Книга - The Pregnant Tycoon

The Pregnant Tycoon
Caroline Anderson


Rich and successful, Izzy Brooke has everything–except love. Determined to change her life, she is reunited with single dad Will Thompson, the boyfriend she had as a teenager.And she's just discovered she's going to be a mom! Sick of corporate life, she realizes it's the life change she's been wanting. Only, then she discovers secrets about Will's past, which they must confront before they can embrace the future–as parents…and as a couple…









He hasn’t changed, she thought, then shook her head slowly. No, he has changed, but he’s still—Will. My Will.


No.

Yes!

Stop it. Never mind that, look at him. Look at the changes. He’s bigger—taller, older.

His eyes look tired. Beautiful, still staggeringly beautiful, but tired.

Why so tired?

She wanted to cry, to laugh, to hug him—and because she could do none of them, she retreated, through a door she found conveniently placed behind her, and fled into the sanctuary of another hallway.

She needed time—time to think. Time to get her ducks in a row and her heart back under control before she said or did something stupid.

Oh, Lord. Will….


What happens when you suddenly discover your happy twosome is about to be turned into a…family?

Do you panic?

Do you laugh?

Do you cry?

Or…do you get married?

The answer is all of the above—and plenty more!

Share the laughter and the tears as these unsuspecting couples are plunged into parenthood! Whether it’s a baby on the way or the creation of a brand-new instant family, these men and women have no choice but to be






When parenthood takes you by surprise!

The Baby Proposal

by Rebecca Winters

HR # 3808




The Pregnant Tycoon

Caroline Anderson












www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#uc115cb05-1b19-5893-8f39-afca7cccde1e)

CHAPTER TWO (#u8a660e80-4aaa-5d96-a12d-11519cbde61a)

CHAPTER THREE (#ua9430a09-fc40-55be-bad3-57a0dded56c6)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


HAPPY Birthday, Izzy. The big three-O. Terrific.

Izzy felt her smile slipping and yanked it back with effort. Any minute now her face would start to crack. For what felt like hours she’d laughed at the witty in-jokes, picked at the delicate and hideously expensive canapés and now she’d had enough. If she didn’t get out of here in the next five minutes, she was going to scream.

Loudly.

It was her thirtieth birthday, and she was at a party. Not her party, though, although it was in a way her celebration. No, this was a party to celebrate the phenomenally successful flotation on the stock market of yet another company she’d rescued from certain death.

Been there, done that, she thought tiredly, but everyone was on a high, and only a real party-pooper wouldn’t want to celebrate with their friends.

Friends? She gave a quiet, slightly despairing little laugh. Apart from Kate, she hadn’t known any of them for more than a year at the most. Were they really friends? Or were they only there because of who and what she was?

And who was she? She knew what she was, and if she ever lost sight of it, the press would lose no time in reminding her with one of the selection of nicknames they thought so amusing.

The Stripper, The Assassin—Godzilla was the latest in a long line. And all because she went in where angels feared to tread, and restructured ailing companies, turning them around and pointing them in the right direction. And, of course, because she was a woman, and because she was so young, she’d attracted a lot of attention in doing it.

More, really, than was warranted. Plenty of people did what she did, but not many, she was forced to admit, with such startling results. She’d been lucky—very lucky. Her instincts had only let her down once, and the press had loved it.

But not this time. This time it had been another runaway success, and she knew she’d never need to work again.

She would, of course, simply because if she didn’t work, then what would she do with her life? Without work, it was empty.

Barren.

Nonsense, she told herself. You’ve got a great apartment overlooking the river near Canary Wharf, a fantastic assistant in Kate, you can have anything you want—except privacy.

That was the penalty. She had more appearances in the society rags than the average royal, every date she went on was turned into a full-blown affair—which was a joke, because most men were so terrified of her they’d run screaming before they got to her bedroom door—and she was standing there surrounded by people who didn’t even know her.

Heavens, I don’t know me. Where are my real friends? Do I have any?

‘Excuse me,’ she murmured with a vague smile, and headed for the ladies’ loo. A few minutes alone—

‘You OK?’

She glanced at Kate, her right-hand-woman—and the closest thing she had to a real friend—and dredged up a smile. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Great party. They’re a super bunch—I’ll miss them. Still, there’s always the next lot.’

She fell into step beside Izzy, going with her into the cloakroom, chatting to her over the top of the cubicles so even that moment of respite was denied her.

She was wondering where on earth she could go to be alone when Kate erupted out of the cubicle and joined her at the washbasins. ‘So, how’s the birthday going? I remember being thirty. Shattering. I went on the internet—that website for contacting old schoolfriends and so on. Found out what they were all doing. Weird.’

She chattered on, telling some involved story about a couple who’d rediscovered each other through the internet, but Izzy wasn’t listening any more. Her attention had been caught by the words ‘old schoolfriends’, and she was miles away. Light years.

Twelve, to be exact, up in Suffolk in the long, glorious summer between leaving school and going off to uni, camping by the river in a field owned by Will’s parents, all of them laughing and telling jokes and chasing each other around in the long, sweet grass, full of the joys and without a care in the world.

Where were they all now?

Rob and Emma and Julia and Sam and Lucy—and Will. Her heart lurched. Where was Will?

He’d kissed her there, down by the river in the shelter of the willows. That had been their first kiss—the first of many that blissful summer, and a prelude to more than kisses. Much, much more than kisses, she remembered with a pang of longing.

And then she’d gone to university, driven by the need to get on with her life, and he’d gone away with Julia and Rob and Emma, travelling around the world, and come back at the end of the year with news that had shattered her dreams. Her friend Julia, with whom she’d shared everything—including, apparently, Will—was pregnant with his child, and he loved her and wanted to marry her.

Her world had fallen apart that day. She’d spent the next few years reconstructing it brick by brick, until the wall she was hiding behind was so high nothing and no one could get over it. She hadn’t seen him since.

Where was he now? What was he doing? Was he still with Julia? And the child—a girl or a boy? Had there been others? Little dark-haired boys and girls with his quick wit and sparkling eyes, and a smile that left her breathless…

A familiar ache of longing settled in her chest, and she dragged in a deep breath and forced her eyes to focus.

Her reflection stared back at her solemnly and did nothing to improve her humour. Mouse-brown hair, curly on a good day and like wire wool in the rain, relieved by a few delicate highlights to give it a bit of lift and stop it looking like an old pan scourer, topped a face set with dull grey-green eyes splodged with brown. A kind person would call them hazel. Her mother called them muddy. Small, even features did nothing to draw attention to her, but at least she supposed she wasn’t actively ugly, and her smile, when she could be bothered to produce it, was OK.

She practised it fleetingly, and scowled. OK? Just barely.

‘All done?’

Her eyes swung across to meet Kate’s in the mirror and she summoned that elusive and barely OK smile. ‘Yes, I’m all done. Let’s go back to the party.’

Steve was waiting for her—suave, sophisticated, and relentless—and for some reason totally unable to light her fire.

Not that he was alone. Nothing and no one seemed to light her fire these days, either personally or professionally. She’d lost interest in everything, and she was filled with a strange restlessness that made her snappy and short-tempered.

‘I thought you’d deserted me, Isabella,’ he said with a smile that made her skin crawl.

She gave a brief, humourless laugh. ‘No such luck,’ she said, and he gave her a rather peculiar look, as if he couldn’t quite work out if it was an insult or not. Her head was starting to ache, and she knew it would be at least another two hours before she could get out of there.

‘Are you OK, Bella?’ he asked her, apparently genuine concern showing now on his smooth, rather characterless face. He was probably just looking for an excuse to take her home, she reasoned, but repelling his advances yet again was absolutely the last thing she needed. Knowing her luck there’d be a photographer lurking, anyway, and she didn’t believe in the old maxim that there was no such thing as bad publicity.

There was, and she’d had enough of it to last her a lifetime. A single glimpse of her on the arm of the very recently divorced CEO would be enough to put another notch on the imaginary bedpost that the gutter press had dreamed up out of thin air, and there was no way she was adding any more fuel to that particular fire.

‘Just a bit of a headache,’ she said, digging out that smile again. ‘I’ll be fine—and don’t call me Bella. You know it’s not my name.’

He laughed, quite unmoved by her reprimand. He seemed unmoved by most things, she thought, and not for the first time she wondered what made him tick. Money, probably—lots of it, and preferably somebody else’s. Still, he wouldn’t need to worry about that now, not since her makeover of his company. She’d made him rich beyond his wildest dreams, and women would be all over him like flies on a muck heap.

He trailed a finger up her bare arm, pausing thoughtfully at her shoulder before slipping his fingertip under her strap and toying with it absently. ‘We ought to get together, you know, Isabel,’ he murmured, getting her name right for once. ‘How about Friday evening? We could do dinner—somewhere quiet.’

‘Quiet sounds good,’ Izzy muttered under her breath, not really referring to his suggestion, but he pounced on it like a terrier with a rat, and she couldn’t be bothered to argue. Before she could draw breath he’d arranged the venue, the time and told her what to wear. If she hadn’t had such a headache coming on, she would have told him what he could do with his quiet night. As it was she just stifled a sigh and nodded.

She persevered until midnight, then, excusing herself, she took a taxi home and let herself into her cool, tranquil apartment with a sigh of relief. This was quiet. This was what she needed.

She heeled off her shoes, padded over to the kitchen and filled a glass with iced water from the cooler in the fridge door, then dropped gratefully into the corner of the comfortable sofa, her feet tucked up underneath her on the butter-soft leather as she stared blindly out over the city skyline.

Lights twinkled, millions of them. All those people out there busily getting on with their lives, she thought, the clubs and bars in this thriving corner of the capital throbbing with life. It was still early by their standards, merely the beginning of the night. Even the thought exhausted her.

She rubbed her temples, pulling out the pins that held her unwilling hair in place. It sprang free, a wild tangle of curls tumbling down over her shoulders, and instantly her headache eased. She sighed and dropped her head back against the soft cushion of the sofa and closed her eyes.

She wanted to open the window, to slide back the big glass pane and step out onto the roof garden, but all she would hear would be the honking traffic and the sirens, the sounds of the city by night.

It would be quiet in the country, she thought, the only sounds the rustlings and cries of the animals. Perhaps quiet wasn’t the word. She thought again of their campsite by the river all those years ago, the astonishing sounds of the countryside at night, and she had a fierce longing to return, to hear the sounds again.

Kate’s words came back to her, piquing her curiosity, and she got up and went over to her computer.

With a few keystrokes she connected to the internet, and within minutes she’d registered with the website Kate had talked about and was scanning a list of once-familiar names.

Rob’s name sprang out, and she clicked on the envelope beside it to read his message. It was so much like him that she could almost hear his voice. He was a solicitor now, married to Emma, they had three children, and they still lived in the village.

How incredible, after all this time, that they were still there in the same place. She felt a little stab of something that could have been envy, but crushed it ruthlessly. What was she thinking about? She had a fantastic life—success, wealth beyond her wildest expectations, a full and hectic schedule.

What more could she possibly want?

Will.

She ignored the curiously painful thought, dismissing it before it took hold. She’d e-mail Rob, and ask him how everyone was. Without stopping to think too much, she wrote a quick e-mail and then as an afterthought included her telephone number.

Maybe he’d ring and they could have a chat.

‘Michael, I’m not telling you again, do your homework or that GameBoy’s going in the bin. Rebecca? Beccy, where are you? Your stuff’s scattered about all over the place.’

She wandered in, her mouth formed in a sulky pout around her thumb, and with ill grace she shovelled her books back into her school bag and flounced off again.

Will sighed and rammed a hand through his hair. He had the accounts to do, another endless round of forms to fill in for yet another set of regulations—and when he’d finished that, he’d have the ewes to check—again. Still, at least it was warm now. Lambing in April, even if it was by accident, knocked spots off lambing in February.

The phone rang, freeing him from the paperwork he hated, and he scooped up the receiver almost gratefully.

‘Hello, Valley Farm.’

‘Will—it’s Rob. Just making sure that you haven’t forgotten the party.’

His heart sank, the gratitude evaporating. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ he lied. ‘When is it?’

‘Friday—seven-thirty onwards, at the house. You are coming, aren’t you? Emma will give me such hell if you don’t.’

And him too, no doubt. ‘I’ll try,’ he promised evasively. ‘I might be able to get away for an hour or so, but I’m still lambing, so don’t rely on me.’ He didn’t need anyone else relying on him. He felt as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders as it was, and the party was just one more thing he had to do out of duty.

‘Stuff the lambs.’

‘With garlic and rosemary?’

‘Smartass. Just be there,’ Rob said firmly, and the dial tone sounded in his ear.

He dropped the receiver back into the cradle and scowled at it. If it was anybody else, any way on God’s earth he could get out of it, he’d do exactly that. He couldn’t, though. It was Rob and Emma, their tenth wedding anniversary and thirtieth birthday joint celebration, and he had no choice.

That didn’t mean, however, that he had to enjoy it or stay longer than was strictly necessary!

Two hours, tops, he promised himself. And duty done, honour satisfied, he’d be able to come home and—

And what? Sit here in the empty house on his own and stare morosely at the four walls? Go alone to his big, empty bed and lie staring at the ceiling, equally morosely, until sleep claimed him?

He snorted. He could always tackle some of the endless paperwork that dogged his life and drove him to distraction. God knows, there was enough of it.

Shooting back his chair, he went through to the kitchen, noting almost absently that Michael was now doing his homework, albeit in front of the television, and Rebecca was curled in the big chair with the dog squeezed up beside her and a cat on her lap, her eyes wilting.

‘I’m just going outside to check the sheep,’ he told them, hooking his elderly jacket off the back of the door and stuffing his feet into his muddy Wellington boots. ‘Beccy, bed in twenty minutes. Michael, you’ve got one hour.’

He went out into the cold, quiet night and made his way across to the barns. There were warm sleepy noises coming from the animals, soft bleats and shufflings in the straw, and he could hear the horses moving on the other side of the partition that divided the barn.

He did a quick check of the lambs, made sure none of the ewes was in trouble, then, satisfied that all was quiet, he cast an eye over the other stock: the chickens and ducks all shut up for the night, the house cow and the few beef calves out in the pasture behind the house. Then he checked the horses that were not his but were there on a DIY livery. He always included them in his late-night check, just to be sure they had water and none of them had rolled and got themselves cast, stuck firmly up against the side wall and unable to stand up again.

All was well, though, and with his arms folded on the top of the gate he paused for a moment, drinking in the quiet night.

A fox called, and in the distance he could hear a dog barking. Owls hooted to each other, and the pale, ghostly shape of a barn owl drifted past on the night air, on the lookout for an unwary mouse.

Vaulting over the gate, he left the stockyard and walked round to the old farmyard on the other side of the house, looking round at all the changes that had been made in the last few years.

The old timber cowshed and feed store had been turned into a thriving farm shop and café, selling a range of wonderful mainly organic foods, many of them cooked by his mother. She ran that side of the enterprise, while his father supervised the timber side of the business, the garden furniture and wooden toys and willow fencing which were now manufactured on-site in the old milking parlour.

Diversify, they’d been told, and so they had. Instead of boggy, indifferent grazing down by the river, only usable in the height of the summer, they now grew coppiced willow, cutting it down to the ground every winter and harvesting the supple young shoots while they were dormant. They were used to make environmentally friendly and renewable screens and hurdle-style fencing panels, now hugely popular, and all sorts of other things, many to special order.

He still grew crops on the majority of the farm, of course, but it was going organic, a long process full of bureaucracy and hoops of red tape that he had to jump through in order to satisfy the stringent requirements of the food industry, and then there were the sheep. In a few weeks, when the lambs were a bit tougher, he’d move them down to the saltmarsh pasture on the old Jenks’ farm, because organic saltmarsh lamb fetched a huge premium in the specialist restaurant market.

Buying up the farm from Mrs Jenks had been a major investment at a time when they couldn’t really afford it, but it had been a one-off opportunity and there had been no choice. It had spread their resources even further, however, and made more work, and it would be years before they got a return.

Small wonder, he thought, that he was tired all the time. Still, the farm was thriving again, their futures were secure, and that was all he asked.

With one last glance round to make sure that nothing had been overlooked, he went back inside. There was a little scurry and he saw the tail-end of his daughter disappearing through the doorway. He suppressed a smile and laid a friendly hand on Michael’s shoulder.

‘How’re you doing, sport?’

‘OK, I suppose. Just got my French to do now.’

Will chuckled ruefully. ‘Not my strong point, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask your grandmother if you get stuck.’

He put the kettle on, and went upstairs to check on Rebecca. She was already in bed, with very little sign of having washed her face or cleaned her teeth, and he chivvied her through the bathroom and then tucked her up in bed.

‘Read me a story,’ she pleaded, and although he was exhausted, he picked up the book from beside her bed, settled down next to her with his back propped against the headboard and his arm around her shoulders, and started to read.

‘Dad?’

Will sucked in a deep breath and forced his eyes open. ‘Michael? What time is it?’

‘Nearly ten. You’ve been here for ages.’

Will glanced down at Rebecca, snuggled against his chest fast asleep, and gently eased his arm out from behind her and settled her down onto the pillow. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, getting to his feet. ‘I just sat down to read her a story—I must have dropped off.’

‘You look knackered,’ his son said, eyeing him worriedly. ‘You work too hard these days.’

Will ruffled his hair affectionately and gave him a brief hug. ‘I’ll live,’ he said, and wondered if it was only to his own ears that it sounded like a vow.

‘Good grief. Emma?’ Rob pushed his chair back from the computer and turned towards the study door as his wife came in.

She propped herself against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest, and tipped her head on one side. ‘What is it?’ she asked him. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

He gave a shaky chuckle. ‘Well—in a way. It’s Isabel Brooke. She’s sent me an e-mail. She wants to get in touch. I’ve got her phone number—shall we ring her?’

Emma shrugged away from the doorframe and came and stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder, peering at the screen. ‘Well. Wow—the famous Isabel Brooke! You could always ask her to the party.’

Rob gave a startled cough of laughter. ‘You have to be joking! Why on earth would she want to come up here to our boring, pedestrian, provincial party?’

Emma slapped him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Hey! This is our party. It’s going to be the best party this county has seen in a long while. Boring and provincial, my foot. Anyway, she might like it.’

Rob chuckled again. ‘I stand by to be amazed. So, shall I ask her?’

Emma shrugged slightly. ‘Why not? She’ll either say yes or no.’

‘Sometimes, my darling, you are so profound.’ Rob stood and wrapped his arms around his wife. ‘It’s too late tonight. I’ll ring her tomorrow. Just now, I have better things to do…’

‘Isabel? There’s a call for you—somebody called Rob. I told him you were in a meeting, but he said it couldn’t wait.’

Kate was hovering, her head stuck round the meeting room door, waiting for her answer. Izzy frowned and rubbed the little crease between her brows with a small, blunt fingertip. ‘Kate, I really don’t have time for—’ She hesitated, a thought occurring to her. ‘Did he give a surname?’

Kate shook her head. ‘He just said you go way back.’

Izzy smiled apologetically at the people gathered around the table. ‘Would you excuse me?’ she murmured. ‘I won’t be a moment. Kate, could you be a love and see if anyone needs more coffee?’

She went out into her office and picked up the phone. ‘Isabel Brooke,’ she said, curiosity vying with wariness.

‘I was beginning to think you weren’t serious about getting back in touch with us—or were you just making me cool my heels so I know my place?’ the familiar voice said laughingly, and Izzy felt her mouth kick up in a smile.

‘And hello yourself,’ she said, settling down in her chair with her feet propped on the edge of her desk, crossed at the ankles. A smile played at the corners of her mouth. She picked a little bit of fluff off her trousers and smoothed the fabric absently. ‘I’m sorry, I really was in a meeting, and I’d said no calls. I didn’t realise I’d given you my office number.’

‘You didn’t, but I didn’t want to leave it too late, so I got my secretary to do a bit of sleuthing. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Great. How are you? And Emma? Three kids now! I’m impressed.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t be. They were the easy bit. We’re all fine—really good, but nothing like as spectacular as you! Talk about a meteoric rise in the world.’

Izzy shrugged, then realised he couldn’t see her. ‘It’s only money,’ she said dismissively, realising that it was true. What was her success when measured against Rob and Emma’s happiness and the birth of their three children? She swallowed a lump of what had to be self-pity, and put her feet back on the floor.

‘Look, Rob, I really am rather tied up this morning, but I’d love to see you all. Is there any way we can meet up?’

‘Actually, that’s why I’m phoning you. Emma and I are having a party to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary and our thirtieth birthdays, and we want you to come. The trouble is, it’s tomorrow night. Not very much notice, I’m afraid, and I expect you’re so busy you won’t be able to make it, but loads of us will be there and it would be really great to see you.’

Something big and awkward was swelling in her chest, making it hard for her to breathe, and there was a silly smile plastered to her face that she couldn’t seem to shift.

‘That would be fantastic. Of course I’ll come—I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll hand you back to my secretary and you can give her all the details, and I’ll see you on Friday. Thanks, Rob.’

She spoke briefly to Kate and asked her to get all the relevant information from Rob and book her a hotel room nearby, and then, ruthlessly suppressing a twinge of guilt, she also asked her to contact Steve and cancel the dinner engagement he’d talked her into at her party. Then, forcing herself to concentrate, she went back into the meeting and smiled brightly at the assembled company.

‘Sorry about that, everybody. Now, where were we?’

Izzy was a mass of nerves. It was quite ridiculous. She did very much more scary things than this every day of her life, and yet, for some reason, this whole event had taken on the most enormous significance.

Because of Will? What if he was there? And Julia? Oh, Lord.

She checked the address and eyed the house warily, reluctant to go in there yet. Twelve years was a long time, and a lot had happened. Too much? They always said you should never go back, but maybe it was time. Maybe this was just what she needed to get closure.

She checked her appearance one last time in the little rearview mirror of her car, and then with a mental shrug she abandoned any further prevarication, got out of the car and strode purposefully towards the open front door, the flowers she’d brought clutched just a little tightly in her hand.

As she drew nearer she could hear the sounds of a party in full swing—loud voices, shouts of laughter, the insistent rhythm of music that invaded her blood. It would be pointless to ring the doorbell, she realised, and so, her heart pounding in time to the beat, she walked down the hall and through the open door at the end, a smile plastered to her face.

For a moment no one noticed her, then a sudden silence fell, and everyone seemed to turn towards her. Her smile was slipping, brittle, and she stared at the room full of strangers and wondered what on earth she was doing there.

Then a man detached himself from the crowd, shorter than she remembered, his body more solid, his hair thinner, but the sparkling green eyes and the smile that encompassed the world were just the same, and he strode towards her, arms outstretched.

‘Izzy!’

‘Rob,’ she said with relief, and went into his arms with a sense of homecoming that took her by surprise.

He released her, holding her at arm’s length and studying her, then dragging her back into his arms for another bear hug. ‘Emma!’ he called. ‘Look who it is!’

Emma hadn’t changed at all. She was still the friendly, lovely girl she’d always been, and she hugged Izzy, took the flowers with an exclamation of delight and dragged her off to meet all the others.

Well, most of them. There was no sign of Will, and Izzy suppressed the strange sense of disappointment that prickled at her. She’d had no reason to suppose he would be there, so it was ludicrous to feel so bereft at his absence.

Anyway, if he’d been there, Julia would have been, as well, and she wasn’t sure that she was ready to meet her again, even all those years later.

And then there was another sudden silence, and her eyes were drawn to the doorway.

A man filled it, his dark hair untidy and rumpled as if he’d just combed it with his fingers, although they were now rammed firmly in his pockets. He looked awkward and uncomfortable, ready for flight, but before he had the chance to make his escape the spell broke and the crowd surged round him, wrapping him in a welcome as warm as it was inescapable.

And then he looked up across the crowded room and met her eyes, and her heart jammed in her throat.

Dear God, after all these years. He hasn’t changed, she thought, then shook her head slowly. No, he has changed, but he’s still—Will. My Will.

No.

Yes!

Stop it. Never mind that. Look at him. Look at the changes. He’s bigger—taller, heavier, older. His eyes look tired. Beautiful, still staggeringly beautiful, but tired.

Why so tired?

She wanted to cry, to laugh, to hug him—and because she could do none of them, she retreated, through a door she found conveniently placed behind her, and fled into the sanctuary of another hallway.

She needed time—time to think. Time to get her ducks in a row and her heart back under control before she said or did something stupid.

Oh, Lord. Will…




CHAPTER TWO


WILL was stunned. He wouldn’t have imagined in a million years that Izzy would be here. Of all the places, all the ways he’d imagined meeting her again, this hadn’t even been on the list. Somebody was pressing a drink into his hand, somebody else was slapping him on the back, saying how good it was to see him again, but all he could think about was Izzy.

His Izzy.

No. Not now. Not any more. Not for years—not since he’d betrayed her trust—

Hell, why hadn’t Rob warned him? Would he still have come?

Fool. Of course he would have come. Wild horses wouldn’t have kept him away. He needed to speak to her, but first he had to greet all these people who were so pleased to see him—good people who’d supported them through the nightmare of the last few years. So he smiled and laughed and made what he hoped were sensible remarks, and when he looked up again, she was gone.

Inexplicably, panic filled him. ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, and, squeezing his way through the crowd, he went through the doorway at the back of the room that led out to the side hall. It had been the door nearest to her, and the most likely one for her to have used to make her escape, but he couldn’t let her go until he’d spoken to her. He was suddenly afraid that she would have slipped out and gone away, that he wouldn’t have a chance to speak to her, and he had to speak to her.

There was so much to say—

She hadn’t gone anywhere. She was standing in the side hall looking lost, absently shredding a leaf on the plant beside her, her fabled composure scattered to the four winds. The powerful, dynamic woman of the glossy society magazines was nowhere to be seen, and in her face was an extraordinary and humbling vulnerability. His panic evaporated.

‘Hello, Izzy,’ he said softly. ‘Long time no see.’

Her smile wavered and then firmed with a visible effort. ‘Hello, Will,’ she replied, and her voice was just as warm and mellow and gentle as he’d remembered. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Still farming.’ He ran his eyes over her elegant and sophisticated evening trousers and pretty little spangled top, and his gut tightened. ‘You’re looking as beautiful as ever—not the least bit like an assassin.’

‘Still the old sweet talker, then,’ she murmured, her lips kicking up in a smile that nearly took his legs out from under him. ‘Anyway, I’m surprised you remember. It’s been a long time—twelve years.’

‘Eleven since I saw you last—but I’ve got the newspapers and the glossies to remind me, lest I should forget,’ he told her, trying to keep his voice light and his hands to himself.

She rolled her eyes expressively, and a chuckle managed to find its way out of the constricted remains of his throat.

‘So—how’s Julia?’ she asked, and he felt his smile fade. Oh, hell. There was no easy way to do this.

‘She’s dead, Izzy,’ he said gently. ‘She’s been dead a little over two years. She had cancer.’

Even though his words were softly spoken, he felt their impact on her like a physical blow. Her eyes widened, her mouth opening in a little cry as her hand flew up to cover it. ‘Will, no—I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Oh, Will—’

If he’d had any sense he would have kept his distance, but he couldn’t. She looked so forlorn, so grief-stricken. He took one step towards her, and she covered the ground between them so fast he barely had time to open his arms. She hit his chest with a thud, her arms wrapping tightly round him in a gesture of comfort that was so typically Izzy it took his breath away.

Dear God, he thought wildly. She felt the same—she even smelt the same. It was almost as if the last twelve years had never happened—his marriage to Julia, the two children, her slow, lingering death, the long fight back to normality—all that swept away with just one touch.

Her body trembled in his arms, and he tightened them reflexively around her. ‘Shh—it’s all right,’ he murmured softly, and gradually her trembling body steadied and she eased away from him. Reluctantly, yet knowing it was common sense, he let her go and stepped back.

Her hand came up and caught a tendril of hair, tucking it back behind her ear, and her smile was sad. ‘I’m sorry. I really had no idea, Will. It must have been dreadful for you all. Why didn’t Rob tell me? I can’t believe it—I’m so sorry I brought it up like that, spoiling the party.’

He laughed, a rough, scratchy sound even to his ears, and met her anguished eyes with a smile. ‘You haven’t spoilt the party. I hate parties anyway, and besides, mentioning Julia doesn’t change anything. We talk about her all the time. Her death is just a fact of life.’

He wanted to talk to her, to share the huge number of things that had happened for both of them in that time, but people were coming through the hall, heading for the cloakroom or the kitchen, and they all paused for a chat.

He felt the evening ebbing away, and panic rose again in his chest. He couldn’t let her go again without talking to her, properly, without constant interruptions. There was so much to say—too much, and most of it best left unsaid, but still—

‘Look, it would be really nice to catch up with you—I don’t suppose you’ve got any time tomorrow, have you?’ he suggested, wondering as he said the words whether he himself could find any time in the middle of what was bound to be a ridiculously hectic schedule.

‘I’m staying at the White Hart for the night,’ she said. ‘I was going to head back some time tomorrow, but I don’t have any definite plans. What did you have in mind?’

He crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped his father could help out with the children. ‘Come for lunch,’ he suggested. ‘You’ll know how to find the farmhouse—it hasn’t moved.’

His smile was wry, and she answered with a soft laugh. ‘That would be lovely. I’ll look forward to it.’

They fell silent, the sounds of the party scarcely able to intrude on the tension between them, but then the door opened behind him yet again and Rob came out, punching him lightly on the arm.

‘Here you both are! Come and circulate—you can’t hog each other, it’s not on. Everyone wants to talk to you both.’

And without ceremony he dragged them back into the party and forced them to mingle. They were separated from each other within moments, and when Will’s phone rang to call him back to a difficult lambing, she was nowhere to be found. Still, he’d see her in the morning.

He shrugged his coat on, said goodbye to Rob and Emma and went back to the farm. It was only later, as he crawled into bed at three o’clock with the lambs safely delivered, that he realised they hadn’t discussed a time.

Izzy pulled up outside the farmhouse and stared around her in astonishment.

Well, it was certainly different! The house looked pretty much the same, and the barns behind it, but beyond the mellow old brick wall dividing the house from the other side of the farmyard there had been some huge changes.

The weatherboarding on the old farm buildings was all new and freshly stained black, sharp against the soft red of the tiled roofs, and on the front of one was a sign saying, ‘The Old Crock’s Café’. There was a low fence around an area of tables and chairs, and though it was still only April, there were people sitting outside enjoying the glorious sunshine.

There were other changes, too, beyond the café. The farm shop beside it seemed to be doing a brisk trade, and on the other side of what was now a car park the big building that she was sure had once been the milking parlour now housed an enterprise called Valley Timber Products. She could see chunky wooden playground toys and what looked like garden furniture in a small lawned area beside it.

There was a basket shop, as well, selling all sorts of things like willow wreaths and planters and wigwams for runner beans, as well as the more traditional baskets, and she could see that, at a quarter to eleven on a Saturday morning, the whole place was buzzing.

A thriving cottage industry, she thought, and wondered who ran all the various bits and pieces of this little complex and how much of it was down to Will. He probably let all the units to enterprising individuals, she reasoned. There wouldn’t be enough hours in the day to do anything else.

She turned back to the house, conscious of the fact that it was still not eleven o’clock and she was probably rather early for lunch, but she’d been asked to vacate her room by ten, and after driving somewhat aimlessly around for half an hour, she’d decided to get it over with and come straight here.

Get it over with, she thought. Like going to the dentist. How strange, to be so nervous with Will, of all people, but her heart was pounding and her palms were damp and she hadn’t been so edgy since she’d held her first board meeting.

At least then she’d had an agenda. Now she was meeting the widowed husband of her old schoolfriend, father of the child whose conception had been the kiss of death for their relationship.

Bizarre.

‘If you’re looking for Will, he’s in with the lambs,’ a woman called, pointing round the back of the house, and with a smile of thanks, she headed round towards the barns.

‘Will?’ she called. ‘Are you there?’

A dog came running up, a black and white collie, grinning from ear to ear and wagging at her hopefully, then it ran back again, hopping over a gate and heading into a barn.

She eyed the mud thoughtfully, glanced down at her Gucci boots with regret and picked her way over to the gate.

‘Will?’

‘In here,’ a disembodied voice yelled, and she wrestled with the gate—why did farm gates never swing true on their hinges?—and went through into the barn. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, and when they had, she spotted him crouched down on the far side of the little barn with a sheep. It was bleating pitifully, and as she picked her way across the straw bedding, Will grunted and glanced up, then rolled his eyes and gave a wry smile.

‘Hi,’ he said softly. ‘Sorry, didn’t realise it was you. Welcome to the mad house. You’re early.’

‘I know. I’m sorry—do you want me to go away?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Can you give me a minute? I’m a little tied up.’

She suddenly realised what he was doing, and for a moment considered escaping back to the café to give him time to finish, but then the ewe tried to struggle to her feet, and with his other hand—the one that wasn’t buried up to the elbow in her back end—he grabbed her and wrestled her back down to the straw.

‘Anything I can do to help?’ she found herself asking, and he gave her a slightly incredulous look and ran his eyes over her assessingly.

‘If you really mean that, you could kneel on her neck,’ he said, and she could tell he expected her to turn tail.

She did, too, but then, to her own amazement as much as his, she gave a little shrug, dropped her Louis Vuitton bag into the soiled straw and knelt down in her Versace jeans and Gucci boots and put her knee gently on the ewe’s neck.

‘By the way, good morning,’ she said, and smiled.

Will was stunned.

If the paparazzi who hounded her for the glossy society mags could see her now, he thought with an inward chuckle, they’d never believe it.

‘Morning,’ he said, and then grunted with pain as the ewe contracted down on his hand and crushed a sharp little hoof into his fingers. Well, at least he knew where one leg was, he thought philosophically, and the moment the contraction eased, he grabbed the offending hoof, traced it up to the shoulder, found the other leg, tugged them both straight and then persuaded the little nose to follow suit.

Moments later, with another heave from Mum and a firm, solid tug from Will, twin number one was born, followed moments later by the second.

And the third.

‘Triplets?’ she said, her voice soft and awed, and he shot her a grin and sat back on his heels, using a handful of straw to scrub at the soggy little morsels with their tight yellow perms and wriggling tails.

‘Apparently so.’ They struggled to their feet, knees wobbling, and made their way to their mother, on her feet by now, and Will got up and looked ruefully at his hands.

‘I’d help you up, but—’

She grinned up at him, her soft green eyes alight with joy, and his heart lurched, taking him by surprise. She stood easily, brushing down her knees with a careless hand. ‘That was wonderful,’ she said, the joy showing in her voice as well as her eyes, and he wanted to hug her.

Instead he took a step back, gathered up his bucket of hot water and soap and towel, and quickly made a pen around the little family.

‘We’ll leave them to it. They’ve got all they need for now.’

‘Why isn’t that one feeding?’ Izzy asked, staring worriedly at the lambs as one of them stood by bleating forlornly and butting its mother without success.

‘They’ve only got two teats, but she’s had triplets before. They’ll take turns and she’ll sort them out. She’s a good mother. Come, Banjo.’

He ushered her towards the back door, the dog at his heels, and, kicking the door shut behind them, he stripped off his padded shirt and scrubbed his arms in the sink.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she said dryly, and he looked up, suddenly self-conscious, to find her laughing softly at him across the kitchen.

He felt his mouth quirk into a grin, and he shook his head. ‘Sorry. Didn’t think. Actually, I could do with a shower. Can you give me five minutes?’

‘Of course.’

‘Make yourself at home,’ he told her, and then, as he ran up the stairs, he remembered the photos of Julia and the children all over the piano in the corner.

He shrugged. What could he do? She’d been his wife, the mother of his children. She deserved to be remembered, and he couldn’t protect Izzy from that reality any more than he could have prevented Julia’s death.

She looked around the kitchen, so much as it had been all those years ago, and felt as if she was caught in a time warp.

Any minute now Rob and Emma and Julia, and maybe Sam or Lucy, would come through that door from the farmyard, laughing and chattering like magpies, and Mrs Thompson would put the kettle on the hob and pull a tray of buns out of the oven.

She’d always been baking, the kitchen heady with the scent of golden Madeira cake and fragrant apple pies and soft, floury rolls still hot in the middle. She’d fed everybody who came over her threshold, Izzy remembered, and nobody was ever made to feel unwelcome.

And at Christmas they’d always come here carol-singing last, and gather round the piano to sing carols and eat mince pies hot from the oven.

With a tender, reminiscent smile still on her lips, Izzy turned towards the piano—and stopped dead, her heart crashing against her ribs. Slowly, as if she had no right to be there but couldn’t help herself, she crossed the room on reluctant feet and stood there, rooted to the spot, studying the pictures.

Julia and Will, laughing together on the swing under the apple tree. Julia with a baby in her arms and a toddler leaning against her knee. Will on the swing again, with the toddler on his lap, laughing, and another one with the baby, nose to nose, his expression so tender it brought tears to her eyes.

What am I doing here? I don’t belong! This is her house—her husband.

She turned, stumbling blindly towards the door, and Will caught her and folded her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as the sobs fought free and racked her body.

‘Shh. I’m sorry. I should have realised it would upset you. I’d forgotten how much you loved her.’

Loved you, Izzy corrected silently, but she couldn’t speak, and anyway, it didn’t seem like the smartest thing to say under the circumstances.

Her sobs faded as quickly as they’d come, the shock of her reaction receding in the security of his arms, and gently he released her and stood back, looking down at her with worried eyes.

‘OK now?’

She nodded, scrubbing her nose with the back of her hands, and he passed her a handful of kitchen roll and waited while she blew her nose and mopped her eyes and dragged out that smile.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Too many memories.’

He nodded and turned away, his face tight, and she could have kicked herself. If she had too many memories, what on earth did he have?

‘Tea?’

‘Please.’

He put the kettle on, then turned and propped himself against the front rail of the Aga and studied her thoughtfully. Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, she studied him back and fired off the first salvo.

‘You’ve changed,’ she said, her voice almost accusing.

He snorted softly. ‘I should hope so. I was a puny kid of nineteen the last time you saw me. I’ve grown two, maybe three inches and put on a couple of stone. I work hard—physical stuff. That builds muscle.’

It did, and she’d seen the evidence for herself just a few moments ago when he’d stripped off at the sink. Putting the disturbing memory away, she shook her head, studying the lines on his face, the lingering trace of sadness in his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said, and then gave a short, hollow laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being a real idiot here. Of course you’ve changed, after all you’ve been through. Who wouldn’t?’

His smile was wry. ‘Who indeed? Still—it’s all over now, and we’re moving on.’ He cocked his head on one side and his smile softened. ‘You don’t look any different,’ he said, his voice a trifle gruff, and she rolled her eyes.

‘All that money, all that sophistication, and I don’t look any different?’ She’d meant to sound a light note, but instead she sounded like a petulant little toddler. How silly, to feel hurt. After all, she probably hadn’t changed that much. Nothing had touched her as it had touched him.

Not since he’d gone away.

But Will was looking embarrassed, and she wanted to kick herself again. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and gave an impatient sigh. ‘I meant—oh, hell, I don’t know what I meant, except it wasn’t an insult—or not intended to be. I’m sorry if it came over like that.’

His eyes were full of remorse, and she shook her head and reached out, laying a gentle hand on his arm. ‘Of course it didn’t. I just feel different, and I suppose I thought it might be reflected in my face, but a sensible woman would be flattered. Anyway, I wouldn’t want my money to have changed me, and I certainly don’t want to look like Godzilla, so perhaps I should just be grateful!’

His mouth lifted in a wry smile, and his eyes swept her face, their expression tender. ‘I suppose you have changed, a little, but you’re still you, every bit as beautiful as you ever were, and it’s really good to see you again. That’s what I was trying to say in my clumsy, inept way.’

She laughed, her turn now to be embarrassed, and shook her head. ‘I’m not beautiful—’

‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ he said, but his thumb came up and brushed away the last remnant of her tears, and the tender gesture nearly brought her to her knees. Then he dropped his hand and stepped away, ramming it into his pocket, turning away.

When he spoke, his voice was gruff. ‘It’s a bit of a shock, really, seeing you again—takes me back all those years. But that’s never a good idea, and you can’t really go back, can you? Too much water under too many bridges.’

And just then some of that water came pouring into the kitchen in the form of a tidal wave of giggling and chasing and high-pitched shrieks that skidded to a halt the moment they saw her.

The little girl she was ready for—dark-haired, blue-eyed, the image of her father. The boy, though—he stopped her in her tracks. His colouring was almost the same, but it was the shape of his face, the expression, the vulnerable tilt to his mouth.

Julia.

Will straightened up, looking down at them with pride in his eyes.

‘Izzy, meet my children—Michael and Rebecca. Kids, this is Isabel. She was at school with me and your mother. Say hi.’

‘Hi,’ they chorused, and then their four eyes swivelled back to him and mischief sparkled in them again. ‘Grannie says can we ask you for some more eggs, because everybody wants egg sandwiches today and she’s run out,’ Rebecca said in a rush.

‘And Grandad’s sold a climbing frame and a tree house this morning, and you know old Mrs Jenks?’ Michael said, his eyes alight. ‘She’s having a willow coffin. She’s going to have a woodland burial, and her son’s up in arms. I heard Grannie telling Grandad. They were arguing about it in the café, and she said it was her body, she could do what she wanted with it. And Grannie said to tell you there’s roast pepper flan today,’ Michael added inconsequentially, and Izzy felt her lips twitch.

Will was smiling at them, ruffling Michael’s hair and slinging a casual, affectionate arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and Izzy felt suddenly empty.

I’ve got nothing. Thirty years, and I’ve got nothing. Nothing to hand on except money, and no one even to give that to. No wonder I haven’t changed.

The kettle boiled, its shrill whistle fracturing the moment and freeing her.

‘I’ll make the tea—you get the eggs,’ she said, and opened the cupboard the mugs had always lived in.

‘Try the dishwasher,’ he said over his shoulder as they went out, and she pulled down its door and found mugs—lots of mugs, unwashed, even though the machine was full. She put powder in the dispenser, shut the door and set it going, then washed the two mugs she’d rescued and made the tea, lifting out the teabags just as he came back in.

‘Find everything?’

‘Just about. I put the dishwasher on.’

‘Oh, damn,’ he said. ‘I meant to do that.’ His grin was wry. ‘I meant to do all sorts of things, but you were early and the ewe was late, and—’ He broke off, the grin widening as he shrugged, and then he sighed and wrapped his arms around her again, and hugged her briefly against that wonderfully solid chest that she had no rights to.

‘It really is good to see you again,’ he murmured, releasing her to look down searchingly into her eyes. ‘Are you OK? Really OK?’

She found that smile somehow, and the lie to go with it. ‘I’m fine. How about you? You’ve had so much more to contend with.’

His eyes tracked away, then back, and his smile was fleeting. ‘Yes. I’m OK now. It’s been a rough few years.’

‘Tell me,’ she said softly, and he picked up his mug and pulled out a chair for her, then sat in the carver at the head of the table, his father’s chair if she remembered right, and stared down into his tea.

‘It was nearly three years ago. She’d been having difficulty swallowing, and she felt as if there was something stuck in her throat, so she went to the doctor. He referred her to the hospital, and they diagnosed cancer of the oesophagus. She had treatment, but it was only to make it less uncomfortable for her. We knew that right from the beginning. She reckoned it was because of the chemicals in our food, and she’d had concerns about that for some time, so by then we were already eating only organic stuff and the farm was in the process of going organic.’

‘And there was nothing they could do for her?’

He shook his head. ‘Only short-term and then it was all down to the Macmillan nurses and ultimately the hospice. It was agony to watch.’

Izzy could hardly imagine it. ‘Did the children know?’ she asked, thinking of the bright, bubbly young things who’d burst in on them just a few minutes earlier and chattered about coffins, of all things, and he nodded.

‘Yes. Eventually. We told them she was sick, and then when it was inevitable and the end wasn’t far away, we told them she was dying. She made them scrapbooks—snippets of herself for them to keep, memories they’d shared, things they’d want to know about themselves that only she could tell them. Some of it will only make sense to them when they’re older, of course—things about their births, philosophical stuff about being a mother and what it meant to her—but lots of it was very ordinary and just things she’d treasured about them.’

Something splashed on Izzy’s hand, and she blinked and swallowed. Tears. Tears for Julia, who’d always wanted to save the world, and for the children—and for Will, his voice quiet and thoughtful, telling her about Julia’s last days. He had loved her, she realised with shock. Really, genuinely loved her. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now she did.

She blinked again, squeezing the tears from her eyes and letting them fall, and then he made a soft, clucking noise with his tongue and handed her another fistful of kitchen roll.

She sniffed, scrubbing her nose with the tissue. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just all so sudden. I mean—I didn’t even know until last night, and now, talking to you like this—it’s all so real.’

‘It seems light years ago,’ he said gruffly. ‘We move on. Time heals, Izzy. The kids don’t stop growing just because their mother’s died, and they’ve dragged me with them. I’ve had to cope because of them, and we’ve got through it together. It’s been very positive in a lot of ways.’

‘And all I’ve done is make rich people even richer and rescue reputations that probably didn’t deserve rescuing, and acquire some of their wealth along the way. My God.’

Her voice sounded hollow, and it seemed appropriate. That was how she felt inside—hollow and empty and worthless.

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said, the tears welling again, and then his arms were round her again—again!—and he was cradling her against his body, standing in front of her so her cheek was pressed against his board-flat abdomen, just above his belt, the buckle cold against her chin.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he murmured gruffly. ‘Of course you should be here. It’s lovely to see you, Izzy. It’s been too long.’

It had, she thought sadly. Much too long. So much too long that it was years too late.

Too late for what?

She didn’t want to think about it—not with his belt buckle pressing into her chin and his arms around her and the solid beat of his heart sounding through that wall of muscle. And then his stomach rumbled, deafening her, and she laughed a little unevenly and eased away.

‘You sound hungry.’

He laughed with her, propping himself on the edge of the table just in front of her and staring down into her eyes. ‘I am. I missed breakfast—and, come to think of it, I don’t know if I ate last night. I missed the food at the party. Come on, we’ll go over to the café. Mum’ll feed us.’

‘In the café?’

‘Mmm—the Old Crock. That’s what she calls herself, and it seemed like a bit of fun to call the café the same thing. She runs it—and the farm shop. Dad’s in charge of Valley Timber and the willow business.’

‘The climbing frame and the tree house and the coffin,’ she said, remembering Michael’s words, and she wondered uneasily where Julia was buried. The churchyard, probably, since her father had been the vicar. She’d have to ask him some time—but not now. Now she’d heard and seen enough, and she needed time out to absorb it all and put it into place in her head. And her heart.

‘He makes more than coffins. He broke his leg and was in hospital, and he did basket weaving for occupational therapy. He loved it, but it was a bit time-consuming and not really cost-effective, and then he discovered willow hurdles. It’s all come from there, really. But it’s not just him; there are lots of people working for him, many of them disabled. It’s a thriving business and it puts something back into the community, and we’re all really proud of it. Come on. I’ll show you round after we’ve eaten.’

He held out a hand, large and strong and callused, so different from the soft city hands she was used to, and pulled her to her feet.

‘It’s changed so much,’ she said as they went out into the yard and she looked again at all the new enterprises.

‘Not really. Not in the ways that matter. It’s still home.’

Home. Could he have found a word more calculated to tear a hole in her heart? She thought of her apartment, high up in the polluted air above London’s Docklands, with the deli and coffee shop and restaurant just inside the entrance, the health complex in the basement, the home shopping service, the weekly delivery of organic vegetables in a box to her kitchen, the concierge to run errands and fix stuff that went wrong—was that home?

A cow mooed, and under the bushes just in front of them chickens were scratching in the leaves.

No, she thought. Not home. This is home.

But not yours. Never yours.

‘You’re lucky,’ she said to him, suddenly choked again. ‘To live here, surrounded by all this.’

‘I know,’ he said softly, and she could see the pride and the affection in his face. Then he turned to her and grinned. ‘Come on, come and see Mum. She’ll be delighted to see you again. She loved you.’

You loved me. Or I thought you loved me. I loved you—

‘I’ll be delighted to see her again, as well. She’s a darling,’ Izzy said firmly, and, straightening up, she threw back her shoulders and headed across the yard beside Will.




CHAPTER THREE


AS THEY crossed the farmyard, Izzy was struck by the hail of friendly greetings from everyone they passed. It was obvious that Will was well liked and respected by the community—and equally obvious that word of her presence here had spread like wildfire.

For the most part their friendly curiosity was harmless, and some of them remembered her family from all those years ago. They were kind and welcoming, if a little wary, which she could understand.

That dratted reputation again, she thought philosophically, and smiled back until her face felt like cracking.

Others, though, were not quite so tactful or kind—like the two old crones who stopped them just a few feet from the café entrance.

‘What a lovely day, Will.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he said, and made to walk on, but one of them stopped him with a hand on his arm.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?’

He sighed and gave a rather polite smile that made Izzy want to laugh.

‘Sorry, ladies. Mrs Jones, Mrs Willis, this is Isabel Brooke.’

Mrs Willis nodded sagely, smiling at Izzy in a way that made her instincts prickle. ‘Of course. You’ve been busy since you left here—the papers don’t think much of you, do they, dear?’

Izzy smiled sweetly in reply. ‘Don’t they? I wouldn’t know—I have better things to do than read the gutter press.’

The woman sucked in her breath, but any reply she might have made was drowned out by Will, coughing suddenly and turning away, and Izzy had to fight the urge to laugh.

‘Sorry—choked—need a drink,’ he gasped, and, grabbing her elbow, he steered her towards the café.

As they made their escape, Mrs Willis got her breath back. ‘Well, really!’ she muttered.

‘Of course, they used to run around together—if you ask me, he had a narrow escape,’ Mrs Jones chipped in. ‘Julia was a lovely girl.’

Here we go, she thought. They’re going to start on my mythical conquests in a minute.

A minute? They didn’t wait that long.

‘That one’s a nasty piece of work,’ Mrs Willis went on. ‘Supposed to have a revolving door on her bedroom.’

‘Oh, I believe it, and it isn’t hard to work out what she’s after now,’ Mrs Jones said spitefully, her voice carrying clearly across the farmyard, and Will gave an exasperated sigh and shot Izzy an apologetic look.

‘Hell, Izzy, I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t imagine even those two would be quite so harsh.’

She shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. I’m used to it. I’ve heard the revolving door joke so many times I’m immune,’ she lied. And yet, even though she heard it every day, even though she was constantly sniped at by thwarted business rivals and the press took endless potshots at her reputation, still, to hear it up here in what had always seemed like the ultimate sanctuary—that hurt.

It wouldn’t be so bad, she thought, if there was any truth in it. If she had even one per cent of the fun she was supposed to have, she wouldn’t feel so hard done by—and maybe that was the trouble.

‘Come on, we’ll get you a nice cup of coffee and a menu to look at, and you can say hello to Mum. She’ll be pleased to see you.’

‘Is she expecting me?’

‘I told her I was bringing a friend in. I didn’t tell her who, but the rest of them seem to have found out.’

‘Won’t the children have said something anyway?’





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