The Single Mum and the Tycoon

Still and calm, with nothing to break the silence but the suck of the sea in the pebbles and the occasional clink of a halliard.

She handed him a rug, and he slung it round his shoulders and dangled his legs over the edge of the sea wall and breathed in the salty, fishy, river mud smell of the estuary mouth that took him straight back to his childhood.

‘I love it here,’ he said with a contented sigh. ‘I’ve missed it.’

‘Here?’ she said incredulously. ‘Really? Compared to coral islands and tropical seas and stunning reefs and all that sunshine?’

‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. There’s something about being cold, about falling leaves and bright, sharp frost and the brilliant green shoots of spring—and the birds here are different. Beautiful, subtle birdsong. The birds in Queensland are all raucous and colourful and loud, really, and some of them like the cassowary are downright dangerous. Don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful, but there’s nothing to beat a little brown wren or a chaffinch picking berries off a tree, and the dawn chorus here is so much more delicate.’

‘You wait till the seagulls get up,’ she said with a laugh. ‘They’re certainly raucous.’

He chuckled. ‘I’ll give you that. The gulls are always loud, wherever you are, but I love them.’

They fell silent, and for a long time she said nothing, but he could hear the cogs turning.

Then at last she spoke.

‘Who died?’ she asked softly.

He felt a shaft of dread. ‘Died?’

‘You said something in your sleep—it sounded like “Don’t let him die” but it was a bit mumbled.’

He nearly told her. Nearly talked about it, but he didn’t want to. Didn’t want to get the whole tragic tale out and rake over the embers all over again.

Not tonight.

‘I have no idea,’ he lied and, twisting round, he lifted his legs up on to the sea wall, got to his feet with what could never have been called grace and picked up his mug and blanket.

‘I’m turning in now. Thanks for the tea,’ he said and, without waiting for her, he headed back to his cabin, shutting the door firmly behind him.

CHAPTER THREE

‘GOOD morning.’

Molly tried for a smile. ‘Morning,’ she said, but her voice was strained, and David must have noticed because he gave her a keen look and sighed.

‘Molly, it was just a dream. Forget it.’

‘I can’t forget it. There we were, sitting on the wall listening to the sea and just talking and I had to go and put my foot in it—oh, damn, I didn’t mean that—’

He laughed. He actually laughed at her, to her horror and embarrassment, and then, before she could get her defences back in place, he took two strides across her kitchen and gathered her into his arms. ‘Molly, stop it,’ he murmured, and after a second or two, when it didn’t seem as if he was going to let go or do anything stupid, she slid her arms round him and hung on.

Lord, it felt good. She hadn’t held a man—not a young, healthy, vital man—for nearly seven years. And it felt good.

More than good. It felt right. She let her head settle down against his chest, so she could hear the steady, even beat of his heart, and gradually her own stopped thundering and she felt peace steal over her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled into his shirt, and his arms squeezed her and then let go, his big, warm hands on her shoulders easing her away so he could smile down at her.

‘No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed at you. Come on, stop beating yourself up. I’m fine.’

‘Will you tell me? Who it was?’

His hands dropped abruptly. ‘One day,’ he said, stepping back. ‘Maybe.’ He looked around hopefully. ‘Right, where’s that mean breakfast you promised me, or were you lying?’ he asked, and her heart sank like a stone.