by Maggie Cox
She’d been painting for almost an hour when she heard the door of the neighbouring cottage slam. As she automatically glanced across, Rowan’s surprised, slightly panicked gaze locked with Evan’s. When she looked away again, her pulse skittering like a nervous colt, she told herself to pay the man no attention and get back to what she was doing without giving him a second thought. Easier said than done when his footsteps seemed intent on heading her way…
‘I’ll come straight to the point.’
Rowan’s gaze travelled from his black-booted feet all the way up those long, straight legs of his in dark blue denim, past the wide shoulders in his black sweater, finally arriving at the ominously serious expression currently fixed on his face. For the first time it wasn’t his remarkable green eyes that instantly demanded her attention but the sexy little dimple in the centre of his well-defined jaw instead. Instantly, she rebuked herself for noticing such a thing.
‘You’ll come straight to the point about what?’ she asked, affecting indifference. When he didn’t reply immediately, she placed her dripping paintbrush carefully across the paint tin and waited for him to continue. He shifted from one lean hip to the other. ‘I owe you an apology.’
‘You do?’ One slender brown eyebrow shot skywards and she couldn’t help the sarcasm that dripped into her tone. In a million years if someone had told her that the arrogant Evan Cameron would march up her path and tell her he owed her an apology she would have called them deluded.
‘It’s not your fault that I prefer my own company most of the time.’
‘This is an apology?’ Rocking back on her heels, Rowan stoically fought back the urge to grin. The man looked so uncomfortable it was painful. Clearly he didn’t find it easy to say those two relatively simple words ‘I’m sorry’. She suddenly felt desperately sad for his friends.
Spearing his fingers through the thick mane of dark hair that touched his collar, Evan shook his head. ‘You’re going to milk this for all its worth aren’t you?’ His voice was cold.
Deciding to put the poor man out of his misery, Rowan wiped her hands down her thighs in the corduroy trousers then rose carefully to her feet.
‘Forget it. I don’t need you to apologise. I understand perfectly why you behave the way you do. You value your privacy above all else. You wanted to be alone, and because my cottage has been empty for so long you naturally assumed it would stay empty. My presence has taken you by surprise. You don’t really want me here. I can understand that too. I probably moved here for the same reasons—to be alone, to hear myself think. But unlike you, Mr Cameron, however much I like my own company I don’t see any harm in passing the time of day with my fellow human beings. Sometimes it has positive benefits. Just a smile from another person can totally lift my mood. I’m not asking you to move in with me or be my mentor—I didn’t even ask you to mend my broken gate. I’m simply exchanging hello’s or good morning’s, nice, normal greetings that don’t require anything other than a smile or a similar greeting in return. Nothing too challenging in that, wouldn’t you agree?’
Her little speech took him aback, and not just because there was a lot of truth in it. It was the passion in that usually soft, velvet voice that caught Evan by surprise. Suddenly he saw her in a different light. Clearly when this woman loved she did it wholeheartedly and without reservation. For some reason Evan experienced a shaft of pure envy of the man Rowan Hawkins had loved and lost. His gaze swept across her face, saw the rebellious glint reflected in those pretty brown eyes with their curling dark lashes, the man’s sweater at least three sizes too big that swamped her slender frame and knew without doubt it had belonged to her husband. When she was alone in her bed at night, did she ache for him still?
Rowan wondered at the sudden surge of heat that shaded Evan’s lean, hard jaw. Had she gone too far in speaking her mind the way she had? Had she made things worse instead of better? Expelling an impatient breath, she stared down forlornly at the tin of paint. A couple of drips from the brush had splashed onto the concrete path, creating two lilac splotches that resembled buttons. Raising her eyes to Evan’s, she folded her arms defensively across her chest.
‘If you’ve nothing else to say then I really must get on. I wanted to get these shelves done before this afternoon because the forecast said rain.’
‘I’m sorry I was rude to you. I have my reasons for being the way I am but I should never have taken it out on you. Will you accept my apology?’
He looked desolate, Rowan realised in shock. Like a man who had lost everything with no possibility of ever getting it back. Knowing how that felt, she could more than sympathise.
‘Of course.’ She replied without hesitation and, as if to underline the words, accompanied them with a smile. A puzzled frown creased Evan’s handsome brow.
‘Just like that?’
‘Why not?’
‘You find it so easy to forgive?’
‘What’s the point in harbouring grudges against people? It only eats you up inside and kills all the joy. Why would I want that for myself?’
‘Why indeed?’ He found himself smiling back at her, oddly pleased when her shy brown eyes slid away as if she couldn’t handle his new-found pleasure in her company. ‘I’d better let you get on.’
He went to turn away, planning to lengthen his time spent walking on the beach by an extra twenty minutes. Why not? He was suddenly feeling more optimistic than he had in weeks.
‘I was going to offer you a cup of tea,’ Rowan said quickly, ‘unless, of course, you think that’s taking things a bit too far?’
Noting the suddenly humorous glint in her eyes, Evan found himself warming to the woman more than he believed was sensible. ‘A cup of tea would be great—can it wait until I get back from the beach?’
‘Sure.’ Her heartbeat galloping, Rowan couldn’t deny the swift surge of pleasure that invaded her insides at his smiling acceptance. Suddenly, even the prospect of rain that afternoon couldn’t dampen her spirits. It’s only a cup of tea, she told herself as she watched him stride back down her path onto the road. But it couldn’t hurt to offer him a slice of home-made apple pie to go with it, could it?
Negotiating a hallway littered with temporary obstacles of furniture, books and boxes of bric-à-brac, Evan followed an apologetic Rowan into her partly denuded living-room and smiled. ‘You look like you mean business,’ he commented, glancing around him. All that remained in the room were two small sofas stuffed with a variety of coloured cushions, a sombre Victorian sideboard, an ethnic-looking rug in front of the fireplace and a small portable television set on a stand. The pictures—if she’d had any—had also been removed, because the plain white walls were bare.
‘I’ve never decorated anywhere before, so this is a first for me.’ She pushed back her hair and threw him a nervous smile. ‘But I’m determined to do it. The old place needs a bit of tender loving care, wouldn’t you say?’
Perching himself on the arm of one of the sofas, Evan rested his hands on his thighs. ‘It’s been empty for a long time but it looks basically sound to me. Nothing that a few coats of paint and a good spring clean won’t solve.’
‘Have you owned your cottage long?’
‘It was left to me and my sister by our mother ten years ago. She kept it as a holiday home up until she died and we’ve more or less kept to that tradition. Though it’s fair to say that Beth uses it more than I do. She’s got two lively boys and they love coming down here for holidays.’
Warmth spread throughout Rowan’s insides like butter melting on hot toast. It was the most information the man had voluntarily revealed since she’d met him, and despite his previous animosity she felt strangely privileged. She found herself yearning to know more.
‘So you’re here on holiday?’ she asked, feeling rather disappointed to learn that he wouldn’t be her neighbour for long.
The previously thawing expression on Evan’s face momentarily froze. ‘Something like that.’ He shrugged, his lips thinning.
Now Rowan was nonplussed. What exactly did he mean? ‘How long are you staying?’
‘Three weeks or so…maybe more. I haven’t decided.’
‘Well, it’s certainly a beautiful place to come for a break…however long. Um…would you like tea or coffee? I have both.’ Sensing he wasn’t exactly conducive to opening up as to why he was staying at the cottage, Rowan decided to steer clear of the subject from now on.
‘Tea. Milk, no sugar.’ He got up and went to glance out of the window at her bedraggled back garden. ‘You’ve got your work cut out there,’ he commented absently.
Hesitating in the kitchen doorway, Rowan released a small sigh. ‘I know. Trouble is, what I know about gardening you could write on a postage stamp. I only had a couple of window-boxes in my flat in London and even then I managed to let the poor things that were growing in them die.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.’ Leaning back against the window ledge, Evan considered her thoughtfully with those ‘you can’t hide anything from me’ green eyes of his.
A little discomfited by the attention, Rowan hovered in the doorway, wishing she were wearing something a little more feminine than a man’s chunky sweater and baggy corduroys that were at least two sizes too big. Even if they were testament to the fact that she had lost quite a bit of weight since Greg had died.
‘You’re right. It wasn’t intentional. Greg and I—that was my husband—were always too busy to do much around the home. Work just demanded too much of our time. Do you know, we were still living out of boxes from our previous flat three years after we moved in because we never found enough time to properly unpack?’
A shadow seemed to pass across Evan’s gaze. ‘I can believe it. Work can get you like that sometimes. What did your husband do for a living?’
Rowan automatically smiled. It seemed far easier to talk about Greg than it did about herself to this man, though she couldn’t help speculating as to the cause of that deep flash of pain she had just witnessed.
‘He was a television cameraman. News mostly. He loved his job—travelled all over the world following stories that were unfolding, in some really inhospitable and dangerous places too. Ironic that he got killed just crossing the road outside our flat.’
Her shoulders drooped a little, it seemed to Evan, and he had a totally uncharacteristic and unexpected desire to run his hand over that silky brown hair of hers and maybe offer comfort in some way. But no sooner had the idea crossed his mind than he scowled inwardly at his own stupidity. How in hell could he comfort anyone? He was a long time bitter, and far too jaded about life to soothe a pretty little widow who had clearly adored her husband and still carried a torch for him.
The timely reminder made him realise he had no business enjoying her company in the first place, and certainly no business sending out wrong signals that he was a much more caring, understanding human being than he really was. If he encouraged their fledgling friendship, sooner or later his bitterness would be bound to taint her in the worst possible way—and Rowan Hawkins did not deserve that after all she’d been through.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t stay after all.’
In a flash he’d moved across to the front door before Rowan guessed his intentions.
‘Why not?’ she demanded without thinking. ‘Is it because I told you about Greg? I wasn’t looking for your condolences, if that’s what you’re worried about. I wasn’t expecting anything other than a little conversation over a cup of tea.’
Staring into her wide, disingenuous gaze, Evan had the overwhelming sensation that she was pretty much unmarred by the world, despite the awful tragedy that had befallen her. In her soft, liquid brown eyes he saw hope and optimism and, yes, an innocent expectation that life had not yet relinquished its full quota of joy for her. It was almost too much for Evan to bear. All of a sudden he knew an urge to shock, to dispel any hope she might be nurturing about his friendship irrevocably and for good—to make her see that he wasn’t fit company for a lovely woman like her.
‘And what about my expectations, Rowan?’ he fired back at her, mouth twisting.
‘What do you mean?’ Her soft, pale hand touched her throat.
‘What if I find myself wanting more than “a little conversation over a cup of tea”?’
As innocent as she appeared, the gentle flush creeping into her pretty face told Evan that she had undoubtedly understood his meaning in an instant. He wished he could confess to feeling a little shame, but he couldn’t because in that instant too he realised that his comment wasn’t as far off the mark as he’d believed. He desired her. In fact, right now he’d trade everything he owned to have her in his bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS hard to think straight over the sudden roaring in her ears. Something she’d said or done had made him angry, made him want to hit out in some way to hurt her. Rowan recognised pain when she saw it, and self-loathing was startlingly apparent in Evan’s raw green gaze as he stood there, clearly wanting to get as far away from her as possible yet at the same time drawn by some underlying instinct that she couldn’t fail to register too. Her hand shook a little as she fingered a raised knot of wool on her sweater.
‘If you hoped to shock me with your implication then I’m sorry to disappoint you. A cup of tea is all I’m offering, Mr Cameron, and maybe a slice of home-made apple pie. As for anything else…’ Her throat threatened to close at this stage, because panic held her prisoner in its grip. When Evan folded his arms across his chest, planting his feet on her mat as if he had no intention of going anywhere in a hurry after all, she almost lost her nerve. ‘I’m afraid I’m not in the market for casual liaisons. I was very much in love with my husband, you see, and the fact is, right now, I couldn’t contemplate being with another man in that…in that way. I hope we understand each other?’
It was totally incomprehensible to Evan why he should feel such crushing disappointment. He hadn’t been remotely attracted to another woman since Rebecca, and after she had done her worst he wasn’t in a hurry to get close to another woman again. He’d had flings, yes, here and there. How else was he going to satisfy a healthy libido? But they had all—without exception—only been about sex.
Looking at pretty Rowan Hawkins, with her rosy apple cheeks and her curvy frame hidden beneath her dead husband’s baggy sweater and trousers, Evan knew it could never just be about sex with a woman like her. Most men would probably agree she was the kind of woman who had the words ‘for ever’ imprinted on her soul—the kind of woman you made babies with, then grew old with when the kids had fled the nest. Well, she might not be in the market for ‘casual liaisons’ but neither was he in the market for ‘for ever’. Yet right then he admired the woman more than he could say. She’d handled his outrageous remarks with quiet dignity, and if he owed her an apology before, he surely owed her an even bigger one this time.
‘I think we understand each other just fine.’ To Rowan’s surprise, his lips parted in a self-deprecating little smile. He was outrageously handsome, with a body that wouldn’t shame a movie star, and she guessed that not many women would turn down the kind of liaison he’d been hinting at, but then maybe they hadn’t loved their partners as much as she’d loved Greg.
‘Well, maybe you’d like that cup of tea now?’
‘You mentioned apple pie as well?’ Evan made an admirable job of disguising his disappointment as his gaze locked and held on to hers. He knew he ought to go, but suddenly he didn’t want to return to his empty house, with too many empty hours to fill with unwanted introspection on where his life had gone wrong.
Something in Rowan’s heart leapt. She had really thought he would take the escape route he’d deliberately carved for himself and was surprised and more pleased than she had a right to be that he was apparently going to stay. Shame on you, Rowan Hawkins!
‘Make yourself at home,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’ll make the tea and cut you a slice of pie.’
Somehow an hour had tu
rned into two, and when the sky darkened outside and rain began to splatter against the windows, Rowan ran outside with Evan and brought in her newly drying painted shelves to stand in the hall amongst the other refugees from her living-room.
‘Thanks.’ Wiping her hand across her damp hair, she wondered whether he’d take the opportunity to bring an end to their cosy little chat. Not that anyone could have called the two hours that had just transpired in any way cosy. There hadn’t been much chat either, come to think of it. Evan had wolfed down two slices of pie with gusto, then washed them down with two generous mugs of tea. His appetite taken care of, he’d arranged his fit, hard-muscled frame in one of her dainty little sofas and sat for a long time, not saying anything much at all. Every question Rowan had plucked up the courage to ask him, he’d either answered in as few words as possible or deliberately diverted her with a hard-eyed stare that would have stonewalled any professional interrogator searching for information. The tension in the room had almost become unbearable until the rain had given her a welcome excuse to escape it.
Now she wondered why he was lingering in her hallway, the damp from the rain spreading across his sweatshirt, his expression stark, and strangely she didn’t want him to go. Not without learning something about the man that would give her a clue to the conflict going on behind those embittered green eyes of his.
