Sweet Surrender with the Millionaire

by Helen Brooks

  ‘They—they’re still a bit damp.’ She smiled warily.

  He nodded. ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, noticing she was wearing a big baggy furry kind of top over her jeans.

  ‘I haven’t been able to light a fire.’

  No, of course she hadn’t. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He nodded again, in a I-thought-as-much kind of way. ‘I know a nice warm little pub not far from here that does wonderful meals and the Harley’s waiting.’

  She blinked a couple of times and then, as though regaining control over her composure, she smoothed her hair in a little-girl gesture that spoke of confusion. ‘Is—is this you being friends?’ she said with a monosyllabic breath of laughter.

  ‘Absolutely.’ If ever there was a situation where a lie was called for, this was it. ‘Scout’s honour and all that.’

  Their gazes met and held for a moment before hers skittered away. He didn’t know whether she liked him or not, Morgan thought triumphantly, but she damn well wasn’t unaffected by him and he’d take any encouragement he could get right at this moment. ‘And it’s also being a good neighbour,’ he added, deadpan. ‘Such a quality is highly thought of in this part of the country, believe me. Part of the countryman’s code and unbreakable.’

  She smiled and lust, pure and hot, knifed through him. Well, hot at least. White-hot, in fact.

  ‘OK.’ She lowered her head, her hair falling in a sleek curtain either side of her face. ‘Come in a minute while I change. I can’t go anywhere in these old things.’

  Once in the cottage the chill was obvious, even through his leather jacket. He stood, hands thrust in his jeans pockets and his gaze directed at the ceiling above which she was changing. The place was an ice-box. Concern for her brought his mouth into a straight line, moments before he told himself it was none of his business. She had made it clear the day before she was in charge of her life. Furthermore, that she wouldn’t appreciate any efforts to alter the status quo. He had to respect that.

  She reappeared, and his voice sounded husky even to his own ears when he said, ‘Ready?’ She looked like all his Christmases rolled into one: gorgeous, self-possessed and as sexy as hell. And yet the demure little top she was wearing covered her to the neck and halfway down her arms, even though it clung in all the right places. A hundred women could wear it and it wouldn’t stir his pulse above normal, but on Willow…

  ‘This is very kind of you, Morgan.’

  She meant well, but he found he’d had enough of the label. ‘I never do anything I don’t want to do, Willow.’ He smiled to soften the statement as he helped her on with her jacket. ‘I’m your typical selfish male. We’re born that way.’

  ‘But honest.’ She was smiling back at him as she reached for her handbag. ‘Well, you are at least. Aren’t you?’

  ‘I try to be.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I think I am.’ Then he grinned. ‘Most of the time anyway.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s not bad for the male of the species.’ Her voice was light but there was something in her tone that jarred on him. Whether she was aware of it or not, he didn’t know, but immediately she followed with, ‘Some females too, come to think of it. Women are more inclined to tell little white lies so as not to hurt someone’s feelings, I’ve found.’

  ‘You mean with answers to questions like, “Does my bum look big in this?”’ he replied lazily, to put her at ease, even as he thought, What the hell did her husband do to her to make her so sceptical? She wasn’t like this before him, he’d bet money on it.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Once outside he nodded at the Harley parked across the other side of the lane. ‘Hope you don’t mind the mode of transport, but it won’t be long and this beauty will be consigned to the garage if we get the sort of floods we got last year during the winter.’

  She didn’t answer this directly, saying instead as they walked over to the motorbike, ‘What sort of car have you got?’

  ‘Cars, plural. An Aston Martin and a Range-Rover.’ But you won’t have to hold onto me in those and I wouldn’t feel your body pressed against mine. His eyes glittering, he gave her the spare helmet he’d brought with him and then helped her up behind him. She smelled gorgeous, some flowery thing with undertones he couldn’t put a name to but which made his body harden. ‘OK? Hold on tight.’ Real tight, don’t be shy.

  He turned briefly to smile at her before he switched on the engine and her voice sounded breathless when she said, ‘I’m not used to riding on a motorbike. How far away is the pub?’

  ‘Not too far.’ Unfortunately.

  In fact it was ten minutes, being in the next village, the winding lanes that twisted and curved making it far longer than the crow flew and imposing their own speed limit. The pub was a pretty little thatched affair, complete with brasses and narrow mullioned windows and solid oak furniture. Having secured comfy seats by the big open fireplace in which a blazing fire roared, Morgan fetched two halves of beer and the menus.

  ‘Warmer?’ He took a long swallow of his beer, looking at her over the rim of his glass. She looked good enough to eat.

  She nodded, her gaze not holding his but dropping to the menu in her hand as she said, ‘Much. And starving too.’

  They were seated at a table for two, so close he could reach out and touch her if he wanted to. And he wanted to, he acknowledged silently. But he didn’t. ‘The pan-fried crispy pork with red-onion gravy is seriously good here,’ he said conversationally. ‘But the steaks are great too. Local butcher. But perhaps you’d prefer fish or a risotto?’

  ‘The pork sounds lovely.’ She tucked her hair behind her ears as she spoke, the movement not so much wary as guarded. He wondered if she ever let that guard down. Whatever, Willow Landon was one hard female to get to know, but, remembering that burning kiss and the way it had shook him up, it would be worth the trouble. Nothing worth having came easy.

  Madness. The word resonated as it bounced round his head. This was madness and he knew it, so why had he asked her out tonight when this had every chance of ending badly?

  He knew why. He wanted to make love to her more than he’d wanted to make love to a woman for a long, long time. There was a gnawing hunger inside him for her body, which had been with him since he’d first met her, and it was damn uncomfortable. If he took her to bed then maybe it would assuage the primal need and she’d stop featuring in his dreams every night.

  That being the case, why wasn’t he going all out to weaken her defences? another part of his mind asked caustically. He’d had enough experience with women to know the right buttons to press, for crying out loud. It was all part of the mating game.

  Because Willow was different.

  An alarm went off in his mind, causing him to raise his head with a jerk as a waitress appeared at their table for their order. He raised one eyebrow to Willow. ‘The pork?’ And at her nod, said to the waitress, ‘Make that two.’

  ‘This is nice.’ She glanced round the pub as she spoke, her voice warm. ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘Usually just the odd weekend when Kitty and Jim go to visit relatives in the north-east. Kitty always leaves meals she’s prepared, but it’s the putting it in the oven and getting it out at the right time I fall down on. I tend to work and invariably the meal’s cremated by the time I remember.’

  ‘She’s very fond of you, isn’t she?’ She smiled warmly.

  ‘As am I of her and Jim. We rub along together fairly well.’

  She nodded. ‘They’re nice people, what my father would have called salt of the earth.’

  The fact that it really mattered that she liked Kitty and Jim was another warning shot across his bows, but again he chose to ignore it. Lifting one ankle to rest it across the opposite knee, he settled back in his seat. ‘Tell me about your father,’ he said quietly. ‘Were you close to him and your mother?’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘Very close. Beth was too.’

  He found he wanted to know more. ‘What were they like? As
parents, I mean.’ He wanted to picture her as a little girl.

  She glanced at him, a small, uncertain look. ‘They were great,’ she said awkwardly.

  Suddenly he understood. ‘It doesn’t hurt to hear about other people’s parents,’ he lied softly. ‘Tell me, if it’s not too painful to talk about them,’ he added quickly.

  ‘No, Beth and I talk about them often.’ She bit her lower lip, her small white teeth worrying the flesh for a moment. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  His eyes had flared at the action, but he didn’t betray the desire it had induced in his voice when he said, ‘The beginning. You as a little girl in pigtails and white lace.’

  She smiled, as he’d wanted her to, and relaxed a little. ‘I so wasn’t a white lace sort of child.’

  ‘But you had pigtails? Cute little red pigtails and freckles?’

  She nodded. ‘Plenty of freckles.’

  ‘Pigtails and dungarees, then, and scabby knees and ink-stained fingers. And those sandal things, jelly beans, aren’t they?’

  ‘Now you’re nearer the truth.’ She took a sip of her beer and began, ‘Well, Mum was a stay-at-home mother and Dad had a nine-to-five job, very traditional…’ She talked about her home, their family holidays, how she and her sister had smuggled home a ‘pet’ crab because they’d been desperate for a pet, after which their parents had bought them a hamster each…

  He listened, fascinated, but consciously untensing his jaw several times as the scenes her words invoked brought the old familiar longing tightening muscles.

  The subject came to a natural conclusion when the waitress brought their meals, but for a few moments the feeling he’d grown up with—that of being on the outside looking in—was strong before he slammed the lid on what he considered weakness. Being shunted around various relatives who grudgingly took him in for a few months at a time, ignored, neglected, shouted at, was a better deal than some poor kids had, and the independence that had been forced on him at an early age had got him to where he was now. Without that early training he wouldn’t have made it.

  He repeated the words that had become his mantra to focus his mind on the positive as he ate, and within a minute or two he was back on an even keel. He didn’t need anyone, he’d managed on his own for over three decades and that was the way he liked it. No, he didn’t need anyone, but wanting physically was a different matter and entirely natural. And he wanted Willow. More and more every moment he was with her. He didn’t know what it was about this defensive, wary, honey-skinned woman that made him ache with want, but whatever it was, it had knocked him for six. He admitted it. In fact it was a relief to admit it.

  But it brought its own set of problems. The main one of which being he was dealing with a vulnerable young woman here, not the sort of woman he usually favoured who was capable of being as ruthless as him, in bed and out of it. Whatever had gone on with this idiot of a husband of hers, it hadn’t been pleasant and the scars hadn’t healed. Not by a long chalk. He had to walk away from this one. At least for a while.

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed but otherwise his face was impassive, displaying no emotion. This ability he had of hiding his feelings was what had made him so successful in business.

  The trouble was, he didn’t know if he could walk away. A pang of desire struck, low and deep. And that left him…where? Between a rock and a hard place, as Kitty would say.

  ‘…mine, it’s pretty wonderful.’

  Too late he realised Willow had spoken and he hadn’t caught most of it. Pulling himself together, he said, ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, if your pork is as good as mine, it’s pretty wonderful,’ she repeated quietly, clearly slightly put out he hadn’t heard her the first time. Which was understandable.

  Cursing himself, he said smoothly, ‘It’s so good I always lose concentration for the first few mouthfuls—it’s the glutton in me. Shameful, I admit it.’

  She smiled, but a faint shadow remained in the green eyes. He didn’t like that he’d put it there, nor the uncertainty that went with it. Which was crazy, he told himself grimly. When had he ever cared to that extent? It was further proof, if any were needed, that he had been right. He had to walk away now and stop flirting with disaster. There were plenty of Charmaines out there, nice and uncomplicated without any baggage. Why go looking for trouble?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘SO YOU slept at his place after he’d charged in on his white horse—’

  ‘Harley, actually. Great brute of a thing.’

  ‘His white horse and rescued you,’ Beth went on, undeterred by Willow’s dry tone. ‘And then the guy helps you clean the cottage, invites you back to his place for another great meal—’

  ‘It was Kitty who invited me back, to be strictly truthful.’

  ‘And then turns up the next evening and takes you out to dinner! And you say he’s only being neighbourly? Come on, Willow, get real. From what you’ve told me he isn’t some geek or other who’s starved for female company and fastens onto the first woman he gets friendly with. The guy’s a player, and hot, obviously. And don’t wrinkle your nose like that.’

  ‘Well, don’t use such terminology, then. You’ve never even met him.’ Willow stared at her sister indignantly. ‘A player!’

  ‘Does he or does he not have an active social life?’

  ‘I guess.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, course he does.’

  ‘And does he give you the impression of being celibate?’

  Willow stared helplessly at her sister. Several days had passed since the last meal with Morgan and she had filled them with work, work and more work, staying late at the office and getting in to work early. Arriving home exhausted helped her sleep and prevented endless postmortems on the hours with Morgan. ‘You’ve got the wrong idea about this,’ she said at last. ‘Honestly, Beth, you’ve got totally the wrong idea.’

  Beth surveyed her sister over the rim of her mug of hot chocolate. It was Friday lunchtime and Willow had popped in for a quick snack and a chat, although the chat had turned into the third degree for which Beth made no apology. ‘So what’s the right idea?’ she asked, setting her mug down.

  She wished she knew, Willow thought ruefully. She didn’t know which end of her was up, but she couldn’t very well tell Beth that. She didn’t want to get involved with a man—any man—but since she’d got to know Morgan better due to the events of last weekend she couldn’t get him out of her mind and it was driving her mad. Furthermore, she had been both elated and terrified when he’d turned up last Sunday, worrying all night at the pub that he was going to make a move on her when he saw her home, and then being devastated when he said goodbye with a chaste kiss on her cheek. How was that for inconsistency?

  Taking a breath, she said calmly, ‘I told you, Beth. Morgan’s a neighbour, that’s all. A friend. Someone to have a drink with.’

  ‘Has he kissed you?’ Then Beth gave a little squeal. ‘He has, hasn’t he? He’s kissed you.’

  It was useless to deny it with the flood of hot colour staining her cheeks. ‘Once, with the sort of kiss you mean, and we both agreed it was a mistake and that was the end of that.’

  ‘Was that before or after he turned up on your doorstep and took you to the pub?’ Beth asked very intensely.

  ‘Before.’ Willow’s tone was wary.

  ‘There, you see.’ Beth was positively triumphant. ‘He came back for more, don’t you see? Oh, come on, Willow, you must see?’

  ‘Beth, we went for a meal and he saw me home and kissed my cheek as if I was his maiden aunt. If that’s passion, I’m a monkey,’ said Willow irritably.

  ‘Have a banana, Cheetah.’ Beth grinned at her wickedly.

  Willow shook her head. ‘He didn’t ask to see me again and if anything he seemed glad to get away. And I wasn’t imagining it,’ she added fiercely, as though Beth had contradicted her. ‘Anyway, he knows I’m not interested in a relationship and he’s not the sort of man to bang his head against a brick wall.’

&nbs
p; ‘So what sort of man is he?’ Beth asked gently.

  Enigmatically male. Virile. Strong and gentle at the same time, which was dangerously attractive. She could go on for some time because if ever a man was complicated, Morgan was. The way he had listened to her when she’d spoken about her childhood, the hungry look in the beautiful blue eyes… ‘Busy,’ she said flatly. ‘Very busy, with no time to waste.’

  Beth cocked an eyebrow sardonically.

  ‘Well, he is.’ Willow swallowed the last of her chocolate and stood up. ‘I have to be going, thanks for lunch.’

  ‘Pleasure.’ Beth reached out and took her hands. ‘I’m just going to say one more thing and then I’ll shut up.’

  Willow eyed her sister apprehensively. She recognised the tone. Whatever Beth was going to say, she wouldn’t like it.

  ‘Piers was the biggest mistake you’d ever made in your life and you’re incredibly well rid of him,’ Beth said steadily. ‘But what would be an even bigger mistake is to let him influence the rest of your life in a negative way by shutting yourself away from the prospect of love.’ She shook Willow’s hands, squeezing them tightly. ‘Love might come ten years from now, but it might not. It might be tomorrow. Life isn’t guaranteed to come in neat packages when we’re ready for it. Just…don’t close your mind to anything. That’s what I’m saying. Don’t miss the opportunity of something great.’

  Willow stared at her sister’s concerned face through misty eyes and then leant against her for a moment as Beth’s arms tightened around her. Beth had spoken as their mother might have done. Then she jerked away, her gaze flashing to Beth’s stomach. ‘Wow, that was a kick if ever I felt one,’ she said in awe. ‘Does it often do that?’

  ‘All the time,’ Beth said ruefully. ‘Especially when I settle down to sleep. Peter’s convinced there’s a world-class footballer in there. He’ll be so surprised if it’s a girl.’