Part-Time Father

She heard the scrape of something in the small sitting-room, and, striding over in the shortest time possible, she threw open the door to see her mother just moving the small stool which stood in front of the sofa, on which she’d obviously been resting her feet.

Thank heavens! The unacknowledged fear, ever present when your elderly mother lived on her own, immediately subsided. ‘So there you are!’ said Kimberley in relief.

Her mother pushed her spectacles further back up on her nose and looked at her only child, a small smile lighting her still shapely mouth which was so like her daughter’s. ‘Where did you think I’d be?’ she enquired mildly. ‘Robbed and left trussed up in the attic? Kidnapped by modern-day pirates and heading for the coast?’

Kimberley giggled. ‘You are outrageous, Mother! Your imagination is much too vivid, and those crazy adventure stories you read don’t help.’

‘And you don’t read enough of them!’ commented Mrs Ryan sternly. ‘You’re far too serious about that job of yours.’

Kimberley decided to ignore that—for who wouldn’t be obsessively career-minded when their love-life was a total non-starter? And whose fault is that? mocked a tiny inner voice.

Ignoring that too, she went over to plant a kiss on her mother’s forehead, then perched on the other end of the sofa. ‘Why did you need to see me? I was coming down soon for Christmas anyway. You are OK, aren’t you? What are you doing lying down in the middle of the day?’ And then her attention was caught by the bandage which was tightly tied around her mother’s ankle. ‘Oh, heavens-whatever have you done?’ she exclaimed in horror.

‘Kimberley, please,’ said her mother calmly. ‘There’s absolutely no need to panic.’

‘But what have you done?’

‘I’ve sprained my ankle, that’s all.’

‘But what does the doctor——?’

‘He says it’s fine, I just need to take it easy, that’s all…’ Mrs Ryan’s voice tailed off. ‘The only problem is——’

‘What?’

‘That I can’t work.’ Mrs Ryan leaned back against the cushions piled on the sofa and surveyed the immaculately dressed form of her daughter, who was at that moment letting a frown mar her exceptionally pretty features.

Kimberley gave a little click of disapproval. ‘Then give the job up, Mum,’ she urged. ‘I’ve told you that I earn enough to send you what Mrs Nash——’ she said the name reluctantly ‘—pays you.’

‘And I have told you on countless occasions that I enjoy the independence which my little job gives me, and I have no intention of relinquishing it.’

‘But, Mum—must you do a cleaning job?’

‘You, Kimberley, I’m ashamed to say, are a snob,’ said Mrs Ryan reprovingly.

‘I am not a snob. I’d just rather you didn’t work at all, if you must know.’

‘You mean,’ said Mrs Ryan shrewdly, ‘that you’d rather I didn’t work in the big house which you almost became mistress of?’

Kimberley’s mouth tightened, but she felt tiny beads of sweat break out on her forehead. ‘That’s history,’ she croaked.

‘You’re right. It is. In fact, I’ve some news for you.’

‘What kind of news?’

‘He’s getting married. He’s engaged!’

The beads of sweat became droplets. Kimberley heard her heart pounding in her ears, felt the blood drain from her face. ‘He is?’ she croaked, drymouthed. ‘That’s wonderful.’

‘Isn’t it? Dear Duncan,’ said her mother fondly.

‘Duncan?’ asked Kimberley weakly.

Her mother gave her a strange look. ‘Yes, of course Duncan. Your ex-fiancé, the man you were going to marry—who else could I have meant?’

Surreptitiously Kimberley wiped the back of her hand over her sticky forehead, and then, terrified that her mother might notice and comment on her pale complexion, searched around for a distraction. ‘How about some tea? I’m absolutely parched. Shall I make some?’ she asked brightly.

‘Best offer I’ve had all day!’

Kimberley quickly left the room and filled the old-fashioned kettle with shaking hands, reacquainting herself with her mother’s tiny kitchen, pulling biscuits out of the tin with trembling hands as she tried to put her thoughts in order. She wondered what her mother would have said if she’d known that Duncan had been the last person in her thoughts; she had thought she’d been talking about Harrison.

Harrison Nash—her ex-fiancé’s brother. The man with the cold grey eyes and the hard, handsome features and the lean, sexy body. Harrison Nash— who had changed the whole course of Kimberley’s life without even realising that he was doing so…

It had been one bright and beautiful summer’s evening, with the setting sun pouring like golden honey into the red drawing-room at Brockbank House where Kimberley had been waiting to conduct what was obviously going to be a difficult and painful interview with Duncan, her fiancé. Because, after much thought and many sleepless nights, Kimberley had decided to break off the engagement which had followed their whirlwind romance.

Duncan and his mother had recently moved into Woolton village’s most imposing building—the historic Brockbank House, left to the Nash family by a distant relative who had died without leaving an heir. Kimberley had met Duncan when she’d been visiting her mother in the village, on one of her brief but regular forays from London, where she lived.

From the first meeting he had pursued her avidly, and, flattered by his charm and his persistence, Kimberley had allowed herself to believe that she had fallen in love at long last. Already in a strong and powerful position at work, where her male colleagues tended to fear and revere her, Kimberley had been charmed by Duncan’s healthy irreverence and his ready agreement to let her set the pace physically.

He didn’t leap on her and he respected her somewhat old-fashioned view that she wanted to wait until they were married before consummating their relationship. At twenty-four she thought that she’d found the perfect gentleman—and she had.

Kimberley sighed.

It just wasn’t enough. Quite apart from the fact that she was three years older than Duncan, and that he was still at university while she had already established a successful career for herself in London, there was one even more important reason why she could not marry him.

She simply didn’t love him—or rather, she did, as the dear, sweet person he was, but not in the way that he said he loved her, and to marry him under those conditions would simply not be fair to him.

She had decided to tell him as gently as possible, but Duncan was young, good-looking and the best fun in the world. He would get over it, of that she was certain.

Kimberley sighed as she perched nervously on the edge of one of the large chairs in the red drawing-room, brushing one hand through the thick abundance of raven-black hair and pushing it off her high-browed face so that it spilled in shiny sootdark waves down her back.

She wondered how one went about breaking off an engagement. She would have to tell her mother and Duncan’s mother—both widows. She herself had no other relatives, and Duncan very few. She wondered briefly whether the older brother in America had been informed—the rich, successful one, who Duncan and his mother both seemed slightly in awe of.

Probably not. They’d only become engaged last weekend—hardly time to make it properly official.

As Kimberley stared out of the window at the magnificent grounds of Brockbank House she heard a soft noise behind her. Not a footstep exactly, it was much too subtle for that, but she suddenly experienced the unease of being watched. She turned round slowly, to discover who her silent scrutineer was, feeling her skin ice with some unknown fear as she stared at the dark, silent man who stood before her.

She had seen photos of him before, of coursevarious portraits of him scattered around the house and, latterly, newspaper clippings from gossip columns—but Kimberley would have known without being told that this was Harrison. Harrison the rich, the powerful, the blessed older son. Not that he looked in the least bit like Duncan, although the familial similarities were there.

But this man was Duncan’s very antithesis. Where Duncan’s eyes were soft, smiling, this man’s were hard and crystalline and bright. Where Duncan’s mouth was full and kissable, this man’s lips were a thin, hard line. Cruel lips, thought Kimberley wildly, and tried but failed to imagine them kissing her, her cheeks flaring red as she saw those same lips twist into a contemptuous curve.

For one frozen moment Kimberley sat staring up at him, unable to move, to think, to speak, unable to do anything other than acknowledge the dark and potent and sensual rush of desire which flooded over her with the heavy pull of a tidal wave. She stared into eyes which no longer looked grey but black as the night, she saw the heated flare of colour which scorched along his high, perfectly chiselled cheekbones—and she felt dizzy with a shameful longing.

Unnerved by that still intense scrutiny, and by his silence, Kimberley scrambled to her feet.

‘You must be Harrison,’ she blurted out, in nothing even resembling her usual calm, confident manner.

‘And you must be the fortune-hunter,’ he observed caustically, withering contempt written all over his face.