by Helen Brooks
A mental image of Morgan Wright came to mind and she groaned softly. Or it wouldn’t be if the neighbour in question were any other than Morgan. But no, she was being silly. What did she think he was going to do, for goodness’ sake? Steal into her bedroom and have his wicked way with her like the villain in an old black and white movie? He’d offered her a bed and a hot meal for the night, that was all, and she ought to be grateful. She was grateful, but she wished he weren’t so…
Her mind couldn’t quite categorise what Morgan Wright was, and after a couple of moments she gave up the attempt and walked further into the room. It was gorgeous—large and airy and decorated in soft shades of silver and cream, with touches of dark chocolate in the bed-coverings and curtains. The en-suite was equally impressive, the chocolate marble bath sunk into the floor with elegant silver fittings and the massive shower at the other end of the bathroom large enough for a rugby team. A profusion of soft fluffy towels were stored on glass shelves, along with toiletries of every description. Willow even noticed two new toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste. The two basins, toilet and bidet were all in chocolate marble but the tiled floor, walls and ceiling, along with the bath-linen, were the same light cream as the bedroom. And this was just a guest room!
Willow stared at her reflection in the mirror that took up half of one wall opposite the bath. And groaned again.
Five minutes later she lay luxuriating in expensive foamy bubbles, tense muscles slowly beginning to relax as the hot water did its job. Her toes didn’t reach the end of the bath and the marble had been formed to provide a natural pillow for the occupant’s head; she felt she could stay in it all night.
She roused herself at one point to wash her hair, but then slid under the water to her neck again for a last indulgent soak, and she was like that when a knock came at the bathroom door. Shooting to her feet so quickly she sent a wave of water washing onto the floor, she grabbed a bath towel and wrapped it round her as she said, ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘It’s Kitty, dear. Morgan’s housekeeper. Just to say I’ve done my best with your clothes for now, but if you want to leave them outside your door when you go to bed tonight I’ll have them laundered for you in the morning so they’re nice and fresh.’
‘Oh, no, no, that’s all right.’ Willow stepped out of the bath and made her way to the door, opening it as she said, ‘Please, they’ll be fine till I get home tomorrow morning,’ to the small, smiling woman waiting outside. ‘I feel bad enough arriving unannounced for dinner as it is. I’m so sorry.’
‘Go on with you.’ Kitty flapped her hand. ‘I’m just glad Morgan had the sense to invite you after what happened. Men don’t always think on their feet, do they?’ She winked conspiratorially.
‘I guess not.’ Actually she suspected Morgan would.
‘Still, all’s well that ends well. I can give you the name of the chimney sweep we use if that’s any help? Nice lad, he is, and he makes a good clean job of it. Doesn’t charge the earth either.’
Willow smiled ruefully into the round little face. ‘If you could see the state of my cottage right now a bit of dust and soot from a chimney sweep would be nothing. I…I feel so stupid. You must all think I haven’t got the sense I was born with.’
Kitty, who had been airing her views on the ineptitude of ‘city’ dwellers to her husband for the last twenty minutes, clicked her tongue. ‘Not a bit of it, lass. How were you to know the chimney needed sweeping? I blame the estate agent—they should point out these things as part of their job. Quick enough to take their cut, aren’t they? But that’s typical of today’s generation. There’s no pride in a job well done any more, more’s the pity. People do as much as they can get away with.’
‘I hope you’re not including me in that statement.’
As the dark smoky voice preceded Morgan strolling into the bedroom through the door Kitty had left open Willow’s hands tightened instinctively round the bath sheet. For a moment she had the mad impulse to step back and shut the bathroom door but she controlled it—just. Her eyes wide, she stared at him.
Morgan had changed into a fresh shirt and jeans and his damp hair was slicked back from his face. The five o’clock shadow she had noticed earlier was gone too. Ridiculously the thought of him shaving to have dinner with her caused her stomach to tighten, even as she told herself he probably always shaved twice a day. His open-necked grey shirt showed the springy black hair of his chest and his black jeans were tight across the hips. Every nerve in her body was sensitised, much to her aggravation.
He seemed faintly surprised to see her still wrapped in a bath towel, his voice soft as he drawled, ‘Not ready yet, then.’
‘No, I— No. No, not yet.’ Oh, for goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, girl, she told herself angrily, annoyed at her stammering. You’re perfectly decent. Only the look in his eyes hadn’t made her feel that way. Even more alarming, she had liked the warm approval turning the blue of his eyes to deep indigo. For the first time in a long while she’d felt…womanly.
‘We’d better leave you to get ready.’ Kitty took charge, her voice suddenly brisk. ‘Dinner’s at eight, dear. All right? And there’s a hairdryer in the top drawer of the dressing table.’
As the little woman bustled off Morgan smiled a lazy smile. ‘Red or white?’ he asked softly, the words almost a caress.
‘Sorry?’ She hoped she didn’t look as vacant as she sounded.
‘The wine with our meal. Red or white?’
Her hair was dripping over her face and all she wanted was to end this conversation and put a door between them. ‘Red, please.’ Actually she didn’t mind but she wasn’t going to say that.
One eyebrow lifted. ‘Funny. I’d got you down as a white-wine girl,’ he said easily.
In spite of herself she couldn’t resist asking, ‘Oh, yes? Why?’ even as she mentally kicked herself for giving him the opportunity for more mockery. As if he needed an opportunity!
He shrugged. ‘Girls of a certain age seem to go for white wine.’ He smiled charmingly. ‘Or that’s what I’ve found.’
Did they indeed? And of course a man like Morgan Wright would know. The green eyes he’d spoke about narrowed. ‘What age is that?’ she asked evenly, determined to show no reaction.
‘Twenty, twenty-one.’
Willow didn’t know whether to feel pleased or insulted. If he was judging her age purely on her appearance, then that was fine, but if this was another way of saying she was silly and immature… Warily, she said, ‘It’s my twenty-ninth birthday in a few weeks.’ And make of that what you will.
‘You’re joking.’ He let his gaze travel over her body, top to toes. ‘It’s obviously a gene thing.’
It was actually. Beth looked years younger than she was and their mother had often been taken as their older sister. She nodded. ‘Advantage as one gets older but definitely irritating when you’re asked for ID at a nightclub,’ she said as coolly as she could considering her face had decided to explode with colour again.
He didn’t seem to notice her discomfiture. ‘Never had that problem myself,’ he said with a crooked smile. ‘I think I was born looking twenty-one.’
Willow could believe it. Morgan Wright was one of those men who made it impossible to imagine him as a child. The flagrant masculinity was so raw, so tough and virile she couldn’t envisage him as a vulnerable little boy. She shivered although she wasn’t cold.
‘Sorry, this is undoing all the good work the hot bath’s done. You get dressed and I’ll see you downstairs. The sitting room is to your right once you’re in the hall, incidentally.’ He had turned as he spoke, and, having reached the bedroom door, shut it quietly behind him.
Willow stared after him for a few moments before she pulled herself together. She found the hairdryer Kitty had spoken of and dried her hair so it fell in a sleek curtain framing her face. She was lucky with her hair. Thick and silky, it was no trouble as long as she had a good cut.
Grimacing, she dressed in h
er grubby jeans and jumper, although thanks to Kitty’s ministrations they were more presentable than when she’d arrived. Fishing out the odd bits of make-up she always kept in her handbag for an emergency, she applied eyeshadow and mascara before finishing with lip gloss. The result wasn’t spectacular but better, and better was good considering this man always seemed to see her when she looked as if she’d been pulled through a hedge backwards.
She stopped titivating and stared into the green eyes in the mirror. He must think she was some kind of nutcase and she hadn’t done much to convince him otherwise. Perhaps she was a nutcase, at that. At uni she’d always been one of the more restrained ones, looking on with a mixture of embarrassment and envy when some of her more wild friends had gone skinny-dipping on a day out by the river or related their antics at the latest wild party they’d attended. But now they were all lawyers or doctors or ‘something’ in the fashion industry, and a few had successful marriages to boot. Whereas she…
This train of thought was too depressing to follow, besides which it was two minutes to eight. Taking a deep breath, Willow smoothed her jeans over her hips, trying to ignore the sooty smell, and smiled at the face in the mirror. ‘You’re going to be fine. He’s a man, just a man, and this is one night out of the rest of your life. It isn’t a big deal so don’t make it one.’
And talking to yourself was the first sign of madness.
CHAPTER FOUR
MORGAN WRIGHT wasn’t a man given to second-guessing himself. In fact he’d built his small empire by going for the jugular and to hell with it if he’d got it wrong—which, it must be said, he rarely did. He was at the top of his game professionally and comfortingly satisfied with life in general. So why, he asked himself as he sat absently ruffling the fur on Bella’s head, the rest of the dogs piled round his feet, was he regretting inviting Willow to stay the night? It didn’t make sense.
A muscle knotted in his cheek and he swallowed the last of the Negroni he’d made for himself after coming downstairs. The bittersweet cocktail was one of his favourites and he usually took his time and enjoyed it in a leisurely way, but tonight the mix of Campari, sweet vermouth and gin barely registered on his taste buds. He was all at odds with himself and he didn’t like it.
He set the squat, straight-sided glass he always used for his pre-dinner cocktails on the small table beside him, frowning. He would have bet his bottom dollar she was no older than twenty, but if she was to be believed you could add practically another decade to that. And he didn’t doubt her. What woman would add years to her age, after all? No, she was nearly twenty-nine.
He raked back a quiff of hair that persisted in falling over his forehead, and the restrained irritation in the action brought Bella’s eyes to his face as she whined softly.
‘It’s all right, girl.’ He patted the noble head reassuringly even as a separate part of his mind asked the question, but was it? He didn’t like the way his new neighbour made him feel, that was it in a nutshell. He was way past the sweaty palms and uncontrollable urges stage, damn it. That had died a death after Stephanie and since then he’d made sure his head was in full control of his heart and the rest of him. He had a couple of friends who’d let their hearts rule their heads and both of them were paying for it in hefty alimony payments and only seeing their kids every other weekend—if they were lucky. Women were another species, that was the truth of it. Love, if it even existed, was too fragile a thing to trust in, too weighted with possible pitfalls. Like another wealthier, more successful patsy coming along.
Knowing his thinking was flawed, he rose abruptly from his seat and walked across the room to stand looking out over his grounds. OK, there were men and women who loved each other for a lifetime—maybe. But how many of these ‘perfect’ relationships were for real? How many merely papered over the cracks for reasons of their own? Thousands, millions.
‘Ten minutes to dinner.’
Kitty interrupted his thoughts and as he swung round and nodded it was as though the small, plump woman standing in the doorway was a challenge to his thoughts. He couldn’t doubt the strength and authenticity of what Jim and Kitty had, but they were the exception that proved the rule. There were hundreds of millions of men and women in the world; you had more chances of winning the lottery than finding what the women’s magazines called a soulmate.
‘The lass not down yet?’ Kitty asked cheerily.
‘No, not yet.’ He hoped she’d take the hint and disappear.
Kitty came further into the room, her voice dropping as she murmured, ‘I wonder what’s made a young lass like that buy Keeper’s Cottage? Someone of her age should be sharing a flat with friends and having fun. Tisn’t right to bury yourself away like she’s done.’
His voice dry, Morgan said, ‘She’s older than she looks.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Kitty nodded. ‘That makes more sense. How old is she, then?’
‘Nearly twenty-nine,’ Morgan said expressionlessly.
‘Is that so?’ Kitty nodded again. ‘Fancy that.’
Morgan grinned. Kitty was trying very hard to appear nonchalant but he could see the matchmaking gleam in her eye. The little woman had been on a mission to find a ‘nice’ wife for him for years; it was an irresistible challenge to her despite knowing his views on the subject. Walking across to her, he gently tucked a strand of grey hair behind her ear as he murmured softly, ‘Forget it, Kitty. Between you and me Miss Willow Landon doesn’t like me very much so there’s no hope in that direction, OK?’
It clearly wasn’t. Visibly bristling, Kitty stared at him. ‘I don’t see why after the way you’ve helped her.’
‘Personality clash,’ he said briefly. ‘That’s all.’
‘Personality clash? And what’s that when it’s at home?’
Wishing he’d kept his mouth shut, Morgan took a deep breath, then let it out. ‘She’s been polite and grateful so don’t get on your high horse, woman. I just meant I’m clearly not her type any more than she’s mine.’
A slight noise in the doorway brought their heads turning. Willow was standing there and he suspected she’d heard his last remark from the colour in her cheeks. As if that weren’t enough the sight of her—hair falling to her shoulders in silken strands, eyes as green as emeralds and her soft, half-open mouth—sent a jolt of desire sizzling through his veins. Mentally cursing Kitty and her matchmaking and not least the primal urges this young red-haired woman seemed able to inspire so easily, Morgan decided prevarication wasn’t an option. As Kitty beat a hasty retreat he said quietly, ‘Sorry, you obviously weren’t supposed to hear that.’
‘Obviously.’ The green eyes were as cold as glass.
Damn it. Following the line that honesty was the best policy, Morgan shrugged. ‘The thing is, Kitty tries to pair me off with any and every woman who strays across her path. It must be her age. Menopausal hormones out of control or something.’
The attempt at humour was met with a steely face. ‘Let me endeavour to make one thing perfectly clear, Mr Wright. I wouldn’t have you if you were the last man in the world and came wrapped in gold encrusted with diamonds.’
Certainly clear enough. ‘The very point I was attempting to make to Kitty.’ His mouth took on a rueful quirk. ‘I was trying to save you any embarrassment because Kitty can be a little…persistent when she gets a bee in her bonnet. In the event I seem to have made a pig’s ear of things.’
The green gaze continued to study him for a moment. Morgan felt he understood how an insect felt when impaled on a pin. Then he saw her head go back as she strolled further into the room. ‘No problem,’ she said coolly. ‘Just so we are absolutely clear.’
Morgan was well versed with women and he knew he was still in deep water. ‘Cocktail?’ he offered as Willow held out her hands to the blazing fire in the deep, ornate fireplace, her back to him. ‘I always indulge when I’m at home at the weekends.’
She didn’t look at him when she said, ‘Thank you, a margarita would be nice.’ Her voice verg
ed on icy.
Morgan prided himself on his margaritas. After filling a mixing glass with ice and stirring with a spoon, he tipped the ice away before topping up the glass with fresh. A dash of dry vermouth and he continued stirring, aware the figure by the fire had turned to watch him. After straining the liquid he again added more ice, along with a large measure of vodka.
It was when he strained the cocktail into a frosted martini glass rimmed with salt that Willow said, ‘Don’t tell me. You used to be a cocktail waiter in your youth.’
His youth? He wasn’t exactly at the age to push up daisies yet. Smiling, he handed her the cocktail. Her fingers touched his for a moment and a light electric current shot up his arm. ‘I worked in a cocktail bar for extra money during my uni days,’ he admitted easily. ‘It was a good job. I enjoyed it.’
‘One of those where you throw the bottles over your head and at each other?’ she asked with sweet venom.
His laugh was hearty and he saw her lips twitch in response. ‘The very same. At the weekends we put on quite a show.’
‘Dream job for a student, I should imagine?’
‘You better believe it. On lean days we’d fill up on the snacks and stuff the owner put out for the clients; he knew but he didn’t mind, not while we were pulling the punters in. The tips were great too; lots of rich Americans looking for some fun and entertainment with their drinks.’
‘Lady Americans?’ she enquired too casually.
His smile deepened. ‘Is that disapproval in your voice?’
‘Of course not.’ She tossed her head. ‘Why would it be?’
He watched with interest as her blush became brilliant. Putting her out of her misery, he busied himself fixing his second Negroni as he said casually, ‘Myself and the other guy in the bar were propositioned now and again as it happens. Ladies looking for a holiday fling with no strings attached, mainly.’
