'I'm all right, girl.' He looked down into the trusting brown eyes. 'Thinking a bit too much, maybe, that's all.' He glanced over to where Jim was still picking up fragments of charred paper, his progress hampered by the other four dogs who were chasing bits here and there. Then his gaze moved over the beautifully tended grounds until it rested on the fine old house in the distance, the mellow stone and mullioned windows set off perfectly by the exquisitely thatched roof.
He was a lucky man. He nodded mentally to the thought. Answerable to no one and in complete control of every aspect of his life. And that was the way things would stay. Snapping his fingers at Bella, he made his way to the house, the dog following at his heels as she always did, given half a chance.
Kitty looked up from rolling pastry as he walked into the kitchen, her round, homely face enquiring. 'Put the fire out, did you?' she said, asking the obvious. 'What was the lass thinking of to do that? I hope you read her the Riot Act-she could have had the roof on fire. Bit simple, is she?'
Ridiculously he didn't like that. Remembering the spark in the green eyes, he said quietly, 'Far from it. She struck me as impetuous, that's all.'
'Oh, aye?' Kitty was a northerner and always spoke her mind. 'Plain daft, I'd call it. Still, let's hope she's learnt her lesson.'
Morgan wondered why he was feeling defensive on the girl's behalf when she'd behaved so foolishly. With Bella following he walked through to the drawing room at the front of the house, the windows of which overlooked wide sweeping lawns and manicured flowerbeds. Pouring himself a whisky from the cocktail cabinet in a corner of the room, he flung himself into a chair and switched on the massive TV with the remote. An inane quiz show came on the screen and after channel-hopping for a while he turned the TV off, drained his glass and made his way to his study.
The room was masculine and without frills, a floor-toceiling bookcase occupying one wall and his massive Edwardian twin-pedestal desk dominating the space. The study could appear cosy in the winter when Kitty saw to it a good fire was kept burning in the large ornate grate, but now the room merely had the air of being functional. He sat down at the desk.
Morgan gazed musingly at the tooled-leather writing surface without reaching for the stack of files he'd brought back to work on. When he'd got home at the weekend Kitty had been full of the news the village grapevine had passed on. A woman had bought Keeper's Cottage and was living in it alone, and to date she'd had no visitors. He hadn't been particularly interested; if he'd thought about it at all he'd probably jumped to the conclusion the woman in question was a middle-aged or retired individual who wanted a bit of peace and quiet from the hurly-burly of modern-day living.
He raised his head, his eyes taking in the tiny dancing particles of dust the slanting sunshine through the window had caught in its beam.
But the occupant of Keeper's Cottage was far from being old. The woman who had glared at him with such hostility was very young and attractive and clearly had a mind of her own, which begged the question-why had she chosen to live in such seclusion? Did she work? And if so, where? Who was Willow Landon and why didn't she like men? Or perhaps it was him, rather than the whole male gender, she didn't like?
This thought caused his firm, sensual mouth to tighten and he leaned back in the big leather chair for a moment, drumming his fingers on the padded arms.
This was crazy. Annoyance with himself brought him reaching abruptly for a file. It didn't matter who Willow Landon was or what had brought her to this neck of the woods. He'd probably never talk to the woman again; in all the time he'd lived here he had made a point of not becoming friendly with the neighbours. This was his bolt hole, the place where he could be himself and to hell with the rest of the world. His London apartment was where he socialised and conducted out-of-hours business affairs-other affairs too, come to it.
Morgan opened the file, scanning the papers inside but without really taking them in. He had ended his latest liaison the week before. Charmaine had been a delightful companion and-being a high-grade lawyer with nerves of steel and keenly intelligent-she was at the top of her profession and much sought after. Only he hadn't realised she thought it perfectly acceptable to endow her favours to other men on the occasions she wasn't seeing him. Unfashionable, perhaps, but he had always had an aversion to polygamy and he had told her so, as he'd thought quite reasonably.
Charmaine had called him pharisaical after throwing her cocktail in his face. What was the difference, she'd hissed, in sleeping with other men before and after an affair, and not during? They both knew they didn't want a for-ever scenario, and they had fun together and the sex was great; why couldn't he just go with the flow and enjoy it? Other men did.
He had looked into her beautiful, angry face and known any desire he'd had for the perfectly honed female body in front of him had gone. He didn't want to go where someone else had been the night before; it was as simple as that. He gave and expected fidelity for as long as a relationship lasted, and he couldn't operate any other way. The scene that had followed had been ugly.
Smiling grimly to himself, Morgan cleared his mind of anything but the Thorpe account in front of him. He needed to check the figures very carefully because something hadn't sat right with him when he'd glanced at them at the office. He had found his gut instinct rarely failed him.
Sure enough, a few minutes later he found a couple of discrepancies that were enough to raise question marks in his mind about the takeover that was being proposed. He'd have to go into things more thoroughly once he was back in the office, he decided, slinging the file aside and raking his hand through his hair.
The movement brought the faint smell of woodsmoke into his nostrils and he frowned, his earlier thoughts taking hold. Women were a necessary indulgence but they were a breed apart, and Charmaine had reminded him of the fact. Not that he'd needed much reminding. And that applied to all women-angry, green-eyed redheads included. She certainly had a temper to go with the hair, that was for sure. His mouth twisted in a smile. Not that he minded spirit in a woman. It often made life interesting. He'd never understood men who liked their women to be subservient shadows, scared to say boo to a goose.
He stretched his long legs, reaching for another file and feeling faintly annoyed at how he'd allowed himself to become distracted. Within moments he was engrossed in the papers in front of him and everything else had vanished from his mind, but the faint scent of woodsmoke still hung in the air.
CHAPTER THREE
'How embarrassing. Poor you.' In spite of her words Beth's tone was more eager than sympathetic and her face was alight with interest. 'And this guy who owns the place, he must be worth a bit if the manor house is just his weekend home?'
'I've got no idea how wealthy he is or isn't.'
'Is he young or old? I mean, grey-haired or what?'
'What's his age got to do with anything?' Willow found she was regretting mentioning the episode at the weekend to her sister now. She had called in for a coffee and quick chat after work mainly, she had to admit, because she was still smarting from Morgan Wright's condemnation and wanted someone to commiserate with her. She might have known Beth wouldn't play ball.
Beth shrugged. 'I just wondered if he was tasty, that's all.'
Willow had to smile. 'He's a man, Beth. Not a toasted sandwich.'
'Is he, though?' Beth had got the bit between her teeth.
'Is he what?' said Willow, deliberately prevaricating.
'Fanciable.' Beth grinned at her. 'Hunky, you know.'
She was so not going to do this. 'I didn't notice, added to which he's more likely than not married. Attractive, wealthy men of a certain age tend to be snapped up pretty fast.'
'So he is tasty?' Beth sat forward interestedly.
Willow changed the subject in the one way that couldn't fail. 'So you've finished the nursery now, then? Can I take a look?'
She oohed and ahhed at the pretty lemon and white room, which already had more fluffy toys than any one child could ever want, along with a wardrobe full of tiny little vests and socks and Babygros, and then made her escape before Beth returned to their previous conversation. Her sister rarely let anything drop before she was completely satisfied.
The weather had broken at the beginning of the week and it had got progressively colder day by day. Today, Friday, was the first of October and the month had announced its intentions with a biting wind and rain showers. It started to rain again when she was halfway home, but this was no shower, just a steady downpour that had her scurrying out of the car and into the house in record speed once she was home.