A Special Kind of Woman

by Caroline Anderson

  He’d obviously been affected by their dance, too, and had been unable to disguise his reaction, but unlike the average man he’d made no move to pursue that interest or push her into anything she wasn’t ready for.

  Still, he’d proved over and over again that he was more than an average man, and he was a lot more mature than the last man to take an interest in her. Still, that had been fifteen or so years ago, and that thoroughly average experience had been enough to put her off for life.

  Until Owen.

  She wondered what he’d got planned for them that night. Goodness knows. He’d given her no clues on the phone, apart from telling her not to eat and to dress casually. Still, she didn’t care. Just being with him was enough.

  Cait snuggled down under the quilt, closed her eyes and fell instantly asleep, happier than she’d been for years.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘A PUB crawl!’

  Owen laughed, his eyes crinkling with humour and his lips twitching. ‘Yes, a pub crawl. Are you doing anything early tomorrow?’

  Cait shook her head, wondering what was in store for her that he needed to ask that. ‘No. Nothing—well, I was going to sort stock at some point. Why, won’t I be well enough?’

  He laughed again. ‘Of course you will! I’m not going to get you legless, sweetheart. I was just going to suggest you bring some overnight things, then we can go by taxi and I can get in the spirit of it, too—or we can do that and I can get the taxi to run you back. It’s up to you. No strings. I just thought it might be rather nice to have our own sleep-over party.’

  She hesitated for a moment, troubled because she still hadn’t been able to get hold of Milly on the phone, but then she surrendered with a smile. ‘OK. I’ll get some things together. Come on up—it’s tidy for once. I cleaned up in your honour.’

  ‘I’d better come and make it worthwhile, then, hadn’t I?’ he said with a grin, and followed her up the stairs.

  She turned to him at the top. ‘It’s not like yours,’ she warned him.

  Owen caught her hands and held them lightly, staring down into her eyes, his face serious now. ‘I didn’t expect it to be, Cait. Stop worrying. You know I’m proud of all you’ve achieved. I’m not interested in judging you.’

  She felt tears welling in her eyes, and turned away. ‘Don’t be silly. Come in.’

  He followed her, looking round with interest. She’d thought he’d probably sit politely down, but he didn’t. He prowled, fingering things, looking at her little treasures—clay models Milly had made at kindergarten, a framed Mother’s Day card ditto, a funny little knitted cat that was meant to be Bagpuss.

  He smiled indulgently as he examined them, and she could tell that he had a similar set of treasures collected over the years. He was a sentimental man, and she wondered how he had coped with Jill’s death and if it still haunted him.

  Certainly he still wore his wedding ring, and she wondered if he was ready for another relationship or if he really was just offering her friendship with no strings attached, just as he’d said.

  ‘I won’t be long. Sit down,’ she suggested hopefully, but he just smiled and said he was all right and carried on prowling.

  Cait came back a few minutes later after a hunt for a decent nightdress, to find him on the lumpy old sofa with Bagpuss shedding hair all over his dark trousers.

  ‘Oh, no, look what’s she’s done!’ she exclaimed, and handed Owen the clothes brush. There was no way she was brushing down his lap!

  ‘OK?’ he asked after a few vigorous strokes, and she nodded.

  ‘You’ll do. Sorry about that—you’re a bad cat, Bagpuss! Come on, I’ll feed you. You’d better have enough to last tomorrow morning, if Owen’s going to lead me astray,’ she said to the cat, who just purred and wound herself around Cait’s legs.

  Owen was chuckling.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Me, leading you astray. As if I would,’ he murmured, and winked at her.

  She sighed inwardly. Unfortunately she didn’t think there was the slightest chance of him leading her astray, despite the wink. He was far too much of a gentleman, and she had a sickening feeling that he wanted much less from her than she wanted to give.

  But, then, she was a desperate, lonely old maid.

  Not that she’d have to be desperate to take an interest in him. He was enough to tempt a saint, and she’d lost any right to that office years ago. Oh, rats.

  ‘Right, I’m ready,’ she said, throwing the cat an extra measure of dry food and making a friend for life of her.

  She flicked off lights, left the landing light on and ran down the stairs with Owen following her, her overnight bag firmly in his hand after he’d removed it from her.

  Ever the gentleman.

  She shut the door from the stairwell to the shop, locked it and then set the shop alarm on the way out of the door.

  ‘Is there any risk of a break-in?’ he asked her, and she shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t want to take any chances, so I tend to set the alarm if I’m out for a long time—although they say most burglaries happen when you’ve gone to fetch a child from school or nipped to the shop, don’t they?’

  ‘Something like that. We were burgled in town while we were at home, for goodness’ sake—just because we left the window open in the sitting room when we’d gone out into the garden. They came in through the bay window in full view of the street, and nobody saw a thing.’

  She thought how she’d feel, and shuddered. ‘It must have been awful. Did they take much?’

  He gave a slow shake of his head. ‘Not really. They broke something irreplaceable, though, a cup Josh had made for Jill at school. That was the worst thing. Nothing else seemed to matter by comparison.’

  He opened the car door for her, and she looked up and caught a glimpse of pain in his eyes, and knew she’d been right. He was a man who valued little things, who knew the importance of tiny gestures and acts of kindness, and she felt her throat swell with emotion so that she could hardly swallow.

  By the time he was behind the wheel she’d got herself together again, and he shot her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘OK?’ he said, and she nodded, not quite able to trust her voice.

  ‘Yes, I’m OK,’ she managed after a moment, then changed the subject. ‘So, where are we starting this pub crawl?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘Oh, in Audley. I’ve got a taxi coming for us at eight-fifteen.’

  ‘Such extravagance,’ she teased, and he shrugged.

  ‘You could drive, if you like, but it rather defeats the object.’

  ‘So it does,’ she agreed. ‘So, which pub first and why?’

  ‘The Dirty Duck—they have a brilliant starter menu.’

  ‘Starter menu?’ she said, puzzled.

  He shot her a grin. ‘Oh, yes. You didn’t think we were going to go to all these pubs and just drink, did you?’

  She had—well, she’d imagined he’d told her not to eat so he could feed her, not so she’d get drunk quicker, but she had no real idea what he’d got in mind.

  It turned out to be a culinary guided tour. They had chopped mushrooms and smoky bacon on toast in the Dirty Duck, washed down with a glass of something delicious from their wine cellar, followed by a brisk walk across town to the Wagon and Horses for a wonderful pot roast with the most fabulous vegetables and a glass of vintage claret, then on to the Bell for the wickedest chocolate mousse she’d ever tasted in her life, sitting on a puddle of Grand Marnier and topped with the creamiest cream and a fanned strawberry garnish, with a glass of wonderfully mellow muscat to sip alongside it.

  ‘That,’ she told him as she scraped the last tiny bit of chocolate mousse from the dish and levelled her spoon at him, ‘was not your average pub crawl.’

  Owen chuckled. ‘I thought you’d never been on one?’ he said.

  ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t know what they’re like,’ she pointed out, ‘and that wasn’t it.’ She sat back,
still licking her lips, and sighed hugely. ‘That was…’ She trailed to a halt, lost for words, and he gave a low chuckle.

  ‘That good, eh?’

  ‘Absolutely. Remind me never to cook for you—it’s just underlined how useless I really am.’

  He chuckled again and poured the last dribble of muscat into her glass. ‘Come on, drink up, we’ve got to have the next course.’

  Cait stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. ‘Next course?’ she squeaked, and he nodded.

  ‘Yup—Irish coffee and after-dinner mints by the fire at my house. The taxi’ll be outside in a moment. Are you ready?’

  She nodded, a little dazed. ‘Yes, I’m ready. I don’t know if I can stand, but I’m ready.’ She smiled at him, wondering if she looked and sounded as merry as she felt, and remembered his promise not to get her legless.

  Well, it wasn’t exactly a promise, which was just as well since he probably had no idea what a cheap drunk she was. One sip and she was away usually, and tonight she’d had three glasses.

  Oops.

  Oh, well, in for a penny…

  She drained her glass and stood up, managing not to fall over while he helped her into her coat, and then the taxi whisked them back out into the velvet darkness of the countryside and she leant on his arm in the back and sighed contentedly.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She felt too lazy to speak, and didn’t argue when he eased his arm out from behind her and wrapped it round her shoulders, shifting so that her head came to rest on his chest and her arm just naturally snuggled round his waist. ‘Mmm,’ she said again, and closed her eyes. It felt so good…

  She was asleep by the time they got back to his house, and he woke her gently. ‘Cait? We’re back.’

  She sat up sleepily, and he got out of the taxi and paid the driver, then went round and helped her out.

  ‘Come on, sleepyhead,’ he said gently, and she looked up at him as the clouds parted, her face silvered with moonlight, and smiled mistily.

  ‘Sorry—I’m not used to drinking so much,’ she told him, as if he hadn’t already realised that. ‘It just knocks me out.’

  ‘You can’t go to sleep yet, we’ve still got to have the coffee and liqueur phase of the meal,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Just coffee,’ she told him, sounding just a fraction tipsy, and he felt a twinge of guilt. Hopefully she wouldn’t feel too hungover the next day.

  ‘Come on,’ he coaxed, and led her into the house and settled her in the corner of the settee nearest the fire.

  The dogs greeted them with enthusiastic wagging, and he let them out for a run and gave them a biscuit while he made the coffee.

  He passed on the Irish whiskey. Cait certainly didn’t need it and he wasn’t sure he did, either. The last thing he wanted was to drink so much that he woke up tomorrow not knowing what he’d done, if anything, and he needed all his wits about him with her looking so soft and warm and sleepy.

  Owen sat down on the other side of the fireplace, well away from temptation, and pushed the coffee towards Cait across the low table.

  ‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ he said, and she cracked an eye open.

  ‘You talking to me?’ she asked, and he nodded.

  ‘I am. Your coffee’s there.’

  ‘Laced?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Not laced. I thought we’d probably both had enough.’

  She sat forwards and kicked off her shoes, picked up her coffee and snuggled back into the corner with her feet tucked under her bottom and her nose buried in the mug.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said appreciatively, and he smiled and leant back, stretching out his legs in front of him and indulging his senses.

  A warm fire, a comfortable chair, good coffee—and a beautiful woman to look at. What more could a man want?

  To take her to bed and make long, slow, lazy love to her, he thought, and swore silently. Ain’t ever gonna happen, he told himself. Down, boy. You promised.

  He snagged a handful of chocolate mint sticks and nudged the stereo remote control, and soft music poured over them, lazy and romantic. They stayed there like that for ages, long after the coffee was finished and the fire had died down and the CD had played out, and then he stood up and drew her to her feet.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed. You look wiped.’

  ‘You said you weren’t going to get me legless,’ she teased, and stumbled slightly against him.

  ‘Hopeless creature. You didn’t tell me you had no head at all for it.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t! I’ll have you know I’m a model of propriety,’ she said, and spoilt it by giggling.

  Owen gave up. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her up the stairs and along the walkway to her room, then set her gently down on her feet in the doorway. Her bag was there, all ready for her, and he thought she could probably manage to get herself ready for bed. If she couldn’t, well, she’d sleep as she was, because there was no way he trusted himself with her, not when she was so deliciously defenceless.

  He reached out a hand and cupped Cait’s cheek, and the moonlight streaming through the window beside him gleamed dully on the worn gold of his wedding ring.

  He looked at it in surprise. He hadn’t even thought about it for a while, but now it seemed out of place, somehow disloyal to both Jill and Cait. And if anything could have reminded him of his responsibilities, that was it.

  He dropped his hand to his side and gave her a crooked smile.

  ‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ he murmured. ‘Sleep well.’

  His lips brushed hers lightly, and he turned and left her standing there in the doorway. He closed his door firmly, sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the photo of Jill that sat on the bedside table.

  Odd, how he could hardly remember her now after all the time they’d been together. He could still hear her voice sometimes in things Josh said, but he found it increasingly hard to remember her face.

  Four years, he thought. Just a short while, and yet it felt like a lifetime.

  He could hear Cait moving around in her room at the other end of the walkway, and he wished it was a drawbridge that he could pull up, to keep them both safe from each other.

  He put the photo of Jill back on the bedside table to watch over him and keep him in order, and then he took off his clothes, crawled under the quilt and lay listening to the small sounds from Cait’s room until the house was quiet.

  Then he fell into a restless sleep, and dreamed of her…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CAIT woke to sun streaming in and a pounding headache.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she groaned, and slid under the quilt, shutting out the light. Better, but not a lot. Oh, heck.

  ‘Serves you right,’ she told herself a while later when the little men had put their hammers down and seemed to be taking a tea-break. ‘You know you can’t drink.’

  She heard a firm tread on the walkway and scraped up the mental energy to wonder just how much of a fright she looked. She’d taken her make-up off the night before, but without fail a trace of mascara would remain and work its way down her cheeks in the night, giving her panda eyes.

  Her hair was on end, her head was thumping again and the last thing she wanted to do was put on a cheerful face. She decided not to bother. It was, after all, his fault.

  After a gentle knock, Owen popped his head round the door. ‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ he said softly, and she twitched the quilt down and looked blearily at him across the room.

  ‘Hello yourself,’ she growled. ‘You’re looking disgustingly chipper.’

  He smiled just a touch smugly. ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Grim. How’s yours?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, and finally had the grace to look apologetic. ‘I’ve brought you tea, if you fancy it.’

  Cait slid carefully up the bed, dragging the quilt after her, and tucked it firmly under her armpits. ‘I always fancy tea,’ she told him, and rested her head gently back against the high wooden headboard with a
groan.

  ‘Sit up,’ he told her, and tucked another pillow behind her shoulders for her sore head to rest on. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Lovely,’ she croaked, and reached for the tea. The mug arrived in her fingers, and she buried her nose in it and sipped cautiously. ‘Oh, gorgeous,’ she mumbled, and worked her way steadily down it.

  By the time she’d finished the second cup, the little men were just tapping gently and she thought she might survive the day. Owen, bless his heart, was mercifully silent, just sitting by the window on a comfy chair sipping tea and staring out over the valley.

  He looked across at her and smiled. ‘Better?’

  ‘Much, thank you,’ she said with feeling. Putting the cup down, she snuggled the covers up round her shoulders and sighed. ‘I can’t believe I’m hungover,’ she said disgustedly, and he chuckled.

  ‘It was probably the muscat. It’s wickedly strong.’

  ‘It was perfect with the chocolate mousse—which incidentally had a good slug of liqueur in it. I forgot to count that.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the chocolate mousse. I should have warned you. I’ve had it before—it’s enough to put you over the limit without anything else, just about.’

  ‘To be fair, I can get drunk on my neighbour’s sherry-flavour trifle,’ she said drily, and he chuckled again. She gave him a sour look. ‘You’re in a very good mood,’ she said crossly.

  One brow kicked up. ‘Do I take it you aren’t a morning person, sweetheart?’ he said with an almost straight face, and she threw a pillow at him.

  Owen caught it and threw it back, and she buried her face in it and rolled over onto her side, groaning. ‘What time is it?’ she asked through the pillow.

  ‘If you just said what I think you did, it’s eleven thirty.’

  She dropped the pillow and sat up. ‘What!’ she squawked. ‘It can’t be!’

  ‘It is. Why, should you be somewhere?’

  Cait shook her head—not a wise move—and groaned.

  ‘You need some breakfast and some fresh air, probably in the reverse order. Why don’t you have a quick shower and we’ll take the dogs for a little stroll down to the river, then come back and have a good hearty breakfast?’