Sweet Surrender with the Millionaire

by Helen Brooks

  Once his body was under his control again, he reached for a cake tin and opened it to reveal one of Kitty’s unsurpassable moist fruit cakes. ‘Fancy a slice?’ he asked as he turned and showed Willow the cake. ‘It’s second to none. I can guarantee you won’t taste fruit cake like this again.’

  ‘You’ve convinced me.’

  She smiled such a friendly smile it made him feel a swine for his lecherous thoughts.

  He cut them both a generous portion and joined her on the other stool. After her first bite, she said, ‘It is fabulous. I thought my mother had the record for fruit cake but Kitty would have given her a run for her money.’

  ‘What happened with your parents?’ he asked softly. ‘Was it an accident?’

  She nodded, her silky hair fanning her cheeks. Quietly and softly she told him the details and, although her voice was matter-of-fact, the pain in her eyes told its own story. He didn’t like how it affected him. He didn’t like how she affected him, but he reminded himself it didn’t really matter in the scheme of things. The circumstances that had thrown them together this weekend were unlikely to be repeated, and as long as he kept his lurid thoughts—and his hands—to himself, there was no harm done. Apart from a few sleepless nights perhaps.

  Aiming to bring the conversation and her thoughts to happier things, he said quietly, ‘You said your sister is expecting a baby soon. How does it feel knowing you’ll be an aunty? Are you looking forward to it?’

  She smiled, wiping a crumb from the fruit cake from the corner of her lips, and as his gaze followed the action his traitorous body responded sharply, causing his breath to catch in his throat.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ she said with genuine warmth, ‘but at the same time it doesn’t feel quite real. I mean, Beth’s my sister, the person I argued and fought and shared secrets with over the years. Her stomach’s getting bigger and she’s developed an obsession for chocolate and cherry muffins, but it’s hard to believe there’s a little person in there. Does that sound silly?’

  Secretly enchanted she had let her guard down for once, Morgan shook his head. ‘Not at all. I’m a mere man, don’t forget. I find the whole process baffling. Well, apart from the beginning, of course. I worked out the birds and the bees some time ago.’

  She giggled, blushing slightly, and as he looked at her parted lips he wanted to kiss her so hard it hurt. As he raised his eyes to hers they were smiling into his and for several seconds, seconds that quivered with intimacy, their gaze held. When her eyes dropped to her plate and she ate a morsel of cake with uncharacteristic clumsiness, dropping half of it onto the worktop, he knew he had been right.

  Willow Landon was no more indifferent to him than he was to her. Which presented a whole load of new problems. Big ones.

  By the time Willow returned to her room all the good work the soothing hot milk had wrought was completely undone. Morgan had escorted her to the door, said goodnight very politely and disappeared along the landing to his own room without a backward glance, thereby rendering all her fears null and void.

  Fears? a little voice in the back of her mind queried nastily. Don’t you mean hopes? Desires? Longings?

  Her jaw tightened and she leaned back against the bedroom door, her legs trembling as she fought for control.

  She was not attracted to Morgan Wright. ‘I’m not,’ she reiterated weakly, as though someone had argued the point. ‘No way, no how.’ She had no intention of getting involved with a man for a long, long time—if ever—and certainly not one like Morgan. If and when someone came along she could see herself dating now and again, he’d have to be a mild, retiring type who was easy-going and happy to meet her halfway on any issues that might crop up. Morgan didn’t meet the criteria in any direction.

  Not that he’d asked her for a date, of course. And wouldn’t. It didn’t need the brain of Britain to work out the sort of female Morgan would take to bed when the need arose. Without a doubt they’d be stunningly beautiful and sexy and probably highly intelligent as well; he didn’t strike her as a man who would be satisfied with merely an accommodating body. He’d expect mental as well as physical stimulation from his partners.

  Levering herself away from the door, she walked across to the bed and sank down. She had known all along it was madness to come into his home. One of the reasons she had bought the cottage was because of its secluded location. It was far enough away from the nearby village to ensure there’d be no pressure from neighbours intent on including her in this, that and the other, or—which was even more pertinent—if any tried, she could cold-shoulder them without having to bump into them each day.

  She raised her head and glanced around the luxurious room, her conscience kicking in as it usually did.

  She was grateful to Morgan for his help, she really was, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings or anyone else’s for that matter, but it was somehow essential that her life was her own again down to the smallest decision. She had done the whole trying-to-please-everyone thing to death. She was never going to relinquish the tiniest fragment of her autonomy again.

  Wasn’t that verging on callous? questioned Soft-hearted Willow reprovingly. Wasn’t that selfish and mean?

  No. It was sheer self-survival, answered Unmovable, Resolute Willow grimly. Pure and simple.

  Easing out a breath, she stood up. She was going to brush her teeth and go to sleep, and if Morgan insisted on helping her clean the cottage in the morning she’d thank him sincerely when they’d finished and then that would be the end of this… She sought for a word to describe what she was feeling and then gave up. ‘Whatever,’ she muttered grumpily to herself as she marched into the en-suite to brush her teeth.

  Willow awoke to bright autumn sunshine streaming in the window the next morning. Sleepily she told herself she should have closed the curtains the night before, but then she checked the time by her wristwatch and shot into a sitting position. Ten o’clock? It couldn’t be that late, surely? Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she refocused her gaze. Ten o’clock it was.

  Springing out of bed, she galloped into the bathroom for a quick wash and brush-up and was dressed and ready to venture downstairs within five minutes, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail and her face clean and scrubbed. She couldn’t believe she’d slept so late. When he had left her the night before Morgan had mentioned he normally breakfasted about eight in the morning at the weekends. What must he be thinking? And Kitty—the housekeeper would obviously have expected her employer’s guest to eat with him. Yet again she had done the wrong thing.

  The big house was quiet and still when Willow opened her bedroom door and stepped onto a galleried landing flooded with light. Old houses were sometimes dark and somewhat forbidding, but due to the number of large windows on every floor of this one it breathed airiness and space. She stood for a moment breathing in the slightly perfumed air, the source of the delicate scent becoming apparent when she descended the stairs and saw a huge bowl of white and yellow roses on a table at the foot of the staircase. They had obviously been arranged by Kitty earlier.

  She didn’t have time to think about the flowers, though. As Willow reached the bottom step Morgan uncurled himself from one of the easy chairs dotted about the vast hall, throwing down the magazine he’d been reading before her arrival.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said before he could speak. ‘I never sleep late, never, and you told me what time breakfast was. I hope I haven’t put Kitty out and—’

  ‘Easy, easy.’ He smiled with warm amusement in his eyes. ‘In this house the weekends fit in with the occupants, not the other way round. You clearly found the bed comfortable at least.’

  In truth she had tossed and turned until dawn, but her inability to sleep had had nothing to do with the bed and all to do with the tall dark man in front of her. ‘It was lovely, thank you.’ She could hear the breathlessness in her voice and was annoyed by it. The night before she had decided she was going to be very calm, cool and collected in her future dealings
with Morgan Wright and here she was acting like a gauche fourteen-year-old.

  ‘Jim’s taken Kitty shopping once I persuaded her we were quite capable of sorting ourselves out for breakfast,’ he said lazily. ‘I suggest we eat in the kitchen if that’s OK? It’s easier and Kitty’s not here to object.’

  ‘That’s fine by me but you should have eaten earlier.’ She felt awful having clearly put a spanner in the house’s normal weekend routine. It was so rude.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ he said quietly, walking her through to the kitchen at the end of the hall.

  Morgan opened the door and stood aside for Willow to precede him into the room. The kitchen was fabulous. She’d seen it in dim light, last night, but she’d been too fraught to take in how stunning it was. The flowing lines of the spectacularly beautiful black granite worktops, which glittered like a starry night’s sky, the wide expanse of light wood cupboards and array of every modern appliance known to man were impressive. ‘Wow,’ she breathed. ‘Now this is a kitchen.’

  ‘Like it?’ He smiled, obviously pleased. ‘This is Kitty’s domain but I designed it myself and know my way around.’ He walked to a refrigerator that could have accommodated several families, opening it as he said, ‘There’s orange, grapefruit, apple and mango, black grape and cranberry juice. Which would you like? Oh, and a couple of smoothies, banana and loganberry.’

  ‘No pineapple?’ she asked, tongue in cheek.

  He looked at her and she looked at him. He stood enveloped in the golden sunlight streaming through the wide kitchen window, his black jeans and white shirt making him a living monochrome. Her heart stopped and then galloped as he smiled slowly, his blue eyes warm as he said, ‘Touché.’

  ‘I’ll have black grape, please,’ she said weakly after a long moment when she could find her breath to speak.

  He wasn’t supposed to be able to laugh at himself. Her heart was now thumping like a gong in her chest and she wasn’t able to control her breathing. That wasn’t who Morgan Wright was. Was it? But then she didn’t have a clue who he was.

  She sat down at the kitchen table, which had been set for two. Not by Kitty, she was sure. A basket of what looked like home-made soft rolls and a pat of butter were in the centre, and Willow suddenly felt ravenously hungry. As Morgan handed her a glass of juice she said, ‘May I?’ as she nodded at the rolls.

  ‘Help yourself.’ He grinned. ‘Cooked this morning by Kitty’s fair hand. No shop-bought bread in this establishment.’

  ‘You’re spoilt,’ she said a moment later, her mouth full of the delicious bread. ‘Absolutely spoilt rotten.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He’d begun to cook bacon and eggs and the aroma was heavenly. ‘And long may it continue.’

  They ate sitting side by side in the sunlit kitchen, finishing off with some of the best coffee Willow had ever tasted. Replete, she stretched like a slender well-fed cat. ‘I’ve never eaten three eggs at one sitting in my life.’ She glanced at him and he was smiling. ‘It’s not good for you, you know,’ she said reprovingly. ‘Very bad for your health, in fact.’

  ‘Eating?’ he murmured mockingly.

  ‘Eating too many eggs.’

  ‘You’ve been listening to the experts, I take it?’ he drawled lazily. ‘Give it another decade and they’ll be saying you should eat a dozen a day or something. Their advice changes with the wind. There’s always someone saying something different.’

  ‘So how do you know what’s right?’

  He gave her a long, steady look and suddenly they weren’t talking about eggs. His eyes held hers locked. ‘Go with your heart,’ he said softly. ‘Always with your heart.’

  There was a silence that stretched and lengthened. ‘And if your heart lets you down and leads you astray?’ she said shakily. ‘What happens then?’

  ‘There’s no guarantees in life,’ Morgan acknowledged after a moment, ‘but what’s the alternative? To live in fear and never experience the freedom of casting all restraint aside?’

  ‘Eggs aren’t that important to me in the overall scheme of things,’ she said with forced lightness. ‘I could live without them.’

  ‘Pity.’ He studied her face. ‘What if you wake up one day years from now when it’s too late and you’re old and set in your ways and regret all those breakfasts you never had? What then?’

  ‘At least my cholesterol will be under control.’

  ‘And control is important to you?’ he asked smoothly.

  Again he’d put his finger on the nub of the issue but this time she wasn’t going to let him get away with it. Remembering their conversation of the day before, she said carefully, ‘Probably as important as it is to you, yes.’

  His mouth quirked to the side, a self-deprecating smile that intensified his attractiveness tenfold. ‘Ouch,’ he murmured lazily. ‘I guess I set myself up for that one.’

  Willow slid off her chair. ‘I’ll help you clear up so all’s as it should be when Kitty comes back.’

  ‘No need, it won’t take a minute to load the dishwasher. Why don’t you get your bag and meet me in the hall and we’ll go to the cottage and start?’ he said easily.

  Willow hesitated. She knew she didn’t want Morgan in her cottage. It was too—her mind balked at dangerous and substituted—irksome. But she also knew he’d made up his mind he was going to help.

  Her expression must have spoken for itself because he said, very softly, ‘Get your bag, Willow.’

  They worked like Trojans the rest of the day until late in the evening. Kitty arrived with lunch about one o’clock but apart from that they didn’t take a break. Willow had to admit Morgan did the work of ten men and by seven o’clock the cottage was cleaner than it had ever been. Morgan had thought to bring a large container of upholstery shampoo with him and her sofa and armchair were now damp but free of smuts. The new sitting-room curtains she’d bought the week before had been washed, dried in the sunshine and ironed and were now back in place at the squeaky-clean window. Ceiling, walls, floorboards and fireplace had been washed down and Morgan had even given the kitchen a once-over, although soot hadn’t penetrated too far within its walls. The bathroom door had been shut so that room hadn’t needed any attention.

  Kitty had insisted she was cooking an evening meal for them when she’d brought lunch, and Willow had to admit she wasn’t sorry as she took a quick shower and washed her hair, vitally conscious of Morgan sitting on the French window steps nursing a cup of coffee. She was exhausted, the result of working flat out all day and not having slept properly the night before. Not to mention the nervous tension with being around him.

  She left the bathroom cocooned from head to foot in towels and scurried up the stairs to her bedroom, even though there was no need to panic. Morgan wasn’t the type of man to take advantage. He wouldn’t have to, she thought wryly as she hastily got dressed in cream linen trousers and a jade-green cashmere top, which had cost an arm and a leg a few months ago. Morgan would have women falling over themselves to get noticed by him.

  After drying her hair into a sleek curtain, she left it loose and applied the minimum of make-up, along with silver hoops in her ears. She wanted to look fresh and attractive but not as if she was trying too hard. After dabbing a few drops of her favourite perfume on her wrists she was ready. Taking a deep breath, she checked herself in the mirror. Wide green eyes stared anxiously back at her and she clicked her tongue irritably. For goodness’ sake! She looked like a scared rabbit!

  Smoothing her face of all expression, she tried a light smile. That was better. She was going to have dinner with him, that was all, and once tonight was over it was doubtful they’d run into each other again. In fact she’d make sure they didn’t. Morgan was only in residence at weekends and she could avoid being home until late for the next little while. The planning office was crying out for a few folk to work Saturdays on a new project in Redditch, and on Sundays she could catch up with friends and visit Beth. It would all work out just fine.

  Not
that she expected Morgan to try and see her. Why would he? He was way out of her league in every way. But she didn’t want him to think she was hanging around at weekends in the hope of bumping into him. That would be the ultimate humiliation.

  Neurotic. The word vibrated in her head from some deep recess in her psyche and she pulled a face at the girl in the mirror before turning away defiantly. She wasn’t neurotic, she argued silently, but even if she was she’d prefer that than Morgan Wright thinking she was interested in him.

  Morgan was still sitting on the steps when she walked into the sitting room, his head resting on the side of one of the open French doors and his eyes shut. He hadn’t had the advantage of a shower and the shirt that had been white that morning was white no longer. She had approached noiselessly and now she stood for a moment looking at him. The hair, which was longer than average for a man—or certainly a businessman—had flicked up slightly on his collar and he had smudges of dirt on his face. Beneath the shirt hard muscles showed across his chest and shoulders and his forearms were sinewy beneath their coating of soft black hair. He looked more like someone who spent his days working outside than anything else. Tough, strong, brawny. Even slightly rough and hard-bitten. Piers had been tall but slender and even beautiful in a classical Adonis sort of way.

  Shocked by the knowledge that she was comparing the two of them, she must have made a noise because the next moment the brilliant blue eyes had opened. ‘What’s the matter?’ He was instantly on the alert, rising to his feet with an animal grace that belied her earlier thoughts. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She forced a smile. ‘Nothing at all.’