Dani Collins - Modern Romance March 2019 5-8

She could have carried on being angry and bitter or hoped for a medical miracle. She supposed it was one of those events in life that everyone reacted to differently. Her way had been to accept what had happened, and save her energy for fights she could win, not lost causes.

That didn’t mean she hadn’t dreamt of saying those words... my child.

Ironic that when she got to say them it wasn’t because of a miracle or a dream-come-true scenario but because she was living a waking version of a nightmare Flora would have given everything she possessed not to be saying those words now, but when she did verbalising them brought home the full reality of the situation crashing in.

It was something that happened several times a day and each time the impact felt like walking into a wall of loss and pain, and, yes, fear that she just wasn’t up to the job.

Flora had never felt more desperately inadequate to any task in her life. Sure, her career had held challenges, and some were scary with an inbuilt possibility of failure, but this was different. Parenthood was different. Being responsible for a life was the scariest thing she had ever imagined. Could any training prepare you for it?

Or were good mothers born?

Sami had been one of those, she thought, her eyes misting as she thought of her sister, who had made it look so easy. Pushing her way through the jumble of conflicting emotions, she took a deep breath.

Doubts were distractions she couldn’t afford. She needed to stay in ‘one foot in front of the other’ mode, and firmly focused on mundane things like paying the bills and staying awake!

Feelings and doubts were a luxury she didn’t have time for.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said brightly. ‘Can I take your bag?’ She glanced towards the overnight holdall he had dropped inside the door when he’d arrived.

Even standing on the second step, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the face. The action made her bright hair spill backwards in a tangled silky coil down her narrow back.

He knew from the file Salvatore had compiled—his grandfather was nothing if not thorough—that Flora Henderson had been forced by the recent tragic events to walk away from what was probably her dream job. He’d anticipated there might be resentment he might utilise to achieve his objective, that the role thrust on her might make her vulnerable.

Yes, she was, it was there to see in the hollows in her smooth cheeks, the shadowed unhappiness reflected in the shocking blue of her eyes and the dark circles underneath.

Yet instead of feeling satisfaction Ivo was conscious of something that came close enough to compassion to jolt him free of those blue eyes. A moment later he reassessed his reaction. Compassion required a degree of caring, and he did not care for this woman; there was nothing personal between them.

He only did personal with family and, aside from his grandfather, his only family now was the child sleeping upstairs. This woman stood between him and that child.

‘I think I’ll manage, Ms...?’

‘Oh, it’s Henderson.’ Then, because they were listed on all the websites as providing a relaxed, informal environment, she fought her innate reluctance to provide this man with any personal details and added, ‘Flora.’ Facing ahead, she started up the stairs, not needing the creak behind her to tell he was following. The hairs on the back of her neck told her that.

By the time they reached the top she was breathless, in part because she had attacked them like an athlete out to break records, but mostly because of the unnerving way he had looked at her, as though he could see inside her head.

They reached the top and she paused, opening the door of the store cupboard at the top and reaching in to pull out an electric fan heater, relieved to be able to look efficient, or at least slightly less inefficient. No need for him to know that she had only remembered where they were stored halfway up the stairs.

‘Your room is the other side of the house.’ Flora tucked the light heater under her arm and pushed aside a tendril of red hair that was tickling her nose. ‘So, hopefully you won’t be disturbed. Fingers crossed.’

‘That’s a very scientific attitude to customer service.’

Flora smiled through gritted teeth, rather glad she had only imagined the sympathy she had seen in his face. ‘We aim more for the warm personal touch.’ Not that personal, Flora, said the voice in her head when she realised the she was staring at the firm, sensual outline of his mouth. ‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Rocco,’ she offered primly.

The selection of the room farthest from the nursery had seemed a good choice. It was the biggest and it had the best views; the size meant tonight it was also the coldest.

‘I hope you’ll be comfortable,’ she huffed, watching her warm breath mist in the cold air as she bent forward to plug in the heater before switching it to the maximum setting. ‘It’ll warm up in no time,’ she promised him optimistically.

‘So, tea and coffee making facilities.’ Her fluttering gesture indicated the tray complete with cafetière on a side table. She picked up the tin beside it. ‘The shortbread is homemade.’ Most guests looked impressed by this; he didn’t, but Flora doggedly persevered despite the lack of reaction. Heavens, would it kill him to smile? ‘Drinks and milk in the fridge,’ she added, ticking off the items in her head. She opened the wardrobe door. ‘Fresh robe and extra towels and blankets. Just let us know when you check out what you had. The prices are the same as the bar. I hope you have a comfortable night, Mr Rocco,’ she said formally as she backed towards the door. ‘Oh, would you like a hot-water bottle tucked in your bed?’

If there was anything he would like tucked...

He stopped the thought dead but had no control over the blood-warming image that followed in its wake, an image that involved him being warmed by her smooth limbs wrapped around him. A slow steady throb of heat slid through his body. When he was finally able to force the words out past the lustful fog that had seeped into his head, his voice had a throaty rasp.

‘Do I look like I need a hot-water bottle, Flora?’ What he needed was some resistance to the magnetic pull of her plump rose-coloured lips.

His grandfather’s plan might have involved seduction but his wouldn’t. Emotions complicated things, and expecting someone who showed every nuance of emotion on her face to have any degree of emotional continence was unrealistic.

His plan would be a business deal plain and simple...in theory at least. He was beginning to wonder if this woman could do plain and simple. Was she capable of looking through anything without distorting the image through an emotional prism?

It was his task to make sure she did. He didn’t doubt his ability to make this happen and, given the fact her options were limited, it should not be difficult.

His delivery was deadpan, the tone sardonic, but it was the predatory glow in his dark eyes... She wanted to look away. She wanted to run from the room in which the uncomfortable factor in the atmosphere she’d coped with up to this point by simply pretending it didn’t exist had hiked up several notches.

Ignoring was no longer an option.

But growing a backbone was.

Focusing on the sound of distant alarm bells and not the ache in her stomach, she lifted her chin and wrenched her eyes free of his molten stare. Or was it molten? Was she just seeing what she wanted to?

The mortifying idea that she wanted him to look at her that way cooled the sexual pulse that beat low and hot in her belly. Her initial antipathy had not been irrational but spot on. Her chin lifted. He might remind her of a sleek, well-fed predator, but she was damned if she was going to act like some little cowering mouse for his amusement.