His Little Girl

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Man’s work, is it?’ she sneered at him. ‘And what am I supposed to do? Rush out to the kitchen and rustle you up some food?’

  ‘Thanks for offering, but, no, thanks.’ He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, and his stomach was practically sticking to his backbone, but he had his pride. His stomach, however, had heard the word food and audibly protested. He glanced at the girl beside him and ventured a smile. ‘I’m on a diet.’ She didn’t respond to this olive branch. Quite frankly, he didn’t blame her.

  He threw some small pieces of stick that had been drying in the basket beside the hearth into the warm embers, and for a moment there was silence as they both watched the wood begin to smoke, then crackle into flame. He added more wood as this sudden application of heat reminded him just how cold he was. August in England. Log fires and thunderstorms. It figured.

  Dora, still kneeling on the rug in front of the hearth, felt rather than heard the shiver run through him. She was still trying to reel in her senses, to recover from what she had seen in his eyes as he had grasped her wrist, to recover from an almost overwhelming urge to put her arms about him and hold him. Except she wouldn’t have just held him. What she had seen in his face needed a far deeper comfort than that. Yet she’d made no attempt to pull free, and if he hadn’t released her—

  ‘You’re wet,’ she said, and heard the tiny tremor in her voice.

  Gannon turned back to look at her, looking just a moment too long before he switched his gaze to his legs. His jeans, wet to the knees, were beginning to steam in the heat. He’d missed the showers as he’d cut across country, but the grass had been soaking, and, although he’d abandoned his muddy shoes in the kitchen, his socks had left damp marks on the beautiful new carpet.

  ‘It’s been raining,’ he said, as if this was sufficient explanation. ‘Don’t worry about it; I’ll dry off in front of the fire.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ she told him. ‘But I’ve got better things to do than nurse a stupid man who sits around in wet clothes and goes down with pneumonia.’

  Gannon could think of worse things than being nursed by Pandora Marriott. Somehow he didn’t think that saying so would be altogether wise. He shivered again. Why the hell couldn’t Richard have found a plain, ordinary girl to love? And if he had to marry someone like Dora, why the hell didn’t he stay at home to look after her? She wouldn’t have been left on her own for weeks at a time if she’d been his woman. No way. As Dora uncurled from the hearth, rising gracefully to her feet, he caught her hand.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To find something for you to wear.’ She was angry with him for touching her again, angry with herself for wanting him to. She tugged at her wrist, but he tightened his grip.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, keeping her at his side while he carefully piled logs onto the flames. Then he set the guard in front of the fire. ‘You can show me round.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘I’d like to see what you’ve done to the place since I was last here.’ He had avoided a direct answer, she noticed, which was much the same as saying no. And she didn’t think he was desperately interested in her sister’s talents as an interior decorator either. What he really wanted was to look around and work out the lie of the land. It must have been quite a shock to head for a quiet bolthole only to discover someone had moved in and changed it all.

  ‘And when was that?’ she asked.

  ‘Too long ago. Richard invited me down for a few days’ fishing before...’ He shrugged, apparently unwilling to elaborate.

  She didn’t press the point. She wasn’t interested. Not much. ‘Well, as a venue for male-bonding on fishing holidays I’m sure it was perfectly adequate. As a family home it had a number of shortcomings—’

  ‘Family? It’s a little soon for that, isn’t it?’

  A second blush seared her cheeks. ‘The lack of a bathroom being number one,’ she said, determinedly ignoring the way his glance had automatically flicked to her waist.

  Unabashed, his golden eyes glinted thoughtfully beneath thick dark lashes as he raised them to her face. ‘You mean I won’t have to skinny dip in the river?’

  ‘Not unless you want to,’ she said crossly. Well, why wouldn’t she be cross? With her hand held captive in his, she found it oddly difficult to breathe, and it wasn’t just the thought of him swimming naked beneath the huge moon that every once in a while lit up the stormy landscape beyond the living room window. She was cross because, despite the fact that he had broken in, was plainly a bad lot, there was something undeniably appealing about him, especially when he lifted the corner of his mouth in that odd little smile. He was doing it now. ‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.

  ‘You are. I could read your thoughts then, as clearly as if they were in foot-high letters across your forehead.’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Humour me.’ He tapped her forehead with the tip of his finger. ‘You were thinking about how much you would enjoy giving me a helping hand into that cold water.’

  ‘Not at all!’ Then she gave an awkward little shrug. ‘Well, maybe,’ she conceded, preferring that he should think that rather than guess what was really going on in her mind. He had discarded his jacket after he had seen Sophie safely in bed, and as she quickly lowered her gaze, just in case her eyes were betraying more than they should, she was confronted with the decidedly grubby Aran sweater he was wearing. It was hand-knitted, and she found herself wondering what woman had given so much of her time, taken so much trouble to keep John Gannon warm. Sophie’s mother?

  ‘I’ll find you something to wear, and then you can decide whether you prefer a hot shower or a cold dip,’ she said, irritated with herself for even wondering about it. ‘The choice is entirely yours.’ And she pulled her hand free so easily that for a moment she thought she must have imagined the tightness of his grip.

  Idiot! she thought as she headed for the stairs. He wasn’t holding your hand like some love-sick boy. To all intents and purposes you’re his prisoner, Dora Kavanagh. And don’t you forget it.

  As Gannon had immediately realised, the cottage had been extended into part of an old barn, and the master suite was in the new part of the house, with its own bathroom and a dressing room for Poppy. Dora led the way through, pushing open the door to reveal a large bedroom furnished in warm antique pine to keep the cottagey atmosphere. The plush carpet was a soft, misty green and matching velvet curtains were looped back at the windows.

  ‘Wait!’ He stopped her as she was about to switch on the light. ‘Draw the curtains first.’

  She shrugged, did as he ordered without a word, then crossed to Richard’s wardrobe. An internal light came on, and she flicked quickly through the shelves before pulling out a sweatshirt and a pair of jogging pants.

  She turned to Gannon. ‘Will these do?’ she asked, holding them out to him.

  ‘Admirably.’ He was leaning casually against the architrave, watching her from the doorway. There was something about the way he was looking at her that sent warning shivers up her spine, and it occurred to her that encouraging him to follow her into the bedroom had not been entirely sensible. Except, of course, it would have made no difference. If he’d wanted to come in, he would have. But he stayed where he was.

  ‘You’ve got plenty of space now,’ he said.

  There was nothing about his remark that should have concerned her. Yet it did. She threw a nervous glance around the room, wondering if he’d spotted something that had given away her masquerade. A wedding photograph of Poppy and Richard, perhaps. Anything. But there was nothing that she could see.

  ‘I’m glad you approve.’ She crossed to him, pushed the clothes into his hands and snapped off the light. She hadn’t considered what he might do if he discovered she had been lying to him. It was probably better for her peace of mind to leave it that way. ‘The bathroom’s this way,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you could use a shower.’ She felt her voice shak
e. Well, she was supping with the devil; she had a right to be nervous.

  ‘I’m sure I could. But you’ll understand if I insist you stay and keep me company.’

  ‘What!’

  Gannon discovered that making Dora blush gave him a heady sense of power that he knew was utterly beneath contempt. But she looked so lovely, so delightfully vulnerable...’ You’d like me to say that again?’ he enquired.

  ‘No!’ Then, her cheeks even pinker, ‘You can’t mean it.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can, and I do.’ His regret might have been genuine. Somehow Dora doubted it. ‘I really can’t take the risk that you’ll take the opportunity to bolt for it. If the police lock me up, who will look after Sophie?’

  ‘Why would they lock you up?’

  ‘I broke in here; isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Not if I don’t press charges.’

  ‘Ah, there’s the rub. If.’ She didn’t bother to protest that she wouldn’t. Why would he believe her? ‘You don’t have to share the shower with me, Dora. I simply want you to stay near enough to chat. So I know you’re there. That’s all.’

  ‘All?’ She almost exploded with rage. How dared he? For heaven’s sake, she might have really been Richard’s wife... ‘Aren’t you concerned about Richard’s reaction to such a plan?’ she said, suddenly latching onto the thought, certain that it would make him think twice.

  ‘He would do the same in my position. He’ll understand.’ He might have thought twice, but his conclusion was identical.

  ‘Will he?’ Her voice came out as little more than a squeak. Apparently he wasn’t as bothered by the threat of her brother-in-law as she had hoped. ‘And just how understanding would you be?’

  ‘If you were my wife?’ He reached out and touched her cheek with the tips of his cold fingers. In the quiet still of the night she couldn’t be certain if there had been a flash of lightning outside in the darkness or whether it was electricity flowing straight from his fingers into her body. She held her breath, waiting for the thunder. None came. She wanted to move away, knew she should move away, but was transfixed by the fire in his eyes. ‘If you were my wife, Dora, I’d beat him to a pulp,’ he said. His hand fell to his side. ‘Then I’d be understanding. Maybe.’

  Released from his touch, she finally managed to find her voice. ‘I see.’ She gave an odd, slightly shaky laugh. ‘Well, that’s reassuring.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Her heartbeat was beginning to return to something resembling normality. ‘I’ll hold onto the thought that at some time in the future you’re going to suffer extreme pain.’

  He sketched that oddly disturbing little smile. ‘Anything to make you happy. Now, which way did you say the bathroom was?’

  Utterly lost for words, she didn’t make any further attempt to argue with the man. He’d just demonstrated his ability to be utterly ruthless. She didn’t for one moment doubt that he knew Richard, but it had just occurred to her that she only had his word for it that they were friends. Richard might not take the same point of view. Which might just be why he had insisted on disconnecting the telephone.

  After all, if she had been married to Richard, calling him would have been her first thought, wouldn’t it? Surely, if he was the friend he had purported to be, Gannon would have suggested it?

  ‘It’s this way,’ she said, and without waiting to be ordered in she led the way. ‘I hope the decor is equally to your liking. Since you appear to be so interested.’

  It was a beautiful bathroom, roomy, warm, with deep fuchsia-red walls and carpet to set off the dark wood of the door and the fittings, the crisp whiteness of the suite. There was a huge, squashy armchair, a table laden with exotic plants and a pile of glossy magazines, and on the walls, in gilt frames that glowed against the rich colour of the paint, a series of botanical prints. It was a bathroom to relax in, to share, if you were so inclined. Gannon glanced around, then nodded towards the chair. ‘At least you’ll have somewhere comfortable to sit.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, deeply sarcastic, lowering herself into the armchair, refusing to be embarrassed. There was nothing embarrassing about a naked man, for heaven’s sake. And, since she was standing in for Poppy, she would do what her sophisticated big sister would undoubtedly do if she were put in the same impossible position. Sit back and enjoy the show.

  She stared up at him, unblinking. He didn’t move. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she invited. Then, ‘There’s plenty of hot water.’ It was getting harder to sustain her relaxed demeanour. She managed it just, waving airily in the direction of towels heaped up on glass shelves. ‘And towels.’ He didn’t look away. ‘You’ll find shampoo...’ She faltered as he caught hold of the bottom of his sweater and pulled it, together with the T-shirt he had been wearing beneath it, over his head it one fluid movement and dropped them in a heap on the floor. She stared open-mouthed at the dark bruises that coloured his ribs and shoulder, the scar that puckered the skin of his arm.

  ‘Shampoo?’ he prompted.

  ‘On the shelf in the shower stall,’ she finished slowly.

  The shabbiness of his clothes had not disguised Gannon’s quiescent strength. Dora had been toe-tinglingly aware of it from the moment she had set eyes on him, and now, stripped to the waist, the potent power of his lean, bone-hard body more than lived up to that promise.

  There wasn’t an ounce of excess weight on him. He was pared-to-the-bone thin, his square, wide shoulders arrowing down to a taut midriff that left room to spare in the waistband of his jeans, as if he had been expending more energy than he had been taking in for too long. And if she reached out to run her hand over his ribcage, she knew she would be able to count his battered ribs. One by one.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘Did you pile up your car? Is Sophie hurt?’ She half rose.

  ‘Sit down, Dora. Relax. Sophie is fine and my ribs will heal in their own good time.’

  ‘Will they?’ She wasn’t so sure. ‘Shouldn’t you go to the hospital? I’d drive you—’

  ‘I’m sure you would.’

  ‘I didn’t mean... I wasn’t trying to...’

  ‘Of course you were, Dora.’ His eyes mocked her. ‘And I don’t blame you. But believe me, all that’s needed to heal cracked ribs is time. I speak from experience.’

  ‘Oh.’ She subsided into the chair as he reached for his belt.

  Dora had been so sure that he would be disconcerted by her boldness—too embarrassed to strip off in front of his friend’s new wife. She had been so sure that he would send her packing, giving her a few precious moments of freedom in which to use her mobile phone to call Sarah, Richard’s sister. It occurred to her that if Gannon was telling the truth Sarah would almost certainly know him.

  But Gannon slipped the leather belt strap through the feeder, pulling it clear of the restraining tooth, and the clink of his buckle mocked her. Embarrassed? Him? What a joke.

  He flipped open the top button of his jeans and she felt sweat bead her top lip. How far would he go before he turned away? He tugged on the worn brass buttons of his fly. They slipped open easily, and she nervously ran the tip of tongue over her dry lips. For a moment he held them, then she physically jumped as he let go and the jeans collapsed about his ankles with a clatter of buttons and belt. He stepped out of them and bent to hook off his socks.

  Then, as he began to straighten, he caught his breath as pain jagged through him. She felt it too, and her hand reached out in an uncertain, half supplicating little gesture. She wanted to help, but did not know how, and when his gaze intercepted hers she could see that the character lines were etched more deeply into his cheeks, about his mouth, as if the pain were a knife, carving into the flesh. And his eyes were agate-hard as he struggled to keep from crying out.

  ‘You can close your eyes, Dora,’ he muttered, his face inches from hers. ‘I didn’t say you had to watch.’ He wasn’t going to back down. No way. ‘And I’m big enough to undress myself.’ She snatched ba
ck her hand. He didn’t want her help. Not this kind of help, anyway. ‘In your own time,’ he prompted, and slowly straightened until he was standing absolutely upright, before hooking his thumbs in the top of his underpants to expose the line where darkly tanned skin suddenly became startlingly white.

  Dora slammed her lids down and kept them that way until she heard the shower door click into place, the hiss of water.

  ‘Talk to me, Dora,’ he called. ‘I want to know you’re there.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Then sing.’

  Sing? Was the man crazy? He expected her to sing to him? ‘You’re the one in the shower. You sing,’ she told him.

  The sound of the water stopped abruptly, and the door slid partly back. His dark hair, long and shaggy and in desperate need of a cut, was curling damply at his neck. ‘I thought we’d agreed that I give the orders, Dora. You sing, or you get in here with me.’

  ‘Can I keep my clothes on?’

  He glowered at her. ‘You can sing, can’t you?’

  She almost smiled at that Her inability to carry a tune was legendary within the family. But if he could stand it she certainly could, and she began to sing, putting every ounce of feeling into lyrics of the only song that seemed suitable to sing to a would-be kidnapper, ‘Please Release Me.’

  He glared at her briefly, then slammed the shower door shut. As the noise of the water drowned her out, he shouted, ‘Louder!’

  She obliged, entering into the spirit of the song with such gusto that she didn’t realise for a moment that the water had stopped. ‘When you’ve quite finished, could you pass me a towel?’

  About to tell him to get it himself, she realised that would mean he would have to step naked from the shower stall. She didn’t kid herself that he would be in the least bit bothered by that. He was thinking of her—or more probably of Richard. She leapt from the chair and grabbed a towel, thrusting it at him at the full stretch of her arm.