SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Second Chance For Love

‘You could if you wanted to.’

She slanted him a resentful look from beneath her lashes. It was easy enough for him to say that—he’d probably never smoked. He didn’t look the sort of man who had ever suffered from a lack of will-power. ‘Yes, well…I’ll give them up some time,’ she promised vaguely. ‘But not just at the moment—they say you shouldn’t try to give up when you’re under stress.’

‘That’s the best time to do it,’ he persisted with ruthless insistence. ‘If you can cope without them now, you’ll be able to cope without them any time.’

Those stupid tears were stinging the backs of her eyes again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled thickly, and then, remembering that he had told her not to keep saying she was sorry, she apologised for that too. ‘I’m sorry.’

He laughed drily. ‘Eat your breakfast,’ he repeated, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Josey leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes. How had she ever let herself sink into such a mess, that she couldn’t start the day without a cigarette? It was no wonder that Tom treated her with such disdain.

Wearily she turned to the breakfast tray he had brought her. There was far more food than she could ever manage, even if she had been feeling more like her usual self. With a groan she realised that she wouldn’t be able to manage half of it—and Tom was going to be even more annoyed with her.

He had every right to be, of course—she had been nothing but a nuisance to him since she had all but smashed up his car last night. It would be better if she just took herself off to a hotel somewhere, out of his way. Holding that thought resolutely in her mind, she rolled herself painfully out of bed.

There was a small sink in the corner of the room, and she dragged herself over to it and had a sketchy wash, and then with some considerable difficulty got dressed. She had just finished, and was struggling one-handed to re-fasten her suitcase when Tom came back into the room.

‘What do you think you’re doing now?’ he demanded. ‘I told you not to try getting out of bed on your own—and you haven’t even touched your breakfast.’

‘I know—I’m sorry.’ Damn—he had told her not to keep saying that. ‘You’ve been very kind to me, and I’m very grateful, but I can’t trespass on your hospitality any longer. If I could just use your telephone, I’ll ring for a taxi, and find a hotel somewhere.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he rapped, his patience strained. ‘You’re as weak as a kitten. Get back into bed.’

‘No—I’m leaving,’ she insisted, though already just the effort of getting dressed and packing her bag had left her feeling exhausted. ‘I’m just a nuisance—you don’t want me here…’ Oh, damn—why did her voice have to waver so pathetically? She tried to pick up her suitcase, but it was loaded with bricks, and she slumped to her knees, tears of frustration stinging her eyes.

‘Get back into bed,’ he repeated, the sudden gentleness in his voice so unexpected that it made her sob harder. ‘You’re in no fit state to go anywhere today.’ His strong arms came around her, helping her to her feet, and he led her over to the bed, sitting down beside her, still holding her comfortingly close. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel so unwelcome.’ The taut note in his voice made her wonder just how rare it was for him to apologise. ‘I suppose I’m more used to four-legged patients than two-legged ones.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, her mind half-drugged by the evocative male muskiness of his skin. ‘I must be in your way. You’ve got work to do, and I’m taking up your time, running around after me, making my breakfast…’

‘Vi made your breakfast,’ he corrected her drily. ‘She couldn’t bring it up herself—she’s got a touch of arthritis, and can’t manage the stairs.’

‘Oh…’ She managed to stifle her tears, helped by a strong dose of curiosity. It didn’t seem very likely that this Vi was his wife, if she was old enough to suffer from arthritis. ‘Who’s Vi?’ she asked, trying to sound as if she had no more than a casual interest.

‘My housekeeper.’

‘Oh.’ She flickered him a cautious glance from beneath her lashes. ‘You’re…not married then?’

‘No.’

‘So…who was Maggie?’

‘Maggie?’ He looked faintly puzzled. ‘Oh, you mean Maggie Hunter? She’s the wife of a farmer over by Saltham Marsh. I was on my way to look at one of their cows when we—er—ran into each other.’

‘Oh…’ She could feel a faint blush of pink colouring her cheeks. Had she revealed a bit too much by asking such a pointed question?

He reached out and took the bowl of cereal from the tray, putting it into her hands. ‘Come on—just try and eat some of this,’ he coaxed. ‘You’ll feel a lot better with some good food inside you.’

She doubted it, but she made the effort just to please him—and rather to her surprise she was able to eat most of the contents of the bowl.

‘That’s better,’ he approved. ‘Don’t worry about the rest—maybe you’ll be able to eat a little more later.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now that you’re dressed, you might as well come downstairs and rest on the settee. I have to go out, but at least it’ll be a bit more interesting for you than being stuck up here with nothing to do.’

‘Thank you.’ She managed to smile, though it was rather a weak effort. ‘You’ve been very kind.’

He smiled back at her—and her heart flipped over. It was the first time she had seen him smile, and it was like the sun coming out, transforming his hard features at a stroke. ‘Some people would say that kindness isn’t my strong point,’ he remarked with an inflexion of sardonic humour. ‘At least as far as human beings are concerned.’

‘Oh, no,’ she protested a little breathlessly. ‘You’ve done so much for me.’

‘Yes, well…You don’t have to keep thanking me,’ he grated, that terseness back in his voice, as if he found her thanks even more irksome than her presence. ‘Come on, I’ll help you downstairs. Can you walk, or shall I carry you?’

‘Oh, no—I can walk.’ The thought of being scooped up in those strong arms again was enough to make her heart thud. Really, it was plain ridiculous, she scolded herself. She was reacting like a schoolgirl, not a sensible married woman of thirty-one. Just because he was so good-looking…

And he was. It was no use telling herself that it was simply the circumstances that were making her more than usually vulnerable. She had never even reacted to Colin like this. And the danger was that the powerful tug of physical attraction she was feeling was undermining her common sense, luring her into building all sorts of stupid romantic fantasies about him—especially now she knew that he wasn’t married.

But she must be very careful not to give herself away, she reminded herself firmly. He most certainly wouldn’t appreciate it.

The kitchen was the main room of the house. It had that old-fashioned country feel about it that interior designers were always trying to recreate, and never could. No one could reproduce the comfort of the huge sofa that she was lying on, with old Jethro curled up in the crook of her knees, nor capture the feeling of sunshine streaming through a window on to whitewashed brick walls.

Last night she hadn’t paid much attention to the location of the house, but it seemed to be in the middle of the village, and people were passing by outside all the time, calling to each other in greeting. Dogs barked occasionally; a rumbling farm tractor had gone past twice, the second time leaving a waft of rich country air in its wake; a couple of horses had clattered by; somewhere close to the window she could hear a bird singing.

Josey had wondered what Vi would think of a strange woman turning up in Tom’s house in the middle of the night, but that lady had been kindness itself. From the minute Josey had come downstairs she had fussed over her, making her comfortable with piles of soft cushions and bringing through some battered old magazines from the waiting-room of Tom’s surgery for her to read.

Before she had left, she had insisted on bringing her a cup of strong tea, and a thick wedge of moist dark fruit-cake, home-baked. It was years since she had eaten home-baked cake—her mother had always used to make cakes on Fridays for the weekend, and she had learned herself, but Colin never ate cake, and so it had never seemed worth bothering.

But this was delicious. Jethro lifted his head, sniffing hopefully at her hand, hinting that perhaps she might like to share her good fortune with a friend. She stroked his sleek head, laughing.

‘Are you allowed tit-bits like this?’ she asked him. ‘I’m not sure that cake’s very good for you.’ His liquid eyes—so like his master’s—gazed at her meltingly, and she could not be immune. ‘All right,’ she conceded, breaking off a small piece and holding it out for him. ‘But don’t tell.’

The telephone began to ring, but she ignored it. Vi had told her that the answering service would cut in, and after a moment it did. With a sigh she laid her head back on the cushions, and closed her eyes. Sooner or later she was going to have to ring Colin, an let him know about the accident, and where she wa . But not yet.

The clicking of the latch on the front door brought her awake as she was beginning to slide away into sleep again, and she lifted her head, expecting Tom. But Jethro clearly didn’t—there was no bark of welcome. He simply shifted his head, turning it away from the door in a manner of bored contempt.

The woman who appeared in the doorway was about the same age as Josey herself, a willowy blonde with the fine bone-structure and peaches-and-cream complexion of the English upper classes. Her white kid jodhpurs and leather riding-whip gave the same impression, and her voice had the cut-glass diction of the county set.

‘Oh…’ She regarded Josey with refined astonishment, rather as if she were something naughty the Labrador had done on the carpet. ‘I called to see Tom.’

That haughty manner made Josey’s hackles rise. ‘He’s out,’ she responded, deliberately unhelpful.

‘I see…’

Josey felt the sharp scrutiny of those ice-blue eyes, missing nothing, and sensed a hostility that was a little puzzling—unless this young madam regarded the local vet as her personal property, and resented the interloper. ‘Can I give him a message?’ she enquired, cuttingly polite.

‘Oh…No, it’s all right. I thought perhaps Zella had thrown a spavin, but it’s probably nothing. I’ll walk her home gently, and if that doesn’t do the trick I’ll call him out later.’

The smile was confident enough, but the voice held just a hint of uncertainty. It had clearly unsettled her to find another woman ensconced in Tom’s kitchen, apparently very much at home. And Jethro, bless him, decided at that moment to start licking Josey’s hand, as if to demonstrate a bond of deep affection.

‘Fine—I’ll tell him you called,’ she responded casually.

So who was that? she wondered as the door closed behind the visitor. A proper little lady of the manor—was she a regular girlfriend of Tom’s? But clearly, in spite of the impression she had tried to give, she wasn’t quite sure of him—and that gave Josey a kind of perverse satisfaction.

But of course it was all just a daydream. She would only be here for a few days—as soon as she was well enough, she would be leaving. Besides, he wasn’t remotely attracted to her anyway—he had made that more than clear.