Vivienne Wallington - Kindergarten Cupids

Instead of going back inside to answer the door, she sprinted around the side of the attractive Federation-style house—the house they’d been in for less than six months and now had to leave—and bounded up the steps to the front veranda.

She faltered. It wasn’t the balding estate agent standing at her front door. It was a tall, dark-haired stranger in a beautifully cut business suit.

As he turned to face her, revealing a pair of intensely blue eyes in a strong, square-jawed face, she pulled up short, shock momentarily paralyzing her.

It was him. The man she’d almost collided with at the kindergarten a few months ago—another parent, she’d assumed, who’d already dropped off his child. How could she ever forget those eyes, that face? Or her own humiliating reaction?

As he’d stepped aside, their eyes had clashed, and in that heart-stopping second she’d felt a jolt of sexual awareness that had shocked her, an electrifying sensation she’d never felt before, not even in her happier days with Darrell.

Her face flamed at the embarrassing memory.

And now here he was again, at her home. She gulped hard, hardly able to believe her eyes. He looked just the same as she remembered him from that unforgettable morning, just as riveting with those compelling blue eyes, the slashing black brows, the firm sensual mouth and the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen. And just as sexy and stylish in another superb designer suit.

As her heart fluttered—what was he doing here?—her mind raced ahead, seeking answers. Again he had no child with him. Maybe he wasn’t a kindergarten parent after all, but one of St Mark’s teachers. Not at the kindergarten—she knew all the teachers there—but at the adjoining primary school, where Nicky was to have started school in a weeks’ time.

She hadn’t told the school yet that she’d sold her house and would be moving away from this area, possibly too far away to keep Nicky on at St. Mark’s.

The bitter truth was, she couldn’t afford to keep her son at a private school. She would have to send Nicky to a state school this year, in whatever suburb they moved to. And she’d have to find full-time work for herself—they couldn’t manage on what she’d been earning last year, working two days a week in the office of a girls’ school, or doing the menial jobs she’d managed to scrounge during the holidays.

“Mrs. Sinclair?” His voice cut the silence.

Mardi swallowed again, wishing she didn’t feel so hot and flustered after her unladylike sprint round the house, or so messy, in her flour-covered shorts and T-shirt. The flour was probably on her cheeks and in her hair, as well.

She nodded, trying to maintain her dignity. He’d shown no sign of recognizing her from their fleeting encounter last September. Hardly surprising, she reflected, since she’d been respectably clean and tidy then, and neatly dressed, ready for her part-time job.

“Mardi,” she said automatically, in a voice that wobbled slightly.

An imperceptible nod. It occurred to her that there was little warmth in the blue eyes, although his manner and tone of voice—he had a deep, pleasant voice, she noted—were courteous enough. Courteous, without being friendly. She had the distinct impression he was making an effort to be pleasant.

Surely a teacher at St. Mark’s would have a warmer, friendlier approach.

The firm lips moved again, uttering the last name in the world that she’d expected to hear, or would have wanted to hear.

“Cain Templar.” His strong jaw jutted a trifle. “I’m here because of my son, Benjamin.”

She stared. He was Benjamin Templar’s father? Nicky’s Ben, her son’s best friend at kindergarten? Or they had been best friends, before the tragedy that had struck both boys at the end of November, plucking them asunder, and uncovering the shocking revelations that had torn Mardi’s own world apart. They might have torn her heart apart, too, if her husband hadn’t already crushed any remaining feeling she’d had for him, wearing it away in subtle, souldestroying ways over the months leading up to his death.

Before either had a chance to say any more, Scoots burst up the steps onto the veranda ahead of Nicky, the powerful dog hurling himself at the stranger on his doorstep. But he wasn’t growling or snarling—oh, no, not Scoots. His tail was thrashing to and fro like a scythe as his great paws landed on Cain Templar’s shoulders, his moist pink tongue flicking deep wet kisses all over the man’s startled face.

Looking more exasperated than angry, the man frowned and stepped back. “Okay, okay, you can get down now!”

he rapped, a command that had no effect whatsoever on Scoots.

Mardi, on a wicked impulse, didn’t immediately come to the man’s rescue. “You don’t like dogs?” she asked sweetly, wondering if he was like her husband, Darrell, who’d only tolerated Scoots for Nicky’s sake.

“Well-behaved dogs,” he growled, trying to dodge Scoot’s flashing tongue. “Well-trained dogs. You’ve never thought of taking this undisciplined pooch to a training school?”

Mardi’s chin rose, her eyes glinting at the criticism. “I trained Scoots myself. He’ll settle down in a minute. He’s just checking you out.” She paused, adding in some surprise, “He must like you. He doesn’t jump up on everybody. He’d be growling if he didn’t like you.”

Cain Templar looked as if he’d prefer to be growled at than jumped on with dirty paws and a slobbering tongue.

Taking pity on him, Mardi belatedly pulled Scoots back away from him with a mildly scolding, “Down, Scoots, that’s enough! Nicky, take him round the back, will you, before he wrecks the gentleman’s fine suit.” She was careful not to mention her visitor’s name. “And shut the side gate after you.”

She felt a certain wicked satisfaction at the thought of Cain Templar’s suit being ruined. Maybe because it reminded her of Darrell’s expensive designer suits and his other wild extravagances. Extravagances that had left his widow and young son penniless and in crushing debt.

“I’m sure it will survive,” Cain Templar said dryly, brushing himself off.

And I’m sure you could afford to buy another one if it didn’t, Mardi reflected, and paused to wonder if he actually could afford to buy his fine Italian suits, or if he was another Darrell, living well beyond his means.

Of course he wasn’t. He was Cain Templar, the genuinely wealthy, highly successful merchant banker, whose glamorous wife, Sylvia, had been having an affair with her husband. And the Templars’ home, which Darrell, her insatiably ambitious, social-climbing lawyer husband, had visited often and gone into raptures about, but which she had never seen or been invited to, was a magnificent harborside mansion in one of Sydney’s most exclusive suburbs.

She turned away, watching Nicky and Scoots until they disappeared round the side of the house. How insensitive of this man to come here. His wife had ruined her life—ruined her son’s life!

Mardi glowered. If only she hadn’t fallen sick with the flu last September! Darrell had first met Sylvia Templar on the very morning he’d driven Nicky to kindergarten for the first time. Sylvia’s husband, she recalled Darrell mentioning at the time, had just left on a two-month overseas business trip. How convenient that had turned out to be!

From the moment he met her, Darrell had openly raved about “Benjamin’s beautiful mother,” and how she was the perfect corporate wife…an asset to her husband and a real help to his career as a merchant banker. “She’s an example to other wives,” he’d enthused in his typically insensitive fashion. “Always impeccably groomed, beautifully dressed, the perfect hostess, at ease in any company…And she knows everybody—everybody who matters, that is. You could learn a lot from her.”