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“Good morning.”

She looked up, and for a second her heart stopped.

And then he moved, stepped forward into the room, and as the light hit his face Annie felt the stupid, foolish hope drain away and her heart started again.

Crazy. For a moment there—but it was silly. It was just because she’d been thinking about him—

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and rough and strangely sensuous. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

She nearly laughed aloud, and dragged her eyes from the battered, lived-in face in front of her, staring down in bewilderment at her shaking hands. Lord, she should have stopped doing this after all these years, clutching at straws, seeing him in any random stranger, but there was just something—

“Sorry. You reminded me of someone.”

A Bride Worth Waiting For
Caroline Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Caroline Anderson has the mind of a butterfly. She’s been a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, run her own soft-furnishing business and now she’s settled on writing. She says, “I was looking for that elusive something. I finally realized it was variety, and now I have it in abundance. Every book brings new horizons and new friends, and in between books I have learned to be a juggler. My teacher husband, John, and I have two beautiful and talented daughters, Sarah and Hannah, umpteen pets and several acres of Suffolk that nature tries to reclaim every time we turn our backs!”

Join Caroline Anderson on a wonderful romantic escape. Her stories are emotional and touching.

Books by Caroline Anderson

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3806—THE PREGNANT TYCOON

3826—THE PREGNANCY SURPRISE

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PROLOGUE

‘IT’S over.’

For a moment he didn’t move, just stood there and let it sink in. Then he turned slowly round and scanned her face.

‘They’ve got him?’

Ruth nodded. ‘They caught up with him in a villa just outside Antibes. He’d got sloppy—maybe he thought we’d given up.’

He grunted. ‘Fat chance after what that bastard’s done. So he’s finally going to be put away—well, I hope they throw the book at him. They will if I have anything to do with it. Never mind the other things he’s done and the countless lives he’s ruined, that animal owes me nine years.’

Ruth—his researcher and friend, his ex-colleague and the woman who’d kept him sane for all that time—shook her head. ‘Sorry, Michael. He’s dead.’

He swore quietly and succinctly and with considerable feeling. ‘What happened?’

‘There was a girl there with him. Frank didn’t say what he’d done to her, but I’m sure we can fill in the details. She shot him after they stormed the house—they were cuffing him, and she just shot him through the head with his own gun at point-blank range. Said he deserved it.’

‘Is that the official version?’

Ruth shook her head and smiled. ‘Oh, no. I gather his gun went off in the confusion. Conveniently.’

He nodded, glad the girl wouldn’t be punished for what amounted to a public service. ‘Good for her,’ he said softly. ‘I would have liked ten minutes alone with him, though, before she did it.’

‘Absolutely. You and all the others. It was too good for him, but whatever. It’s over—that’s all that matters really.’

It was. And that meant they’d all be safe—him, Ruth, Annie and the son he had yet to get to know. The threat hanging over them was gone, finally, after all these years.

And now it was time for the last act.

He felt the rush of adrenaline, the nerves, the anticipation—like the start of an operation, but worse, because he was personally involved in this one. It wasn’t something he could remain detached about. No way.

‘What about the others?’ he asked, his voice rough—rougher even than usual, rusty with emotion and lack of use.

‘They were picking them up when Frank rang me. They’ve been closing in for days, had everyone under surveillance. They did a dawn swoop. It’s massive. It’ll be on the news.’

‘So it’s official?’

Ruth nodded. ‘Yes—just about. I expect someone will come and see you. Frank rang me this morning—I’m surprised he hasn’t called you.’

‘He may have done. The phone rang when I was in the shower. I ignored it. I’ll call him now.’

And then he could get things in motion. He’d been on ice for eight, nearly nine years, and now the waiting was over.

‘Fancy living here?’ he asked quietly. ‘Swapping houses? Just for a while. I could use the flat as an excuse to be there.’

There was a silence, and as it stretched out he turned and studied her thoughtfully.

‘Am I missing something?’ he asked, and she gave a wry little smile.

‘If you don’t need me, there’s somewhere else I’d rather be.’

‘Tim?’

She nodded. ‘He’s asked me to marry him—again. And somehow, with this finally over, I feel free at last—as if the debt’s paid and I can move on. And I do love him.’

He closed his eyes, let out his breath on a short huff of laughter before the emotion choked him. ‘Ruth—that’s great. Wonderful. I’m really glad for you. It’s about time—and of course I don’t need you. Not that much—not enough to get in the way of this. You know I’d never stand in your way. I’ve asked too much from you for too long as it is—’

‘No. It’s been fine. I needed your support every bit as much as you needed mine. You kept me safe, gave me a reason to live when it all fell apart, and I’ll be eternally grateful for that, but…’

‘But you don’t need me any more,’ he prompted.

‘Not now.’ She smiled gently at him. ‘I’ll always need your friendship, and you’ll always have mine. You know that. But Tim’s there for me now. I need to be with him.’

‘How much does he know?’

She shrugged. ‘Enough. I never thought I could ever trust a man again after what happened. And I certainly never thought I’d love again after David died. But—with Tim, it’s all fallen into place, and I feel I can start again. Draw a line under this, get on with my life.’

‘I’m so glad for you,’ he said softly.

‘Thank you. I’ll still work for you,’ she added. ‘If you want me to.’

His grin was crooked. ‘I don’t know. This changes things, doesn’t it? I don’t need to write for a living. Not any more. I might try something different. Grow grapes or something. We’ll talk about it. Why don’t you have a holiday—six months? I’ll take a break from my writing. That should give us both time to sort out the future.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘I’ll still pay you, of course, in the meantime. Put you on a retainer or something—and don’t argue.’

She opened her mouth, shut it again and smiled. ‘So when do you want me to move out—if you still do?’

He felt the lick of adrenaline in his veins. ‘Please—if you feel you can. I can use the excuse of refurbishing the building—that should give me plenty of opportunities to talk to her. How soon could you move?’

‘The weekend? I don’t know—the sooner the better, really. I can’t imagine not being with Tim now. I’ll talk to him when I see him.’

‘You seeing him today?’

Ruth nodded. ‘I’ll go back at lunchtime—he’s off today.’

‘Go now. I’ve got things to do as well—people to talk to. We’ll meet up again later in the week.’

She nodded again, then hugged him, the unprecedented physical contact taking him by surprise. In nine years he’d always kept his distance, giving her space, careful to preserve her comfort zone because of what had happened to her. Now it seemed she didn’t need it any more.

‘I hope it works out for you with Annie and Stephen,’ she said a little unevenly. ‘You deserve to be happy. It’s been far, far too long—for all of us.’

And for ever for David. He put away that thought, shaking his head slightly to clear it. It was time for the living, now. Time to move on.

Time for the last and maybe most important op of his life. He’d planned it meticulously over the past year, and thrown out each plan. He was going to have to fly this one by the seat of his pants, but he was going to succeed. He had to. The stakes were too high for him to fail.

‘You take care, babe. Tell Tim from me he’s a lucky man.’

He watched Ruth go, then sat down, staring blindly out over the gently rolling fields. He could see a tractor working in the distance, the gulls wheeling in its wake, dots against the vivid blue of the sky.

It was still warm during the day, even though it was September. It reminded him of France. That late September had been just like this, with glorious sunny days and then later, moving into October, clear, starry nights when the temperature would fall and their breath would fog on the cold night air as they walked hand in hand between the vines.

He shut his eyes, seeing her again, young and vibrant and full of laughter, her eyes bubbling over with joy. She’d tasted so sweet, so eager and passionate—so utterly irresistible. He hadn’t been able to resist—not that night, knowing things were coming to a head. He’d lost himself in her, and she’d given him everything. Her ring. Her heart.

And a son who didn’t know him.

Yet.

His fingers closed over the ring. He’d worn it on a chain around his neck for so many years now the chain had worn a groove in the band. She’d given it to him that night to keep him safe, after they’d made love, and he’d treasured it all this time. It was almost as if he’d survive as long as he had it on him. He’d never taken it off, but he would now. He’d have to, or she’d see it and know, before he was ready.

He took it off, slipped it into his wallet, fingering the lump it made in the soft leather.

Maybe soon he could tell her the truth. Not yet, though. First, she had to get to know him again, get to know the real man, the man he was now. And he had to get to know her.

At least they were free now—him free to woo her, her free to love him if she would. That was by no means certain, but he wouldn’t allow the thought of failure. Not now, not at this stage.

He moved away from the window, his eyes no longer focusing on the tractor in the distance, but on his reflection in the mirror. Dispassionately, with clinical detachment, he studied the man who stared back at him.

Would he get away with it?

He didn’t look like the man Annie had fallen in love with. Time and the surgery that had saved his life had seen to that. The results were passable—battered, but passable. He wasn’t actively ugly, at least; he should be grateful for that. He wondered if his own parents would have recognised him. At least they’d been spared seeing him at his worst. It would have killed his mother. It had damn nearly killed him.

He turned away, reached for the phone, dialled a long-familiar number.

‘It’s me,’ he said economically.

He could almost hear the smile at the other end.

‘Michael. Welcome back to the real world.’

CHAPTER ONE

‘HIYA.’

Annie was just about to close when she heard Ruth’s voice behind her. ‘Hiya yourself, stranger,’ she said, turning with a grin. ‘I missed you over the weekend. How are you?’

‘Better than you, apparently. You look tired, Annie.’

She flapped her hand. ‘I’m always tired. I’ve been tired for years,’ she said, dismissing it. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m used to it. What can I get you? Coffee? Tea?’

‘Nothing. I don’t want to stop you, you’re about to close.’

‘I have done,’ she said, shutting the door and flipping the sign in the window. ‘There’s half a pot of coffee left and it’s only going down the drain if we don’t drink it. Want to share it with me?’

‘If you’re sure you’ve got time. What about Stephen?’

‘He’s got chess club.’ She reached for the cups. ‘So, how are you? I haven’t seen you for days.’ Annie scanned Ruth’s face, checking out the slightly heightened colour in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes, as if something was bottled up inside her and threatening to spill over. She’d be a lousy poker player, she thought with a grin.

‘OK, come on, spit it out. What’s going on? Where have you been?’

Ruth gave a self-conscious chuckle. ‘At Tim’s. Actually, I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘I’d never have guessed!’ Annie teased, plonking the full cups on the round table by the window and pulling up a chair. ‘Come on, then—tell away.’

Ruth laughed softly and sat, making a production of opening the creamer and tipping it into the cup, stirring it unnecessarily long until Annie was ready to scream.

‘Ruth?’ she prompted.

‘Sorry.’ Her smile was—good heavens—shy? ‘I’m getting married.’

Annie’s heart squeezed tight, and she leant over and hugged Ruth, pressing her eyes firmly shut to hold back the unexpected prickle of tears. ‘Ruth, that’s fantastic!’ she said, her voice choked. ‘When did he ask you? I take it we’re talking about your gorgeous policeman, since you spent the weekend with him?’

Ruth sniffed and sat back, her cheeks pink. ‘Of course it’s Tim. And he’s asked me over and over again. I said yes this morning. I’m going to move in with him.’

‘Well, of course you will.’ She listened to herself in dismay. Did she really sound so bereft? How silly. She injected a little enthusiasm and interest into her voice. ‘Will you be far away? Where does he live?’

‘Not far. Only three miles. He’s been asking me endlessly to move in with him, dropping hints for ages before he began proposing—and I’ve finally decided to do it.’

‘Oh, Ruth, I’m so pleased for you! I wondered what was going on—you’ve been looking so much happier since you met him.’

‘I have been. I am.’

‘It shows.’ Annie smiled wistfully. ‘Lucky old you. You know, I did wonder at one point, when there didn’t seem to be a man in your life at all, if you’d got some kind of thing going on with Michael—’

‘Michael? Good grief, no!’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘Hardly.’

‘Is he so bad?’

Ruth chuckled. ‘No, he’s not bad at all. Far from it. I suppose if he was your type, you’d think he was very sexy in a rather brooding sort of way. I don’t know. You can judge for yourself on Monday.’

‘Monday?’

‘Mmm. He’s coming over then—I’m moving out at the weekend, and he’s going to start tearing the place apart. He’s jumped at the chance to get in there. He wants to refurbish the whole building, in fact; says it’s long overdue, which it is.’

Annie blinked in surprise. ‘Does he have time?’

Ruth nodded. ‘He’s going to have a break from writing, and he’s told me to take a holiday, so I am. I think he’s planning a little physical work to free up his thoughts and, let’s face it, the place could do with a hefty dose of TLC. I think he’s looking forward to pushing his sleeves up and getting stuck in.’

Her heart thudded unexpectedly. ‘Wow. So I get to meet the great man at last.’

She chewed her lip absently. She’d never met her landlord, not in the seven years since he’d bought the Ancient House. Ruth had been the go-between, working for him as his researcher and living here in the flat that occupied the whole of the top floor, but curiously Michael himself had never darkened her door, so she knew little about him except that he was a writer—a hugely successful one, if the best seller lists were to be believed.

That was probably why she’d never met him. Too busy and important to trouble himself with some trifling investment property—or so she’d thought. He certainly didn’t need her contribution to his income if the rumours of his advances were true.

Roger had loved his books—he’d even met him once, but she’d been out when he called and so she’d missed him, to her disappointment. But he hadn’t described him as broodingly sexy—

‘I wonder if he’ll use the refurb as an excuse to put my rent up?’ she murmured, dragging herself back to practical matters and the here and now.

Ruth shrugged. ‘Dunno. I doubt it. You’ll have to ask him.’ She pulled a face. ‘It’ll be odd not living here after so long.’

‘Seven years. It’ll be weird without you. I’ll miss you.’ Unaccountably she felt herself tearing up again and looked away crossly. ‘Sorry, I’m being an idiot. I’m delighted for you, I really am. It’s just—’

‘You’ll miss me. I know. I’ll miss you, too.’ Ruth patted her arm awkwardly. ‘You’ll be fine. You’ve got my mobile number—perhaps we could go out for a drink one evening, if Stephen’s with a friend or something?’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, knowing quite well it was unlikely to happen but grateful to Ruth for suggesting it. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done for me in the past few years, especially since Roger died. You’ve been a star.’

‘My pleasure. You’ve been a good friend to me, too, Annie. There were times when I couldn’t have got through without you.’

That unexpected frankness was nearly her undoing. Annie swallowed and gave a little shrug. ‘What are friends for? I’m glad you’ve found someone. You deserve to be happy.’

Ruth nodded and turned her attention to her coffee, looking at it rather than at Annie, stirring it with meticulous care. ‘I just wish you could be as happy,’ she said quietly after a moment. ‘I know you and Roger were very fond of each other, but you weren’t exactly soul mates, were you? You’ve never really told me about Stephen’s father, but I get the feeling you’re still a little in love with him. Is there any chance—?’

Annie felt her smile slip. ‘No. He’s dead—years ago, before I started running this place. The way I felt—well, it was a one-off, crazy thing. I don’t know if it was the real thing, but it certainly felt like it at the time. He was French, and such a charmer—I just fell for that broken English and gorgeous, sexy accent hook, line and sinker. I adored him, but you can’t base a marriage on it. At least we didn’t have time to get bored with each other. I don’t know. It might have worked given time, who knows, but I doubt it. We just didn’t get the chance to find out.’

‘But maybe now—if the right man came along—?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t need any more heart-ache, and nor does Stephen. He’s lost two fathers, although he only ever knew Roger. I think that’s enough for anyone.’

Ruth was quiet for a moment, then she looked up and searched Annie’s face. ‘Do you think Stephen’s suffered for not knowing his real father?’

Annie shook her head slowly. ‘No—not really. I know we had an unconventional marriage, but Roger was a good father to all the children. Stephen adored him, and I would have been horribly lost without him—even if I could never compete with his first wife.’

‘Ah, yes. The amazing Liz. Ghosts are always the hardest. She was a bit of a legend, by all accounts. They still talk about her, you know.’

Annie nodded. ‘She was certainly loved in the village. Her death was an awful shock to everyone. I couldn’t believe it. She’d been my college lecturer, you know—taught me everything I knew about catering, but she was more than that, even then. She was a friend, a real friend, and I was lost when she died, but at least we’d set this place up by then, so she saw her dream become reality. Still. Time moves on, and they’re together again now. And you’ve got your Tim. I really, really hope you’re happy together.’

‘We will be. Do keep in touch. Can I come and have coffee still?’

Annie laughed. ‘Of course. I run a coffee shop—what else would you do?’

‘But you’re busy.’

‘Never too busy for a friend. Please come. Don’t be a stranger. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.’

‘You won’t lose me—promise.’

Ruth hugged her again, and then went out, running up the stairs to the flat above to start her packing, and Annie scrubbed the kitchen until it sparkled, determined not to let the stupid tears fall. It wasn’t as if Ruth was a bosom buddy, but as busy as she was, Ruth was probably one of her closest friends. Bringing up the children and working the hours she did didn’t leave a lot of time for socialising.

She straightened up, threw the tea towel she’d used for polishing the worktops into a bag to take home, and looked round, checking to make sure she was ready for the morning.

What would her landlord make of it, she wondered? And how would he want to change it? Refurb covered a multitude of sins. A shiver of apprehension went down her spine. The Ancient House was Grade II listed, so there were restrictions on what he could do to it—she hoped. She didn’t want it to change. She’d had enough change recently. But what if he wanted to throw her out and turn it back into a house? That was always a possibility now she was the only tenant.

It was old, very old, a typical low Tudor house, stretching all across one side of the square, with a big heavy door in the centre that led to a small rectangular entrance hall. There was a door straight ahead that led to the flat above, another door leading to Miller’s, her little tearoom that ran front to back on the right of the door, and one opening into the left-hand end that was occupied by the little antique shop.

Ex-antique shop, she reminded herself, now that Mary had wound down her business and closed the door finally for the last time only a week ago, so what better time for him to move in and make changes?

More changes. Heavens, her life was full of them recently. Roger’s death in June last year had been the first. Even though they’d been waiting for it, it had still been a shock when it came. Still, they’d got through somehow, comforting each other, and it hadn’t been all bad.

Kate, Roger’s younger daughter, had got the grades she needed for uni, and there had been tears, of course, because her father hadn’t been there to see her success. And Annie, telling her how proud he would have been, had reduced them all to tears again.

In September the girls had gone away—Vicky, the eldest, back to Leicester for her second year and Kate to Nottingham to start her degree, and the house had seemed unnaturally silent and empty. Stephen was back at school, and without the tearoom Annie would have gone crazy.

She’d grown used to the silence, though, and the holidays since had seemed almost too noisy. Much as she loved them, she’d been glad this September when the girls had gone away again and taken their chaos and untidiness with them, but without them, and with Ruth moving on, it would be very quiet. Probably too quiet.

She laughed softly to herself.

‘You are perverse. One minute it’s too noisy, the next it’s too quiet. Nothing’s ever right.’

Still, from Monday things would liven up with the refurb starting. And she’d finally get to meet her landlord, the broodingly sexy Michael Harding. Whatever that implied.

Well, she hoped it turned out right and he didn’t have an ulterior motive. Here she was trying to work out what broodingly sexy might mean, when all the time he might be going to give her notice or put up her rent. It wouldn’t be unreasonable if he did, but it would be the last straw.

Roger’s pension kept the girls in uni. The tearoom provided the means to keep her and Stephen and run the house, but the balance was fine and she didn’t need anything unexpected thrown into the equation.

There was always the trust fund, but she had no intention of touching that, even if she could. It was Stephen’s, from some unknown distant cousin who’d died intestate; it had been passed down to him as the man’s youngest living relative, which was apparently how the law worked. She wasn’t going to argue, and as only one of the trustees she wasn’t sure she could get access to it, even to provide for her son. Still, to know it was there was like a safety net, carefully invested for the future.

Whatever that might hold. Maybe Monday would bring some answers.

She went home, cutting the corner to where their pretty Georgian house stood at right angles to the tearoom, centred on the left hand side of the square. Like the Ancient House, Beech House occupied a prominent position in the centre of the village, its elegant, symmetrical façade set back behind a low wall enclosing the pretty front garden.

The fact that it was so lovely hardly ever registered with Annie, though. For her, the main feature was its convenience. It was handy being so close. That was why Liz had chosen to open the tearoom there, of course, and its proximity had been a godsend while the children were young.

It didn’t feel like home, though. It never really had. She was like a caretaker, and with Roger gone and the girls flying the nest she wondered what on earth she was going to do with it. Keep it for ever, so the girls felt they could always come home? Or just until Stephen was eighteen?

Another nine years. Heavens. The thought of another nine years of this was enough to send her over the brink.

She closed the door behind her, leant back on it and listened to the silence. She was right, it was too quiet, and Stephen with his bubbly chatter wouldn’t be home until eight. God, the house was so empty.

She made herself a cup of tea, then settled down on the sofa in the little sitting room to watch the news for company. She kicked off her shoes, tucked her feet under her bottom and flicked on the TV with the remote control.

And then she froze, riveted by the commentary and the picture she saw unfolding before her eyes.

‘—a vineyard in the Rhône valley, high up on the steeply terraced hillside where only the most exclusive wines can justify the exorbitant labour costs for handpicking the grapes—unless, like Claude Gaultier, you use a migrant workforce.’

The reporter waved an arm behind him at the serried ranks of vines, bursting with fruit just starting to ripen. ‘For the past eleven years, the vines here have been worked by what amounts to slave labour, the workers kept in very basic accommodation and forced to work hugely long hours in appalling conditions on these steep mountainsides to bolster Gaultier’s extortionate profit.’

The picture scanned over the familiar scenery, the bunkhouse, the farmhouse where she’d cooked, the winery, the terraces where they’d walked hand in hand—

‘All the workers were young men, most of whose parents had paid extraordinary sums to give them an opportunity to escape from countries such as Albania to the riches of Western Europe. They were lied to, cheated for the sake of money, but at least these young men were only forced to work hard. The young women, on the other hand, were shipped all over Europe and sold into prostitution, many of them in London and Manchester, and the fate of these innocent girls has been far worse. The dawn raid today, the culmination of a decade of work by the security services of several countries, has seen many of Gaultier’s accomplices arrested. Gaultier himself, the mastermind behind this hideous empire trafficking in innocent lives, died resisting arrest when his house in Antibes was stormed this morning, and it must be said there will be few tears shed for this most evil and wanted of men.’

The picture returned to the newsroom, and Annie stared blankly at the screen.

Dear God. She’d always known the conditions there were dreadful, but she’d had no idea they were that bad. People-trafficking? Slave labour? She’d not really been involved with the labour force, more with the managers. Like Etienne. And Etienne had taken her mind off anything but him, from the moment she’d set eyes on him…

‘Bonjour.’

She looked up, her heart hitching into her throat at the slow, lazy lilt of his voice. Blue eyes, a smile that started gradually and kicked up both corners of his mouth to reveal perfect, even teeth—no. Not perfect. Not quite. One of them was chipped, and his nose was nothing to write home about, but the smouldering eyes and the lazy smile were enough to counteract that in spades.

‘Bonjour,’ she replied, her hand hovering over a steaming dish of lamb casserole. ‘Desirez-vous un peu de ragout?’

The smile widened. ‘Tu,’ he murmured. ‘Vous is too—how you say—formal?—for me.’

She felt herself colouring. ‘Oh. Sorry. I thought it was correct.’

He grinned. ‘It is—but we do not need to be correct, hein, you and me?’

She found herself smiling back, her heart fluttering against her ribs like a thing demented. Her hand still hovered over the casserole, her eyes trapped by his. ‘How did you know I was English?’ she said breathlessly.

‘Your delightful accent,’ he replied, in a delightful accent of his own, and her heart melted into a puddle at his feet. He held out his hand. ‘Etienne Duprés—at your service, mademoiselle.’

‘Annie Shaw,’ she said breathlessly, and he took her hand, wrapping it in warm, hard fingers. His thumb slid over the back of it, grazing it gently, sending shivers up her spine while his eyes locked with hers.

‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ he murmured, then after an age he bent to press his lips to her hand—but not the back. Oh, no. He turned it over and pressed his lips firmly and devastatingly to the palm, then folded her fingers over to enclose the kiss and straightened up to meet her eyes again, a slow, sexy grin teasing at his mouth.

He wasn’t the only one who was enchanted. Annie could hardly think straight for the rest of the meal, dishing up for the family and the skilled staff. The grape-pickers had their own catering arrangements in the bunkhouse, and her job was to help Madame Chevallier to cook for the permanent staff who ran the vineyard. And if she didn’t want to lose her job, she’d better concentrate on what she was doing.

Finally they were all served and seated, and she took her own meal and went and sat in the only space left. Which just happened, by a curious coincidence, to be next to Etienne Duprés.

‘You must be new here; I haven’t seen you,’ she said, but he shook his head.

‘I have been away—en vacances. On holiday?’

She nodded. ‘I wondered.’

‘So you have been thinking about me. Bon,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘And you must be new here.’

She nodded again. ‘I’m here for the harvest. I’m sorry, my French is dreadful—’

He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m sure we understand what is necessary,’ he said, and his eyes locked with hers again, their message unmistakeable.

‘You’re outrageous,’ she told him, blushing, and he laughed, not a discreet chuckle but the real thing, throwing back his head and letting out a deep rumble of a belly-laugh that had all the others smiling and nodding and ribbing him.

‘No, mademoiselle, I only tell the truth.’

And he was right, of course. She could understand enough of the muddle of his French and English to know precisely what he was trying to say to her, and he seemed to be able to understand English better than he could speak it, so between them they managed.

After all, it didn’t take much facility with the language to walk side by side along the rows of vines in the setting sun, and to pause under the spreading branches of an old oak tree and exchange slow, lingering kisses.

That was all they ever did, and then he’d sigh and turn back to the path and wrap his arm around her, tucking her into his side and shortening his stride to hers as they strolled back to the farmhouse. On her nights off he took her to the village and they sat in the bar and talked in their halting French and English until late, then he walked her home, pausing to kiss her under the tree.

She learned that he was an estate manager, that he’d trained in Australia and California, that he had been brought in to supervise the production of the exclusive and very expensive wine produced here. She told him she had trained as a cook, but was going to run a tearoom—a café—called Miller’s, with a friend in a village in Suffolk on her return.

He seemed interested, so she told him about Liz Miller, and about their plans and how Liz was getting it off the ground now and how they’d share it when she got home, and he grinned and promised to come and visit her. ‘To take tea—in Miller’s, a very English tearoom. I shall look forward to this. After the harvest,’ he promised, and she believed him.

She learned to tease him, and he teased her back. One evening as they sat in the bar she reached out a hand and ran her fingertip down the bumpy and twisted length of his nose. ‘What happened to it?’ she asked, and he laughed.

‘I was—pouf!’ he said, making a fist and holding it to his nose and grinning.

‘You had a fight?’

He nodded, blue eyes laughing.

‘Don’t tell me—over a woman?’

The grin widened. ‘Mais oui! What else is there to fight about?’

She chuckled. ‘And did you win?’

‘Bien sur! Of course. I always win the lady.’

‘And was she married, this lady?’ she asked, suddenly needing the answer to be no, and he frowned, serious for once.

‘Non. Of course not. I would not do that. I am—how do you say it? A gentleman.’

And he was. He walked her home, kissed her lingeringly, sighed and handed her in through the door like the gentleman he said he was, then wandered off, whistling softly under his breath.

A week later, one cold October night, he seemed different. Distracted, somehow, and for once not focusing on her with that strange intensity, as if she was the centre of his world. At least not then, not in the bar, but later on the way home he drew her off the path, away from the farm buildings and up into a little wood, then he turned her into his arms and kissed her in a way he’d never kissed her before.

His body was strong and lean and full of coiled energy, warm and hard under her hands, his heart pounding against her chest, a strange urgency about him. He’d always been playful before, but that night there was no time for play. He kissed her as if he’d die without her, touched her as if she was the most precious thing in the universe. They made love then for the first and last time, on a bed of fallen leaves under the stars, and in his arms she found a happiness she’d never even dreamed of.

She’d been totally innocent, but he’d been so gentle, so thorough, so—incredible—that she’d felt no pain, only joy and an unbelievable rightness.

Afterwards he walked her back, kissing her once more as he left her at the door of the farmhouse, his touch lingering.

Struck suddenly by some sense of evil, she pulled off her ring and gave it to him, pressing it into his hand.

‘Here—have this. It was my grandmother’s. It’s a St Christopher. It will keep you safe.’ And she reached up and kissed him again. ‘Take care, my love,’ she whispered, and his arms tightened for a second before he let her go.

He murmured something. She didn’t really catch it. It sounded curiously like, ‘Au revoir,’ but why would he be saying goodbye? So final, so irrevocable. It sent a shiver through her, and after she went to bed she lay and thought about it.

She must have misheard. It could have been ‘Bonsoir’, although even she knew that meant good evening and not goodnight. And anyway, he usually told her to sleep well. But ‘Au revoir’? Until we meet again? That seemed too final—not at all like goodnight. It puzzled her, but she convinced herself she must have heard it wrong, until the following day when she went down to make breakfast and found Madame Chevallier in tears.

A chill ran over her, and she hurried to her side, putting her arm around the woman who’d become her friend. ‘Madame?’

‘Oh, Annie, ma petite—je suis desolée. I’m so sorry.’

‘Pardon? Madame, what is it? What’s happened?’

‘Oh, mon Dieu. C’est terrible. Etienne—il est mort! Dead—et Gerard aussi. Oh, mon Dieu!’

Panic flooded her. Panic and the first terrible, overwhelming crush of grief. She sucked in a huge lungful of air, then another, fighting off the pain. ‘No. You’re wrong. You’re lying! He can’t be dead!’

But Madame shook her head and wept, her whole body shaken with sobs, and Annie realised it must be true.

‘No…Dear God, no.’

She looked outside and saw the gendarme talking to Monsieur Gaultier, both of them shaking their heads in dis-belief, and she ran out past them, up to the place where he’d taken her in his arms and made love to her with such passionate intensity just a few short hours before. Such exquisite joy—

‘Etienne, no. You can’t be dead,’ she wept, falling to the soft, sweet earth where she’d lain with him so recently. ‘No! It’s not true.’

The sobs racked her body endlessly, the pain tearing her apart cell by cell, leaving her in tatters.

Madame found her there, prostrate with grief, and helped her back to the house.

‘I have to go and see him,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe—’

So Madame Chevallier called a taxi, and she went first to the village, but the gendarme wouldn’t talk to her. Then she went to the town where it had happened, where the hospital was and the morgue, but the information was even less forthcoming.

The only thing she was sure of was that he was gone, but even his death she had to take on trust. She wanted to see his body, to say goodbye, but she was told his family had taken it already, and no, she couldn’t be given their details.

‘It is gone, mademoiselle. You cannot see him. You must go home.’

Home. It was the only thing in her suddenly topsy-turvy world to make sense. She’d go home, to the only people who really cared about her. Liz and Roger would look after her. She went back, packed her things and set off. She should have phoned them, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words, and so she made her way to Calais and took the first available crossing, caught the train from Dover and arrived back at ten that night, going straight to their house.

Roger answered the door, his face haggard, and Annie, even through her grief, could see that something was terribly, horribly wrong.

A shiver of dread ran down her spine. ‘Roger?’ she whispered. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Liz,’ he said, and then he started to cry, dry, racking sobs that tore her apart.

‘Where is she?’

‘In bed. Don’t wake her. She’s got a headache. Annie, she’s dying—’

A brain tumour. Roger told her the bare bones, but Liz filled her in on all the details in the morning, sitting at the kitchen table after the children had gone to school.

‘Inoperable?’ she echoed hollowly. ‘Are they sure?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve had every kind of scan, believe me.’ Liz searched Annie’s eyes, and frowned. Even then, in the midst of such agony, she noticed that something was wrong. Her hand found Annie’s, gripping it hard. ‘Annie, what is it? What’s happened to you? You shouldn’t be home yet. What’s going on? You look awful, my love.’

She swallowed the tears, not wanting to cry about something that must seem so remote to this very dear friend in the midst of her own grief, but unable to hold them back. ‘Etienne’s dead.’

Liz’s face was shocked. ‘What? How? Why?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. All they’d tell me was he’d been mugged in an alley in the town. He was with another man, and he was killed, too. They were beaten to death—’

‘Who would do such a thing? Do they know who did it?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. They wouldn’t tell me much. I just—Liz, I can’t believe it. First him, and now you—’

And then the dam burst, and they held each other and wept the raw, bitter tears of grief…

The gravel crunched under his tyres as he drew to a halt, cut the engine and got out, a lump in his throat. He was about to ring the doorbell when an elderly terrier trotted round the corner of the house and came up to him, sniffing.

‘Nipper?’

The dog pricked his ears, whined and jumped up at him, his stubby little tail thrashing wildly in apparent recognition, and the lump in his throat just got bigger.

‘Nipper, it is you,’ he murmured. ‘I can’t believe it! What a good old boy!’ He crouched down, and the dog lashed his face with his tongue in greeting, all the time whining and wagging and wriggling furiously under his hands, unable to get enough of his old friend.

‘Nipper! Nipper, get down! Bad dog. I’m so sorry. Nipper!’

He straightened slowly, taking in the changes that time had carved in his godmother’s face. The lump wedged itself in his throat, so that for a moment he couldn’t speak but could only stand there and let the homecoming fill his heart.

‘I’m so sorry about that. What can I do for you?’ she said, moving closer, and then suddenly she stopped, her hand flying to her mouth, the secateurs clattering unheeded to the ground at his feet. ‘Michael?’ she whispered sound-lessly, and then recovered herself. ‘I’m so sorry. For a moment there, I thought you were someone else—’

‘Oh, Peggy, I might have known I wouldn’t fool you,’ he said gruffly, and he felt his face contort into a smile as his arms opened to receive her…

A river of tears later, they were sitting in the kitchen, his godmother on one side, his godfather on the other, catching up on nine very long years while the dog lay heavy on his feet, endlessly washing his ankle above the top of his sock as if he couldn’t believe his old friend had really returned.

The dog wasn’t alone. Peggy kept touching his face, her fingers infinitely gentle and tentative, getting to know the new him.

‘It doesn’t hurt,’ he assured her quietly. Not much, at least. Not with the painkillers.

‘But it did. It must have done.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. It did. I’m glad you didn’t see it.’

She shook her head. ‘We should have been there for you.’

‘It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t safe. I’m sorry they had to tell you I was dead.’

‘I knew you weren’t,’ she told him. ‘The flowers on my birthday, the cards. They said you were dead, but I knew.’

‘I didn’t believe her,’ Malcolm said. ‘I thought she was imagining it. At one point I thought she had a secret admirer—someone from the local horticultural society.’

‘Silly man,’ Peggy said with a fond smile. ‘As if.’ She paused, then went on, ‘I don’t suppose you can tell us—’

He gave a twisted smile. ‘You know better than to ask that. I’ve told you all I can. It’s all over the television, anyway—and all that really matters is that it’s over and I’m alive—even if I don’t really look like me any more.’

His godfather nodded wordlessly. ‘If I may say so,’ he muttered gruffly, ‘the nose is better.’

He chuckled. ‘I agree. The nose is a bonus. The headaches I could live without, and the teeth aren’t great. At least they don’t go in a glass at night, though, so I should be thankful for small mercies.’

‘So—I take it they gave you a new identity? Who’ve you been all this time?’

‘Michael Harding.’

‘Oh—like the thriller writer. How ironic. I’ve read all his books…love ‘em. Fancy you having the same name.’

‘I am the writer,’ he said diffidently, and shrugged. ‘I had to do something while I was marking time, and I thought I might as well put all that experience to good use. I had no idea it was going to be such a success or that I’d love it so much.’

Peggy’s eyes filled again and she nodded slowly. ‘I wondered if it was you. I could hear your voice in the words. Oh, Michael, I’m so proud of you!’

Malcolm’s hand curled round his shoulder, squeezing tight as he stood up. ‘Absolutely. And your parents would have been proud—very, very proud, and with good reason. Many good reasons.’

‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly, unbearably touched. ‘I’m just glad they didn’t have to go through what you have done.’

‘Amen to that.’ He harrumphed and made a great production of clearing his throat. ‘Well, I think this calls for a drink,’ he said, retrieving a bottle of champagne from the fridge and putting three flutes on the table. He stripped off the foil and twisted the wire cage, just as Michael put his hand in his pocket.

‘There’s something else you should know,’ he said, and pulled out a photograph and slid it on to the table. ‘It seems I have a son.’

The cork popped loudly in the silence and, while the wine foamed unheeded over Malcolm’s hand, Peggy started to weep again.

CHAPTER TWO

‘GOOD morning.’

She looked up, and for a second her heart stopped.

And then he moved, stepped forwards into the room, and as the light hit his face Annie felt the stupid, foolish hope drain away and her heart started again.

She picked up a tea towel, drying her hands for something to do that didn’t involve anything fragile like crockery. Crazy. For a moment there—but it was silly. It was just because she’d been thinking about him—

‘You OK?’ he asked, his voice low and rough and strangely sensuous. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

She nearly laughed aloud, and dragged her eyes from the battered, lived-in face in front of her, staring down in bewilderment at her shaking hands. Lord, she should have stopped doing this after all these years, clutching at straws, seeing him in any random stranger, but there was just something—

‘Sorry. You reminded me of someone. Can I get you anything?’

He shook his head. ‘You must be Annie Miller. I’m Michael Harding—your landlord. It’s good to meet you. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.’

He held out his hand, and she dropped the tea towel and reached over the cakes and placed her hand briefly in his warm, strong grasp—a grasp that was somehow safe and solid and utterly reassuring.

She fought the urge to leave her hand there—probably for ever—and tried to remember how to talk.

‘That’s OK, I know you’re busy. Ruth said you’d be coming over,’ she told him, her voice unaccountably breathless. She retrieved her hand and found a smile from somewhere, and his lips tilted in answer, a crooked, distorted smile, one corner of his mouth strangely reluctant. It should have made him ugly, but it didn’t, something about the eyes and firm, sculpted lips devastatingly attractive—

‘Any chance of getting a few quiet minutes with you this morning so we can talk?’ he was asking, his soft and yet rough voice doing something weird to her insides. She forced herself to concentrate on his words, and found herself suddenly nervous. Was this it? Was he going to give her notice? Planning to sell up or hike her rent out of reach?

She schooled her voice and her expression, trying to quell the panic. ‘It’s quiet now that the breakfast crowd have gone. Will this do?’

‘Sure. I’d just like to chat, really—have a look round, see it with my own eyes. I haven’t been here for years, but Ruth tells me you’ve done a good job. I gather it’s very successful. I just wanted to make sure you’re happy with everything.’

She felt the tension ease a fraction and wondered if she was being too trusting. Probably. It was her greatest fault.

‘Help yourself, it won’t take you long to see it all—the cloakroom’s through that door at the back, and the store’s out there too, and the kitchen you can see.’

He looked at it over the counter and nodded. ‘Nice, having it in the middle like this. Friendly.’

‘That was one of the things Liz and I insisted on, having the preparation area right in the middle of this long wall. It makes it relaxed and approachable, a bit like sitting in someone’s kitchen while they cook for you. And you can see everything—there are no nasty surprises, no dirty corners. You know exactly what conditions your food’s being prepared under, and people like that. We thought it was a good idea.’

He nodded. ‘It’s good. Low key, easy. Relaxed. I like it. Who’s Liz?’

‘Oh—the founder, really. She was my late husband’s first wife. She was lovely.’

‘Was?’

‘She died nine years ago, just after she set it up.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and for some reason it didn’t seem like a platitude. He didn’t dwell, though, but moved on, his eyes taking everything in, and she followed him, answering questions, smiling as necessary and wondering what he’d think of her housekeeping.

He went into the store, looked round, checked out the loo, then turned, almost on top of her, and her heart hitched.

‘It is small, isn’t it?’ he said, far too close for comfort and trampling all over her common sense.

Ruth was right. He was broodingly sexy. Very. She backed away, reversing into a table. ‘Intimate.’

‘It’s tiny,’ he said, with a lopsided grin that made her heart lurch again.

‘Small but perfectly formed,’ she quipped, and his eyes flicked over her and returned to her face.

‘Absolutely,’ he murmured, and she stared into those gorgeous blue eyes and felt herself colour. Heavens. How could he not have been Ruth’s type? He’d be any woman’s type if she had a pulse—

She turned away abruptly. ‘Coffee?’ she said, her voice scratchy and a little high, and behind her she heard him clear his throat softly, more of a grunt than a cough, as if he was reining back, distancing himself from the suddenly intimate moment.

‘That would be lovely.’

So she poured two mugs of coffee and set them down on opposite sides of the round table by the window at the front, where she could see her regulars coming and get their orders under-way.

She took the chair closest to the kitchen area. ‘I gather from Ruth that you want to refurbish the place,’ she said, meeting those dazzling eyes head-on with a challenge, and he nodded.

‘I do. It’s looking a bit sad. I hadn’t really registered—Ruth’s been too uncomplaining, and so have you. The flat needs a new kitchen and bathroom, and with the antique shop empty I was thinking maybe we could do something more with this place—give you a little more room as well as freshening it up a little. If you want?’

‘How much room?’ she asked, trying to concentrate on the overheads and not his face. ‘I can’t really afford to pay much more.’

He shrugged, his lips pursing, one side reluctant. ‘As much as you need. You could take all of it.’

She shook her head. ‘The stairs would be in the way. I wouldn’t like it divided into two—it wouldn’t feel the same. And anyway, the kitchen’s not big enough for all those tables. If you’re offering bits of the place, I’d rather have the garden.’

He chuckled. ‘How did I know that was coming?’

He peeled back the lid on the coffee creamer and tipped it in, stirring it with deliberation, and it gave her a moment to study him openly.

His hair was short and dark, the temples threaded with grey. She wondered how old he was. Forty? Forty-five? More, maybe, or less, but it seemed irrelevant. Whatever, he was very attractive in a very masculine and hard-edged way.

It was odd that he was so attractive, really, because his face wasn’t classically handsome, by any means. There was something peculiar about it, she decided. Irregular. The jaw wasn’t quite symmetrical, the left side of it etched with fine scars that carved white lines in the shadow of his stubble. His chin was a little crooked, his teeth not quite straight.

And yet it was an attractive face for all that. Interesting. She’d love to know the story behind it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask.

Not yet, anyway. Maybe later, when she knew him better—and now she really had lost it! He was her landlord. This was their first meeting in seven years. Once the refurb was finished it would probably be another seven before she saw him again, and at that rate they’d both be dead before she knew him well enough to ask—

‘Penny for them.’

She shook her head. No way! ‘Nothing,’ she denied. ‘I was compiling a shopping list.’

One eyebrow arched. ‘For a witch’s brew?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You were scowling at me. I don’t think I fancy the recipe.’

She felt colour touch her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away,’ she lied.

Contemplating getting to know him better. Much better.

Oh, good grief! She hadn’t done this for years, hadn’t felt this devastating tug of attraction since—well, since Etienne.

Perhaps it was his body that had triggered the response? They were the same physical type—same height, or thereabouts, although Michael was heavier than Etienne. Same build, though—lithe and muscular. Powerful. And something about the eyes—

But it was more than that, something not quite physical, some deep connection that went right to the heart of her and tumbled her senses into chaos—just as Etienne had done, but in a very different way, because Etienne absolutely never brooded and Michael—well, Michael was deep as the ocean, and she could get lost in those eyes—

Then he looked up again, fixing her with those very eyes, and a slow, lazy curve tilted the right side of his mouth.

And the chaos just got worse.

Lord, she was gorgeous. Beautiful and defensive and responsive as ever, her skin colouring even as he looked at her.

That went with the auburn hair, of course, the rich, warm red that gave her those amazing green eyes and clear, creamy skin. She had freckles after the summer, just like she’d had in France—

He dragged his eyes away, coughed to clear his throat, hauled his libido back under control. He didn’t want to blow it now, when it looked as though he’d got over the first hurdle. His heartbeat was starting to steady, the nerves of steel he’d always had before an op coming back now to help him through, but this was much, much harder, somehow much scarier because it was the real thing.

She’d given him a fright when she’d first looked up at him. He’d been sure she’d recognised him, but then she’d talked herself out of it as he watched. He’d seen the cogs turn, and then he’d just had to deal with her veiled curiosity.

She’d been studying him just now, and it had taken all his self-control not to get up and walk away. He hated looking like this—hated what had been done to him, the fact that he didn’t recognise himself any more. And he hated being studied. Normally he would have walked away or stared the person down, but this was Annie, and she needed to be able to live with it. So he’d let her look, pretending interest in the coffee, just hoping it didn’t make her want to run.

‘So you want the garden?’ he said, forcing himself to stick to the game plan, and for a moment she looked a little startled.

Then she nodded.

‘Yes—but I know it goes with the flat.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he said slowly, watching her. ‘We could certainly divide it. What did you have in mind? You’ve obviously been thinking about it—how long have you been here now, did you say?’

‘Nine years.’

As if he didn’t know that, almost to the minute. He kept his expression steady—not easy, considering. ‘So in that time you must have come up with some ideas.’

‘Oh, all sorts, but one of the problems is that to gain access to the garden at the back I’d have to lose one of the tables, and I can’t really afford to do that. Our summers aren’t reliable enough.’

‘But you could have a conservatory.’

She laughed. ‘I couldn’t possibly justify the expense! It would cost a fortune to have one big enough to do any good, and the place doesn’t do much more than break even really. I make a reasonable living, but I work hard for it and there’s no slack in the system. I wouldn’t contemplate taking on any expansion plans.’

‘But I might.’

Her eyes snapped back to his, widening. ‘Why? Why would you do that?’

He shrugged. Why, indeed? To make her happy? Crazy.

‘I’ve got the money—why not? It would add to the value of the property.’

‘Only if you’re thinking of selling it,’ she said, and he could see the apprehension in her eyes. He shook his head and hastened to reassure her.

‘No. It was just an idea. Don’t worry about it. But the access to the cloakroom through the store—that’s not a very good idea, and it’s a bit cramped. There was a doorway on the other side at the back of the stairs, according to my plans. We could open it up and make a store there. Or create an alcove, as well as a store. Take more off the antique shop. There are lots of options. I don’t see the cost as a factor. Think about it.’

She caught her lip between her teeth, worrying it gently, making it pinker. He had an overwhelming urge to soothe the tiny bruise with his tongue and had to remind himself firmly what he was doing here.

Helping. Not hindering, not chatting her up or flirting with her or putting the moves on her.

He’d done that nine years ago, and look where it had got them. No. This time he was going to do things right. Take it slowly, give them a chance to get to know each other properly. There was far too much at stake to blow it because of his over-active hormones.

He picked up his cup, dragged his eyes off her and drained it in one.

‘Right. Let me pay you for the coffee and I’ll go and get on. Lots to do.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she said quickly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking any money off you—’

He laughed softly. ‘No, I insist—because I’m just about to rip out the kitchen in the flat and I intend to pop down whenever I need a drink or something to eat, and if you won’t let me pay my way I won’t feel I can—’

‘Rubbish. Anyway,’ she said, and her mouth tipped up into a grin that made his heart crash against his ribs, ‘I’ll keep a tally and get my pound of flesh. I’m still after the garden, remember?’

He laughed again, and shook his head. ‘I won’t argue—for now. And think about what I said about the changes you want.’

‘I will. Thanks.’

She met his eyes, and the urge to bend forwards and brush his lips against hers nearly overwhelmed him.

Nearly.

He slotted the chair under the table, grabbed his jacket and fled for the door before he got himself into trouble.

Wow.

Annie sat down again with a bump, staring after him. The door at the bottom of the stairs closed softly behind him, and she heard his footsteps running up into the flat above. Suddenly she could breathe again, and she sucked in a great lungful of air and shook her head to clear it.

Wow, she thought again. What was it about him? Was it simply that he’d reminded her so forcefully of Etienne? Although he wasn’t really that like him. It had just been the initial shock.

But it was more than the looks. He had the same way of concentrating on what she was saying, really listening to her, watching her attentively. Etienne had done that, and it had made her feel somehow special.

Crazy. Michael was just trying to find out what she wanted from the tearoom. He wasn’t being attentive; he was just listening to her suggestions for improving his investment.

And any fanciful notions to the contrary had better go straight out of her head, together with any foolish ideas about getting to know him better. This minute.

Now.

There was a thump upstairs, and her attention zinged straight back to him.

Great, she thought. Kept your mind off him for less than a second. You’re doing well, Annie. Really well.

There was another thump overhead. With any luck he’d be so busy up there he wouldn’t find time to come down here pestering her and putting her senses into turmoil.

‘You need a life,’ she muttered. ‘One half-decent man wanders in here and you go completely to pieces.’

She put the scones in the oven, straightened up and saw a coach pull into the square. Oh, no! Just what she needed when her brain was out to lunch. She threw a few more scones into the pan, shut the oven door and refilled the coffee machine as the first of the coach party wandered through the door, peered around and headed for the window table.

Plastering on a smile, she picked up her notepad and went out into the fray.

He’d done it.

Amazing.

OK, theirs had been a brief affair, and nine years would have blurred the memories, but even so he was surprised he’d got away with it.

He shouldn’t have been. It was no surprise, really. The young Frenchman she’d loved was dead. She wouldn’t be looking for him in an Englishman, especially one who looked so different. When he’d caught her studying him, the look on her face had caught him on the raw. There was no way there’d been recognition in her eyes, just curiosity, and maybe a little fascination. He didn’t want her to be fascinated—at least, not like that, but he couldn’t blame her. He was no oil painting.

Apart from the nerve damage that had taken away the spontaneous little movements of his lips, contorting his smile, the structure had been so damaged that, even if she’d known, she would have struggled to recognise him. Hell, he sometimes had a shock even now when he caught sight of himself in a mirror. Not to mention the fact that it had aged him more than he cared to admit. He sure as hell didn’t look like a man of thirty-eight.

Of course his stupid masculine pride had hoped she’d recognise him right away, and there’d been that moment of panic when she’d first seen him. He’d got away with it, though, brazened it out, and the bit of him that still had any common sense knew it was just as well.

What he wanted—no, needed—was time to build a relationship with her as the people they were now.

No strings. No past. Just the present.

And hopefully the future…

And this place would give him all the time he needed. Whistling softly under his breath, he found a screwdriver and set about dismantling the cupboards.

He hadn’t been exaggerating about using her as a kitchen.

He came down for coffee at eleven-thirty, then reappeared at one looking scruffy and harassed and short of caffeine.

‘I could do with some lunch,’ he said gruffly.

‘Coffee first?’ she said with a smile that wouldn’t quite behave, and he gave her that lopsided grin that creased his eyes and turned her insides out, and nodded.

‘You’d better believe it—a huge one—and something substantial to blot it up following not far behind. I’m starving.’

‘A pasta bake with roasted vegetables and a side salad?’

‘Chuck in a good big lump of bread and you’re on.’

She suppressed the smile, but it wouldn’t quite go. ‘Bad day?’

‘The kitchen’s fighting back,’ he said drily, showing her his hand, and she tutted and cleaned up the scuff on his knuckle with a damp paper napkin and stuck a plaster on it.

‘Thanks,’ he murmured, then added cheekily, ‘I’ll get out of your way now—I’d hate to hold up my lunch,’ and looked around for a table.

She felt her eyebrows shoot up and a smile tugged at her lips. ‘Pushing your luck, aren’t you? We’re a bit busy—sit by the window with the others. It’s my regulars’ table—I think you probably qualify already and it’s all you deserve after that remark, so I’m throwing you to the piranhas!’

‘Are they that bad?’

She laughed. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

He chuckled and went over, introducing himself to them and settling his lean, rangy body on the only spare chair. By the time she’d poured his coffee and put the pasta bake in the microwave to heat, he was already entrenched in their conversation about parking on the market square, the current hot topic in the village.

She pulled up the little stool she used for reaching the top of the fridge-freezer and joined them for a few moments, content just to sit there and watch them all wrangling over the insoluble problem of conservation versus trade.

Michael wasn’t having that, though. He turned to her and said, ‘So what’s your opinion?’ and dragged her into the conversation.

She laughed and threw up her hands. ‘I don’t have one. Well, to be exact, I have two, so I don’t count. When I’m here, I want people to be able to park. When I’m at home, which is there—’ she pointed out her house to him through the window ‘—I don’t want to look at cars. So I’m keeping out of it, not that it will make the slightest difference, because the council will do what they think fit and ignore us all as usual—’

Grace chipped in with her ferociously held views on conservation, Chris complained that there was never anywhere to park close enough to leave a sleeping baby in the vehicle for a few minutes to grab a sanity-restoring coffee amongst friends, and Michael cradled his coffee in his big battered hands and sat back and smiled at her over the pandemonium.

Good grief. How intimate that smile seemed in the crowded room. And how curious that his smile should have become so important to her in such a ridiculously short space of time! The microwave beeped, rescuing her from mental paralysis and any further dangerous speculation, and she leapt up and went back into her little kitchen area and made his salad and sliced him a couple of big chunks of corn bread, her whole body humming with the awareness of his eyes on her for the entire time.

She set the plate down in front of him, warned him that the pasta bake would be hot, and went back behind her counter to deal with a customer who was leaving and wanted to pay the bill.

Then another couple came in and dithered about and changed their order half a dozen times, sat down, glanced across at Michael’s meal and changed their minds again.

By the time she’d dealt with them, cleared a couple of tables and loaded the dishwasher, her regulars were drifting out and Michael was left at the table on his own. He wandered over, coming into the kitchen area that was strictly off limits to customers, and when she pointed that out to him he told her calmly that he owned it and anyway, even if he didn’t, she wasn’t clearing up after him.

And he put his plate in the dishwasher, refilled his coffee mug and looked round at her crowded little workspace with a pleated brow. ‘Poky, isn’t it?’

‘It’s efficient.’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s outdated and cramped.’

‘It was the best we could afford,’ she said, beginning to bristle and wondering what had happened to that smile that melted her insides, when he suddenly produced it.

‘And you’ve done wonders with it, and you’re clearly hugely popular, but that’s not a surprise,’ he said softly in the low, gravelly voice that finished what the smile had started. ‘That pasta bake was delicious. Thank you.’

He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, the smile rueful now. ‘Unfortunately the kitchen’s still waiting for me upstairs, so I suppose I ought to go and tackle it before I start rearranging yours. Come and sit and have a drink with me for a minute first, though,’ he said, and all the reasons why she shouldn’t suddenly went out of the window.

She sat down, pushed the regulars’ wreckage out of the way for a moment, and buried her nose in a much-needed cup of coffee. ‘Oh, bliss,’ she murmured.

‘Hectic morning?’

‘I haven’t stopped,’ she confessed. ‘It’s been bedlam. I was going to have a look through a few recipe books for some new soups, but I haven’t had a chance.’

‘You do soup?’

She nodded. ‘In the winter. I’ll be starting it any day now. It’s really popular, but I like to do a variety and introduce a few new ones every year. I used to test them out on Roger, but since he died I have to test them on my customers—dangerous, if it bombs!’

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