He stroked his chin. “So, the roof work, tell me again what you had done.”
Freya’s mind raced. “It was only tidying up a few loose tiles around the lounge chimney, nowhere near my bedroom.”
“Is…um, does Ian have a key?”
Freya was instantly alert. “No! Well, I don’t think so. Unless he had one from before. Do you think…?”
Flynn picked up the ladders. “Hey, I should have kept my big mouth shut. He probably did it from outside.”
“But he should have asked me.”
“We’re a friendly lot in Morvenna, maybe he just thought he was helping.”
Freya frowned, not so sure. She followed him back downstairs into the kitchen.
“Thanks for coming over. Will you have a coffee?”
He looked at her steadily, and she felt the color flood her face.
“I get the feeling sometimes,” he said slowly, “that you…” They stared at each other, and Freya thought she understood how a rabbit must feel caught in car headlights. Her breathing quickened.
“That I what?”
“Never mind. Nothing important. Tim okay today? Didn’t get much chance to speak with him. He must be keen having you meeting the parents.”
Freya folded her arms and relaxed. She wanted to laugh with delight, felt a surge of confidence. Surely he couldn’t be jealous?
“Tim is a friend,” she said. “I hope we stay that way.”
Flynn’s eyes glittered with something she couldn’t read, and it filled her with a reckless longing, an urge to breach the small space between them, put her arms around his neck, hold him, and place her lips on that spot on his throat where she could see his pulse beating.
It passed quickly. Flynn picked up the ladders. “Friends are good,” he said curtly and walked out, leaving Freya feeling as though a bucket of cold water had been splashed over her. She hadn’t even had a chance to bring up the sale of her land with him.
Lucy appeared. “Everything okay?”
“Not really. Flynn found chicken wire in the eaves to stop the squirrels. I need to know if Ian came inside to do that, if he has a key.”
“What!” Lucy looked horrified.
“He put it there somehow. I need to find out how, though I’m dreading the coming confrontation.”
»»•««
Monday Ian didn’t show up. Put out because she’d already decided that when he did she’d give him a week’s wage and tell him she no longer wanted him, Freya jammed the envelope containing his money into the dresser drawer and, picking up the spade, started digging.
She wanted to bring Archie’s rose garden back to life if possible. She imagined him out here working hard, different work from the complex heart operations he carried out in the New York hospital. Would he have missed the adrenalin of such work? Perhaps, she mused as she began uprooting the plants from the shade of the wall, he’d had to give up work to look after Pamela. Freya straightened to rub her aching back. A shaft of sunlight made her shade her eyes as she looked down the garden through the length of the orchard to the land at the bottom, the hills beyond.
It would make an ideal golf course. She felt a tiny thrill of excitement. Lucy was right. Byron House did have a lot to offer paying guests…if she could ever get her business off the ground.
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday morning, hearing Ian’s bicycle wheels on the gravel along with his whistle, Freya glanced at the bedside clock. Seven o’clock!
“Oh!” She jumped out of bed and padded to the window.
She’d wanted to catch him before he started work. Somehow, stopping him in the middle of a job didn’t seem quite the right thing to do. And as he’d already propped his bike and disappeared into the shed door, returning with the hoe and rake, she’d lost her chance. He would though, have to be told about the chicken wire.
Lucy was already up and had made the coffee.
“I see he’s back,” she commented.
Freya glanced through the window.
“Yeah, I was hoping to catch him before he started.”
She went outside. Ian had his back to her and had taken his shirt off. She could see the bones of his spine—a vulnerable sight that filled her with guilt and remorse. How could she be so mean?
“Morning, Ian.”
He turned, shading his eyes. “Hi.”
Not giving herself time to back off, Freya blurted, “Ian, do you have a key for my house? One perhaps Archie gave you?”
“No. Course I don’t.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“The chicken wire in the loft. How did it get there?”
He shrugged. “Oh, that. I climbed the ladders, easy enough. Only thought I was helping, you did say the squirrels were waking you.”
Freya sighed inwardly with relief. “I did. All the same, I’d appreciate it if you’d ask before doing anything like that again please.”
“No probs. Sorry if I offended you.”
Freya nodded, annoyed with herself for even considering getting rid of the poor kid. All he’d wanted to do was help.
Lucy was drying dishes when she returned to the kitchen. She smiled at her. “It’s okay. He climbed the ladders outside.”
»»•««
Freya arrived at the open wrought iron gates of the O’Neill residence and drove along the impressive, tree-lined driveway to the long, low pale terracotta building. She smiled seeing the sign on a post: MICKEY’S PLACE ROUND THE BACK.
Behind the main house down a shorter driveway she came to a white-washed building with an oval, clear turquoise swimming pool to the side of it. On hearing her car, Mickey appeared at the door, coming out to greet her warmly.
“You sure do an old man’s heart good, Freya. Welcome to Mickey’s place.”
“It’s lovely!” Freya exclaimed.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet. Come through to the back.”
Mickey led her to a high, solid wooden gate by the side of the pool and pushed it open. It led into a courtyard planted with deep red and purple clambering Bougainvillea. Large pots held palms and yuccas. The open frontage had spectacular views across the hills, a sliver of ocean showing.
“This is just beautiful, Mickey.”
“Glad you like it.” Mickey’s face shone with pride.
“I do. It must have taken years and lots of hard work to get it like this.”
“Well, yeah.” Mickey rubbed his chin. “You know, give plants a good dollop of horse manure and they soon come on. It’s the best feed ever. Speaking of food, I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving.” Freya lifted her head. “Something smells delicious.”
Mickey laughed. “I’ve made a good old Irish stew. Now, sit ye down.” He pulled a chair out for her, took a linen napkin from the elegantly set table, and with an elaborate flourish laid it on her lap before pouring a glass of wine for her.
“Thank you, Mickey. I’m going to enjoy this.”
“Ah now. Had you been a male guest you’d have had a pint of the old black stuff, Guinness, but seeing as you’se a lady, white wine will have to do. Won’t be one sec, now.”
He disappeared, returning moments later carrying a tray which held a large casserole dish and a loaf of bread.
“Soda bread,” he informed Freya. “Great for mopping up stew.” He removed the lid from the pot, and Freya’s mouth watered.
“Mm,” she sighed. Mickey grinned and ladled a spoonful of dark, rich stew onto a plate for her. She watched the meat fall off the bone.
Mickey smiled. “Start,” he ordered.
Freya did. “It’s divine,” she said. “How do you make it?”
“Well now,” Mickey passed her a still-warm piece of bread, “you brown the best lamb neck chops you can get your hands on along with chopped onions. Scrape all the brown bits off the bottom of the pan, add carrots, potatoes, tomato paste, and vegetable stock, and then simmer it to death. Chopped parsley goes in at the end.”
Freya nodded, frowning. “But wi
th such nourishing food, Mickey, how come so many people died in the years of the potato famine?”
“Good question.” Mickey wiped the last of the gravy from his plate with a hunk of bread. He waved it about. “See, this sort of grub was only for the landlords and such like. The peasants, the workers could never afford meat. Potatoes were the staple diet. So when the blight struck, the poor souls starved.”
“Oh! But what did the people live on before Raleigh took the potato tuber back for Elizabeth the 1st?”
“Ah, now. That’s a puzzler.”
Freya smiled. Leaning forward, ready to absorb the tale, her breath caught in her throat on hearing the now-familiar low throb of the Jaguar’s engine. She took a quick gulp of wine.
“Aha.” Mickey cocked his head. “It’s the boy himself so it is. Now why am I not at all surprised by that?” And he winked.
Flynn walked through the gate, a smile creasing his craggy handsome face, and it caused something deep inside Freya to melt.
Help!
“Enjoying yourselves?” he asked, his eyes scanning their faces.
“Mickey,” Freya said with a smile, “has been explaining how to make the best Irish stew.”
“Did he mention the amount of whiskey he puts in?”
Mickey laughed. “Ah now, Flynn, boy, don’t spoil it!”
Freya laughed too. “No wonder it tasted so good. I really enjoyed it.”
“Well now, I’ll tell you something,” Mickey said, “and this is true. It was a pleasure watching you eat. You can’t beat a beautiful woman with a healthy appetite.” He nodded. “One of life’s pleasures to be sure. Don’t you agree, Flynn?”
Flynn stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and glanced at Freya. She looked back steadily, her mouth twitching with restrained laughter.
“Of course I agree,” he said. “Mind if I sit?”
“No.” Mickey motioned to a chair. “But what brings you here today? I thought you were working.”
“Oh, you know, just passing. Thought I’d drop in.”
“And very welcome ye are too.” Mickey’s bright eyes switched to Freya.
He doesn’t miss a trick!
She looked across at Flynn, saw the glimmer of a smile, and knew he felt the same.
“Mind if I stay a while…either of you?” Flynn asked, mischief twinkling in his eyes, the question clearly directed at her.
Mickey said, “Not at all.”
Freya squirmed in her chair, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Mickey had disappeared “for a beer,” he’d said. A silence settled over the yard. Flynn, hands loosely clasped, gazed down at the space between his feet.
“Your, um, grandfather is wonderful company,” Freya said at last.
“I heard that.” Mickey returned with a bottle and glass for Flynn. “Flattery will get you everywhere, me love.”
“Cheers.” Flynn leaned across. His bare arm brushed hers as he clinked Freya’s glass. Their eyes met and held, and a shudder of pure pleasure pulsed through her as did a moment of certainty—I do love him!
It was impossible to deny it any longer.
The realization made her feel quite faint. She heard, as though from a great distance, Mickey speaking.
“We’ve been so busy eating we haven’t had time to talk about Archie,” he said.
Freya, realizing he was addressing her, sat forward. “No, so…um, tell me something about my father. I only know what Mom told me, which isn’t really much as they weren’t together all that long. There was a sick wife, Pamela, she said. Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s correct. I never got to see much of Pamela. I believe she was what you’d call a reclusive type, kept herself upstairs most of the time. And of course, she wasn’t a well woman. Depression, Archie said. Very bad too. She died a few years ago. Out in Ohio at her sister’s, so none of us got to attend the funeral.”
“How sad. But you still visited him often, Mickey?”
“Oh, yeah. Once, maybe twice a week, sometimes more when I had time. He was one of life’s gentlemen, except when we played cards!”
“Tell me all you can remember about him.” Freya sat back, aware of Flynn beside her, close enough for her to catch the spicy, tangy aroma of his aftershave, see the smattering of fine hair along his tanned forearms, and be very conscious of his long legs stretched out before him. As Mickey recounted times spent with her father, Flynn relaxed farther into his chair, stretched, arms above his head, and Freya glimpsed a sliver of flat, taut, tanned stomach before looking away.
Although she loved hearing Mickey reminisce, he didn’t have her complete attention. She was finding it impossible to concentrate fully. The discovery of her love for the man beside her filled her senses to the exclusion of anything else.
She wondered how shocked he’d be if he knew.
Mickey’s voice reached her. “Tell me, Freya,” he said, “can you talk about Archie, and your mom?”
“Yes, I can.” Freya smiled. “Mom told me she met him when she was twenty. He was then more than twenty years older, a big gap. Through her nurse’s training she’d had to attend one of Archie’s lectures and felt an immediate affinity with him. She went to many more of his talks, coffee together began to follow the lectures, and well, an affair eventually started.”
“Ah, yes.” Mickey nodded. “And of course he would be at that time married to Pamela?”
“He was. He told Mom about her at the beginning, said there could never be a divorce as Pamela was too ill, but Mom wasn’t bothered about that, she loved him so much…” Her voice quivered.
“Freya.” Flynn lightly touched her arm. “Don’t go on if it upsets you.”
“No, it’s okay, there’s not much more. She became pregnant and told Archie she was going home to Philly. He gave her the money to buy a place there.”
“So there was no further contact between them?” Mickey asked.
“Just photos of me from Mom, and of course when she met my dad, the agreement for him to adopt me.”
“A hard time for Archie,” Mickey said quietly. “A hard time. He must have struggled with that.”
Freya nodded. She felt tearful, very emotional, and wanted to be alone to deal with the thoughts the conversation had triggered. She looked at her watch.
“Thanks, Mickey, for everything, for talking about my father with me,” she glanced at Flynn, “and for listening. I’ve had a lovely time today. Perhaps sometime you’ll come to me and we’ll talk some more. Though, I can’t,” she added, “promise you anything as delicious as your Irish stew.”
They all rose together. Freya collected her bag. Mickey kissed her. She said good-bye to Flynn, and Mickey walked her to her car.
»»•««
Flynn’s thoughts churned on the drive home. Mickey, returning from seeing Freya off, had been unable to stem his impatience.
“What’s wrong with you, lad?” he’d demanded. “A good-looking woman like that and you’re not showing any interest. I can’t believe any fella worth his salt wouldn’t want her. That pal of yours, Tim,” he’d added slyly, “certainly seemed keen.”
Flynn told him he was incorrigible. Mickey replied that maybe he was, but he was no fool. “I think you’re smitten and scared of it,” he’d said.
Flynn had shrugged. They parted on good terms as usual, but he couldn’t get his grandfather’s words out of his head, because he knew what he’d said was true—he was smitten.
He’d had preconceived ideas about her, but Freya had taken him completely by surprise. Gradually, over only a few weeks, with her spirit and shy charm, not to mention her beauty, she’d managed to get through to him. The only woman who had ever managed to do so.
He took a corner too fast, the tires squealed, and a woman walking her dog turned to frown. The whole thing seemed to be going wrong. He’d wanted her land, thought himself capable of coldly winning her over to get it, but now the idea of being false with her sickened him.
At the barbeque he’d
had a brief glimpse of the smoldering sexuality hovering beneath Freya’s sometimes cool veneer, and now, after this latest encounter, he’d discovered she was a caring, generous-hearted woman with the added bonus of a sense of humor.
But was Mickey right, was he scared…of commitment?
Her powerful sexual magnetism, the feelings she aroused in him were confusing. All his adult life women had been drawn to him. He’d enjoyed their company, as he enjoyed Rochelle’s, as long as it was on his terms—“no strings.” Now, with Freya on the scene, everything had changed. She invaded his thoughts, not to mention his dreams.
But he had no idea how she felt—and as Mickey had pointed out, there was Tim, undoubtedly keen, in the picture. The thought of making a fool of himself, seeing those beautiful green eyes widen with disbelief, made his skin bristle. Flynn swallowed hard and crunched the gear down to turn into his driveway. The sooner they sorted out a deal for the land the better. He was not about to ingratiate himself into any woman’s life purely on the basis of a raging physical attraction. When he settled down—if he ever did—it would have to be for love, not lust.
“Pigs might fly!” he muttered as he screeched up his driveway, sending gravel flying.
He had to keep his mind focused on the land issue. Once that was settled, with the plans in place, he could leave Mike in charge of the build and contract work and take himself off to the Caribbean. He’d already made tentative inquiries about a sizeable tract of land on the island of Celinique. He’d survey that and then spend a few days at his own place on Parrot Island. It would do him good.
Away from Freya.
He slammed his car door and strode into the house and out onto the balcony, where he stared down at the red Beetle parked on the drive and cursed himself silently.
For however hard he tried to convince himself it was purely the land interesting him, he’d found it hard to look at the lovely dimple at the side of her mouth when she’d laughed, the soft glow in her eyes, without feeling a stirring pulsating desire to have her in his life. And that had shaken him to the core.
The Way Love Goes Page 10
