by Sara Wood
Something bucked inside him. He thought it wise to let his hand drop. ‘Right,’ he said, with a stab at briskness. ‘Open them.’
The dark brown lashes fluttered and lifted and her gaze was captured immediately by the huge figure outlined on the hill ahead.
‘That is incredible!’ she breathed. ‘What is it? What’s it doing up there—can we go up to see it?’
He was pleased at her reaction. He’d hoped she’d be impressed. ‘It’s the Long Man,’ he answered. ‘The Giant of Wilmington. We’ll go up to see him another day. It’s a long hike up and I need to get back in a short while. Here. Let me put my jacket down on the bank and we can admire him in comfort.’
‘I’ll help,’ she said, seeing him struggling to keep Jack upright while attempting to wriggle out of the coat.
She removed his coat for him and they sat side by side on its tartan lining, with Jack sleeping in his arms in blissful peace, rocked by the rhythm of the walk. Her face was rapt as she waited for him to speak and he felt his throat closing up with desire.
It wasn’t sexual, but something else. An elusive yearning, a warm contentment, a feeling that this was a companionship he could cherish for the rest of his life.
And that both elated and alarmed him. He had enough going on in his life already, enough of a commitment to Jack and Sam and to the business without adding one more. He had to feel that—when everything righted itself again—he could have personal freedom. He needed to be independent, not to be tied to someone.
And yet…
‘I’m admiring,’ she said, her white teeth gleaming as she gave a little teasing laugh. ‘Do I get a commentary as well?’
‘Sure.’
He looked up at the huge outline of a man on the slope of Windover Hill, originally carved out of the chalk some five thousand years earlier. As always, he felt a little shiver of awe and amazement go through him.
‘He’s the second tallest human figure in the world. Over two hundred feet tall—I forget how much more. Probably Neolithic. No one really knows the truth. But the staves he’s holding probably represent a doorway—and it’s said he’s part of a harvest fertility cult. He represented the midsummer sun god, who brought light, warmth and a full belly; a guardian who made the crops grow.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘Look. There are Long Barrows on the hill where the people were buried and a prehistoric trackway, the old route taken by travellers from those times to quite recently. Flint mines… A mortuary area for the funeral processions…’ He smiled at her entranced face. ‘It’s a fascinating area. I can’t wait to explore it thoroughly.’
‘Nor can I! You’ve picked up a lot of information in the short time you’ve been here,’ she commented. She leant forwards, her knees up to her chin, her expression thoughtful.
‘Only because I grabbed a couple of books from Sam’s bedside and read to him during the long hours I sat with him,’ he replied absently.
‘You’ve been unusually kind to my father,’ she declared, turning to face him. The wind blew her hair across her face and the sun warmed the strands to a gleaming copper. ‘Without you he might not have survived. You must have improved his chances considerably.’ Pushing her hair back, she hesitated, and then reached out to cover his hand where it rested on his knee. ‘I’ll be forever grateful to you for not abandoning him,’ she said quietly.
‘I couldn’t ever do that.’
Her hair had escaped again and he leaned closer, dangerously close, reclaiming his hand to smooth the shimmering hair on both sides of her head and to arrange it behind her small ears. The skin was warm and silky there, and the feel, the smell of her, was so sweet to him that he had to swallow hard to stop himself from kissing her.
Sexual obsession, he told himself sternly, is for teenagers with exploding testosterone. But a small inner voice protested that there was more to his obsession than raw hunger…
‘There is a special bond between you and my father,’ she observed, her eyes starry. ‘What is it?’
Talk. He had to talk. That would ease the ache in his loins. And the unnerving ache in his heart. Plus the emptiness. The first of those he understood only too well. The latter he could put down to a lack of breakfast. He had no ideas on how to explain the other.
‘I owe everything to Sam,’ he said simply.
He looked away, out to the ancient hill, and wondered if men and women over the millenia had always experienced conflicting emotions which tormented their sleeping and waking hours.
‘I knew it was something like that,’ she murmured happily.
His bones strained with the effort of not holding her. Every muscle was ready, tensed and expectant, waiting for the moment when he drew her to him and put that ecstatic face against his. Denying his own body, Morgan breathed long and hard. Never had his arms seemed so empty, their purpose so wasted.
‘My mother was his secretary,’ he told her, determined to sound, act, be normal again. ‘She was eighteen when she went for a job at his practice—and she was pregnant.’
‘With you?’ Jodie surmised.
Nodding, Morgan stroked Jack’s squashed cheek with a delicate finger, imagining what it had been like for his mother, alone, in a strange country and unmarried.
‘She’d come direct from Bogota, Colombia,’ he explained. ‘The father—my father—wouldn’t marry her.’
‘Then you never knew him? I’m sorry, Morgan. You must understand something of the emptiness that I felt, the sense of…of a hole in your life that needs filling.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘I do. I wouldn’t have asked you in if you hadn’t unwittingly touched a raw nerve.’
‘I’m glad I did—and that we had something in common. We’d never have known one another otherwise.’
Tension hung perilously in the air. ‘No,’ he husked.
The threads between them seemed to pull him inexorably towards her but he resisted. She gave a small shudder and drew in a breath through her teeth.
‘Cold?’ he enquired in concern, reaching out and rubbing her back and shoulders. ‘Do you want to walk on?’
‘No. I’m all right. Let’s stay here for a moment. I want to know more about your mother and my father.’
He let his arm remain casually across her shoulders. Just a friendly gesture. To keep her warm.
‘It wasn’t a sexual relationship, if that’s what’s worrying you,’ he murmured. ‘They became the best of friends. He recognised his own loneliness in her, I think. She was well educated and they enjoyed the same things, the same sense of humour.’
Jodie didn’t speak. She was watching Satan rolling on his back in the grass. Morgan continued, wanting to prolong this tantalising intimacy for as long as possible.
‘It’s odd, how one small thing…a look, an unguarded moment…can change the course of a person’s life—’
‘Oh, yes!’ she said fervently.
He mused that Jodie had come and pleaded to see her father, using the only words which could move him. And so he’d let her in, and now…
Where was he? He frowned. Oh, yes. His mother… ‘The interview with Sam didn’t go well,’ he began, his voice rich with the warmth of memories as he recalled the times he’d begged his mother to tell him the story again and again. ‘She was tense and guilty about keeping her pregnancy a secret. Her typing test was a total disaster, though Sam was kind about it, recognising she was nervous. But she broke down in tears because she assumed she’d lost the job. Over coffee in a nearby café, he got the whole story out of her—’
‘I assume he employed her on the spot?’ broke in Jodie with a broad smile.
‘What else would he do? It was typical of Sam,’ he said fondly. ‘Great benefactor to lame dogs, distressed women and all kinds of lost causes. He took an interest in me when I was born—stood as my godfather—and we became very close.’
She sighed. ‘I suppose you replaced me. A kind of surrogate son.’
‘Do you mind that?’ he asked softly.
‘No,
’ she replied. ‘He needed someone to love. Everybody does. If it had to be anyone who took my place, I’m glad it was you.’
For a long moment she held his gaze, and then lowered her lashes. He felt honoured by her statement. Touching her cheek with the back of his hand, he met her molten green eyes anew and smiled.
‘He would have been a good father to you,’ he said gently. ‘When my mother died I was eleven and already living with him because Mum had been seriously ill for some time. Sam consoled me, gave me time to grieve and encouraged me to talk about my mother.’
‘He sounds a wonderful person,’ she mused.
‘The best,’ he agreed huskily. ‘It seemed natural that he should bring me up. I was sent to the best schools, given every chance and encouragement. I was fortunate—and I know it. I bless the day that Sam came into our lives.’
She was looking at him with such open delight that his heart turned over. His breath clogged his lungs as her face seemed to change, his fevered imagination believing that her mouth had intensified its poppy-red hue and had swollen, demanding his kiss.
Pure wishful thinking. Morgan gritted his teeth, refusing to break the trust she’d placed in him…and wary of the seething emotions filling his heart and mind.
‘I’m…’ She swallowed and averted her gaze, proving she’d been alarmed by his unwelcome interest. ‘I’m really pleased that my father is kind,’ she said.
‘More than kind. Encouraging. Supportive. He’s set standards I can only hope to attain.’
Like honesty, he thought. How badly he’d let Sam down!
‘I can imagine you’re the apple of his eye,’ she murmured. ‘He must have been thrilled when you said you wanted to train to be an architect.’
‘I even have the career you’ve always wanted,’ Morgan pointed out ruefully.
‘I’m definitely going to study,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I’ll get there one day.’
‘Good. And now we must go,’ he said with great reluctance. ‘Barges to tote, bales to lift… Here.’
He rose and held out his hand, pulling her to her feet. For a glorious moment she toppled, and laughingly caught at his arms to steady herself. Her glowing, beautiful face swam into vision, the laughter twinkling in her warm eyes. And then she’d exclaimed over her clumsiness and was occupied with helping him into his coat.
Jodie felt deliriously happy. She knew she’d pay for it later, that she’d sober up and realise how crazy she was to let her feelings run away with her, but she wanted this little bit of pleasure to heat her through and through, to wipe away all the pain and misery of the past.
For a short time she could enjoy herself in Morgan’s company. Abandoning the nagging little warning in the back of her mind, she began to sing, and he joined in as they strode across fields and stiles, then down a lane through an enchanting village of old flint and Tudor-beamed cottages, twelfth, thirteenth, fifteenth-century, according to Morgan. The houses huddled together in a higgledy-piggledy fashion, their walls leaning in all directions, their gardens sprinkled with the nodding heads of snowdrops and the darker spears of emerging daffodils.
Behind her a hesitant January sun threw its beams on the river, and they paused for a moment while Morgan explained to Jack how to identify ducks and drakes and swans.
‘Idiot!’ she teased, her eyes warm with affection.
‘He needs to hear language! He’s going to be a genius,’ he informed her with mock hauteur.
‘Doesn’t take after you, then,’ she said rudely.
He was quiet for a moment and began to walk on. ‘I wonder who he’ll resemble?’ he said under his breath.
But his mood had changed. His pace quickened and Jodie had to half-run to keep up. Anxiously she took a quick glance at his face and noted that it was stormy. She’d done it again. Reminded him of his wife.
They continued in silence and misery fell around her like a blanket. That made her feel worse. Maybe his wife had died. It was natural that he should feel his wife’s death keenly. But Jodie felt dreadful for resenting the fact that Morgan wanted to cling to the past. Shamed by her selfishness, she strove to cheer him up.
‘Right. Check your insurance and make your will. I’m going to cook for you,’ she announced as they entered the back lobby, divesting themselves of shoes and coats.
He laughed, and she heaved a sigh of relief. ‘A huge breakfast-cum-lunch because we’ve been up for hours?’ he suggested. ‘Can you cope with the Aga?’
‘What’s an Aga?’
‘The stove.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Can it cope with me?’
His eyes twinkled. ‘Let me get Jack sorted while you get the food out, then I’ll direct you imperiously from a comfortable armchair.’
It was odd, she thought, laying bacon on a rack and sliding it into the roasting oven, that she’d resented domesticity when she’d been with Chas. Yet here she was, eagerly offering her services! It felt different, somehow, though she couldn’t identify why.
And his pleasure and praise for the nourishing meal made her glow all over. ‘The eggs are a bit crispy,’ she pointed out, not wanting to duck her mistakes.
‘I like them that way,’ he declared, enthusiastically attacking a lamb chop. ‘And…to be honest, I probably wouldn’t have cared if you’d charred everything. It’s a pleasure to be cooked for.’
Jodie smiled, mentally planning on whisking around the house to ensure it was spotless and then conjuring up a simple but sophisticated supper. With wine. Candles… And she’d be wearing something gorgeous and sexy which whispered every time she moved…
She checked herself. Fantasising was OK, providing it didn’t try to become reality. She’d better stick to her demure red jersey dress, pasta and electric light.
After they’d chatted and washed up together Morgan left for the office, saying he’d call in on Sam on the way back. It touched her that he took Jack with him.
‘No thanks,’ he’d said, when she’d tentatively suggested she could babysit. ‘He always comes everywhere with me.’
‘I understand,’ she’d said in secret relief.
Her knowledge of babies was almost nil. Perhaps she ought to get involved with Jack—if she could ever prise him away from Morgan!
Humming to herself, Jodie set to with dusters and polish and a Hoover, enjoying herself enormously.
The house was tastefully furnished but had a cosy, loved feeling, and her father had collected some beautiful antiques; old oak furniture, silver and oil paintings being his particular interest, it seemed.
With the downstairs completed, she started on the large bedroom at the top of the landing. Searching around for somewhere to plug in the Hoover, she noticed that there were a large number of framed photographs on the top of a chest in the far corner.
Most had been knocked over and lay flat, perhaps when a drawer had been opened sharply. One was propped up by the others and she could see that the subject was a woman.
Probably Teresa, thought Jodie. This must be her father’s room. And then she saw Morgan’s robe on the back of the door—and sticking out of the laundry basket was the sleeve of the stained jumper he’d been wearing.
Her heart thudded. Morgan’s room. Therefore… She looked towards the photos. His late wife!
Compelled by curiosity, she crossed to the chest, her feet sinking into the thick cream carpet. With great care, she collected one of the framed photographs and took it to the mullioned window to examine more closely.
Her face fell. ‘Oh, she’s beautiful!’ she said out loud.
Morgan’s wife stared back at her with dancing, roguish eyes, her blonde hair enviably long and artlessly framing a perfectly shaped face. She wore an evening dress and it clung to her like a second skin, the deep, revealing cleavage adding to the provocative nature of her pose.
There was no doubt that this was a very sensual woman, with the kind of sophistication Jodie had always envied. She could imagine her with Morgan, teasing him with thos
e seductive eyes, arousing his Latin passions…equalling them…
Feeling sick, Jodie numbly rubbed the duster over the frame and replaced it with the others, standing them all up carefully as she dusted each one. There were nearly twenty in all. Most were of Morgan’s wife alone, posing in bikinis, designer outfits and ballgowns.
One or two showed her with Morgan, several were with a man who Jodie realised could only be her father.
She paused to study the handsome, laughing man who clearly had felt great affection for Morgan’s wife, and she decided she liked the look of her father very much.
But Jodie was crushed by the sheer number of photographs. This was like a shrine. It pointed to a deep, all-consuming love.
She felt sad. For Morgan, for his wife and Jack, and also for herself. Morgan was one ideal man who’d married his ideal woman and who wouldn’t settle for anyone else, anyone less exotic or beautiful.
Jodie felt a pang of dismay. She’d never match up to Morgan’s wife. She grimaced. Her hair was the wrong colour, she was a good size larger, and she just didn’t have that wicked air of danger about her.
Moodily she finished cleaning the room. She couldn’t stop herself from touching his robe and then burying her nose in its folds. It smelled of him and she inhaled greedily.
‘Oh, God!’ she groaned, pulling back sharply in shock. ‘I’m falling in love with him!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
MORGAN felt his heart lift as he came nearer to home. And the reason worried him. He was far too happy with Jodie, surprisingly content to be in her company. He liked watching her mobile, joyous face. He liked the sound of her laugh, her eagerness to devour life and her total lack of pretence.
At work he’d been absent-minded, a fact unusual enough to have drawn comment and concern. Later, sitting by Sam’s bedside, he’d actually found himself chafing to get away. And so he’d punished his lack of attention by staying longer, even though Sam had been so drugged—after a difficult night—that the older man had barely known anyone was there.
