An Indecent Proposal. Margot Early

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      Now Patrick had asked why she’d come to Fairchild Acres. Now was the moment to tell him about Wesley.

      But to do so suddenly seemed rash. Patrick was rich, powerful. She had nothing. What if he tried to take Wesley from her? It wasn’t as though the possibility hadn’t occurred to her before; but the old Patrick hadn’t been the kind of person to do that. This new Patrick? She wasn’t sure. She had no way of defending herself, and the widow of a mobster wouldn’t look so great in the courts. “I came for the job,” she said.

      “Knowing I was here?”

      “Yes,” she admitted. “I knew you were here. But I’m here because I need the work. The government has seized Ari’s assets. I must support Wesley.”

      She could tell from the look in his half-closed hazel eyes that he didn’t think her story credible.

      Well, too bad. If he wanted to cherish conceited notions that she fantasized about getting back together with him, so be it.

      Patrick wished he could read minds. He would gladly open Bronwyn Davies’s head and see what had really brought her to Fairchild Acres. Whatever she said—and, face it, she’d just admitted that she’d known she would find him there—he had to believe she’d come here looking for him.

      “Then let’s get a few things straight,” he said.

      Bronwyn buttoned her lip, knowing what was coming.

      “You’re not going to get any special treatment from me. And don’t entertain dreams about you and me picking up where we left off. If you haven’t acquired any new job skills since you worked in that coffee shop, it’s time you developed some.”

      Bronwyn took a drink of cognac, wanting to tell him a few home truths but knowing that doing so might influence her ability to secure the job in the kitchens.

      Instead she said, “Please believe that it’s with the greatest reluctance I accepted the offer of sleeping in this house tonight, let alone enjoying this drink with you. I would be a fool if I believed any man whom I’d once rejected would come back for more.”

      “Ouch,” Patrick murmured.

      She shrugged. “I don’t think you’re giving me this charming lecture because you’ve forgotten I once decided to marry someone else.”

      Ouch again, he thought. But Patrick knew that her ability to stick up for herself, the integrity that had never made him think everything he did was perfect, were part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. The women he’d known before Bronwyn had all been afraid of losing his favor by being less than agreeable; they’d seemed to worship him. But Patrick hadn’t wanted that. He’d wanted a partner, an equal.

      And just now—well, she was probably being snotty because he was letting her know how things would be if they were both around Fairchild Acres. “Can you imagine my not being suspicious of your motives under the circumstances?”

      “No,” Bronwyn replied, but she wasn’t about to relieve him of his suspicions. She decided to distract him. “What did bring you here, Patrick? As I recall, you weren’t on the best terms with your great-aunt.”

      “We weren’t on any terms with her, good or bad,” he admitted. “But she invited Megan and me to Fairchild Acres, and I wanted to hear what she had to say. I have to admit, I’ve grown fond of her. And protective.”

      Bronwyn managed not to say that of course Patrick would be protective of Louisa Fairchild’s money, especially if he hoped to inherit part of it.

      Instead, she asked, “And what are you doing with yourself these days?” She knew the answer; the same friends who’d mentioned where he was had supplied that information.

      “The stock market. Must be in the blood.”

      Bronwyn well remembered when he’d seemed allergic to the possibility of doing anything so practical.

      He turned from where he stood by the bar, and Bronwyn felt him assessing her. She knew he was examining her clothing, her figure, her general appearance. The thing about growing up on the streets was that she’d become used to other people being her mirror. She’d also learned to base her feelings of self-worth on things other than her physical appearance. How she treated people, her competence in life, a whole host of things were more important. But Patrick was a cipher. She couldn’t guess his reaction to anything about her. Except the suspicion that he hadn’t needed to put into words.

      “Should I express condolences?” he asked.

      “That’s entirely up to you. I’m a widow, and that’s considered good manners.” The callous way he’d spoken of Ari’s death—more than once—upset her, but she wanted to make as few waves as possible. She finished her cognac then and said, “In any case, I think I’ll go see if Wesley is done with his bath.”

      Wesley had filled the huge claw-foot tub with as much water as he would have used at home, the home they didn’t have anymore in Sydney, the home they didn’t have anymore in Greece, the home they didn’t have anymore in Queensland, any of the homes that weren’t theirs anymore.

      Why had his mother brought him here? Why couldn’t she have gotten a job in Sydney so that he could have stayed at his school?

      Then he remembered the past few months, the friends who wouldn’t come over anymore because of who his father had turned out to be, the friends whose houses he couldn’t go to because his mother had found out things about their parents. All right, she’d managed to convince him that moving away from Sydney would make him happier in the long run. But it sure wasn’t happening yet. The Hunter Valley was full of rich kids, too, he knew, and he was not a rich kid any longer; his mother had made that pretty clear.

      And who was that man who had finally introduced himself as Patrick, a friend of his mother’s from uni? Obviously, he didn’t want them here, but his mother must have known Patrick would be here when she decided to come to Fairchild Acres.

      He had to admit there were some very nice lawns here, perfect for kicking a soccer ball, but his mum had said he couldn’t play on them till she found out if it was all right with the owner.

      Yes, he was just going to be an employee’s kid, and there weren’t any other kids here that he could see. His life was horrible.

      And his father was dead.

      Did his mother hate his father because she’d found out he was a criminal? She’d become so brusque all of a sudden, always in a hurry, constantly issuing orders. She’d told him, I’m just concentrating on surviving, Wesley. That’s what we’ve got to think about now. Making sure we have a place to live.

      His father used to be free with money, but his mum never had been. She used to get mad if she came in his room and found change on the floor. Don’t you understand how important money is, Wesley? I hope you’ll always have enough, but you need to treat it with respect.

      Did they have enough money now? His father had said his mother worried too much about money; she’d always have plenty. Well, now he was worried about money.

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