Rosemary Gibson - Last Chance Marriage

“No strings.” His eyes moved over her face. “No commitment.” “No strings.” His eyes moved over her face. “No commitment.” He didn’t have to keep spelling it out as if she were some dewy-eyed teenager. She hadn’t thought for one moment that he felt anything more for her than a transitory physical desire. “You haven’t slept with anyone since Simon, have you?” “That is none of your damn business!” Regardless of her response, he was the one who had instigated the kiss, not her. And he was the one who had drawn back first, a taunting little voice reminded her. “No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “Would you like your strawberries now?” He glanced over a broad shoulder. “I’ve some ice cream in the freezer.” “Give mine to the twins,” she said curtly. “What do you want me to do?” he said quietly, his eyes moving over her rigid face. “Apologize for kissing you?” “Don’t be so ridiculous.” “Or apologize for not taking you to bed?” “I don’t want a casual, meaningless affair with you, and I certainly don’t want anything more, if that’s what you’re so terrified of,” she said steadily, her eyes never wavering from his. “But I had hoped we might be friends. I was wrong,” she concluded simply, and started to walk toward the door. About the Author Rosemary Gibson was born in Egypt. She spent the early part of her childhood in Greece and Vietnam, and now lives in the New Forest. She has had numerous jobs, ranging from working with handicapped children and collecting litter, to being a gas-station attendant and airline ground hostess, but she has always wanted to be a writer. She was lucky enough to have her first short story accepted eight years ago and now writes full-time. She enjoys swimming, playing hockey, gardening and traveling. Title Page Last Chance Marriage Rosemary Gibson www.millsandboon.co.uk CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“No strings.” His eyes moved over her face. “No commitment.”

He didn’t have to keep spelling it out as if she were some dewy-eyed teenager. She hadn’t thought for one moment that he felt anything more for her than a transitory physical desire.

“You haven’t slept with anyone since Simon, have you?”

“That is none of your damn business!” Regardless of her response, he was the one who had instigated the kiss, not her. And he was the one who had drawn back first, a taunting little voice reminded her.

“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “Would you like your strawberries now?” He glanced over a broad shoulder. “I’ve some ice cream in the freezer.”

“Give mine to the twins,” she said curtly.

“What do you want me to do?” he said quietly, his eyes moving over her rigid face. “Apologize for kissing you?”

“Don’t be so ridiculous.”

“Or apologize for not taking you to bed?”

“I don’t want a casual, meaningless affair with you, and I certainly don’t want anything more, if that’s what you’re so terrified of,” she said steadily, her eyes never wavering from his. “But I had hoped we might be friends. I was wrong,” she concluded simply, and started to walk toward the door.

Rosemary Gibson was born in Egypt. She spent the early part of her childhood in Greece and Vietnam, and now lives in the New Forest. She has had numerous jobs, ranging from working with handicapped children and collecting litter, to being a gas-station attendant and airline ground hostess, but she has always wanted to be a writer. She was lucky enough to have her first short story accepted eight years ago and now writes full-time. She enjoys swimming, playing hockey, gardening and traveling.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

WEED or seedling? Trowel in her hand, Clemency crouched over the green shoots with thoughtful grey eyes. She’d scattered a packet of mixed annuals around about here in a fit of horticultural zeal last October, she recalled. Leave them alone and see what happens, she decided tranquilly, the spring sunshine glinting on her short copper curls multiplying the smattering of tiny freckles across her neat, straight nose. It was hotter than she’d realised. Dropping the trowel, she picked up the wide-brimmed sun hat that she’d discarded earlier and placed it firmly back on her head.

‘Dammit all, I moved down here to the country for some peace and quiet!’

Startled, Clemency rocked back on her heels and then realised that the deep, vehement male voice wasn’t addressing her, but issuing from the other side of the thick, high boundary hedge.

‘Peace!’ There was a loud, derisive snort. ‘I’ve been here barely one week and already every prying, interfering female in the village—no, the whole of Dorset—has been round...’

‘Now, stop exaggerating, Joshua, dear,’ a serene female voice broke in, adding musingly, ‘And I rather thought you moved here to be nearer to your father and I.’

‘Handing out advice, offering to babysit for the twins, suggesting I join this, that and the other club...’ There was the rhythmic sound of sawing.

‘They’re just being kind, dear. Welcoming you into the community.’

‘I have no desire to be part of the community, absolutely no desire to take up bell ringing, join the wine tasting circle, the gardening club or the local amateur dramatics association...’

Clemency raised her eyebrows, pushing the large sunglasses back on the bridge of her nose. The local societies would probably survive without him, she thought. Feeling a little uncomfortable eavesdropping, even though it wasn’t intentional, she tugged up a dandelion and rose to her feet, brushing off the mud from the knees of her jeans.

‘What’s your neighbour like?’ said the female voice.

Another disdainful snort. ‘Single. Chartered accountant. Works for a commercial bank in Poole.’

Clemency’s mouth curved as she tossed the dandelion into the bucket. The good old village grapevine.

‘No male in evidence. Compensates for her lack of social life by working long hours. Mid-twenties with her biological body clock beginning to start ticking.’

Well, really! Indignation and amusement warred for supremacy as Clemency picked up her trowel and bucket of weeds.

‘You’ve met her? That top branch looks dead too, dear.’

‘Not as such. She appeared on the doorstep yesterday morning with Jamie’s football. Why the hell she couldn’t have just tossed it back over the hedge...’

Clemency’s eyes sparked. Because she’d decided that it was about time she made some sort of welcoming gesture to her new neighbours, and also let them know that they were perfectly free to come and collect stray balls at any time.

‘I didn’t bother to answer the door and she left the ball on the front step.’

There was a little sigh. ‘You were always so polite as a boy, Joshua.’

‘And I saw her peeping at us from an upstairs window yesterday evening.’

She’d been closing her window, that was all, had done nothing more than glance into the next-door garden at the tall, dark-haired man playing cricket with two identical small boys. Pity that he’d chosen that precise minute to glance up. Clemency looked thoughtfully down at her trowel and decided regretfully that it might well miss the intended target.

‘Don’t you think you’re being a little arrogant, dear? Assuming every single woman has designs on you?’

Clemency’s eyes danced with repressed, delighted laughter.

‘It’s not me they have designs on. It’s the twins. I’m just part of the package.’ There was a fleeting note of self-mockery in the deep voice and then it hardened again. ‘The twins are not looking for a mother and I most certainly am not looking for a wife. This is an all-male household and that’s the way it intends staying.’

Clemency gave a muffled snort. What sane woman would want to infiltrate that household?

‘Yes, dear. When your father gets back from swimming with the twins, I should ask him to have a look at that wisdom tooth.’

‘Dad won’t want to go into his surgery on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll make an appointment with him for tomorrow.’

‘He was planning to go in anyway for a couple of hours to catch up on some paperwork, and you might be able to last out until tomorrow but I don’t know whether the rest of us can.’

There was a moment’s silence and then the stillness was broken by a rich, deep chuckle. ‘Have I been that impossible this morning?’

‘You haven’t exactly been suffering in silence,’ the gentle voice observed dryly, but the underlying affection was marked. ‘Shall I hold the ladder?’

Forewarned, Clemency had plenty of time to beat a hasty retreat, but refused to be driven out of her own garden and glanced up with a sunny smile as a dark head and wide, powerful shoulders appeared in her line of vision through the branches of the huge ash tree.

‘Hello,’ she began cheerfully, and stopped, her breath catching in her throat, the hairs stiffening on the back of her neck as she absorbed the hard, chiselled male features.

It couldn’t be him.

Slowly she expelled her breath, berating herself for her idiocy. Even after all these years, she thought wryly, the sudden glimpse of a well-shaped head, of a square, tenacious chin, a certain inflection in a deep male voice could still catch her completely off-guard, could still make some part of her leap in half-remembered recognition.

But of course this man wasn’t him. That other man belonged to the past, and she’d known that night they’d parted that she would never see him again.

Her eyes jerked upwards again. There was a slight facial resemblance, that was all, she convinced herself uneasily, but this man looked tougher, more formidable. His face could have been carved out of granite, gave nothing away, the hard, unyielding contours etched by a world-weary cynicism.

‘Clemency Adams,’ she introduced herself swiftly. Mid-thirties, she judged. It couldn’t be him, she denied again. It was impossible. He could not be her new neighbour. She wasn’t even sure how clear her recollection of him was any more, anyway. The image of the dark face still haunted her sleep sometimes but, when she woke with that inexplicable aching sense of loss, the image had blurred. Their time together had been so fleeting.

If he’d noticed her momentary agitation, he gave no indication of it, the blue eyes showing no more than idle curiosity as they swept speculatively down the length of her slight frame from the top of her sun hat, over the baggy pink T-shirt, to her sandalled feet with a dismissive assurance that made her stiffen with inexplicable resentment. He wasn’t sure whether she’d heard or not. Didn’t much care if she had.

‘Joshua Harrington,’ he returned crisply, the straight mouth unsmiling. The bare arms revealed by the short-sleeved blue shirt were as tanned as the strong, lean fingers holding the saw.

‘How are you settling in?’ she enquired blithely, her heart giving an uncomfortable thud. So that was his name. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy village life, being part of such a small, friendly, close-knit community.’

The corners of the firm mouth quirked, the unexpected smile transforming the harsh, forbidding face so dramatically that Clemency’s stomach turned an involuntary somersault, the terrible, unwelcome sense of familiarity gripping her again, this time leaving her in no doubt—it was him.