by Maggie Cox
‘Can I go out to the garden to play? I want to make a fort. I promise I won’t go near the pond.’
‘All right, then. As long as you keep in full view of these windows so that I can see you. Promise?’
He grinned, showing a couple of gaps where he’d lost his baby teeth.
Sophia’s heart squeezed. ‘Give me a hug and a kiss first.’
‘You’re always hugging and kissing me.’
‘I know, but I can’t help it!’ Seizing her young son by the waist, she whirled him round and round until he shrieked with laughter.
‘Let me go!’ he begged. ‘You’re making me dizzy!’
When he’d got his bearings again, he threw his mother a disarming grin and rushed out of the house into the wild forest of a garden—the garden that was already keeping Sophia awake at night, as she planned how she was going to make it beautiful again and restore it to the fairytale garden of her childhood.
As she bent down to retrieve the curtains and the rail, out of the blue an image stole into her mind of the physically arresting man who had stopped to say hello the other day while she’d been taking photographs of wildflowers for her portfolio. His eyes had been electrifyingly blue, yet his hair was a thick, curling cap of ebony silk. A small flare of heat imploded inside her. Despite her attraction to him Sophia had been nervous. What if her father-in-law had sent him to find her … to force her to return to the neighbourhood where she had lived with her late husband?
God knew the man had the kind of strong, intimidating physique that could easily overwhelm her if he tried. She inhaled a long steadying breath. Her worst fears thankfully hadn’t come true, but she was still uneasy.
Jarrett Gaskill … what kind of a name was that?
Even if the man had never heard of her illustrious father-in-law, his name sounded a little too highbrow and pompous for her taste. No doubt he was some ambitious city type who kept a second home here in the country for weekends where he could entertain his London friends and play Lord of the Manor.
The thought brought a briefly cynical smile to her lips, before making her frown. Remembering his mellifluous tones, she’d thought he’d sounded sincere enough. Perhaps it was wrong of her to so judge him so quickly. But what did she know of sincere men when she’d been married to the biggest liar and cheat in the country? Tom Abingdon—the man she’d so stupidly rushed headlong into marriage with at eighteen against all advice—had been cruel, possessive, and self-indulgent to excess, as well as vain and self-obsessed, and the signs had been there right from the beginning.
How incredible, how naive, that Sophia had once believed she could turn him away from his destructive tendencies and show him that life together could be good. It hadn’t taken her long to find out how contemptuous he was of her sincere and innocent impulses. The dark road she’d been travelling with him had grown darker and more twisted day by day, and somehow, because her spirits had sunk so low, she’d been unable to find any means of breaking free.
Towards the end of his life he’d been intent on dragging her and their small son down to even more despicable lows, until one day, in the midst of her growing despair, it had suddenly become clear to her that she had to abandon her youthful dreams of ‘happy-ever-after’—she couldn’t fix her self-destructive husband’s life and she should walk away … right now. For Charlie’s sake, if not her own.
It was that thought that had rejuvenated hope in her—had spurred her on to make plans to leave him. But fate had had other more finite plans for Tom Abingdon. One night, after a heavy bout of drinking, he’d died in his sleep.
For a few unsteadying moments the sickening hurt and fury at the pain he had caused deluged Sophia’s heart and made her suck in her breath. Perhaps it was an apt reminder of the supreme idiocy of her getting involved with anyone ever again. If Tom was anything to go by, it was all too easy to be mesmerised and trapped by a man. Even the liars and cheats of this world could present a normal façade in order to get what they wanted, and it made her vow to be extra careful and much more vigilant.
If she ever saw him again, she promised herself she would give Jarrett Gaskill a wide berth. There was no way she would give any man the opportunity to get to know her … to discover the shameful truth of her marriage to a man who had frequently mistreated and degraded her. A new beginning was what she wanted for her and her son. One that didn’t include strangers—however friendly—who wanted to pry into her business. Not that she kidded herself for an instant that Jarrett Gaskill would even remember bumping into her and Charlie down by that idyllic little brook.
For the past three weeks Sophia had visited the weekly farmers’ market in the town centre. There was nothing like buying fruit and vegetables straight from the source, rather than from a soulless and anodyne supermarket, she thought. It was fresher, smelled better, and the taste far surpassed anything you could buy packaged and wrapped up in plastic.
Drawing her son closer to her side, she accepted the sturdy brown paper bag of apples she’d just bought from a friendly female stallholder and deposited it into her hessian shopping bag, on top of the other fresh produce she’d purchased. Glancing down at the cherubic little face that gazed up at her, she smiled brightly in anticipation of her plans for the afternoon. It was still such a treat to bake pies and cakes without fear of Tom coming home drunk, mocking her efforts and then throwing them against the wall.
‘We’ll make an apple pie to have with our tea tonight, Charlie,’ she promised cheerfully.
‘You don’t want an extra guest, do you? I’m quite partial to home-made apple pie.’
The arresting male voice was so richly resonant and well-spoken that Sophia glanced up in surprise at the man who had stepped up beside her. Her startled gaze was instantly magnetised by a pair of twinkling blue eyes so rivetingly intense that for a moment she couldn’t speak. It was him … Jarrett Gaskill. The name that had been warily filed away inside her brain presented itself with worrying ease.
‘No … I don’t. I’ve not long moved into my house and it’s taking me longer than I expected to get settled. Besides, it’s not likely I’d invite someone into my home that I don’t even know,’ she replied, quickly averting her gaze.
‘I told you my name the first time we met, remember?’
Sophia’s cheeks burned with heat, because she wasn’t able to pretend that she couldn’t recall it. ‘That’s neither here nor there. Knowing a person’s name hardly means that you know them.’
‘True … but an introduction at least creates the opportunity to get to know someone.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Gaskill, but I really must get on.’
‘You see?’ Something akin to delight was mirrored in the azure depths of his compelling glance. ‘You did remember my name. Perhaps now you’ll do me the honour of telling me yours?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Already turning away, Sophia was suddenly eager to leave the busy little market that was set up in the picturesque village square and head for home.
‘What a pity. I’ve got to call you something if we bump into each other again, don’t you think?’
‘No, you don’t. You can simply ignore me.’
His strong brow affected an exaggerated frown. ‘I certainly couldn’t. That would be the height of bad manners.’
‘You really care about things like good manners?’
‘Of course. I’d live in dread of my poor deceased mother haunting me if I didn’t keep her standards up.’
In spite of her eagerness to extricate herself from this unwanted and surreal conversation, Sophia couldn’t suppress a smile. But almost as soon as she’d succumbed to the gesture she firmed her lips into a much more serious line. ‘I’ve really got to go. I’ve got things to do. Goodbye.’
Firmly tightening her hold on her son’s small hand, she was about to walk out into the milling throng exploring the market stalls when the man standing beside her spoke clearly.
‘Enjoy that apple pie, Ms Markham … perhaps yo
u’ll save me a slice?’
She spun round, her eyes widening in alarm. ‘Who told you my name?’
‘You’ve moved into a village … sooner or later everyone learns the name of a newcomer. They also tend to speculate on where they’ve come from and why they’ve moved here. Human nature, I guess.’
He shrugged nonchalantly, and Sophia stared. It was hard to ignore the width of those broad, well-defined shoulders beneath his well-worn, expensive-looking leather jacket. The black T-shirt he wore underneath with jeans was stretched across an equally well-defined chest, and he exuded the kind of masculine strength that made her even more wary of him. But more than that she was uncomfortable with the fact that people she didn’t even know might be discussing her and her son.
‘People should mind their own business! If my name should ever be mentioned in your hearing again, Mr Gaskill, I’d be obliged if you would make it very clear that I want to be left in peace.’
‘I don’t hold with gossiping about anyone. However, I will endeavour to respect your desire for privacy, Ms Markham.’
Sophia’s glance was wary, but she made herself acknowledge his remark just the same. ‘Thank you.’
Before Jarrett could engage her further, she took herself and Charlie off into the crowd and didn’t once glance back to see if his disturbing blue gaze followed them … even though her heart thudded fit to burst inside her chest at the thought that he might indeed be following her progress …
CHAPTER TWO
CHARLIE was playing in the overgrown front garden as Jarrett drove his Range Rover up to the impressive old house. Glancing out of his window up at the pearlescent sky that threatened rain, he grimaced. Before he talked himself out of it he was on his feet, opening the creaking iron gate that led onto a meandering gravel path sprouting with weeds.
He stopped to talk to the child. ‘Hello, there.’ Jarrett smiled. ‘Your name’s Charlie, isn’t it?’
‘Where’s your dog?’
Large dark eyes stared hopefully up at him. He was gratified that the boy seemed to remember him. It was two weeks since they’d last met. He also guessed that he probably didn’t have a pet of his own. For some reason, that bothered him.
Dropping down to his haunches, so that he was on the same level as the child, Jarrett frowned with genuine regret. ‘I’m afraid that he doesn’t belong to me. I was just looking after him for my sister. He’s back with her now.’
‘Oh.’ His young companion was stumped for a moment. Recovering, he fixed his visitor with another interested gaze. ‘You called him Dylan.’
‘Yes, I did. That’s his name.’
‘It’s a good name. But if I had a dog I’d call him Sam.’
‘That’s a good name too. Would you like a dog of your own?’
The boy studied him gravely. ‘Yes, I would … But Mummy thinks a dog would be too much trouble to take care of—and we’ve had enough trouble already.’
Jarrett absorbed this very interesting snippet of information, ruffled the boy’s unruly dark hair, then rose to his full height again. ‘Never mind … perhaps in time she might have a change of heart?’
‘No, she won’t.’ Charlie kicked a nearby pebble with the scuffed toe of his trainer, but not before giving Jarrett a look that said he wished she could be persuaded differently. ‘Have you come to see her?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I have. Is she inside?’
‘She’s painting.’
Did Sophia Markham’s creative talent extend beyond photography to painting?
Jarrett was still considering the idea as he strode up to the front door. The faded sandstone of the house reflected the more muted, mellow tones of a bygone age. The whole building was in dire need of some serious maintenance and redecoration, but no one could deny it had tremendous potential and charm. If he owned the place he would know exactly which restoration company to hire to help return it to its former glory.
Biting back his disappointment that he would now never have the chance, he made robust use of the heavy brass door-knocker and waited for Sophia to appear. He couldn’t deny he was a little apprehensive about seeing the emerald-eyed beauty again. Both times that he’d tried to engage her in conversation she’d been decidedly aloof. He’d already received a warning that all she wanted to do was to be left in peace. And, despite his sister Beth and her friends still speculating on the whereabouts of a man in her life, Jarrett was becoming more and more convinced that, aside from her son, the mysterious Sophia was unattached.
‘For goodness’ sake, sweetheart, the back door is open. You don’t need to—’ Sophia bit off the comment that was clearly meant for Charlie and stared up in open-mouthed surprise at Jarrett. ‘You!’ She shook her head as if to clear it, and her already loosened ponytail drifted free from its band, so that long silken strands of the glossiest chestnut-brown fell down over her shoulders. A faded pink T-shirt spattered with blue and white paint highlighted the small pert breasts underneath it, and a pair of slim-fitting denims with a large ragged hole in one knee clung to long, slender legs.
Jarrett raised an eyebrow. If she’d appeared in a couture dress from one of the top fashion houses in Paris he couldn’t imagine her looking sexier than she did right then. Facing the pair of annoyed and sparkling green eyes that glared back at him, he couldn’t deny the powerful surge of sexual heat that tumbled forcefully through him.
‘How did you find out where I live?’
‘The house has been empty for quite a while. Didn’t you think that people would notice when it became occupied again?’
With what looked like a weary effort, she dragged her fingers through her loosened chestnut hair and shrugged. ‘I get the feeling that people round here notice a little bit too much.’
‘Anyway … my apologies for interrupting what looks like a very industrious Sunday afternoon for you. Your son said you were painting? Does that mean you’re a painter as well as a photographer?’
‘I’m painting my sitting room … not a canvas.’
‘Okay.’ He held up his hands, grinning at his mistake. ‘At any rate, I dropped by because I have an invitation to give to you—from my sister, Beth.’ He produced what was, in his opinion, a ridiculously scented and girly-pink envelope from the inside pocket of his three-quarter-length black leather jacket.
‘Have I met your sister?’
Amusement forced one corner of Jarrett’s mouth up into his cheek. ‘Not yet … but, trust me, she’s determined to meet you, Ms Markham—or is it Mrs?’
Her expression became even more vexed. She snatched the envelope from him. ‘It’s Ms. I used to be married, but I’m not any more.’
‘So you’re divorced?’
He saw her swallow hard. ‘No. I’m a widow.’
The news sobered Jarrett’s mood. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m not. And before you make some specious judgement about that, the topic isn’t up for discussion.’
‘Fair enough … that’s your prerogative.’
The fire in her eyes suddenly died. Gripping the pink envelope he’d handed her as if she’d prefer to rip it to shreds rather than open it, she laid the flat of her free hand against the doorframe, as if needing support. It was as though every ounce of her vitality and strength had leaked away, leaving her visibly weak and shaken.
To be that angry … that aloof … must take a hell of a lot of energy, Jarrett mused. What had the woman been through to make her so furious and defensive? Her remark about not being sorry that she was a widow suggested that her relationship with her husband had not been the stuff of fairytales.
For whatever pain she’d endured in the past, a genuine feeling of compassion arose inside him. ‘Ms Markham … Sophia … are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
With a look of steely resolve she straightened, but he could hardly miss the tears that glistened in her eyes, and the sight made him feel as if he’d just been punched in the gut. He never had been able to bear seeing a woman
cry …
‘How did you know my name was Sophia?’ she challenged.
Before Jarrett had the chance to answer, she folded her arms and wryly moved her head from side to side.
‘I expect it filtered down to you from the headquarters of the local gossip collective. Am I right?’
‘I can’t deny it.’
‘Do people have such dull and boring lives that they have to pry into the business of a total stranger?’ she demanded irritably.
‘They most likely do. Why do you think they’re so addicted to the soaps on TV? The invented drama of a stranger’s life is probably far preferable to the reality of their own.’
‘I won’t have a TV in the house. I’d rather read a book.’
‘What about Charlie?’ Jarrett ventured, glancing over at the small boy who was once again careening round the giant hollyhocks, mimicking the ‘rat-a-tat’ sound of machine gun fire.
Sophia winced. ‘My son doesn’t need to be glued to a television or computer screen to enjoy himself. Besides, a lot of the programmes shown nowadays are so negative and manipulative that he’s hardly missing out on anything helpful or essential.’
‘So … what kind of books do you like to read?’
‘If you’re hoping that I’ll invite you in to have a cup of tea and discuss my reading habits, then I’m sorry, Mr Gaskill, but I’m going to have to disappoint you. You may keep turning up like the proverbial bad penny, but I’m not going to encourage you.’
‘You have something against making friends?’
‘I manage just fine without them.’
‘What about your son?’
‘What about him?’
‘You might prefer to be reclusive, but what about Charlie? Doesn’t he need the companionship of children his own age?’
‘He’s joining the village primary school in a couple of weeks, so he’ll make lots of friends there, I’m sure.’
‘My sister Beth’s best friend Molly teaches the nursery class. If you come to Beth’s little get-together next Saturday you’re bound to meet her. Who knows? You might even become friends.’
