He pulled a face, recognising irony. ‘It did seem unlikely, your condescending to work for me. Though I can’t imagine it’s much different cleaning for “nobs”—or do they generate a better class of dirt?’
Esme supposed she’d asked for that and confined herself to pulling a face back at him.
‘So what does Mr Mop do?’ he resumed more casually, shoving his hands in his pockets as he strolled towards a window.
‘Mr Mop? What makes you think there is one?’ Esme tried to distract him from looking out.
Already too late as he nodded towards the courtyard below. ‘That is Master Mop down there, isn’t it? Your son, from the look of him.’
Esme followed his gaze. Harry was now sitting on the step used for mounting horses, his face in profile as he read a book.
She told herself not to panic. He’d seen Harry’s likeness to her and no one else.
‘Yes, he’s mine,’ she admitted briefly.
‘And Mr Mop?’
‘Long gone and forgotten.’
‘Right.’ It was a non-judgemental comment.
But Esme still felt judged. Like most single mothers. Irrelevant that they didn’t volunteer for the role.
‘He’s pretty good on the board,’ Jack added almost conversationally. ‘I was watching earlier before I realised he was yours. How old is he?’
Esme was ahead, anticipating the question, lying seamlessly, ‘Nine.’
He raised a brow. ‘He looks tall for his age?’
‘Yes, he is, very.’ she laboured. Harry was also tall for his real age of ten.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Harry... Harry Hamilton.’
Esme stressed the surname, obliquely claiming Harry as all her own. It didn’t stop Jack Doyle, however.
‘So who was his father,’ he enquired, ‘if you don’t mind me asking?’
Esme was a past master at avoiding this question. ‘I do, actually.’
The trouble with Jack Doyle, was that he wasn’t like other people. If he noticed a hint, he ignored it.
‘One of the Fairfaxes,’ he mused aloud, ‘what was his name? The youngest brother who used to moon around after you at riding events?’
‘Henry,’ she supplied without thinking.
‘That’s the one,’ he confirmed. ‘Henry...interesting. Isn’t that the name from which Harry is derived?’
‘It is also the name of my grandfather,’ Esme responded heavily.
‘So, should I take that as a denial?’
About to nod, Esme stopped herself. Did it matter if she left him with the impression Harry was Henry Fairfax’s? It was years since she’d seen Henry but she knew he lived somewhere abroad—South Africa, or South America, perhaps. Too far away, at any rate, for there to be any comeback.
‘I’d take it as a mind-your-own-business,’ she replied at length.
He laughed briefly. ‘Ambiguous.’
Well, that was what Esme was aiming for. Time to leave, she decided.
She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘I have to go.’
‘Lunch date?’ he enquired.
Esme didn’t answer. He’d already asked too many questions for her liking.
‘I thought I might take you somewhere,’ he added as she made to walk away. ‘The Sherborne Hotel in Addleston, assuming it still exists.’
Esme gaped at him. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’ he echoed. ‘Do I need a reason?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, let’s see... It might be interesting to get to know each other again.’
Esme continued to stare at him. Why should he suddenly want to know her now?
‘I can’t think what else there is to know,’ she responded at length. ‘You’re Jack Doyle, internet entrepreneur and new owner of Highfield. I’m Esme Hamilton, single mother of one and ex-cleaner of your mansion. Do you think we have any common ground?’
The final was a parting shot, as she raised an eyebrow at him before heading for the door.
But if she’d imagined he’d just let her walk away, she was mistaken. He caught up with her on the galleried landing, a hand on her elbow forcing her to stop and turn.
‘Is it Highfield?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Is that the problem? You can’t bear for me, the cook’s son, to have it?’
Esme’s eyes widened at the slant he’d put on things. The animosity she felt was unconnected to house deeds and family origins.
‘It couldn’t just be you, could it?’ she flashed back, trying and failing to free her arm. ‘That I don’t want to have lunch with you because you’re too damn boring for words or too bigheaded to take no for a bloody answer!’
She didn’t have to feign anger. She was angry. With him. With herself. With the whole world, for that matter.
He took a step back from her, perhaps recalling how she’d slapped him at their last reunion, but he didn’t release her arm. Nor did he show any sign of having his ego deflated.
‘I guess that’s telling it like it is,’ he finally drawled back, ‘although a little tip for the future: if you really don’t like a man, it’s best not to make those little moaning sounds when he’s kissing you. Might give him the whole wrong idea.’
He was talking of their last meeting and Esme felt her face burn even as temper prompted denial. ‘I did not!’
‘Didn’t you, now?’ he challenged. ‘I think maybe a rerun is in order.’
‘Wh-what do you mean?’ Could one fear something and long for it in the same instant?
It seemed so as he lived up to the threat and pulled her into his arms, silencing protest with his warm, hard lips.
Part of her resisted, issuing a muffled curse, pushing at his broad shoulders, as she struggled to be free of the embrace. But the other part? It was gasping for sanity as she opened her mouth and took the breath from his and let him taste her with his tongue, and felt the treacherous sensation curling in the belly pressed against his hard flesh.
She was fighting herself, balling her fingers into fists so she wouldn’t touch him back, catching the sounds in her throat even as she strained for his kiss, dizzy with desire when he finally let her go and having to grip onto the banister to stop herself swaying.
His own chest heaving. Jack stared hard at her as he tried to figure out the mixed messages he was receiving. He knew his own feelings. He wanted her more than he had any woman in a long time. Meant to have her, too, despite—or maybe because of—the furious resentment in her eyes.
‘How serious is it with you and this other fellow?’
‘Other fellow?’
Esme’s mind had gone blank.
‘The one you were waiting for at the West Gate.’
That one.
‘Oh, you mean...’ she scanned her fuddled brain for a name ‘...Charles.’
‘Charles?’ He mocked her posh accent. ‘Landed gentry, is he?’
‘Yes, actually.’
‘And is it?’
‘What?’
‘Serious?’
‘Yes!’
She lied without conscience. ‘But scarcely satisfying?’
‘What?’
This ‘what’ came from disbelief. He continued regardless.
‘Well, at the risk of being called bigheaded a second time—’ his tone was dry ‘—I don’t think you’d be responding to me if everything was OK between you and Charles.’
‘I wasn’t!’ Esme refuted automatically.
‘Really?’ He arched a brow. ‘In that case, I can’t wait to find out what it’s like when you do respond... Though, on second thoughts, I just about remember.’
His mouth moved into a slow smile as he alluded to their long-ago tryst.
Esme remembered, too. All of it. That was why she wasn’t going down that road again.
‘Won’t your girlfriend mind?’ She hadn’t forgotten the woman downstairs, even if he had.
‘Rebecca?’ He followed her glance to the hall below. ‘I wouldn’t think so, consideri
ng she’s married to my partner.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m currently unattached,’ he added.
‘Well, I’m not!’ Esme claimed, and, wondering why she was even having this ridiculous conversation, ended it by walking away.
This time he didn’t stop her but followed on behind as she descended the sweeping staircase.
Esme fought a desire to break into a run, and, with him still on her heels when she reached the kitchen, was relieved to find the woman, Rebecca, there.
‘I’ve made coffee,’ the American woman directed at Jack, then at Esme, ‘Would you like some, too?’
‘No, thanks,’ she replied. ‘I’ve finished for the day.’
‘R-right.’ The older woman looked doubtful. ‘But you are coming back? This place is going to need some radical work before you can live in it, J.D., and not just cleaning. Now I know why you English call these places stately piles.’
Her outspokenness was tempered by a grin and, out of the corner of her eye, Esme caught Jack grinning back.
‘Possibly,’ he agreed, ‘but, before you say more, I’d better perform some introductions. Esme Scott-Hamilton, meet Rebecca Wiseman. Rebecca, this is Esme, daughter of the former owner.’
‘Oops,’ came from Rebecca, ‘someone take my foot out of my mouth, will you?’
She pulled a face of apology and offered Esme her hand.
Esme shook it briefly, muttering, ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ Rebecca returned. ‘Sorry about earlier, thinking you were the cleaner. Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I am the cleaner,’ Esme claimed unashamedly.
Wrongfooted again, Rebecca replied, ‘I think I’ll just shut up now.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jack told her. ‘Esme isn’t that sensitive, are you?’
Wasn’t she? Clearly not in his view, anyway. Otherwise why did he continuously ride roughshod over her feelings?
‘I wouldn’t have to be.’ The dig was directed at him rather than Rebecca, before she was distracted by the sight of Harry approaching the back door.
He stopped short of coming inside but he gave her an I’m-bored-can-we-go look which mobilised her to pick up the denim jacket she’d slung over the back of a kitchen chair.
‘Is that your brother? He’s one heck of a handsome boy,’ declared Rebecca in warm tones.
As a mother, Esme appreciated hearing nice things about her child and smiled back, ‘Thanks, but he’s actually my son.’
‘Your son?’ Rebecca didn’t have to feign incredulity. ‘Amazing, you look far too young!’
‘Thanks,’ Esme murmured again at the intended compliment.
It was Jack who muttered, ‘She probably was.’
Esme didn’t know whether he was trying to be funny or insulting but it took all her control not to snap back, It didn’t stop you!
‘Jack!’ Rebecca reproved before telling Esme, ‘Never mind him. He’s so scared of commitment he’ll be seventy before he gets married, far less has children.’
‘Not true,’ Jack denied, mouth slanting, ‘I’ve just been waiting for the right woman to come along.’
Grey eyes came to rest on Esme and stayed there.
She could have flattered herself but she’d ceased being a fool the day she’d become a mother. Too young, maybe, but, as a means of wising up, nothing could beat it.
They traded stares, Jack’s mocking, Esme’s merely hostile.
It was Rebecca who laughed, ‘Talk about corny lines,’ while the other two continued their staring competition until Esme finally threw in the towel.
‘I have to go,’ she announced, breaking off eye contact and heading for the door.
She knew he wouldn’t stop her in front of his friend but she hadn’t counted on him pursuing her outside to the courtyard, where Harry was again seated on the mounting block.
Her son’s face brightened as he saw her before registering the man with a curious look.
‘Why are you following me?’ she hissed at Jack.
‘I’d like to meet your boy,’ he replied simply.
Esme resisted asking why and concentrated on keeping her cool.
‘Well, don’t expect him to be sociable.’ She knew Harry could be aloof with strangers.
‘Like his mother, then,’ Jack said under his breath before coolly introducing himself to Harry. ‘Hi, I’m Jack Doyle, an old friend of your mother’s.’
Friend? Esme almost snorted aloud and waited for Harry’s usual mumble.
‘That’s weird!’ he responded instead. ‘I’m reading your book.’
‘You write books?’ Esme’s tone was accusing.
The man was more amused. ‘Not guilty.’
Harry chipped in, ‘This book, Mum. The one I’m reading. It’s got his name in the front.’
‘Oh, right.’ Esme belatedly remembered Harry unearthing a box of old books behind a hatch in his bedroom and wondered how she was going to explain this coincidence.
Jack read the title from the spine of the book. ‘The Time Machine by H.G. Wells. That’s pretty advanced reading for your age.’
Harry gave a modest shrug. ‘The story’s quite good when you get into it, as long as you ignore his theories of time and space travel. They’re a bit crazy.’
Jack raised a brow in Esme’s direction, impressed by her son’s intelligence, before referring to the book again. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘A charity shop,’ Esme put in quickly, only to have Harry contradict her.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ he denied. ‘It was in our house, in a box behind a hatch in the attic’
‘Your house?’ Jack slid a quizzical glance at Esme. ‘Where do you live exactly?’
Esme started to say, ‘South—’ the name of the local town.
But, quicker off the mark, Harry stated, ‘The cottage in the grounds.’
‘Really?’ Dark brows were raised as Jack concluded for himself, ‘So you’re the sitting tenant?’
‘Yes.’ At least he hadn’t said “my” sitting tenant, but Esme suspected him of inward gloating.
Harry was oblivious of undercurrents. ‘Are you the new owner?’
Jack nodded.
‘Cool,’ was Harry’s verdict. Jack smiled.
By now Esme was gritting her teeth so hard she might have done damage to them.
‘How long have you lived there?’ asked Jack.
‘About eight years,’ she responded flatly.
‘Even when your mother was still occupying the main house?’ He frowned.
Esme gave a nod and thought to add, ‘We rented it from her.’
‘A peppercorn rent, presumably?’ he commented.
How to answer that? Have her mother seem meaner than she actually was or jeopardise her position as sitting tenant?
‘What’s peppercorn mean?’ Harry put in.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ answered Esme, making another show of looking at her watch. ‘Is that the time? We have to go... Here, you’ll be needing these.’
She handed over the bunch of keys weighing down her coat pocket and finally took to her heels, leaving Harry to follow.
She heard Jack say, ‘Nice to meet you, Harry.’
‘You, too,’ Harry replied, slow to trail after her.
She waited at the end of the stable block until he caught up. A backward glance and she saw the man still watching after them, meeting her gaze with a slanting smile.
‘See you around,’ he called out.
Only the boy answered, ‘See you,’ before being hurried down the path through the woods.
Jack continued to gaze after them. It was quite a turn-up, Esme now living in the cottage. He wondered why she’d kept quiet about it. Worried about her tenancy status, perhaps?
‘Taking a walk down memory lane?’ Rebecca asked as she appeared at his side.
Jack had told her about his past associations with the estate. ‘Not really. The place has changed too much.’
/> ‘And the girl?’ Rebecca smiled.
‘Especially the girl.’ Jack still couldn’t quite reconcile the new Esme with the old. Tall, slim and blonde, she was undoubtedly better looking than the cute, slightly dumpy kid that had used to follow him around. But at what cost?
His speculative air fed Rebecca’s curiosity. ‘So, how well did you know her? A victim of the undoubted Jack Doyle charm, or shouldn’t I ask?’
Jack shook his head. He could have told her the truth; Rebecca and her husband Sam were his closest friends. But it didn’t seem right to confess his one-time thing with Esme, even if he’d been one in a line and she’d gone on, soon after, to have that boy. For a moment he’d actually wondered if he could be...but no, the age was wrong.
‘Miss Esme?’ he said, tongue-in-cheek. ‘Too elevated for the likes of me, I’m afraid.’
Rebecca laughed, as intended. ‘Not now, though, Mr Moneybags.’
Jack made a slight face. ‘Somehow I don’t think that’ll impress her.’
‘And we want to do that, do we?’ Rebecca teased back. ‘Perhaps,’ Jack agreed, although he kept to himself the way he really felt.
Walking back to the cottage, Esme tried to do the same, but Harry wasn’t fooled.
‘What’s wrong?’ He’d rarely seen his mother so impatient.
‘Nothing!’ she claimed, while keeping up this pace all the way to her door.
Once inside, Harry pursued, ‘Is it that man? Don’t you like him?’
Like, or dislike, for that matter, didn’t come at all close to the feeling she had for Jack Doyle—a powerful cocktail of fear, anger and sexual chemistry.
‘Not much,’ she stated at length.
‘Because he bought the house?’ Harry reasoned.
‘Partly.’ Easiest to agree.
Ever logical, Harry pointed out, ‘Someone had to buy it.’
‘Yes, well, I’d have preferred it was someone else,’ she returned. ‘Now, can we just change the subject?’
Nettled, Harry took her literally and flatly informed her, ‘You have a cobweb in your hair,’ before heading for his room.
‘Ugh!’ Esme put a hand to her head and patted round it until she found the offending object. She brushed it out with her fingers and shook her head.
What must she have looked like? Old jeans, baggy shirt, hair in a pony-tail and none too clean. A complete contrast to the elegance of his American woman friend. Yet he’d kissed her.
The Mother And The Millionaire Page 7