The Single Mum and the Tycoon

‘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?’