Just Say Yes
Caroline Anderson
Matthew had fallen for Georgia the moment he sat opposite her on a train. Accidentally walking off with the wrong mobile phone gave him the ideal opportunity to see her again.After her late husband had left her with a pile of debts, Georgia had a phobia about having a man in her life. Matthew Fraser might have been rich, he might have been wonderful with her kids, he might have continually come to her rescue… But no, she wouldn't be swayed; she wouldn't let this man under her skin.But Matthew was a patient man, and equally determined…
“Matt—”
“Georgia—
“I was going to apologize. Not for kissing you, because I don’t regret it for a moment, but for making you feel uncomfortable.”
She didn’t regret the kiss, either—just the fact of who he’d been, who he was.
“Come round the farm with me.”
“No more kisses?” she challenged, and he smiled, a cockeyed smile that softened the strain in his eyes and made her forget who he was.
“No more kisses,” he said, and his voice was full of teasing regret.
“Okay,” she found herself saying, and wondered if she was quite mad, or if it was Matt’s job to finish sending her round the bend!
Dear Reader,
Do you have the slightest idea what we, the authors, subject ourselves to in the name of research? No, I don’t mean the love scenes! No, I don’t mean delightful, cozy dinners à deux. No, I don’t mean popping down to London for the Chelsea Flower Show and sniffing roses in a country garden.
I mean Fear. Terrifying, paralyzing, mind-numbing fear. Clammy hands. Cold sweat breaking out all over. Adrenaline like you wouldn’t believe. Nausea. For days. Invalidation of life insurance.
And why? Because it has to be Real. Because, in my infinite wisdom, I decided my hero would take my heroine up in a microlight. Hah! Foolish woman. It’s a mistake I won’t repeat, and I doubt she will, either! So, dear reader, please do me a favor. If you don’t suffer from a fear of heights, if you don’t mind sudden, unpredictable movements or handing control of your life to someone you’ve only just met, don’t get motion sick or suffer from panic attacks, spare a thought for those of us who do, and would suffer them anyway, for you, for the sake of authenticity!
I aged ten years the day I went up in a microlight and got to know my weaknesses in intimate detail. I hope you feel it was worth it! Enjoy the book, with my love.
Just Say Yes!
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u0d76ae80-ad1c-5bea-9ef0-90896ba780d9)
CHAPTER TWO (#u3e3e4c31-cb4b-5f5c-bc0e-0586bdd96a83)
CHAPTER THREE (#u8c3f5f1a-dbce-5776-87e1-9ca2517518a9)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
GEORGIA was exhausted.
She must have walked ten miles round that blasted building site if she’d walked an inch, and if she didn’t get her shoes off soon she thought she was probably going to scream.
She dropped her bag on the table, slid her portfolio into the gap between the seats and sat down with a plop. Then with a sigh of relief she kicked off her shoes under cover of the table.
Bliss! She squirmed her toes and sighed again. Thank goodness it was over, she thought, and stared out at the bustle of the railway station, reliving her fruitless and irritating day.
It wouldn’t have been as bad if the design hadn’t been so far advanced before the client had changed his mind, but no, he’d seen a video of the previous Chelsea Flower Show and been inspired. Could she use more metal? And how about a bigger water feature? Reflective, perhaps—or then maybe not. Perhaps a rill—a little falling streamlet—or better still a waterfall—on a flat site, already horribly over budget!
She’d had her teeth clenched all day so hard her jaws ached. How could the client be so vacillating and still be alive? She would have thought he would have been murdered by now, he was so infuriating!
Still, at least she wouldn’t have to speak to him for a few days. Maybe by then she’d have got her temper back—and maybe her hair wouldn’t be red any more!
She dropped her head back against the prickly cushion and winced. Damn. Hairclip. She squeezed the wings together and opened the wicked jaws of her favourite clip—the Venus fly-trap, she called it, which, with its vicious teeth, was about the only sort man enough to restrain her wild curls.
She shook her head and they broke free and tumbled down her back. Yet again she sighed with relief, and threading her fingers through her hair, she combed it out roughly, then leant back against the cushion again, comfortable this time. At least she had the little table to herself for a moment. No doubt that state of affairs wouldn’t last long, but in the meantime—
She wriggled her feet again, stretched her legs out under the table and propped her heels on the edge of the other seat.
Wonderful. Five minutes like this and she’d stand a chance of feeling human again…
Damn. It was almost full. Still, there was a small table by the window, occupied by a woman with foaming red hair. He chuckled to himself. Occupied, as in taken over completely. A bag as big as a bucket was dominating most of the tabletop, the contents threatening to splurge out—and on the other seat, sticking up like tiny sentinels, were the daintiest, cutest little feet he’d seen in a long time.
She was asleep, her lashes lying in dusky curves on the smooth cream of her cheeks, her mouth soft and rosy and vulnerable. Now in a fairytale, he thought, he would have to wake her with a kiss—
Matthew cleared his throat, pulling himself together. ‘Excuse me. Is this seat taken?’
Her lids flew up, revealing wide green eyes hazed with sleep, and she scrambled back into a sitting position and hooked her feet down, to his disappointment.
‘I’m sorry. No—no, I was just stretching out. I must have dozed off. I’m sorry.’
She was embarrassed, dragging the bag towards her and colouring delicately along those rather interesting cheekbones. Her mouth, a little too wide and slightly vulnerable, curved fleetingly into a wry smile as she pushed the bag down at her feet, red hair tumbling wildly around her head.
Matthew squeezed himself into the space between the seat and the table and tried not to fantasise. He put his briefcase down and flipped it open, pulling out the papers he intended to go over again, then snapped the locks shut and slid it behind his legs. Their feet collided, and apologising, they both withdrew to their own sides again.
‘There’s not much leg-room, is there?’ he said, bizarrely conscious of the warm place under his thigh where her feet had been, but she was staring out of the window again, ignoring him.
Just as well. She had a wedding ring on. If she hadn’t had, he might have persued the conversation, but it was pointless. Pity. She was rather attractive in a fresh and slightly chaotic sort of way.
He settled down to the papers in front of him, trying unsuccessfully to keep his legs to himself. He had to sit with his knees apart to accommodate hers, and the posture was strangely intimate and made him uneasy.
He hated the train. Given the choice he would have driven, but parking in London was a nightmare.
His phone rang, and he answered it absently, dealt with the call then made another, a follow-on call to clear up some of the unanswered questions, all the time trying not to think about that soft, wide mouth and the firm little knees between his own.
Georgia rested her head against the seat-back, closed her eyes and tried not to let her knees drop against his. It was just too—intimate, really, too personal. Too much.
She shifted in her seat, turning towards the window more, and her knee brushed his again.
They murmured apologies and she shifted back, trying not to eavesdrop on his conversation.
It was impossible not to hear, but it didn’t sound all that riveting anyway. Something about political unrest and financial insecurity and government intervention. She looked at him curiously. Arms? Probably plastic document wallets, she thought with a stifled smile—or loo paper.
He had an interesting face but not the face of a criminal. Not conventionally handsome, but somehow attractive. His chin had a little cleft in it, and when he laughed at something the other person said, his eyes creased with humour and she found herself smiling too.
He switched off the phone and put it down, picking up the document on the table and flicking through it, making quick notes in a sharp, jagged hand that fascinated her.
She tried not to stare, but her eyes kept drifting back towards him, to the way the soft lock of hair at the front kept falling forward when he leant over to consult the document. Then he looked up and speared her with those startling ice-blue eyes, and she tried nonchalance for a moment and then dropped her eyes, as guiltily as if she’d been caught with her hand in the biscuit tin.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw his mouth tip in a smile, and colour teased her already warm cheeks. Damn. By the age of thirty she should have learned to control that childish reaction!
She was relieved when the refreshments trolley was wheeled in and she could find something to busy herself. ‘Tea, please. White,’ she said, and fumbled for her purse.
The paper cup was set down in front of her, she was parted from an extortionate amount of change, and the trolley moved on.
She saw he’d bought a bar of chocolate and a can of some gaudy tropical carbonated drink that would strip his teeth of their enamel in minutes and do disgusting things to his insides. She shuttered inwardly and stared out of the window again at the advertising hoardings that towered over the grubby little houses, wedged up cheek by jowl against the railway line, crammed with people trapped in the bowels of the dirty city. She could see into their bedrooms—see the unmade bed in one, someone undressing in another. So little privacy.
She closed her eyes. It was too awful to contemplate. How she’d lived in London at all she found quite incredible, even if it had been Knightsbridge. It held no attraction for her at all now, and she couldn’t wait until she got home and could wash off the grimy smell and change out of her ‘city’ clothes into her jeans and soft, baggy old sweatshirt that said ‘World’s Best Mum’ on it in faded white letters.
She thought longingly of a hot bath and a cold glass of Chablis, followed by some light and delicate dish, something clever with fruit and parma ham, seasoned to perfection and exquisitely presented by a discreet and well-trained slave—
In her dreams! It would probably be frozen pizza again, and no doubt that would have to be slotted in round the children’s homework, sorting out a load of washing and doing a hundred and one other things that working women did that their spouses thought happened almost by accident.
Not that she had a spouse, not any more, thank goodness. Not for ages, now. Three years. It seemed much longer since her reprieve.
People had commiserated with her when Brian had died, and been puzzled when she hadn’t been heartbroken. All except her closest friends, who’d had an inkling of their unhappiness.
Georgia snorted softly. They hadn’t known the half of it.
Still, it was over now, over and done with and well behind them. She had a career to be proud of, a lovely house, two gorgeous children that she adored, and the rest of her life to look forward to.
Strange, then, how sitting with her knees between the warm, hard legs of a personable man made her so painfully aware of the emptiness that lingered in the shadows of her crowded and busy life.
She shifted further back on the seat, drawing her legs towards her and away from him, away from temptation and all that wicked sex appeal that she would do well to ignore…
She’d gone to sleep again, her legs falling against his as she relaxed, making him inescapably aware of the soft warmth of her knees pressed against the inside of his thigh.
Still, it gave him a chance to study her without fear of being caught, and as he did so, something teased at the back of his mind. Some occasion when they’d met, but he couldn’t place where. She’d been unhappy, though. He could remember those beautiful green eyes welling with tears—and his anger. He remembered the anger, the frustration of not being able to help her, but nothing more.
He tried again, but the memory was too elusive. It was too long ago, too insignificant an event to have registered.
A muffled electronic jingle gradually penetrated his awareness, and Matthew leant forwards and shook her arm gently. ‘Excuse me—is that your phone?’
Her eyes flew open and she sat up, her knees withdrawing from his as she scrambled for her bag under the seat. The hideous noise grew louder and she came up flushed and triumphant, phone in hand, and pressed a button, flashing him a smile of thanks that did strange and unexpected things to his heartrate.
‘Hello? Joe? Hello, darling. Are you all right?’
Her voice was soft, warm and rich and slightly deeper than he’d expected. A little husky.
Sexy.
Oh, hell. He wondered who Joe was, and tried not to eavesdrop. Fat chance in those close confines. There wasn’t much to glean, anyway. It was all trivial household stuff—probably her other half asking the ‘What’s for supper?’ question.
He wondered if she knew how her voice softened as she spoke, and wished he had someone to call who would respond so warmly.
‘You’re losing it, Fraser’ he told himself.
The journey was endless. They sat outside Chelmsford for half an hour, held up by a broken-down train ahead of them, and then finally pulled into Ipswich station three quarters of an hour late.
The train lurched as it came out of the tunnel, sending the dregs of her tea cascading towards her. With a startled shriek she leapt up, swiping wildly at the spreading stain on her skirt, and he stood up and blotted her with an immaculate linen handkerchief.
The feel of his hand against her thigh made her blush, and grabbing the handkerchief from him she gave the wet patch a couple more swipes and then handed it back. ‘Thank you,’ she said, kicking herself for sounding breathless and sixteen and totally out of control.
He smiled, the crinkling of his eyes softening the strangely icy colour, warming it.
‘My pleasure. Are you getting off here?’
She nodded, her feet chasing round under the table after her shoes, and finally locating them as the train eased to a much more civilised halt. ‘Yes, I am. Oh, where’s my portfolio?’
She pulled it out from between the seats, scooped up her bag and phone and left, vaguely aware of him following suit in a much more orderly and dignified fashion.
Georgia was past being dignified. Her skirt was soaked, her feet hurt, her baby-sitter would be edging towards the door and Joe and Lucy would be vile by now.
And if her client hadn’t fiddled about and changed his mind for the hundredth time, she would have been on the earlier train and in the bath by now! She ran down the platform and over the bridge, out of the doors and across the road to the car park, fumbling for her keys.
Aha! Finally locating them as she arrived at the car, she let herself in, started the engine and pulled away into the evening traffic. Ten minutes and she could have the wine, if not the bath, the gourmet dinner and the slave! She whipped round the inner ring road, out into the country, and was just turning into her lane when an orchestra struck up in her bag.
She stared at it dumbstruck for a second, then pulling over, she rooted about for the source of the noise and came up with her phone.
No, not her phone. His phone. Hers absolutely never spouted classical music!
She pressed a button and held it cautiously to her ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh—hi. It’s Simon here—can I speak to Matt, please?’
She stared at the phone in horror. ‘Um—Matt’s not here. He’s—’ Where on earth was he? ‘Um—he’s busy. Can I get him to call you?’
‘Sure—he knows the number. Oh, and tell him it’s about time.’ And with a chuckle, he cut off and left Georgia staring at the phone. With a shrug, she keyed in her own phone number, and waited…
‘What the hell?’
A familiar and ghastly electronic jingle erupted from his jacket, and as if it were red-hot, he drew into the side of the road and pulled the phone out of his pocket, staring at it suspiciously. ‘Hello?’
‘You’ve got my phone,’ her voice said.
He held the thing away from his face and looked at it, blinking. ‘I have?’ he said. It looked exactly like his own.
‘Yes—and I’ve got yours. They must have got muddled up in the train.’
In the shower of tea, more like. He smiled. ‘Ah—apparently. So what are we going to do about it?’
‘Well, I can’t do anything at the moment,’ she said a little crossly. ‘I’m already late home and my babysitter will be having kittens. Can you make do with mine until tomorrow?’
‘Or I could come to you,’ he suggested, wondering at the eagerness he felt surging in him at the thought. She hadn’t sounded exactly inviting. ‘I expect I’ll get all sorts of calls—it’ll irritate you to death,’ he added, piling on the ammunition.
‘Simon already rang,’ she told him. ‘He said to tell you it’s about time, and can you ring him?’
Simon? About time? About time for what? The only thing his friend ever got on to him about was his single status—and a woman had answered his phone. He groaned inwardly and tried again.
‘So—shall I come to you?’
‘Would you?’
‘Sure.’ He jotted down the address, noted with interest that it was only a few miles from him along the lanes, and pulling out into the traffic, he changed direction and cut across country towards Henfield. He hadn’t had anything else planned for the evening because he’d expected to be in London for longer—it might be rather fun to see where she lived, see if it matched up with the image he had of her.
The word ‘babysitter’ niggled at him, but he ignored it. She had a wedding ring on anyway, so he knew she was out of reach. That wasn’t the point.
He chuckled wryly. He wasn’t sure exactly what the point was, but he was almost sure he was wasting his energy thinking about her. If only he could remember more about the first time he’d met her, but he couldn’t. He might even have been mistaken, but he doubted it. He didn’t usually forget faces or names.
And anyway, he didn’t even know her name. Maybe when he did it would fill in the blanks…
‘Anna’s gone home,’ Joe told her, opening the door and scowling at her as she kissed his cheek. ‘Jenny’s here instead—she said she knew she was early but she’s going to help you get ready. Do you have to go out again?’ he tacked on accusingly.
She stared at her son in horror. ‘Go out? I’m not going out!’
‘Oh, yes you are. The Hospice Charity auction,’ her neighbour reminded her, appearing over Joe’s head in the crowded little hall.
Georgia sagged against the door and wailed. ‘I’m so tired,’ she whimpered. ‘I just want a nice cold glass of wine and a little bit of oblivion. Jenny, I can’t go!’
‘Oh, yes, you can. Go and run the bath, and I’ll bring you the glass of wine. You can drink it while you think about what to wear.’
Georgia dropped her folio in the corner of the hall, kicked off her shoes and headed for the stairs. ‘Where’s Lucy?’
‘In the sitting room, asleep. She was tired but she refused to go to bed till she’d seen you in your party dress.’
‘Oh, damn,’ she said very, very softly, and went upstairs, defeated. Absolutely the last thing she needed was this charity auction, but she’d volunteered her services, and she had to go to be auctioned.
Although why they couldn’t just auction her in her absence she couldn’t imagine. It was her services they were selling, not her body! Still, they wanted her to go along, so she would go.
She ran the bath, threw in a handful of rejuvenating bath salts, contemplated chucking in the rest of the bag and thought better of it. Since she’d remembered to fill up the water softener, she had enough trouble washing the soap off, without adding to the problem!
Jenny passed a glass of wine through the bathroom door, and she sank into the hot bubbly water, took a gulp of the wine and rested her head against the end. Bliss. If only she could stay there all night…!
Well, he was wrong about the house, anyway. He’d expected a chaotic, colourful little cottage, or a farmhouse down a quiet track. Instead, it was a modest, modern detached house set quietly in Church Lane, and the only thing about it that fitted with his image of her was the garden. It was gorgeous, a riot of unruly colour and texture, a real English cottage garden. That, definitely, was her.
He parked the car, walked up the path to the front door and rang the bell.
‘I’ll get it,’ a voice yelled over thundering footsteps, and the door was yanked open by a young lad of about eight or nine. He had brown hair, mischievous green eyes and the same mouth as his mother. ‘Yes?’ he said abruptly.
‘Um—is your mother in?’ Matt felt suddenly foolish. Not knowing her name made him feel awkward, a bit of a charlatan. He held the phone out. ‘We got our phones muddled in the train—I arranged to come and swap them.’
‘Oh. She’s in the bath. You’d better come in. I’ll tell her.’
And abandoning the door, he left Matt on the step and ran upstairs. Matt followed as far as the hall, then waited. A small girl appeared, her head topped with a brighter version of her mother’s curls, and eyed him curiously, her head tipped on one side as she dangled round the door frame, swinging backwards and forwards like a human gate.
‘Hello. I’m Matthew,’ he told her. ‘I’m here to see your mother.’
She took her thumb out of her mouth and smiled gappily. ‘I’m Luthy,’ she lisped. ‘Mummy’th going out—she’th going to wear a party dreth. I’m thtaying up to thee it.’
Matt worked his way through the lisp to decipher the underlying words, and wondered if he would be able to delay long enough to see Mummy in her party dress, too.
The boy thundered downstairs and skidded to a halt. ‘Mum says come and sit down, she’ll be out in a minute.’
‘Well,’ Matt said, ‘perhaps your father—’
‘He’s dead,’ they chorused, apparently unmoved.
‘Ah.’ Matt trailed obediently after them into a scene of utter chaos. The cushions had been taken off the furniture and stacked like a house of cards, to make a sort of den behind the big settee. The chairs had been shoved every which way, and the curtains had been dragged out from the windows to drape over the top, so that they hung at a crazy angle.
‘Oops,’ said the boy, and grabbing cushions, he began piling them haphazardly onto the furniture. Matt helped, discreetly turning cushions round so the zips were at the back and they went into the right place.
It reminded him of his childhood. How many times had he done that? And how many times had he been skinned for it? He hid a smile and straightened the curtains, just as the woman appeared in the doorway, her hair twisted up in a towel, her feet bare, an ancient towelling robe hastily dragged on and belted with symbolic firmness.
She looked impossibly young to be the mother of these two little scamps—young and vulnerable and freshly scrubbed. His heart beat a slow, steady rhythm, strong and powerful. Lord, she was lovely.
‘Hi again,’ she said.
‘Hi.’ His voice sounded rough and scratchy. He tried again. ‘Sorry to come at a bad time—’
‘That’s all right. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be going out.’
‘Somewhere nice?’ he asked, although it was none of his business, but she wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
‘Not really. It’s a charity auction for the hospice.’
Guilt prickled at him. He’d been invited and had turned it down because he hadn’t expected to be back early enough. Perhaps he ought to go anyway—and he could see her, of course. Not that that had anything to do with why he wanted to go, of course!
‘I expect you’ll enjoy it,’ he said encouragingly, but her nose screwed up again doubtfully.
‘Shouldn’t think so, it’s duty. I’m selling my services.’
His mind boggled. He just hoped to hell what he was thinking didn’t show in his eyes, because it was likely to get him arrested.
‘What do you do?’ he asked, just as the house phone rang.
‘Oh—excuse me,’ she said, and whirling on her heels, she went into the kitchen and shut the door.
‘Mummy duth gardenth,’ Lucy told him.
Which explained the riot of colour outside the front door. How useful, he thought, and his mind ran on. A gardener, selling her services at a charity auction—so if he could somehow wangle a ticket at this late stage, he could buy her services in the garden—and several hours of her time. Fascinating.
And she was a widow—not married, and apparently no man around the place playing the part to get annoyed at his interest.
‘So—is Mummy going on her own?’ he asked, pumping the children ruthlessly with only the merest prickle of conscience.
‘No. Peter’th taking her.’
And who the hell was Peter? ‘Peter?’ he said guilelessly. Oh, wicked, wicked man to take advantage of their innocence!
‘Peter’s a friend,’ the boy told him flatly, right on cue.
‘Joe doethn’t like him,’ Lucy put in for good measure. Was Joe another ‘friend’?
‘So what if I don’t? He talks to us like we’re idiots,’ the boy said defensively. So the Joe she’d been talking to on the phone was her son. Good. One less to worry about—and he didn’t like the boyfriend. Even better. An ally.
Then the kitchen door opened abruptly and the woman came back in, the soggy towel in her hand, damp strands of untamed hair clinging to her face and trailing down her shoulders. ‘Peter can’t make it,’ she announced to nobody in particular. ‘Damn.’
‘Problems?’ Matt said, wondering if there was a God after all and if He was about to put such a spectacular opportunity in his lap.
‘Yes—my escort for tonight. I really, really don’t want to go, but I have to, and I can’t think of anything more awful than going on my own. Oh, well, I shall just have to—oh, no!’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I’ve had a glass of wine—I can’t drive. Oh, darn it. Taxi—I’ll have to call a taxi,’ she muttered, thumbing through a tattered phone book.
‘I’ll take you,’ he said without giving himself time to think.
Her head flew up, her eyes widening incredulously.
‘You? Why on earth should you do a thing like that?’
He shrugged, wondering what feeble excuse he could come up with that she’d believe, and came up with probably the feeblest.
‘Because I muddled up the phones?’ he offered. That wouldn’t work. She’d taken the wrong phone, not him, and any second now she was going to remember that. He tried again. ‘Anyway, didn’t you say it was a charity do?’
‘Yes—for the hospice, but what of it?’
He shrugged again, trying to look nonchalant when he wanted to punch the air. Yes, there was a God. ‘I keep meaning to do something charitable. Here’s my chance. I could escort you, so you won’t have to go on your own, and you won’t have to drive. Simple.’ He smiled encouragingly.
She hesitated, for such a long time that he began to lose hope, but then she started to weaken. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you—’
‘Of course you could. I had an invitation to it anyway. Just say yes.’
She wavered, so he pressed her again. ‘What time do you need to be there, where is it and what’s the dress code?’
She answered mechanically. He could almost hear the cogs in her brain whirring. ‘Seven thirty for eight, the Golf Club behind the hospice, black tie.’
‘Fine. I’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘But you’ll be bored to death—’
‘Rubbish. I might even bid for the odd thing—you couldn’t deny the charity the chance to make money out of me, could you?’
‘Well…’
He grinned, watching her crumble, and knew he’d done it. Brilliant. ‘Do I need to eat first?’ he asked, without giving her any further room to wriggle out of it.
She shook her head, looking a trifle shell-shocked. ‘No. There’s a meal—I’ve already bought the tickets, so you’ll get a free three-course dinner out of it.’
His grin widened. ‘Excellent. It’s sounding better by the minute. Now, if I could just have my phone—?’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, gosh, sorry, I’d forgotten again.’
She went into the hall, her back to him, and rummaged in that amazing bag of hers, giving him an unobstructed view of a curvy and very feminine bottom in faded towelling as she bent over.
‘Here it is,’ she said, straightening up and turning round, and he dragged in a lungful of air and tried not to look down the gaping cleavage of her dressing gown.
‘Thanks,’ he said, his voice a little strangled. Their hands touched as they swapped phones, and he was amazed that the sparks weren’t visible. ‘By the way,’ he added with the last remnant of his mind, ‘I don’t know your name.’
‘Georgia,’ she said, her voice husky and soft. ‘Georgia Beckett.’
Beckett. The memory teased at him, just out of reach. ‘Matthew Fraser.’ He held out his hand, wondering if he’d survive the contact, and found her slim, work-roughened little fingers firm against the back of his hand. He dropped it reluctantly, stunned by how good it felt.
‘Right, I’ll see you at seven,’ he said.
‘I still think it’s a dreadful imposition. I could get a taxi, for heaven’s sake—!’
‘And spend the whole evening on your own? How tedious. Anyway, I’m looking forward to it now. Just go and get ready, like a good girl, and I’ll go and harness the chariot.’
She chuckled, a delicious sound that did strange things to him. ‘All right,’ she said, almost graciously. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ He returned her smile, then pocketing his mobile phone, he let himself out, slid behind the wheel of his car and heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Thank you, God,’ he said, and couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud as he drove back down Church Lane towards home. He was about to spend the evening with the most tantalizing woman he’d met in ages. If only he could remember why he knew her and where he had met her before…
Georgia sat down on the bottom stair and gazed blankly at the front door. How on earth had she talked herself into that? He could be a mass murderer! His name seemed slightly familiar—from the papers? Perhaps he’d got a prison record? He might have swapped the phones on purpose, as part of some deadly plan to find out where she lived and murder her—
‘Oh, Georgia, you’ve really lost the plot,’ she said disgustedly, stomping upstairs. ‘Murderer, indeed!’ Although he did have disturbingly piercing eyes…
‘You’re mad,’ she told herself, snatching open the wardrobe door and frowning at the contents. ‘Now—what is there? Something demure, simple, elegant—what a dazzling choice.’
She took out her black dress—her only dress that answered at least some of her criteria—and hung it on the front of the wardrobe. Excellent. Now, shoes, and did she buy a miracle have a decent pair of tights? Glossy, for preference, barely black—
‘Aha!’ She snatched the new packet victoriously from the drawer, pulled on her underclothes, dried her hair, slapped on a thin layer of light foundation and did something clever with her eyes to widen them a little. Then a streak of lipstick, a quick smack and wriggle of her lips together to spread it evenly, and she was done.
Sucking her lips in so they didn’t mark the dress, she shimmied into it, let it settle around her and stood back.
A slash neck, sleeveless but with shoulders that extended to make tiny capped sleeves, it was cut on the cross and fell beautifully to skitter around her ankles, the heavy crêpe moving sensuously as she turned to check the back.
Hmm. She sucked in her stomach, eyed herself again and shrugged. So she was a mother. And anyway, they were selling her design services, not her body, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. A tiny worm of truth told her that it wasn’t the punters at the auction that she was worried about, but the manipulative phone-thief with the cock-eyed grin and the most interesting eyes she’d seen in a long time.
A little flurry of panic rippled through her—or was it anticipation? What on earth had she been thinking about, letting him talk her into this? All that hogwash about depriving the charity of the money he was prepared to spend—dear me, I must be wet behind the ears, she thought in disgust, but she was smiling anyway.
She twirled again, sucking in her tummy muscles, and nodded with satisfaction. She slipped her feet into the shoes, winced at the thought of standing for hours on feet that had already done a marathon day, and humming slightly under her breath, she went downstairs.
Jenny said, ‘Wow!’, Lucy hugged her and said she was beautiful, and Joe said, ‘Go, Ma!’
Approval? Heavens!
Now, all she needed was her escort…
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS a glittery do, sprinkled with rich women in mahogany tans and diamonds and not much else, and paunchy men glistening in the heat, their ample middles girdled up in cummerbunds to hide the fact that their trousers were too tight after dinner.
Still, they were rich, they were going to spend their money in a good cause, and Georgia was just only too glad she was no longer part of that scene. She’d hated it—hated the entertaining for Brian’s clients, hated the strain and pressure he’d put her under, hated the false smiles and backstabbing bonhomie.
Matthew, on the other hand, seemed to fit right in, except that his dress suit fitted him to perfection, gliding over his broad shoulders and tapering elegantly to his narrow waist and neat hips. The shirt was stark white against his skin, and she would lay odds his bow tie was a real one, not a cheat on a bit of elastic.
He wasn’t sweating, either, and he looked comfortable and at ease talking to his numerous acquaintances. They’d been seated together at dinner, but she’d been monopolised by the man on her other side, and she’d hardly had a chance to talk to him.
Pity, but maybe a good thing. He was altogether too interesting for her peace of mind, and when he bent his head closer to some clinging little vine to hear her doubtless inane conversation, Georgia found herself smitten by a wild urge to club him over the head with the nearest chair.
Jealousy? Good grief! It was years since she’d felt anything, never mind jealousy! And over a total stranger! How perverse.
How worrying…
‘Georgia, my dear, you’re looking lovely!’
‘Thank you, Adrian. You’re too kind.’ She looked up into Adrian Hooper’s slightly glazed eyes and dredged up a smile.
He was the organiser of this shindig, a mover and shaker in local commerce, and she had a lot of respect for him. Unfortunately, he fancied her and it definitely wasn’t mutual. She deftly changed the subject. ‘It’s a good turn-out tonight—all the wallets bulging, I hope?’
He laughed. ‘One can only hope so, my dear.’ He edged closer, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. ‘By the way, was that Matthew Fraser I saw you with earlier?’
She was intrigued. ‘Yes—why, do you know him?’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Of course I know him. Heavens, darling girl, everyone knows him! He’s—’
‘Adrian, old man, you’re hogging all the talent. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’
Georgia’s heart sank. Adrian she could cope with, but this man was trying to see through her clothes and it was frankly a little embarrassing. Anyway, she wanted to hear more about Matthew—
‘Tim Godbold,’ the man said, sticking out his hand so Georgia had no option but to take it. ‘And you’re the famous Georgia Beckett. My dear, I’m delighted to meet you. Such talent as yours is rare indeed.’
‘You’re too kind,’ she said, scraping together a bright smile and wondering when he was going to release her hand from his damp and limpid grip. She eased it away and leant on the table behind her, discreetly wiping her palm on the heavy damask tablecloth. Yuck.
‘So what are you here for tonight, Mr Godbold?’ she asked, steering attention back to him.
‘Tim, please,’ he demurred with a laugh that she could only describe as intimate. Oh, Lord, she was going to be ill.
‘Tim,’ she said with a sickly grin. ‘What are you bidding for?’
Big mistake.
‘Besides you, of course,’ he said with that husky possessive laugh again, and looked around, ‘perhaps the membership of the Golf Club—I never play, but it’s a good club, I hear. And maybe the car valet, or the weekend for two in the hydro—if I could persuade someone to come with me, of course…’
Georgia, glass to her lips, took a gulp of wine by accident and began to cough. Another mistake. Tim Godbold’s damp and heavy hand descended on her shoulderblades with a possessive and intimate pat, totally ineffectual and utterly unnecessary. She waved him away, lost for words, and looked wildly around for a distraction.
Adrian had wandered off, doing his fundraiser’s bit, and Matthew was nowhere to be seen. Blast.
Help, though, was at hand. Mrs Brooks, the chairman of the charity, stood up and called everyone’s attention to the auction which was about to begin.
Georgia, hugely relieved and almost able to speak again, excused herself and went over to the podium, in case she was asked to explain what she was offering, but in the end she didn’t need to explain anything.
The auctioneer had been well primed. He banged his gavel to get everyone’s attention, launched into the sale and achieved some staggering sums for really quite silly things.
Then he reached the climax of his patter. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, now we come to our star prize of the evening. She’s a nationally renowned garden designer, she’s been invited by the Royal Horticultural Society to exhibit a show garden at the Chelsea Flower Show next year, and she’s very kindly offered a day of her most valuable time to help you realise the garden of your dreams.
‘She’s more than qualified to design anything from a roof garden to a motorway service area, but her forte is the restoration of historic gardens—’
Out of the corner of her eye, Georgia saw Matt Fraser’s body straighten. She caught his eye, speculative and searching, and looked away—straight into the even more speculative eyes of Tim Godbold. He’d threatened to bid for her. Oh, Lord. She started to feel slightly sick.
‘And, of course, as it’s only April now there’s still plenty of time to get plants in and start seeing the fruits of your labours this summer, so come on, ladies and gentlemen, what will you bid me for a day in the company of the gorgeous Georgia Beckett?’
The bidding started at a nice sensible figure—nothing like what she charged for a day’s consultation in a garden, but enough as an opening bid. Then it started to rise, steadily at first, and then by larger increments. The other bidders dropped out one by one, and she watched in fascinated horror as Tim Godbold and Matthew Fraser battled for her across the room.
It was like some ghastly game of dare, she thought, each one throwing down a more outrageous bid, each determined to win. She hardly dared to look at them, Tim glassy-eyed and sweating slightly, Matthew with a grim line to his mouth that brooked no argument.
By the time it reached four times the real cost of her day’s work, she was getting distinctly uncomfortable. She was happy for the charity, but even so! It was only one day, for heaven’s sake! No designs on paper, no planting schemes—just a wander round and a quick chat, in essence. So what were the two men bidding for?
Then Matthew spoke up, cutting through the auctioneer with his strong, clear voice, throwing down his final bid like a gauntlet.
There was a ripple of shocked delight through the crowd, and all eyes swivelled to Tim Godbold. He dithered for a moment, then threw down his programme and stalked off.
She thought he was going to blow a fuse. She was certain she was. She closed her eyes, wondering if anyone actually did die of humiliation, and heard the auctioneer say, ‘Going once, going twice, sold to Mr Fraser.’ The gavel smacked down on the desk with a victorious thunk, and wild applause broke out.
‘My God, it is a slave auction,’ she muttered under her breath, and forced herself to open her eyes and smile vacantly at everyone.
Then Matt was at her side, taking her arm possessively and smiling down at her as if he’d bought her and not just eight hours of her time. He looked disgustingly pleased with himself, and she felt sick and more than a little angry.
She yanked her arm away. ‘What the hell was that little exhibition about?’ she stormed under her breath. ‘Wrangling over me like a couple of dogs over a—a—!’
He opened his mouth to speak, and she skewered him with a glare. ‘Don’t even think it,’ she growled.
‘I was going to say bone,’ he said mildly, and grinned. ‘Anyway, you should thank me.’
‘Thank you? Thank you! Are you mad? I thought I was going to die of embarrassment!’
‘Nonsense. Anyway, would you rather I’d let Tim Godbold get his sticky little paws on you?’
‘Maybe,’ she said unreasonably, trying not to shudder. ‘Perhaps he’s got a genuine need for a garden designer.’
He bent his head closer. ‘And perhaps he had his garden landscaped last year at enormous expense—rumour has it six figures.’
Her jaw dropped, and she snapped her mouth shut and looked away. ‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh. And, for your information, I have a need. A very genuine need which I think you’re perfectly qualified to meet.’
Why did she get the feeling he wasn’t talking about gardens?
‘We’ll see,’ she said, and felt a little shiver of anticipation in amongst the rage. She’d been secretly hoping that the day she’d donated would lead to further work. Now she was wondering just what she’d let herself in for! Still, it could have been worse. It could have been Tim Godbold, she thought, and shuddered.
What was that expression the Victorians had used? A Fate Worse Than Death?
Yes. Matt Fraser, for all his faults, had to be better than that!
She was still bristling with temper, Matt realised. Oh, well. If he’d hoped for gratitude he was clearly doomed to be frustrated, but that was just too bad. He hadn’t liked the way Godbold was looking at her, not at all.
Had she heard the rumours about him? Probably not. A band struck up, and he turned to her with a smile, mouth opening to ask her for a dance, but she didn’t give him the opportunity.
‘I’d like to go home, please,’ she said, in a quiet voice that brooked no argument.
That suited Matt. He’d had a long day, and frankly if it hadn’t been for the enticing thought of holding Georgia in his arms, he would cheerfully have left the moment he’d written out his cheque.
‘Fine,’ he said, and started to manoeuvre them towards the door.
However they weren’t to get away with it. Mrs Brooks came sailing up with a big smile. ‘Georgia, darling, thank you! What a star! And Matthew—how kind of you to be so generous yet again, and after you said you couldn’t come, you naughty man! Now, you can do one thing more for me—start the dancing off, please.’
‘Just one, for the charity?’ Matt murmured to Georgia, and with a little sigh she smiled graciously at Mrs Brooks.
‘Just one, for the charity,’ she echoed, ‘and then I must go. I’ve been on site in London all day and I’m bushed.’
‘Bless you, darlings. And thanks again.’
She sailed off, another victim in her sights, and Matt turned to Georgia with a wry smile. ‘You could try not to look as if I’m going to murder you later,’ he teased, and she snorted softly.
‘How do I know you’re not?’
He chuckled. ‘You’ll have to trust me.’
‘Little Red Riding Hood made that mistake with the wolf, if I remember correctly. How big are your teeth?’
He bared them in a mock snarl, and she laughed, for the first time. Catching her in a weak moment, as it were, he took her gently by the arm and led her onto the dance floor, then bowed his head, a slight smile still playing round his lips.
‘Shall we dance?’
It was torture. Her body was soft yet firm, her back under his hand strong and straight, yet with the supple grace of an athlete. She held herself away from him a fraction, and he didn’t push it. Instead he held her lightly, waiting for the moment when the soft lights and romantic music made her weaken.
Others joined them, and someone bumped into them, jogging her against him so that her soft, full breasts pillowed gently against his chest. For a moment she resisted, then with a tiny sigh she settled against him. He nearly trod on her then, because she felt so good, so soft and warm and feminine, that he thought he would make an idiot of himself.
He’d never held her before. Wherever they’d met, under whatever circumstances, he would have remembered if he’d held her…
Then the music stopped, and with what could almost have been reluctance, she moved out of his arms.
‘Can we go now?’ she said, and he realised she’d just been leaning on him because she was tired. It was in her voice, in her eyes, in her whole body.
‘Of course.’ He retrieved her jacket from the cloakroom attendant, settled it round her shoulders and swept her quickly past all the people who suddenly wanted to talk to her.
Then he ushered her to his car and slid behind the wheel, pausing as he clicked his seat belt into place to study her face in the dim glow of the interior light.
‘You’re still mad with me,’ he said, just as the light faded down and switched off so that he couldn’t see her face. She didn’t reply, just sat there, staring straight ahead. He thought she was frowning.
Ah, well. He started the engine and pulled slowly out of the car park, heading for Henfield. She was silent for a few taut minutes, during which he could hear her brain working overtime—searching for the right acidic put-down, no doubt. Then suddenly she spoke, her voice quiet but full of suppressed emotion.
‘What do you want with me?’ she asked tightly. ‘I don’t even know who you are, and you start throwing around outrageous amounts of money for eight hours of me telling you what perennials to put in where!’
‘Don’t you mean telling me where to put them?’
She laughed, a brief gust of cynical humour which was quickly suppressed. ‘Whatever. I just felt embarrassed by the bidding—it all seemed to get suddenly very personal. I began to feel like a—a trophy or something.’
‘How perceptive of you,’ he said softly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her head swivel towards him. ‘Tim Godbold wanted you. He wanted to be able to say he’d had his garden landscaped by a Chelsea designer. And he had a more personal interest.’
‘Personal?’ she said coldly.
‘Yeah, personal. You know. Oh, come on, Georgia, don’t be naive! He’s not a nice man.’
‘I noticed.’
‘He has a reputation. There are rumours.’
‘Rumours?’
‘An attempted rape case. It was dropped—and the victim suddenly started spending rather a lot of money.’
She went very still. ‘He bought her silence?’
‘There was no proof. It just seemed a rather strange coincidence.’
She was quiet for a long while, and then with what seemed to him either utter foolishness or a great deal of courage, she turned towards him again and said, ‘And you? Are you a nice man? Or are you just a little more discreet?’
He laughed softly. ‘Both. And I really do need your help with my garden. But just to set the record straight, yes, I do have a personal interest in you—I think you’re fascinating, and I’d like to get to know you better. It’s up to you what you want to do about it. Unlike Tim Godbold, I’m actually going to give you a choice.’
She snorted softly. ‘And I suppose I should be grateful.’
‘Don’t force yourself.’ He felt a prickle of irritation. He’d just spent an outrageous amount of money to rescue her from that slimy toad, and if he’d been expecting gratitude, he was obviously not going to get it.
He turned into her drive, cut the engine and looked across at her in the harsh glare of her outside light, his irritation growing. ‘Look, forget anything personal. You owe me a day in the garden. I suggest for both our sakes we get it over with as quickly as possible.’
She stiffened, drawing in a quick breath as if he’d hurt her feelings. Good. About time. She’d given his a fair old battering. ‘OK. When do you want me to look at it?’
‘Did you have a date in mind?’
‘Well—this week or next I’d earmarked for it, really.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Oh! But—I haven’t got a babysitter—’
‘Well, if there’s no alternative you’ll have to bring them with you. There are plenty of people kicking about at home who can entertain them if need be.’ He crossed his fingers, hoping Mrs Hodges wouldn’t have decided to go to town for the day with her daughter.
‘I don’t even know where you live,’ she said.
‘Heveling—it’s easy to find. Here—have a card.’
He pressed it into her hand, all thoughts of kissing her goodnight now flying out of the window along with his tenuous grip on his temper. He leant across instead and pushed open her door. ‘What time tomorrow?’
‘Um—nine?’
‘Fine.’
She looked at him blankly for a moment, then gave him a wary smile. ‘OK. And you’re sure it’s all right to bring the children?’
‘Sure.’
‘OK.’ She got out of the car and paused, obviously struggling with her better nature, then gave him a wry grin. ‘Thanks for tonight.’
He snorted, but chivalry prevented him from driving off until he’d seen her close the front door behind her, then he reversed carefully off her drive and went home.
At least the dog would be pleased to see him!
‘Well?’ Jenny said, studying her with avid interest. ‘Did they sell you?’
Georgia laughed wryly. ‘Did they ever. Jenny, I thought I was going to die. This awful, slimy man and Matthew started bidding for me against each other. I was so embarrassed.’
‘Oh, my goodness. Did it get all terribly personal?’
‘Just a bit. Tim Godbold was all but drooling—’
‘Tim Godbold! Not the Tim Godbold?”
Georgia groaned. ‘Probably. Don’t tell me you’ve heard of him?’
‘Well of course I have! It was all over the papers! He tried to rape that girl—a temp working in his office. Made her work late and tried it on. It all fell flat because she suddenly decided not to testify.’
Which backed up Matt’s story. She suddenly began to feel very grateful to him. ‘Anyway, Matt won, and I’m going to look at his garden tomorrow,’ she said, and glanced down at the card in her hand.
Her eyes widened, and she realised her mouth was hanging open. She snapped it shut, closed her eyes and opened them again. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said weakly.
‘What? What is it?’
‘He lives at Heveling Hall,’ she told Jenny. ‘That must be why his name seemed familiar. Oh, blast. He lives at my favourite house in the whole world, and he wants me to tell him what to do with the garden!’
‘Well, that’s great,’ Jenny said, beaming. ‘Isn’t it?’
Georgia thought over all the horrible things she’d said to him, and what she’d since found out about Tim Godbold, and felt sick.
‘I hope so,’ she murmured. ‘I may, on the other hand, have just thrown away the opportunity of a lifetime.’
Saturday dawned bright and clear, a lovely mid-April day. She woke the children at eight, told them they were going out for the day to Matthew’s house and was greeted with howls of protest.
‘I wanted to play with Tom!’ Joe wailed. ‘We were going to play football!’
‘An’ you thaid Emily could come!’ Lucy added, bursting into tears.
Oh, Lord, who’d be a mother? ‘Listen, kids, it’s OK. You’ll love it. He lives at Heveling Hall.’
The noise ceased abruptly. ‘Heavenly Hall? Really?’ Joe said, eyes wide. Lucy for once was speechless.
‘Really,’ Georgia told them. ‘So come on, let’s have you up and dressed and having breakfast in ten minutes, please. I don’t want to be late.’
She left them rushing about searching for their clothes, and went downstairs. She had to check her post and pay a couple of bills. Doing that left her rather short for the month, and although she had all the kudos of the Chelsea Flower Show coming up, preparing for it was going to take a humungous amount of time and effort—and while she was worrying about that, she couldn’t be earning money on normal commissions.
And now, because Matt Fraser had bid so much for her, she felt morally obliged to give him more time than had been agreed, even though her initial reaction had been to tell him to take a flying leap and to reimburse him.
Good job she hadn’t followed up on that one! She simply didn’t have enough money in the world to pay him back for that grand gesture.
Oh, well, no doubt he could afford it.
The children came flying downstairs, laces undone, hair unbrushed, eyes wide. ‘Doeth he really live at Heavenly Hall?’ Lucy asked excitedly. ‘Really, truly?’
‘Really, truly. Here—this is his card.’
She showed the children the card Matt had given her last night, and Lucy, whose reading was not getting off to a tremendous start, waded through the words laboriously. ‘Wow,’ she whispered, awed.
‘Come on, breakfast,’ Georgia said, taking the card back and filing it in her purse. ‘We need to go.’
He was right, it was easy to find—particularly if you often took this detour in order to drool over it, Georgia thought. The children called it Heavenly Hall because when she was younger Lucy hadn’t been able to remember Heveling, and it had become their pet name for it.
Well-named, to boot. It was gorgeous, soft and mellow and beautiful, and Georgia’s hands against the steering wheel felt prickly with anticipation.
And now she was doing what she’d never thought to do, turning onto the drive with its pretty cast iron bridge, crossing the little river that bordered the road and going up the gravel sweep to the side of the house.
The children tumbled out of the car, excited and yet over-awed all at once, and Georgia followed more slowly, her eyes scanning the building hungrily.
Soft rose-pink bricks, mellow with age, soared up towards the sky, punctuated by the gleaming white of freshly painted windows. An ancient wisteria clothed the end wall nearest her, its drooping pale lilac panicles and bright green leaves in gentle contrast to the smothered wall. Old urns spilling over with ivy bracketed the steps leading to the door, and with one last glance round she called the children to her side and rang the bell.
A huge cacophony of noise erupted on the other side, and she heard a firm command and the noise subsided to a whine. Then the door swung open and Matt stood there, dressed in jeans and a freshly pressed white shirt, looking younger and sexier and more edible than a man had any right to look.
Georgia struggled for something sane to say, but it wasn’t necessary, because by this time the children had met the dog and were in raptures.
She eyed it a little worriedly. ‘It is all right, I take it?’
A hand dropped onto the dog’s shaggy grey head, just by his hip, and Matt smiled. ‘He’s a pussy-cat. His name’s Murphy. He’s an Irish wolfhound.’
‘To keep you in order—how appropriate,’ Georgia said without thinking, and he tipped back his head in the sunlight and laughed.
‘Come on in—I’m having breakfast. Join me. Have you eaten?’
‘Yes,’ she told him.
‘But we’re still hungry,’ Joe said hopefully.
‘Joe!’
‘Only a bit,’ Lucy added diplomatically, but Matt didn’t seem worried.
‘Come on, then. Don’t want the toast to get cold.’ And he led them down the hall, past doors Georgia was dying to stick her head round, and into a big, bright kitchen at the back of the house.
It was clearly a work in progress. Wires dangled here and there, the walls were patched and filled, and frankly it was a mess. Most people would have pulled out all the old cupboards and refitted it in an instant.
Georgia thought it was lovely just as it was, with its mismatched units and chipped white butler’s sink, because it had a huge table in the middle of the floor, with a pile of newspapers, toast, butter and so forth at one end and a fat ginger cat curled up on it at the other.
Georgia would have given her eye-teeth for a table like that.
For room to have a table like that, for heaven’s sake!
Lucy rushed straight for the cat and mauled it, and the cat, to its eternal credit, did nothing in retaliation, but simply began to purr ecstatically.
‘Coffee?’ Matt said, brandishing the pot, and a fragrant aroma of real, fresh coffee wafted towards her. She nearly drooled.
‘Thanks. I never get round to making real coffee,’ she confessed.
‘I only do at the weekends, but something has to be sacred.’
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and she began to relax. Maybe she’d imagined his bad temper last night.
But she hadn’t. He settled the children down on chairs with toast and homemade jam, and handed Georgia her coffee, holding onto the mug as she took it.
She looked up at him and met his eyes, thoughtful and tinged with what looked like regret.
‘About last night—I’m sorry things got off to a bad start. Can we try again?’
Relief flooded her—though whether relief at having another chance at a restoration project to die for, or at having another chance with Matt, she wasn’t sure.
She didn’t dare analyse it. She simply smiled. ‘That sounds good,’ she murmured, and with a wink he released the coffee and turned away, just in time to see the ginger cat licking a huge lump of butter off the edge of Lucy’s toast.
‘Scally, you wicked cat,’ he scolded, and scooped the cat off the table. It yowled in protest, but he put it out of the back door and shut it again firmly. ‘He’s such a thief. Let me get you more toast,’ he said, taking the licked piece out of Lucy’s hand and slinging it in the bin.
‘I didn’t mind,’ Lucy said, slightly wide-eyed. ‘I like Thcally.’
‘And I’m sure he likes you—especially when you let him share your breakfast—but he’s too fat. He’s supposed to be outside catching mice, not in here stealing butter.’
Georgia stifled a smile and watched Matt dealing with the children. He seemed a natural with them, and she wondered if he had any of his own—perhaps living with an ex-wife?
The thought gave her a strange pang of something she didn’t care to analyse. It was much too soon in their relationship to have pangs of anything!
A woman bustled in and was greeted with enthusiasm by the dog, tail and tongue lashing furiously. ‘Oh, Murphy, stop it,’ she said affectionately, scrubbing her spitty arm on her skirt. ‘Right, Matthew, what did you want me to do?’
‘Entertain the troops. I think food should do the trick for a minute, but then I’ll leave it up to you. Georgia, this is Mrs Hodges. She’s my housekeeper. Mrs Hodges, this is Mrs Beckett, and these are her children Joe and Lucy.’
Georgia looked at the pleasant-faced, maternal woman greeting her children with a smile, and felt relieved. She looked as if she could cope easily with two youngsters for a couple of hours, and that meant she could go and get on with what she was here for—namely that gorgeous garden.
‘Shall we take our coffee and wander round? Then I can tell you what I know as we go.’
‘Sure.’ She stood up, scooping up her mug, and followed him.
He didn’t go outside, to her surprise, but led her out into the hall, and up a graceful, curving staircase to the upper floor. What on earth is he doing? she thought with a little flutter of panic.
He reached a door, stretching his hand out for the knob, and she thought again of that Fate Worse Than Death. Oh, my God, he’s going to take me into his bedroom and seduce me while his housekeeper looks after my children! she thought with a hysterical giggle bubbling in the back of her throat.
Then he threw open the door and led her into the remains of an elegant drawing room, shabby now and tired but once glorious, and paused in front of a great mullioned window overlooking the garden.
‘That’s the problem,’ he said thoughtfully.
Georgia marshalled her hysterical and somewhat crazy brain, and peered down into—nothing.
A walled garden, almost square, with an area of flat and tatty grass interrupted by molehills and thistles, and around the edges the straggling remains of a rose garden almost totally submerged in weeds.
‘That,’ he said deadpan, ‘is a formal parterre.’
She lost it. The giggle fought its way up, battling all the way, and erupted in a shower of sound that echoed round the room and left her feeling silly.
Until she saw his smile. ‘You see my problem? You see why I needed you? Especially when I found out that the restoration of historic gardens was your forte.’
Georgia looked again, and in her mind’s eye she could see the outline of an old knot garden, neat little hedges arranged in complicated and stylised knots with spaces filled with scented herbs. Designed to be viewed from above, the intricate and lovely garden had been long stripped out and destroyed.
She stared again at the unkempt grass. ‘Restoration?’ she said weakly.
He shrugged and smiled. ‘Perhaps recreation would be a more appropriate word. Come on—I’m going to take you a bit higher, so you get a better look.’
And he turned and retraced his steps.
‘You’re going down,’ she said, confused.
He threw a grin back over his shoulder. ‘Only for a moment. Then we go right up.’
Even more confused, she followed him. He went via the kitchen, putting his mug down on the draining board. There was no sign of the children or Mrs Hodges or the dog, she thought absently, trailing after him into the sunshine and across a courtyard to a cluster of farm buildings.
Perhaps they were going to climb a grain hopper, she thought, but there wasn’t one, and he was heading for a barn—just an ordinary, big black Suffolk barn. She was more puzzled than ever. Whatever was he doing?
Then he flicked a catch, dropped his shoulder against the edge of a huge sliding door in the side of the barn and pushed, and Georgia, who absolutely definitely didn’t like heights, felt suddenly terribly uneasy…
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHAT’S that?’ she asked, her voice a reedy squeak.
‘A microlight.’ He threw a grin over his shoulder. ‘I said we’d go right up!’
Georgia could only stare, frozen, at the gleaming little toy in front of her.
Admittedly it was a heck of a toy—a rich boy’s toy, the sort of thing her late husband would have loved had he ever been sober long enough to take his pilot’s licence. She wasn’t afraid. There was no need to be afraid, there was no way she was going anywhere near it with the engine running.
It looked like a tiny, gleaming little plane from the front, its shiny, smoothly curved nose pointing up into the air, a wheel dangling underneath it. There was a little tube sticking out of the nose, and she pointed to it. ‘What’s that?’
‘Measures the air speed,’ he told her over his shoulder. He was looking at something behind the wings. She followed him round and continued her inspection. A curvy canopy, perspex or somesuch, arched over the cockpit, if that wasn’t too grand a word, and inside it bristled with all sorts of dials and switches and sticks with padded grips on—joysticks?
Joy? Ha-ha. And where on earth were you supposed to put your legs, even supposing you were fool enough to get in it? She carried on round, and came to a grinding halt.
‘Where’s the back?’ she asked, and he chuckled, ducking back under the wing and lolling, ankles crossed, against the fuselage.
Fuselage? Far too big a word for this little torpedo-sized coffin.
‘It doesn’t have a back,’ he told her confidently. ‘That’s it.’
‘That tiny pod, two wings and a bit sticking out the back with a waggly thing on it—that’s it?’ she said incredulously. ‘Where’s the engine?’
‘Here.’
He ducked under the wing again and led her round to the back. There, bolted onto the rear of the cockpit and looking for all the world like an optional extra, was an engine, exposed to the elements, no cover, no cowling or anything like that, just the engine sitting there with a propeller hanging off the back of it, too flimsy for words.
‘Why isn’t it covered?’ she asked in amazement.
‘No need. And anyway,’ he said with a cheeky grin, ‘it’s sort of sexy to have your engine on the outside. Hunkier. More macho.’
She snorted. Sexy, indeed. ‘What’s it all made of?’ she asked, tapping experimentally on a wing.
‘Styrofoam, thin ply, aluminium and fabric, mostly.’
She closed her eyes. Those nasty foam cups you bought tea in at shows were Styrofoam. It was made of plastic cups and bits of material, for heaven’s sake, held together with a bit of flimsy aluminium and a veneer of wood to give it the appearance of solidity!
Great.
‘And you go up in this thing?’ she asked in amazement.
He laughed. ‘It’s brilliant—it’s really fun. You’ll love it.’
Fear clawed at her, and she shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh, no, I won’t love it. No way. Not a chance.’
‘It’s very safe—trust me. There have been no crashes due to manufacturing or equipment failure in the whole history of its production. It can’t stall, either—it just won’t do it.’
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