The Single Mum and the Tycoon. Caroline Anderson
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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