The Single Mum and the Tycoon

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.’