck arrived last Friday and carted away the old, ratty chairs and couches that littered the Day Centre (and nearly every stick of furniture in Sibyl’s office). It was replaced within a half an hour with new, plush easy chairs and a three piece suite. There were brand new, sturdy yet attractive tables on which the oldies could lunch with far more comfortable, not to mention safe chairs all around the tables. Sibyl herself had a new desk, a swivel chair that could only be described as luxurious and a lovely, comfortable couch in her office.
“I’m definitely writing your mother about this,” Mrs. Griffith proclaimed, settling contentedly in a new, plump, mauve chair covered in soft velour.
Sibyl had been so beside herself with glee, she didn’t know what to say or do. When she saw Colin again after the new furniture was delivered, he passed it off like it was nothing even though she knew it had to be worth thousands of pounds.
She thought he’d demand his pound of flesh, another month, maybe two, but he didn’t say a word.