David sucked in his breath, ran his hand over her ribs so his palm was against her skin. She gasped as they came into contact, and she heard his breath catch, too.

‘Beautiful,’ he said roughly, and then, anchoring her head with his other hand, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her properly for the first time.

‘Can we lose the light?’ he said, and she realised he was still afraid of her reaction.

‘No,’ she said, not knowing at all if it was the right thing to do, but just sure she wanted to see him, wanted him to see her, so there would be no secrets, nothing left to shock or surprise or disappoint. She lifted her hand and touched it to his heart. ‘I want to see you. I want to look into your eyes. I want to know it’s you, and I want you to know it’s me, warts and all.’

Caroline Anderson has the mind of a butterfly. She’s been a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, run her own soft-furnishing business, and now she’s settled on writing. She says, ‘I was looking for that elusive something. I finally realised it was variety, and now I have it in abundance. Every book brings new horizons and new friends, and in between books I have learned to be a juggler. My teacher husband John and I have two beautiful and talented daughters, Sarah and Hannah, umpteen pets, and several acres of Suffolk that nature tries to reclaim every time we turn our backs!’ Caroline also writes for the Medical™ Romance series.

THE SINGLE MUM AND THE TYCOON

BY

CAROLINE ANDERSON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE SINGLE MUM AND THE TYCOON

MILLS & BOON

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PROLOGUE

NOW what?

He turned his head, eyeing the vibrating, cheerful little phone on his bedside locker with distaste. God, he loathed that ring-tone. Why on earth hadn’t he changed it?

It stopped, and he dropped his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes, trying to get back to that quiet place inside where nothing could reach him.

But not for long.

The phone rang again, and he sighed and picked it up.

Damn. Not Georgie. Anyone else—anyone who knew—but not his little sister. Not now.

Except she wouldn’t give up, of course. She never did. She was going to keep on ringing and texting and driving him mad until eventually he gave up and spoke to her, so he might as well get it over with.

Bracing himself for the inevitable lecture, he stabbed the button and forced some enthusiasm into his voice. ‘Georgie—hi! How’re you doing?’

‘Fine—not that you care, or you wouldn’t screen my calls!’

His laugh cracked a little, and he coughed to cover it.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m a lousy brother,’ he said, not bothering to deny the call screening. ‘So—what have I done wrong this time?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Good God. A miracle.’

‘Don’t get overexcited, there’s still a chance,’ she warned, and he wondered what she wanted. Something, for sure. She always did. And he always failed her—

‘Now, are you listening?’ she went on. ‘I’ve got to tell you something really important, and you’ve got to pay attention.’

‘As if I don’t always,’ he said drily, and heard her chuckle.

‘Yeah, right. When you’re not ignoring me. I’ve been trying to get you for days to tell you—no surprises there. I don’t know where you hide. Anyway, the thing is, Dad’s getting married again—to Liz, Nick’s mother—you know, my mother-in-law?’

‘Married?’ He straightened up, stunned. ‘That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

‘Sudden? David, they’ve known each other for two years! It’s hardly sudden, and he’s lonely, and they get on so well. It’s time he moved on. It’s been seven years since Mum died. That’s long enough.’

Seven years? Really? ‘I can’t believe that,’ he said.

‘Believe it. And you have to come home for the wedding. You haven’t been home since before Dad’s heart attack, and if it’s not been one darned excuse it’s been another, but you have to come home for this, no isn’t an option. Your empire will have to take care of itself for a while. He wants you to be his best man, but he won’t ask you himself, you know what he’s like, but he really wants you here standing by his side. And don’t even think about breaking something just to get out of it.’

‘As if,’ he said, trying to make a joke of it, but she wasn’t laughing.

‘Don’t give me that. It’s time you came home, David, even if you’re in a total body cast,’ she said firmly, and he swallowed again and stared down the bed at his feet.

He didn’t think so. The timing couldn’t have been worse—and, as for being his father’s best man—standing by him—well, that was some kind of sick joke, wasn’t it?

‘When’s the wedding?’ he asked, hoping to God it wasn’t another life-changing event he was going to miss because of this stupid, stupid—

‘Not for a while. They want to get the spa finished so he can enjoy the wedding.’

‘Spa?’

Her sigh spoke volumes, and he knew he was in trouble again. ‘You really don’t listen to anything, do you? Nick bought the old hotel at the top of the high street with Dan Hamilton and Harry Kavenagh: Dan’s the architect, and Dad’s firm are doing the work. Ring any bells?’

‘Cheeky. Of course it rings bells,’ he lied. ‘Sorry, I’ve had a lot on my plate. I knew they were working on something, I’d just forgotten it was going to be a spa.’

‘Not just any spa,’ she said, and he could hear the pride in her voice. ‘It’s going to be amazing. They’re turning it into a top-end residential and day spa and gym, properly state-of-the-art, and it’s going to be fantastic but it’s been a bit of a killer for Dad. It’s a big job to oversee. It’s due to open next Easter, and he says he can’t think about the wedding till it’s all signed off, so they want to get married as soon as it’s open.’

Easter. He frowned at his feet, moved the left one, wriggled the toes. Winced as the pain shafted through it and, for once, he welcomed it. That would be some time in April. And it was June now. So—ten months. Would he be ready? Would he ever be ready?

Have to be. This was his father, and he’d asked for nothing over the past ten years. He’d lost his wife, had a heart attack and bypass surgery that David hadn’t been able to be there for, ended up with crippling business problems because of his illness that he’d never once mentioned—and he’d gone through it all without asking his son for anything.

And he wasn’t asking now, but David couldn’t turn him down. Not this time. Georgie was right.

‘I’ll come,’ he said. ‘Tell him I’ll be there.’

‘Tell him yourself. Call him—if you really mean it.’

The door opened and a nurse came in with a porter and a big smile. ‘We’re ready for you, David.’

His heart lurched against his ribs and he held up his hand to stop her. ‘I mean it. I’ll come. I promise.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Give him my love. I have to go, I’ve got a meeting now and I’m going to be out of reach for a little while, but I’ll be in touch as soon as I’m back in range. Just tell him I’m coming.’

And without anything else, without saying goodbye or offering any further explanation, he turned off his phone, threw it into his locker and sucked in a lungful of air before meeting the nurse’s warm, sympathetic eyes with the nearest thing to a smile that he could muster.

‘Right, guys, let’s get this show on the road.’

‘You’re sure? You do understand what’s going to happen, David, and you’re OK with it?’

No, he wasn’t sure, not about anything, and he sure as hell wasn’t OK with it, but he’d put this off for too long as it was. And he knew he didn’t have a choice. Not if he was going to get on with his life.

‘I’m sure,’ he lied and, closing his eyes, he rested his head back on the pillow as she kicked the brakes off the bed and wheeled him down the corridor.

CHAPTER ONE

IT REALLY hadn’t changed at all.

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

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

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

Including those of his family, he thought with regret.

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

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

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

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

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

But not yet.

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

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

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

Sleepy old Yoxburgh was clearly thriving in his absence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or had it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Davey?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

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

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

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

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

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

Not a lot, probably.

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

‘The bell doesn’t work. Who are you?’

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

‘Charlie. What do you want?’

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

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

He reappeared a moment later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How long for?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

She chewed her lip and he almost groaned aloud.

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

She trailed to a halt.

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

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

‘Can I see it?’

‘The attic?’

‘No. The cabin.’

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

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

‘I could help you.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’ll take it,’ he said.

Molly felt her shoulders sag with relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I could do it for you.’

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

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

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

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

‘Guttering?’

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

‘Oh.’

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

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

‘Why not?’

‘Well—it isn’t fair.’

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

‘But I couldn’t possibly let you—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She must be insane.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

‘SO—DO you come from round here?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘She’s a teacher?’

‘An artist—didn’t you know?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted to die.

‘So—what about you?’ he said.

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

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

‘Something,’ she conceded.

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

‘Something?’

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

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

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

‘They?’

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

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

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

‘I’m not avoiding them.’

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

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

‘So why mine and not theirs?’

‘Why not?’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

‘You noticed.’

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

‘Are you always so nosy?’

‘No. Sometimes I can be pushy, too.’

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

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

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

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

Damn.

Had that been his fault or hers?

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I can’t play football.’

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

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

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

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

‘They don’t know.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘I have no idea.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Just—’

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

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

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

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

‘Of course.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’ll put my leg on.’

‘Isn’t that a fiddle?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn. He’d apologise tomorrow.

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

Or just plain loneliness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least Molly hadn’t been sick.

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

God, he hated that word.

Hated all of it.

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

Where had it all gone?

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

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

And he had to be his best man.

Hell.

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

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

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

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

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

Not even his phantoms.

It was a cry that woke her.

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

And it was coming from the cabin.

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

‘David? Are you OK?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sorry. Did I disturb you?’

‘You were dreaming.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’ll be fine.’

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

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

Tranquil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then at last she spoke.

‘Who died?’ she asked softly.

He felt a shaft of dread. ‘Died?’

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

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

Not tonight.

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

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

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