The Single Mum and the Tycoon. Caroline Anderson
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Название: The Single Mum and the Tycoon
Автор: Caroline Anderson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Контркультура
Серия: Mills & Boon Romance
isbn: 9781408904046
isbn:
‘You were dreaming.’
He gave a harsh sigh and stabbed his fingers through his hair. ‘Yeah. I sometimes yell a bit. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK. I did—for a while, after Robert died. The days were fine, but at night it would creep up on me. The dreams. Nightmares, really.’
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
‘It’s the middle of the night. You want to go back to bed.’
‘Actually, I often get up for tea in the night,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t always sleep well, even now. It’s no trouble—if you want one.’
His smile was a flash of white in the darkness. ‘That would be really nice,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll get up.’
‘Isn’t that a lot of effort? I could bring it here. Save you struggling with the steps.’
He gave a grunt. ‘Just give me a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll come over. I’ll be there before the kettle’s boiled.’
Hardly, she thought, but she didn’t say a word, just got up and went out, crossing the dew-soaked grass and running lightly up the steps to the veranda and then in through the back door. She saw the light come on in the cabin; then, as she was taking the teabags out of the mugs, he appeared at the top of the veranda steps, dressed in an open shirt, jeans and the shoes he’d had on the day before. And his leg, of course, which he’d had to put on, and was a fiddle.
She looked down at her feet, bare and wet with bits of new-mown grass stuck all over them, and wondered what it must be like never to walk barefoot, never to be able to wriggle your toes in the grass or the sand or the mud.
She’d die if she had to wear shoes all the time.
‘Shall we go in the sitting room? It’s chilly outside now,’ she said as he came in through the door.
‘You know what I really want to do?’ he said softly. ‘I want to sit on the sea wall and listen to the waves on the shingle.’
She eyed his bare chest through the open front of his shirt and tried not to get distracted. ‘In which case you might need a bit more on. It’s cold.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I think you’ve probably forgotten about the sea breeze in Yoxburgh,’ she said with a smile, and picking up the car rugs she’d turned out of the cabin earlier, she wriggled her feet into her flipflops, picked up her tea and headed for the door. ‘Leave it open for Charlie,’ she said, and went out, leaving him to follow.
She was right, it was cold, but it was lovely, too.
Tranquil.
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.
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