The Pregnant Tycoon. Caroline Anderson

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СКАЧАТЬ held her unwilling hair in place. It sprang free, a wild tangle of curls tumbling down over her shoulders, and instantly her headache eased. She sighed and dropped her head back against the soft cushion of the sofa and closed her eyes.

      She wanted to open the window, to slide back the big glass pane and step out onto the roof garden, but all she would hear would be the honking traffic and the sirens, the sounds of the city by night.

      It would be quiet in the country, she thought, the only sounds the rustlings and cries of the animals. Perhaps quiet wasn’t the word. She thought again of their campsite by the river all those years ago, the astonishing sounds of the countryside at night, and she had a fierce longing to return, to hear the sounds again.

      Kate’s words came back to her, piquing her curiosity, and she got up and went over to her computer.

      With a few keystrokes she connected to the internet, and within minutes she’d registered with the website Kate had talked about and was scanning a list of once-familiar names.

      Rob’s name sprang out, and she clicked on the envelope beside it to read his message. It was so much like him that she could almost hear his voice. He was a solicitor now, married to Emma, they had three children, and they still lived in the village.

      How incredible, after all this time, that they were still there in the same place. She felt a little stab of something that could have been envy, but crushed it ruthlessly. What was she thinking about? She had a fantastic life—success, wealth beyond her wildest expectations, a full and hectic schedule.

      What more could she possibly want?

      Will.

      She ignored the curiously painful thought, dismissing it before it took hold. She’d e-mail Rob, and ask him how everyone was. Without stopping to think too much, she wrote a quick e-mail and then as an afterthought included her telephone number.

      Maybe he’d ring and they could have a chat.

      ‘Michael, I’m not telling you again, do your homework or that GameBoy’s going in the bin. Rebecca? Beccy, where are you? Your stuff’s scattered about all over the place.’

      She wandered in, her mouth formed in a sulky pout around her thumb, and with ill grace she shovelled her books back into her school bag and flounced off again.

      Will sighed and rammed a hand through his hair. He had the accounts to do, another endless round of forms to fill in for yet another set of regulations—and when he’d finished that, he’d have the ewes to check—again. Still, at least it was warm now. Lambing in April, even if it was by accident, knocked spots off lambing in February.

      The phone rang, freeing him from the paperwork he hated, and he scooped up the receiver almost gratefully.

      ‘Hello, Valley Farm.’

      ‘Will—it’s Rob. Just making sure that you haven’t forgotten the party.’

      His heart sank, the gratitude evaporating. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ he lied. ‘When is it?’

      ‘Friday—seven-thirty onwards, at the house. You are coming, aren’t you? Emma will give me such hell if you don’t.’

      And him too, no doubt. ‘I’ll try,’ he promised evasively. ‘I might be able to get away for an hour or so, but I’m still lambing, so don’t rely on me.’ He didn’t need anyone else relying on him. He felt as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders as it was, and the party was just one more thing he had to do out of duty.

      ‘Stuff the lambs.’

      ‘With garlic and rosemary?’

      ‘Smartass. Just be there,’ Rob said firmly, and the dial tone sounded in his ear.

      He dropped the receiver back into the cradle and scowled at it. If it was anybody else, any way on God’s earth he could get out of it, he’d do exactly that. He couldn’t, though. It was Rob and Emma, their tenth wedding anniversary and thirtieth birthday joint celebration, and he had no choice.

      That didn’t mean, however, that he had to enjoy it or stay longer than was strictly necessary!

      Two hours, tops, he promised himself. And duty done, honour satisfied, he’d be able to come home and—

      And what? Sit here in the empty house on his own and stare morosely at the four walls? Go alone to his big, empty bed and lie staring at the ceiling, equally morosely, until sleep claimed him?

      He snorted. He could always tackle some of the endless paperwork that dogged his life and drove him to distraction. God knows, there was enough of it.

      Shooting back his chair, he went through to the kitchen, noting almost absently that Michael was now doing his homework, albeit in front of the television, and Rebecca was curled in the big chair with the dog squeezed up beside her and a cat on her lap, her eyes wilting.

      ‘I’m just going outside to check the sheep,’ he told them, hooking his elderly jacket off the back of the door and stuffing his feet into his muddy Wellington boots. ‘Beccy, bed in twenty minutes. Michael, you’ve got one hour.’

      He went out into the cold, quiet night and made his way across to the barns. There were warm sleepy noises coming from the animals, soft bleats and shufflings in the straw, and he could hear the horses moving on the other side of the partition that divided the barn.

      He did a quick check of the lambs, made sure none of the ewes was in trouble, then, satisfied that all was quiet, he cast an eye over the other stock: the chickens and ducks all shut up for the night, the house cow and the few beef calves out in the pasture behind the house. Then he checked the horses that were not his but were there on a DIY livery. He always included them in his late-night check, just to be sure they had water and none of them had rolled and got themselves cast, stuck firmly up against the side wall and unable to stand up again.

      All was well, though, and with his arms folded on the top of the gate he paused for a moment, drinking in the quiet night.

      A fox called, and in the distance he could hear a dog barking. Owls hooted to each other, and the pale, ghostly shape of a barn owl drifted past on the night air, on the lookout for an unwary mouse.

      Vaulting over the gate, he left the stockyard and walked round to the old farmyard on the other side of the house, looking round at all the changes that had been made in the last few years.

      The old timber cowshed and feed store had been turned into a thriving farm shop and café, selling a range of wonderful mainly organic foods, many of them cooked by his mother. She ran that side of the enterprise, while his father supervised the timber side of the business, the garden furniture and wooden toys and willow fencing which were now manufactured on-site in the old milking parlour.

      Diversify, they’d been told, and so they had. Instead of boggy, indifferent grazing down by the river, only usable in the height of the summer, they now grew coppiced willow, cutting it down to the ground every winter and harvesting the supple young shoots while they were dormant. They were used to make environmentally friendly and renewable screens and hurdle-style fencing panels, now hugely popular, and all sorts of other things, many to special order.

      He still grew crops on the majority of the farm, of course, but it was going organic, a long process full of bureaucracy and hoops of red tape that he had СКАЧАТЬ