She turned away and hurried across the corridor, pushing on the correct door and walking into the swimming pool area. The lights were dim – consciously considered again along the rough stone walls – and set at intervals along a twelve-metre black-bottom pool. But she didn’t give a damn about its tranquil beauty. She was furious with herself. She dropped her towel on one of the loungers and stepped into the water. It was warm and silky, a languid embrace of her weary body. She sank up to her shoulders and immediately began to swim, face-down, a regular paced front crawl.

She went up and down the lengths without bothering to count, perfecting her tumble turns and wanting only to wear herself out. She felt discomfited and agitated. Everything felt out of sorts and jarring. It had been a hard week.

She didn’t know how long she went for. The stress of the project seemed to propel her along, her legs kicking, hands reaching, her face only half rising from the water. But when she finally broke the surface, her hand reaching for the shallow end wall, she was panting hard and she felt purged somehow. Empty, again, of the anger he brought out in her.

She stood up and swept her hair back from her face, smoothing the water off her skin. She opened her eyes.

Kit blinked back at her. He was sitting on the lounger, her towel in his hands.

Clover stared at him in disbelief. How long had he been there?

‘I won’t interrupt. I just need to . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I need to apologize. For that.’ His gaze flickered down her again and this time, following it, she saw what he had seen earlier: several vivid bruises on her arm, perfect imprints of fingertips. Her mouth parted in surprise. She hadn’t even noticed them. She’d not looked in many mirrors lately.

‘I was angry but I never should have . . . It doesn’t excuse . . .’ His mouth was small, his face pinched with tension. ‘Look, I know what you think of me. And I’m many things. But I’m not that.’ He swallowed. ‘So I’m sorry.’

She blinked, stunned that this was happening. Kit Foley was apologizing to her? On account of a tiny bruise? ‘. . . Okay.’

He got up, saw the towel was in his hand. He held it out questioningly.

She took it blindly. ‘Thanks.’

He stood there for another moment, staring at her, and everything in his being – his posture, his energy – was different to what she’d seen before. She waited for him to say something else, but then he turned.

‘Kit—’ It was a half call, notably tentative. She had no idea what she was going to say but this had to be the opening, surely, she had been looking for?

He stopped walking but didn’t look back at her. ‘This changes nothing,’ he said tersely over his shoulder, reading her mind.