“Where the f**k are you?”
Sibyl was struck dumb at his tone and his question.
He had no idea she worked at the Community Centre.
Indeed, in all their time together, he knew nothing personal about her except from what he could tell through observation and from the photographs scattered about her house.
And Sibyl did everything she could to keep it this way. If she let him in, she knew somewhere deep inside of her, she wouldn’t want to let him go. Even with what she was to him, there was no denying the otherworldly strength of her attraction to him or that bizarre connection she felt between them. She knew this and she hated it just as much as felt strangely safe in knowing it.
“I’m –” her mind raced to find a lie.
“You sound like you’re at a club.” His voice was short, curt and obviously furious.
“I’m not –”
“A bad one,” he interrupted.
She felt a hysterical giggle bubble in her throat and she gulped it down.
“I’ve been calling for an hour,” he went on.
Her eyes rounded and she took the phone away from her ear to stare at its display.
Blooming hell, she’d left it in her office.
When she put it back to her ear, he was still talking, “… home right away.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I want you home right away.”
Her heart stopped and her stomach plummeted.
Her girls were on the stage.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“At the cottage, where I’ve been for an hour.” His voice was ice cold.
You’re available to me when I say, where I say, he’d said.
Bloody, bloody hell.
“Colin –”
“Now,” he said simply.
“I’m at work,” she explained, her voice a plea.
“I don’t care,” he bit out.
“Colin, I can’t –”
“Now, Sibyl,” and, without another word, he rang off.
She flipped the phone shut and then opened it again.
Three missed calls.