A Very Passionate Man. Maggie CoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
she missed Greg’s laughter. He’d always had a natural ability to see the brighter side of life even when things appeared dire. She had envied him that. She had always been the serious one, the one urging caution, when Greg merely threw caution to the wind and laughed in its face. He should be here with her now, talking over the improvements they were going to make on the house together. Instead…instead…
Rowan pushed off the bed and swept her hand through her hair, wishing she could sweep away the dark thoughts racing through her mind as easily. Pacing up and down across the thick patterned carpet that she would replace just as soon as she could afford to, she swallowed down the painful ache in her throat and refused to let the tears that were threatening come. OK, so she was a widow—she wasn’t the first woman in the world who had suffered the loss of a husband and, dear God, she wouldn’t be the last. If all those other women could survive the hurt and desolation, then so could Rowan. She’d come this far without falling to pieces, hadn’t she? And what exactly had Evan Cameron meant when he’d said it was good she wasn’t as meek as she appeared? The mere thought of the man made her feel about as meek as a rampaging rhinoceros! She had a good mind to knock on his door right now and verbally rip his arrogant head off—then he might really discover what ‘night-time torment’ meant!
But, of course, she would do no such thing. He’d probably coolly brush her off with that disdainful look that came so naturally, or, worse, phone the police and tell them he had a mad woman living next door and could they please come and lock her up in a cell for the night so he could get some sleep? Frustration and anger eating her up, Rowan grabbed her robe and headed straight for the kitchen. Switching on the lights, then opening the fridge, she carefully extracted the fruit pie she’d made earlier when she’d baked her batch of scones. Carrying it to the small pine table set in an alcove, she cut herself a generous wedge and bit into it with tears streaming hotly from her eyes and sliding helplessly into her mouth.
Staring at the two small but stinging cuts he’d inadvertently made at the edge of his jaw with his razor, Evan winced as he pressed his fingers to them to momentarily staunch the thick ooze of blood. He hadn’t had the shakes this morning, thank God, but his concentration was shot to hell anyway. He’d been evil to the pretty little widow next door and he wasn’t proud of the fact. If Beth had borne witness to his boorishness she would probably have been ashamed to call herself his sister. Damn it, he was ashamed of his outlandish behaviour himself! Venting his spleen on Rowan just because he wasn’t the man he’d used to be was unforgivable. Her hurt brown eyes had stared back at him as if he were a careless motorist who’d just run over her puppy.
Meeting his sombre reflection in the bathroom mirror, Evan let loose a ripe curse. With the cuts on his jaw oozing blood and his black brows drawn together giving him a decidedly forbidding expression, all he needed was a black eye-patch and some dark stubble round his chin and he’d resemble Blackbeard the Pirate. If he were in Rowan’s shoes, he’d give himself a very wide berth indeed.
But just the same, he wasn’t going to apologise. Hadn’t Evan already told her in more ways than one that he wasn’t going to encourage her acquaintance? Was the woman a glutton for punishment, giving him those shy, girlish smiles of hers that would likely melt a heart of stone? Except his heart, of course. As he moved back into his bedroom to raid his wardrobe for clothes, he mused that it wasn’t his fault she was a widow and she was lonely. Any other man would probably want to take advantage of such a situation, but Evan knew better than to buy a whole load of trouble he could very well live without. It had taken two gruelling, hardworking years to get Rebecca out of his system and he was in no hurry to get involved with another woman—no matter how attractive or appealing.
Yanking on his jeans, then pulling another black sweater down over his head, Evan made his way out to the kitchen in search of some breakfast. For some inexplicable reason he was extraordinarily hungry this morning, and that surprised him. His previously healthy appetite had dwindled to a quarter of what he normally ate since he’d had that damned flu. Opening the fridge, he withdrew a box of eggs, a packet of bacon and a punnet of tomatoes that he’d bought the previous weekend but which were still within their sell-by date. Then, rifling through overhead cupboards, he retrieved a family-sized frying-pan and set it with down with satisfaction on the cooker.
The smell of paint had given Rowan a headache. To counteract the effect, she’d carried the three pine shelves outside and propped them up against the faded wrought-iron bench that sat in the front garden. With her hair in a loose topknot, and suitably attired in old blue corduroys and a chunky-knit sweater of Greg’s that she couldn’t bring herself to give away, Rowan momentarily savoured the fresh country breeze that rustled by before carefully applying another coat of bright lilac paint to one of the shelves. Accidentally her gaze fell on Evan’s smart blue Land Rover, parked outside the pretty whitewashed cottage where he lived, and she quickly withdrew it back to her painting before he spied her looking. Unless he’d walked down to the beach or the village he must still be in the house, she surmised. In which case, the lower the profile she kept—the better. The last thing in the world she needed right now was a repeat performance of last night’s horrible confrontation.
She’d been painting for almost an hour when she heard the door of the neighbouring cottage slam. As she automatically glanced across, Rowan’s surprised, slightly panicked gaze locked with Evan’s. When she looked away again, her pulse skittering like a nervous colt, she told herself to pay the man no attention and get back to what she was doing without giving him a second thought. Easier said than done when his footsteps seemed intent on heading her way…
‘I’ll come straight to the point.’
Rowan’s gaze travelled from his black-booted feet all the way up those long, straight legs of his in dark blue denim, past the wide shoulders in his black sweater, finally arriving at the ominously serious expression currently fixed on his face. For the first time it wasn’t his remarkable green eyes that instantly demanded her attention but the sexy little dimple in the centre of his well-defined jaw instead. Instantly, she rebuked herself for noticing such a thing.
‘You’ll come straight to the point about what?’ she asked, affecting indifference. When he didn’t reply immediately, she placed her dripping paintbrush carefully across the paint tin and waited for him to continue. He shifted from one lean hip to the other. ‘I owe you an apology.’
‘You do?’ One slender brown eyebrow shot skywards and she couldn’t help the sarcasm that dripped into her tone. In a million years if someone had told her that the arrogant Evan Cameron would march up her path and tell her he owed her an apology she would have called them deluded.
‘It’s not your fault that I prefer my own company most of the time.’
‘This is an apology?’ Rocking back on her heels, Rowan stoically fought back the urge to grin. The man looked so uncomfortable it was painful. Clearly he didn’t find it easy to say those two relatively simple words ‘I’m sorry’. She suddenly felt desperately sad for his friends.
Spearing his fingers through the thick mane of dark hair that touched his collar, Evan shook his head. ‘You’re going to milk this for all its worth aren’t you?’ His voice was cold.
Deciding to put the poor man out of his misery, Rowan wiped her hands down her thighs in the corduroy trousers then rose carefully to her feet.
‘Forget it. I don’t need you to apologise. I understand perfectly why you behave the way you do. You value your privacy above all else. You wanted to be alone, and because my cottage has been empty for so long you naturally assumed it would stay empty. My presence has taken you by surprise. You don’t really want me here. I can understand that too. I probably moved here for the same reasons—to be alone, to hear myself think. But unlike you, Mr Cameron, however much I like my own company I don’t see any harm in passing the time of day with my fellow human beings. Sometimes it has positive benefits. Just a smile from another person can totally lift my mood. I’m not asking you to move in with me or be my mentor—I didn’t even ask you to mend my broken gate. I’m simply exchanging hello’s or good morning’s, nice, normal greetings that don’t require anything other than a smile or a similar greeting in return. Nothing too challenging