Читать книгу The Christmas Night Miracle - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 6

MEG deliberately kept her back to the room for several seconds after the call had ended, taking the time to try and compose herself.

Her palms were damp and yet she felt an icy shiver down her spine—not an unusual reaction after talking to her mother.

She had no idea how her mother did it; perhaps the tone of voice her mother used rather than the actual words spoken, she thought. All Meg knew was that after a five-minute conversation with her mother she felt five years old again, rather than a grown woman with a young son of her own.

But that wasn’t all of it, of course. Her sister Sonia would be there for Christmas, indeed, as her mother had just told her, was already there, having sensibly taken the train, her skiing trip cancelled because her husband had sprained his ankle on the golf course and so couldn’t ski.

Sonia, of the designer clothes, the successful career, and the eminently suitable marriage.

Everything, as their mother was so fond of reminding, that Meg wasn’t, and didn’t have.

She bought her clothes from a chain store, and her career as an interior designer kept the landlord from the door and the bills paid, with very little left over for anything else. As for marriage, she had Scott instead of the suitable husband her mother would have preferred.

And he was better than any husband she might have had, worth all the heartache of the last three and a half years, she reflected with the same fierce protectiveness she had known from the first moment he had been placed in her arms.

Sonia could keep her wealthy lifestyle, and her suitable marriage; Meg would much rather have Scott.

‘I was just about to fix supper when you arrived.’ Jed Cole spoke huskily behind her.

Meg drew herself up, turning to face him, putting all thoughts of Sonia and her parents to the back of her mind. There would be plenty of time for her to think of them tomorrow. Or even the day after that, she acknowledged ruefully after a glance outside at the still heavily falling snow.

Right now she had the more immediate problem of being a guest in Jed Cole’s cottage—an unwelcome guest, if her guess was correct.

And who could blame him for feeling that way? She hadn’t exactly arrived under auspicious circumstances. Crashing into the side of the cottage like that. The poor man must have wondered what on earth was going on.

Where the splutter of laughter came from she wasn’t exactly sure, only that it was there, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. In fact, the more she tried to control it, the worse it became.

‘I’m sorry.’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘I just—I can’t believe I actually drove into the side of your cottage.’ She was laughing so hard now there were tears on her cheeks.

‘Why’s Mummy crying?’ Scott looked across at her concernedly.

‘I have no idea,’ Jed Cole answered him grimly even as he took a determined step towards her. ‘Will you calm it down?’ he snapped. ‘You’re scaring the kid.’

As Scott didn’t look scared, only puzzled by her behaviour, it was more likely she was scaring ‘the man’ rather than ‘the kid’, Jed Cole staring down at her uncertainly now, as if he weren’t sure whether to shake her or slap her.

Neither of which particularly appealed to her, although she had a feeling he might enjoy it.

‘I really am sorry.’ She did her best to stop laughing, wiping the tears from her cheeks as she met his gaze. ‘You were about to make supper, you said?’ The hysteria hadn’t completely gone, was still lurking on the edges, but for the moment she seemed to have it under control.

Jed Cole still eyed her warily, those hard hewn features appearing more arrogant than ever, his jaw clenched disapprovingly. ‘Steak and fries,’ he answered her abruptly. ‘There’s enough for two if you’re interested,’ he added tersely. ‘Although quite what you’re going to feed the kid—’

‘His name is Scott,’ she repeated firmly. ‘And Scott eats what I eat.’

The man grimaced. ‘Then I guess there’s enough steak and fries for three.’ He turned on his heel and left the room abruptly, the sound of another door opening and then closing seconds later.

Meg gave Scott a quick glance. He seemed satisfied that his mother was okay after all and had resumed playing with his toys. ‘Scott, I’m going to help Mr Cole prepare dinner. Do you want to come or stay here and play?’ There was a guard in front of the fire, and he was playing far enough away not to come to any harm.

‘I stay here,’ he decided predictably. ‘There’s no tree, Mummy,’ he added with a frown.

No tree. No decorations. No cards. In fact, nothing to indicate it was Christmas Eve tomorrow.

‘Not everyone celebrates Christmas in the way we do, Scott,’ she explained smilingly. ‘And I’m sure Granma and Grandad will have a big tree for you to look at tomorrow.’

The tree would be in the hallway as always, with the decorations all just so, and white lights only because her mother abhorred the coloured ones, with neatly ribboned and bowed gifts nestled beneath it.

A sharp contrast to the fern they had left behind in their flat, Meg thought wistfully, with its home-made decorations and paper chains, and enough tinsel and multicoloured lights draped around it to illuminate a tree four times its size.

‘I’m just in the kitchen helping Mr Cole, darling.’ She bent to kiss her son lightly on top of his ebony head. ‘Just call if you need me.’

It wasn’t too difficult to locate the kitchen in this three-up three-down cottage. The door to the room opposite the sitting-room was open, revealing a small formal dining-room, meaning the closed door at the end of the hallway had to be the kitchen.

But even without that process of elimination, the sound of pots banging and the smell of food cooking would have told her exactly where she could find Jed Cole.

Jed Cole.

He really was something of an enigma. Even without that American accent he so obviously didn’t belong here. He was too big, or else the cottage was too small for him. Besides, the décor and furniture in the cottage were both well-worn and faded, and even if she didn’t buy expensive clothing herself Meg knew a cashmere sweater when she saw one, and the faded denims had an expensive label on the back pocket, the shoes he had put on after taking off the heavy boots made from soft black leather.

‘So tell me,’ she said brightly as she entered the kitchen to find him putting steaks, two of them, under the grill. ‘Which do you think you would have opted for if I hadn’t stopped laughing when I did—the shaking or the slap?’

Jed eyed her mockingly from beneath heavy dark brows as he leant back against one of the kitchen units, arms folded across the width of his chest as he looked down at her. ‘Actually, I’d got around to thinking that kissing you might do the trick,’ he drawled ruefully.

Embarrassed colour instantly stained her cheeks. So much for her attempt at humour.

‘But on second thoughts,’ he added hardly, ‘I decided that I’m not into kissing teenage mothers, no matter what the provocation!’

Meg’s eyes widened at this description of her. ‘Just how old do you think I am?’

He gave her a considering look. ‘Obviously old enough to legally be the mother of the—Scott,’ he amended harshly. ‘Just, probably.’

She put her hands on her hips as she eyed him incredulously. ‘For your information, Mr Cole, I’m twenty-seven years old,’ she snapped. ‘And I most certainly did not offer you any provocation.’ The wings of colour in her cheeks seemed to burn now.

His eyes narrowed at the slight emphasis she put on the ‘you’, that steely blue gaze easily holding hers for several long seconds, until finally he gave a shrug and moved away. ‘Make the salad, why don’t you?’ he instructed tersely before checking the steaks under the grill. ‘Nothing ever looks as bad with a hot meal inside you.’

‘Does that apply to you or to me?’ Meg returned ruefully as she moved to take the makings of a salad out of the cooler box in the fridge.

‘Both of us!’ he came back tersely before turning away to look at the fries.

Meg continued to look at him for several seconds. This really wasn’t an ideal situation, for any of them. Jed Cole had just been sitting here in the cottage minding his own business, looking forward to his steak dinner no doubt, and now he had a woman and her young son to feed too.

She moved to look out of the kitchen window, the light reflected outside showing her that the gusting wind was blowing the snow into deep drifts.

‘Is there really no way we can get away from here tonight?’

She only realized she had spoken the words out loud when Jed Cole slammed a knife down on the worktop. ‘No way and no how,’ he rasped with controlled violence. ‘Now if you want to eat tonight, I suggest you make the damn salad.’

Meg had turned as he’d slammed down the utensil, eyeing him warily now as she started to prepare the salad.

‘And stop looking at me like that,’ he added impatiently.

She straightened. ‘Like what?’

‘Like a mouse expecting to be mauled by that bear Scott originally thought that I was!’ He sighed his exasperation. ‘Compared to my usual demeanour I’m behaving like a goddamned pussycat, okay?’

Meg bit on her top lip as it twitched with laughter. At the moment he looked as Scott used to when he’d gone through ‘the terrible twos’, totally disgruntled at not being able to get his own way.

‘Okay,’ she agreed mildly. ‘Do you want dressing on this salad?’

‘Do I want…’ He closed his eyes, drawing in a controlling breath before opening them again to glare at her. ‘Who the hell are you, Meg Hamilton? And what warped quirk of fate,’ he rasped before she could reply, ‘landed you on my doorstep?’

‘Actually it was the side of the cottage,’ she corrected softly as she mixed a mustard dressing together. ‘But we won’t argue the details just now,’ she dismissed brightly.

‘We’ll save that until later, huh?’ he muttered, a grudging respect now in those deep blue eyes as he looked at her consideringly. ‘What was with your mother earlier? She seemed more concerned with her eating arrangements than whether or not you and Scott were okay.’

The kitchen, small at best, with barely enough room for the two of them to move around it, suddenly didn’t even seem big enough for that, with no room for her to hide, to avoid the piercing intrusion of Jed Cole’s gaze.

Because he was right. Not once during that brief conversation had her mother bothered to ask why Meg and Scott had been delayed, merely commenting that her sister had managed to get there, also from London, because she had sensibly come by train.

It simply hadn’t been worth the effort of explaining that, unlike Sonia, who had probably got all her Christmas presents for the family in one elegant designer-label bag after being gift-wrapped by the store they were bought from, Meg had all Scott’s Father Christmas presents to bring too. Gifts lovingly bought and wrapped by Meg herself, this being the first Christmas that Scott, aged three and a half, had really appreciated and looked forward to. She had even gone to the expense of hiring a car so that she could transport the things here.

The car that was now crumpled into the side of the cottage.

She would have to call the hire company in the morning and explain what had happened, sincerely hoping that the insurance would cover the costs of the damage.

She managed to give Jed Cole a casual shrug as he stood waiting for an answer to his questions. ‘Mothers are like that,’ she evaded. ‘Feeding their family is of high priority.’

Which might have been true of her mother if she did the cooking herself, but ever since Meg had been born, probably before that too, Mrs Sykes—Bessie—had presided over the Hamilton kitchen. But as Jed Cole would never meet her mother, let alone eat a meal in the Hamilton household, he didn’t need to know that.

‘I’m sure your mother is the same,’ she dismissed.

There was a slight softening of his expression. ‘For as long as I can remember my mother has always had enough extra food in the house to feed a family of ten, and often has, and if she hadn’t she’d send my dad out to kill a cow.’

‘She sounds nice,’ Meg murmured wistfully, almost able to imagine the warm kitchen and the motherly figure there caring for her family.

‘She is.’ Jed nodded. ‘So’s my dad. And my two younger brothers. And their wives, and the numerous offspring they’ve produced.’

Meg gave him a considering look. ‘So why aren’t you there for Christmas, instead of—well, here, alone?’

His mouth twisted. ‘Maybe because I prefer “alone” to my Mum and Dad, two younger brothers, their wives, and numerous offspring.’

Maybe.

And then again, maybe not.

She certainly hadn’t imagined that softening when he’d spoken of his family, or the slightly wistful tone in his voice.

But she didn’t have time to probe any further before he snapped, ‘Will you stop asking so many questions, woman, and dish the food up?’

In other words, end of discussion about his family.

But that didn’t stop Meg’s curiosity about them, about whether or not Mum, Dad, two brothers, their wives and their numerous offspring were sad because one of their number was missing from their Christmas this year.

Somehow, and she didn’t know why she felt that way, she had a feeling that they were.

Mistake, Cole, Jed remonstrated with himself even while he inwardly acknowledged that the dressing on the salad was just as he liked it. But he should never have mentioned the idea of kissing Meg. Because now he couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. It was a rather nice mouth, too, the lips full, with a permanent tilt at their corners, as if this woman liked to smile a lot.

As she was smiling now at her small son as they all sat at the dining table and Scott manfully tried to tackle his own small piece of steak, fries and salad.

And she most definitely was a woman, and not a girl, he accepted self-derisively, her smart comeback before dinner that of an adult. And the soft swell beneath the dark green sweater she wore over faded denims was adult too, as was the curve of her hips. And as for those full, inviting lips.

Damn it, he should never have mentioned kissing her, because now he couldn’t think of anything else!

Two months he had been holed up here, that was all, and now he was looking at Meg Hamilton as if she were a bottle of water in the desert. A carton of ice cream in a heatwave.

‘Is the food not to your liking?’

Jed focused on her scowlingly. ‘What?’

She gave him a quizzical smile. ‘You were glaring at your steak as if it had done something to offend you,’ she teased.

Oh, very funny. Ha, bloody ha.

It was okay for her to laugh, she wasn’t the one sitting here having carnal thoughts about a woman who had arrived on his doorstep in distress, her young fatherless son in tow.

‘The food’s fine,’ he rasped curtly. ‘It’s all fine.’ As if to prove his point he stabbed a piece of steak on his fork and shoved it into his mouth and began chewing.

And chewing.

Maybe cutting the steak down a little in size might have been a good idea, Jed, he berated himself, aware that both Meg and her son were now looking at him, Meg surreptitiously Scott with the frank intensity of a child.

‘It’s rude to stare, Scott,’ his mother remonstrated as she noticed his intensity of concentration.

The little boy turned away obediently. Only to turn back again seconds later when his mother wasn’t looking, those green eyes studied on Jed’s face.

Obviously he had never seen a man try to eat half a cow in one mouthful before.

‘Mr Cole, why don’t you have a tree?’ Scott finally asked, a frown marring his creamy brow.

Ah, it wasn’t the steak that was bothering him at all.

‘Or decorations?’ The little boy looked disapproving now. ‘We like decorations, don’t we, Mummy? An’ there’s no cards, either,’ Scott continued before his mother could answer him. ‘With robins on. We like robins, don’t we, Mummy?’ He gave his mother a beatific smile.

As little kids went, this one was a cute little devil, Jed allowed as he finally managed to swallow the steak. In fact, with his dark hair, green eyes, the freckles on his little nose, he was a tiny version of his mother.

Not again.

Meg Hamilton, even without the extra baggage, was most definitely not his type.

At thirty-eight, he liked his women to be tall and sophisticated, older women, who were only interested in the brief relationship he was willing to give. Meg had the look of a woman who had already taken enough blows to her girlhood dreams, without another selfish bastard coming along to shatter them some more.

‘I did explain, Scott—’ Meg spoke quietly to her son now ‘—that not everyone celebrates Christmas.’

‘Do you celebrate Christmas, Mr Cole?’ Scott questioned guilelessly.

‘Well…Yes. Usually.’ Talk about putting him on the spot. ‘But, you see, I don’t actually live here, Scott. I live in a place called New York.’ He predicted what the next question would be and answered it. ‘Very far away from here, in a place called America.’ Where, no doubt, dozens of cards and gifts would be waiting for him to deal with when he returned.

But even in New York he wouldn’t have put up a tree and decorations, had never seen the need for them when there was only him living there, the modern chrome and leather of his apartment not lending themselves to such frivolity.

Scott’s eyes were wide now, surrounded by the same incredibly long lashes as those of his mother. ‘Then why are you here and not there?’

Exactly like his mother, Jed identified impatiently, who had asked him a similar question before dinner.

But the difference here was that with cute little kids like Scott you didn’t feel comfortable either fobbing them off or lying to them.

However, at this point in time, Jed really didn’t feel like telling the little boy the truth, either. Especially as there hadn’t been so much as a flicker of recognition in Meg’s face when he’d introduced himself earlier.

He wasn’t quite sure where Meg had been for the last nine months while the invasion of his privacy had become a thing of nightmares, so that he had come to England and hidden away in this cottage in order to find the peace and quiet he needed to work. Not that he had worked. Well…not much, anyway. But this escape from instant recognition was better than nothing.

‘I think we’ve bothered Mr Cole enough for one evening, Scott.’ Meg came smoothly to his rescue at his continued silence. ‘It’s almost time for your bath and then bed.’

‘Oh, but, Mummy, Father Christmas comes tomorrow night,’ the little boy protested.

She smiled. ‘All the more reason for you to get lots of sleep tonight. Let’s help Mr Cole clear away, and then I’ll run your bath—’ She broke off, giving Jed a wry look. ‘I take there is hot water for a bath?’

He nodded. ‘And a shower, of sorts.’ He stood up. ‘You’ll need your bags from the car?’ He didn’t particularly relish the idea of going back out into the cold and wet, but neither did he think it a good idea for Meg to be wandering about naked upstairs later. It might be fun, but after the thoughts he had been having about the curviness of her hips, and the soft warmth of her body, it probably wasn’t the best idea.

In fact, having this unlikely pair here at all wasn’t a particularly good idea, but as none of them had any choice in the matter he would have to make the best of it. And that included providing Meg with nightclothes.

‘Please.’ She nodded. ‘Just the one bag in the boot of the car.’

‘Travelling light?’ He raised dark brows, remembering all the clutter his sisters-in-law always seemed to carry around for their kids.

‘We’re only staying at my parents’ until Boxing Day,’ Meg answered him as she collected the plates together, at the same time, it seemed, carefully avoiding his gaze.

They didn’t have Boxing Day in the States, made do with Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for the holidays over there, but it seemed to him that Meg had travelled a long way for a three-day, now two-day, visit. Why?

‘We’re going to see my granma and grandad,’ Scot told him brightly.

‘So I understand.’ Jed nodded, finding himself smiling at the little boy in spite of himself.

Children, especially little ones like this, were not part of his everyday life. Although, despite what he might have said earlier, he was fond enough of his nieces and nephews.

‘Do you know my granma and grandad?’ Scot looked up at him expectantly.

He gave a shake of his head. ‘I can’t say that I’ve ever met them, no.’

‘Scott, it really is time for your—’

‘Neither have I.’ Scott spoke at the same time as his mother, his expression wistful now.

Curiouser and curiouser, Jed mulled frowningly. Scott had to be at least three, perhaps a little older, and yet he claimed never to have met his own grandparents. Jed could understand the lapse where the boy’s father’s parents were concerned, but not with his maternal grandparents.

What sort of people were the Hamiltons never to have even met their own grandson?