Wife and Mother Wanted (Mills & Boon Cherish)

by Nicola Marsh

  Carissa shook her head and stared wide-eyed at her sister, knowing that if the rumour mills were true what she’d just heard about Brody went a long way to explaining his grumpy manner. It sounded as if he’d had a rough time and then some. ‘Where did you hear all that?’

  ‘Daisy Smythe is the dead wife’s aunt. That’s one of the reasons he’s come to live here—so that his daughter can get some female influence in her life. Old Daisy told Pat at the pharmacy, and I overheard the whole thing.’

  ‘You mean you eavesdropped?’

  Tahnee had the grace to blush. ‘Well, it wasn’t like the old duck was talking in whispers or anything.’

  ‘You’re unbelievable!’

  ‘So, how did you get big bad Brody to be your bunny? Tell all.’

  Carissa remembered the look on Molly’s cute face when they’d first met, and Brody’s subsequent glower. She could hardly believe the taciturn man had found it in his heart to help her out at short notice—let alone throw himself wholeheartedly into the task, as indicated by his current wrestling match with half a dozen of the cherubs.

  She shrugged, not wanting to add fuel to Tahnee’s thirst for news. ‘Looks like the guy has a soft spot for kids. He saw how much I needed help when old Dave Hill dropped out, and he put his hand up. With a little helpful twisting of it behind his back from yours truly, of course.’

  Tahnee chuckled. ‘So the guy really has a soft spot?’

  Carissa understood her sister’s scepticism if what Tahnee had learned from Daisy was true. And, from what she’d observed first-hand in his general demeanour, the guy didn’t exactly strike a welcoming chord with everyone he met. In fact, he looked about as friendly as Scrooge.

  Not that she put much stock in anything old Daisy said. Daisy Smythe, a strait-laced spinster who’d lived in Stockton her entire life and shunned anyone she considered ‘foreign’—even those who came from Sydney, a scant two hours away—was notorious for her shallow views. And this was the woman Brody had chosen to be the female influence in his daughter’s life? Poor Molly.

  ‘He seems nice enough,’ Carissa said, trying to forget exactly how nice Brody was—particularly some of his impressive physical attributes.

  ‘Wish I could see him without that costume on.’ Tahnee popped another egg into her mouth and delicately licked chocolate from her fingertips like a kitten lapping up the last of its cream. ‘I like bad-boy types.’

  ‘He has a daughter to raise. I doubt Brody would be up for a fling—especially in a small town like this.’

  ‘Ooh.’ Tahnee’s eyes narrowed as she fixed her perceptive gaze on Carissa. ‘You sound mighty sure of what the man in question wants. Is there something you’re not telling me? Like you’ve got dibs on him? Little wonder Pete is out of the picture.’

  ‘For your information Peter dumped me, not the other way around. And I haven’t got dibs on anyone.’ Her interest in Brody Elliott stemmed from a desire to make his daughter’s life easier, not some ill-placed lust for him. ‘He’s my neighbour. I’m just helping him get acquainted with the town.’

  Tahnee’s grin spoke volumes. ‘Riiight. Thousands wouldn’t believe you, Sis, but I will.’ She stood in one lithe movement and Carissa lamented that her two gorgeous sisters had got all the height genes in the Lewis family. She barely made it past five foot—and that was in heels!

  ‘Anyway, I better dash. I have a deadline to meet and my editor waits for no one. See you later.’ Tahnee kissed her cheek and strolled from the garden, a tall, slim blonde in hipster jeans and matching denim jacket.

  Yeah, her sister was beautiful, all right, and if she ever set her sights on Brody he’d be toast.

  Glancing at her watch, she realised the last hour had flown. Brody had done such a good job entertaining the children she’d hardly had to do anything—including calling on her back-up plan of distributing mass amounts of choccie eggs if the bunny had been too moody to play.

  Thankfully the bunny had been one hop ahead of her all the time, and it had been a pleasure seeing him bring joy to so many little faces. She loved this motley bunch of kids, ranging in age from four to nine, all locals whose parents patronised her shop on a regular basis looking for gifts.

  She’d been hired to organise fairy parties for all the little girls in town over the last few years, and knew almost every kid in Stockton personally—which was why she went the extra yard at Easter and Christmas, organising the pageant and Santa’s cave for the darlings.

  Clapping her hands, she called the children to her. ‘Okay, it’s time for the Easter Bunny to go. What do we say to the bunny?’

  ‘Thank you, Easter Bunny. Come again next year,’ thirty voices rang out in unison, in the peculiar monotone they’d rehearsed a few hours ago.

  Brody waved to the kids and hopped towards the back door of the shop. She smiled at him, wondering if he could see her through the peepholes in the rabbit’s mouth. In response, he turned, wiggled his cute little cotton tail butt at her and hopped into the shop, shutting the door behind him.

  Well, well, well. Maybe there was more to Brooding Brody than he let on?

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘YOU didn’t have to do this.’

  Brody took one look at the table Carissa had set for dinner and wanted to bolt home. It looked too cosy, too inviting, and far too scary for his peace of mind.

  He didn’t do dinners. He didn’t do dates.

  And this meal she’d cooked as thanks for him helping her out with the bunny thing looked like a frightening combination of both.

  She turned from the stove, brandishing a wooden spoon filled with rich bolognaise sauce in one hand and a fairy-covered pot holder in the other. ‘I know, but I wanted to. It’s the least I can do after the show you put on for the kids yesterday.’

  He managed to look affronted for all of two seconds. ‘That wasn’t a show.’

  Far from it. He’d enjoyed himself more than he had in ages—acting like a goofball with the kids, enjoying their rough-house tactics. He never played like that with Molly, was too scared he’d hurt her. She was all he had left in this world and he’d do his best to protect her—after doing such a lousy job with her mum.

  ‘No?’ She tasted the sauce and smiled the self-satisfied smirk of a cook who knew she was good and is proud of it.

  And, despite his wariness of this whole situation, his mouth watered at the spicy aromas wafting through the small kitchen: a rich combination of garlic, tomatoes, oregano and basil infused the air, and he wondered if he’d ever smelt anything so tempting.

  Or seen anything so tempting, as he watched Carissa turn back to the stove, the simple movement causing the short black skirt she wore to flip around her knees in a provocative swish. She was barefoot, her shapely calves beckoning him to feel their contours and keep heading north to the hidden delights underneath that flirty skirt.

  He swore silently and thrust his hands in his pockets, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  He needed to escape. Fast.

  ‘The bunny act was nothing and this really isn’t necessary. So, thanks anyway, but I need to check on Molly.’ He sidled towards the door, unprepared for the flash of anger in her eyes as she swung around to face him.

  ‘I thought you said Molly is with Daisy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And didn’t you also say she adores her great-aunt?’

  He nodded, feeling like a fool. What harm could a simple meal do? He could eat and run. Besides, Molly had raved about the great time she’d had at Daisy’s yesterday afternoon, and had been more than eager to spend a few hours with her this evening. Thankfully, old Daisy had become an ally of his since he’d moved to town, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out the old lady’s softened stance had a lot to do with Molly.

  The way he looked at it, the severe spinster would be a good influence on Molly, giving her some female stability in her topsy-turvy little world.

  The wo
rld he’d turned topsy-turvy through his own stupidity at letting that brash young driver off the hook. He’d seen something of himself in that guy—confident, cocky, with the gift of the gab—and he’d taken the soft option.

  Pity the soft option had turned out to be the hardest one for his motherless daughter.

  As for dinner—he could do this. As long as his long-dormant libido didn’t get any crazy ideas. In four years he hadn’t looked sideways at a woman, and now that he finally felt settled for the first time in ages maybe his imagination had just been hot-wired into action? Though it probably had more to do with the surprising woman wearing a fitted ‘I Luv Chocolate’ T-shirt, a short skirt and no shoes than anything else.

  ‘It’s settled, then. You uncork the wine; I’ll serve up.’ She thrust a corkscrew into his hands before he could change his mind and all but pushed him into a seat at the table. ‘Hope you like Shiraz. I’ve been saving this.’

  ‘Don’t open it on my account.’

  ‘I love a good red, so go ahead.’

  Carissa almost bit her tongue in frustration. She was trying to be nice here, to repay Brody for helping her out yesterday, but it wasn’t working. Dinner with her moody neighbour had been a bad idea. He obviously didn’t want to be here, and she hated having to watch her ‘p’s and ‘q’s, being careful not to stir up her neighbour’s latent temper.

  Racking her brain for some small, innocuous comment to break the awkward silence that enveloped them, she said, ‘Tell me about your job.’

  ‘I’m not working at the moment.’ He poured the wine into glasses and handed one to her, his frown a clear indication that he didn’t want to discuss his employment status further.

  Undeterred, she ploughed on, determined to get him to lighten up, to give her some glimpse of the man behind the terse façade. She knew he’d had a hard time, and there was something about Brody Elliott that had her wanting to hug him, pat his back and make it all better. ‘I heard you were a cop before you came to Stockton?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘You know what small towns are like. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.’

  Laying his wine down on the table after taking a healthy swig, he folded his arms and leaned forward. ‘Yeah, well, I just wish they’d butt out of mine. Being a cop is in the past, and I’d like to keep it that way. What else are they saying about me?’

  Bringing over the pasta and sauce, she suddenly wished she hadn’t gone down this track. Perhaps she was rushing things? Pushing him for private information too soon? He’d probably clam up for good, and then she’d never get anything out of him.

  ‘That you’re a widower.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly true. Jackie died four years ago.’

  Not surprised that he didn’t volunteer more information, she bustled about the kitchen before she pried any further—like asking how it had happened—laying the meal on the table and ushering him to sit before she joined him.

  ‘It must’ve been awfully hard for you and Molly.’

  He nodded and offered her the salad while he broke off a chunk of garlic bread. ‘Molly wasn’t quite two. One of her favourite words at that time was “Mum” and she walked around for months afterwards saying “Mum gone”. It was heartbreaking.’ He stuffed the bread in his mouth and she wasn’t sure if she’d heard correctly when he muttered, ‘Still is.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said—for the loss he’d suffered and for the pain that obviously still hung over him like a dark shroud.

  He must have loved his wife very much, and if anyone could understand the long-term effects of grief she could. There wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think about her parents and what her life would have been like if they’d lived. ‘I know how Molly feels. I lost both my parents when I was three. I was devastated.’

  A flare of interest sparked in his eyes as he fixed that all-seeing gaze on her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Dad was a geologist and loved travelling the world. Mum accompanied him on a trip to the Alps—probably for a break from the three of us. They died in an avalanche.’

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ he murmured, his genuine sympathy bringing an unexpected lump to her throat.

  She’d had years to come to terms with her grief—long years when she’d cried herself to sleep every night while huddled beneath the blankets, trying to stifle her sobs from her angry adoptive father—yet here she was, about to blubber in front of a virtual stranger who’d offered a kind word.

  ‘You said three of us?’ he asked.

  ‘I have two sisters. Tahnee’s the youngest and Kristen’s the oldest. They split us up at the orphanage. Tahnee and Kristen got adopted out first; I spent a year in that hellhole. We found each other about six years ago.’

  ‘My God,’ he said, taking hold of her hand across the table. ‘How awful.’

  It had to have been a purely instinctive gesture, but the minute his hand enveloped hers she couldn’t think straight. His touch elicited a response she couldn’t comprehend. But it was far too early to feel anything other than respect for this man—respect for a single father doing the best he could in raising his daughter.

  She slid her hand from his on the pretext of dishing up a plate of spaghetti bolognaise and managed a weak smile. ‘Listen to us—a real pair of agony aunts.’ She handed him a plate, being careful to avoid touching him again. Otherwise he’d probably end up wearing hot pasta on his crotch. ‘Here—try this. It’s my favourite recipe.’

  Casting a quizzical look her way, he took the plate she offered. ‘Thanks. It smells delicious.’

  And, with that, they dug into their meal, only pausing to make the odd casual remark like ‘Pass the Parmesan, please’ or ‘More dressing on your salad?’ She would have liked more conversation but, as meals went, it wasn’t the worst she’d had with a man. In fact, there was something strangely comforting about a guy who didn’t feel obliged to babble about his business or sporting prowess all through dinner—who seemed happy to eat in companionable silence without spouting off.

  ‘Thanks for the meal. I’ll help you clean up, and then I think it’s time I left.’ He stood up from the table so quickly his chair teetered on two wooden legs before slamming back on the floor.

  ‘What’s your hurry? We haven’t had dessert yet.’

  He patted his stomach, drawing her attention to the hard planes evident beneath the white cotton T-shirt and putting a new slant on dessert in her mind. ‘I’ll pass on dessert, but thanks for a magnificent meal. Now, do you want to wash or dry?’

  ‘Leave it. I’ll use the dishwasher,’ she said, turning away before he saw the wistful expression on her face.

  She didn’t want him to leave.

  She wanted him to stay and share dessert—perhaps talk some more, maybe even laugh a little? They were neighbours, and it wouldn’t hurt for them to be on friendly terms. Who knew? He might even lighten up and let her spend some time with Molly. Though, by the surly expression that had returned to his face, she doubted it.

  ‘Here—I made extra for you and Molly to have tomorrow.’ She held out a plastic container, surprised by the resentment that flashed across his face.

  ‘Thanks, but we’re fine. I can cook, you know.’

  ‘I never said you couldn’t.’ The food grew heavy in her hand and her outstretched arm drooped. ‘I just thought Molly might like some of this.’

  ‘Molly is fine.’

  Anger shot through her body, surprising her with its intensity. Carissa rarely lost her temper, viewing anger as a wasted emotion for the gutless—like her adoptive father, who had wielded it every chance he got. However, Brody’s defensive act annoyed her. So the guy had a chip on his shoulder the size of Ayers Rock? There was no need for everyone around him to suffer because of it.

  ‘I didn’t say she wasn’t.’

  ‘Whatever. I better go.’

  God, he was touchy! She hadn’t seen him around his daughter, but if this was how he spoke to Molly it went
a long way to explaining the wary look in the little girl’s eyes she’d glimpsed the other day, when they’d first met.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Their gazes locked—his angry, hers challenging. She’d stare him down if it killed her, the big grump.

  ‘Look, thanks again for dinner. I’ll let myself out.’

  He headed for the door, almost wrenching the knob off in his hurry to leave.

  ‘Brody, any time Molly wants to play over here is fine by me. Just send her over,’ Carissa said to his rapidly departing back.

  If she could do anything to bring a spark to the little girl’s world, she would. From what she could see Molly spent far too much time alone in her back yard, perched in that giant eucalypt, wearing a glum expression on her cheeky face. At first appearance Molly seemed a lonely girl who needed attention, and if anyone knew how that felt she did. Ron and Betty had ignored her from the minute she’d set foot in their impressive house, and though she’d wanted for nothing materially, emotionally she’d craved affection.

  She’d been a model daughter—yearning for a kind word, a gentle caress from her new parents. And what had she got for her trouble? Harsh putdowns and scathing verbal attacks that gave her nightmares to this day.

  Molly probably couldn’t remember too much of her mother, but loneliness was an emotion that could strike at any age, and Carissa wanted to do something to help alleviate the little girl’s pain.

  If the occasional play session could brighten Molly’s day, she’d stand up to big bad Brody every day of the week to get her way.

  Brody turned to face her. ‘Why the interest in my daughter?’

  His fierce gaze didn’t scare her. Not much, that was.

  ‘I love children, and Molly’s new in town.’ She shrugged, as if his response didn’t mean much, when in fact she hoped he’d have the sense to take her honest answer at face value and give her a chance to get to know Molly. ‘I guess I thought she could use some friends.’