by Helen Brooks
He turned and saw the look on her face before she could hide it. His voice amused, he drawled, ‘You’re shocked.’
This time she didn’t deny it. After taking a sip of her drink, she said, ‘It’s your life.’
He decided not to tell her he’d got a steady girlfriend at the time and had left the women to his friend who’d worked with him. This idea she’d got of him being an English gigolo was too entertaining. ‘And it’s been a rich one to date,’ he said, deadpan.
This time she almost gulped at her cocktail.
It was mean perhaps, but he found he got a buzz from teasing her, probably because he’d felt off kilter since the first time he’d set eyes on his red-haired neighbour. Ridiculous, but Willow Landon bothered him deep inside, in a small private place no one ever reached. It was irritating and inconvenient, he told himself, but it would pass. Everything did.
‘So you’ve been here ten years?’ Her voice sounded a little desperate as she made an obvious attempt to change the subject. ‘You’re not bored yet? No plans to leave?’
‘None.’ He gestured for her to be seated as he added, ‘Disappointed?’ just to rile her a little more.
‘Why would I be concerned whether you live here or not?’ she said stiffly, sitting primly on the edge of a chair.
Her skin was the colour of honey peppered with spice and the red hair was a combination of endless shades. Fighting the urge to touch her, Morgan walked to the chair furthest from Willow’s and sat down, stretching out his legs and taking a swig of his Negroni. There was a short silence and as he looked at her he found he’d tired of the game. Leaning forward suddenly, he said quietly, ‘We got off to a bad start, didn’t we? And it hasn’t improved since. Can we come to a truce? I promise I’ll try not to annoy you if you try and relax a little. If nothing else it will make life easier the next time I rescue you from a burning building or whatever.’
For a moment he thought she was going to freeze him out. Then a shy smile warmed her face, her eyes. ‘Do you think there’s going to be a next time?’ she murmured ruefully. And before he could answer, went on, ‘In spite of my track record so far I promise I’m not an arsonist in the making.’
He grinned. ‘I never thought you were. Unlucky maybe…’
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you for that—you could in all honesty have said stupid. It must appear that way.’
His smile died, a slight frown taking its place. ‘Why would I be so crass? We all make mistakes. Life is a series of learning curves. It’s when we don’t learn from them the problems start.’
She nodded, but as Morgan stared at her there was something deep and dark in the clear green eyes that disturbed him. ‘You don’t believe that?’ he asked gently.
She finished her cocktail before she spoke and a slow heat had crept into her cheeks. ‘I believe it. It’s just that…’
‘Yes?’ he prompted quietly, wanting to know more.
‘I suppose I’ve found others aren’t so generous. Some people expect other people to be perfect all the time.’
Some people? It had to be a man who had hurt her enough to cause that depth of pain. Telling himself to go lightly, he said softly, ‘I guess you get flawed individuals in every society who are either selfish enough or damaged enough to expect perfection. Personally I’d find being with a “perfect” person hell on earth, having enough faults myself to fill a book.’
‘That sort of person doesn’t see their own faults though.’
Her voice had been curiously toneless. Morgan kept all emotion out of his voice when he said, ‘Are you speaking from experience? And you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.’
Her eyes flickered and fell from his, but her voice was steady: ‘Yes, I am.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘That’s a beautiful clock. Unusual.’
Morgan accepted the change of conversation with good grace although he found he was aching to know more. ‘It’s a French timepiece I picked up at an auction in France some years ago. The clock itself is mounted in a stirrup and horseshoe. I like unusual things. Things that don’t follow a pattern. Unique things.’
Her gaze moved to the two bronze figures either side of the clock, each in the form of dancing fauns. ‘I can see that. Are the fauns French too? They’re very beautiful.’
‘Italian, eighteenth century.’
They continued discussing the various objects of art in the room in the couple of minutes before Kitty put her head round the door to say dinner was ready, but Morgan found it difficult to concentrate. Who was this man who’d hurt her so badly? If it was a man. But it had to be; he felt it in his bones. What had he been to her and how had she got mixed up with him in the first place? Not that it was any of his business, of course.
He took Willow’s arm as they walked through to the dining room where Kitty had set two places. She had lit candles in the middle of the table and the lights were dimmed; clearly their discussion about her matchmaking had had no effect at all.
Willow’s hair smelt of peach shampoo, which was fairly innocuous as perfume went; why it should prompt urges of such an erotic nature the walk to the dining room was a sweet agony in his loins, he didn’t know. He glanced down at the sheen of her hair as he pulled out her chair for her and resisted the impulse to put his lips to it.
Pull yourself together. The warning was grim. He was acting like a young boy wet behind the ears and on his first date with a member of the opposite sex, not a thirty-five-year-old man who had shared his bed and his life with several women in his time; some for a few months, some longer. Experience told him Willow Landon was not the sort of woman who would enter into a light relationship for the hell of it, she was too…
What was she? the other section of his mind, which was working dispassionately, asked. Clingy? Trusting? Stifling?
No. None of those. The opposite in fact. She didn’t strike him as a woman who had marriage and roses-round-the-door in mind. From what he could ascertain so far the male of the species didn’t feature highly in her estimation. But neither was she the kind of woman who would enjoy an affair for however long it lasted and then walk away with no tears or regrets. He didn’t know how he’d come by the knowledge but he was sure of it.
‘This is lovely.’ Willow glanced round the dining room appreciatively. ‘Do you always eat in such style?’
Morgan glanced round the room as though he were seeing it for the first time, his gaze moving over the table set with fine linen, silver and crystal. ‘Always. Kitty takes her duties very seriously,’ he added dryly, reaching for the bottle of red wine. He poured two glasses and handed Willow hers, raising his as he murmured, ‘To chimney sweeps and the good work they do.’
She giggled.
It was the first really natural response he’d had and he had to swallow hard as his heart began to hammer in his ribcage. He drank deeply of the wine, needing its boost to his system. It was a fine red; enough complexity showing from the skilful blending to bring out the cherry and berry flavours without spoiling the soft oaky flavours of the French and American wood. He’d drunk enough cheap plonk throughout his university days to always buy the best once he could afford to do so.
Kitty bustled in with the first course, cajun-spiced salmon with honey crème fraîche. It was one of her specialities and always cooked to perfection so the flakes of flesh fell apart when pressed with a fork.
He watched Willow take her first bite and saw the green eyes widen in appreciation. She ate delicately, like an elegant, well-mannered cat, her soft, full lips closing over the food and tasting it carefully. With a swiftness that surprised him he found himself wondering what it would be like to feel her mouth open beneath his, to bury his hands in the silken sheen of her hair and thrust his tongue into the secret recesses behind her small white teeth. To nibble and suck and tease her lips…
‘This is delicious.’ She glanced up and saw him looking at her and immediately her face became wary even though her smile was polite. The wit
hdrawal was subtle but there nonetheless.
What the hell had gone on in her life? Morgan nodded, his voice easy when he said, ‘She’s a strange mixture, is Kitty. She and Jim only like the plainest of food, no frills or fancies, as she puts it, but her main interest in life is cooking fantastic dishes that are out of this world. Her tofu miso soup has to be tasted to be believed and likewise her baked Indian rice pudding with nuts, fruit and saffron. I do believe she and Jim are probably sitting down to steamed white fish and three veg as we speak, though. Good solid northern food that sticks to the ribs.’
‘Don’t they ever eat with you?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Not when I have guests. Another of Kitty’s set-in-concrete ideas.’ Deliberately keeping his voice casual, he said, ‘Do you like cooking?’
Her small nose wrinkled. ‘I suppose I don’t mind it but I’m not the best in the world by any means. I do experiment at weekends now and again, but I rely on my trusty microwave during the week when I’m working. Ready meals mostly, I’m afraid.’
Aware he was itching to know more about her—a lot more—Morgan warned himself to go steady. ‘Tell me about your job,’ he drawled as though he were merely making polite conversation. ‘What do you do and where do you work?’
He ate slowly as she spoke, pretending he wasn’t hanging on every word. When she came to a natural pause he asked the question he’d been working round to all evening. ‘So what made you buy Keeper’s Cottage? It’s a bit remote, isn’t it?’
The barrier that went up was almost visible. ‘I liked it.’
‘There must have been other places you liked closer to your work, surely? Places you could have shared with friends, perhaps?’
For a moment he thought she was going to tell him to mind his own business. He couldn’t have blamed her. Instead, after a long pause, she said coolly, ‘I’ve done the sharing-with-friends thing for a while and I decided I wanted my own house now. I…I like my own company. Being independent is important to me.’
Neat hint for the future. Morgan smiled. ‘There’s a hell of a lot wants doing to the cottage as far as I understand.’
Willow shrugged. ‘I’m in no rush. Things will happen in time.’
‘And it’s tiny. Charming,’ he added hastily. ‘But tiny.’
‘It’s more than big enough for one.’
He’d finished his salmon and took a long swallow of wine, blue eyes holding green when he murmured, ‘What if you meet someone?’
‘I meet people all the time, Morgan, and it doesn’t affect my living accommodation.’
Her voice had been light, even suggesting amusement, but her fingers were gripping the stem of the wineglass so tightly her knuckles showed white. Vitally aware of her body language, he gave the required response of a lazy smile but found he wasn’t ready to do the socially acceptable thing and leave well alone. ‘I mean someone special,’ he said softly. ‘You’re a very attractive young woman and most women in your position want a partner eventually, maybe even children one day. It would be a shame to work at getting the cottage exactly how you want it only to have to move to a bigger place.’
Her pupils had dilated, black showing stark against the clear green. Slowly she took a sip of wine, then said, ‘For the record I’ve done the partner thing, OK? Husband, everything. I didn’t like it and I have no intention of repeating what was a mistake now I have my freedom again.’ Rising to her feet, she added, ‘I just need to pay a visit to the cloakroom. I won’t be long.’
He rose with her but didn’t say a word because he couldn’t. He felt as though someone had just punched him hard in the stomach. And the ironic thing, he acknowledged soberly, was that he had probably asked for it.
CHAPTER FIVE
WILLOW fled to the downstairs cloakroom, berating herself with each step. Stupid. She’d been absolutely stupid to reveal what she had. And to add that bit about her freedom…
She closed the door of the cloakroom behind her and stood with her hands pressed to her hot cheeks in the cool white and grey room. Staring at her face in the large oval mirror above the washbasin, she saw her cheeks were fiery.
He’d think she’d been insinuating she was on the market again but this time for a no-strings-attached affair or something similar. Any man would. She should just have stated she had no intention of concentrating on anything other than her career for a long, long time. That would have been enough. Impersonal and to the point. Instead she’d launched into an explanation that had embarrassed them both. And Morgan had been embarrassed, she could tell from the look on his face. He hadn’t known what to say. In fact he’d done a goldfish impression as she’d left.
Which was probably a first.
The thought came from nowhere but in spite of her agitation it made her smile for a moment. She dared bet Morgan Wright was never taken by surprise and usually had an answer to everything.
Shutting her eyes tightly, she groaned under her breath. He really must think she was a nutcase now. First she nearly set his summerhouse on fire and covered his garden in ash, then she nearly set her own house on fire and now she was bending his ear about her disastrous marriage. What on earth was the matter with her? But he had asked.
Her eyes snapping open, she shook her head at herself. No excuses. He’d been making friendly dinner conversation, that was all. He hadn’t asked for a precise of her lovelife to date, for goodness’ sake. She hadn’t been thinking clearly enough, that was the trouble. When he’d mentioned children he’d touched a nerve. She had always thought she’d be a mother one day; she’d never really imagined anything else. Perhaps she’d hung in there with Piers long after she’d known she should have left because of the dream of babies and a family? By the time she’d petitioned for divorce she’d known she’d rather be barren for the rest of her days than have Pier’s child though.
Of course you didn’t have to be married or with someone to have a baby these days—the world was full of single mothers who’d got pregnant knowing they had no intention of staying with the father of their child for ever. One of her city friends had been quite open about the fact she’d purposely conceived knowing she didn’t even want to see the man again once she was pregnant. A high-powered businesswoman who was as ruthless in her lovelife as her worklife, Jill had already hired a full-time nanny before her baby was born and, now little Lynsey was six months old, appeared as happy as a bug in a rug with life.
But she wasn’t like Jill. Sighing, she brushed her hair back from her face. And what was right for one person wasn’t necessarily right for another. She wouldn’t want Jill’s life, which consisted of seeing Lynsey for an hour or two in the morning and even shorter time in the evening, and weekends. She knew herself well enough to realise she was an all-or-nothing kind of girl, and if she couldn’t have it all—a permanent relationship, babies, roses round the door—she’d rather have nothing. Not that her life was empty; it wasn’t. She had loads of good friends, a job she enjoyed and a home she’d fallen in love with the minute she’d seen it. Beth being pregnant had unsettled her, that was all. But it would be fun being an aunty and she could slake some of her maternal longing on the poor little thing in due time.
Willow continued to give herself a stern talking-to until she left the cloakroom a few minutes later, by which time she was in control of herself once more. Feeling slightly silly at the way she’d panicked and left the table, admittedly—but reason had reasserted itself and she was confident Morgan hadn’t assumed she was inviting herself into his bed. She was out of practice at conversing over dinner with a member of the opposite sex, that was the trouble, she told herself ruefully as she retraced her steps. Despite offers, since Piers she hadn’t dated.
When she entered the dining room Morgan was sitting where she’d left him, staring broodingly into his wineglass. For a second she studied his face, noticing the strength in the square-boned jaw, the cleanly sculpted mouth and straight nose.
His attractiveness went far beyond looks, she thought wit
h a sudden jolt to her equilibrium. In spite of being a very masculine male, there was nothing bullish or brutal about him. It would be easier to dismiss him from her mind if there were.
Morgan looked up, the brilliant blue eyes unreadable. ‘Did I offend you just now? And please be honest, Willow.’
‘What?’ Completely taken aback, she stopped in her tracks before recovering and taking her seat at the table as she said, ‘No, of course not. You didn’t, really.’
‘Upset you, then? And again, be honest.’
She stared at him. He clearly didn’t believe in pushing awkward issues under the carpet. She was about to make a dismissive reply and change the subject when she saw there was real concern in the hard face. She hesitated, colour creeping up her cheeks, and then said in a rush, ‘You didn’t offend or upset me, Morgan, I promise you. It’s just that—’ she took a deep breath ‘—I don’t normally wear my heart on my sleeve.’
He nodded slowly, his voice soft when he said, ‘Is it still painful to talk about?’
He had refilled her wineglass while she’d been in the cloakroom and she took a long sip to gain some time. She wanted to say she didn’t wish to discuss this any further so it was with something akin to surprise she heard herself say, ‘I don’t love him any more if that’s what you mean.’
He took the wind out of her sails for the second time in as many minutes when he said quietly, ‘I don’t know what I mean, to be truthful. I hadn’t imagined…’ He shook his head at himself. ‘I guess because you look so young I hadn’t considered something like marriage. Nothing so serious or…permanent.’
Tonelessly, she said, ‘I met Piers six years ago and we married eight months later. I—I was very unhappy.’ She stared into the wineglass, swirling the ruby-red liquid as she spoke. ‘He wasn’t who I thought he was before we married. I knew I’d made a terrible mistake within the first few months but—’ she shrugged ‘—I thought I could make it work if I tried. I was wrong. Something happened—’ a few drops of wine escaped the glass, staining the linen tablecloth like blood ‘—and I left. We’re now legally divorced. End of story.’ She raised her eyes, her smile brittle. ‘Just one of many said little tales happening up and down the country.’
