The Single Mom and the Tycoon

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘Stupid woman.’

  ‘No. Just superficial and self-serving. It took me a while to work it out. Two years, probably. If I hadn’t been trying to get her back, I would have seen sense and had my leg off sooner, and it would have saved me a lot of grief. But that’s just being practical, and I guess there was a bit of me that was fighting it, too.’

  ‘Of course there was. It’s a huge loss—a real bereavement. Of course you fought it.’

  He stared at her, then gave a gruff little laugh. ‘How did you figure that out?’

  ‘I understand grief when I see it. I’m an expert at that.’

  He put his tea down and reached out his hand, and she let him take hers. His fingers were hot from his mug, hot and firm and strong and safe, and she threaded hers through them and hung on.

  ‘Tell me about Robert.’

  Her grip on his hand tightened a little, and his fingers closed around hers snugly in response, holding her, offering her silent support while she told him the sad little tale.

  ‘He was twenty-three when I met him, and I was twenty-one. I’d just left art college and he was a teacher. I was doing teaching practice at his school as part of my training, and he asked me what on earth I was doing there. I hated teaching, but I wanted a career that would give me time to paint. He pointed out that giving everything to pupils left little emotional energy for creativity. He was an art teacher, and he used to paint until he started teaching, then he dried up. He told me to paint, said he’d support me because he had faith in me and knew I could make a success of my art.

  ‘I asked him why he didn’t give up and concentrate on painting, and he said he didn’t have my talent, and anyway, he was happy teaching, but I owed it to myself to explore my gift. He said not doing that would be to throw it away.’

  ‘Wise man. So what did you do?’

  ‘I moved in with him, dropped my course, started painting big-time and we had Charlie. And then he had a car accident, on his way to an interview for a job I’d made him apply for. He ended up on life-support, and I wouldn’t let them turn it off. I said he’d come back to us, I knew he would, so I went and sat with him every night, all night, and in the day I took Charlie in to see him. Then he went into multi-organ failure.’

  She trailed off, seeing Robert’s face again, the ventilator, the tape on his eyes, the tubes and wires and bleeps and hushed voices all crowding in on her. She dragged in a breath and sat up, staring out at the sea, watching the slow, lazy swell of the waves, hearing instead of the bleeps the soft suck of the water on the shingle, calming and centring her.

  ‘The monitors all went wild and they came running,’ she carried on softly. ‘They’d wanted to do it days before, but I wouldn’t let them. Now, though, I wanted to turn off the machine myself, to let him go. It was my fault he was in there, and my fault he was still suffering, still trapped when he should have been at peace. It needed to be me that let him go. So I turned off the machine, and gave him his peace, but he couldn’t give me mine back. It’s gone for ever. Like I told you, I can’t fix things, so I don’t try any more. When I interfere, try to alter the course of things, it all goes wrong. So I paint, and I keep out of the way, and I don’t give advice.’

  ‘Is that why you didn’t follow me just now? Because you didn’t want to interfere with the course of events?’

  ‘Probably. Or it might have been cowardice.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Molly. I don’t think you’re a coward. I think you’re sad and confused and blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. Were you driving?’

  She sighed, knowing where this was going. ‘No. No, he was.’

  ‘And did he want to apply for the job?’

  She bit her lip. ‘Yes, actually it was him that brought it up, but he didn’t think he could do it. It was quite a big promotion for him, and he didn’t—I just thought I was supporting him, but actually I made him die. So it was right that I was the one to turn off the machine.’

  ‘Molly, it wasn’t your fault. All you were doing was giving him the support he gave you over your career choices. You weren’t driving, it wasn’t your fault he crashed, and you only reacted how anyone else would have reacted under the circumstances.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is I made it my fault. It was my fault that it dragged on for weeks when it could have been over. He wasn’t even there any more. I made him suffer, and he wasn’t even there any more, so it was all for nothing.’

  ‘So he didn’t suffer—not if he wasn’t there.’

  She looked at him, hearing the simple, obvious truth that couldn’t really change anything, and smiled. ‘Don’t be logical,’ she said gently. ‘I’m a woman. I can do guilt for England.’

  ‘Like dippy eggs.’

  ‘And soldiers.’

  He smiled at that and held up his arm. ‘Come here.’

  She moved the mugs and shuffled over to him, slipping easily under his arm, her arms around his waist and her head against his shoulder. It felt so good and right and natural and, as she sat there, she felt peace steal over her, as if, at last, she’d been able to let Robert go, to forgive herself for loving him too much and fighting to save him when she should have said goodbye.

  As David had said, all she’d really done was support him in his decision, give him the courage to try for what he wanted, as he’d done with her. She did it all the time with Charlie. What was the difference? Maybe she just hadn’t been ready to hear all the well-worn arguments before, but David was the first person she’d talked to about it for ages, and maybe now she was ready to hear it.

  And ready to step back into life?

  Yes.

  She lifted her head and pressed her lips against his chin. ‘Take me to bed.’

  His jaw tensed beneath her lips, the muscle working. ‘It’s not pretty,’ he warned.

  She sat up, pulling herself away. ‘Don’t confuse me with the shallow, self-serving Celia, please. I would have had Robert back with a plate in his skull and quadriplegia, just because of who he was, who he’d been. For better, for worse and all that. You won’t scare me off, David.’

  ‘But we aren’t married.’

  ‘So why are you so worried about it? You can walk away.’

  ‘Not easily. Not once I take my leg off.’

  ‘Well, then, we’d better not set fire to the bed.’

  He laughed, then got to his feet and tugged her up, scooping up the mugs and the blanket in his free hand and sliding his arm round her shoulders and pulling her close. ‘You’re a crazy woman, do you know that?’ he murmured, and she chuckled and tucked her hand into the back of his trousers and felt the solid warmth of his muscles shifting against her palm as he walked with her back to the cabin.

  He put the blanket and the mugs down, then stood in front of her, his eyes meeting hers. ‘Are you sure?’ he said softly, and she nodded.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she told him, although the only thing she was really sure of was that she was going to hurt so much more when he went away, but knowing that she couldn’t let him go without doing this, without taking the time they had and giving him something positive to take back with him to his life.

  If she could do that, then it would be enough.

  She reached up, took the bow-tie that was dangling round his neck and slowly pulled it free. She dropped it on the floor, then reached for his hands and removed his cuff-links, putting them on the bedside table next to the little packet he’d acquired on the way home.

  His watch followed them, then she slipped the buttons free one by one, pulled his shirt-tails out of his trousers and slid the shirt off his shoulders, pressing her lips to his chest, feeling the texture of the hair scattered across his skin, the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

  The shirt dropped to the floor, and she stepped back and pulled the fleece over her head, dropping it next to his shirt and lifting her eyes to his.

  He was motionless, only his eyes moving, tracking slowl
y over her breasts, taking his time, making her ache for him to touch her. She thought he was never going to, but then he lifted his hand and grazed the back of his knuckles lightly over the shadowed valley between her breasts.

  ‘Do you know, the first time I met you there was a leaf here?’ he murmured gruffly. ‘And I was jealous of it.’

  And, bending his head, he trailed his lips over the path his knuckles had followed, stealing her breath and leaving her trembling for more.

  His hands slid down inside the waistband of her jog bottoms, easing them down over her hips so they fell away, and she was left standing in her underwear, grateful for her one little indulgence.

  He sucked in his breath, ran his hand over her ribs, down over the flat bowl of her pelvis, turning it so his palm was against her skin as he slid it round behind her and eased her against him. She gasped as they came into contact, the slightly rough texture of his chest tantalising against the sensitive skin of her aching breasts, and she heard his breath catch, too.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said roughly, and then, anchoring her head with his other hand, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her properly for the first time.

  She opened to him, felt the hot, wet satin of his tongue as it tangled with hers, felt rather than heard his groan as he deepened the kiss, slanting his head to increase the contact and lifting her against him so she could feel his body’s surging response. There was too much between them still, the fine wool and silk mix of those beautifully cut trousers just frankly in the way. She reached for the belt, but he eased away, lifted his head and stared down at her, his hands on hers.

  ‘Can we lose the light?’ he said, and she realised he was still afraid of her reaction.

  ‘No,’ she said, not knowing at all if it was the right thing to say but just sure she wanted to see him, wanted him to see her, so there would be no secrets, nothing left to shock or surprise or disappoint. She lifted her hand and touched it to his heart. ‘I want to see you. I want to look into your eyes. I want to know it’s you, and I want you to know it’s me, warts and all.’

  ‘You have warts?’

  His eyes were smiling, and she chuckled. ‘No, I don’t have warts. I have stretch marks, though. And an appendix scar.’

  He stared down at her for an endless moment, then gave a little twisted smile, the smile in his eyes dying. ‘Have it your way, then,’ he said and, without another word he reached for his belt.

  What the hell was she doing?

  All the time he was undressing, taking his leg off, going through the whole routine of cleaning and creaming and getting the crutches ready for the night, she just sat there beside him on the bed, looking utterly gorgeous and waiting patiently for him to finish.

  He hung on to his boxers, though, just because he didn’t want to be stark naked when she threw up on him, and then finally he lifted his head and met her eyes, expecting pity and revulsion, and she smiled. Smiled, for God’s sake, as if she was pleased with him. He could imagine her smiling at Charlie like that when he’d done something she was proud of. Or maybe not quite like that—

  ‘It’s a bit chilly out here. Can we get under the quilt?’

  He raised a brow. ‘Are you sure about that? You’ve finished putting me through hoops?’

  ‘Don’t be self-pitying and sarcastic,’ she chided and, pushing him to his feet—correction, foot—she pulled the quilt out from under him and slid under it, patting the sheet beside her.

  He lay down, his heart going like a train, and then she reached out and cradled his face, lifting herself up so she could stare down into his eyes. ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered, and he reached up and took her into his arms, his breath leaving him in a rush as he felt the silk of her skin against his, the slight roughness of her lacy bra teasing his chest. It was the one from the washing pile, the most outrageously sexy garment he’d seen in a very long while, and he nearly lost it there and then.

  He ran his hand down her back and cupped her bottom, the soft, round globes naked except for that matching sliver of lace that really couldn’t be called underwear. He dispensed with the tiny pants, pulled her up against him again and, meshing his mouth with hers, kissed her as if his life depended on it.

  Her hands were on him, pushing his boxers out of the way, and he kicked them off, found the clip on her bra and freed the glorious, soft mounds of her breasts that had mesmerised him now for days. He buried his face in them, revelling in the silky texture of her skin. His lips tracked over her, his mouth finding and suckling deeply on nipples tightly pebbled with desire, and her legs clenched around his thigh. She was whimpering, her hands clawing at him, and he dragged her hard up against him and rocked against her with a shuddering groan.

  He was going to die if he didn’t have her and, reaching for the bedside table, he found the little packet and broke into it with trembling fingers.

  ‘Let me,’ she said, and he gritted his teeth and fought for the last shreds of his control.

  He was gorgeous.

  Simply, utterly gorgeous.

  She’d never been loved like that. Oh, Robert had been a good and generous lover, a tender and compassionate man, but this—this was entirely different, elemental, leaving every cell in her body wide awake and screaming with joy. She waited for the twinge of disloyalty, but it didn’t come. This wasn’t about the past, it was about now, and it was going to be short enough without guilt and recriminations.

  He was lying on his back, arms locked behind his head, watching her.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You. You’re gorgeous.’

  He gave a shaky laugh and looked away. ‘And you’re deluded. Georgie was right, you’re far too good for me.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ She eased the quilt down, her hands gentle as she ran them over him, massaging the muscles with long, easy strokes. ‘Utterly gorgeous. Look at yourself. So strong, so sleek, so clever—beautiful.’

  He tipped his head slightly, a puzzled grin teasing at his mouth. ‘Clever?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said with a slow smile and, bending forwards, she pressed her lips to his chest. ‘How’s your side?’ she asked, and he shifted so she could see it. She frowned. ‘Ouch, naughty tree,’ she said softly, and feathered her lips over the bruised skin, then slid them down, across his waist, over his hip-bone, down the hair-strewn muscled shaft of his left thigh.

  She heard the sharp inward hiss of his breath as he tensed, almost heard the defences clattering into place, but she wasn’t going to let him push her away. She turned back the quilt, knelt at his side and let her hands trail over his thigh and down to his knee, her fingertips learning his body, sampling the textures of skin and hair over taut, powerful muscle and solid bone, marvelling at the exquisite perfection of this man.

  Then she bent her head and pressed her lips to the neat, hardly visible scar that ran around the front of his shin, where his leg had been so cruelly abbreviated, and she felt him flinch. Her heart aching for him, she curled her hand under the back of his knee and held it tenderly, resting her cheek against his shin.

  It was wet, she realised. She touched her tongue to it and tasted salt, and frowned as another drop joined it.

  Tears.

  Oh, Lord, she could cry a river for this man.

  She closed her eyes and laid her cheek against his thigh, taking a moment to steady herself before she lifted her head, but when she did his eyes were closed, and she saw a glistening trail running from the outer corner of his eye down into his temple above the clenched muscle of his jaw.

  Oh, David. Oh, my love.

  She lay down beside him, kissing away the tears, and with a shuddering sigh he wrapped his arms around her and hung on.

  ‘You’re amazing, do you know that?’ he said gruffly, after an age. ‘Beautiful and kind and generous and so damn sexy—’

  His lips pressed to her forehead, and she lifted her head and met his eyes with a smile. ‘Are you OK? Only you’re talking rubbish now, David. I’m just me.’

 
‘I’m much more than OK, and I’m not talking rubbish. You’re beautiful. Come here. I need to make love to you again.’

  Her smile widened. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  ‘I think I should tell my father.’

  Molly turned her head and frowned at him in the early morning light. ‘Tell him what? That you’ve spent the night with me?’

  David laughed. ‘No. That’s none of his business.’ His smile faded. ‘I meant about my leg.’

  She sat up next to him, hauling the quilt up round her shoulders, and he eased himself up the bed beside her and wrapped his arms round her, cocooning her in his warmth. ‘I thought you didn’t want to tell him before the wedding.’

  ‘I didn’t. But then it occurred to me that it might be better for him to know how much I love him and how much I wanted to be there for him when he had his heart attack and his surgery. I let them think I’d broken my ankle, but as an excuse that could only work for so long without arousing suspicion, and after a while they thought I didn’t care—particularly Georgie. But I did care, Molly. I so wanted to be at his bedside, and to be at Georgie’s wedding, but I couldn’t tell them, just because I didn’t want to hurt them. But I have, just by protecting them from the truth. And now I think he needs to know, so I can look him in the eye on his wedding day without seeing disappointment. But is that for me, or for him? I just don’t know.’

  She was silent, simply because she didn’t know what to say and didn’t feel she could interfere, and after a moment he gently turned her head so he could look at her. ‘Well? You’re the family relationships expert. What do I do?’

  She closed her eyes briefly, unable to bear that gentle, penetrating gaze. ‘David, don’t ask me to tell you what to do.’

  ‘Well, what would you do if you were me?’

  ‘Tell him,’ she said instantly. ‘But you know me—speak first, think later. Whereas you probably think too much and keep it all to yourself.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Mmm. I mean, I still don’t know.’