The Single Mom and the Tycoon

by Caroline Anderson

  There was no pattern to the pain. Nothing he could tackle in one straightforward way, nothing that made any sense. Acupuncture helped, but he was a long way from his acupuncturist, so he lay there, retreated into himself and, by slowing his breathing and focusing on the sound of the sea in his head, he went to a place where nothing could hurt him, nothing could reach him.

  Not even his phantoms.

  It was a cry that woke her.

  No. Not a cry. More of a shout, mumbled and indistinct. She got up and went to the window and looked out, listening, and there it was again.

  And it was coming from the cabin.

  Her heart thumping, she grabbed her dressing gown and ran downstairs, flicking the button on the kettle on her way, and went down to the garden, the grass wet against her feet as she crossed to the cabin and tapped on the door.

  ‘David? Are you OK?’

  He was mumbling something and, because she didn’t know if he was ill or if it was just a nightmare, she opened the door and tiptoed in. ‘David?’

  Nothing, but she could see by the light through the gap in the curtains that he’d kicked the covers down to his knees and was twisting restlessly on the bed. He was naked except for a pair of snug jersey boxers, and there was a sheen on his skin, as if he was sweating. He was rambling, but as she stood there he said clearly, ‘No! Don’t let him die!’

  He was dreaming—dreaming about something horrible and frightening, and without hesitating she crossed over to him and laid a hand firmly but gently against his shoulder. ‘David!’

  He stiffened, and then after a second his eyes opened, he stared at her, and then with a ragged groan, he dragged the quilt back up over his chest and covered his face with his hands, drawing them slowly down over the skin and hauling in a great deep breath.

  He let it out, then sat up and propped himself up against the headboard.

  ‘Sorry. Did I disturb you?’

  ‘You were dreaming.’

  He gave a harsh sigh and stabbed his fingers through his hair. ‘Yeah. I sometimes yell a bit. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. I did—for a while, after Robert died. The days were fine, but at night it would creep up on me. The dreams. Nightmares, really.’

  She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  ‘It’s the middle of the night. You want to go back to bed.’

  ‘Actually, I often get up for tea in the night,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t always sleep well, even now. It’s no trouble—if you want one.’

  His smile was a flash of white in the darkness. ‘That would be really nice,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll get up.’

  ‘Isn’t that a lot of effort? I could bring it here. Save you struggling with the steps.’

  He gave a grunt. ‘Just give me a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll come over. I’ll be there before the kettle’s boiled.’

  Hardly, she thought, but she didn’t say a word, just got up and went out, crossing the dew-soaked grass and running lightly up the steps to the veranda and then in through the back door. She saw the light come on in the cabin; then, as she was taking the teabags out of the mugs, he appeared at the top of the veranda steps, dressed in an open shirt, jeans and the shoes he’d had on the day before. And his leg, of course, which he’d had to put on, and was a fiddle.

  She looked down at her feet, bare and wet with bits of new-mown grass stuck all over them, and wondered what it must be like never to walk barefoot, never to be able to wriggle your toes in the grass or the sand or the mud.

  She’d die if she had to wear shoes all the time.

  ‘Shall we go in the sitting room? It’s chilly outside now,’ she said as he came in through the door.

  ‘You know what I really want to do?’ he said softly. ‘I want to sit on the sea wall and listen to the waves on the shingle.’

  She eyed his bare chest through the open front of his shirt and tried not to get distracted. ‘In which case you might need a bit more on. It’s cold.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I think you’ve probably forgotten about the sea breeze in Yoxburgh,’ she said with a smile, and picking up the car rugs she’d turned out of the cabin earlier, she wriggled her feet into her flipflops, picked up her tea and headed for the door. ‘Leave it open for Charlie,’ she said, and went out, leaving him to follow.

  She was right, it was cold, but it was lovely, too.

  Tranquil.

  Still and calm, with nothing to break the silence but the suck of the sea in the pebbles and the occasional clink of a halliard.

  She handed him a rug, and he slung it round his shoulders and dangled his legs over the edge of the sea wall and breathed in the salty, fishy, river mud smell of the estuary mouth that took him straight back to his childhood.

  ‘I love it here,’ he said with a contented sigh. ‘I’ve missed it.’

  ‘Here?’ she said incredulously. ‘Really? Compared to coral islands and tropical seas and stunning reefs and all that sunshine?’

  ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. There’s something about being cold, about falling leaves and bright, sharp frost and the brilliant green shoots of spring—and the birds here are different. Beautiful, subtle birdsong. The birds in Queensland are all raucous and colourful and loud, really, and some of them like the cassowary are downright dangerous. Don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful, but there’s nothing to beat a little brown wren or a chaffinch picking berries off a tree, and the dawn chorus here is so much more delicate.’

  ‘You wait till the seagulls get up,’ she said with a laugh. ‘They’re certainly raucous.’

  He chuckled. ‘I’ll give you that. The gulls are always loud, wherever you are, but I love them.’

  They fell silent, and for a long time she said nothing, but he could hear the cogs turning.

  Then at last she spoke.

  ‘Who died?’ she asked softly.

  He felt a shaft of dread. ‘Died?’

  ‘You said something in your sleep—it sounded like “Don’t let him die” but it was a bit mumbled.’

  He nearly told her. Nearly talked about it, but he didn’t want to. Didn’t want to get the whole tragic tale out and rake over the embers all over again.

  Not tonight.

  ‘I have no idea,’ he lied and, twisting round, he lifted his legs up on to the sea wall, got to his feet with what could never have been called grace and picked up his mug and blanket.

  ‘I’m turning in now. Thanks for the tea,’ he said and, without waiting for her, he headed back to his cabin, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘GOOD morning.’

  Molly tried for a smile. ‘Morning,’ she said, but her voice was strained, and David must have noticed because he gave her a keen look and sighed.

  ‘Molly, it was just a dream. Forget it.’

  ‘I can’t forget it. There we were, sitting on the wall listening to the sea and just talking and I had to go and put my foot in it—oh, damn, I didn’t mean that—’

  He laughed. He actually laughed at her, to her horror and embarrassment, and then, before she could get her defences back in place, he took two strides across her kitchen and gathered her into his arms. ‘Molly, stop it,’ he murmured, and after a second or two, when it didn’t seem as if he was going to let go or do anything stupid, she slid her arms round him and hung on.

  Lord, it felt good. She hadn’t held a man—not a young, healthy, vital man—for nearly seven years. And it felt good.

  More than good. It felt right. She let her head settle down against his chest, so she could hear the steady, even beat of his heart, and gradually her own stopped thundering and she felt peace steal over her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled into his shirt, and his arms squeezed her and then let go, his big, warm hands on her shoulders easing her away so he could smile down at her.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed at you. Come on, stop beating yourself up. I�
�m fine.’

  ‘Will you tell me? Who it was?’

  His hands dropped abruptly. ‘One day,’ he said, stepping back. ‘Maybe.’ He looked around hopefully. ‘Right, where’s that mean breakfast you promised me, or were you lying?’ he asked, and her heart sank like a stone.

  The look on her face was priceless.

  Her hands flew up to cover her mouth, and her eyes widened helplessly. ‘Oh! Oh, drat! I meant to go to the shops this morning first thing, but I overslept and then I remembered Charlie had holiday club, and I had to rush, and then I wanted to get back in case you woke up, and—’

  ‘You forgot,’ he added, trying not to laugh at her again.

  She gave a guilty smile. ‘Sorry. Apparently so.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does! And anyway, I was going to ask you what you usually have for breakfast. I meant to do that last night.’

  ‘Fresh fruit, a croissant, coffee—nothing special.’

  She nibbled her lip, and he had a sudden surge of heat, an urge that had nothing to do with breakfast or comforting her and everything to do with dragging her back into his arms and kissing her senseless.

  Not that it would take long. She was so flustered right now she was pretty senseless already.

  ‘Um—that’s not my usual breakfast.’

  ‘Well, give me your usual breakfast—or what you have of it in the house.’

  Guilt flooded her face again. ‘Well, that’s the problem, really, because I can’t. I haven’t got any bacon or sausages or mushrooms or tomatoes—actually, that’s a lie, I’ve got a tomato, but it’s pretty wrinkled and you wouldn’t want it. I didn’t. And there aren’t any hash browns or slices of black pudding in the freezer, either—’

  The smile wouldn’t stay locked in any longer, and he chuckled. ‘So—having saved me from death by cholesterol, what do you have?’

  ‘Eggs? Toast?’

  ‘Done. Two boiled eggs—have you got two?’ She nodded, and he went on, ‘Lightly boiled, and soldiers. Can you do soldiers?’

  She laughed, relief replacing the guilt in her eyes. ‘I’ve got an eight-year-old boy. I can do dippy eggs with soldiers for England.’

  ‘Excellent. And coffee?’ he added hopefully, and her face fell again.

  ‘Um—instant decaff?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘What’s your tea? Is that instant decaff?’

  She laughed again. ‘No, the tea’s real—well, real tea bags. Is that OK? You haven’t complained yet.’

  He relented and smiled. ‘Tea would be lovely. Thank you.’

  And he sat down at the little table on the veranda, soaking up the chilly morning air and breathing in the familiar smell of the salt marshes while behind him in the kitchen he could hear her humming and pottering.

  Then she appeared, with not two eggs but three, and a pile of hot buttered toast and two mugs of tea, and settled down beside him. ‘You don’t mind if I join you, do you?’ she asked, and he couldn’t help but smile at her uncertainty.

  ‘Of course I don’t. It’s nice to have company.’

  She went suddenly still, as if the idea was utterly novel, and then flashed him a smile. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ she said softly, and pushed two eggs and a spoon towards him on a plate. ‘Here, you’d better cut them open before they go hard. Dippy eggs are no good when they’re hard.’

  It wasn’t only the dippy eggs that were in danger, he realised. That smile of hers had really got to him. He swung his legs round under the table and, as she winced and shifted, he realised he’d kicked her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re on the wrong side, really. The other side’s a bit safer.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, but it wasn’t, and it had reminded him in the nick of time why sitting there on the veranda with Molly having a cosy little breakfast was such a phenomenally lousy idea. Still, at least it had served one purpose, and it had been as effective as chucking a bucket of ice over him.

  He shifted his legs to a safer distance, cut the tops off his eggs and concentrated on trying not to dribble yolk all down his chin.

  ‘So—are you going to see your father today?’

  He pushed his plate away and straightened up, staring out over the marshes into the distance, his face suddenly grim. ‘I don’t suppose I can put it off any longer, really.’

  She didn’t know why she did it—maybe because he’d made the first move and hugged her when she’d been distressed about upsetting him last night? Whatever—she reached out her hand and covered his and, after a startled second, he turned and met her eyes.

  ‘He loves you, David,’ she reminded him. ‘He just wants to see you.’

  He sighed softly. ‘It’s his wedding, Molly. His wedding and the opening of this health spa they’ve all done. It’s a big moment for him, and I just want to be here for him without him having to worry about me. If he finds out—well, I just don’t want him to. Not yet.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘You think he won’t notice?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘But you don’t know me.’

  She shrugged. ‘No, but I know people. I know how they move, and I can tell if someone’s limping or there’s anything wrong, and I watched you in the garden yesterday and I didn’t realise.’

  ‘You watched me?’ he asked, a flicker of something that could have been teasing in his eyes, and she felt her cheeks warm.

  ‘Well—I saw you,’ she corrected, and he smiled wryly.

  ‘I prefer watched,’ he said, and she realised he was flirting with her.

  Only mildly, nothing heavy or dangerous or in any way reasonably responsible for the sudden rush in her pulse rate or the pooling of heat low down in her body in places that had been dormant for years.

  She dragged her eyes away and went to retrieve her hand, but he’d turned his over and he had hold of her fingers, and as she pulled he gave them a little tug, so that she swayed towards him, and then, before she could react he dropped a kiss on her cheek and stood up.

  ‘You’re a good woman, Molly,’ he said softly, and he went down the steps and across the garden to his cabin while she watched him, meaning to check for anything noticeably different about his gait and instead totally distracted by his easy grace, his body moving smoothly, strong and straight and solid, his shoulders muscular, his arms and legs long and lean, that soft, floppy mid-brown hair glinting with gold in the sun.

  Her cheek tingled where his lips had touched it, and she lifted her hand and laid her fingertips over the spot, feeling the heat from his kiss warm her entire body.

  She was still sitting there staring after him with her hand on her face when he came out of the cabin and looked up at her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She swallowed and felt her cheeks heat. ‘Nothing. Sorry. I was miles away. So—what time do you think you’ll be back?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if Dad’s around today. I’ll go via the house, and then the site. He might be down there finishing off. Why?’

  So I can be here for you, in case you need me after you’ve talked to him…

  ‘No reason. I just didn’t want you to come back and find I’d gone out. I could give you a key to the house,’ she added doubtfully, wondering where on earth she’d put her spare, but he just shook his head.

  ‘Don’t worry about a key. I’ve got the key to the cabin, anyway. If Dad’s not around, I’ll try and find Georgie and, failing that, there’s always Bob. I could go fishing with him. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you for supper if not before—or ring me.’ She told him the number, and he keyed it into his mobile and gave her a grin.

  ‘Right, I’m off.’

  ‘Good luck,’ she said impulsively, and his smile twisted with irony.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He slid the key into his pocket and with a little wave he walked round the side of the cabin and out of the back gate, his stride firm and even
and steady.

  No, she thought, you really couldn’t tell, not when he was just moving around normally. Getting up off the sea wall last night had been a bit of an effort, but mostly—no, if he was careful, there was no reason why his family should find out until he chose to tell them.

  And she couldn’t sit there all day and wait for him to come back and tell her how it had gone.

  Jumping to her feet, she cleared the breakfast things away, then went upstairs to her loft conversion and looked around. She’d promised him it would only take a few days to get it sorted but, before he could move in, she had to give it a really good clean and then get a coat of paint on the freshly plastered walls and ceiling.

  She couldn’t afford a carpet, but there was a rug in the cabin. She could bring that over, and it would cover most of the floor.

  Still, first things first. She gazed blankly at the colour chart, and tried not to think about David and how he was getting on with his father.

  It was ridiculous.

  He had a business worth millions, with a turnover his competition would kill for. He was confident, competent and massively successful at everything he touched.

  He didn’t ever feel nervous.

  But apparently he did today. His heart was pounding, his mouth was dry and he had no idea what he was going to say to his father.

  Crazy. How about Hello, Dad?

  If he was even in.

  He wasn’t.

  At least, he hadn’t answered the doorbell. So now what? Go to the spa and catch him in public at his workplace?

  With a short sigh he turned away, just as a car pulled up on the drive and the woman he’d seen with his father the day before got out and came over to him.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’ she said, her voice gentle and musical, and David eyed her, the woman who was to replace his mother, and struggled for words.

  He didn’t need them.

  It took her about five seconds to work it out, and then her eyes filled with tears and she took the last few steps, arms outstretched.