SIXTEEN BEDROOMS, EIGHT reception rooms. A ballroom that could cater to over three hundred guests. Two libraries and countless other rooms he rarely visited. And yet he resented the idea of having to share this vast house with someone. He knew it made no sense. It was almost midnight. She would be gone within hours. But, after spending the past few years immersed in the solitude of his work, having to share his home even for one night was an alien and uncomfortable prospect.
Two years ago, after yet another bewildering argument with his sister, he had come to the realisation that he should focus on what he was good at, what he could control: his work. He had been exhausted and frustrated by Orla’s constant battle of wills with him, and it had been almost a relief to turn away from the fraught world of relationships to the uncomplicated black and white world of work.
He hadn’t needed Orla to tell him he was inept at handling relationships, though she happily did so on a regular basis, because he’d seen it in the pain etched on her face when she didn’t realise he was watching her.
He still didn’t know what had gone wrong. Where he had gone wrong. They had once been so close. After his mum had died he had been so scared and lonely he had thought his heart would break. But the smiling, gurgling Orla had saved him.
And then his father had died when Orla was sixteen, and almost overnight she had changed. She had gone from being happy-go-lucky to sullen and non-communicative, and their once unbreakable bond had been broken.
The scrape of a tree branch against the kitchen window pane brought him back to the present with a jolt.
He put the tea canister next to the already boiled kettle. Then he wrote his house guest a quick note, telling her to help herself to anything she needed. All the while he was hearing his father’s incredulous voice in his head, scolding him for his inhospitality. And once again he was reminded of how different he was from his father.
Note finished, he knew he should walk away before she came down. But the image of her standing in his entrance hall, a raindrop running down over the deep crevice of her full lips, held him. Lips he had had an insane urge to taste...
His instant attraction to her had to be down to the fact that he had been without a steady bedmate for quite some time. A lifetime for a guy who had once never been able to resist the lure of a beautiful woman. But two years ago his appetite for his usual short, frivolous affairs had disappeared. And a serious relationship was off the cards. Permanently.
And, anyway, she was his neighbour. If—and it was a big if—he ever was to start casually dating again, it certainly wouldn’t be on his own doorstep.
He turned at a soft knock on the door.
Standing at the entrance to the vast kitchen, she gave him a wary smile.
He should have gone when he could. Now he would be forced to make small talk.
She had rolled up the cuffs of his pyjama bottoms and shirt and her feet were bare. He got the briefest glimpse of a delicate shin bone, which caused a tightening in his belly in a way it never should. Her hair, though still wet, was now tamed and fell like a heavy dark curtain down her back. For a moment his eyes caught on how she had left the top two buttons of the shirt undone, and although he could only see a small triangle of flesh his pulse quickened.
He didn’t want to be feeling any of this. He crumpled the note he had left her into the palm of his hand. ‘The kettle is boiled. Please help yourself to anything you need.’
‘Thank you.’ As he went to walk to the door she added, ‘I didn’t say it earlier, but thank you for giving me shelter for the night—and I’m sorry if I woke you up.’
She blushed when she’d finished, and wound her arms about her waist, eyeing him cautiously. There was something about her standing there in his clothes, waiting for his response, that got to him.
He felt compelled to hold out an olive branch. ‘In the morning I will arrange for my estate manager to drive you home.’
She shook her head firmly. ‘I’ll walk. It’s not far to the bridge.’
‘Fine.’
It was time for him to go and get some sleep. But something was holding him back. Perhaps it was his thoughts of Orla, and how he would like someone to treat her if she was in a similar predicament.
With a heavy sigh he said, ‘How about we start again?’
Her head tilted to the side and she bit her lip, unsure.
He walked over to her and held out his hand and said words that, in truth, he didn’t entirely mean. ‘Welcome to Ashbrooke.’
Her hand was ice-cold. Instinctively he coiled his own around the soft, delicate skin as gently as he could.
‘You’re cold.’
Her head popped up from where she had been staring at their enclosed hands and when she spoke there was a tremble in her voice that matched the one in her hand. ‘I know. The shower helped a little, but I was wet to the bone. I’ve never seen a storm like it before.’
He crossed over to the cloakroom, situated just off the kitchen, and grabbed one of the heavy fleeces he used for horse riding.
Back in the kitchen, he handed her the fleece.
‘Thank you. I...’ Her voice trailed off and her gaze wandered behind him before her mouth broke into a wide glorious smile. ‘Oh—hello, you two.’
He twisted around to find the source of her affection. His two golden Labs had left their beds in the cloakroom and now ambled towards her, tails wagging at the prospect of having someone else to love them.
Both immediately went to her and bumped their heads against her leg. She leant over and rubbed them vigorously. In the process of her doing so her shirt fell forward and he got a brief glimpse of the smooth swell of her breasts. She was not wearing a bra.
Blood pounded in his ears. It was definitely time for bed.
‘They’re gorgeous. What are their names?’
‘Mustard and Mayo.’
Raising an eyebrow, she gave him a quick grin. ‘Interesting choice of names.’
A sputter of pleasure fired through him at the teasing in her voice. And he experienced a crazy urge to keep this brief moment of ease between them going. But that didn’t make sense, so instead he said curtly, ‘Remind me of your name again?’
Her eyes grew wide and her cheeks reddened. With a low groan she threw her hands up in the air. ‘I knew it. I woke you up, didn’t I?’
He folded his arms. ‘Maybe I’m just terrible at remembering people’s names?’
Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘I doubt that very much.’ And then she added, ‘So, do you always go to bed so early?’
The moment she had the words out an even deeper blush bloomed on her cheeks and her lips twisted into a small wince.
Something fired in his blood. ‘Only when I have good cause to.’
Her mouth fell open.
For a moment they just stared at one another, and the atmosphere immediately grew thick with awareness. Two strangers, alone in a house. She was wearing his clothes. The spark of something happening between them had his pulse firing for the first time in years. And warning bells rang in his ears. She was his neighbour. He was not into relationships. Period. He was no good at them. He had a long day ahead of him. He needed to walk away.
* * *
A coil of heat grew in Aideen’s belly.
Propped against an antique wing-backed chair, in the low light of the kitchen, Patrick looked at her with an edgy darkness. She stood close by, her back to the island unit. She dropped her gaze to the small sprigs of flowers on the material covering the chair, instantly recognising the signature motif of a luxurious French textile manufacturer. Everything in this house was expensive, out of her league. Including its owner.
She should talk, but her pulse was beating way too quickly for her to formulate a sensible sentence. He went to stand up, and his movement prompted her to blurt out, ‘Aideen Ryan... My name is Aideen Ryan.’
Rather reluctantly he held out his hand. ‘And I’m Patrick Fitzsimon.’
Thrown by the way her heart fluttered once again at the touch of his hand, she said without thinking, ‘Oh, I know that.’
‘Really?’
For a moment she debated whether she could bluster her way out of the situation, but one look into his razor-sharp eyes told her she would be wasting her time. ‘Every time I drove by I was intrigued as to who lived here, so I looked you up one day.’
His expression tightened.
She realised she must sound like some billionaire groupie or, worse, a gold digger, and blurted out, ‘We are the only houses out here on the headland. I wanted to know who my only neighbour was. There was nothing else to it.’
After a torturous few seconds during which he considered her answer, he said, ‘I’ll ask my estate manager to drop down to you tomorrow. He can give you his contact details. That way if you ever need any help you can contact him directly.’
For a few seconds she smiled at him gratefully, but then humiliation licked at her bones. He was putting a filter between them. But then what did she expect? Patrick Fitzsimon lived in the moneyed world of the super-rich. He wasn’t interested in his neighbours.
‘Thanks, but I’m able to cope on my own.’
He stood up straight and scowled at her. ‘I didn’t say you weren’t.’
She gave a tight laugh, memories of her ex taunting her. ‘Well, you’re not like a lot of men, then...’
The scowl darkened even more. ‘That’s a bit of a sweeping statement, isn’t it? I was only trying to be helpful.’
The last sentence had been practically growled. He looked really angry with her, and she couldn’t help but think she had hit a raw nerve.
She inhaled a deep breath and said, ‘I’m sorry... I’m a bit battle-scarred at the moment.’
He stared at her in surprise and, praying he wouldn’t ask her what she meant, she said quickly, ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of tea. Will you join me?’
He looked as taken aback by her invitation as she was. Did she really want to spend more time with this taciturn man? But after the night she’d had, and three months of living alone, the truth was she was starved for company.
He looked down at his watch and when he looked up again frowned at her in thought. ‘I’ll stay five minutes.’
Could he have said it with any less enthusiasm? He looked edgy. As though he wanted to escape.
He walked towards the countertop where the kettle stood. ‘Take a seat at the table. If you prefer, I also have hot chocolate or brandy.’
‘Thanks, but I’d love tea.’
Instead of going to the table she walked to the picture window in the glass extension at the side of the kitchen. The faint flashing light from the lighthouse out on the end of the headland was the only sight in the darkness of the stormy night.
‘Do you think my cottage will be okay?’
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he walked over to her side and he, too, looked out of the window towards the lighthouse. In the reflection of the window she could see that he stood four, maybe five inches taller than her, his huge frame dwarfing hers.
‘I called the emergency services when you were in the shower. I really don’t know what will happen to your cottage. The timing of the storm surge was terrible—right at the same time as high tide. I thought the worst of the storms was over, but April can be an unpredictable month.’ He turned slightly towards her. ‘I know you must be worried—it’s your home—but you’re safe. That’s all that matters.’
His words surprised her, and she had to swallow against the lump of emotion that formed in her throat. He didn’t try to pretend everything would be okay, didn’t lie to her, but he didn’t dismiss how she was feeling either.
She gave him a grateful smile, but he looked away from her with a frown.
He moved away from the window, back towards the table, and said in a now tight voice, ‘Your tea is ready.’
For a while she looked down at the mug tentatively, two forces battling within her. The need to be self-reliant was vying with her need to talk to someone—even someone as closed-off as Patrick Fitzsimon. To hear a little reassurance that things would be okay. And then she just blurted it out, the tension in her body easing fractionally as the words tumbled out.
‘It’s not just my cottage, though. My studio is there. I have some urgent work I have to complete. I missed a deadline today and I have another commissioned piece I need to deliver next week.’
His silence and his frown told her she had said too much, and her insides curled with embarrassment. The man was a billionaire. Her problems must seem trivial to him.
She twisted her mug on the table, knowing he was studying her but unable to meet his gaze.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t realise. What is it that you do?’
‘I’m a textile designer.’
He nodded, and his eyes held hers briefly before he looked away. ‘Try not to think about work until tomorrow. You might be worrying for no reason... And even in the worst of situations there’s always a solution.’
‘Hopefully you’re right.’
‘Do you have anyone who can help you tomorrow?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t got to know people locally yet, and my family live in Dublin. Most of my friends are either there or in London.’
Realising she still hadn’t touched her tea, she sipped it. In her nervousness she pulled the mug away too quickly and had to lick a falling drip of tea from her bottom lip.
Her heart somersaulted as she saw his eyes were trained on her mouth, something darkening in their intensity. Then very slowly his gaze moved up to capture hers. Awareness fluttered through her.
‘I heard someone had bought Fuchsia Cottage late last year—why did you move here to Mooncoyne?’
He asked the question in an almost accusatory tone, as though he almost wished she hadn’t.
‘I saw the cottage and the studio online and I fell in love with them straight away. The cottage is adorable, and the studio space is incredible. It’s perfect for my work.’ Forcing herself to smile, she said, ‘Unfortunately I hadn’t bargained on the cottage and studio flooding. The auctioneer assured me it wouldn’t.’
He gave a brief shrug of understanding. ‘You weren’t tempted to go back to your family in Dublin?’
‘Have you seen the price of property in Dublin? I know it’s not as bad as London, but it’s still crazy.’ Then, remembering who she was talking to, she felt her insides twist and a feeling of foolishness grip her. Clearing her throat, she asked, ‘Has Ashbrooke always been in your family?’
He looked at her incredulously, as though her question was ridiculous. ‘No...absolutely not. I grew up in a modest house. My family weren’t wealthy.’
Taken aback by the defensive tone of his voice, she blurted out exactly what was on her mind. ‘So how did all of this happen?’
He studied her with a blistering glance, his mouth a thin line of unhappiness. In the end he said curtly, ‘I was lucky. I saw the opportunities available in mobile applications ahead of the curve. I developed some music streaming apps that were bought by some of the big internet providers. Afterwards I had the capital to invest in other applications and software start-ups.’
She couldn’t help but shake her head and give him a mock sceptical look. ‘Oh, come on—that wasn’t luck.’
‘Meaning...?’
‘Look, I ran my own business for five years. I know success is down to hard work, taking risks, and being constantly on the ball. Making smart business decisions... I reckon luck has very little to do with it.’
‘All true. But sometimes you get a good roll of the dice—sometimes you don’t. It’s about getting back up when things go wrong, knowing there’s always a solution to a problem.’
His words were said with such certainty they unlocked something inside her.
For a good few minutes she toyed with her mug. The need to speak, to tell him, was building up in her like a pressure cooker. Part of her felt ridiculous, thinking of telling a billionaire of her failings, but another part wanted to. Why, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the freedom of confessing to a stranger? To a person she wouldn’t see after tomorrow? Perhaps it was not being able to talk to her family and friends about it because she had got it all so wrong.
‘I lost my business last year,’ she said in a rush.
Non-judgemental eyes met hers, and he said in a tone she hadn’t heard from him before, ‘What happened?’
Taken aback by the softening in him, she hesitated. Her pulse began to pound. Suddenly her throat felt bone-dry. ‘Oh, it’s a long story, but I made some very poor business decisions.’
‘But you’re back? Trying again.’
He said it with such certainty, as though that was all that mattered, and she couldn’t help but smile. Something lifted inside her at the knowledge he was right. Yes, she was trying again—trying hard. Just hearing him say it made her realise how true it was.
‘Yes, I am.’
His serious, intelligent gaze remained locked on hers. ‘What are your plans for the future?’
His question caused a flutter of anxiety and her hands clenched on the mug. She shuffled in her seat. For some reason she wanted to get this right. She wanted his approval.
She inhaled a deep breath and said, ‘To build a new label, re-establish my reputation.’ She cringed at the wobble in her voice; it was just that she was so desperate to rebuild the career she loved so much.
He leant across the table and fixed his gaze on her. It was unnerving to be captivated by those blue eyes. By the sheer size and strength of him as his arms rested on the table, his broad shoulders angled towards her.
‘There’s no shame in failing, Aideen.’
Heat barrelled through her and she leant back in her chair, away from him. ‘Really?’ She pushed her mug to the side. ‘What would you know about failing?’
His jaw hardened, and when he spoke his low voice was harsh with something she couldn’t identify.
‘Trust me—I have failed many times in my life. I’m far from perfect.’
She looked at him sceptically. He looked pretty perfect to her. From his financial stability and security and his film-star looks to this beautiful house, everything was perfect...even his spotless kitchen.
He stood and grabbed both mugs. With his back to her he said, ‘I think it’s time we went to bed.’
Once again he was annoyed with her. She should leave it. Go to bed, as he had suggested. But curiosity got the better of her. ‘Why are you here in Mooncoyne? Why not somewhere like New York or London?’
He turned and folded his arms, leant against the counter. ‘I met the previous owner of Ashbrooke, Lord Balfe, at a dinner party in London and we became good friends. He invited me to stay here and I fell in love with the house and the estate. Lord Balfe couldn’t afford the upkeep any longer, and he was looking to sell the estate to someone who felt as passionate as he did about conserving it. So I agreed to buy it.’ His unwavering eyes held hers and he said matter-of-factly, ‘My business was growing ever more demanding. I knew I needed to live somewhere quiet in order to focus on it. This estate seemed the perfect place. And also Mooncoyne reminded me of the small fishing village where I grew up in County Antrim.’
So that was why he had traces of a soft, melodic Northern Irish brogue. ‘Do your family still live there?’
Another quick look at his watch. He flicked his gaze back up to her. He looked as though he wasn’t going to answer, but then he took her by surprise and said, ‘No, my mum died when I was a boy and my dad passed away a number of years ago.’
For a moment their eyes locked and incomprehensively she felt tears form at the back of hers. ‘I’m sorry.’
Blue eyes held hers and her pulse quickened at the intimacy of looking into a stranger’s eyes for more than a polite second or two. Not being able to look away...not wanting to look away.
Then his hands gripped the countertop and he dipped his head for a moment before he looked back up and spoke. ‘It happens. I have a younger sister, Orla, who lives in Madrid.’
‘Do you see her often?’
His mouth twisted unhappily. ‘Occasionally.’
His tone told her to back off. Tension filled the room. She hated an unhappy atmosphere. And she didn’t want to cause him any offence.
So, in a bid to make amends and lighten the tension, she said what she had been thinking all night. ‘You’ve a spectacularly beautiful home.’
He gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. ‘Thank you. I’m very proud of the work we’ve done here over the past few years.’
‘How many staff do you employ?’
‘I’ve cleaning and housekeeping staff who come in every day. Out on the estate my estate manager, William, employs twenty-two staff between the stables and the farm.’
‘No housekeeper...even a butler?’
His mouth lifted ever so slightly. If she had blinked she would have missed it.
‘Sorry to disappoint you but I like my privacy. And I can cook for myself, do up my own buttons, tie my own shoelaces...’
She knew she was pushing it, but decided to push her luck as curiosity got the better of her. ‘A girlfriend?’ She tried to ignore the unexpected stab of jealousy that came with the thought that there might be a special woman in his life.
Something dark flashed in his eyes and he quietly answered. ‘No—no girlfriend.’
She tried to fill the silence that followed. ‘So nobody but you lives in the house?’
‘No. Now, I think it’s time for bed.’
So they were all alone tonight. It shouldn’t matter, but for some reason heat grew in her belly at that thought. This was a huge place for one man to live in alone.
Though she stood in preparation for leaving the kitchen she didn’t move away from the table. Instead she said, ‘Wow. Don’t you get lonely?’
‘I prefer to live on my own. I don’t have time for relationships.’ He studied her sombrely. ‘Why? Do you get lonely?’
Taken aback, she answered, ‘I’m too busy. I can—’
A tightness in her chest stopped her mid-sentence. Maybe she had been lonely these past few months, and had been denying it all along in her determination to get her business back up and running again.
She shrugged and looked at him with a half smile. ‘I must admit it’s nice to talk to someone face to face for a change, rather than on the phone or over the internet. I seem to spend all my days on the phone at the moment, calling prospective clients.’ With a sigh of exasperation she added, ‘I really should go and visit them. It would save me a lot of time being put on hold.’
‘Why don’t you?’
She felt herself blush. ‘Most of my clients are based in Paris, and it’s on my list of priorities to visit them.’ She couldn’t admit that financially she wasn’t in a position to travel there, so instead she said, ‘But, to be honest, part of me is embarrassed. I haven’t seen any of them since I lost my business. I suppose my pride has taken a dent.’
‘Go back out there and be proud that you’re back and fighting. I’m going to Paris next week...’ He didn’t finish the sentence and a look of annoyance flashed across his face. His tone now cooler, he said, ‘You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. I’ll walk you back to your room.’
He called to the dogs and led them back to their beds in the cloakroom.
As they approached the bottom of the stairs she gave him a smile and offered him her hand. ‘Thank you for tonight.’ A surprising lump of something had formed in her throat, and her voice was croaky when she finally managed to continue to speak. ‘Thank you for taking me in. I plan on leaving early tomorrow, so in case I don’t see you then, it was nice to meet you.’
Tension seemed to bounce off the surrounding walls and she felt dizzy when his hand took hers. ‘I wake before dawn, so the security alarm will be disabled after that.’ With a quick nod he added, ‘Take care of yourself.’
He walked away, back towards the main entrance hall.
She walked up the stairs slowly, her head spinning. What on earth had possessed her to tell him so much? And why on earth did the thought that she might never see him again make her feel sad? The man obviously didn’t want her in his house.
As she lay in bed the memory of his incredible blue eyes and quiet but assured presence left her twisting and tumbling and wishing the hours away so she could leave for home. Where she could lose herself in her work again.
And when sleep finally started to pull her into oblivion her tired mind replayed on a loop his deep voice saying, ‘You’re safe. That’s all that matters.’ Words he would probably say to anyone. But when he had said them to her, he had looked at her with such intensity it had felt as though he was tattooing them on her heart.