Читать книгу The Single Mum and the Tycoon - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

‘SO—DO you come from round here?’

Molly had waited as long as she could, but by the time she’d dragged the mattress out into the sunshine to air and cleaned the cabin and scrubbed the bathroom and he’d shredded the clippings and cut the grass and she’d put the kettle on, her patience had evaporated, driven out by the curiosity that her mother had always warned her would be the death of her.

He had the slightest suggestion of an accent, but nothing she could define. South African? Australian? She couldn’t get a handle on it, because it was only the odd word, but the rest was straightforward English. She knew him from somewhere, she was sure she did, and yet she was also sure that if she’d ever seen him before, she couldn’t possibly have forgotten.

So, yes, she was curious about him—avidly so—and now they were sitting out on the slightly dilapidated veranda at the back overlooking the river having a cup of tea while Charlie kicked a ball around the newly mown lawn, and she couldn’t wait another minute.

So she asked him the rather inane and obviously nosy question, and for a moment he didn’t answer, but then he gave a soft sigh and said, ‘Originally. A long time ago.’

‘So what brings you back?’ she prompted, and was rewarded with a fleeting, rather wry smile.

‘My father’s getting married again in a couple of weeks, and I haven’t been home for a while. And my sister put the thumbscrews on a tad, so I thought, as I was here, I should stay for a bit. She’s got married since I last saw her, and she’s having another baby soon, and—well, I don’t know, there’s a lot of catching up to do.’

And then, of course, it dawned on her, and the little thing that had been niggling at her, that tiny bit of recognition, fell into place and she knew exactly who he was and why she had felt she recognised him, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t worked it out before.

‘You’re David Cauldwell,’ she said, and he went perfectly still for a second and then turned and met her eyes, his own, so obviously like his father’s now she thought about it, wary as he studied her.

‘That’s right. You must know my sister.’

‘Only indirectly. I know George better. Liz—your father’s fiancée—is a friend of mine. She runs an art class and I help her out with it.’

‘She’s a teacher?’

‘An artist—didn’t you know?’

She thought he looked a touch uncomfortable, as if he knew he’d been shirking his responsibilities to his father. Well, it wasn’t her place to point it out to him, and she had no sooner said the words than she wanted to call them back. ‘Sorry. No reason why you should know,’ she said quickly, but he shrugged.

‘It rings a vague bell,’ he said, but he looked away, unable or unwilling to meet her eyes. Guilt? ‘There were—things happening in my life when they got engaged,’ he went on quietly. ‘I may not have been giving it the attention it deserved.’

She—just—stopped herself from asking what things had been happening that could have been so important that he couldn’t give his father his time and attention. None of your business, she told herself, but she couldn’t stop her mind from speculating. Woman trouble? He looked the sort of man who’d have woman trouble, but she’d bet it was the women who had the trouble and not him. He’d kiss them off with some gorgeous flowers and that wicked smile and drive off into the sunset with the next beautiful blonde.

And they’d all be blonde, she thought disgustedly. Never redheads. Never ginger.

The old insult from her childhood came back to haunt her, and she felt her chin lift even while she acknowledged that at least she wouldn’t have to worry about him messing about with her emotions. He wouldn’t be even slightly interestedin a penniless widow from Yoxburgh, with a son in tow as the icing on the cake.

According to his father, he co-owned a small group of highly exclusive resort lodges and boutique hotels in Queensland and spent his free time diving and fishing and sailing.

Which would explain the white crow’s-feet round his stunningly blue eyes, from screwing his eyes up against the sun.

And he’d be far too macho to use sunscreen, and she’d just bet that tan went all the way from top to toe without a break—

No! Stop it! Don’t think about that! Just don’t go there!

And then it dawned on her that David Cauldwell, property developer and entrepreneur, owner of select little establishments that were listed as Small Luxury Hotels of the World, was staying in her house. Her cabin, in fact, years overdue for a coat of paint—a fact which had not escaped his notice—and she’d even made him help her get it ready.

She wanted to die.

‘So—what about you?’ he said.

‘Me? What about me?’ she asked, trying not to panic about the quality of the bed linen. There was nothing wrong with the bed linen, there wasn’t—

‘Why are you here? You’re not a native—I would have known you, or I think I would have done. So you must have been imported in the last ten years or so. And I assume you’re living here alone with Charlie, since you haven’t mentioned anyone else and you’re doing the garden by yourself, which implies you’re not in a relationship, because it’s usually the men that get to fight with the jungle,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘So I’m imagining you’re divorced or separated or something.’

‘Something,’ she conceded.

He tilted his head and searched her eyes, and she felt curiously vulnerable, as if he could see right down inside her to the sad and lonely woman that she was.

‘Something?’

‘I’m a widow,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘I moved here when my husband died.’

His lips parted as if he was going to speak, then pressed together briefly. ‘I’m sorry. I just assumed—’

‘That’s OK. Everyone does. And, to be honest, it sort of suits me, really. There’s something safe about a divorcée. A young widow’s an infinitely scarier proposition. They all think I’m made of glass, that I’ll break if they say anything harsh.’

‘They?’

She shrugged. ‘Everyone. Nobody knows what to say. And men are terrified. They all think I must be desperate. The black widow spider doesn’t really give us a good press.’

‘No.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I can understand people being scared. It’s such a hell of a can of worms. People don’t like worms. That’s why—’

‘Why?’ she asked when he broke off, but he just gave a twisted smile and looked away. Not before she’d seen that the smile didn’t reach his eyes, though, and for some reason she felt the need to prod a little harder. ‘Why, for instance, you don’t tell your family what’s really going in your life and why you’re avoiding them?’ she suggested, and he frowned and stared down into his mug.

‘I’m not avoiding them.’

‘So why aren’t you staying with them? God knows your sister’s house is huge, and your father’s house is big as well. I mean, between them they must have at least six spare bedrooms, and you’re down here sleeping in a shed, for heaven’s sake! And I know for a fact it’s not because you can’t afford a decent hotel, so why me and not them?’

‘I live in a hotel. I didn’t want to stay in a hotel, I wanted to stay in a family home.’

‘So why mine and not theirs?’

‘Why not?’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

‘You noticed.’

She gave an exasperated little growl and rolled her eyes. ‘So if you aren’t avoiding them, why won’t you answer my question?’

‘Are you always so nosy?’

‘No. Sometimes I can be pushy, too.’

She waited, her breath held, and finally it came, the smile she’d been waiting for, and he let his breath out on a huff and turned to look at her with resignation in his eyes.

‘You’re just like Georgie,’ he said mildly. ‘Nosy, pushy, bossy, interfering, trying to fix everything for everybody.’

She gave a brittle laugh and stood up in a hurry, the unexpected wave of pain taking her by surprise. ‘Oh, not me. I can’t fix anything for anybody. I gave that up years ago when I had to throw the switch on my husband’s life-support machine.’

And scooping up the cups, she turned and went back into the kitchen before her smile crumbled and he saw the tears welling in her eyes.

Damn.

Had that been his fault or hers?

He didn’t know, and he had to stop himself from following her. He stood up slowly, arching his back and rolling his shoulders, stiff from the flight and from gardening, and Charlie looked up at him hopefully.

‘Want to play football with me?’ he asked, and the simple, innocent question hit him square in the gut and took his breath away.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said with a grin he knew must be crooked. ‘I’m rubbish at football. Anyway, I’m just going to give your mum a hand with the washing-up.’

And turning away from the disappointment in Charlie’s eyes, he went into the kitchen and found Molly leaning over the sink, her hands rhythmically and methodically squeezing a cloth in a bowl of water. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release, squeeze—

‘You could have played with him,’ she said, and he could hear the catch in her voice. ‘Or said you’d do it another time. Not just turn him down flat.’

He let his breath out in a slightly shaky sigh and met her disappointed eyes.

‘I can’t play football.’

‘Of course you can. He’s eight, for goodness’ sake! Nobody’s expecting you to be David Beckham! You could have just kicked a ball around with him for a minute—or are you too important?’

‘Of course not,’ he said and, steeling himself, he added, ‘I can’t play football any more because I’d probably fall over all the time. I’ve got an artificial leg.’

He heard the tap drip, heard the cloth as she dropped it back in the water. She stared at him, eyes shocked, looked down at his feet, back up at him, and hot colour flooded her face.

‘Oh, David—I didn’t—your father didn’t say anything—’

‘They don’t know.’

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, soapsuds and all, and her wide green eyes were filled with a million emotions. ‘Don’t—? Oh, David. Why not?’

He shrugged. ‘My father had a heart attack just a few days after my accident. It didn’t seem like a good time to tell him how bad it was.’

‘So you’ve—what? Lied about it ever since?’

‘Pretty much. And not really lied. I told them I broke it, which was sort of true. It was certainly broken. It was only amputated last year. That’s why I don’t know much about Liz. I was in hospital when they got engaged, about to have the surgery.’

She stared at him, then at his legs, then back up, eyes wide with horror. ‘How on earth will you tell them?’

‘I have no idea.’

She dropped her hand, grabbed a towel and scrubbed the suds off her face, dried her hands and then picked up the cloth again and started squeezing it again furiously under the water as if she could squeeze away all the hurt and pain and injustice in the world.

‘Molly, it’s OK,’ he said softly. ‘It’s better than it was before.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘How can it possibly be better?’

‘Because it works now. I spent two years in and out of hospital with an external fixator and endless operations to repair my foot. They replaced part of my ankle joint, grafted blood vessels—but nothing worked and nothing took away the pain. So finally I gave in and had it amputated, and it was the best thing I’ve ever done. I can move on now—start living again.’

She nodded, and he watched her throat bob as she swallowed. ‘So—when did this happen? And how?’

‘Nearly three years ago, in May. I got tangled up with a propeller—’

She gasped, but he didn’t elaborate. He really didn’t want to go there. ‘Anyway, I’ve had ten months, which is a good long while to practise walking, but football—well, I don’t know, it’s one of several things I haven’t tried, but I can imagine it might be tricky, and I didn’t want to have to explain things to Charlie without you knowing first and okaying it.’

She let go of the cloth and dried her hands, turning back to him, her eyes tormented. ‘I’m really sorry. I know that probably sounds empty and meaningless and I hate it when people say they’re sorry when they find out about Robert, but I really am sorry. I’ve heard so much about you, and all of it seems to revolve around you being active. So it must have been—must be—really hard.’

He tried to smile. ‘It was. Being inactive nearly drove me crazy. But it’s better now. I can get about easily, and I can run if I’m careful and the ground’s flat, and I can swim and dive and drive my car, and apparently I can do gardening, and, best of all, it doesn’t hurt any more.’ Well, not so much, at least, and he could deal with his phantoms.

Her eyes searched his, and she nodded and gave a faint smile. ‘Good.’

‘Just—’

She tipped her head on one side questioningly. ‘Just…?’

‘Don’t tell them. My family. Please. Not before the wedding. I don’t want to put a damper on it.’

She looked shocked. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s not my leg to talk about—and I won’t tell Charlie either, and I’d rather you didn’t yet. He’s good at secrets but I don’t think it’s healthy to expect youngsters to watch every word.’

He nodded. ‘Sure. Thanks. I won’t. I’ll try and make sure he doesn’t suspect anything if you could just back me up when I have to let him down with things like the football.’

‘Of course.’

‘Thanks.’ He scrubbed his hand round the back of his neck and kneaded the muscles briefly. He ached all over, and his stump was feeling tight in the socket. He really needed to get his leg off and lie down, and, if he was incredibly lucky, he might be able to sleep.

‘Look, I know it’s early,’ he said, ‘but I’m bushed. I’ve been on the go for thirty-six hours and I could really do with an early night. I think I’ll just turn in, if that’s OK.’

A little frown flitted over her face. ‘Are you sure? What about food?’

He shook his head, and the little frown came back.

‘Can’t I make you some toast or something first, at least? You’ve been working so hard.’

His stomach rumbled, and he grinned. ‘Actually, toast would be lovely. Thanks. I’ll go and sort my stuff out.’

She appeared in the cabin door behind him a few minutes later, a mug in one hand, a plate in the other. ‘Where do you want this?’

‘This’ turned out to be tea and a toasted cheese sandwich, and it made his mouth water. ‘Wow, that smells good,’ he said, trying to remember when he’d last eaten anything that he’d wanted so much. Days ago. More. ‘Just stick it on the side. I’ll grab it in a second. Thanks.’

‘My pleasure. Look, David, are you sure you’ll be all right out here? I mean—what if you need something in the night? A drink or anything?’

‘I’ll get up,’ he said, and watched her face scrunch up in a little scowl.

‘Don’t talk to me like an idiot child!’ she reproved him. ‘I’m just concerned about the steps.’

‘I’ll put my leg on.’

‘Isn’t that a fiddle?’

He laughed softly and straightened up from his suitcase. ‘Yes, Molly, it’s a fiddle. It’s all a fiddle. Using crutches is a fiddle. Putting the leg on is a fiddle. Having to think before you get out of bed and fall flat on your face is a fiddle. But you get used to it. And I’ve had three years of not being able to get out of bed without thinking, so it’s not a problem. Besides, there’s water in the tap in the bathroom here if I need a drink. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to crash.’

She recoiled as if he’d slapped her. ‘Fine. We’re going to get some fish Bob’s saved for us and then I’ll keep Charlie inside so he doesn’t disturb you.’

She straightened up, backing off with a wounded look in her eyes that made him feel sick, but he was too tired and jet-lagged and generally hacked off to deal with it now, so he let her go, and, as she closed the door, he heard her call Charlie and take him away.

There was no sign of them when he emerged from his shower room a few minutes later after a brief wash that of necessity included giving his stump some attention—no question of just taking off his clothes and getting into bed like a normal person, he thought heavily as he laid his folding crutches down beside the bed within reach.

Oh, well, at least it didn’t hurt any more—or not nearly as much. If only it had all been worth it, if there’d been any point in him having got himself into this mess, but his heroics hadn’t been enough, in the end, and tragedy had had its way. It had all been a complete and total waste.

And he wasn’t going to think about that now or he’d go stark, staring mad. Instead he’d think about Molly, and how she’d looked at him with those hurt, reproachful eyes when he’d bluntly dismissed her and all but told her to leave him alone.

Damn. He’d apologise tomorrow.

He got into bed and lay down in the bed with a sigh. He felt disappointed, as if he’d let himself down somehow, and his heart ached with—what? Regret?

Or just plain loneliness.

He rolled onto his front, jamming the pillow under the side of his head and stretching out his leg for the first time in what seemed like hours. Not that he’d been uncomfortable in the plane. Travelling business class was hardly roughing it, but it couldn’t prevent the turbulence and he was exhausted, his body clock disrupted by the time difference. But that didn’t mean he could sleep.

He shifted a little, and realised that the bed was, as Molly had said, very comfortable.

But not so comfortable that he could forget the look in her eyes as she’d backed away.

He thumped the pillow and turned his head the other way, and finally gave up and rolled on to his back, staring at the window. There was a chink in the curtains, and he could see the kitchen light on. She must be cooking their fish for supper, he thought, and felt a pang of regret that he’d bottled out. He stopped looking at it, turned his head away, tried not to think about what she and Charlie were doing and the fact that he could have been sitting with them and eating Bob’s sea bass instead of lying there alone.

Then he wondered what time she’d go to bed, and where she slept and, exhausted though he was, he thought again of that revealing peep of cleavage he’d seen when she’d first come round the corner and introduced herself, and felt the heat coil in his gut.

Stupid. Crazy. He was jealous of a leaf, for goodness’ sake!

Anyway, she wouldn’t want him. Not now she knew. He’d seen the pity in her eyes, seen the look she’d given his legs when he’d told her, the cringing embarrassment, the recoil.

He’d seen it before. Celia had looked at him like that, the first time she’d seen his leg after the accident.

At least Molly hadn’t been sick.

No. He wasn’t going to surrender to self-pity. It was a stupid, useless, destructive emotion and he had better things to do with his life than wallow in misery because the first woman in years to pique his interest was turned off by his disability.

God, he hated that word.

Hated all of it.

Suddenly he didn’t feel any older than Charlie, just a kid again, who should have been running around with skinny legs sticking out of his shorts, crabbing off the jetty without a care in the world.

Where had it all gone?

And with a flash of insight, he wondered how his father had felt, losing his son for the last eleven years. He’d never intended to emigrate, but that was how it had ended up. It hadn’t been intentional, and he’d missed everyone, but back home his father had missed him far more. He knew that. Georgie had left him in no doubt about it.

And now he had to go and tell him that the son he’d loved and missed for so long had come home disabled.

And he had to be his best man.

Hell.

He rolled on to his side, and saw an upstairs light on now. Molly’s?

Yes. He saw her reach up and close her curtains, and the silhouette of her firm, lush curves made him ache for something he would never have. Molly Blythe was strictly off limits, a beautiful young woman who was getting on with her life and who had better things to do than tangle with a man so physically and emotionally scarred he couldn’t even tell his own father about the mess his life was in.

And, just to underline the stupid, crazy nature of this thing that had happened to him, his toes—the toes he didn’t have any more—curled up in agonising cramp that made him whimper with the pain. Phantom limb pain? Nothing phantom about it.

He sat up and rubbed the stump, massaging it vigorously, trying to chase away the sensation, but it wouldn’t go. He rummaged in his bag for the metallic mesh sock that seemed to help, and pulled it on, lying back to wait for the relief that usually came.

There was no pattern to the pain. Nothing he could tackle in one straightforward way, nothing that made any sense. Acupuncture helped, but he was a long way from his acupuncturist, so he lay there, retreated into himself and, by slowing his breathing and focusing on the sound of the sea in his head, he went to a place where nothing could hurt him, nothing could reach him.

Not even his phantoms.

It was a cry that woke her.

No. Not a cry. More of a shout, mumbled and indistinct. She got up and went to the window and looked out, listening, and there it was again.

And it was coming from the cabin.

Her heart thumping, she grabbed her dressing gown and ran downstairs, flicking the button on the kettle on her way, and went down to the garden, the grass wet against her feet as she crossed to the cabin and tapped on the door.

‘David? Are you OK?’

He was mumbling something and, because she didn’t know if he was ill or if it was just a nightmare, she opened the door and tiptoed in. ‘David?’

Nothing, but she could see by the light through the gap in the curtains that he’d kicked the covers down to his knees and was twisting restlessly on the bed. He was naked except for a pair of snug jersey boxers, and there was a sheen on his skin, as if he was sweating. He was rambling, but as she stood there he said clearly, ‘No! Don’t let him die!’

He was dreaming—dreaming about something horrible and frightening, and without hesitating she crossed over to him and laid a hand firmly but gently against his shoulder. ‘David!’

He stiffened, and then after a second his eyes opened, he stared at her, and then with a ragged groan, he dragged the quilt back up over his chest and covered his face with his hands, drawing them slowly down over the skin and hauling in a great deep breath.

He let it out, then sat up and propped himself up against the headboard.

‘Sorry. Did I disturb you?’

‘You were dreaming.’

He gave a harsh sigh and stabbed his fingers through his hair. ‘Yeah. I sometimes yell a bit. Sorry.’

‘That’s OK. I did—for a while, after Robert died. The days were fine, but at night it would creep up on me. The dreams. Nightmares, really.’

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

‘It’s the middle of the night. You want to go back to bed.’

‘Actually, I often get up for tea in the night,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t always sleep well, even now. It’s no trouble—if you want one.’

His smile was a flash of white in the darkness. ‘That would be really nice,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll get up.’

‘Isn’t that a lot of effort? I could bring it here. Save you struggling with the steps.’

He gave a grunt. ‘Just give me a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll come over. I’ll be there before the kettle’s boiled.’

Hardly, she thought, but she didn’t say a word, just got up and went out, crossing the dew-soaked grass and running lightly up the steps to the veranda and then in through the back door. She saw the light come on in the cabin; then, as she was taking the teabags out of the mugs, he appeared at the top of the veranda steps, dressed in an open shirt, jeans and the shoes he’d had on the day before. And his leg, of course, which he’d had to put on, and was a fiddle.

She looked down at her feet, bare and wet with bits of new-mown grass stuck all over them, and wondered what it must be like never to walk barefoot, never to be able to wriggle your toes in the grass or the sand or the mud.

She’d die if she had to wear shoes all the time.

‘Shall we go in the sitting room? It’s chilly outside now,’ she said as he came in through the door.

‘You know what I really want to do?’ he said softly. ‘I want to sit on the sea wall and listen to the waves on the shingle.’

She eyed his bare chest through the open front of his shirt and tried not to get distracted. ‘In which case you might need a bit more on. It’s cold.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I think you’ve probably forgotten about the sea breeze in Yoxburgh,’ she said with a smile, and picking up the car rugs she’d turned out of the cabin earlier, she wriggled her feet into her flipflops, picked up her tea and headed for the door. ‘Leave it open for Charlie,’ she said, and went out, leaving him to follow.

She was right, it was cold, but it was lovely, too.

Tranquil.

Still and calm, with nothing to break the silence but the suck of the sea in the pebbles and the occasional clink of a halliard.

She handed him a rug, and he slung it round his shoulders and dangled his legs over the edge of the sea wall and breathed in the salty, fishy, river mud smell of the estuary mouth that took him straight back to his childhood.

‘I love it here,’ he said with a contented sigh. ‘I’ve missed it.’

‘Here?’ she said incredulously. ‘Really? Compared to coral islands and tropical seas and stunning reefs and all that sunshine?’

‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. There’s something about being cold, about falling leaves and bright, sharp frost and the brilliant green shoots of spring—and the birds here are different. Beautiful, subtle birdsong. The birds in Queensland are all raucous and colourful and loud, really, and some of them like the cassowary are downright dangerous. Don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful, but there’s nothing to beat a little brown wren or a chaffinch picking berries off a tree, and the dawn chorus here is so much more delicate.’

‘You wait till the seagulls get up,’ she said with a laugh. ‘They’re certainly raucous.’

He chuckled. ‘I’ll give you that. The gulls are always loud, wherever you are, but I love them.’

They fell silent, and for a long time she said nothing, but he could hear the cogs turning.

Then at last she spoke.

‘Who died?’ she asked softly.

He felt a shaft of dread. ‘Died?’

‘You said something in your sleep—it sounded like “Don’t let him die” but it was a bit mumbled.’

He nearly told her. Nearly talked about it, but he didn’t want to. Didn’t want to get the whole tragic tale out and rake over the embers all over again.

Not tonight.

‘I have no idea,’ he lied and, twisting round, he lifted his legs up on to the sea wall, got to his feet with what could never have been called grace and picked up his mug and blanket.

‘I’m turning in now. Thanks for the tea,’ he said and, without waiting for her, he headed back to his cabin, shutting the door firmly behind him.