Maggie Cox - The Rich Man's Love-Child

But in the end Flynn knew that whatever embellishment Caitlin might come up with none of it would make him feel one damn bit better. He should accept that something about him hadn’t been enough to hold her and just forget her. Get on with his life as he had been doing until she had so unfortunately returned for her father’s funeral.

Now the chill in his bones was nothing to do with the sharp-bladed cruelty of the weather. It was just too bitter to see her again and watch her walk away a second time…

Staring at Flynn, at the dismay and disappointment etched into the haunting lines of his face as though they might take up permanent residence there, Caitlin didn’t have the courage to just come out and tell him about Sorcha…the beautiful child they had made together. She was frightened of how he would react, and was undone by the thought of him hating her worse than he must do already for her desertion. To learn that she’d had his baby and had kept the news from him for all these years would be far too devastating a blow for him on top of having to deal with her unexpected return.

It had stunned her to consider that he’d cared for her to such a degree that he was still furious at her leaving. The Flynn she remembered had not been a man who had readily or easily revealed much about what he was feeling. Except when he was making love to her…Then there had been no barriers to stop him from showing her exactly how he felt. Sometimes, alone in her bed at night in London, Caitlin had no difficulty in conjuring up the thrilling memories of how this man had loved her, and it had kept her warm even when she’d felt as if her heart was rent in two for ever.

There was no doubt she would have to tell him about Sorcha some time soon. But it just couldn’t be right now.

‘I know we have unfinished business, and there are things that I should say…things I should have told you before I left. Maybe when you’ve calmed down we can—’

‘Calmed down?’

She could see that wouldn’t be happening any time soon. She exhaled a resigned sigh into the frigid air. ‘I can see you’re still mad at me, but maybe that’s why we should both have some time to think things through before we meet again?’

‘Think things through? What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for these past four and a half years?’

He took a step towards her, put his face up close to hers—so close she could see every tiny grooved line and pore indenting his skin. She could see the midnight shadow that studded his well-defined jaw, and Caitlin’s heart thudded in shock at the barely contained anger that rolled off him towards her.

‘I thought—’ She took a nervous swallow. ‘I thought you might have married again or—or perhaps be living with someone by now?’

Oh, how she’d dreaded that. Even though there was no earthly or logical reason why Flynn shouldn’t be with someone else by now.

‘I’m no celibate priest, but I’m not in a relationship, no. Why, Caitlin? Did it make it easier for you all these years living in London to think of me being with someone else? Sorry to disappoint you. I guess betrayal leaves a nasty taste in the mouth that’s not easy to relinquish. These days I have only one real use for women, and I’m sure you don’t need me to go into details!’

‘No, I don’t.’

It was almost more than she could bear to imagine him for even one second with another woman, doing the things he had done with her. Oh, God…would this pain ever heal? This longing for him abate? Fixated on the beautiful sensual mouth that hovered so near, Caitlin could almost taste the kiss that her lips longed for. His kisses had been heaven and forbidden fruit all at the same time. Her knees went weak as water at the memory.

As if not trusting himself to be so close to her, Flynn moved abruptly away again—but not before his jade eyes made a blistering examination of her face.

‘And what about you, Caitlin? Do you honestly mean to tell me that there’s been no other man in your life since you left? That you’ve spent every night in your bed alone?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’ll believe whatever you want to believe!’

‘Can you blame me?’

He strode right away from her then, driving his hand in mute outrage through his sleet-sodden black hair.

‘Flynn!’

She ran after him, cold to the bone and shivering uncontrollably.

‘Please don’t just walk away!’

‘Why not?’ he growled, his expression bleak. ‘Isn’t that what you do?’

‘Please, Flynn,’ she implored again, too weary in mind, body and spirit to argue any more—knowing whatever she said would likely be a red flag to a bull while he was in this frame of mind. ‘I don’t want us to be enemies. I know we can’t be friends, but don’t you think we could try and resolve our differences and at least be civil to each other?’

‘We’d better get out of here.’

Ignoring her plaintive question, Flynn pulled up his jacket collar as far as it would go, with freezing hands almost blue with cold. In spite of his animosity and anger towards her, he could see that Caitlin was in even worse straits. Her wheaten-gold hair was drenched and flattened to her head, and her lips were almost colourless…like wax. The last thing she needed after just burying her father was to come down with a bout of flu…or even…pneumonia.

‘This wind is getting worse and the light is going. Did you make your way here by yourself?’

‘I got a lift to the road and walked from there,’ she replied, her teeth chattering.

‘My Land Rover’s parked down at the bottom. I’ll run you home.’

For a moment she looked as if she might refuse the offer of a lift, but a second later she briefly inclined her head.

‘Thanks…Just halfway down the lane will do. I can walk the rest of the way from there.’

When Flynn pulled up in the lane that led to what had been Tom Burns’ old cottage, he switched off the ignition and turned in his seat to regard his now silent passenger.

‘We could meet at the house tomorrow at around ten. Do you want me to come and get you?’

‘No, it’s all right. I prefer to walk. Ten it is, then.’

She pushed open the door at her side and stepped down onto the snowy road without another word.

Flynn sat and watched her walk up the lane—a slender, duffle-coated figure with bright hair whipped by the wind—and he gripped the steering wheel as though he would break it, shuddering out a long, slow breath.

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