Swept Into The Rich Man's World. Katrina Cudmore

I drove by I was intrigued as to who lived here, so I looked you up one day.’

      His expression tightened.

      She realised she must sound like some billionaire groupie or, worse, a gold digger, and blurted out, ‘We are the only houses out here on the headland. I wanted to know who my only neighbour was. There was nothing else to it.’

      After a torturous few seconds during which he considered her answer, he said, ‘I’ll ask my estate manager to drop down to you tomorrow. He can give you his contact details. That way if you ever need any help you can contact him directly.’

      For a few seconds she smiled at him gratefully, but then humiliation licked at her bones. He was putting a filter between them. But then what did she expect? Patrick Fitzsimon lived in the moneyed world of the super-rich. He wasn’t interested in his neighbours.

      ‘Thanks, but I’m able to cope on my own.’

      He stood up straight and scowled at her. ‘I didn’t say you weren’t.’

      She gave a tight laugh, memories of her ex taunting her. ‘Well, you’re not like a lot of men, then...’

      The scowl darkened even more. ‘That’s a bit of a sweeping statement, isn’t it? I was only trying to be helpful.’

      The last sentence had been practically growled. He looked really angry with her, and she couldn’t help but think she had hit a raw nerve.

      She inhaled a deep breath and said, ‘I’m sorry... I’m a bit battle-scarred at the moment.’

      He stared at her in surprise and, praying he wouldn’t ask her what she meant, she said quickly, ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of tea. Will you join me?’

      He looked as taken aback by her invitation as she was. Did she really want to spend more time with this taciturn man? But after the night she’d had, and three months of living alone, the truth was she was starved for company.

      He looked down at his watch and when he looked up again frowned at her in thought. ‘I’ll stay five minutes.’

      Could he have said it with any less enthusiasm? He looked edgy. As though he wanted to escape.

      He walked towards the countertop where the kettle stood. ‘Take a seat at the table. If you prefer, I also have hot chocolate or brandy.’

      ‘Thanks, but I’d love tea.’

      Instead of going to the table she walked to the picture window in the glass extension at the side of the kitchen. The faint flashing light from the lighthouse out on the end of the headland was the only sight in the darkness of the stormy night.

      ‘Do you think my cottage will be okay?’

      He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he walked over to her side and he, too, looked out of the window towards the lighthouse. In the reflection of the window she could see that he stood four, maybe five inches taller than her, his huge frame dwarfing hers.

      ‘I called the emergency services when you were in the shower. I really don’t know what will happen to your cottage. The timing of the storm surge was terrible—right at the same time as high tide. I thought the worst of the storms was over, but April can be an unpredictable month.’ He turned slightly towards her. ‘I know you must be worried—it’s your home—but you’re safe. That’s all that matters.’

      His words surprised her, and she had to swallow against the lump of emotion that formed in her throat. He didn’t try to pretend everything would be okay, didn’t lie to her, but he didn’t dismiss how she was feeling either.

      She gave him a grateful smile, but he looked away from her with a frown.

      He moved away from the window, back towards the table, and said in a now tight voice, ‘Your tea is ready.’

      For a while she looked down at the mug tentatively, two forces battling within her. The need to be self-reliant was vying with her need to talk to someone—even someone as closed-off as Patrick Fitzsimon. To hear a little reassurance that things would be okay. And then she just blurted it out, the tension in her body easing fractionally as the words tumbled out.

      ‘It’s not just my cottage, though. My studio is there. I have some urgent work I have to complete. I missed a deadline today and I have another commissioned piece I need to deliver next week.’

      His silence and his frown told her she had said too much, and her insides curled with embarrassment. The man was a billionaire. Her problems must seem trivial to him.

      She twisted her mug on the table, knowing he was studying her but unable to meet his gaze.

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t realise. What is it that you do?’

      ‘I’m a textile designer.’

      He nodded, and his eyes held hers briefly before he looked away. ‘Try not to think about work until tomorrow. You might be worrying for no reason... And even in the worst of situations there’s always a solution.’

      ‘Hopefully you’re right.’

      ‘Do you have anyone who can help you tomorrow?’

      She shook her head. ‘I haven’t got to know people locally yet, and my family live in Dublin. Most of my friends are either there or in London.’

      Realising she still hadn’t touched her tea, she sipped it. In her nervousness she pulled the mug away too quickly and had to lick a falling drip of tea from her bottom lip.

      Her heart somersaulted as she saw his eyes were trained on her mouth, something darkening in their intensity. Then very slowly his gaze moved up to capture hers. Awareness fluttered through her.

      ‘I heard someone had bought Fuchsia Cottage late last year—why did you move here to Mooncoyne?’

      He asked the question in an almost accusatory tone, as though he almost wished she hadn’t.

      ‘I saw the cottage and the studio online and I fell in love with them straight away. The cottage is adorable, and the studio space is incredible. It’s perfect for my work.’ Forcing herself to smile, she said, ‘Unfortunately I hadn’t bargained on the cottage and studio flooding. The auctioneer assured me it wouldn’t.’

      He gave a brief shrug of understanding. ‘You weren’t tempted to go back to your family in Dublin?’

      ‘Have you seen the price of property in Dublin? I know it’s not as bad as London, but it’s still crazy.’ Then, remembering who she was talking to, she felt her insides twist and a feeling of foolishness grip her. Clearing her throat, she asked, ‘Has Ashbrooke always been in your family?’

      He looked at her incredulously, as though her question was ridiculous. ‘No...absolutely not. I grew up in a modest house. My family weren’t wealthy.’

      Taken aback by the defensive tone of his voice, she blurted out exactly what was on her mind. ‘So how did all of this happen?’

      He studied her with a blistering glance, his mouth a thin line of unhappiness. In the end he said curtly, ‘I was lucky. I saw the opportunities available in mobile applications ahead of the curve. I developed some music streaming apps that were bought by some of the big internet providers. Afterwards I had the capital to invest in other applications and software start-ups.’

      She couldn’t help but shake her head and give him a mock sceptical look. ‘Oh, come on—that wasn’t luck.’

      ‘Meaning...?’

      ‘Look, I ran my own business for five years. I know success is down to hard work, taking risks, and being constantly on the ball. Making smart business decisions... I reckon luck has very little to do with it.’

      ‘All true. But sometimes you get a good roll of the dice—sometimes you don’t. It’s about getting back up when things go wrong, knowing there’s always a solution to a problem.’

      His