Kitabı oku: «The Wedding Party And Holiday Escapes Ultimate Collection», sayfa 86
Then again, Sophie Felsham wearing anything at Coolabah Waters would have stunned Mark.
He swallowed. He’d never dreamed she would arrive here before they’d had a chance to talk.
Why had she come? What did she expect from him?
Leaving his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose over his jeans, he hurried barefoot down the passage to the kitchen, expecting to find Haggis peeling spuds at the sink, or slicing onions.
He was going to demand answers.
But the kitchen was empty.
It smelled great, however. There was something cooking in the oven—beef and mushrooms, if Mark wasn’t mistaken.
And then he saw a piece of paper propped against the teapot. Frowning, he snatched it up.
Mark,
My only sister, Deirdre, is seriously ill in Adelaide and I need to visit her. I’ve tried to call you, but the sat phone doesn’t seem to be working. Sorry, mate, but I know you’ll understand. I’ve left frozen meals for you and I’ve left Deirdre’s number beside the phone.
Apologies for the haste,
Angus.
P.S. A young English woman called. She’s coming to visit you. Good luck with that one.
The note was dated four days ago. Mark scratched the back of his neck and wondered when the surprises would stop. He crushed the sheet of paper and tossed it back onto the dresser. He was still trying to come to terms with the twist of fate that had allowed Haggis’s trip south to coincide with Sophie’s arrival when he heard light footsteps behind him.
‘The bathroom’s free.’
He swung around, and there was Sophie again. He inhaled sharply.
Her hair was still damp, as if she’d dried it hastily with a towel. Wispy, dark curls clung to her forehead and her soft, pale cheeks. She was dressed in a simple white T-shirt, a slim red skirt, and she wore sandals covered in white daisies.
‘Hello again, Mark,’ she said shyly.
She hadn’t used any make-up, and she looked pale and wide eyed. Incredibly pretty. Impossibly young. Her figure was so slender it didn’t seem feasible that it would expand and swell with pregnancy. With his baby.
Something hard and sharp jammed in Mark’s throat, and he swallowed fiercely.
‘I—I’m really sorry about—’ Sophie’s mouth twisted into an embarrassed pout, and her eyes widened as she flapped her hands helplessly out to her sides. ‘You know—the bathroom and everything.’
‘Forget it.’ He spoke more gruffly than he meant to, and the back of his neck began to burn.
How should he handle this? Should he greet her formally with a handshake? Ask her if she was feeling well? Throw his arms around her? That would be smart, given the filthy state of him.
Stepping forward quickly, he dropped a quick peck on her soft cheek. She smelled sweet and clean, of shampoo and soap, with a hint of something else. Lavender? ‘It’s good to see you.’
Super-conscious of his open shirt and unwashed state, he stepped back again. He felt so uncertain. There were so many questions he should ask. How was your journey? How are you keeping?
Why have you come?
‘I feel terrible about turning up like this,’ she said. ‘Moving into your home when you weren’t even here. I—I thought you said you’d be back last week.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I should have been back, but we ran into a spot of trouble.’
‘Oh?’
‘A big mob of cattle broke away. Took off for the most inaccessible country. Gave us no end of a headache.’
A little huff escaped her, and her shoulders relaxed. ‘That sounds like hard work.’
‘It was.’ He picked up the crumpled note from Haggis. ‘I’m sorry my caretaker wasn’t here to greet you. He had to go away.’
‘Yes, I couldn’t help seeing that note.’
It suddenly occurred to Mark that she might have been here for days. ‘When did you get here?’
‘This morning. I came on the mail truck.’
‘The mail truck?’ His mouth tilted into an incredulous smile as he tried to imagine Sophie Felsham from London arriving in the dusty township of Wandabilla and asking for directions to Coolabah Waters.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I used your bathroom. I know there’s another one.’
‘No. No, of course not.’ Mark avoided the unexpected shyness in her eyes. ‘You’re welcome to it. That’s fine.’ He ran his fingers through his dusty hair, and remembered that he was still in urgent need of a bath.
Sophie twisted a small, gold locket at her throat. ‘I don’t make a habit of breaking into people’s houses.’
He managed a grin. ‘No, you’ve got the wrong colour hair.’ When she looked puzzled, he added, ‘You’re not Goldilocks.’
Her smile lit up her face, and she looked so incredibly pretty that Mark fought an urge to close his eyes in self-protection.
Sophie pointed to the stove. ‘I took the liberty of putting one of your housekeeper’s frozen meals in the oven.’
‘Good thinking.’
There was an awkward pause while he wondered if he should demand that she explain her presence here. What did she want from him—his support to have an abortion? Money? Marriage?
‘Look,’ he said, and then he had to stop and take a breath. ‘If—if you’ll excuse me, I’ll make use of the bathroom before I try to be sociable.’ He offered her the briefest shadow of a smile. ‘I’ve got half the Outback’s dirt and dust on me.’
‘Of course,’ she said with a dismissive little wave, but her eyes were worried and her cheeks had turned bright pink.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE shouldn’t have come.
As Mark disappeared back down the passage to the bathroom, Sophie felt completely out of her depth.
In England Mark had been so different—so smooth, and almost passing for a city-dweller in his dark, formal suit—more familiar, less intimidating.
It seemed so silly now, but before she’d left London she’d imagined she would be able to book into a hotel or a motel in a village near Mark’s place. She’d planned to call him from there, arrange to meet for a meal in a country tavern, have a nice, long talk. Take it from there…
What an idiot she’d been. She should have quizzed Tim more closely. He could have told her what to expect in the Australian Outback. But the sad truth was, she hadn’t really wanted to know too much. She’d been pretty certain a heavy dose of reality would have frightened her off.
Which mightn’t have been a bad thing.
But she was here now, so she couldn’t back down just yet.
She looked about her, and decided she might as well make herself useful. Perhaps she could set the table for dinner. She crossed the kitchen to the ancient pine dresser to hunt for tablecloths and napkins, then wondered if Mark used the dining room for his evening meal.
It was directly across the passage from the kitchen and, like most of the rooms in this house, had French doors opening onto a timber veranda. This arrangement, Sophie had already discovered, was good for catching breezes and channelling them into the house.
The dining room, like all the other rooms, was a very generous size, but it was also ugly, with tongue-and-groove timber walls painted in a faded, murky green and without a single attractive, decorative touch. In fact, Mark’s entire house was as plain and austere as a monk’s cell.
It could do with a jolly good makeover—new paint, bright cushions, flowers, pretty fabrics, artwork.
A woman’s touch.
Sophie’s mind skidded away from that thought. Not this woman’s touch. She knew for a fact that she couldn’t live here.
She opened a door in the sideboard and found a pile of tablecloths—clean but un-ironed, and all of them ancient. Dull and boring. Depressing.
In a drawer, she found red tartan place mats with matching napkins and decided to use them. At least they were colourful. And the silver was clean and shining.
But despite the bright tartan the two place-settings looked rather austere on the huge dining table. She hunted about for a vase or candlesticks, anything to fill in the expanse of bare table-top.
There was nothing.
Showered and shaved, and neatly dressed in clean clothes, Mark stood in the middle of his bedroom and regarded his reflection in the mirror. He looked ridiculously nervous.
What did Sophie expect from him? Was she hoping for marriage? Surely not.
He’d never considered himself a family man, had more or less decided he was a habitual bachelor. His life was hard, and he worked long hours and took few holidays. He’d never really thought much about marriage, had never found a woman who would make a suitable wife—someone he really admired, who could take the hard life in the Outback.
Now, the irony was that just about any of the Australian girls he’d dated and parted with over the past decade would have fitted the bill better than this woman, with her milk-white English skin and high-flying, London-girl lifestyle.
Except…none of those other girls had been carrying his baby.
Mark glanced again at his reflection, saw concern and confusion, the downward slant of his mouth, and turned abruptly and marched from the room.
When Mark came into the kitchen wearing a crisp white shirt and casual chinos, with his jaw cleanly shaved, he looked so breathtaking that Sophie quickly became very busy, thrusting her hands into oven mitts and heading for the stove.
‘This smells wonderful,’ she said over her shoulder as she lifted out a pottery casserole dish. ‘Your housekeeper must be a good cook.’
‘He’s a darn sight better than the fellow we had on the mustering camp.’ Mark looked down at the bare kitchen table. ‘I’ll grab some cutlery.’
‘No need. I’ve set the table in the dining room.’
His eyebrows lifted with momentary surprise.
‘Would you rather eat in the kitchen?’
‘The dining room’s fine.’ He gave her a slow smile. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less from the daughter of Sir Kenneth Felsham.’
She gave a flustered little shrug.
‘Perhaps I should open a bottle of wine and make it a proper occasion,’ Mark suggested as he followed her, carrying the warmed plates through to the other room.
Sophie set the casserole dish down. ‘I’m sure wine would be nice, but I’m afraid I can’t join you.’
His eyes widened with surprise, and she pointed to her stomach. ‘It’s not good for the baby.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. I—I don’t really care for wine anyway.’
She looked up quickly to see if Mark was joking, but suddenly it didn’t matter if he was speaking the truth or lying through his teeth. Their gazes met and he smiled again, and his smile seemed to reach deep inside her. She had to sit down before her knees gave way.
Goodness. Surely she wasn’t going to be all breathless and girly—just as she’d been at the wedding?
Mark sat, too, and indicated that she should help herself to the food. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she lifted the serving spoon, and she was sure he noticed.
‘You must be feeling rather jet-lagged,’ he suggested.
She nodded, glad to hide behind this excuse, spooned beef and mushrooms onto her plate, and hoped Mark was the kind of man who liked to fill his stomach before he tackled difficult discussions. But when she looked up she found his dark eyes regarding her thoughtfully.
She pointed to the food. ‘I’m sure you must be ravenous. Don’t let this lovely dinner get cold.’
Without comment, he helped himself to the food and began to eat with some enthusiasm, but it wasn’t long before he put his fork down. His throat worked, and he lifted his napkin from his lap and set it on the table.
‘I can’t help wondering why you’ve come all the way out here,’ he said. ‘I told you I’d telephone as soon as I got back.’
‘I know, Mark.’ Sophie felt as if a piece of meat had stuck in her throat. She swallowed. There was nothing there, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. ‘I—I thought it would be easier for us to talk face to face. I didn’t like the idea of trying to discuss matters like child support and visiting rights over the phone. It—it seemed rather tacky.’
Her heart thumped madly, and she felt completely intimidated by his frowning silence.
At last he said, ‘So you’re planning to have the baby?’
Oh, heavens. Was he going to ask her to have an abortion?
She drew herself very straight. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’
She fancied she saw a flash of relief in his eyes, but he didn’t smile.
Under the table, she crossed her fingers. So far, so good.
Mark’s gaze narrowed. ‘And you’re quite certain I’m the father?’
Sophie gasped. ‘Of course. How can you ask that?’
He shrugged. ‘I had to make certain. For all I know, you might do this kind of thing all the time.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Come on, Sophie. You know what I’m talking about.’
‘No.’
His jaw tightened, and for the first time he looked uncomfortable. ‘One-night stands. Casual sex with strangers.’
She flinched as if he’d physically hit her.
Casual sex with strangers.
She knew that was what their wonderful night had amounted to, but somehow she’d hoped that Mark might have looked on it with finer sentiments. Her baby’s conception hadn’t been sordid. But perhaps she’d romanticised it out of all proportion.
Mark must have seen the shock in her face. His expression softened immediately. ‘I just think we should lay our cards on the table,’ he said more gently.
‘The baby’s yours, Mark.’ She lifted her chin high. ‘I don’t make a habit of casual flings. There’s been no one else. Do you really think I would come all this way and single you out if it wasn’t your child? Why would I bother?’
He nodded slowly. And then, as if he needed to hide his feelings, he looked down at the table cloth and cleared his throat. ‘I’m prepared to help with any money you need.’
‘Thanks. I might need to…to find a bigger flat. I’m not sure if I’ll manage paying everything for the baby as well.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’ His long brown fingers folded a corner of the tartan table mat down then smoothed it out again, and a muscle in his jaw tightened into a hard little knot. ‘I’m assuming you plan to have the baby in England? To be a single mother—at least for the time being?’
A hot, stinging sensation troubled Sophie’s eyes. Oh, damn, she wasn’t going to cry, was she? Mark’s assumption was perfectly logical. Sensible.
She’d never really believed that she could come to Australia, get to know Mark better and start a relationship with him. But she hadn’t been able to squash a tiny hope. Now she felt very foolish.
Mark cleared his throat. ‘I assume you’re not here to discuss marriage.’
‘No! Of course not!’ she cried with unnecessary passion, almost tearfully. She blinked away the wretched dampness. What was the matter with her? ‘I’m certainly not expecting you to marry me. We hardly know each other.’
The tiniest hint of a smile glowed in Mark’s dark eyes, and Sophie knew he was thinking about their night together. Her heart seemed to bounce inside her.
He dropped his gaze to the table. ‘I guess the thing that still puzzles me is why you’ve come all this way,’ he said quietly. ‘All you said you want from me is child support, but you could have asked for that over the phone.’
He looked up quickly and his dark eyes probed her. ‘So what’s the deal, Sophie? Where do you want to take things from here?’
It was a very good question.
But, when Mark frowned at her like that, Sophie felt so suddenly flustered and confused she couldn’t remember the answer.
Her mouth went very dry. ‘I suppose…’ She swallowed. ‘I suppose I wanted to be sure.’
His response was a look of intense bewilderment. “What about?”
Oh, help. Couldn’t Mark guess how hard it was to explain the confusing, scary, almost intangible something that had pushed her here almost against her will? ‘I—I think I wanted to be sure about—’ Again she swallowed, and moistened her lips with her tongue. ‘About us.’
She didn’t look at him now, simply rushed on to explain. ‘I’ve been feeling so confused. Everything happened so quickly. You’ve no idea how crazy it was to find myself pregnant after just one night.’
Her mouth trembled dangerously and she shoved a hand against her lips.
‘And it was my fault entirely,’ Mark said.
Not entirely, she thought, remembering how madly she’d flirted.
His face twisted into a complicated, fiercely gentle smile. ‘At the very least, I should have stayed for one more night.’
Sophie wanted to smile back at him, but instead she spluttered tearfully, ‘See? That’s my point. I didn’t even know you had a sense of humour.’
And then she burst into noisy tears.
She heard the scrape of Mark’s chair on the timber floor, and next moment his deep voice was rumbling sexily beside her. ‘Come here,’ he said, taking her arms and pulling her gently out of her chair.
Holding her against his chest, he wrapped his arms around her, and she had no choice but to cling to him while her tears had their way.
‘Hush,’ he whispered, brushing a path of soft kisses over her brow and onto her cheeks.
‘I’m so sorry, Mark.’
‘Don’t be,’ he murmured, running a slow hand down her shaking spine.
‘I don’t want to cry like this.’
‘Cry as much as you like. From where I’m standing, it feels great.’
That brought her to her senses. She pulled away, and immediately felt an awful sense of loss. Using the backs of her hands, she cleared tears from her eyes.
Mark was looking at her with a mixture of tenderness and concern that did all sorts of wicked things to her insides.
‘There ought to be an instruction manual for this sort of thing,’ he said as he shoved his hands into his trousers. ‘But you will stay here for a while at least, won’t you?’
Goodness! Was this the opening she’d hoped for?
Sophie wanted to hug him, but instead she said carefully, ‘It would give us a chance to get to know each other better.’
And then, in case he changed his mind, she hurried to add, ‘I can’t stay here for very long. There’s someone minding my business, and I have to see doctors, have antenatal checks and scans. That sort of thing.’
Mark smiled kindly. ‘But, if you stayed for a couple of weeks, it would be an improvement on one night.’
She nodded. ‘Indeed.’
‘I guess we owe it to the baby, don’t we?’
‘Well, yes. I suppose it would be rather embarrassing to admit to our child that I know nothing about its father, apart from his name and the colour of his eyes.’
Mark’s dark-brown eyes held hers. They shimmered with subtle innuendo, flooding Sophie with memories of their night together, sending a high-voltage flash scorching through her.
‘You know a lot more about me than that,’ he said.
Instinctively, in self-protection, she lowered her lashes. Her wanton behaviour on that night still bewildered her. To have been so suddenly carried away was completely out of character.
What if she fell deeply in love with Mark now, but he didn’t love her back? She couldn’t bear a repeat of what had happened with Oliver. Somehow, she knew that a break up after falling in love with Mark would be much, much worse.
‘I’ll stay for two weeks,’ she said carefully. ‘We should be able to sort out your paternity arrangements by then.’
Mark grinned, and his hands came out of his pockets as he reached for her again. She knew that he wanted her in his arms, wanted to kiss her.
But wasn’t that crazy?
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mark.
‘I—I—um—don’t think we should get too intimate, do you?’
‘Why ever not?’ He smiled gorgeously as he reached for her. ‘Isn’t the harm done? We’d be shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.’
Heavens! She had to be careful, had to remember that staying here was risky. She had no idea if she and Mark could make a relationship work. And she had no idea how she could possibly be happy in the drab, monotonous Outback.
There were no shops around the corner. No little village nearby. No friendly faces. Nothing and no one for fifty miles at least.
Mark’s big hands circled her waist, but Sophie planted her hands firmly over his to prevent his from moving. If she was to get through the next two weeks with her heart intact, she had to be clear headed and strong minded. Disciplined.
‘We need to get to know each other as friends, not as lovers,’ she said.
‘Why not both?’
Mark looked deeply into her eyes, and her breath shivered in her throat. His hands were warm and strong beneath hers. Her blood fizzed in her veins.
His serious brown gaze studied her, as if he was trying to read how she really felt about this. ‘You really mean it? You just want to be friends?’
No, she wanted to cry, but she forced herself to be sensible. ‘I’ll be leaving in two weeks’ time, Mark. And—and I don’t think we should make our situation any more complicated than it already is.’
‘Friendship,’ Mark murmured softly, but then, before Sophie knew quite what was happening, his hands were cupping her face and she was beginning to melt.
She tried to protest, but there was something too impossibly mesmerising about Mark Winchester when he was moving in for a kiss.
And yet incredibly, at the last moment, when his lips were a mere millimetre from hers, she managed a pathetic objection. ‘Mark, we mustn’t!’
‘Shh,’ he murmured against her mouth.
Valiantly, she ignored the delicious tremors dancing all over her skin and she tried again. ‘But we’ve settled for friendship, right?’
‘Whatever you say,’ he replied lazily, and then he kissed her.
His lips were soft and warm, and his skin smelled clean and faintly of aftershave. His kiss was slow and dreamy, and Sophie’s resistance melted like butter in summer. She leaned into him and gave herself up to the unhurried pressure of his lips, the sexy caress of his tongue, the rough, manly texture of his jaw against hers.
Ages later, when he pulled away and smiled into her eyes, every part of her was zinging and zapping with happiness, but she tried to tell him off.
‘You weren’t supposed to do that,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Neither were you.’
Well, yes, that was true. She’d kissed Mark with regrettable enthusiasm.
She wished she could think of a cutting remark to wipe the knowing smile from his face, but his kiss had made her woozy and warm and slow witted. Cutting remarks had never been her strong point anyway.
Just the same, as common sense returned she became very busy, gathering up their plates and marching to the kitchen to stack the dishwasher. And, using jet lag as her excuse, she went to bed early without any more kisses.
Mark stood at his bedroom window, staring out into the black, still night.
Friendship.
That was a rum deal.
All he could see was Sophie’s lips, pink and trembling. He’d been desperate to taste her, and her kiss had sent him spinning. When her lovely body had melted against him, he could have sworn that her response was as eager as it had been in London.
But she wanted friendship.
At least, she’d said she wanted friendship. Her body had said something else.
He cursed softly.
What was a man to do? How was he supposed to live here alone, with a woman as alluring as Sophie, without wanting to hold her?
What a crazy situation.
He and Sophie should have been able to say goodbye in England and continue on their merry, separate ways. She could have done whatever it was that she did in London and marry some Brit—someone like Tim, or one of those other fellows he’d met at the wedding. Mark could have continued getting his property in order.
Instead, Sophie was going to be here on his turf, under his roof, for two weeks. For fourteen days and nights he would be seeing her, smelling her, wanting to make love to the most delectable, desirable woman he’d ever met.
Mark watched an owl fly across the path of the moon, and let out a heavy sigh. Sophie was probably wise to be wary of more complications. She’d already had more than her share of problems after their one night in London, and when her two weeks were up she should be free to fly home without the burden of extra emotional baggage.
It might have been different if they’d been considering an ongoing relationship, but they both knew there wasn’t much point. He could never get a decent job in London, and she was totally unsuited to life at Coolabah Waters.
Damn it. She was right. Friendship was their best option.
He let out a low curse. Why did making the right choice have to feel so wrong?
Sophie lay in bed, staring above her at the fan dangling from the ceiling. After the heat during the day, the night was surprisingly cool, so she hadn’t turned it on. She’d left the curtains open so that silvery moonlight could stream through the window. In this light, the paintwork didn’t look quite so bad.
But she couldn’t sleep.
She was thinking about Mark’s kiss and how easily she’d given in. And as she lay there in the moon-washed dark, she was remembering the night they’d met. She’d put up such little resistance that night it had been shameful.
Ever since, she’d been trying not to think too much about it, but perhaps it was important to remember. If she was going to be with Mark for a whole fortnight, that night should serve as a warning….
