The Single Mum and the Tycoon. Caroline Anderson

money. Oh, what the hell. It was the end of April. Who was going to check on him?

      But, just in case, he went over to the café, bought a cup of coffee in a foam cup and put the change in the meter, stuck the ticket in his windscreen and went for a wander while his coffee cooled.

      And saw other changes. A new chandlery, some very expensive craft tied up to the moorings in the river, a new clubhouse for the yacht club—all sorts of changes, but the old ferry was still tied up to the jetty, and there was a pile of lobster pots and nets heaped against the fish shack. They were probably the same ones that had been there in his youth.

      He turned a little sharply, and winced. God, his leg hurt after the flight. He stretched, flexed his knee, limping slightly as he reached the jetty and stood there, breathing in the familiar air.

      ‘Davey?’

      He turned his head, incredulous. ‘Bob? Hell, you’re still here?’ he said with a laugh, and found himself engulfed in a hug that smelt of sweat and tar and bilge water, with more than a lingering trace of fish. It was the most welcome hug he’d had in years, and he blinked hard and stood back, studying the wrinkled, sun-trammelled face of the old harbour master, those shrewd eyes still brilliant blue and seeing altogether too much.

      ‘They said you were coming home for the wedding. Your sister didn’t believe it, but I knew you wouldn’t let the old man down.’ He jerked his head at David’s feet. ‘So what’s this limp then?’

      He shrugged and grinned. ‘Nothing. A bit of bother with a propeller.’

      Bob winced. ‘Would have thought you’d know better than to do something daft like that,’ he said gruffly.

      David didn’t bother to explain. Where to start? Or end, more to the point. That was the hard bit. He looked around. ‘Don’t suppose there’s anywhere round here to rent for a few weeks, is there? I don’t fancy a hotel.’

      ‘Not going home to stay? That’ll hurt, Davey. He’ll be expecting you.’

      He shook his head at the old man. ‘I need my space, Bob, and so does he. Anyway, he’s got better things to do than entertain me.’

      ‘If you say so.’

      ‘I do.’

      Bob nodded thoughtfully, then he jerked his head towards the posher end. ‘You could try Molly Blythe. She takes paying guests sometimes. I don’t know if she’s up and running yet for the summer season, but it’s worth a try. Up there—the little white place at the end—Thrift Cottage. Molly’ll look after you if she can, and I know she can use the money right now. Just go and bang on the door. The kid’ll be around if she isn’t. I saw him heading back that way a little while ago. He’s been crabbing off the jetty.’

      Crabbing. Hell, he hadn’t been crabbing in an English river for—well, for ever, and even the word was enough to bring the lump back to his throat.

      He thanked Bob, drained the coffee and walked along the sea wall to the house Bob had pointed out, past the coastguard cottages and the little church, past the smart houses with the flashy cars, and, at the end of the cluster, set slightly apart from the others, was a pretty little white cottage set in a chaotic and colourful garden that looked as untended as the house.

      There was a sign outside that said, ‘Bed and Breakfast’, but it was tired and peeling and faded with the sun. That didn’t bode well, and he could see, now he was close up, that the sign was just a reflection of the rest of the property. The barge boards were flaking, the garden was overgrown and the rose on the front wall was toppling gently over into the shrubs beneath, taking the drainpipe with it.

      Thrift Cottage, indeed. It didn’t look as if anyone had spent anything on it for years, with the exception of the roof, which had new windows in it. Perhaps it was in the process of being done up—hence her need for money. He wondered what the neatly trimmed neighbours thought of Molly Blythe and her scruffy little house.

      Not a lot, probably.

      He went through the front gate that hung at a crazy angle on its tired hinges, walked up the steps to the door and rang the bell.

      ‘The bell doesn’t work. Who are you?’

      He turned and studied the tow-haired, freckled child sitting cross-legged on the grass and studying him back with wide, innocent eyes. ‘I’m David. Who are you?’

      ‘Charlie. What do you want?’

      His tone was simply curious, and David relaxed. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to stay. Bob told me to come and find Molly—’

      But he was up, legs no thicker than knotted rope flying as he pelted across the garden and shot round the corner. ‘Mum!’ he was yelling. ‘Mum, there’s a man. He wants to stay here!’

      He reappeared a moment later.

      ‘Mum’s coming,’ he said unnecessarily, because she was right behind him and looking flustered.

      ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear the bell—not that it works—I was gardening out the back. Well, more slash and burn, really. I was trying to find the shed so I could cut the grass. I’m Molly, by the way.’ She grinned, scrubbed her hand on her equally grubby jeans and held it out.

      He realised his jaw was about to sag, because that wide, ingenuous grin so like her son’s had got him right in the gut, and he shut his mouth, collected himself and took her outstretched hand.

      Somehow he wasn’t in the least surprised at the strength of her hot and slightly gritty grip. She was tall, athletically built with curves in all the right places, and her smile, below green eyes as curious as her son’s, was wide and genuine. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose just like Charlie’s, and her auburn hair was scraped back into a ponytail. A wisp had escaped, blowing across her face and sticking on the fine sheen of moisture he could see on her skin, and he had a ridiculous urge to lift it away with his finger and tuck it behind her ear—

      ‘I’m David,’ he said, letting go of her hand and dragging his eyes back up from the low, slightly twisted V of her T-shirt. There was a leaf stuck in her cleavage, trapped against the soft swell of her breasts, and he felt the air temperature go up a notch.

      Hell, maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all, he thought a trifle desperately, trying to forget about that soft and enticing valley so he could concentrate on what she was saying.

      ‘Um—Charlie said you were looking for a room?’ she said, her voice, warm and slightly husky, lilting up at the end of her sentence. ‘Are you on your own?’

      ‘Yeah. It’s just me. I need somewhere to stay.’

      ‘How long for?’

      ‘I don’t know yet. A minimum of two weeks, at least.’

      Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, crumbs. Not just one night, then. I was going to say no, but…’ She swallowed and looked round a little wildly. ‘Um—I’m not really organised yet. I’ve converted the attic this winter—well, I say I’ve converted—a builder did it, of course, but I ran out of money and it isn’t finished yet so I haven’t got anywhere to put you—how long for, did you say?’

      He opened his mouth to say he’d changed his mind, but she lifted her hand to pull the errant strand of hair out of her eyes and her arm jostled that soft curve of flesh enticingly, dislodging the leaf and driving out the last fragment of his common sense.

      ‘I don’t know. At least two weeks. It could be a month or more,’ he said, trying to tempt her into finding room for him, and hauled his eyes back to her face in time to see a flicker of hope mingled with desperation in those beautiful soft green eyes.

      ‘Um—that’s fine. Well, it could be. It’s just—well, the house isn’t really ready yet and the cabin—I mean it wouldn’t take long, but in the meantime—I don’t suppose you could find somewhere else for a night or two?’

      And give her a chance to talk herself out