Her Ideal Husband. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
her wrist to steady a hand that was unaccountably shaking, carefully extracted the sliver of glass from between her fingers. Then he dropped it on the path and ground it to powder beneath his heel.
‘Thanks.’ Her voice was shaking as much as her wrist had done.
‘I think I’m the one who should be thanking you.’ He was still holding her wrist, his long fingers circling it, heating it, melting the bones. For a long moment he kept her his prisoner before suddenly dropping it as if he too were burning, raking his fingers through his hair as if needing to keep them occupied. Then he looked at his hand. ‘See, I’m always doing that. I could have got a nasty cut.’
She shrugged, awkwardly. ‘It’s being a mother,’ she began. ‘You just can’t help yourself.’ She swallowed, and tried to ignore the dangerous tingle where his fingers had touched her wrist. She wasn’t feeling motherly. Oh, no. Not one bit. ‘I, um, helped myself to a few strawberries,’ she said, bringing up the subject before he did. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I thought you were very restrained not to take more. Were they good?’ He’d been standing there watching her? Her face competed with the poppies again.
‘Mummee!’ Another desperate plea.
‘I think the captain of the team wants to get on with the game,’ he said, stooping to pick up the ball, offering it to her.
‘What? Oh, no, that’s Rosie. She’s only seven. Clover makes her play in goal. She’s not very good.’ She took the ball, tucking it under her arm. ‘I’ll try to keep them under control, but when they’ve been in school all day…’
‘No problem. I’ll be around for a day or two. If the ball comes over again, just give me a shout and I’ll throw it back.’
‘You could be sorry you said that.’ She forced her legs to make a move, to put some distance between her and the temptation to stay and just look at him, but he walked alongside her as she headed back to the wall.
Was he going to offer her a hand up? She tried not to think about his hands around her waist, his breath on her neck.
‘What’s going to happen to this place?’ she asked quickly. To distract herself. ‘Do you know?’ She looked back. ‘I heard it was going to be sold to some awful developer.’ He didn’t say anything. ‘Oh, Lord, is that you?’
‘Would that be a problem?’ The corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile as he glanced sideways at her.
She wished she’d done more than tie her hair back with one of the girls’ bobbles. And put on some mascara. Lipstick even.
To paint a door? Get real, Stacey; this guy is a Grade A hunk and you’re a mother of two with the muscle-tone to prove it...
‘We’d miss the view,’ she said, quickly. Not that it would be hers for long. One wild-flower meadow at the local primary school, no matter how much admired, did not a career make. She really had to stop kidding herself that she could make a business out of her passion for wild flowers and get the house into shape so that she could sell it. He glanced across the garden to the fields rising away to the hazy hills in the distance. ‘Maybe they won’t get planning permission,’ she said, hopefully.
‘They already have.’
‘Oh.’ She’d expected it, but it was still a blow. ‘Houses?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Industrial units.’
‘Oh,’ she repeated dully. Then, ‘Are you working for the developers?’
He shook his head. ‘Just for myself. Nash Gallagher,’ he said, introducing himself, stopping to offer his hand before realising that, between the strawberries and the ball, her hands were now fully occupied. It was probably just as well. She hadn’t recovered from the hand around the wrist yet. Palm to palm was going to leave her reeling. And incapable of climbing that wretched wall.
But she could hardly deny him her name. ‘Stacey O’Neill. And you’ve probably gathered that the nuisances are Clover and Rosie.’
‘Well, I’m glad to have met you. As I said, I’ll be staying here for a few days, in case you see a light and think someone might be up to no good and call the police.’
‘Staying? You mean you’re camping? Here?’ She looked around, saw the small one-man tent pitched in a shady corner and wondered if he had permission. Then decided that it was none of her business.
‘This is the height of luxury compared to some of the places I’ve lived,’ he assured her, evidently mistaking her concern. ‘It’s got running water, plumbing—’
She wanted to ask what places, but restrained herself and wondered if he’d broken into the office to get at the plumbing and running water. Did it matter? If it was all going to be flattened... ‘You’re still sleeping in a tent.’ Then she shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s okay when it’s not raining.’ It had been a very wet spring.
‘Are you suggesting this spell of good weather is unlikely to last?’ he asked, with just a touch of irony in his voice to match the infinitesimal lift of one eyebrow.
‘This good weather has lasted all of a week so far, which, for this summer, is a record.’ Then she relented. ‘But according to the forecast you should be safe for a day or two.’
He glanced up at the cloudless sky for a moment. ‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Mummeeeeee!’
‘They’re getting impatient.’ She tossed the ball over the wall. ‘I’ll try to keep it on our side of wall from now on.’
‘It’s not a problem, really.’
Maybe not, but she had one. Getting over the wall with what remained of her dignity intact while he stood there and looked at her winter-white legs. Winter-white splashed with the forget-me-not-blue gloss that she’d finished the door with. And a scraping of brick dust. And squishy green plant juice on her knees from her expedition into the strawberry bed.
She looked at the strawberries in her hand and wished she left them for the slugs. Now she would have to get over the wall with one hand, or throw them away.
‘Can I help?’ he offered. Again.
She thought about those big hands lifting her, or giving her a push from behind. ‘Er…’ This was getting ridiculous. She was heading at what seemed like break-neck speed towards thirty. She had two children. Blushing was for girls... ‘Perhaps if you hold the strawberries while I climb up?’ she suggested.
He made no move to take them; instead he linked his hands together and offered them as a foothold. She felt a momentary stab of disappointment, then quickly placed her battered tennis shoe into the cup of his palms, and as he lifted her, she grabbed for the wall and was deposited on the top without the usual ungainly knee-skinning scramble.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘My pleasure,’ he replied, grinning broadly as she swung her legs over to the other side. ‘Drop in any time.’
She pretended not to hear, sliding down into her own garden and finishing off the foxgloves in her hurry. And not doing the strawberries much good, either. Despite the lift over the wall, she had still managed to squash them into a juicy mush.
Nash Gallagher watched as his new neighbour swung her lovely legs over the wall and quickly disappeared. She’d been decorating, he’d noticed. There were streaks of blue paint on her thighs and clothes and her fingers, as she’d cupped the strawberries protectively in her hand, still had paint embedded around her nails. Did she just enjoy doing it herself?
With Daddy in heaven, it would seem she had little choice.
Stacey was mashing the strawberries to mix with ice cream for Clover and Rosie’s tea when the abandoned door handle, still dangling by one partly driven screw, gave up the unequal struggle with gravity and