Kindergarten Cupids. Vivienne Wallington
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caught him in her arms and hugged him tight. “That’s good, darling. That’s great.”
“Mummy…” Nicky looked up at her with beseeching gray eyes, the sunlight glinting on his grass-smudged lenses. “Can we ask Ben over to play tomorrow?”
Mardi’s heart wrenched. She’d lost count of the times Nicky had asked about his friend Benjamin Templar since his father had died and the kindergarten had broken up for the long summer holidays. She’d made excuses to him each time. She did so again.
“We have to look for a new home, darling.” She’d tried to explain to him that they couldn’t afford such a big house or garden anymore, now that Daddy had gone to heaven, but it was hard for a five-year-old to understand. “We’ll try to find a house near a nice park or a playground, where you and Scoots can run around.” They were unlikely to have a spacious lawn or even a garden at their new place.
“Can Ben come to the park with us?” Nicky asked.
Mardi sighed. Ben, always Ben. Since the day he’d started at St. Mark’s kindergarten, when they moved into their new home last August, the two boys had been inseparable. Ben, the older by three months and quite a bit taller, had taken on a protective role, shielding Nicky from any taunts and teasing by the other children. And Nicky’s quick mind and easygoing manner had often saved Ben from trouble, drawing the boys closer and cementing their friendship. They’d been looking forward to starting school together this year. Who would look out for her son when he moved to another school?
“Look, why don’t you go and ask Grandpa to have a game of snakes and ladders with you before dinner?” Diversion, Mardi had found, often did the trick in taking Nicky’s mind off Benjamin Templar.
“Grandpa’s having a snooze.”
“Well, it’s time you came in and had a bath anyway,” she said, and frowned as the front doorbell rang. “Oh, heck, who could that be at this hour?” Not the estate agent, she hoped. What a time to want to discuss houses for rent, just as her carrot cake and cottage pie were due to come out of the oven. “Keep an eye on Scoots, Nicky. I’ll just run and see.”
Instead of going back inside to answer the door, she sprinted around the side of the attractive Federation-style house—the house they’d been in for less than six months and now had to leave—and bounded up the steps to the front veranda.
She faltered. It wasn’t the balding estate agent standing at her front door. It was a tall, dark-haired stranger in a beautifully cut business suit.
As he turned to face her, revealing a pair of intensely blue eyes in a strong, square-jawed face, she pulled up short, shock momentarily paralyzing her.
It was him. The man she’d almost collided with at the kindergarten a few months ago—another parent, she’d assumed, who’d already dropped off his child. How could she ever forget those eyes, that face? Or her own humiliating reaction?
As he’d stepped aside, their eyes had clashed, and in that heart-stopping second she’d felt a jolt of sexual awareness that had shocked her, an electrifying sensation she’d never felt before, not even in her happier days with Darrell.
Her face flamed at the embarrassing memory.
And now here he was again, at her home. She gulped hard, hardly able to believe her eyes. He looked just the same as she remembered him from that unforgettable morning, just as riveting with those compelling blue eyes, the slashing black brows, the firm sensual mouth and the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen. And just as sexy and stylish in another superb designer suit.
As her heart fluttered—what was he doing here?—her mind raced ahead, seeking answers. Again he had no child with him. Maybe he wasn’t a kindergarten parent after all, but one of St Mark’s teachers. Not at the kindergarten—she knew all the teachers there—but at the adjoining primary school, where Nicky was to have started school in a weeks’ time.
She hadn’t told the school yet that she’d sold her house and would be moving away from this area, possibly too far away to keep Nicky on at St. Mark’s.
The bitter truth was, she couldn’t afford to keep her son at a private school. She would have to send Nicky to a state school this year, in whatever suburb they moved to. And she’d have to find full-time work for herself—they couldn’t manage on what she’d been earning last year, working two days a week in the office of a girls’ school, or doing the menial jobs she’d managed to scrounge during the holidays.
“Mrs. Sinclair?” His voice cut the silence.
Mardi swallowed again, wishing she didn’t feel so hot and flustered after her unladylike sprint round the house, or so messy, in her flour-covered shorts and T-shirt. The flour was probably on her cheeks and in her hair, as well.
She nodded, trying to maintain her dignity. He’d shown no sign of recognizing her from their fleeting encounter last September. Hardly surprising, she reflected, since she’d been respectably clean and tidy then, and neatly dressed, ready for her part-time job.
“Mardi,” she said automatically, in a voice that wobbled slightly.
An imperceptible nod. It occurred to her that there was little warmth in the blue eyes, although his manner and tone of voice—he had a deep, pleasant voice, she noted—were courteous enough. Courteous, without being friendly. She had the distinct impression he was making an effort to be pleasant.
Surely a teacher at St. Mark’s would have a warmer, friendlier approach.
The firm lips moved again, uttering the last name in the world that she’d expected to hear, or would have wanted to hear.
“Cain Templar.” His strong jaw jutted a trifle. “I’m here because of my son, Benjamin.”
She stared. He was Benjamin Templar’s father? Nicky’s Ben, her son’s best friend at kindergarten? Or they had been best friends, before the tragedy that had struck both boys at the end of November, plucking them asunder, and uncovering the shocking revelations that had torn Mardi’s own world apart. They might have torn her heart apart, too, if her husband hadn’t already crushed any remaining feeling she’d had for him, wearing it away in subtle, souldestroying ways over the months leading up to his death.
Before either had a chance to say any more, Scoots burst up the steps onto the veranda ahead of Nicky, the powerful dog hurling himself at the stranger on his doorstep. But he wasn’t growling or snarling—oh, no, not Scoots. His tail was thrashing to and fro like a scythe as his great paws landed on Cain Templar’s shoulders, his moist pink tongue flicking deep wet kisses all over the man’s startled face.
Looking more exasperated than angry, the man frowned and stepped back. “Okay, okay, you can get down now!”
he rapped, a command that had no effect whatsoever on Scoots.
Mardi, on a wicked impulse, didn’t immediately come to the man’s rescue. “You don’t like dogs?” she asked sweetly, wondering if he was like her husband, Darrell, who’d only tolerated Scoots for Nicky’s sake.
“Well-behaved dogs,” he growled, trying to dodge Scoot’s flashing tongue. “Well-trained dogs. You’ve never thought of taking this undisciplined pooch to a training school?”
Mardi’s chin rose, her eyes glinting at the criticism. “I trained Scoots myself. He’ll settle down in a minute. He’s just checking you out.” She paused, adding in some surprise, “He must like you. He doesn’t jump up on everybody. He’d be growling if he didn’t like you.”
Cain Templar looked as if he’d prefer to be growled at than jumped on with dirty paws and a slobbering tongue.
Taking pity on him, Mardi belatedly pulled Scoots back away from him with a mildly scolding, “Down, Scoots, that’s enough! Nicky, take him round the back, will you, before he wrecks the gentleman’s fine suit.” She was careful not to mention her visitor’s name. “And shut the side gate after you.”
She