The Single Mum and the Tycoon. Caroline Anderson

staying with them? God knows your sister’s house is huge, and your father’s house is big as well. I mean, between them they must have at least six spare bedrooms, and you’re down here sleeping in a shed, for heaven’s sake! And I know for a fact it’s not because you can’t afford a decent hotel, so why me and not them?’

      ‘I live in a hotel. I didn’t want to stay in a hotel, I wanted to stay in a family home.’

      ‘So why mine and not theirs?’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

      ‘You noticed.’

      She gave an exasperated little growl and rolled her eyes. ‘So if you aren’t avoiding them, why won’t you answer my question?’

      ‘Are you always so nosy?’

      ‘No. Sometimes I can be pushy, too.’

      She waited, her breath held, and finally it came, the smile she’d been waiting for, and he let his breath out on a huff and turned to look at her with resignation in his eyes.

      ‘You’re just like Georgie,’ he said mildly. ‘Nosy, pushy, bossy, interfering, trying to fix everything for everybody.’

      She gave a brittle laugh and stood up in a hurry, the unexpected wave of pain taking her by surprise. ‘Oh, not me. I can’t fix anything for anybody. I gave that up years ago when I had to throw the switch on my husband’s life-support machine.’

      And scooping up the cups, she turned and went back into the kitchen before her smile crumbled and he saw the tears welling in her eyes.

      Damn.

      Had that been his fault or hers?

      He didn’t know, and he had to stop himself from following her. He stood up slowly, arching his back and rolling his shoulders, stiff from the flight and from gardening, and Charlie looked up at him hopefully.

      ‘Want to play football with me?’ he asked, and the simple, innocent question hit him square in the gut and took his breath away.

      ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said with a grin he knew must be crooked. ‘I’m rubbish at football. Anyway, I’m just going to give your mum a hand with the washing-up.’

      And turning away from the disappointment in Charlie’s eyes, he went into the kitchen and found Molly leaning over the sink, her hands rhythmically and methodically squeezing a cloth in a bowl of water. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release, squeeze—

      ‘You could have played with him,’ she said, and he could hear the catch in her voice. ‘Or said you’d do it another time. Not just turn him down flat.’

      He let his breath out in a slightly shaky sigh and met her disappointed eyes.

      ‘I can’t play football.’

      ‘Of course you can. He’s eight, for goodness’ sake! Nobody’s expecting you to be David Beckham! You could have just kicked a ball around with him for a minute—or are you too important?’

      ‘Of course not,’ he said and, steeling himself, he added, ‘I can’t play football any more because I’d probably fall over all the time. I’ve got an artificial leg.’

      He heard the tap drip, heard the cloth as she dropped it back in the water. She stared at him, eyes shocked, looked down at his feet, back up at him, and hot colour flooded her face.

      ‘Oh, David—I didn’t—your father didn’t say anything—’

      ‘They don’t know.’

      Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, soapsuds and all, and her wide green eyes were filled with a million emotions. ‘Don’t—? Oh, David. Why not?’

      He shrugged. ‘My father had a heart attack just a few days after my accident. It didn’t seem like a good time to tell him how bad it was.’

      ‘So you’ve—what? Lied about it ever since?’

      ‘Pretty much. And not really lied. I told them I broke it, which was sort of true. It was certainly broken. It was only amputated last year. That’s why I don’t know much about Liz. I was in hospital when they got engaged, about to have the surgery.’

      She stared at him, then at his legs, then back up, eyes wide with horror. ‘How on earth will you tell them?’

      ‘I have no idea.’

      She dropped her hand, grabbed a towel and scrubbed the suds off her face, dried her hands and then picked up the cloth again and started squeezing it again furiously under the water as if she could squeeze away all the hurt and pain and injustice in the world.

      ‘Molly, it’s OK,’ he said softly. ‘It’s better than it was before.’

      ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘How can it possibly be better?’

      ‘Because it works now. I spent two years in and out of hospital with an external fixator and endless operations to repair my foot. They replaced part of my ankle joint, grafted blood vessels—but nothing worked and nothing took away the pain. So finally I gave in and had it amputated, and it was the best thing I’ve ever done. I can move on now—start living again.’

      She nodded, and he watched her throat bob as she swallowed. ‘So—when did this happen? And how?’

      ‘Nearly three years ago, in May. I got tangled up with a propeller—’

      She gasped, but he didn’t elaborate. He really didn’t want to go there. ‘Anyway, I’ve had ten months, which is a good long while to practise walking, but football—well, I don’t know, it’s one of several things I haven’t tried, but I can imagine it might be tricky, and I didn’t want to have to explain things to Charlie without you knowing first and okaying it.’

      She let go of the cloth and dried her hands, turning back to him, her eyes tormented. ‘I’m really sorry. I know that probably sounds empty and meaningless and I hate it when people say they’re sorry when they find out about Robert, but I really am sorry. I’ve heard so much about you, and all of it seems to revolve around you being active. So it must have been—must be—really hard.’

      He tried to smile. ‘It was. Being inactive nearly drove me crazy. But it’s better now. I can get about easily, and I can run if I’m careful and the ground’s flat, and I can swim and dive and drive my car, and apparently I can do gardening, and, best of all, it doesn’t hurt any more.’ Well, not so much, at least, and he could deal with his phantoms.

      Her eyes searched his, and she nodded and gave a faint smile. ‘Good.’

      ‘Just—’

      She tipped her head on one side questioningly. ‘Just…?’

      ‘Don’t tell them. My family. Please. Not before the wedding. I don’t want to put a damper on it.’

      She looked shocked. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s not my leg to talk about—and I won’t tell Charlie either, and I’d rather you didn’t yet. He’s good at secrets but I don’t think it’s healthy to expect youngsters to watch every word.’

      He nodded. ‘Sure. Thanks. I won’t. I’ll try and make sure he doesn’t suspect anything if you could just back me up when I have to let him down with things like the football.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Thanks.’ He scrubbed his hand round the back of his neck and kneaded the muscles briefly. He ached all over, and his stump was feeling tight in the socket. He really needed to get his leg off and lie down, and, if he was incredibly lucky, he might be able to sleep.

      ‘Look, I know it’s early,’ he said, ‘but I’m bushed. I’ve been on the go for thirty-six hours and I could really do with an early night. I think I’ll just turn in, if that’s OK.’

      A