The Single Mom and the Tycoon

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘It rings a vague bell,’ he said, but he looked away, unable or unwilling to meet her eyes. Guilt? ‘There were—things happening in my life when they got engaged,’ he went on quietly. ‘I may not have been giving it the attention it deserved.’

  She—just—stopped herself from asking what things had been happening that could have been so important that he couldn’t give his father his time and attention. None of your business, she told herself, but she couldn’t stop her mind from speculating. Woman trouble? He looked the sort of man who’d have woman trouble, but she’d bet it was the women who had the trouble and not him. He’d kiss them off with some gorgeous flowers and that wicked smile and drive off into the sunset with the next beautiful blonde.

  And they’d all be blonde, she thought disgustedly. Never redheads. Never ginger.

  The old insult from her childhood came back to haunt her, and she felt her chin lift even while she acknowledged that at least she wouldn’t have to worry about him messing about with her emotions. He wouldn’t be even slightly interested in a penniless widow from Yoxburgh, with a son in tow as the icing on the cake.

  According to his father, he co-owned a small group of highly exclusive resort lodges and boutique hotels in Queensland and spent his free time diving and fishing and sailing.

  Which would explain the white crow’s-feet round his stunningly blue eyes, from screwing his eyes up against the sun.

  And he’d be far too macho to use sunscreen, and she’d just bet that tan went all the way from top to toe without a break—

  No! Stop it! Don’t think about that! Just don’t go there!

  And then it dawned on her that David Cauldwell, property developer and entrepreneur, owner of select little establishments that were listed as Small Luxury Hotels of the World, was staying in her house. Her cabin, in fact, years overdue for a coat of paint—a fact which had not escaped his notice—and she’d even made him help her get it ready.

  She wanted to die.

  ‘So—what about you?’ he said.

  ‘Me? What about me?’ she asked, trying not to panic about the quality of the bed linen. There was nothing wrong with the bed linen, there wasn’t—

  ‘Why are you here? You’re not a native—I would have known you, or I think I would have done. So you must have been imported in the last ten years or so. And I assume you’re living here alone with Charlie, since you haven’t mentioned anyone else and you’re doing the garden by yourself, which implies you’re not in a relationship, because it’s usually the men that get to fight with the jungle,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘So I’m imagining you’re divorced or separated or something.’

  ‘Something,’ she conceded.

  He tilted his head and searched her eyes, and she felt curiously vulnerable, as if he could see right down inside her to the sad and lonely woman that she was.

  ‘Something?’

  ‘I’m a widow,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘I moved here when my husband died.’

  His lips parted as if he was going to speak, then pressed together briefly. ‘I’m sorry. I just assumed—’

  ‘That’s OK. Everyone does. And, to be honest, it sort of suits me, really. There’s something safe about a divorcée. A young widow’s an infinitely scarier proposition. They all think I’m made of glass, that I’ll break if they say anything harsh.’

  ‘They?’

  She shrugged. ‘Everyone. Nobody knows what to say. And men are terrified. They all think I must be desperate. The black widow spider doesn’t really give us a good press.’

  ‘No.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I can understand people being scared. It’s such a hell of a can of worms. People don’t like worms. That’s why—’

  ‘Why?’ she asked when he broke off, but he just gave a twisted smile and looked away. Not before she’d seen that the smile didn’t reach his eyes, though, and for some reason she felt the need to prod a little harder. ‘Why, for instance, you don’t tell your family what’s really going in your life and why you’re avoiding them?’ she suggested, and he frowned and stared down into his mug.

  ‘I’m not avoiding them.’

  ‘So why aren’t you staying with them? God knows your sister’s house is huge, and your father’s house is big as well. I mean, between them they must have at least six spare bedrooms, and you’re down here sleeping in a shed, for heaven’s sake! And I know for a fact it’s not because you can’t afford a decent hotel, so why me and not them?’

  ‘I live in a hotel. I didn’t want to stay in a hotel, I wanted to stay in a family home.’

  ‘So why mine and not theirs?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘You noticed.’

  She gave an exasperated little growl and rolled her eyes. ‘So if you aren’t avoiding them, why won’t you answer my question?’

  ‘Are you always so nosy?’

  ‘No. Sometimes I can be pushy, too.’

  She waited, her breath held, and finally it came, the smile she’d been waiting for, and he let his breath out on a huff and turned to look at her with resignation in his eyes.

  ‘You’re just like Georgie,’ he said mildly. ‘Nosy, pushy, bossy, interfering, trying to fix everything for everybody.’

  She gave a brittle laugh and stood up in a hurry, the unexpected wave of pain taking her by surprise. ‘Oh, not me. I can’t fix anything for anybody. I gave that up years ago when I had to throw the switch on my husband’s life-support machine.’

  And scooping up the cups, she turned and went back into the kitchen before her smile crumbled and he saw the tears welling in her eyes.

  Damn.

  Had that been his fault or hers?

  He didn’t know, and he had to stop himself from following her. He stood up slowly, arching his back and rolling his shoulders, stiff from the flight and from gardening, and Charlie looked up at him hopefully.

  ‘Want to play football with me?’ he asked, and the simple, innocent question hit him square in the gut and took his breath away.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said with a grin he knew must be crooked. ‘I’m rubbish at football. Anyway, I’m just going to give your mum a hand with the washing-up.’

  And turning away from the disappointment in Charlie’s eyes, he went into the kitchen and found Molly leaning over the sink, her hands rhythmically and methodically squeezing a cloth in a bowl of water. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release, squeeze—

  ‘You could have played with him,’ she said, and he could hear the catch in her voice. ‘Or said you’d do it another time. Not just turn him down flat.’

  He let his breath out in a slightly shaky sigh and met her disappointed eyes.

  ‘I can’t play football.’

  ‘Of course you can. He’s eight, for goodness’ sake! Nobody’s expecting you to be David Beckham! You could have just kicked a ball around with him for a minute—or are you too important?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said and, steeling himself, he added, ‘I can’t play football any more because I’d probably fall over all the time. I’ve got an artificial leg.’

  He heard the tap drip, heard the cloth as she dropped it back in the water. She stared at him, eyes shocked, looked down at his feet, back up at him, and hot colour flooded her face.

  ‘Oh, David—I didn’t—your father didn’t say anything—’

  ‘They don’t know.’

  Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, soapsuds and all, and her wide green eyes were filled with a million emotions. ‘Don’t—? Oh, David. Why not?’

  He shrugged. ‘My father had a heart attack just a few days after my accident. It didn’t seem like a good time to tell him how bad it was.’

  ‘So you’ve—what? Lied about it ever since?’

  ‘Pretty much. And not really lied. I told them I broke it, which was sort of true. It was certainly broken. It was only amputated last year. That’s why I don’t know much about Liz. I was in hospital when they got engaged, about t
o have the surgery.’

  She stared at him, then at his legs, then back up, eyes wide with horror. ‘How on earth will you tell them?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  She dropped her hand, grabbed a towel and scrubbed the suds off her face, dried her hands and then picked up the cloth again and started squeezing it again furiously under the water as if she could squeeze away all the hurt and pain and injustice in the world.

  ‘Molly, it’s OK,’ he said softly. ‘It’s better than it was before.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘How can it possibly be better?’

  ‘Because it works now. I spent two years in and out of hospital with an external fixator and endless operations to repair my foot. They replaced part of my ankle joint, grafted blood vessels—but nothing worked and nothing took away the pain. So finally I gave in and had it amputated, and it was the best thing I’ve ever done. I can move on now—start living again.’

  She nodded, and he watched her throat bob as she swallowed. ‘So—when did this happen? And how?’

  ‘Nearly three years ago, in May. I got tangled up with a propeller—’

  She gasped, but he didn’t elaborate. He really didn’t want to go there. ‘Anyway, I’ve had ten months, which is a good long while to practise walking, but football—well, I don’t know, it’s one of several things I haven’t tried, but I can imagine it might be tricky, and I didn’t want to have to explain things to Charlie without you knowing first and okaying it.’

  She let go of the cloth and dried her hands, turning back to him, her eyes tormented. ‘I’m really sorry. I know that probably sounds empty and meaningless and I hate it when people say they’re sorry when they find out about Robert, but I really am sorry. I’ve heard so much about you, and all of it seems to revolve around you being active. So it must have been—must be—really hard.’

  He tried to smile. ‘It was. Being inactive nearly drove me crazy. But it’s better now. I can get about easily, and I can run if I’m careful and the ground’s flat, and I can swim and dive and drive my car, and apparently I can do gardening, and, best of all, it doesn’t hurt any more.’ Well, not so much, at least, and he could deal with his phantoms.

  Her eyes searched his, and she nodded and gave a faint smile. ‘Good.’

  ‘Just—’

  She tipped her head on one side questioningly. ‘Just…?’

  ‘Don’t tell them. My family. Please. Not before the wedding. I don’t want to put a damper on it.’

  She looked shocked. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s not my leg to talk about—and I won’t tell Charlie either, and I’d rather you didn’t yet. He’s good at secrets but I don’t think it’s healthy to expect youngsters to watch every word.’

  He nodded. ‘Sure. Thanks. I won’t. I’ll try and make sure he doesn’t suspect anything if you could just back me up when I have to let him down with things like the football.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He scrubbed his hand round the back of his neck and kneaded the muscles briefly. He ached all over, and his stump was feeling tight in the socket. He really needed to get his leg off and lie down, and, if he was incredibly lucky, he might be able to sleep.

  ‘Look, I know it’s early,’ he said, ‘but I’m bushed. I’ve been on the go for thirty-six hours and I could really do with an early night. I think I’ll just turn in, if that’s OK.’

  A little frown flitted over her face. ‘Are you sure? What about food?’

  He shook his head, and the little frown came back.

  ‘Can’t I make you some toast or something first, at least? You’ve been working so hard.’

  His stomach rumbled, and he grinned. ‘Actually, toast would be lovely. Thanks. I’ll go and sort my stuff out.’

  She appeared in the cabin door behind him a few minutes later, a mug in one hand, a plate in the other. ‘Where do you want this?’

  ‘This’ turned out to be tea and a toasted cheese sandwich, and it made his mouth water. ‘Wow, that smells good,’ he said, trying to remember when he’d last eaten anything that he’d wanted so much. Days ago. More. ‘Just stick it on the side. I’ll grab it in a second. Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure. Look, David, are you sure you’ll be all right out here? I mean—what if you need something in the night? A drink or anything?’

  ‘I’ll get up,’ he said, and watched her face scrunch up in a little scowl.

  ‘Don’t talk to me like an idiot child!’ she reproved him. ‘I’m just concerned about the steps.’

  ‘I’ll put my leg on.’

  ‘Isn’t that a fiddle?’

  He laughed softly and straightened up from his suitcase. ‘Yes, Molly, it’s a fiddle. It’s all a fiddle. Using crutches is a fiddle. Putting the leg on is a fiddle. Having to think before you get out of bed and fall flat on your face is a fiddle. But you get used to it. And I’ve had three years of not being able to get out of bed without thinking, so it’s not a problem. Besides, there’s water in the tap in the bathroom here if I need a drink. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to crash.’

  She recoiled as if he’d slapped her. ‘Fine. We’re going to get some fish Bob’s saved for us and then I’ll keep Charlie inside so he doesn’t disturb you.’

  She straightened up, backing off with a wounded look in her eyes that made him feel sick, but he was too tired and jet-lagged and generally hacked off to deal with it now, so he let her go, and, as she closed the door, he heard her call Charlie and take him away.

  There was no sign of them when he emerged from his shower room a few minutes later after a brief wash that of necessity included giving his stump some attention—no question of just taking off his clothes and getting into bed like a normal person, he thought heavily as he laid his folding crutches down beside the bed within reach.

  Oh, well, at least it didn’t hurt any more—or not nearly as much. If only it had all been worth it, if there’d been any point in him having got himself into this mess, but his heroics hadn’t been enough, in the end, and tragedy had had its way. It had all been a complete and total waste.

  And he wasn’t going to think about that now or he’d go stark, staring mad. Instead he’d think about Molly, and how she’d looked at him with those hurt, reproachful eyes when he’d bluntly dismissed her and all but told her to leave him alone.

  Damn. He’d apologise tomorrow.

  He got into bed and lay down in the bed with a sigh. He felt disappointed, as if he’d let himself down somehow, and his heart ached with—what? Regret?

  Or just plain loneliness.

  He rolled onto his front, jamming the pillow under the side of his head and stretching out his leg for the first time in what seemed like hours. Not that he’d been uncomfortable in the plane. Travelling business class was hardly roughing it, but it couldn’t prevent the turbulence and he was exhausted, his body clock disrupted by the time difference. But that didn’t mean he could sleep.

  He shifted a little, and realised that the bed was, as Molly had said, very comfortable.

  But not so comfortable that he could forget the look in her eyes as she’d backed away.

  He thumped the pillow and turned his head the other way, and finally gave up and rolled on to his back, staring at the window. There was a chink in the curtains, and he could see the kitchen light on. She must be cooking their fish for supper, he thought, and felt a pang of regret that he’d bottled out. He stopped looking at it, turned his head away, tried not to think about what she and Charlie were doing and the fact that he could have been sitting with them and eating Bob’s sea bass instead of lying there alone.

  Then he wondered what time she’d go to bed, and where she slept and, exhausted though he was, he thought again of that revealing peep of cleavage he’d seen when she’d first come round the corner and introduced herself, and felt the heat coil in his gut.

  Stupid. Crazy. He was jealous of a leaf, for goodness’ sake!

  Anyw
ay, she wouldn’t want him. Not now she knew. He’d seen the pity in her eyes, seen the look she’d given his legs when he’d told her, the cringing embarrassment, the recoil.

  He’d seen it before. Celia had looked at him like that, the first time she’d seen his leg after the accident.

  At least Molly hadn’t been sick.

  No. He wasn’t going to surrender to self-pity. It was a stupid, useless, destructive emotion and he had better things to do with his life than wallow in misery because the first woman in years to pique his interest was turned off by his disability.

  God, he hated that word.

  Hated all of it.

  Suddenly he didn’t feel any older than Charlie, just a kid again, who should have been running around with skinny legs sticking out of his shorts, crabbing off the jetty without a care in the world.

  Where had it all gone?

  And with a flash of insight, he wondered how his father had felt, losing his son for the last eleven years. He’d never intended to emigrate, but that was how it had ended up. It hadn’t been intentional, and he’d missed everyone, but back home his father had missed him far more. He knew that. Georgie had left him in no doubt about it.

  And now he had to go and tell him that the son he’d loved and missed for so long had come home disabled.

  And he had to be his best man.

  Hell.

  He rolled on to his side, and saw an upstairs light on now. Molly’s?

  Yes. He saw her reach up and close her curtains, and the silhouette of her firm, lush curves made him ache for something he would never have. Molly Blythe was strictly off limits, a beautiful young woman who was getting on with her life and who had better things to do than tangle with a man so physically and emotionally scarred he couldn’t even tell his own father about the mess his life was in.

  And, just to underline the stupid, crazy nature of this thing that had happened to him, his toes—the toes he didn’t have any more—curled up in agonising cramp that made him whimper with the pain. Phantom limb pain? Nothing phantom about it.

  He sat up and rubbed the stump, massaging it vigorously, trying to chase away the sensation, but it wouldn’t go. He rummaged in his bag for the metallic mesh sock that seemed to help, and pulled it on, lying back to wait for the relief that usually came.