‘So, do you always go to bed so early?’ The moment she had the words out a deep blush bloomed on her cheeks and her lips twisted into a small wince.

Amused at her embarrassment, he couldn’t resist saying, ‘Only when I have good cause to.’

Her eyes popped open and heat infused her cheeks.

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.

A 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.

Swept into the Rich Man’s World

Katrina Cudmore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A city-loving book addict, peony obsessive KATRINA CUDMORE lives in Cork, Ireland, with her husband, four active children and a very daft dog. A psychology graduate, with a MSc in Human Resources, Katrina spent many years working in multinational companies and can’t believe she is lucky enough now to have a job that involves daydreaming about love and handsome men!

You can visit Katrina at www.katrinacudmore.com.

This book is dedicated to my mum.

I miss you with all my heart.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘HELLO? IS ANYONE HOME?’

Her lungs on fire, Aideen Ryan desperately heaved in some air as she waited for someone to answer her knock and call. She had run in the dark through gale-force winds and rain to get to Ashbrooke House: the only place that could give her shelter from the storm currently pounding the entire Atlantic coastline of Ireland.

Ashbrooke House, stately home of billionaire Patrick Fitzsimon. A man who, given the impenetrable walls that surrounded his vast estate and his über-wealthy lifestyle, was unlikely to welcome her intrusion.

She straightened her rain jacket and ran a hand through her hair. Oh, for crying out loud. Her hair was a tangled mess. Soaked to the skull and resembling a frizz bomb... She really hoped it wouldn’t be Patrick Fitzsimon who answered the door. Not the suave, gorgeous man she had seen in countless magazines. A man who stared at the camera with such serious intensity and intelligence that she had held her breath in alarm, worried for a few crazy seconds that he could see her spying on him.

The only sightings anyone ever made of him locally was when he was helicoptered in and out of the estate. Intrigued, she had looked him up. But just because she’d been unable to resist checking out her neighbour, one of the world’s ‘top ten most eligible billionaire bachelors’, it didn’t alter the fact that she was determined to keep her life a man-free zone.

A nearby tree branch creaked loudly as a ferocious gust of wind and rain swept up from the sea. How was her poor cottage faring in the storm without her? And how on earth was her business going to survive this?

Pushing down her spiralling panic, she took hold of the brass knocker and rapped it against the imposing door again, the metal vibrating against her skin.

‘Hello? Please... I need help. Is anyone home?’

Please, please, let one of his staff answer.

But the vast house remained in silence, while beyond the columned entrance porch sheets of rain swept across the often written about formal gardens of Ashbrooke.

And then slow realisation dawned. Although outside lighting had showcased the perfect symmetry and beauty of the Palladian house as she had run up the driveway, not a single interior light had shone through the large sash windows.

In her panic, that simple fact had failed to register with her...until now.

What if nobody was at home?

But that didn’t make sense. A house this size had to have an army of staff. The classically inspired villa had a three-storey central block, connected by colonnades to two vast wings. The house was enormous—even bigger than the pictures suggested.

Somebody simply had to be home. They probably just couldn’t hear her above the storm. She needed to knock louder.

She grabbed hold of the knocker again, but just as she raised it high to pound it down on the door the door swung open. As she flew forward with it all she could see was a tanned, muscular six-pack vanishing beneath a grey sweatshirt, its owner in the midst of quickly dressing. But not before she headbutted that glorious vision of masculine perfection.

It was like colliding against steel. As she ricocheted backwards she heard a loud grunt. Then hands gripped her upper arms and yanked her back from slamming bottom first on to the ground. The momentum pulled her back towards that hard body, and this time her forehead landed heavily on the person’s chest with a thud.

For a moment neither of them moved, and her already spinning head became lost in a giddy sensation of warmth, the safe embrace of another human being, the deep, masculine scent of a man...

She couldn’t tell who sprang away first, but as embarrassment barrelled through her, her eyes dropped down to bare feet and dark grey sweatpants before travelling back up over a long, lean, muscular body. Dark stubble lined a sculpted jawline. Taking a deep swallow, she looked up into eyes that were the light blue of an early-morning Irish spring sky. How often had she tried without success to replicate that colour in her designs?

Patrick Fitzsimon.

Those beautiful blue eyes narrowed. ‘What the—?’

‘I’m sorry I woke you, but my home’s been flooded and everything I own is probably floating to America at this stage. I tried to drive into Mooncoyne but the road is flooded. My car got stuck. I was so glad your gates were open... I thought they would be locked, like they usually are. I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do if they were locked.’

He held up a hand in the universal stop position. ‘Okay. Slow down. Let’s start again. Explain to me who you are.’

Oh, why did she jabber so much when she was nervous? And, for crying out loud, did she have to blush so brightly that she could light up a small house?

Pushing her hand out towards him, she said, ‘I’m Aideen Ryan. I’m your neighbour. I live in Fuchsia Cottage...down by the edge of the lough.’

He gave a quick nod of recognition, but then he drew his arms across his impossibly wide chest and his gaze narrowed even more. ‘What is it you need, exactly?’

Humiliation burnt in her chest at having to ask for help from a stranger, but she looked into his cool blue eyes and blurted out what had to be said. ‘I need a place to stay tonight.’

His mouth twisted unhappily. For a moment she feared he was about to close the door on her.

But instead he took a backward step and said, ‘Come inside.’

At best, it was a very reluctant invitation.

The door closed behind them with a solid clunk. Without uttering a word, he left her standing alone in the vast entrance hall. Her body started to shake as her wet clothes clung to her limbs. Her teeth chattered in the vast space and, to her ears, seemed to echo off the dome-shaped ceiling, from which hung the largest crystal chandelier she’d ever seen.

Why couldn’t she have a normal neighbour? Why did hers have to be a billionaire who lived in a palace at the end of a mile-long driveway? She hated having to ask for help. From anyone. But having to ask for help from a megarich gorgeous man made her feel as though the universe was having a good laugh at her expense.

When he returned, he passed her a yellow and white striped towel without comment. Accepting it gratefully, she patted her hands and face. For a moment their eyes met.

Her heart stuttered as his gaze assessed her, his generous mouth flattened into a grimace, his long legs planted wide apart, his body rigid. Her breath caught. She felt intimidated by the intensity of his stare, his size, his silent unsmiling presence. She lowered her gaze and concentrated on twisting the towel through her hair, her eyes closing as an unaccountable nervousness overtook her.

‘So where’s your car?’

‘I tried to drive into Mooncoyne but the river had burst its banks at Foley’s Bridge. It’s the same on your estate—the bridge on your drive is impassable, too.’

He shook his head in confusion. ‘So how did you get here?’

‘I climbed on to the bridge wall and crawled along it... My car is still on the other side.’

* * *

Just great. Not only had he been woken from a jet-lagged sleep, but now he realised he was dealing with a crazy woman. This was all he needed.

‘Are you serious? Are you telling me you climbed over a flooded river in gale-force winds? Have you lost your mind?’

For a moment a wounded look flashed in her cocoa-brown eyes, but then she stared defiantly back at him.

‘The sea was about to flood my cottage. I called the emergency services but they are swamped with the flooding throughout Mooncoyne. And anyway they can’t reach here—Foley’s Bridge is impassable even to them. You’re my only neighbour. There was no other place I could come to for shelter.’ Throwing her head back, she took a deep breath before she continued, a tremor in her voice. ‘I did contemplate staying in my car overnight, but frankly I was more concerned about hypothermia than climbing along a bridge wall.’

Okay, so she had a point. But it had still been a crazy risk to take.

He inhaled a deep breath. For the first time ever he wished his staff resided in the house. If she’d been here, his housekeeper, Maureen, would happily have taken this dishevelled woman in hand. And he could have got some much-needed sleep.

He had awoken to her knocking jet-lagged and perplexed as to how anyone had got past his security. All of Ashbrooke’s thousand-acre parkland was ring-fenced by a twenty-foot stone wall, built at the same time as the house in the eighteenth century. The impenetrable wall and the electronic front gates kept the outside world away.

Well, they were supposed to.

He would be having words with his estate manager in the morning. But right now he had a stranger dripping water down on to his polished limestone floor. He had an urgent teleconference in less than four hours with Hong Kong. To be followed up with a day of endless other teleconferences to wrap up his biggest acquisition ever. The acquisition, however, was still mired in legal and technical difficulties. Difficulties his teams should have sorted out weeks ago. The arrival of his neighbour at this time of night was the last thing he needed.

He glanced at her again. She gave him a brief uncertain smile. And he did a double take. Beneath that mass of wild, out-of-control hair she was beautiful.

Full Cupid’s bow lips, clear rosy skin, thick arched eyebrows and the most expressive eyes he had ever seen, framed by long dark eyelashes. Not the striking, almost hard supermodel beauty of some of his exes. She was...really pretty.

But then with a twinge of guilt he realised that she was shivering, and that she had noticeably paled in the past few minutes.

‘You need to get out of those wet clothes and have a shower.’

A glimmer of heat showed on her cheeks and she shuffled uneasily. ‘I don’t have any spare clothes. I didn’t pack any. I only had time to get some office equipment and files out...the things I had to save.’

Oh, great. Well, he didn’t have any spare women’s clothes hanging around here. He had never brought any of his dates to Ashbrooke. This was his sanctuary. And it had become even more so in the past few years as his ever-growing business demanded his absolute concentration.

Deep down he knew he should say some words of comfort to her. But he was no good in these situations, at saying the right thing. God knew his history with his own sister, Orla, proved that. His skill in life was making money. It clearly wasn’t having effective personal relationships.

The thought of how he had failed not only Orla but also his mum and dad left a bitter taste in his mouth as his eyes moved up to meet his neighbour’s. Two pools of wary brown met him. He could provide this woman with practical help. But nothing more.

‘Pass me your jacket and I’ll show you to a guest bedroom. I’ll find you some clothes to wear while you shower.’

Her hands trembled as she shrugged off her pink and red floral rain jacket. Beneath it she wore a red and white striped cotton top, a short denim miniskirt, black wool tights and Converse trainers. Not exactly clothing suitable for being outdoors in the midst of an Atlantic storm.

The wet clothes clung to her skin. Despite himself he let his gaze trail down the soft curves of her body, gliding over the gentle slope of her breasts, narrow waist and along the long length of her legs.

When he looked up she gave a shrug. ‘I didn’t have time to get changed.’

She must have mistaken his stare of appreciation for incredulity. Good. He certainly didn’t want her getting any other ideas.

He took her coat and in silence they walked up the stairs.

He glanced briefly at his watch. He would show her to her room and then go and get some sleep. He needed to be at the top of his game tomorrow, to unravel this mess his acquisition teams seemed incapable of sorting out.

* * *

She followed him up a cantilevered stone staircase. Despite her longing to get changed out of her rain-soaked clothes—not least her trainers, which squelched with every step—she couldn’t help but stop and stare at the opulent rococo plasterwork that curved along the walls of the staircase. Exquisite delicate masks and scallop shells rendered in porcelain-like plaster had her longing to reach out and touch the silent angelic faces, which seemed to follow her steps with knowing smiles.

It was one of the most stunning rooms she had ever seen...if you could call a hallway a room. Good Lord, if the entrance hall was like this what was the rest of the house like? Talk about making a girl feel inadequate...

Ahead of her he continued to climb the stairs, his tall, broad frame causing an unwanted flip in her stomach. He was big, dark, and handsome beyond belief. And you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that he wasn’t too keen on having her here.

Well, she wasn’t too keen on being here herself. She’d much prefer to be at home, snuggled up in her own bed. Having to face the displeasure of a billionaire who, given his monumental success at such a young age, was probably hard-nosed and cold-hearted, was not exactly her idea of a fun night.

Upstairs, he led her down a never-ending corridor in silence. She had an insane urge to talk, to kill the tension that seemed to simmer silently between them.

‘Your helicopter often passes over my cottage. Do you travel a lot?’

‘When required.’

Okay, so it hadn’t been the most interesting or insightful of questions, but he could have given a little more detail in the way of an answer. It wouldn’t kill him to make a little small talk with her, would it?

He stopped and opened a door, and signalled for her to enter first. As she passed he studied her with a coolness that gave nothing away. She found herself giving him an involuntary smile. But when his face remained impassive, apart from the slight narrowing of his eyes, she felt rather silly.

His cool attitude pinged in her brain like a wake-up call. She was here out of necessity, not because she wanted to be, and he shouldn’t be making her feel so uneasy. She straightened her back with resolve and pride and marched further into the room. First thing tomorrow morning she was out of here.

But she hadn’t gone far when her steps faltered. ‘Oh, wow, this bedroom is stunning...and it’s huge! A family of six could easily sleep in that bed.’

An imposing oversized bed sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by sofas and occasional chairs covered in glazed cotton in varying tones of sage-green. An antique desk and a vanity table sat either side of the white marble fireplace.

He didn’t acknowledge her words of admiration but instead made for the door. ‘I’ll go and get you some clothes to change into.’

When he was gone she pulled a face. Did she really have to sound so gushing? Right—from here on in she was playing it cool with Patrick Fitzsimon.

Two doors led to a bathroom and a dressing room. In the bathroom she eyed the shower longingly. She didn’t suppose he would be too impressed to return to find her already in the locked bathroom, the shower running, making herself at home...

This was all so horribly awkward. Barging in on a very reluctant neighbour at this time of night...

But then a giggle escaped as she imagined his expression if he returned to a closed bathroom door and, beyond it, the sound of her voice belting out a show tune inside the running shower.

Her laughter died, though, when she walked back out into the bedroom to be confronted with the exact frown she had imagined. As she reddened he threw her a stark look.

‘Is something the matter?’

‘No...it’s just that my wet shoes are making the sound of a sickly duck whenever I walk.’

Oh, for crying out loud. So much for playing it cool. Where had that come from?

He looked at her as though he was concerned about her sanity. With a quick shake of his head he placed the bundle in his hands on to one of the fireside chairs. ‘Have a shower and get changed. You’ll need to wash and dry your clothes for when you leave in the morning. There’s a laundry room at the end of this corridor—please use that.’

With that, he turned away. His back was still turned to her when she heard him say goodnight.

‘Is it okay if I get myself a drink after I shower?’

He slowed at her question and for a fraction too long he paused, a new tension radiating across his broad shoulders.

When he turned she shrugged and gave an apologetic smile. ‘I could really do with something to warm me up. If you tell me how to get to the kitchen, I’ll pop down there after.’

Cue a deepening of his grimace. Just for a moment she wondered how gorgeous he must be when he smiled, because he was pretty impressive even when grimacing. If he ever smiled, that was.

‘Turn left outside the bedroom door and you will find another set of stairs a little further along that will take you down to the west wing. The kitchen is the fifth door on the left.’

He twisted away and was gone before she could voice her thanks.

She exhaled heavily. Was he this abrasive with everyone, or was it her in particular?

God knew she had met plenty of curt people in her line of business, but there was something about Patrick Fitzsimon that completely threw her. In his company she felt as though an invisible wall separated them. She got on with most people—she was good at putting them at ease. But with him she got the distinct feeling that getting on with people was pretty low on his agenda.

On the bed, she unfurled his bundle: soft grey cotton pyjama bottoms and a pale blue shirt, wrapped around a toothbrush and toothpaste.

Her heart did a funny little shimmy at the thought of wearing his clothes, and before she knew what she was doing she brought them to her nose. Her eyes closed as she inhaled the intoxicating smell of fresh laundry, but there was no hint of the scent she had inhaled earlier when she’d fallen against him. Salt and grass...and a deep, hot, masculine scent that had her swallowing a sigh in remembrance. For a few crazy seconds earlier she had wanted to wrap her arms around his waist. Take shelter against his hardness for ever.

She threw her eyes upwards. What was she doing? The man was as cold as ice.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. After tomorrow she would probably never see him again. And she was not interested in men right now anyway. Her hard-won independence was too precious. From here on in she wanted to live a life in which she was in charge of her own destiny. Where she called the shots.

One night and she was out of here. Back to her work and back to nights in, eating pizza and watching box sets on her own. Which she was perfectly happy with, thank you very much.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

CHAPTER THREE

PATRICK TORE ALONG the bridle path that cut through the woods, pushing his horse harder and harder. Soft ground underfoot, branches whizzing by, the flash of vivid, almost purple patches of bluebells, calm cool air beating against his skin...

When they reached the edge of the woods they raced through the parkland’s glistening green grass. They leapt time and time again over the ditches separating the fields. Adrenaline pumped in both man and mare.

They followed the ancient pathway that hugged the coast and galloped in the steps of the medieval pilgrims who had come to Mooncoyne abbey.

The rising sun slatted its thick rays of sunlight through the window openings and he pulled the horse to a halt by the entrance. He dismounted and walked into the nave.

He hadn’t managed to get back to sleep again last night. Instead he had lain awake, wondering how his conversation with Aideen Ryan had become so personal so quickly. It had unsettled him. That wasn’t how he operated. He didn’t open up to anyone.

For crying out loud, he had almost suggested to her that she travel with him to Paris. His guess was that it wasn’t just pride standing in her way of going, but also financial difficulties. In the end he had ended the conversation, been glad when she’d made her own way to bed, because he hadn’t been able to handle how good it was to talk to someone else, to actually connect with them.

And, despite himself, he was deeply attracted to her.

All of which was dangerous.

He threw his head back and stared up into the endless depths of the blue sky.

Hadn’t he already proved he wasn’t capable of having effective relationships? He had a string of exes who had been beautiful but superficial. A sister who wouldn’t talk to him. And a nephew or niece he would never get to know.

The baby would be born in the next month. He should be there. Supporting Orla. At least she was willing to accept his financial support. If she had refused to do so then he really would have been out of his mind, worrying about how she was going to cope.

His call to Hong Kong earlier had gone well. If he kept up the pressure for the remainder of the day, with the rest of his acquisition teams, then the deal would go through later tonight. It would be strange for it all to be over. For months he had worked day and night to see it happen.

A strange emptiness sat in his chest. What would he do once the project was over?

The slow tendrils of an idea had formed in his mind but he kept pushing them away. But as he walked through the ruins of the abbey the idea came back, stronger and more insistent this time.

He should help Aideen. It was what any good neighbour would do. It was what his father would have done.

But would he be crazy to do it? Last night he had lowered his guard around her. He couldn’t allow that again. If he was to help then it would have to be done on a strictly business basis. He could help her re-establish her business, mentor her if required. He knew what it was like to throw your heart and soul into a business. And he knew only too well the pain of failure.

He would help her. And it would all be professional and uncomplicated.

* * *

The memory of a deep voice snaked through Aideen’s brain. She gave a small sigh, smiled to herself, and stretched out on the bed.

But then her eyes popped open and she looked around, disorientated. Small shafts of daylight sneaked under drawn curtains.

Slowly she remembered where she was. And what she had to face today.

Dreaming about Patrick Fitzsimon was the last thing she should be doing.

The cottage. Deadlines.

For a few seconds she pulled the duvet up over her head. Maybe she could just stay here in this warm and dark cocoon for a few days.

With a groan she pushed back the cover. Time to rise and shine. And face what the day had to bring.

Anyway, it couldn’t be any worse than being forced out of the business she’d once created. She had survived the past year, so she would survive this.

She pulled the curtains apart and winced as daylight flooded the room.

The view out of her window was breathtaking. Below her, formal box gardens led down to a gigantic fountain that sprayed a sprout of water so vigorously upwards it was as though it was trying to defy gravity. Rose gardens lay beyond the fountain, and then a long rolling meadow, rich in rain-drenched emerald green grass, ran all the way down to the faraway sea.

Though the sun was still low in the sky the light was dazzling, thanks to a startlingly clear blue sky.

Had last night’s storm been in her imagination? How could such furious weather be followed by such a beautiful day?

She could almost convince herself maybe her cottage hadn’t flooded. That the weather was a good omen. But she had seen the ferocity of the sea. There was no way her cottage had got away with avoiding that angry swell.

When she had come to view the property she had fallen in love with the old cottage and its outbuildings, arranged around a courtyard garden. Fuchsia had dangled from the hedgerows and fading old roses had tumbled from its walls. It had seemed the perfect solution then.

But now her income was sparser and more sporadic than she had projected, and sometimes she wondered whether she could make this work. That was one of the worst consequences of losing her business: the vulnerability and constant questioning of whether she was doing the right thing, making the right decisions.

But a burning passion for her work along with a heavy dose of pride got her through most days. She would sacrifice everything to make this business a success.

Her heart was a different matter, though. It felt bruised. To think that once upon a time she had thought her ex had loved her...

Pressing the edges of her palms against her eyes, she drew in a deep breath.

A quick shower, an even quicker coffee, and she would head home to start sorting out whatever was waiting for her.

She mightn’t even see Patrick. Which would be a good thing, right?

Heading to the bathroom, she sighed. Just who was she trying to kid?

The truth was giddiness was fizzing through her veins at the prospect of seeing his tall, muscular body, the darkness of his hair, and his lightly tanned skin which emphasised the celestial blue of his eyes.

Showered and dressed, she was about to open the bedroom door when she spotted a note pushed under it. Picking it up, she read the brief words.

Aideen,

I will drive you back to your cottage. Help yourself to breakfast in the kitchen. I will meet you in the main entrance hall at nine.

Patrick

It was a generous offer, but she needed to face the cottage on her own. It was her responsibility. She had taken up enough of his time as it was.

And then she studied the note again as an uncomfortable truth dawned on her. Was he offering to take her as a way of ensuring that she left? Humiliation burnt on her cheeks.

She checked the time on her phone. It was not yet eight o’clock. She would get changed and then go reassure him that she was leaving and was perfectly capable of making her own way home.

Thirty minutes later she had searched for him throughout the house but there was no sign of him. Her search in this exquisite house, as she’d gasped at the beauty of the baroque ballroom, with its frescoed ceiling, mirrored walls, and golden chandeliers, had brought home how different their lives were.

She was writing a note for him in the kitchen when the cloakroom door swung open.

Over off-white jodhpurs and black riding boots he was wearing a loose pale green shirt, the top three buttons open to reveal a masculine smattering of dark hair. His skin glistened with a sheen of perspiration.

He came to a stop when he spotted her at the table.

‘Good morning.’ He moved across the kitchen in long strides while adding, ‘Help yourself to breakfast. I’ll have a quick shower and be ready by nine.’

His manner was brusque, and she was left with no doubt that he just wanted to get the business of taking her home over and done with. Embarrassment coiled its way around her insides and she wanted to curl up into a protective ball against his rejection.

But instead she gave him a sunny smile. ‘Thank you for the offer, but there’s really no need for you to drive me. I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ He turned to her with a frown and she added, as way of explanation, ‘I’ll collect my car down by the bridge. I could do with a walk anyway.’

‘I’m coming.’

Didn’t he trust her? Was he always this insistent?

‘No, honestly—you’ve done enough.’

He leant against the island unit at the centre of the kitchen. ‘Aideen, there’s no point in arguing. I’ve made up my mind.’

His cool composure set her teeth on edge. ‘I want to go to the cottage by myself.’

‘Why?’

Oh, for crying out loud. ‘Because I can manage. The cottage is my responsibility. And I have no doubt that you are an extremely busy man. I can’t take up any more of your time.’

‘I’m taking you. End of story.’

She was leaving. Why wasn’t that enough for him? She gave a small laugh and said jokingly, ‘You don’t have to personally escort me off the estate, you know.’

He obviously didn’t enjoy her joke as annoyance flared on his face. ‘Do you really think that is why I want to drive you to the cottage? That I want to make sure you leave?’

Thrown by his anger, she challenged him back. ‘What other reason could you possibly have?’

His blue gaze held hers for a long time, and then, with a deep inhalation, he said in a quiet voice, ‘Why can’t you just accept that I want to help you?’

He moved beside the table and hunkered down beside her. Heat coursed through her veins at having his powerful body so close by, at seeing the movement of the hard muscles of his thighs beneath the thin fabric of the jodhpurs, the beauty of his lightly tanned hand and forearm which rested on the table beside her.

He didn’t speak again until she met his determined gaze. ‘Let me help you.’

Why wasn’t he listening to her? She was able to look after herself—she didn’t need any help.

‘I appreciate the offer, but I can manage by myself.’

He stood, his jaw working, and eyed her unhappily. ‘As you wish.’

With that, he strode out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

* * *

For the second time in less than twelve hours Aideen knocked at Patrick’s front door. If she’d hated to ask for help the first time around then it was ten times worse now. Talk about having to eat humble pie...

As she waited for her knock to be answered she looked back towards her car. Thankfully it had started immediately, and although the floor was a little damp, the files and office equipment piled on to the back seat and in the boot had escaped the storm and flood waters.

Unlike her cottage.

She needed to think straight, but her mind was ping-ponging all over the place. Work. Deadlines. Insurance claims. Where would she even start in finding a reputable builder to carry out the necessary repairs?

She turned to the sound of the door opening.

A middle-aged woman stood there, a puzzled look on her face. As though she was surprised to find someone standing at the door. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Can I speak to Patrick, please?’

The woman looked totally taken aback. To assure her that she wasn’t some random stranger, Aideen quickly added, ‘I’m Aideen Ryan. I live in Fuchsia Cottage, down by the lough. Your estate manager was at the front gates, repairing them after last night’s storm. Patrick had told him how my cottage flooded last night and he let me in when I said I needed to talk to Patrick again.’

‘Oh, you poor thing. Of course—come in. Sure, half the village is flooded. I never saw anything like it in my life.’

The woman led her to a large reception room off the entrance hall, chatting all the way.

‘You took me by surprise. We don’t tend to get many visitors. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll let Patrick know you’re here.’

It took Patrick so long to arrive that for a while she worried that he was refusing to see her. He marched into the room, his brow furrowed. He was wearing a light blue formal shirt, open at the neck, fine navy wool trousers and expensive tan-coloured shoes. It all screamed expensive Italian designer and he looked every inch the successful billionaire that he was.

She gave him a crooked smile. ‘I’m back.’

His frown didn’t budge an inch. ‘So I see.’

She took a deep breath. She had to focus on work. A little bit of humility had never killed anyone. ‘My cottage is uninhabitable. The insurance company is sending out an assessor tomorrow. I tried to go to Mooncoyne, but Foley’s Bridge is still impassable.’ Trying not to wince at his deepening frown, she said in a rush, ‘I was wondering if it would be possible for me to work from here...until the flooding subsides.’

His head tilted forward and he pinned her with a look.

‘It’s just that I have a commission I need to complete by the end of today and I need access to the internet.’

‘What condition is the cottage in?’

Her stomach lurched, but she clenched her fists and forced herself to speak. ‘There’s still floodwater in both the cottage and the studio. Most of my furniture and all the fitted furniture will probably need to be replaced. At a guess, and after speaking to the insurance company, I’ll be out of the cottage for at least a month.’

* * *

She was feigning calmness about the whole situation but she wasn’t fooling him. The storm damage was exactly as he had anticipated. He clenched his teeth in frustration. Why had she been so stubborn in refusing his offer to go with her? He’d had some spare time then. Now he had back-to-back meetings scheduled for the rest of the day.

He would give her fifteen minutes. Get her to see the sense of his plan. And then he would get back to wrapping up this acquisition.

‘How about all your personal belongings? Are they okay?’

‘All of my clothes survived, but not my shoes—unfortunately.’ A sad, crooked smile broke on her mouth before she added in bewilderment, with a catch in her voice, ‘I mean, shoes! They are the least of my worries...but I loved them so much.’

‘Where are you going to live?’

‘I’m not sure... I called the Harbour View Hotel but they’re completely booked out tonight, and apparently all the bed and breakfasts in a ten-mile radius are the same because of people having to evacuate. I’ll probably have to stay in one of the hotels in Ballymore.’

There was no way she was going to manage the renovations from twenty miles away and work on her commissions at the same time.

‘It’s going to be difficult for you to manage the repairs from Ballymore. I’ll get William, my estate manager, to project-manage the renovations for you.’

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’

‘Because you need to concentrate on your business—not spend your days driving all over the countryside and chasing builders.’

‘I appreciate the offer, but I need to manage the renovations by myself.’

‘Why?’

Tiredly, she rubbed her palms over her face and looked at him imploringly. ‘Let me ask you the same question. Why? Why are you doing this?’

Taking a step closer, he stared down at her. Boy, was she obstinate. ‘Maybe I just want to help you. Nothing more.’

‘I can’t accept your help.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because...’

This woman was impossible. Why wouldn’t she accept his help? She was as bad as Orla.

He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Aideen, will you stop being a pain and just agree to letting William sort out the renovations...? It’s not a big deal. And I don’t know about you, but I have better things to be doing than standing here arguing about my motives.’

* * *

Not a big deal to him, perhaps, but it was to her. She needed to rebuild her life by herself, on her own terms.

Bewildered, she said, ‘You don’t even know me.’

‘So? You’re my neighbour. That’s a good enough reason for me to want to help.’

He made it all sound so simple. And for a moment she wanted to believe him. But then a siren of warning sounded in her brain. She needed to be in control of her own life. ‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful, and I do appreciate your offer, but I have to manage the renovations by myself.’

‘And what if your business suffers as a result?’

She flinched at the truth of his words. Ballymore was twenty miles away, on twisting roads. Trying to manage the renovations and run her business from a hotel room was going to be a nightmare.

Frustration at the whole situation had her arguing back. ‘I’ll manage.’

His mouth tensed at the anger in her voice and he considered her through narrowed eyes. ‘You are stubborn, aren’t you?’

‘So it has been said in the past,’ she muttered.

On an exasperated exhalation he folded his arms. ‘Your business has to be your number one priority. William will sort out the renovations. You will move in here until the cottage is ready, and on Sunday you will come to Paris with me.’

A bolt of pain radiated through his jawline as he clamped his teeth together. Hard. For a few seconds he wondered at the words he had so casually tossed out. Disquiet rumbled in his stomach. Was he about to walk into a minefield of complications by inviting this woman into his life? But in an instant he killed that doubt. This was the right thing to do. She needed his help. Even if the horror in her eyes told him that she wasn’t ready to accept it yet.

Stupefied, Aideen stared at him for the longest while, waiting for him to give the tiniest indication that he was joking. But his mouth didn’t twitch...his eyes didn’t soften.

She gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘Are you being serious?’

‘Yes. I have meetings in Paris all of next week. You said yourself that you should be out meeting clients. Well, now is your opportunity. I have a chateau close to Paris we can use.’

‘But I would be intruding.’

‘Look, you’ve seen the size of Ashbrooke. My chateau outside Paris is large, too. You can set up a temporary studio there for the week. We can keep out of each other’s way.’

Shaking her head, she folded her arms across her chest. ‘You said last night you like living on your own...and so do I. It won’t work.’

‘We’ll lead our own lives. I’m simply offering you a bed and a place to work—both here and in Paris. You come and go as you please. My chauffeur will be available to you whenever you need him. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.’

‘But why?’

‘What is it with you and your questions? Why don’t you believe that I’m just trying to be a good neighbour? That it’s the right thing to do? I admire your tenacity and I want to support you in rebuilding your business. I think you need help even if you are too stubborn to admit it yourself.’

Taken aback by the powerful intensity of his words, she wavered a little. ‘I’d pay you back.’

Taking a deep breath, he said with exasperation, ‘I don’t want your money. Can’t you just accept it as a neighbourly gesture?’

‘I’ll be paying rent.’

He held up his hands. ‘Fine. You can pay me once your insurance money comes through. Now I need to get back to work. I’ll show you to the library, where you can work today. Use the same bedroom as last night to sleep in.’ Out in the corridor, he added, ‘You met my housekeeper, Maureen, earlier. Speak to her if you need anything. I’ll get William to call in to see you and together you can discuss the renovation plans.’

She followed him to the library. Was she crazy to agree to this? But it was the only sensible option open to her. Wasn’t it she who had said she would do anything to make her business a success? Just how hard would it be to move into his house for a month? She would have the space she needed and she would be close by the cottage to keep an eye on the renovations. And she did need to go to Paris.

It was a no-brainer, really. But could she really cope with living under the same roof as him? When there was this strange push-and-pull thing going on between them...attraction vying with wariness?

But it wasn’t as if he was welcoming her with open arms anyway. He was a busy man who travelled the world. She mightn’t see him for most of the time she was his guest.

A little while later, she was about to go about unpacking her car when she glanced around to see him watching her with a dark intensity.

How long would it take for him to regret asking her to stay? If he wasn’t already doing so...?

CHAPTER FOUR

MONDAY MORNING. THEY HAD flown to Paris the day before, and today he had a number of client and in-house meetings before him. The acquisition had gone through on Friday evening.

He had set Aideen up with a temporary studio space in the library of the chateau, and she planned on spending the day organising meetings with clients.

He jogged past the walled garden in the grounds of the chateau and then broke into a sprint. He had dined out last night with his French management team. Glad to have an excuse to leave the chateau and her offer to cook them dinner.

They had both worked on the plane over yesterday afternoon, but he had found his gaze repeatedly wandering towards her, intrigued by how absorbed she had been in her work. With her hair swept up into a messy bun she had stared at her laptop screen, her long fingers tapping the delicate column of her neck in thought. And he had wondered what it would be like to have those fingers run against his skin.

After that, the thought of sharing dinner alone with her had set alarm bells off in his brain. He had to keep his distance.

Taking the steps of the garden two at a time, he ran across the stone terrace that traversed the entire length of the back of the sixteenth-century chateau. He entered the house and walked towards the kitchen. Was that baking he smelt?

An explosion of household goods were scattered across the surface of the island. The shells of juiced oranges, an upturned egg carton, an open milk bottle teetering precariously on the edge of the unit. Behind them, a trail of baking tins and bowls was scattered along the kitchen counter.

He turned to the sound of footsteps out in the corridor. Aideen walked towards him, a huge bunch of multi-coloured tulips in her arms, a carton of eggs in her hand, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, a wide smile on her face. Her hair, thick glossy waves of soft chestnut curls, fell down her back.

‘Oh, you’re back.’ She flashed him a quick smile before her gaze darted guiltily to the chaos behind him. ‘I thought you would be out for a while yet.’

‘What’s happened to the kitchen?’

‘I’m making breakfast. I hope you don’t mind.’

Actually, he did. He wanted his kitchen clean and tidy, as it usually was. Not this mess.

She sidestepped him and began to search through the kitchen cupboards.

He gritted his teeth and tried to resist the urge to start clearing up the mess himself. His stomach, however, had very different thoughts as it rumbled at the delicious sweet smells of baking.

She plopped the tulips in a vase she had found in a cupboard and placed it on the kitchen table. ‘I met your gardener earlier, and he gave me the use of his bike to cycle down to the village so that I could go to the boulangerie. But then I ran out of eggs, so I had to go again. The cycle down is easy but, boy, the hill back up is tricky. The countryside here is beautiful, and the village is so pretty. When I came back he gave me these flowers from the garden—aren’t they stunning?’

The tulips did look good, but something about their cheery presence in the kitchen niggled him...they were just too homely.

For a few seconds she looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t respond she smiled at him uncertainly, before rolling up the sleeves of her pink and white striped shirt.

‘I’ll tidy up here and then put some breakfast on. In honour of being in France, I’m going to make us oeufs en cocotte.’

He looked at her, bewildered. And slowly it dawned on him that she was expecting them to have breakfast together.

For a few brief seconds he was tempted to give in to the tantalising aroma of fresh baking filling the room. But a glimpse of her white lace bra as she bent over to swoop up the errant milk cap from the floor had him coming back to reality with a bang.

This wasn’t what her stay was supposed to be about. A bed and an office... Not seeing too much of her. That was what he had signed up for. Not this cosy domesticity. Not some breakfast routine that could quickly become a habit. Not feeling desire for a woman first thing in the morning.

‘I don’t eat breakfast.’

It was almost the truth. He usually just grabbed some toast and coffee and took it to his office, eager to start work.

She was going about gathering up all the empty packaging on the island unit and paused briefly to give him a quick look. ‘But that’s crazy. After exercising you should eat.’

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