Liz Fielding - His Little Girl

‘Would you? For how long?’

It was an odd question. ‘Until she can be returned to her mother of course. I’ll take her myself, if you like...’ She was sure he was wavering. ‘I won’t say anything to the police.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because there’s nothing to be gained from it.’ He was regarding her intently. ‘Because you’re Richard’s friend.’ She knew she was being silly, but right at that moment the child was more important than any amount of common sense. ‘Does it matter?’

Gannon stared at her strangely familiar face. He’d been running for days, ever since he had grabbed Sophie from the refugee camp. He was hurt, hungry, exhausted, and he’d broken into Richard’s cottage in a desperate need for somewhere to hide, somewhere to keep Sophie safe while he recouped his strength, sorted things out. And this woman was offering to help, although she didn’t know the first thing about him. More than that, she was looking at him as if her heart would break. Of course it mattered. It shouldn’t, but it did.

Or maybe he was so tired that he was just hearing and seeing what he longed for most. Trusting her just because she looked like the angel he needed right now would almost certainly be a mistake. ‘I won’t be taking her anywhere tonight,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll see how she is in the morning and then I’ll decide what to do next.’

‘She needs time, Gannon. A chance to recover.’

‘And these.’ He produced a small bottle of pills from his pocket.

‘What are they?’ Dora asked suspiciously.

‘Just antibiotics.’ He sat on the edge of the bed, coaxed the child half awake and persuaded her to swallow a capsule with a little of the milk. She was asleep again before her head hit the pillow. Then he turned and looked up at the girl standing beside him. ‘Will you help us, Pandora? Give us a little of your hope?’

The thing that most people remembered about the legend of Pandora was that her curiosity had let loose all the troubles of the world. He remembered that she had- given the world hope, too. How could she possibly turn him down?

Dora gave a little gasp, scarcely able to believe how easy it was to be suborned by a pair of warm eyes, by a smile that could break a girl’s heart without really trying.

‘You ask as if I have a choice,’ she replied, cross at such weakness. Yet she’d already sent the police away. She was already his accomplice, whether she was prepared to admit it or not. Then her glance flickered over the dishevelled appearance of her unwanted guest, the sunken cheeks in his exhausted face, and something inside her softened. She didn’t entirely believe him when he said this was not a tug-of-love case, but he must love his daughter, miss her desperately, to have been driven to such lengths.

‘You look as if you could do with a drink yourself,’ she said. ‘Something rather stronger than milk.’

He dragged his hand over his face in an unconscious gesture of weariness. ‘You’re right; it’s been one hell of a day. Thanks.’

‘It isn’t over yet.’ And she’d didn’t want his thanks. She just wanted him to do what was right. She crossed to the door, but for a moment John Gannon stayed where he was, a dark, slightly stooped presence, as he leaned over the bed to lift the quilt up over the little girl’s shoulders. It was an oddly touching scene, and Dora didn’t doubt that he loved the little girl. But she was even more certain that he wasn’t telling her the entire truth.

‘Shall we go downstairs, where we won’t disturb Sophie?’ Dora prompted. ‘Then you can tell me exactly what is going on.’

John Gannon watched the tall, fair-haired girl as she poured a large measure of brandy into a crystal glass. She was heart-stoppingly lovely. When she had stormed into the kitchen with Sophie in her arms, his heart had momentarily stopped. And it hadn’t just been because she’d startled him. He’d have felt the same jolt of excitement if he’d seen her from the far side of a crowded room, felt the same heat flooding through his veins. And it made him angry. He had been in too many tight corners to be distracted by a woman, no matter how lovely, when he needed all his wits about him.

But Gannon was angry with Richard, too. Good God, how could he? He liked the man, admired him, but at a guess Dora was scarcely into her twenties a new-born lamb to Richard’s wolf. The man who had once been his champion had become a cynical, hard-bitten misogynist, with one broken marriage behind him and no right...no right...

He almost laughed out loud at his own self righteous indignation. He wasn’t angry with Richard. He was just plain, old-fashioned jealous. His body was clamouring to take this girl and they were in the classic setting for seduction—alone in a cottage, deep in the most beautiful countryside. And honour dictated that he couldn’t make a move on her.

It was probably just as well, under the circumstances. He didn’t have the time for dalliance. Or the strength to spare. But it was a pity. This girl had far more than beauty to commend her. She had courage.

Faced with an intruder, anyone might have thrown hysterics, but she’d just been angry with him. Not for breaking in, for heaven’s sake, but for taking Sophie out on a wet night. As if he had had any choice.

He could use that kind of courage right now. But so far he hadn’t done a very good job of convincing her that he was the kind of man she would want to help. And Richard would never forgive him for involving his pretty new wife in something messy. Not that he was about to underestimate her. He thought Dora might just be the girl to give his kind of problems a run for their money.

Nevertheless, given half a chance to summon assistance, she would undoubtedly take it. And, with that thought uppermost in his mind, he walked across to the telephone and hunkered down to examine the socket. ‘How about that screwdriver?’ he asked, turning to her.

She was watching him, slate-dark eyes solemn. Then, without a word, she crossed the carpet on those pretty bare feet, the soft silk of the wrap, now tightly fastened about her, clinging to her legs as she walked. ‘It’s brandy,’ she said, as she handed him a glass.

He raised the glass, and raised his brows at the quantity of liquor. ‘Enough to lay me low for week,’ he said, finding it suddenly a great deal easier to concentrate on the pale amber liquid pooled in the bottom of the glass than meet her silent disapproval.

‘Then don’t drink it. I can assure you the last thing I want is for you to be here for an entire week.’ She looked at the socket. ‘Do you have to do that? I’m hardly likely to dial 999, am I? After all, I’ve already sent the police away.’

‘The police, yes. But I’m sure there’s someone else you’d like to call. I’ll reconnect it before I leave, I promise.’ Sooner. But she stood her ground. ‘It would be a lot easier just to pull it out of the wall, Dora. You decide.’

Having made her point that the telephone was important, she capitulated. ‘There’s a screwdriver in the kitchen.’

‘Then I suggest you fetch it.’ Quickly, before his ribs made the decision for them.

She turned abruptly, her robe stirring the air against his cheek as it swirled round, returning a moment later with a small screwdriver. Then she retreated to the fireplace, kneeling down in front of it so that her hair fell forward over her shoulder, a skein of honeyed silk in the light of a tall lamp that stood on the sideboard beside the drinks tray.

Damn, damn, damn. She was a complication he hadn’t bargained on. His life was already loaded with complications, and Richard’s empty cottage had seemed the perfect place to hole up while he sorted them out.

As he watched her, she reached for the poker. It was halfway out of the stand when his fingers tightened around her wrist. Startled, she turned to look up at him. ‘I’m going to make up the fire,’ she protested.

‘Are you?’ For a moment their eyes clashed, hers stormy grey and about as welcoming as the scudding thunderclouds that had blacked out the moon as he’d crossed the fields with Sophie whimpering in his arms.

‘What else? Laying you out with a poker isn’t going to improve things, is it?’ she said.

‘It would give you time to get help.’

‘Oh, right,’ she said, looking pointedly at the telephone. ‘And how do you suggest I do that? By telepathy?’

‘No. You would get in your car and drive away. You did say you had a car, didn’t you?’ Her wrist was slender, ridiculously slender, the bones delicate, fragile beneath his fingers, stirring the kind of longings that were madness even to contemplate. It had been a long time since he had been this close to a sweet-smelling woman.

He wanted to lower his mouth to the pulse he could feel racketing under the pale skin, taste it, press her palm against his cheek and pull her tight against him to ease the sudden, unexpected ache of longing.

Madness.

CHAPTER THREE

MADNESS. Even if she hadn’t been Richard Marriott’s wife.

As mad as believing that she could wield that great long poker in cold blood and strike him with it. Yet he still relieved her of it with his free hand, before releasing her wrist. Delicate it might be, but he’d been in too many tight spots to take the risk. That was how he’d survived for so long in a dangerous world.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

Dora didn’t bother to answer his question. Instead she rubbed at her wrist, as if to rid herself of his touch, and, thoroughly disgusted with himself and his thoughts, Gannon turned away from her dark, accusing eyes.

‘I’ll see to the fire,’ he said, stirring the ashes with the point of the poker so that the embers pulsed redly.

‘Man’s work, is it?’ she sneered at him. ‘And what am I supposed to do? Rush out to the kitchen and rustle you up some food?’

‘Thanks for offering, but, no, thanks.’ He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, and his stomach was practically sticking to his backbone, but he had his pride. His stomach, however, had heard the word food and audibly protested. He glanced at the girl beside him and ventured a smile. ‘I’m on a diet.’ She didn’t respond to this olive branch. Quite frankly, he didn’t blame her.

He threw some small pieces of stick that had been drying in the basket beside the hearth into the warm embers, and for a moment there was silence as they both watched the wood begin to smoke, then crackle into flame. He added more wood as this sudden application of heat reminded him just how cold he was. August in England. Log fires and thunderstorms. It figured.

Dora, still kneeling on the rug in front of the hearth, felt rather than heard the shiver run through him. She was still trying to reel in her senses, to recover from what she had seen in his eyes as he had grasped her wrist, to recover from an almost overwhelming urge to put her arms about him and hold him. Except she wouldn’t have just held him. What she had seen in his face needed a far deeper comfort than that. Yet she’d made no attempt to pull free, and if he hadn’t released her—

‘You’re wet,’ she said, and heard the tiny tremor in her voice.

Gannon turned back to look at her, looking just a moment too long before he switched his gaze to his legs. His jeans, wet to the knees, were beginning to steam in the heat. He’d missed the showers as he’d cut across country, but the grass had been soaking, and, although he’d abandoned his muddy shoes in the kitchen, his socks had left damp marks on the beautiful new carpet.

‘It’s been raining,’ he said, as if this was sufficient explanation. ‘Don’t worry about it; I’ll dry off in front of the fire.’