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.
‘The lass not down yet?’ Kitty asked cheerily.
‘No, not yet.’ He hoped she’d take the hint and disappear.
Kitty came further into the room, her voice dropping as she murmured, ‘I wonder what’s made a young lass like that buy Keeper’s Cottage? Someone of her age should be sharing a flat with friends and having fun. Tisn’t right to bury yourself away like she’s done.’
His voice dry, Morgan said, ‘She’s older than she looks.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Kitty nodded. ‘That makes more sense. How old is she, then?’
‘Nearly twenty-nine,’ Morgan said expressionlessly.
‘Is that so?’ Kitty nodded again. ‘Fancy that.’
Morgan grinned. Kitty was trying very hard to appear nonchalant but he could see the matchmaking gleam in her eye. The little woman had been on a mission to find a ‘nice’ wife for him for years; it was an irresistible challenge to her despite knowing his views on the subject. Walking across to her, he gently tucked a strand of grey hair behind her ear as he murmured softly, ‘Forget it, Kitty. Between you and me Miss Willow Landon doesn’t like me very much so there’s no hope in that direction, OK?’
It clearly wasn’t. Visibly bristling, Kitty stared at him. ‘I don’t see why after the way you’ve helped her.’
‘Personality clash,’ he said briefly. ‘That’s all.’
‘Personality clash? And what’s that when it’s at home?’
Wishing he’d kept his mouth shut, Morgan took a deep breath, then let it out. ‘She’s been polite and grateful so don’t get on your high horse, woman. I just meant I’m clearly not her type any more than she’s mine.’
A slight noise in the doorway brought their heads turning. Willow was standing there and he suspected she’d heard his last remark from the colour in her cheeks. As if that weren’t enough the sight of her—hair falling to her shoulders in silken strands, eyes as green as emeralds and her soft, half-open mouth—sent a jolt of desire sizzling through his veins. Mentally cursing Kitty and her matchmaking and not least the primal urges this young red-haired woman seemed able to inspire so easily, Morgan decided prevarication wasn’t an option. As Kitty beat a hasty retreat he said quietly, ‘Sorry, you obviously weren’t supposed to hear that.’
‘Obviously.’ The green eyes were as cold as glass.
Damn it. Following the line that honesty was the best policy, Morgan shrugged. ‘The thing is, Kitty tries to pair me off with any and every woman who strays across her path. It must be her age. Menopausal hormones out of control or something.’
The attempt at humour was met with a steely face. ‘Let me endeavour to make one thing perfectly clear, Mr Wright. I wouldn’t have you if you were the last man in the world and came wrapped in gold encrusted with diamonds.’
Certainly clear enough. ‘The very point I was attempting to make to Kitty.’ His mouth took on a rueful quirk. ‘I was trying to save you any embarrassment because Kitty can be a little…persistent when she gets a bee in her bonnet. In the event I seem to have made a pig’s ear of things.’
The green gaze continued to study him for a moment. Morgan felt he understood how an insect felt when impaled on a pin. Then he saw her head go back as she strolled further into the room. ‘No problem,’ she said coolly. ‘Just so we are absolutely clear.’
Morgan was well versed with women and he knew he was still in deep water. ‘Cocktail?’ he offered as Willow held out her hands to the blazing fire in the deep, ornate fireplace, her back to him. ‘I always indulge when I’m at home at the weekends.’
She didn’t look at him when she said, ‘Thank you, a margarita would be nice.’ Her voice verged on icy.
Morgan prided himself on his margaritas. After filling a mixing glass with ice and stirring with a spoon, he tipped the ice away before topping up the glass with fresh. A dash of dry vermouth and he continued stirring, aware the figure by the fire had turned to watch him. After straining the liquid he again added more ice, along with a large measure of vodka.
It was when he strained the cocktail into a frosted martini glass rimmed with salt that Willow said, ‘Don’t tell me. You used to be a cocktail waiter in your youth.’
His youth? He wasn’t exactly at the age to push up daisies yet. Smiling, he handed her the cocktail. Her fingers touched his for a moment and a light electric current shot up his arm. ‘I worked in a cocktail bar for extra money during my uni days,’ he admitted easily. ‘It was a good job. I enjoyed it.’
‘One of those where you throw the bottles over your head and at each other?’ she asked with sweet venom.
His laugh was hearty and he saw her lips twitch in response. ‘The very same. At the weekends we put on quite a show.’
‘Dream job for a student, I should imagine?’
‘You better believe it. On lean days we’d fill up on the snacks and stuff the owner put out for the clients; he knew but he didn’t mind, not while we were pulling the punters in. The tips were great too; lots of rich Americans looking for some fun and entertainment with their drinks.’
‘Lady Americans?’ she enquired too casually.
His smile deepened. ‘Is that disapproval in your voice?’
‘Of course not.’ She tossed her head. ‘Why would it be?’
He watched with interest as her blush became brilliant. Putting her out of her misery, he busied himself fixing his second Negroni as he said casually, ‘Myself and the other guy in the bar were propositioned now and again as it happens. Ladies looking for a holiday fling with no strings attached, mainly.’
He turned and saw the look on her face before she could hide it. His voice amused, he drawled, ‘You’re shocked.’
This time she didn’t deny it. After taking a sip of her drink, she said, ‘It’s your life.’
He decided not to tell her he’d got a steady girlfriend at the time and had left the women to his friend who’d worked with him. This idea she’d got of him being an English gigolo was too entertaining. ‘And it’s been a rich one to date,’ he said, deadpan.
This time she almost gulped at her cocktail.
It was mean perhaps, but he found he got a buzz from teasing her, probably because he’d felt off kilter since the first time he’d set eyes on his red-haired neighbour. Ridiculous, but Willow Landon bothered him deep inside, in a small private place no one ever reached. It was irritating and inconvenient, he told himself, but it would pass. Everything did.
‘So you’ve been here ten years?’ Her voice sounded a little desperate as she made an obvious attempt to change the subject. ‘You’re not bored yet? No plans to leave?’
‘None.’ He gestured for her to be seated as he added, ‘Disappointed?’ just to rile her a little more.
‘Why would I be concerned whether you live here or not?’ she said stiffly, sitting primly on the edge of a chair.
Her skin was the colour of honey peppered with spice and the red hair was a combination of endless shades. Fighting the urge to touch her, Morgan walked to the chair furthest from Willow’s and sat down, stretching out his legs and taking a swig of his Negroni. There was a short silence and as he looked at her he found he’d tired of the game. Leaning forward suddenly, he said quietly, ‘We got off to a bad start, didn’t we? And it hasn’t improved since. Can we come to a truce? I promise I’ll try not to annoy you if you try and relax a little. If nothing else it will make life easier the next time I rescue you from a burning building or whatever.’
For a moment he thought she was going to freeze him out. Then a shy smile warmed her face, her eyes. ‘Do you think there’s going to be a next time?’ she murmured ruefully. And before he could answer, went on, ‘In spite of my track record so far I promise I’m not an arsonist in the making.’
He grinned. ‘I never thought you were. Unlucky maybe…’
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you for that—you could in all honesty have said stupid. It must appear that way.’
His smile died, a slight frown taking its place. ‘Why would I be so crass? We all make mistakes. Life is a series of learning curves. It’s when we don’t learn from them the problems start.’
She nodded, but as Morgan stared at her there was something deep and dark in the clear green eyes that disturbed him. ‘You don’t believe that?’ he asked gently.
She finished her cocktail before she spoke and a slow heat had crept into her cheeks. ‘I believe it. It’s just that…’
‘Yes?’ he prompted quietly, wanting to know more.
‘I suppose I’ve found others aren’t so generous. Some people expect other people to be perfect all the time.’
Some people? It had to be a man who had hurt her enough to cause that depth of pain. Telling himself to go lightly, he said softly, ‘I guess you get flawed individuals in every society who are either selfish enough or damaged enough to expect perfection. Personally I’d find being with a “perfect” person hell on earth, having enough faults myself to fill a book.’
‘That sort of person doesn’t see their own faults though.’
Her voice had been curiously toneless. Morgan kept all emotion out of his voice when he said, ‘Are you speaking from experience? And you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.’
Her eyes flickered and fell from his, but her voice was steady: ‘Yes, I am.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘That’s a beautiful clock. Unusual.’
Morgan accepted the change of conversation with good grace although he found he was aching to know more. ‘It’s a French timepiece I picked up at an auction in France some years ago. The clock itself is mounted in a stirrup and horseshoe. I like unusual things. Things that don’t follow a pattern. Unique things.’
Her gaze moved to the two bronze figures either side of the clock, each in the form of dancing fauns. ‘I can see that. Are the fauns French too? They’re very beautiful.’
‘Italian, eighteenth century.’
They continued discussing the various objects of art in the room in the couple of minutes before Kitty put her head round the door to say dinner was ready, but Morgan found it difficult to concentrate. Who was this man who’d hurt her so badly? If it was a man. But it had to be; he felt it in his bones. What had he been to her and how had she got mixed up with him in the first place? Not that it was any of his business, of course.
He took Willow’s arm as they walked through to the dining room where Kitty had set two places. She had lit candles in the middle of the table and the lights were dimmed; clearly their discussion about her matchmaking had had no effect at all.
Willow’s hair smelt of peach shampoo, which was fairly innocuous as perfume went; why it should prompt urges of such an erotic nature the walk to the dining room was a sweet agony in his loins, he didn’t know. He glanced down at the sheen of her hair as he pulled out her chair for her and resisted the impulse to put his lips to it.
Pull yourself together. The warning was grim. He was acting like a young boy wet behind the ears and on his first date with a member of the opposite sex, not a thirty-five-year-old man who had shared his bed and his life with several women in his time; some for a few months, some longer. Experience told him Willow Landon was not the sort of woman who would enter into a light relationship for the hell of it, she was too…
What was she? the other section of his mind, which was working dispassionately, asked. Clingy? Trusting? Stifling?
No. None of those. The opposite in fact. She didn’t strike him as a woman who had marriage and roses-round-the-door in mind. From what he could ascertain so far the male of the species didn’t feature highly in her estimation. But neither was she the kind of woman who would enjoy an affair for however long it lasted and then walk away with no tears or regrets. He didn’t know how he’d come by the knowledge but he was sure of it.
‘This is lovely.’ Willow glanced round the dining room appreciatively. ‘Do you always eat in such style?’
Morgan glanced round the room as though he were seeing it for the first time, his gaze moving over the table set with fine linen, silver and crystal. ‘Always. Kitty takes her duties very seriously,’ he added dryly, reaching for the bottle of red wine. He poured two glasses and handed Willow hers, raising his as he murmured, ‘To chimney sweeps and the good work they do.’
She giggled.
It was the first really natural response he’d had and he had to swallow hard as his heart began to hammer in his ribcage. He drank deeply of the wine, needing its boost to his system. It was a fine red; enough complexity showing from the skilful blending to bring out the cherry and berry flavours without spoiling the soft oaky flavours of the French and American wood. He’d drunk enough cheap plonk throughout his university days to always buy the best once he could afford to do so.
Kitty bustled in with the first course, cajun-spiced salmon with honey crème fraîche. It was one of her specialities and always cooked to perfection so the flakes of flesh fell apart when pressed with a fork.
He watched Willow take her first bite and saw the green eyes widen in appreciation. She ate delicately, like an elegant, well-mannered cat, her soft, full lips closing over the food and tasting it carefully. With a swiftness that surprised him he found himself wondering what it would be like to feel her mouth open beneath his, to bury his hands in the silken sheen of her hair and thrust his tongue into the secret recesses behind her small white teeth. To nibble and suck and tease her lips…
‘This is delicious.’ She glanced up and saw him looking at her and immediately her face became wary even though her smile was polite. The withdrawal was subtle but there nonetheless.
What the hell had gone on in her life? Morgan nodded, his voice easy when he said, ‘She’s a strange mixture, is Kitty. She and Jim only like the plainest of food, no frills or fancies, as she puts it, but her main interest in life is cooking fantastic dishes that are out of this world. Her tofu miso soup has to be tasted to be believed and likewise her baked Indian rice pudding with nuts, fruit and saffron. I do believe she and Jim are probably sitting down to steamed white fish and three veg as we speak, though. Good solid northern food that sticks to the ribs.’
‘Don’t they ever eat with you?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Not when I have guests. Another of Kitty’s set-in-concrete ideas.’ Deliberately keeping his voice casual, he said, ‘Do you like cooking?’
Her small nose wrinkled. ‘I suppose I don’t mind it but I’m not the best in the world by any means. I do experiment at weekends now and again, but I rely on my trusty microwave during the week when I’m working. Ready meals mostly, I’m afraid.’
Aware he was itching to know more about her—a lot more—Morgan warned himself to go steady. ‘Tell me about your job,’ he drawled as though he were merely making polite conversation. ‘What do you do and where do you work?’
He ate slowly as she spoke, pretending he wasn’t hanging on every word. When she came to a natural pause he asked the question he’d been working round to all evening. ‘So what made you buy Keeper’s Cottage? It’s a bit remote, isn’t it?’
The barrier that went up was almost visible. ‘I liked it.’
‘There must have been other places you liked closer to your work, surely? Places you could have shared with friends, perhaps?’
For a moment he thought she was going to tell him to mind his own business. He couldn’t have blamed her. Instead, after a long pause, she said coolly, ‘I’ve done the sharing-with-friends thing for a while and I decided I wanted my own house now. I…I like my own company. Being independent is important to me.’
Neat hint for the future. Morgan smiled. ‘There’s a hell of a lot wants doing to the cottage as far as I understand.’
Willow shrugged. ‘I’m in no rush. Things will happen in time.’
‘And it’s tiny. Charming,’ he added hastily. ‘But tiny.’
‘It’s more than big enough for one.’
He’d finished his salmon and took a long swallow of wine, blue eyes holding green when he murmured, ‘What if you meet someone?’
‘I meet people all the time, Morgan, and it doesn’t affect my living accommodation.’
Her voice had been light, even suggesting amusement, but her fingers were gripping the stem of the wineglass so tightly her knuckles showed white. Vitally aware of her body language, he gave the required response of a lazy smile but found he wasn’t ready to do the socially acceptable thing and leave well alone. ‘I mean someone special,’ he said softly. ‘You’re a very attractive young woman and most women in your position want a partner eventually, maybe even children one day. It would be a shame to work at getting the cottage exactly how you want it only to have to move to a bigger place.’
Her pupils had dilated, black showing stark against the clear green. Slowly she took a sip of wine, then said, ‘For the record I’ve done the partner thing, OK? Husband, everything. I didn’t like it and I have no intention of repeating what was a mistake now I have my freedom again.’ Rising to her feet, she added, ‘I just need to pay a visit to the cloakroom. I won’t be long.’
He rose with her but didn’t say a word because he couldn’t. He felt as though someone had just punched him hard in the stomach. And the ironic thing, he acknowledged soberly, was that he had probably asked for it.