Liz Fielding - His Little Girl

‘It would give you time to get help.’

‘Oh, right,’ she said, looking pointedly at the telephone. ‘And how do you suggest I do that? By telepathy?’

‘No. You would get in your car and drive away. You did say you had a car, didn’t you?’ Her wrist was slender, ridiculously slender, the bones delicate, fragile beneath his fingers, stirring the kind of longings that were madness even to contemplate. It had been a long time since he had been this close to a sweet-smelling woman.

He wanted to lower his mouth to the pulse he could feel racketing under the pale skin, taste it, press her palm against his cheek and pull her tight against him to ease the sudden, unexpected ache of longing.

Madness.

CHAPTER THREE

MADNESS. Even if she hadn’t been Richard Marriott’s wife.

As mad as believing that she could wield that great long poker in cold blood and strike him with it. Yet he still relieved her of it with his free hand, before releasing her wrist. Delicate it might be, but he’d been in too many tight spots to take the risk. That was how he’d survived for so long in a dangerous world.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

Dora didn’t bother to answer his question. Instead she rubbed at her wrist, as if to rid herself of his touch, and, thoroughly disgusted with himself and his thoughts, Gannon turned away from her dark, accusing eyes.

‘I’ll see to the fire,’ he said, stirring the ashes with the point of the poker so that the embers pulsed redly.

‘Man’s work, is it?’ she sneered at him. ‘And what am I supposed to do? Rush out to the kitchen and rustle you up some food?’

‘Thanks for offering, but, no, thanks.’ He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, and his stomach was practically sticking to his backbone, but he had his pride. His stomach, however, had heard the word food and audibly protested. He glanced at the girl beside him and ventured a smile. ‘I’m on a diet.’ She didn’t respond to this olive branch. Quite frankly, he didn’t blame her.

He threw some small pieces of stick that had been drying in the basket beside the hearth into the warm embers, and for a moment there was silence as they both watched the wood begin to smoke, then crackle into flame. He added more wood as this sudden application of heat reminded him just how cold he was. August in England. Log fires and thunderstorms. It figured.

Dora, still kneeling on the rug in front of the hearth, felt rather than heard the shiver run through him. She was still trying to reel in her senses, to recover from what she had seen in his eyes as he had grasped her wrist, to recover from an almost overwhelming urge to put her arms about him and hold him. Except she wouldn’t have just held him. What she had seen in his face needed a far deeper comfort than that. Yet she’d made no attempt to pull free, and if he hadn’t released her—

‘You’re wet,’ she said, and heard the tiny tremor in her voice.

Gannon turned back to look at her, looking just a moment too long before he switched his gaze to his legs. His jeans, wet to the knees, were beginning to steam in the heat. He’d missed the showers as he’d cut across country, but the grass had been soaking, and, although he’d abandoned his muddy shoes in the kitchen, his socks had left damp marks on the beautiful new carpet.

‘It’s been raining,’ he said, as if this was sufficient explanation. ‘Don’t worry about it; I’ll dry off in front of the fire.’

‘I’m not worried,’ she told him. ‘But I’ve got better things to do than nurse a stupid man who sits around in wet clothes and goes down with pneumonia.’

Gannon could think of worse things than being nursed by Pandora Marriott. Somehow he didn’t think that saying so would be altogether wise. He shivered again. Why the hell couldn’t Richard have found a plain, ordinary girl to love? And if he had to marry someone like Dora, why the hell didn’t he stay at home to look after her? She wouldn’t have been left on her own for weeks at a time if she’d been his woman. No way. As Dora uncurled from the hearth, rising gracefully to her feet, he caught her hand.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To find something for you to wear.’ She was angry with him for touching her again, angry with herself for wanting him to. She tugged at her wrist, but he tightened his grip.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, keeping her at his side while he carefully piled logs onto the flames. Then he set the guard in front of the fire. ‘You can show me round.’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘I’d like to see what you’ve done to the place since I was last here.’ He had avoided a direct answer, she noticed, which was much the same as saying no. And she didn’t think he was desperately interested in her sister’s talents as an interior decorator either. What he really wanted was to look around and work out the lie of the land. It must have been quite a shock to head for a quiet bolthole only to discover someone had moved in and changed it all.

‘And when was that?’ she asked.

‘Too long ago. Richard invited me down for a few days’ fishing before...’ He shrugged, apparently unwilling to elaborate.

She didn’t press the point. She wasn’t interested. Not much. ‘Well, as a venue for male-bonding on fishing holidays I’m sure it was perfectly adequate. As a family home it had a number of shortcomings—’

‘Family? It’s a little soon for that, isn’t it?’

A second blush seared her cheeks. ‘The lack of a bathroom being number one,’ she said, determinedly ignoring the way his glance had automatically flicked to her waist.

Unabashed, his golden eyes glinted thoughtfully beneath thick dark lashes as he raised them to her face. ‘You mean I won’t have to skinny dip in the river?’

‘Not unless you want to,’ she said crossly. Well, why wouldn’t she be cross? With her hand held captive in his, she found it oddly difficult to breathe, and it wasn’t just the thought of him swimming naked beneath the huge moon that every once in a while lit up the stormy landscape beyond the living room window. She was cross because, despite the fact that he had broken in, was plainly a bad lot, there was something undeniably appealing about him, especially when he lifted the corner of his mouth in that odd little smile. He was doing it now. ‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.

‘You are. I could read your thoughts then, as clearly as if they were in foot-high letters across your forehead.’

‘I very much doubt it.’

‘Humour me.’ He tapped her forehead with the tip of his finger. ‘You were thinking about how much you would enjoy giving me a helping hand into that cold water.’

‘Not at all!’ Then she gave an awkward little shrug. ‘Well, maybe,’ she conceded, preferring that he should think that rather than guess what was really going on in her mind. He had discarded his jacket after he had seen Sophie safely in bed, and as she quickly lowered her gaze, just in case her eyes were betraying more than they should, she was confronted with the decidedly grubby Aran sweater he was wearing. It was hand-knitted, and she found herself wondering what woman had given so much of her time, taken so much trouble to keep John Gannon warm. Sophie’s mother?

‘I’ll find you something to wear, and then you can decide whether you prefer a hot shower or a cold dip,’ she said, irritated with herself for even wondering about it. ‘The choice is entirely yours.’ And she pulled her hand free so easily that for a moment she thought she must have imagined the tightness of his grip.

Idiot! she thought as she headed for the stairs. He wasn’t holding your hand like some love-sick boy. To all intents and purposes you’re his prisoner, Dora Kavanagh. And don’t you forget it.