Anne Mather - Guilty

She smiled, soaping her arms, and enjoying the sensation of the creamy compound against her skin. It was silly to think of retirement yet. She was only thirty-eight. But the truth was, she saw no evidence for change in her life, and she had to think of the future. She might get married, of course, but apart from Mark she could think of no one who might want to marry her. In any case, it was not an option she considered seriously. Having remained single all these years, she was probably too set in her ways to adapt to anyone else’s, she decided ruefully. Besides, she could think of nothing a man could offer her that she didn’t already have.

Washing her hair, however, she had to acknowledge that it did need cutting. The trouble was, most days she just coiled it into its usual knot at her nape, and by the time she thought of it again she was back at the cottage. In any case, it was essentially straight, and it was probably easiest to handle in its present condition. She was not the type to go for fancy cuts or perms. At least she didn’t have many grey hairs, she thought gratefully. Her hair was still that nondescript shade between honey-blonde and chestnut, and if it was also thick, and shining, she scarcely appreciated it.

She heard the car as she was drying her hair. She had been sitting on the stool, in front of the mirror in her bedroom, trying to make an objective assessment of her appearance, and when she heard the powerful engine in the lane outside she knew a moment’s panic. Obviously, she had spent longer over her toilet than she had intended, and now she met her own reflected gaze with some trepidation. For heaven’s sake, she wasn’t even dressed, she thought frantically. And the door downstairs was locked.

There was nothing for it. She would have to go down in her dressing-gown, she decided, shedding the towel she had worn sarong-wise around her body and snatching up her towelling bathrobe. If she hurried, she might be able to unlock the door and escape upstairs again without anyone seeing her. Julie would not be pleased if she met the man her daughter was going to marry in such a state of disarray. Although her hair was dry and silky, it was simply not suitable for a woman of her age. She looked like an ageing hippy, she thought frustratedly. If only she had paid more attention to the time.

Not stopping to put on her slippers, she started down the narrow staircase, and then stopped, aghast, when the handle of the front door was tried and rattled impatiently. It was immediately below her, the cottage having only a minuscule hallway, from which the stairs mounted on the outer wall. A second door led into the living area, which Laura had enlarged by having the wall demolished between what had been the parlour and dining-room, and there was no way she could unlock the door now without being seen.

Taking a deep breath, she gave in to the inevitable. She couldn’t ask them to wait while she put on some clothes. That would be foolish. Besides, if this man was going to become her son-in-law, the sooner he saw her as she really was, the better.

But, even as she was making this decision, the flap of the letterbox was lifted, and Julie called, ‘Mum! Mum, are you there? Open the door, can’t you? It’s raining.’

‘Oh! Is it?’

Without more ado, Laura hurried down the last few stairs, and hastily turned the key. The door was propelled inward almost before she had time to step out of the way, and Julie appeared in the open doorway, looking decidedly out of humour.

‘What were you—–? Oh, Mum!’ Julie stared at her with accusing eyes. ‘You’re not even dressed!’

‘I was taking a bath,’ replied Laura levelly, trying to maintain her composure. ‘Besides,’ she lifted her shoulders defensively, ‘you’re early.’

‘It is after six,’ retorted Julie, pushing her way through to the living-room. ‘God, what a drive! The traffic was appalling!’

Laura’s lips parted, and she stared after her daughter with some confusion. What did she mean? Surely she hadn’t driven herself up to Northumberland. Julie did have a Metro, she knew that, for getting about town, but the engine she had heard hadn’t sounded anything like Julie’s Metro. It had been low and unobtrusive, that was true, but there had been no doubting the latent power behind its restrained compulsion.

Shaking her head, she moved to the open doorway, and peered out into the rain. And, as she did so, a tall figure loomed out of the gloom, with suitcases in both hands, and Julie’s Louis Vuitton vanity case tucked under one arm. He was easily six feet in height—tall for an Italian, thought Laura inconsequently—with broad shoulders encased in a soft black leather jerkin. He was also very dark; dark-skinned, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with the kind of hard masculine features that were harsh, yet compelling. He wasn’t handsome in the accepted sense of the word, but he was very attractive, and Laura knew at once why Julie had decided that he was the one.

THEN, realising that by hovering in the doorway she was forcing him to stand in the rain, Laura made a gesture of apology, and got out of his way. He stepped into the tiny hall with evident relief, immediately dwarfing it by his presence, and Laura backed up the stairs to give him some space.

‘Hi,’ he said easily, and his deep, husky tones brushed her nerves like black velvet. With apparent indifference to her hair, or her state of undress, he put down the suitcases, and allowed the vanity case to drop on top of them ‘You must be Julie’s mother,’ he added, straightening. ‘How do you do? I’m Jake Lombardi.’

He spoke English without a trace of an accent, and Laura thought how awful it was that she couldn’t even greet him in his own language. ‘Laura Fox,’ she responded, coming down the stairs again to take the hand he held out to her. And as the damp heat of his palm closed about hers, she had the ridiculous feeling that nothing was ever going to be the same again. ‘Um—welcome to Burnfoot.’

‘Thanks.’

He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and shaded by thick lashes. For all he had shown no obvious reaction to her appearance, she had the feeling that no aspect of her attire had missed his notice, and in spite of herself, a wave of colour swept up from her neck to her face.

She wasn’t used to dealing with younger men, she thought impatiently, chiding herself for her lack of composure. And particularly not a man who displayed his masculinity so blatantly. Against her will, her eyes had strayed down over the buttons of an olive-green silk shirt, to where the buckle of a black leather belt rode low across the flat muscles of his stomach. The belt secured close-fitting black denims that clung to the strong muscles of his thighs like a second skin. The fact that Laura also noticed how they moulded his sex with equal cohesion was something she instantly rejected. For God’s sake, she thought, horrified that she should even consider such a thing. What was the matter with her?