Sweet Surrender With the Millionaire(25)

She had reached her front door and he watched her insert the key in the  lock before she turned to face him again. Before she could speak, he  said, 'Goodnight, Willow. Sleep well,' and turned from the sight of her.

He was actually half in the car when she shouted, 'What time is lunch?'

Over his shoulder, he called casually, 'One or thereabouts. And bring  boots and a waterproof coat; we'll be walking the dogs in the  afternoon.' And without waiting for a reply he shut the car door and  started the engine. By the time he had done a three-point turn there was  no sign of her.

He stopped the car just before the turn into his drive and sat in the  darkness, trying to get his head round what had just happened. His  emotions were in turmoil and for the life of him he didn't know if he  had just made the best or the worst decision of his life. One thing he  did know. He loved her. And loving her he had to let her go to either  love him back one day or walk away from him.

He continued to sit for a long time and when he finally started the car again, his face was damp.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WILLOW was painfully nervous when Morgan opened the door to her the next  day. He'd called her mobile phone earlier that morning to see if she  was all right and the conversation had been stilted, at least on her  part, she admitted miserably. Morgan had seemed his usual cool, faintly  amused self. But then he probably hadn't tossed and turned the night  away before finally giving up any thoughts of sleep as dawn broke. He  was a man after all, she thought viciously, and they were a different  species. Logical, cold, control freaks. Only Morgan wasn't like that and  she knew it. Or did she? She'd thought Piers was the genuine article,  hadn't she? Not exactly ten out of ten there, then.                       
       
           



       

So the arguments had gone round and round in her head until it was  actually a relief when lunchtime approached and she went to face the  wolf in his lair. Or that was what it felt like.

'Hi.' He was smiling with his eyes as well as his mouth as he opened the  door to her, and before she could protest he'd kissed her swiftly on  the mouth before taking her coat. 'Come and have a drink,' he said  easily once she'd finished fussing the dogs. 'Sherry, wine or one of my  famous cocktails?'

It was impossible to remain on edge for long; Morgan had a witty and  slightly wicked sense of humour and within a short time she was laughing  at something he'd said and the atmosphere had diffused. By the time he  saw her home under a moonlit sky things were back to normal.

Or were they? Willow asked herself later that night, curled up in bed  but wide awake in spite of the sleepless hours the night before. Like it  or not, their relationship had gone a little deeper, moved up a gear,  call it what you would. He'd kissed her warmly on the doorstep but  hadn't prolonged the contact, taking the key from her fingers and  opening the door for her as the kiss ended, and pushing her gently into  the house as he'd blown her one last kiss before shutting the door. She  had stood immobile for some moments, overwhelmed by such mixed feelings  she wouldn't have been able to name any one as uppermost. Regret,  longing, confusion, relief, but overall a curious kind of restlessness,  which was compounded by the fact she wouldn't see Morgan for another  five days.

And she wanted to see him. A rush of longing swept through her,  intensifying to a physical ache as she stared into the quiet darkness.  How would she feel if he suddenly said he didn't want to see her any  more? If he'd had enough of this 'friendship'?

She clenched her muscles against the rawness of the thought, then forced  herself to slowly relax. She'd cope, she'd survive. She'd got through  the break-up of her marriage, hadn't she? And nothing could be worse  than that.

Really? Her mind seemed determined to play devil's advocate. Was she  sure about that? Had Piers ever stirred her inner self in the way Morgan  did? Piers had been like a beautifully wrapped gift that turned out to  be an empty box, worthless and of no lasting value. Morgan, on the other  hand, was like tough brown paper done up with string, which held  something priceless inside.

The thought shocked her and she sat bolt upright in bed, telling herself  she was being ridiculous. Her heart was pounding and there was a lump  in her throat, the feeling that she wanted to cry uppermost. Her head  was trying to tell her something.

If only he had swept her off her feet last night-literally-and carried  her inside and up to bed and made love to her all night so the decision  wasn't hers. That was what most men would have done in his place. Then  it would have been a fait accompli. No going back.

But Morgan's dead right, isn't he? the nasty little voice pointed out.  If he'd done that she would have felt terrible in the cold light of day  and probably hated him as much as she loved him. Loved him? Where on  earth had that come from?

Her body went rigid. She didn't love him. She hugged herself, shivering,  but the chill was within. She did not love Morgan Wright. She wouldn't  be so monumentally foolish as to fall in love with a man who had made it  clear from the outset that he wasn't interested in permanency or for  ever or anything remotely approaching it. A man who conducted his  lovelife with a ruthless determination to stay clear of the trap of  matrimony.

Willow sat for long minutes, her head whirling, and when she slid down  under the covers again she gave a short mirthless laugh. She had to be  the most stupid woman on the planet. How could she have gone from the  frying pan into the fire? She had loved one man who had turned out to be  so, so wrong; how could she have fallen for another who was equally  wrong, if for different reasons? This couldn't be happening.

What was she going to do? She lay, fighting for composure and telling  herself she was not-she was not- going to cry. He didn't know how she  felt and she hadn't, thank goodness, made the fatal mistake of sleeping  with him, which would have complicated things further. She was his  weekend 'friend'; she had no idea what he got up to in the week and she  didn't want to know. She had to face the fact she was only on the  perimeter of his life and that when this desire for her body he had  spoken of began to fade, most likely their weekend dates would become  less and less. And that was OK, it really was. It had to be.                       
       
           



       

Over the next few weeks this resolve was tested. Morgan had taken to  calling her now and again in the evenings; pleasant, warm, amiable  calls, which sometimes lasted as long as an hour. He'd ask her how she  was and what she'd been doing before telling her about his day, putting  an amusing slant on his conversation, which often had her giggling  helplessly. And the weekends-oh, the weekends … He took her to the theatre  and to the cinema; dancing at a couple of nightclubs in the first big  town some distance away from the cottage, and for some delicious meals  out. Other times they'd dine at his home, watch TV or listen to music,  and take the dogs for long walks when the weather permitted.

On her birthday in October he whisked her off to a superb restaurant  where he'd reserved a cosy table for two; presenting her with an  exquisitely worked little gold and ruby brooch in the shape of a tiny  fire over celebratory champagne cocktails-lest she forget how they met,  he murmured with a quirk of a smile.

Willow grew to know Kitty and Jim well, discovering the couple were  lovely people with hearts of gold. She was even able to distinguish each  of the dogs by name after a while and appreciate their varying  personalities. Although she was uncomfortably aware her love for Morgan  was growing the more she got to know him, she couldn't seem to do  anything about it, and he seemed determined she did get to know him. He  shared more of his thoughts and emotions each time they met or spoke to  each other on the phone during the week, but on the other hand his  lovemaking was more restrained if anything, often leaving her frustrated  and unhappy once they'd parted.

Monday to Friday became an eternity each week; she felt the longing for  Morgan's presence like a physical pain. In spite of that she continued  to ruthlessly dissect her feelings and was honest enough with herself to  acknowledge part of her was relieved Morgan wasn't a for-ever type. It  kept things strangely safe. He wasn't for her. And because of that she  didn't have to decide whether she could trust him completely or if she  was seeing the real man-all of him.

It was on the first weekend of November, a weekend which had ushered in  the new month with a sudden drop in temperature and hard frosts, the  glinting sparkle of spider webs and satisfying crunch of stiff white  grass proclaiming it was going to be a cold winter, that things came to a  head. In hindsight, Willow knew she had deliberately engineered the  conversation which led to the row that followed. Seeing Morgan had  become so bittersweet, her nerves were stretched as tight as a drum.