‘Decision time.’ He pulled her closer to him, but this time he took her mouth in a kiss that nipped at her lower lip, before deepening into an erotic assault on her senses.

Warmth spread through her as his mouth left hers and trailed over her cheek, then her throat, before returning to her lips in a swift final kiss. He stepped back a pace, letting go of her, and she felt the loss in every fibre of her being.

‘So?’ he said levelly, face expressionless. ‘What’s it to be?’

‘You said no lovemaking,’ she protested weakly.

‘I said I didn’t expect you to jump into bed with me,’ he corrected gently. ‘I didn’t say anything about kissing or cuddling or a whole host of other…pleasant things between friends.’

Helen Brooks lives in Northamptonshire, and is married with three children and three beautiful grandchildren. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife, mother and grandma, her spare time is at a premium, but her hobbies include reading, swimming and gardening, and walks with her husband and their two Irish terriers. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty and sent the result off to Mills & Boon®.

Recent titles by the same author:

THE ITALIAN TYCOON’S BRIDE

THE BILLIONAIRE’S MARRIAGE MISSION

A FAMILY FOR HAWTHORN FARM* HIS CHRISTMAS BRIDE

*part of the Winter Waifs anthology

Sweet Surrender With The Millionaire

by

Helen Brooks

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

SHE’D done it! It was finally hers. A place where after all the trauma and misery of the last few years she could pull up the drawbridge—metaphorically speaking—and be in her own world. Answerable to no one. No matter it was going to take her years to get the cottage sorted; she could do it at her own pace and it would fill her evenings and weekends, which was just what she wanted. Anyway, if it had been in pristine condition she wouldn’t have been able to afford it.

Willow Landon heaved a satisfied sigh and then whirled round and round on the spot before coming dizzily to a halt as she laughed out loud. She was in control of her life again, that was what this cottage meant, and she was never going to relinquish that autonomy again.

She gazed round the small empty sitting room, and the peeling wallpaper and dusty floorboards could have been a palace, such was the expression on her rapt face. Walking across to the grimy French doors in which the glass was cracked and the paintwork flaking, she opened them onto the tangled jungle of a garden. Monstrous nettles and brambles confronted her, fighting for supremacy with waist-high weeds and aggressive ivy, which had wound itself over bushes and trees until the whole had become a wall of green. It was impossible to see any grass or paths, but she thought she could spy what looked like an old potting shed in front of the stone wall at the end of what the estate agent had assured her was a quarter of an acre of ground.

She shut her eyes for a moment, imagining it as it would be when she’d finished with it. Roses and honeysuckle climbing the drystone walls, benches and a swinging seat on the smooth green lawn and little arbours she’d create, a fountain running over a stone water feature. She’d cultivate lots of old-fashioned flowers: foxgloves, angelica, lupins, gillyflowers, larkspur, and pinks—lots of fragrant pinks and wallflowers and stock. And she’d have her own vegetable plot. But those plans were for the future. For now she’d simply clear the jungle and rake the ground free of the worst of weeds and debris for the winter. The most pressing thing was to get the house in shape, and that would take plenty of elbow grease, patience and money. The first two she had, the third would filter in month by month when she saw what she had left after paying the mortgage and bills.

Her mobile phone rang, and as she fished it out of her jeans pocket and saw the number she sighed inwardly even as she said, ‘Hi, Beth,’ her tone deliberately bright.

‘Willow.’ Her name was a reproach. ‘I’ve just phoned the flat and one of the girls told me you moved out today. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us it was this weekend you’re moving. You know Peter and I wanted to help.’

‘And I told you that with you being seven months pregnant there was no way. Besides which you’re still trying to get straight yourself.’ Beth and her husband had only moved from their tiny starter home into a larger three-bedroomed semi two weeks before. ‘Anyway, I’ve had loads of offers of help but it’s not necessary. I shall enjoy cleaning and sorting out at my own pace. I’ve got a bed and a few bits of furniture being delivered this afternoon, but there’s so much to do here I don’t want to buy much as each room will need completely gutting and the less I have to lug about, the better.’

‘But to attempt to move on your own.’ Beth made it sound as though Willow had gone off to Borneo or outer Mongolia on some hazardous expedition. ‘Have you got food in for the weekend?’

Before Willow could reply there was the sound of someone speaking in the background. Then Beth’s voice came high and indignant. ‘Peter says I’m acting as though you’re eight years old instead of twenty-eight. I’m not, am I?’

Willow smiled ruefully. She loved her sister very much and since their parents had been killed in a car crash five years ago they’d become even closer, but she had to admit she was relieved Beth would soon have her baby to fuss over. At thirty, Beth was definitely ready to be a mum. Soothingly—but not absolutely truthfully—she murmured, ‘Course not. Look, I’ve taken some holiday I had owing to get straight. I’ll pop in for a chat soon.’

‘Great. Come on Monday and stay for dinner,’ Beth shot back with alacrity.

Again Willow sighed silently. The planning office in Redditch where she’d worked since leaving university was a stone’s throw from Beth’s new place, and not far from the house she’d shared with three friends for the last twelve months. The cottage, on the other hand, was an hour’s drive away, the last fifteen minutes of which on twisting country lanes. Until she’d got familiar with the journey she would have preferred to drive home while it was still light. Now, in late September, the nights were dropping in. But if she suggested going to see Beth for lunch instead it would mean virtually a whole day’s work at the cottage was lost. ‘Lovely,’ she said dutifully. ‘I’ll bring dessert but it’ll be shop-bought, I’m afraid.’

They talked a little more before Willow excused herself by saying she had a hundred and one things to do, but she didn’t immediately get to work. Instead she sank down on the curved stone steps that led from the French doors into the garden. She breathed in the warm morning air, her face uplifted to the sun. Birds twittered in the trees and the sky was a deep cornflower blue. Silly, but she felt nature had conspired with her to give her a break and make moving day as easy as it could be. It was a good start to the rest of her life anyway.

A robin flew down to land on the bottom of the three steps, staring at her for a moment with bright black eyes before darting off. She continued to gaze at the spot where the bird had been, but now her eyes were inward-looking.

This was what the cottage signified: the start of the rest of her life. The past was gone and she couldn’t change it or undo the huge mistake she’d made in getting involved with Piers in the first place, but the present and the future were hers now she was free of him. It was up to her to make of them what she would. Just a few months ago she had wanted the world to end; life had lost all colour and each day had been nothing more than a battle to get through before she could take one of the pills the doctor had prescribed and shut off her mind for a little while. But slowly she’d stopped taking the pills to help her sleep, had begun to eat again, been able to concentrate on a TV programme or read a book without her mind returning to Piers and that last terrible night.

She lifted up her slender arms, purposely channelling her mind in a different direction as she stretched and stood up. It had taken time, but she was able to do this now and she was grateful for it. In fact it had probably saved her reason. Whatever, she was herself again—albeit an older, wiser self.

Turning, she went back inside and through the house to the front door. Her trusty little Ford Fiesta was parked on the grass verge at the end of the small front garden, which, like the back, was a tangle of weeds, nettles and briars. The car was packed to the roof with her clothes and personal belongings, along with a box containing cleaning equipment and the new vacuum cleaner she’d bought the day before. She had roughly four hours before her bed and few items of furniture were due to be delivered, and she’d need every minute. The old lady who had lived here before she’d finally been persuaded to move to a nursing home had clearly been struggling for years to cope. The nephew who had overseen her departure from the cottage had apparently cleared it; removing the carpets and curtains—which the estate agent had assured Willow had been falling to pieces—along with everything else. What was left was mountains of dust, dirt and cobwebs, but from what she could see of the grimy floorboards they would be great when stained. And at least she could really put her stamp on things.

Four hours later she’d emptied the vacuum bag umpteen times, but at least the dust from the carpet underlay, which had disintegrated into fine powder, was gone, and most surfaces were relatively clean. The cottage wasn’t large, comprising a sitting room, kitchen and bathroom downstairs, and two bedrooms upstairs. There was a kind of scullery attached to the kitchen by means of a door that you opened and stepped down into a six-foot by six-foot bare brick room with a tiny slot of a window, and it was evident the old lady had been in the habit of storing her coal and logs for the fire here. There was no central heating and in the kitchen an ancient range was the only means of cooking. The cottage had been rewired fairly recently though, which was a bonus in view of all the other work she’d need to do, and it had a mains supply of water.

The furniture van arrived and the cheery driver helped Willow manoeuvre her bed and chest of drawers upstairs. There was a built-in wardrobe in the bedroom she’d chosen to sleep in. A two-seater sofa and plumpy armchair and coffee table for the sitting room completed her purchases; her portable TV was in the car, along with her microwave.

That night she fell into bed and was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, and for the first time since she had left Piers there were no bad dreams. When Willow awoke in the morning to sunlight streaming in the uncurtained window, she lay for a long time just listening to the birds singing outside and drinking in the peace and solitude. The house she’d shared with her friends for the last months had been on a main road and the traffic noise had filtered in despite the double glazing, but that had been nothing to the noise within most of the time! And before that—

She sat up in bed. She wasn’t going to think about the years with Piers in any way, shape or form. New resolution. New start. Off with the old and on with the new. She could so do this. She’d always had her fair share of willpower.

The next couple of days were spent cleaning and scrubbing every room, but by the time Willow had dinner with Beth she was satisfied the years of dirt were dealt with. OK, the place needed serious attention, but the roof was sound and she’d keep to her original plan and do a job at a time as the money dictated. Buying furniture had taken every spare penny but she could work on the garden for the rest of her holiday.

She drove home without mishap after an enjoyable evening with Beth and Peter, and the next day began the assault on the garden. By the weekend she was scratched and sore and aching in muscles she hadn’t known she had, but she’d cleared a good-sized section of land. Sunday afternoon the sun was still shining and she decided to have a bonfire. That was what people did in the country, after all.

At some time there must have been a small picket fence separating part of the garden. This had long since rotted, but the remains were useful as a base for the bonfire, along with armfuls of other pieces of wood she had found and old newspapers. When she’d opened the door of the dilapidated pottingshed a couple of days earlier, she had found it stacked from floor to ceiling with old newspapers, magazines, cardboard egg boxes and food wrappers. The old lady must have deposited her paper and cardboard there for years before the garden became too overgrown for her to reach it.

Willow piled the brambles and nettles and other vegetation she’d cleared as high as she could. It would take ages to burn the contents of the potting shed alone, but she had until it got dark. She had positioned the bonfire at the end of the garden some feet from the high stone wall. Beyond this, she understood from the estate agent, was the garden of a larger manor house. The house in question was set in extensive grounds and obscured from view by massive old trees, but the landscaped gardens visible from the lane spoke of considerable wealth. It had been the country residence of the local squire who had owned most of the village set in a dip below Willow’s cottage in the old days, apparently, and her cottage had been the gatekeeper’s property before the cottage and garden had been sold off. These days the manor house was the weekend home of a successful businessman, according to the estate agent.

Once the bonfire was well and truly alight, Willow began to enjoy herself. There was something immensely satisfying in burning all the rubbish and she fetched more piles of newspapers from the potting shed, throwing them into the crackling flames with gay abandon. This would save a good few trips to the local refuse site if nothing else.

Quite when a sense of slowly mounting unease turned into panic, Willow wasn’t sure. Her gung-ho approach with the newspapers had resulted in a large quantity of pieces being picked up by the breeze—still merrily burning—and sailing over the wall in ever-increasing numbers. She tried to knock a pile that was smouldering off the fire with a big stick, but only succeeded in fanning the flames.

She had followed a tip of Peter’s and drenched the wood at the bottom of the bonfire in petrol before she’d piled the rubbish on it; now there was no stopping the blaze. Increasingly alarmed by the power of the monster she’d created, she retreated to the cottage to fetch a bucket of water to throw on the flames now leaping into the sky with ever-increasing ferocity and strength.

She was still filling the bucket in the kitchen when she heard shouting. Turning off the tap, she picked up the half-full pail and hurried into the garden in time to see the figure of a man hoisting himself astride the stone wall, his curses mingling with the roaring fire and the wild frenzied barking of what sounded like a pack of rabid dogs.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he snarled at her as she approached. ‘Have you lost your reason, woman?’

How rude. The abject apology she’d been about to make died on her lips. She stared into a pair of eyes so blue they were dazzling—which wasn’t helpful in the circumstances—and stopped dead in her tracks, which caused a good portion of the water in the bucket to slop over onto her grubby work trainers. ‘This is my property,’ she said coldly. ‘And this isn’t a smoke-free zone.’

‘I’ve got nothing against the smoke,’ he bit back, his tone acid. ‘It’s your determination to start fires all over the neighborhood I’m objecting to, and the danger to life and limb. One of my dogs has had its fur singed as it is.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, equally acidly.

‘You sound it.’ He ducked as a particularly large piece of burning paper wafted past his left ear. ‘There’s bits of this stuff floating in my swimming pool and all over the grounds, and my dogs are playing a game of Russian roulette as we speak. Damp it down, for crying out loud.’

‘I was about to when you materialised.’

‘With that?’ He eyed her bucket with scathing disgust.

‘You might as well use an eggcup. Where’s your garden hose?’

‘I don’t have one.’ She glared at him, her eyes narrowed.

‘Give me strength…’

As he disappeared back into his own garden Willow stared at the spot where he’d been, her cheeks burning, and not wholly because of the heat from the fire, which was intense. What a horrible individual and how dared he growl at her like that? Anyone would think she’d done this on purpose. Couldn’t he see it was an accident? She’d hardly meant to send stuff into his stupid garden.

As the breeze mocked her by gathering a handful of paper and causing it to pirouette over the wall she groaned softly. He had a point, of course he had a point, and she would have apologised if he hadn’t rushed in all guns blazing. She slung the remaining contents of the bucket on the fire. It treated the paltry amount of water with the contempt it deserved and blazed fiercely as if to confirm she was fighting a losing battle.

She was just about to run back to the house for more water when there was a scrambling noise and the man reappeared. ‘Stand back,’ he said tersely.

‘What?’ She stared at him, taken by surprise.

‘I said, stand back.’ He bent down to someone on his side of the wall as he spoke, adding, ‘OK, Jim, I’ve got it.’

Willow saw the garden hose in his hand a moment before the jet of water hit the flames. For a minute or two all was hissing and spitting and belching smoke, ash from the fire covering her and the surrounding area along with droplets of water. She had instinctively moved when he’d shouted at her, but she was still near enough to the bonfire for the spray to reach her. She stood, utterly taken aback as she watched him douse the flames as though he was enjoying himself. He probably was.

‘That’s done it.’ He passed the hose back to the unseen assistant and turned to look at her. ‘Never start a bonfire without having the means at hand to put it out should something like today happen,’ he said with what Willow considered sickening righteousness, and then he grinned at her.

She stared at him. The piercing blue eyes were set in a tanned face that was more rugged than handsome and topped by black hair that reached the top of the collar of his open-necked shirt. His smile showed dazzling white teeth and he seemed totally at ease on his perch on the wall now the imminent danger was over. ‘Morgan Wright,’ he said calmly when she continued to gaze dumbly at him. ‘As you may have gathered I’m your next-door neighbour.’

‘Willow Landon,’ she managed at last, suddenly aware of how she must look as the blue eyes washed over her. ‘I—I moved in last week. I’ve been doing some gardening,’ she finished lamely.

He nodded. He was dressed in a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black denim jeans, and his whole appearance was one of strength and virile masculinity. Willow knew she was filthy, her hair bundled up into a ponytail and no make-up on her face. She had never felt at such a disadvantage in the whole of her life. ‘I’m sorry about the fire,’ she said stiffly after a moment had ticked by, ‘but I was about to see to it, like I said.’ She took a deep breath and forced herself to add, ‘But thank you for your help. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

His eyes had narrowed slightly at her tone. ‘Self-pres-ervation,’he drawled after a moment’s silence. ‘There’s a wooden summer house on my side of the wall and I’d prefer not to see it go up in smoke just yet.’

‘I hardly think that would have happened.’ She eyed him coolly.

Dark eyebrows rose in a wry quirk. ‘Your mother ought to have warned you about being so friendly,’ he said, his blue eyes laughing at her. ‘Folk could get the wrong impression.’

She knew she was being unreasonable in the circumstances. Unforgivably unreasonable. And she wasn’t usually this way. Somehow, though, everything about this man caught her on the raw. She swallowed hard, willing her voice not to falter when she said, ‘Thank you again. I’d better start clearing up,’ as she turned away, wishing he would disappear as quickly as he’d arrived.

‘Want some help?’ The deep voice was unforgivably amused.

‘No, I can manage.’ She didn’t look at him as she spoke.

‘I’ve no doubt about that but the offer still stands. Two pair of hands make light work and all that.’

‘No, really.’ She met the blue gaze again and the impact was like a small electric shock. She felt muscles clench in her stomach as everything in her recoiled from the attraction, but her voice was steady when she said, ‘I think I’ll go and have a wash and leave the clearing up until tomorrow, actually. Give it a chance to die down completely.’

‘Good idea—you don’t want to burn yourself.’

Again his eyes were laughing; the covert mockery was galling. Warning herself not to rise to it, Willow pretended to take his words at face value. ‘Exactly. Goodbye, Mr Wright.’

‘Morgan. We’re neighbours, after all.’

She nodded but said nothing, walking back to the cottage and aware all the time of his eyes burning into her back. She didn’t look round when she reached the door but she knew he was still sitting on the wall watching her; she could feel it.

Once inside the cottage she leant against the door with her eyes shut for a long moment. Great, just great. What an introduction to her nearest neighbour. Now he would think she was a dizzy female without a brain in her body, which wasn’t exactly the sort of impression she wanted to impart to folk hereabouts.

He had been laughing at her the whole time. Well, not the whole time; he had been too angry at first, she amended, opening her eyes with a soft groan. And she hadn’t made things any better, going for him like that. But he had been so totally supercilious and aggravating. And that little lecture about having a hose handy when she had a bonfire; how old did he think she was? Still in nursery school?

She levered herself off the door. She was wet and cold and dirty and it was going to take ages to clear up outside tomorrow. She just hoped Mr Know-It-All stayed well clear. If she saw him again for the rest of her life it would be too soon…

CHAPTER TWO

MORGAN waited until the door had closed behind Willow before he jumped down into his garden. He landed beside his gardener-cum-handyman, who eyed him wryly. ‘I could be wrong but I got the impression she didn’t appreciate your help overmuch.’

‘Don’t you believe it—she was bowled over by my charm.’

‘Oh, aye, you could have fooled me. Pretty, was she?’

Morgan smiled. Jim and his wife, Kitty, had been with him for ten years since he’d moved into the manor house after making his first million or two as a young man of twenty-five. They lived in a large and very comfortable flat above the garage block, and ran his home like clockwork. Kitty was a motherly soul and a wonderful cook and housekeeper. Now in their early sixties, the couple had been unable to have children of their own. Morgan knew they looked on him as the son they’d never had and he, in his turn, was immensely fond of the tall, distinguished-looking man and his small, bustling wife.

‘Hard to tell exactly what she did look like under all that dirt,’ he said offhandedly, turning and surveying the littered grounds as he added, ‘I’ll help you start clearing up this lot.’

He thought about what Jim had said, though, as he began to fish pieces of blackened paper out of the swimming pool with the large pool net. Green eyes and red hair, nice combination, and a good figure, but definitely a prickly customer. The way she’d glared at him…He stood for a moment, smiling slightly to himself. It had been a long time since a woman had scowled at him like that; since he’d discovered he had the Midas touch where property was concerned and risen to dizzying heights in the business world they normally fell over backwards to be seen on his arm. There was no vanity in this thought, merely a cynical acknowledgement of the power of money.

Beginning work again, he pictured her in his mind’s eye. There had been a nicely rounded, firm little derrière in those jeans as she’d marched away down the garden, her silky red ponytail swinging in indignation.

To Morgan’s surprise, he felt a certain part of his anatomy respond to the memory, becoming as hard as a rock. In answer to his body’s reaction, he said out loud, ‘She’s too young.’ She didn’t look a day over twenty, all brighteyed and bushy-tailed. He preferred his women to be sophisticated and worldly-wise, happy to be shown a good time but without any delusions of till-death-us-do-part and definitely charming, easy company. He worked hard and played hard and he was sufficiently wealthy to do both on his terms.

His mouth hardened, although he was unaware of it. When he had first entered the business world he’d been taken for a ride once or twice, but it had been valuable experience and he’d learnt from it. Very quickly he’d understood he couldn’t afford to take anyone or anything at face value. The same applied to his love life. At twenty-four, just before he’d hit the big time, he’d met Stephanie. Stephanie Collins. Blonde, bright, beautiful. When they began dating he thought he was the luckiest man in the world but after six months she’d sent him a typical ‘Dear John’ letter and disappeared into the blue yonder with a balding, wrinkled millionaire. Ironic, really, because if she’d waited a year or so he could have given her everything she’d ever wanted and without being pawed over by a man old enough to be her grandfather. But, again, the episode had taught him plenty for which he was grateful.

He nodded mentally to the thought. In fact the Stephanie thing had woken him up to the fact that the whole for-ever scenario wasn’t for him. His parents having been killed in a car crash when he was just a baby, he’d been shunted round various relatives until he’d gone away to university at the age of eighteen. From that point he’d made his own way in the world, but until Stephanie he hadn’t faced the need he had of belonging to someone, of putting down roots and having a home that was his. The need had made him realise he was vulnerable and he hadn’t liked that.

Morgan straightened and threw the net to one side. No, he hadn’t liked that at all. But then the money had started to roll in. He had been able to buy this place and also a chrome and glass one-bedroomed apartment in London where he stayed weekdays. And nowadays all he required of his women was honesty, which was why he made a point of only dating successful career women who were as autonomous as he was. And he was satisfied with that. His square chin came up, thrusting slightly forward as though someone had challenged him on the statement.

One of the dogs pushed its nose into his hand and he didn’t have to look down to see who it was. Bella had been the first of the German Shepherds he’d bought a couple of years after acquiring the manor house and she was still his favourite. As a puppy she’d had a weak stomach and been prone to vomiting attacks that could swiftly put her life at risk; many a time he’d sat up all night giving her sips of a rehydrating formula prescribed by the local vet. Maybe it was that that had created the special bond between them. She had grown into a strong, beautiful animal who was as intelligent as she was gentle, but in spite of her sweet temper she was the undisputed leader of his five dogs. And she always knew when he was disturbed about something or other.

‘I’m all right, girl.’ He looked down into the trusting brown eyes. ‘Thinking a bit too much, maybe, that’s all.’ He glanced over to where Jim was still picking up fragments of charred paper, his progress hampered by the other four dogs who were chasing bits here and there. Then his gaze moved over the beautifully tended grounds until it rested on the fine old house in the distance, the mellow stone and mullioned windows set off perfectly by the exquisitely thatched roof.

He was a lucky man. He nodded mentally to the thought. Answerable to no one and in complete control of every aspect of his life. And that was the way things would stay. Snapping his fingers at Bella, he made his way to the house, the dog following at his heels as she always did, given half a chance.

Kitty looked up from rolling pastry as he walked into the kitchen, her round, homely face enquiring. ‘Put the fire out, did you?’ she said, asking the obvious. ‘What was the lass thinking of to do that? I hope you read her the Riot Act—she could have had the roof on fire. Bit simple, is she?’

Ridiculously he didn’t like that. Remembering the spark in the green eyes, he said quietly, ‘Far from it. She struck me as impetuous, that’s all.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Kitty was a northerner and always spoke her mind. ‘Plain daft, I’d call it. Still, let’s hope she’s learnt her lesson.’

Morgan wondered why he was feeling defensive on the girl’s behalf when she’d behaved so foolishly. With Bella following he walked through to the drawing room at the front of the house, the windows of which overlooked wide sweeping lawns and manicured flowerbeds. Pouring himself a whisky from the cocktail cabinet in a corner of the room, he flung himself into a chair and switched on the massive TV with the remote. An inane quiz show came on the screen and after channel-hopping for a while he turned the TV off, drained his glass and made his way to his study.

The room was masculine and without frills, a floor-toceiling bookcase occupying one wall and his massive Edwardian twin-pedestal desk dominating the space. The study could appear cosy in the winter when Kitty saw to it a good fire was kept burning in the large ornate grate, but now the room merely had the air of being functional. He sat down at the desk.

Morgan gazed musingly at the tooled-leather writing surface without reaching for the stack of files he’d brought back to work on. When he’d got home at the weekend Kitty had been full of the news the village grapevine had passed on. A woman had bought Keeper’s Cottage and was living in it alone, and to date she’d had no visitors. He hadn’t been particularly interested; if he’d thought about it at all he’d probably jumped to the conclusion the woman in question was a middle-aged or retired individual who wanted a bit of peace and quiet from the hurly-burly of modern-day living.

He raised his head, his eyes taking in the tiny dancing particles of dust the slanting sunshine through the window had caught in its beam.

But the occupant of Keeper’s Cottage was far from being old. The woman who had glared at him with such hostility was very young and attractive and clearly had a mind of her own, which begged the question—why had she chosen to live in such seclusion? Did she work? And if so, where? Who was Willow Landon and why didn’t she like men? Or perhaps it was him, rather than the whole male gender, she didn’t like?

This thought caused his firm, sensual mouth to tighten and he leaned back in the big leather chair for a moment, drumming his fingers on the padded arms.

This was crazy. Annoyance with himself brought him reaching abruptly for a file. It didn’t matter who Willow Landon was or what had brought her to this neck of the woods. He’d probably never talk to the woman again; in all the time he’d lived here he had made a point of not becoming friendly with the neighbours. This was his bolt hole, the place where he could be himself and to hell with the rest of the world. His London apartment was where he socialised and conducted out-of-hours business affairs—other affairs too, come to it.

Morgan opened the file, scanning the papers inside but without really taking them in. He had ended his latest liaison the week before. Charmaine had been a delightful companion and—being a high-grade lawyer with nerves of steel and keenly intelligent—she was at the top of her profession and much sought after. Only he hadn’t realised she thought it perfectly acceptable to endow her favours to other men on the occasions she wasn’t seeing him. Unfashionable, perhaps, but he had always had an aversion to polygamy and he had told her so, as he’d thought quite reasonably.

Charmaine had called him pharisaical after throwing her cocktail in his face. What was the difference, she’d hissed, in sleeping with other men before and after an affair, and not during? They both knew they didn’t want a for-ever scenario, and they had fun together and the sex was great; why couldn’t he just go with the flow and enjoy it? Other men did.

He had looked into her beautiful, angry face and known any desire he’d had for the perfectly honed female body in front of him had gone. He didn’t want to go where someone else had been the night before; it was as simple as that. He gave and expected fidelity for as long as a relationship lasted, and he couldn’t operate any other way. The scene that had followed had been ugly.

Smiling grimly to himself, Morgan cleared his mind of anything but the Thorpe account in front of him. He needed to check the figures very carefully because something hadn’t sat right with him when he’d glanced at them at the office. He had found his gut instinct rarely failed him.

Sure enough, a few minutes later he found a couple of discrepancies that were enough to raise question marks in his mind about the takeover that was being proposed. He’d have to go into things more thoroughly once he was back in the office, he decided, slinging the file aside and raking his hand through his hair.

The movement brought the faint smell of woodsmoke into his nostrils and he frowned, his earlier thoughts taking hold. Women were a necessary indulgence but they were a breed apart, and Charmaine had reminded him of the fact. Not that he’d needed much reminding. And that applied to all women—angry, green-eyed redheads included. She certainly had a temper to go with the hair, that was for sure. His mouth twisted in a smile. Not that he minded spirit in a woman. It often made life interesting. He’d never understood men who liked their women to be subservient shadows, scared to say boo to a goose.

He stretched his long legs, reaching for another file and feeling faintly annoyed at how he’d allowed himself to become distracted. Within moments he was engrossed in the papers in front of him and everything else had vanished from his mind, but the faint scent of woodsmoke still hung in the air.

CHAPTER THREE

‘How embarrassing. Poor you.’ In spite of her words Beth’s tone was more eager than sympathetic and her face was alight with interest. ‘And this guy who owns the place, he must be worth a bit if the manor house is just his weekend home?’

‘I’ve got no idea how wealthy he is or isn’t.’

‘Is he young or old? I mean, grey-haired or what?’

‘What’s his age got to do with anything?’ Willow found she was regretting mentioning the episode at the weekend to her sister now. She had called in for a coffee and quick chat after work mainly, she had to admit, because she was still smarting from Morgan Wright’s condemnation and wanted someone to commiserate with her. She might have known Beth wouldn’t play ball.

Beth shrugged. ‘I just wondered if he was tasty, that’s all.’

Willow had to smile. ‘He’s a man, Beth. Not a toasted sandwich.’

‘Is he, though?’ Beth had got the bit between her teeth.

‘Is he what?’ said Willow, deliberately prevaricating.

‘Fanciable.’ Beth grinned at her. ‘Hunky, you know.’

She was so not going to do this. ‘I didn’t notice, added to which he’s more likely than not married. Attractive, wealthy men of a certain age tend to be snapped up pretty fast.’

‘So he is tasty?’ Beth sat forward interestedly.

Willow changed the subject in the one way that couldn’t fail. ‘So you’ve finished the nursery now, then? Can I take a look?’

She oohed and ahhed at the pretty lemon and white room, which already had more fluffy toys than any one child could ever want, along with a wardrobe full of tiny little vests and socks and Babygros, and then made her escape before Beth returned to their previous conversation. Her sister rarely let anything drop before she was completely satisfied.

The weather had broken at the beginning of the week and it had got progressively colder day by day. Today, Friday, was the first of October and the month had announced its intentions with a biting wind and rain showers. It started to rain again when she was halfway home, but this was no shower, just a steady downpour that had her scurrying out of the car and into the house in record speed once she was home.

After several days of battling with the Aga cooker she’d finally got the knack of persuading it into action just before she’d resumed work, but she hadn’t lit it all week, making do with microwave meals. She could imagine the kitchen was a warm, cosy place with the range in action, but each evening she’d lit a fire in the sitting-room grate and sat hunched over it for the first hour until the chill had been taken off the room.

Putting a match to the fire she had laid that morning before she’d left for work, she walked through into the kitchen to switch the electric kettle on, shivering as she went. The last few days had pointed out her main priority was to get oil-fired central heating installed in the cottage as quickly as she could; the sitting-room fire would be a nice feature to keep but was woefully inadequate as the sole means of warmth.

Once she was nursing a hot mug of coffee she returned to the sitting room and threw a couple more logs and a few extra pieces of coal on the fledgling flames, fixing the guard round the fire before she went upstairs to change into jeans and a warm jumper. That done, and in spite of the fact the room was freezing, she sat for some time on the bed sipping the coffee as she stared at her reflection in the long thin mirror on the opposite wall, her mind a million miles away.

It had been a tiring week at work with several minor panics and she was still getting used to the long drive home, but it wasn’t that that occupied her thoughts, but how her life had changed in the last twelve months and especially in the two weeks since she had moved into the cottage. OK, it might be pretty basic right now but it was hers. She had done this on her own. Why hadn’t she had the courage to leave Piers long before she had done and make a new life without him? Why had she tried and tried and tried to make the marriage work long after she had known she’d married a monster? A handsome, charming, honey-tongued monster who had fooled her as completely as he did everyone else. At first. Until she’d tied the knot.

Why? a separate part of her mind answered. You know why.

Yes, she did. She nodded her acquiescence. Piers had been the master of mind games and he had moulded and manipulated her to his will so subtly she hadn’t been aware of his power over her until it was too late. He had convinced her she was worthless, useless, that she couldn’t manage without him, and she had believed him utterly. Because she’d trusted him, fool that she was.

Rising abruptly, she walked closer to the mirror and stared into the slanted green eyes looking back at her. What had attracted Piers to her that night nearly six years ago? There’d been other, prettier girls in the nightclub. But he’d chosen her and she’d been thrilled, falling head over heels in love with him from the first date. Seven months later her parents had been killed and when he’d asked her to marry him just after the funeral she’d accepted at once, needing his love and comfort to combat the pain and grief. A month later they were Mr and Mrs Piers Gregory. And she had been caught in a trap.

Marry in haste, repent at leisure. An older, wiser friend had murmured that to her when she had announced her wedding date but at the time she’d been too much in love and too heartbroken about her parents to take heed to the warning.

Shaking her head at the naive girl she had been then, Willow made her way downstairs. On entering the sitting room she was slightly alarmed by the roaring fire, although it had warmed the room up nicely. Hastily banking down the flames with some damp slack, she walked through to the kitchen and made herself another coffee. Give it a few minutes and she’d toast the crumpets she’d bought for her tea in front of the fire once it was glowing red; there was nothing nicer than toasted crumpets with lashings of butter. And this was definitely a comfort night.

She had just picked up the mug of coffee when a sharp pounding on her front door almost made her drop it. Her nerves jangling, she hurried into the tiny hall and opened the door, her eyes widening as she took in the tall dark man in front of her. And he looked just as angry as when she’d first seen him.

‘Are you aware your chimney’s on fire?’ Morgan said grimly.

‘What?’ She stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Look.’ To her amazement she found herself hauled forward by a hard hand on her arm as he pointed to the roof of the cottage. Massive flames were lighting the night sky.

Wrenching herself free, Willow stared aghast at the chimney. Never having lived in a house that accommodated coal fires, she’d had no idea a chimney could catch fire.

‘I’ve called the fire brigade and they should be here shortly.’ Even as he spoke the sound of a siren in the distance could be heard coming rapidly nearer.

‘You called the fire brigade?’ Willow echoed in horror. ‘Can’t it just go out? I won’t put any more coal on.’

‘Are you serious?’ Morgan stared at her through the rain, which had settled down to a fine drizzle. ‘You could lose the whole cottage. The chimney is on fire, for pity’s sake.’

‘But a chimney is supposed to have smoke and flames go up it,’ she answered sharply. ‘That’s what they do.’

‘Up it, yes. If it catches fire that’s a whole different ball game. Did you have it swept before you lit the first fire?’

‘Swept?’ He could have been talking double Dutch.

‘Give me strength.’

He shut his eyes for a moment in a manner that made Willow want to kick him, but then the fire engine had screeched to a halt and in the ensuing pandemonium she forgot about Morgan.

Half an hour later the fire engine and the very nice firemen left and Willow stood staring at the devastation in her sitting room. She was barely aware of Morgan at the side of her until he murmured, ‘What is it with you and fire anyway?’

She wanted to come back at him with a cutting retort, but she knew if she tried to speak she would cry. Swallowing hard, she picked her way across the wet, sooty floor and reached for the photograph of her parents on the mantelpiece. Wiping the black spots off the glass, she held the photograph to her when she turned to face him. ‘Thank—thank you for calling the fire brigade.’ The fireman had said she’d been minutes away from having a major catastrophe on her hands. ‘I want to start cleaning up now, so if you don’t mind…’

He didn’t take the hint. ‘I’ll help you mop up the worst and then I suggest you leave the main clearing up till tomorrow. Nothing will seem so bad after a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast.’

Willow stared round the room and her expression must have spoken volumes because Morgan smiled the lopsided grin that she’d registered the first time she had met him before saying wryly, ‘OK, it might, but this’ll take hours and it’ll be better in daylight.’ He shivered, adding, ‘Haven’t you any heating in this place? It’s as cold in here as it is outside.’

Willow’s eyes went involuntarily to the blackened fireplace.

‘No central heating? No storage heaters or fan heaters?’

She shook her head. ‘Not yet, but I will do something soon.’

‘OK, this is what we do,’ he said after a moment’s silence. ‘We mop up like I said and then you’re coming home with me for a hot meal and a bath before you spend the night at my place. I’ll bring you back in the morning and we’ll tackle the cleaning then. At least you’ll be in a better frame of mind to cope.’

Was he mad? Adrenalin surged in a welcome flood, enabling her to straighten and say steadily, ‘Thank you, Mr Wright, but that’s really not necessary. I can manage perfectly well.’

‘I’ve seen the results of you managing…twice.’

Willow’s chin raised a notch. ‘Thank you,’ she said for the third time, her voice thin, ‘but I’d like to be on my own now. I’m not a child so please don’t treat me like one.’

She saw the amazingly blue eyes narrow in irritation. ‘Are you always this stubborn?’

The smell of soot was thick in her nostrils and she was so cold her fingers were numb. All she wanted was for him to leave so she could sit down and howl. ‘Please go,’ she said weakly.

It was like talking to a brick wall. Somehow in the next few minutes she found herself covering the floorboards with a thick layer of newspapers—Morgan had fetched these from the potting shed and to his credit he didn’t make any comment whatsoever—before fetching her handbag and coat and locking the front door of the cottage. She felt shivery and shaky and it was just easier to comply rather than argue, besides which she was cold and hungry and the thought of tackling the cleaning-up process tonight was unbearable.

It wasn’t until Willow reached the rickety garden gate that she noticed the Harley-Davidson parked down the lane on the grass verge. As Morgan walked over to the powerful machine she stopped dead. ‘That’s yours? You came on that?’

‘Yep.’ She could see his blue eyes glittering in the deep shadows as he turned and smiled. ‘When I saw the flames I figured I’d better get round here as fast as I could.’

She waved her hand helplessly. ‘But you live next door.’

‘A minute or two can make all the difference with fire. I didn’t know whether I was going to have to pull you out of a burning house at that stage.’ He shrugged. ‘It can happen.’

He started the engine and the quiet of the night was rudely shattered as he drove to her gate. ‘Get on.’

She had already noticed that he was even taller than she had thought him to be when he was perched on the wall. Morgan Wright was big, very big, and it was muscled strength that padded his shoulders and chest. In fact he gave off an aura of strength from his face—which was rugged with sharply defined planes and angles and no softness—to his feet, which were encased in black leather boots. The thought of clambering up on the bike and holding onto the hard male body was blushingly intimate, but she could hardly walk beside him. She had no choice but to agree.

Blessing the fact she had changed from her pencil-thin office skirt to jeans, Willow slid onto the bike, her handbag over one shoulder. Morgan wasn’t wearing a coat, just jeans and a shirt, and as she put her arms round his waist the warmth of his body flowed through her fingers. She felt him jerk.

‘Hell, you’re like a block of ice,’ he muttered.

Funnily enough, she was aware of that herself. ‘Sorry.’

There was no chance to say anything more before they roared off. After some two hundred yards Morgan turned into his own grounds through open six-foot wrought-iron gates. The drive wound through mature trees and bushes, which hid the house from the road, but then a bowling-green-smooth lawn came into view and the manor house was in front of them. It was quite stunning.

The motorbike drew to a halt at the bottom of wide semicircular stone steps, which led to a massive studded front door that could have graced a castle. Willow could hear dogs barking from within the house and they sounded ferocious.

‘Are you OK with dogs?’ Morgan asked as he helped her off the Harley. ‘There’s a few of them so be prepared.’

‘If they’re OK with me,’ she said more weakly than she would have liked. ‘And I prefer they don’t look on me as food.’

He grinned. ‘They’ve already been fed for the night.’

‘That’s comforting.’

He took her arm, leading her up the steps. ‘My housekeeper and her husband will be back shortly—they’re visiting a friend in hospital—and dinner’ll be about eight, but that’ll give you time for a long hot soak. You’re shaking with cold.’

Willow was glad he was already opening the door and she didn’t have to reply. For the life of her she couldn’t have said if it was the icy night air making her tremble or the enforced intimacy with the very male man at her side. And he smelt delicious, the sort of delicious that would cost a small fortune for a few mls and definitely came courtesy of a designer label.

Contrary to what she had expected the dogs didn’t come at them pell-mell but in an orderly group that sat at their feet without any jostling. ‘I’ll introduce you and you can give the obligatory pat—that way they’ll know you’re a friend and off the menu. They never eat my friends.’

Morgan’s lazy tone and the laughter in his eyes informed her he was well aware of her unease and enjoying it. Willow looked at him coldly. She didn’t know why but everything about Morgan Wright irritated her, ungrateful though that was in the circumstances. Criminally ungrateful, to be truthful.

Introductions finished, the pack padded off led by the large female called Bella, much to Willow’s relief. It wasn’t that she disliked dogs but she’d never had anything to do with them, either as a child or an adult. Her mother had been allergic to most types of pet hair and although she and Beth had had a hamster each, which they had kept in their bedrooms, it wasn’t the same as an animal free to roam like these dogs. And they were so big, especially their jaws. In fact they resembled wolves more than pet dogs, in her opinion. She gazed after them, her eyes taking in the luxury of her surroundings from the pale wood floor to the beautiful paintings adorning the cream walls in the massive hall. Everything was perfect.

She suddenly became aware that Morgan was looking at her with unconcealed appraisal. ‘Freckles,’ he said, as though that made up the sum total of her appearance. ‘Lots of them.’

She inwardly winced. The hundreds of freckles that covered most of her creamy skin had been the bane of her life from when she was first teased about them at nursery school. Reminding herself that he was going the extra mile in being neighbourly and that he had probably saved her cottage—if not her life—this night, she forced herself to smile and say, ‘Goes with the hair, I’m afraid. But you learn to live with what you can’t change.’

‘You don’t like them? I do.’ He continued to study her.

If he were covered in an infinity of them he might think differently. Willow shrugged. ‘There’s worse things to contend with than freckles.’ Much worse.

His gaze hadn’t left her face. ‘And your eyes are truly green without a fleck of brown. Unusual.’

She wasn’t about to stand there like a lemon submitting to his scrutiny. Moving past him, she looked to where a magnificent winding staircase led to a galleried first floor. ‘This is a beautiful house. How long have you lived here?’

‘Just over ten years.’ It was as if she had reminded him to play the host as he added, ‘Can I get you a drink or would you like that bath first? Or both, come to it.’

‘The bath, please.’ The bright lighting in the hall had brought an awareness that her jeans and jumper were covered in soot and she must look like something the cat had dragged in. Morgan’s jeans and shirt were bearing evidence of the events of the evening too. Somehow, though, he still looked good.

‘I think I’ll join you.’ As her eyes shot to meet his a dawning mockery in the blue gaze made it clear that he knew the conclusion she’d jumped to. ‘Not literally, of course,’ he added smoothly. ‘You in your bath and me in mine.’

The second bane of her life, which again went with the red hair, rushed in on a tide of crimson. She didn’t blush quite so readily these days but this one was a corker and she knew it. ‘Of course,’ she managed with a coolness that was rendered null and void by her beetroot face. ‘What else?’

‘What else indeed.’ He smiled gently.

Hateful man. OK, he might have the good Samaritan thing down to a fine art, but he hadn’t stopped laughing at her since the first moment they’d met, except when he was yelling insults, that was. He’d already made it quite clear he thought she was the original hare-brained female, and she wasn’t. She wasn’t. She had survived a destructive marriage and built a new life for herself, and that alone merited enough Brownie points to fill the ocean. Several oceans on several planets.

‘I’ll show you your room.’ Morgan’s voice was pleasant and Willow nodded her head with what she hoped was dignified hauteur. She thought she saw his lips twist, but maybe not.

He stood aside for her to precede him when they reached the staircase, and she found she had almost forgotten how to walk as she climbed the stairs. Her jeans were old and had shrunk to fit her body like a comfortable second skin, but it didn’t feel so comfortable with the laser-like blue eyes behind her. The old adage of ‘does my bum look big in this?’ was at the forefront of her mind with each step. It didn’t make for easy walking.

When they reached the wide gracious landing Morgan led her to the first door on their left, pausing and opening it before he said, ‘You should find everything you need in the en-suite and there’s a robe and slippers in the wardrobe.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled politely. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘See you downstairs later for that drink.’

She nodded, fairly scuttling into the bedroom and shutting the door behind her. Only then did she let out her breath in a long sigh. She’d been mad to come here; whatever had possessed her? She didn’t do things like this. She had always envied people who acted impulsively and took risks, knowing she was the exact opposite herself. Not that spending the night at a neighbour’s house in such circumstances was exactly a risk…

A mental image of Morgan Wright came to mind and she groaned softly. Or it wouldn’t be if the neighbour in question were any other than Morgan. But no, she was being silly. What did she think he was going to do, for goodness’ sake? Steal into her bedroom and have his wicked way with her like the villain in an old black and white movie? He’d offered her a bed and a hot meal for the night, that was all, and she ought to be grateful. She was grateful, but she wished he weren’t so…

Her mind couldn’t quite categorise what Morgan Wright was, and after a couple of moments she gave up the attempt and walked further into the room. It was gorgeous—large and airy and decorated in soft shades of silver and cream, with touches of dark chocolate in the bed-coverings and curtains. The en-suite was equally impressive, the chocolate marble bath sunk into the floor with elegant silver fittings and the massive shower at the other end of the bathroom large enough for a rugby team. A profusion of soft fluffy towels were stored on glass shelves, along with toiletries of every description. Willow even noticed two new toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste. The two basins, toilet and bidet were all in chocolate marble but the tiled floor, walls and ceiling, along with the bath-linen, were the same light cream as the bedroom. And this was just a guest room!

Willow stared at her reflection in the mirror that took up half of one wall opposite the bath. And groaned again.

Five minutes later she lay luxuriating in expensive foamy bubbles, tense muscles slowly beginning to relax as the hot water did its job. Her toes didn’t reach the end of the bath and the marble had been formed to provide a natural pillow for the occupant’s head; she felt she could stay in it all night.

She roused herself at one point to wash her hair, but then slid under the water to her neck again for a last indulgent soak, and she was like that when a knock came at the bathroom door. Shooting to her feet so quickly she sent a wave of water washing onto the floor, she grabbed a bath towel and wrapped it round her as she said, ‘Yes? What is it?’

‘It’s Kitty, dear. Morgan’s housekeeper. Just to say I’ve done my best with your clothes for now, but if you want to leave them outside your door when you go to bed tonight I’ll have them laundered for you in the morning so they’re nice and fresh.’

‘Oh, no, no, that’s all right.’ Willow stepped out of the bath and made her way to the door, opening it as she said, ‘Please, they’ll be fine till I get home tomorrow morning,’ to the small, smiling woman waiting outside. ‘I feel bad enough arriving unannounced for dinner as it is. I’m so sorry.’

‘Go on with you.’ Kitty flapped her hand. ‘I’m just glad Morgan had the sense to invite you after what happened. Men don’t always think on their feet, do they?’ She winked conspiratorially.

‘I guess not.’ Actually she suspected Morgan would.

‘Still, all’s well that ends well. I can give you the name of the chimney sweep we use if that’s any help? Nice lad, he is, and he makes a good clean job of it. Doesn’t charge the earth either.’

Willow smiled ruefully into the round little face. ‘If you could see the state of my cottage right now a bit of dust and soot from a chimney sweep would be nothing. I…I feel so stupid. You must all think I haven’t got the sense I was born with.’

Kitty, who had been airing her views on the ineptitude of ‘city’ dwellers to her husband for the last twenty minutes, clicked her tongue. ‘Not a bit of it, lass. How were you to know the chimney needed sweeping? I blame the estate agent—they should point out these things as part of their job. Quick enough to take their cut, aren’t they? But that’s typical of today’s generation. There’s no pride in a job well done any more, more’s the pity. People do as much as they can get away with.’

‘I hope you’re not including me in that statement.’

As the dark smoky voice preceded Morgan strolling into the bedroom through the door Kitty had left open Willow’s hands tightened instinctively round the bath sheet. For a moment she had the mad impulse to step back and shut the bathroom door but she controlled it—just. Her eyes wide, she stared at him.

Morgan had changed into a fresh shirt and jeans and his damp hair was slicked back from his face. The five o’clock shadow she had noticed earlier was gone too. Ridiculously the thought of him shaving to have dinner with her caused her stomach to tighten, even as she told herself he probably always shaved twice a day. His open-necked grey shirt showed the springy black hair of his chest and his black jeans were tight across the hips. Every nerve in her body was sensitised, much to her aggravation.

He seemed faintly surprised to see her still wrapped in a bath towel, his voice soft as he drawled, ‘Not ready yet, then.’

‘No, I—No. No, not yet.’ Oh, for goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, girl, she told herself angrily, annoyed at her stammering. You’re perfectly decent. Only the look in his eyes hadn’t made her feel that way. Even more alarming, she had liked the warm approval turning the blue of his eyes to deep indigo. For the first time in a long while she’d felt…womanly.

‘We’d better leave you to get ready.’ Kitty took charge, her voice suddenly brisk. ‘Dinner’s at eight, dear. All right? And there’s a hairdryer in the top drawer of the dressing table.’

As the little woman bustled off Morgan smiled a lazy smile. ‘Red or white?’ he asked softly, the words almost a caress.

‘Sorry?’ She hoped she didn’t look as vacant as she sounded.

‘The wine with our meal. Red or white?’

Her hair was dripping over her face and all she wanted was to end this conversation and put a door between them. ‘Red, please.’ Actually she didn’t mind but she wasn’t going to say that.

One eyebrow lifted. ‘Funny. I’d got you down as a white-wine girl,’ he said easily.

In spite of herself she couldn’t resist asking, ‘Oh, yes? Why?’ even as she mentally kicked herself for giving him the opportunity for more mockery. As if he needed an opportunity!

He shrugged. ‘Girls of a certain age seem to go for white wine.’ He smiled charmingly. ‘Or that’s what I’ve found.’

Did they indeed? And of course a man like Morgan Wright would know. The green eyes he’d spoke about narrowed. ‘What age is that?’ she asked evenly, determined to show no reaction.

‘Twenty, twenty-one.’

Willow didn’t know whether to feel pleased or insulted. If he was judging her age purely on her appearance, then that was fine, but if this was another way of saying she was silly and immature…Warily, she said, ‘It’s my twenty-ninth birthday in a few weeks.’ And make of that what you will.

‘You’re joking.’ He let his gaze travel over her body, top to toes. ‘It’s obviously a gene thing.’

It was actually. Beth looked years younger than she was and their mother had often been taken as their older sister. She nodded. ‘Advantage as one gets older but definitely irritating when you’re asked for ID at a nightclub,’ she said as coolly as she could considering her face had decided to explode with colour again.

He didn’t seem to notice her discomfiture. ‘Never had that problem myself,’ he said with a crooked smile. ‘I think I was born looking twenty-one.’

Willow could believe it. Morgan Wright was one of those men who made it impossible to imagine him as a child. The flagrant masculinity was so raw, so tough and virile she couldn’t envisage him as a vulnerable little boy. She shivered although she wasn’t cold.

‘Sorry, this is undoing all the good work the hot bath’s done. You get dressed and I’ll see you downstairs. The sitting room is to your right once you’re in the hall, incidentally. ’ He had turned as he spoke, and, having reached the bedroom door, shut it quietly behind him.

Willow stared after him for a few moments before she pulled herself together. She found the hairdryer Kitty had spoken of and dried her hair so it fell in a sleek curtain framing her face. She was lucky with her hair. Thick and silky, it was no trouble as long as she had a good cut.

Grimacing, she dressed in her grubby jeans and jumper, although thanks to Kitty’s ministrations they were more presentable than when she’d arrived. Fishing out the odd bits of make-up she always kept in her handbag for an emergency, she applied eyeshadow and mascara before finishing with lip gloss. The result wasn’t spectacular but better, and better was good considering this man always seemed to see her when she looked as if she’d been pulled through a hedge backwards.

She stopped titivating and stared into the green eyes in the mirror. He must think she was some kind of nutcase and she hadn’t done much to convince him otherwise. Perhaps she was a nutcase, at that. At uni she’d always been one of the more restrained ones, looking on with a mixture of embarrassment and envy when some of her more wild friends had gone skinny-dipping on a day out by the river or related their antics at the latest wild party they’d attended. But now they were all lawyers or doctors or ‘something’ in the fashion industry, and a few had successful marriages to boot. Whereas she…

This train of thought was too depressing to follow, besides which it was two minutes to eight. Taking a deep breath, Willow smoothed her jeans over her hips, trying to ignore the sooty smell, and smiled at the face in the mirror. ‘You’re going to be fine. He’s a man, just a man, and this is one night out of the rest of your life. It isn’t a big deal so don’t make it one.’

And talking to yourself was the first sign of madness.

CHAPTER FOUR

MORGAN WRIGHT wasn’t a man given to second-guessing himself. In fact he’d built his small empire by going for the jugular and to hell with it if he’d got it wrong—which, it must be said, he rarely did. He was at the top of his game professionally and comfortingly satisfied with life in general. So why, he asked himself as he sat absently ruffling the fur on Bella’s head, the rest of the dogs piled round his feet, was he regretting inviting Willow to stay the night? It didn’t make sense.

A muscle knotted in his cheek and he swallowed the last of the Negroni he’d made for himself after coming downstairs. The bittersweet cocktail was one of his favourites and he usually took his time and enjoyed it in a leisurely way, but tonight the mix of Campari, sweet vermouth and gin barely registered on his taste buds. He was all at odds with himself and he didn’t like it.

He set the squat, straight-sided glass he always used for his pre-dinner cocktails on the small table beside him, frowning. He would have bet his bottom dollar she was no older than twenty, but if she was to be believed you could add practically another decade to that. And he didn’t doubt her. What woman would add years to her age, after all? No, she was nearly twenty-nine.

He raked back a quiff of hair that persisted in falling over his forehead, and the restrained irritation in the action brought Bella’s eyes to his face as she whined softly.

‘It’s all right, girl.’ He patted the noble head reassuringly even as a separate part of his mind asked the question, but was it? He didn’t like the way his new neighbour made him feel, that was it in a nutshell. He was way past the sweaty palms and uncontrollable urges stage, damn it. That had died a death after Stephanie and since then he’d made sure his head was in full control of his heart and the rest of him. He had a couple of friends who’d let their hearts rule their heads and both of them were paying for it in hefty alimony payments and only seeing their kids every other weekend—if they were lucky. Women were another species, that was the truth of it. Love, if it even existed, was too fragile a thing to trust in, too weighted with possible pitfalls. Like another wealthier, more successful patsy coming along.

Knowing his thinking was flawed, he rose abruptly from his seat and walked across the room to stand looking out over his grounds. OK, there were men and women who loved each other for a lifetime—maybe. But how many of these ‘perfect’ relationships were for real? How many merely papered over the cracks for reasons of their own? Thousands, millions.

‘Ten minutes to dinner.’

Kitty interrupted his thoughts and as he swung round and nodded it was as though the small, plump woman standing in the doorway was a challenge to his thoughts. He couldn’t doubt the strength and authenticity of what Jim and Kitty had, but they were the exception that proved the rule. There were hundreds of millions of men and women in the world; you had more chances of winning the lottery than finding what the women’s magazines called a soulmate.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.