Bought: One Bride. Miranda Lee
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mention the occasion. On his part, Richard was pleased that he could be reminded of that day without too much pain.
Yes, he was definitely ready to move on.
“I see,” he said as he wondered how old she might be. Late twenties perhaps?
“Please forgive me if I say I don’t recall noticing the flowers that day,” he said ruefully. “But I’m sure they were lovely. I presume these are for my mother?” he said, nodding towards the roses she was holding. Probably from crafty old Melvin.
“Yes. It’s a phone order which was never picked up today. I know how much Mrs Crawford likes flowers—roses particularly—and I thought she might like them. I realise she’s going away next Friday but they won’t last that long.”
“You know about Mum’s trip?”
“Yes, she…um…told me about it herself last week. And about her new doctor friend. Melvin, isn’t it? It’s a pity, really. If she’d still been looking for a travelling companion, I might have applied for the job myself.”
Richard was taken aback. “Why on earth would a girl like you want to travel anywhere with a woman old enough to be her grandmother?”
She shrugged. “Just to escape, I guess.”
If she’d said to travel the world on the cheap, Richard might have understood. But to escape screamed something much more emotional. So did the bleakness that had suddenly filled her big brown eyes.
“Escape from what?” he probed gently. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Man trouble perhaps?”
She wasn’t a raving beauty but, the more Richard looked at her, the more attractive he found her. She had lovely eyes, a sexy mouth and a fabulous figure.
He fancied her. Other men would, too.
She shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that. Here. Give these to your mother when she gets home, will you? Tell her they’re from Holly. Just say they’re a little thank-you present for all the times she’s dropped in at the shop for a chat. She’s a really sweet lady, your mum.”
Richard refused to take the flowers. “Why don’t you come inside and arrange them in a vase for her?” he suggested before she could cut and run. Any girl who wanted to get away that badly sounded like a girl who wasn’t very happy with her life at the moment. If she did have a boyfriend, he sure as hell wasn’t doing the right thing by her.
She blinked, then stared at him.
Richard had no idea what she was thinking, which in itself was as intriguing and attractive as she was. He’d been able to read those women he’d taken to dinner like an open book.
“Look,” he said with what he hoped wasn’t a “big bad wolf” smile. “I have absolutely no talent with flower arranging, whereas you’d have to be an expert. So what do you say, Holly? You do the flowers and I’ll make us both some coffee. I’m good at coffee.”
She still hesitated, making Richard wonder if he was easier to read than she was. Maybe she could see his intentions in his eyes. Not that they were evil intentions. He just wanted the opportunity to learn a bit more about her. He wasn’t planning to seduce her.
Not yet, anyway.
“Who knows?” he said lightly. “Maybe Melvin will prove to be an utter bore and Mum will come home early, still looking for that travelling companion.”
She laughed. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening, and you know it. You’re just being nice, like your mum.”
Nice. She thought he was being nice.
Richard’s conscience stirred. But he swiftly put aside any qualms.
Faint heart never won fair lady.
“We will adjourn to the kitchen,” he said before she had time to think up some excuse to flee. “This way.” And taking her arm, he ushered her inside.
CHAPTER THREE
“I’LL JUST get you some scissors from Dad’s study first,” Richard said as he closed the door behind them.
When he abandoned Holly’s elbow to walk up the hallway into a room on the right, a small shudder of relief rippled through her.
Having Richard Crawford answer the doorbell had been a real shock. She’d been expecting his mother.
But there he’d been, as large as life, and more handsome than ever, even more so than eighteen months earlier, when she’d first seen him. Gone were the dark rings under his eyes and that pale, haunted expression.
How wicked Holly had felt, finding him so attractive at his wife’s funeral. The man had been in deep mourning, for pity’s sake, shattered by the tragic death of the beautiful woman he’d married two years before. She knew from Mrs Crawford how much her son had adored his beautiful Joanna.
But all Holly had been able to think of whenever she’d snuck a peek at Richard Crawford that day was how impressive he looked in black. Her eyes had returned repeatedly to him during the service. She’d even envied his dead wife for at least having known the love of a man like that. Holly had been feeling extra lonely and vulnerable at the time, her father having passed away only a few months earlier.
For several weeks afterwards, she’d dreamt up all sorts of romantic scenarios where the handsome widower and herself would meet. But, strangely, not one had involved his being home, alone, when she delivered flowers to his mother’s house. Neither did any scenario anticipate how intimidating she might actually find him in the flesh.
Intimidating. But still disturbingly sexy.
When he’d taken her arm just now, she’d felt almost paralysed by his touch, and his commanding physical presence.
Richard Crawford was a big man. Very tall and broad-shouldered, with large hands and firm fingers, and a manner to match.
She was grateful not to be in his presence at the moment. It gave her time to regather her composure.
But he’d be back any moment.
When he didn’t return after a couple of excruciatingly long minutes, an agitated Holly tiptoed along the floral carpet runner till she could see into the room he’d entered.
His father’s study, he’d said it was.
The room resembled more of an English gentleman’s club than a study, with wood panelled walls, rich maroon velvet curtains and large leather armchairs. The desk Richard Crawford was rummaging through was a huge mahogany antique, which looked at odds with the very modern laptop sitting down one end.
Which was plugged in and on, she noted.
That explained the engaged signal when she’d telephoned. He’d been working. His mother said he’d become a workaholic.
But what was he doing here when Mrs Crawford was out? And why was he dressed the way he was, in smart grey trousers and a crisp blue business shirt? Add a tie and jacket, he’d be ready for the office.
Not many Australian men would be dressed as he was on a summer Saturday afternoon. Most would be lounging around in shorts and thongs.
Dave would have.
“Shouldn’t be much longer,” he said with a quick, upwards glance at her from under his darkly beetled brows. “I know they’re here somewhere.”
“That’s all right,” she replied. “Take your time.”
He smiled at her. Not a wide, warm, infectious grin that had been Dave’s trademark. A rather restrained smile.
Richard Crawford was different from Dave all round.
Of course, he came from a different world from Dave. A more cultured, educated world. And he was a lot older. In his late thirties at least.
Holly