The Single Mum and the Tycoon

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 yourbusiness, 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 for some reason she felt the need to prod a little harder. ‘Why, for instance, you don’t tell your family what’s really going in your life and why you’re avoiding them?’ she suggested, and he frowned and stared down into his mug.

‘I’m not avoiding them.’

‘So why aren’t you staying with them? God knows your sister’s house is huge, and your father’s house is big as well. I mean, between them they must have at least six spare bedrooms, and you’re down here sleeping in a shed, for heaven’s sake! And I know for a fact it’s not because you can’t afford a decent hotel, so why me and not them?’

‘I live in a hotel. I didn’t want to stay in a hotel, I wanted to stay in a family home.’

‘So why mine and not theirs?’

‘Why not?’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

‘You noticed.’

She gave an exasperated little growl and rolled her eyes. ‘So if you aren’t avoiding them, why won’t you answer my question?’

‘Are you always so nosy?’

‘No. Sometimes I can be pushy, too.’

She waited, her breath held, and finally it came, the smile she’d been waiting for, and he let his breath out on a huff and turned to look at her with resignation in his eyes.

‘You’re just like Georgie,’ he said mildly. ‘Nosy, pushy, bossy, interfering, trying to fix everything for everybody.’

She gave a brittle laugh and stood up in a hurry, the unexpected wave of pain taking her by surprise. ‘Oh, not me. I can’t fix anything for anybody. I gave that up years ago when I had to throw the switch on my husband’s life-support machine.’

And scooping up the cups, she turned and went back into the kitchen before her smile crumbled and he saw the tears welling in her eyes.

Damn.

Had that been his fault or hers?

He didn’t know, and he had to stop himself from following her. He stood up slowly, arching his back and rolling his shoulders, stiff from the flight and from gardening, and Charlie looked up at him hopefully.

‘Want to play football with me?’ he asked, and the simple, innocent question hit him square in the gut and took his breath away.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said with a grin he knew must be crooked. ‘I’m rubbish at football. Anyway, I’m just going to give your mum a hand with the washing-up.’

And turning away from the disappointment in Charlie’s eyes, he went into the kitchen and found Molly leaning over the sink, her hands rhythmically and methodically squeezing a cloth in a bowl of water. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release, squeeze—

‘You could have played with him,’ she said, and he could hear the catch in her voice. ‘Or said you’d do it another time. Not just turn him down flat.’

He let his breath out in a slightly shaky sigh and met her disappointed eyes.

‘I can’t play football.’

‘Of course you can. He’s eight, for goodness’ sake! Nobody’s expecting you to be David Beckham! You could have just kicked a ball around with him for a minute—or are you too important?’

‘Of course not,’ he said and, steeling himself, he added, ‘I can’t play football any more because I’d probably fall over all the time. I’ve got an artificial leg.’

He heard the tap drip, heard the cloth as she dropped it back in the water. She stared at him, eyes shocked, looked down at his feet, back up at him, and hot colour flooded her face.