Читать книгу The Single Mum and the Tycoon - Caroline Anderson - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

IT REALLY hadn’t changed at all.

Bits were different. More houses on the outskirts, perhaps, and a new roundabout on the access road, but fundamentally the same. And it still felt like home.

Bizarre, when it hadn’t been home for eleven years, and even more bizarre that, after more than three, he could drive back into the little seaside town and feel a wave of nostalgia that brought a lump to his throat the size of Ayers Rock.

He cruised slowly in on the main road in his little rental car, slowly absorbing the changes to the place where he’d honed his bad-boy skills and broken a hundred hearts.

Including those of his family, he thought with regret.

He hadn’t meant to. He’d only gone to Australia for a gap year after he graduated, but somehow it had stretched on and on, and he’d ended up so entrenched over there with his business interests that coming home for more than a flying visit had become all but impossible.

He sighed. He’d always intended to programme in enough time to come for longer, but the road to hell and back was paved with his good intentions and, in any case, for the last three years the matter had been taken out of his hands. The accident had happened just a couple of days before his father’s heart attack, and when he’d realised how serious his father’s heart condition was he’d been gutted that he couldn’t get home, but there’d been nothing he could do about it. He wasn’t fit to fly, so he’d played down the seriousness of the accident and told them he’d broken his ankle.

Which was true. Sort of. Then he’d missed Georgie’s wedding a couple of months later, as well—he’d been gutted about that, too, and she clearly hadn’t believed that his ankle was still responsible—after all, how bad could a fracture be?—but there was nothing he’d been able to do about that either so he’d just made himself unavailable, deliberately turning his phone off so he couldn’t be reached. After all, no news was supposed to be good news, wasn’t it, and Georgie was used to him not answering her calls.

Better to let them believe he was indifferent than add to their worries. Or so he’d thought. Had he been wrong?

Still, he was here now, and it was time to face the music. He wasn’t ready for this, but he was beginning to realise he’d never be ready, so he might just as well get on with it.

But not yet.

Putting off the evil moment a little longer, he headed towards the sea front, past the newly revamped hotel at the entrance to the town, smothered in flags advertising its imminent opening as the area’s premier health spa and leisure club.

It was impressive. The last time he’d seen it, it had been a tatty, run-down dump of a place, clearly struggling and in need of a massive cash injection. It had obviously had exactly that and, as always, his father had done a good job, he thought with pride.

Swallowing that persistent lump in his throat, he carried on down the main street, expecting the same old shops selling the same old stock. Except many of the shops were new, he noticed in surprise—in fact it was looking lively and vibrant and really rather inviting in a quaint and quintessentially English way.

Sleepy old Yoxburgh was clearly thriving in his absence.

He dropped down the steep little road to the sea front, past pavements clustered with tables spilling out of the front of the pretty Victorian houses now turned into hotels and cafés and trendy sea front flats, and cruised slowly along the prom and up past his sister’s house.

A big Victorian Italianate villa overlooking the sea front, it was part of a redevelopment his father had been involved in the last time he’d been home, and it made a stunning house. Impressive, yet welcoming at the same time. And expensive. Easily seven figures, if his finger was truly on the pulse of the UK property market.

The development had been the biggest thing his father had tackled to that point, but he’d applied the same principles of quality and integrity that he brought to everything and, yet again, he’d done a good job. At least until his heart attack, and then Georgie had taken over.

From what he could see at this distance, she hadn’t let her father down. Unlike him.

He shut off that train of thought and drove up past the side of the property, studying the small cluster of top-end homes grouped around behind it. Nick had ditched the previous architect’s plans and commissioned Georgie to redesign and finish the project, and she’d done a good job, at least on the outside. Again impressive, he thought, and yet homely. Well done, Georgie. He was looking forward to seeing it all in close up, especially the lovely house where she was now living with her husband and children. She’d told him enough about it and sent him photos, but it looked even better in the flesh.

She’d done well, but he’d never doubted she would, and if anyone deserved to be happy, it was Georgie. She’d had some rough times, got herself involved with a real bastard a few years ago, and it was great that she was happy now. But so many kids? Four and a half, at the last count. They must be nuts.

He suppressed a flicker of something that couldn’t possibly be envy and drove round the corner towards his rather more modest childhood home, a solidly respectable, warm and homely three storey half-timbered Edwardian house full of nooks and crannies for a child to hide in. He knew. He’d spent his childhood hiding in them and infuriating his sister because she couldn’t track him down.

He gave a hollow little laugh. Nothing different there, then.

He scanned the house and felt a pang of homesickness that took him by surprise.

It looked good. Freshly painted, the garden carefully tended, and his father, looking as solid and dependable as ever, was standing in the front garden with a slender, grey-haired woman who was smiling up at him with love in her eyes.

Not that he could see her eyes, but he hardly needed to. The body language said everything, but she wasn’t his mother and it seemed—wrong?

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he muttered, and kept right on past them, his heart thumping. Why shouldn’t his father find happiness? Just because his own life had taken a sharp and rather vicious downward turn didn’t mean his father didn’t deserve to be happy.

Without thinking about it, he found himself driving out of town and down the winding lane through the golf course to the little community at the mouth of the river where he’d spent every available moment as a child.

Unlike the main town, the harbour hadn’t changed a bit.

Or had it?

Sailing boats were pulled up on the shingle bank beside the quay as always, and there were cars parked outside the pub beside the little green, but the Harbour Inn looked as if it had undergone a revamp, like many of the houses at the smarter end. Nothing drastic, just the subtle evidence of a little more cash injected into the neighbourhood.

The harbour was a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde, torn between the fishermen and the yachties, the pub marking the dividing line; the smart houses in their fresh new paint were clustered together at one end and at the other, down near the ferry slipway and the entrance to the boatyard, the higgledy-piggledy collection of old wooden bungalows and huts and sheds that made up the rest of the little community were clustered round the scruffy but bustling café that hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years.

It had sold the best fish and chips in town, though, he remembered, and he’d bet it still did.

He parked the car on the quay—pay and display now, he noticed, and realised he didn’t have a single coin of English money. Oh, what the hell. It was the end of April. Who was going to check on him?

But, just in case, he went over to the café, bought a cup of coffee in a foam cup and put the change in the meter, stuck the ticket in his windscreen and went for a wander while his coffee cooled.

And saw other changes. A new chandlery, some very expensive craft tied up to the moorings in the river, a new clubhouse for the yacht club—all sorts of changes, but the old ferry was still tied up to the jetty, and there was a pile of lobster pots and nets heaped against the fish shack. They were probably the same ones that had been there in his youth.

He turned a little sharply, and winced. God, his leg hurt after the flight. He stretched, flexed his knee, limping slightly as he reached the jetty and stood there, breathing in the familiar air.

‘Davey?’

He turned his head, incredulous. ‘Bob? Hell, you’re still here?’ he said with a laugh, and found himself engulfed in a hug that smelt of sweat and tar and bilge water, with more than a lingering trace of fish. It was the most welcome hug he’d had in years, and he blinked hard and stood back, studying the wrinkled, sun-trammelled face of the old harbour master, those shrewd eyes still brilliant blue and seeing altogether too much.

‘They said you were coming home for the wedding. Your sister didn’t believe it, but I knew you wouldn’t let the old man down.’ He jerked his head at David’s feet. ‘So what’s this limp then?’

He shrugged and grinned. ‘Nothing. A bit of bother with a propeller.’

Bob winced. ‘Would have thought you’d know better than to do something daft like that,’ he said gruffly.

David didn’t bother to explain. Where to start? Or end, more to the point. That was the hard bit. He looked around. ‘Don’t suppose there’s anywhere round here to rent for a few weeks, is there? I don’t fancy a hotel.’

‘Not going home to stay? That’ll hurt, Davey. He’ll be expecting you.’

He shook his head at the old man. ‘I need my space, Bob, and so does he. Anyway, he’s got better things to do than entertain me.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

Bob nodded thoughtfully, then he jerked his head towards the posher end. ‘You could try Molly Blythe. She takes paying guests sometimes. I don’t know if she’s up and running yet for the summer season, but it’s worth a try. Up there—the little white place at the end—Thrift Cottage. Molly’ll look after you if she can, and I know she can use the money right now. Just go and bang on the door. The kid’ll be around if she isn’t. I saw him heading back that way a little while ago. He’s been crabbing off the jetty.’

Crabbing. Hell, he hadn’t been crabbing in an English river for—well, for ever, and even the word was enough to bring the lump back to his throat.

He thanked Bob, drained the coffee and walked along the sea wall to the house Bob had pointed out, past the coastguard cottages and the little church, past the smart houses with the flashy cars, and, at the end of the cluster, set slightly apart from the others, was a pretty little white cottage set in a chaotic and colourful garden that looked as untended as the house.

There was a sign outside that said, ‘Bed and Breakfast’, but it was tired and peeling and faded with the sun. That didn’t bode well, and he could see, now he was close up, that the sign was just a reflection of the rest of the property. The barge boards were flaking, the garden was overgrown and the rose on the front wall was toppling gently over into the shrubs beneath, taking the drainpipe with it.

Thrift Cottage, indeed. It didn’t look as if anyone had spent anything on it for years, with the exception of the roof, which had new windows in it. Perhaps it was in the process of being done up—hence her need for money. He wondered what the neatly trimmed neighbours thought of Molly Blythe and her scruffy little house.

Not a lot, probably.

He went through the front gate that hung at a crazy angle on its tired hinges, walked up the steps to the door and rang the bell.

‘The bell doesn’t work. Who are you?’

He turned and studied the tow-haired, freckled child sitting cross-legged on the grass and studying him back with wide, innocent eyes. ‘I’m David. Who are you?’

‘Charlie. What do you want?’

His tone was simply curious, and David relaxed. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to stay. Bob told me to come and find Molly—’

But he was up, legs no thicker than knotted rope flying as he pelted across the garden and shot round the corner. ‘Mum!’ he was yelling. ‘Mum, there’s a man. He wants to stay here!’

He reappeared a moment later.

‘Mum’s coming,’ he said unnecessarily, because she was right behind him and looking flustered.

‘Sorry, I didn’t hear the bell—not that it works—I was gardening out the back. Well, more slash and burn, really. I was trying to find the shed so I could cut the grass. I’m Molly, by the way.’ She grinned, scrubbed her hand on her equally grubby jeans and held it out.

He realised his jaw was about to sag, because that wide, ingenuous grin so like her son’s had got him right in the gut, and he shut his mouth, collected himself and took her outstretched hand.

Somehow he wasn’t in the least surprised at the strength of her hot and slightly gritty grip. She was tall, athletically built with curves in all the right places, and her smile, below green eyes as curious as her son’s, was wide and genuine. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose just like Charlie’s, and her auburn hair was scraped back into a ponytail. A wisp had escaped, blowing across her face and sticking on the fine sheen of moisture he could see on her skin, and he had a ridiculous urge to lift it away with his finger and tuck it behind her ear—

‘I’m David,’ he said, letting go of her hand and dragging his eyes back up from the low, slightly twisted V of her T-shirt. There was a leaf stuck in her cleavage, trapped against the soft swell of her breasts, and he felt the air temperature go up a notch.

Hell, maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all, he thought a trifle desperately, trying to forget about that soft and enticing valley so he could concentrate on what she was saying.

‘Um—Charlie said you were looking for a room?’ she said, her voice, warm and slightly husky, lilting up at the end of her sentence. ‘Are you on your own?’

‘Yeah. It’s just me. I need somewhere to stay.’

‘How long for?’

‘I don’t know yet. A minimum of two weeks, at least.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, crumbs. Not just one night, then. I was going to say no, but…’ She swallowed and looked round a little wildly. ‘Um—I’m not really organised yet. I’ve converted the attic this winter—well, I say I’ve converted—a builder did it, of course, but I ran out of money and it isn’t finished yet so I haven’t got anywhere to put you—how long for, did you say?’

He opened his mouth to say he’d changed his mind, but she lifted her hand to pull the errant strand of hair out of her eyes and her arm jostled that soft curve of flesh enticingly, dislodging the leaf and driving out the last fragment of his common sense.

‘I don’t know. At least two weeks. It could be a month or more,’ he said, trying to tempt her into finding room for him, and hauled his eyes back to her face in time to see a flicker of hope mingled with desperation in those beautiful soft green eyes.

‘Um—that’s fine. Well, it could be. It’s just—well, the house isn’t really ready yet and the cabin—I mean it wouldn’t take long, but in the meantime—I don’t suppose you could find somewhere else for a night or two?’

And give her a chance to talk herself out of it? ‘I’d rather not,’ he said, cutting off that avenue of escape.

She chewed her lip and he almost groaned aloud.

‘Well—I suppose you could use the cabin,’ she said doubtfully. ‘It’s got its own little en suite shower room—the water pressure isn’t fantastic but at least it’s private. I’ve had guests in there for years but I hadn’t intended to let it again until I’ve had time to decorate it, and I’ve been too busy… Oh, goodness, I don’t want to turn you away, I really can’t afford to, but…’

She trailed to a halt.

‘So—is that a yes or a no?’ he asked, tilting his head slightly and trying to keep the smile off his lips.

She hesitated for a second, then grinned again, and he felt something hot and dangerous uncoil inside him. ‘That’s a yes,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind roughing it a bit for the first few nights until the house is ready. The attic just needs a quick coat of paint before I can put you into it—maybe not even that, really. I won’t charge you the full rate, of course—’

‘Can I see it?’

‘The attic?’

‘No. The cabin.’

A flicker of panic ran over those incredibly expressive features, and he squashed another smile. He sincerely hoped she never played cards.

‘Um—could you give me an hour? Just to sort it out a little. It hasn’t been used yet this year—I hadn’t got round to it because I wasn’t going to use it for guests again until I’d painted it. I don’t know if we can even get to the door.’

‘I could help you.’

The panic on her face dithered and fought with common sense, and the common sense won. Her mouth curved up in a smile, she let out a sigh and her eyes filled with relief. ‘If you don’t mind, that would be great. I mean, it doesn’t look anything, but it will, and it’s really comfortable. I love it.’

Oh, hell. Molly was giving it the hard sell. She obviously needed the money badly and, even though alarm bells were ringing, the thought of walking away from her now was even more alarming. Unthinkable, even. He couldn’t possibly let her down at this stage, no matter how grim the cabin was. And it was absolutely nothing to do with that enticing cleavage—

She led him round the corner and they came to a halt in front of a tired but pretty timber building set on stilts in the corner of the garden. She climbed the steps and yanked open the door, pushing the overgrown rose out of the way, and he followed her in, sniffing cautiously. It had the woody smell of a beach hut, slightly musty and reminiscent of his childhood, and light years away from the luxury of his exclusive beach front lodge in their retreat in the Daintree forest.

And if he had a grain of sense, he’d turn on his heel and run.

‘It doesn’t look much, and obviously it needs airing and a bit of a clean as well as a coat of paint, but it’s got gorgeous sea views and the bed’s very comfortable. I don’t charge a lot, and I do a mean breakfast.’

He obviously didn’t have the necessary grain of sense, because she was right. It didn’t look much. But it had its own bathroom, the views were glorious and he didn’t need luxury. Just peace.

‘I’ll take it,’ he said.

Molly felt her shoulders sag with relief.

She’d been meaning to paint it for ages, but she hadn’t got round to doing anything about it because she’d run out of money, and anyway people who wanted accommodation early in the year were few and far between so she hadn’t felt pressured. Apart from the weekend sailors, there weren’t that many visitors, but the time had dribbled by so she’d missed the window for Easter bookings, and her chance of getting any solid bookings now for the next few weeks was zilch.

So he was a godsend—not least because he was tall and strong and fit and didn’t seem to mind giving her a hand with preparing it! Not to mention downright gorgeous, but she wasn’t going to think about that. About the lean, lazy grace of his movements, the neat hips lovingly snuggled by worn denim, the way the soft, battered leather jacket gave to the tug of his broad shoulders, those hard, warm hands with strong, straight fingers that looked capable and dependable…

He was running his fingers over the paintwork in the doorway, and she was busy fantasizing about how it would feel if he was running them over her when his thumbnail flicked at a little flake of white, pinging it off. ‘It could certainly do with some work,’ he said, and her heart sank, his gorgeousness forgotten as reality thrust itself back into the forefront. With knobs on.

‘Tell me about it. The whole place could. I was going to do it but there never seem to be enough hours.’

He tipped his head, turned it, caught her eye. ‘It wouldn’t take long,’ he said. ‘Scrape it down, give it a coat of paint.’

‘There are a million and one things that don’t take long, and I have to do them all, starting with finishing the attic so I can put guests in there until I’ve done this.’ She gave a tiny, only slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Of course, in an ideal world I’d pay someone, but I can’t afford to.’

‘I could do it for you.’

She felt herself go still, and studied him warily. ‘Why would you do that?’

He shrugged. ‘Because I’m here for a while and I’ll go crazy if I don’t have anything to do but chat to the family? And I’ll charge you.’

Damn. Always the bottom line. ‘I can’t afford—’

‘An evening meal. Not every night. I’ll be out sometimes, I’m sure, but most nights. Nothing flashy. Beans on toast, bangers and mash? And in return I’ll help you out—paint things, do the garden, fix the guttering.’

‘Guttering?’

He nodded. ‘On the front of the house. The rose has pulled the downpipe off.’

‘Oh.’

‘But I can fix it. It’ll only take ten minutes.’

‘You can’t do that,’ she said, frowning at him as he turned towards her and filled the doorway, big and strong and capable. And very, very sexy—

‘Why not?’

‘Well—it isn’t fair.’

‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? I can do it if I want—and I want. And I’ll still pay you for bed and breakfast.’

‘But I couldn’t possibly let you—’

‘Of course you could. If I work, you feed me. If I don’t, you get to put your feet up. How does that sound?’

Wonderful. Blissful. Too good to be true. She eyed him warily and tried not to be distracted by the raw sex appeal that was nothing to do with anything.

‘I can’t afford the materials, and I don’t have any tools.’

‘Tools aren’t a problem, I’ll borrow my father’s. He won’t be needing them at the moment, he’s got better things to do. And the amount of paint you’ll need will be peanuts.’

She chewed her lip. He was right. It wouldn’t take long and it wouldn’t cost much. Feeding him would probably cost more, but if she didn’t do something to repair and preserve the structure of the house and the cabin, she’d lose a valuable asset and a way of making money for good. And anyway, he had kind eyes. Sexy eyes. Gorgeous eyes, in fact.

‘Done,’ she said, and held out her hand to shake on it.

He shrugged away from the doorpost, took a step forward and his fingers, warm and firm and dry, closed around hers.

And after years of lying dormant, for the second time in the space of a few minutes her body leapt into life.

She all but snatched her hand back, shocked at her response, suddenly aware—oh, yes, so very, very aware!—of this big, vital man standing in her cabin, just feet away from her, radiating sexuality—and she was going to be sharing her space with him?

She must be insane.

She opened her mouth to tell him she’d changed her mind, but he stepped back, turned away and went out into the garden, and she felt the tension defuse. ‘Where do you want this lot?’ he asked, poking at a pile of prunings with his foot, and, following him out, she pointed to the shed.

‘They have to go through the shredder but it’s in there, and I can’t get to it yet. Then they can go in the compost bin,’ she told him. ‘But leave it for now, I’ll do it later.’

He turned back to her. ‘I’ve got a better idea. I’ll do it now, so you can get to the cabin. I’m sure Charlie here will give me a hand, won’t you, Charlie? Then you can clean the cabin out and make the bed and start thinking about supper while I get my car from the car park and get settled in,’ he said with another of those grins which would have been cheeky when he was Charlie’s age but was now downright wicked, and with the grin came another surge of interest from her body.

Her mouth dry, she nodded, all the sensible things she could have said like No, and I’ve changed my mind, and Go away, all slithering out of reach as she headed for the house to collect her cleaning materials. Maybe an afternoon spent scrubbing the floor and walls and chasing out the spiders would settle her suddenly hyperactive hormones…