The Mother And The Millionaire

by Alison Fraser

  Esme was aghast when he barely hesitated before reaching for his jacket from the back of the sofa and going into the inside pocket for his wallet.

  ‘How much?’ he said simply.

  ‘I don’t want your money!’ she threw back. ‘That was a “what if.” God, you must think I’m desperate.’

  ‘I think you’re broke,’ he corrected.

  ‘Well, I’m not!’ she refuted. ‘And even if I was, you couldn’t buy me.’

  From the darkening of his expression, she’d finally man­aged to hit a nerve.

  ‘That wasn’t my intention. And from memory,’ he re­sponded coldly, ‘I don’t need to buy you.’

  Esme’s face flamed even as she hissed back, ‘You bas­tard!’

  ‘Probably,’ he agreed.

  ‘I was sixteen and I was drunk—’ she was tired of his holding the past over her ‘—and I wouldn’t consider yourself irresistible because of it.’

  ‘And last month, last week—’ he caught her arm when she made to walk past him ‘—were you drunk then? You cer­tainly aren’t sixteen any more.’

  Esme didn’t waste energy trying to twist free but she went on the offensive, all the same. ‘No, you’re right. I’m a twenty-six-year-old single mother who hasn’t slept with a man in years and, as such, is probably on the desperate side. Not much of a challenge, that, is it?’

  She meant to annoy, ridicule, send him in retreat, but he suddenly looked pleased with himself.

  ‘Interesting,’ he remarked. ‘So what are you and Charles waiting for? The wedding night?’

  Esme was stopped in her tracks. She’d forgotten she’d mentioned Charles to him.

  ‘Would that be so awful? Charles is a gentleman.’

  He said nothing, but made a sound of disgust that couldn’t possibly be ignored.

  ‘Not that I’d expect you to appreciate such a quality.’ she added meaningfully.

  ‘You’re right, I don’t.’ He dragged her round to face him. ‘I’m just the cook son’s, remember? Not some bloody sex­less, upper-class twit... But, yes, it would be awful, married to someone who can actually wait to make love to you, doesn’t long to take you to bed, hear you cry out as he—’

  ‘Stop it!’ Too much truth for Esme to bear. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘You know why.’ He tried to gather her closer but she warded him off, placing a hand against the wall of his chest.

  Beneath it, she felt the beating of his heart, wild as hers. ‘You need me to tell you?’

  A threat, softly spoken.

  She shook her head. No more words.

  They would only compound the way he made her feel, his eyes burning into hers, slowly destroying her will.

  So why keep looking at him? Why let him grasp her hands and lead her back towards the fire? Stay still as a statue while he framed her face in his hands to place a first tender kiss on her cheek?

  She had shut her eyes by then so he no longer had the power to make her do things, yet it was she who raised her head and, like a starving soul, sought his mouth.

  He fed her hunger with his cool breath and his bruising lips and the warm thrust of his tongue, but she wanted more. They fell on the sofa together, and, from there, rolled onto the hearth rug to lie by the dying fire. She needed his hands, caressing, touching, pushing inside silk and cotton to her breasts, fondling till they were heavy and full. No protest made when he untied the belt, spreading the robe, the night­gown beneath. She reached for him, too, carelessly ripping buttons off his shirt, palms gliding through rough male hair already slick with sweat.

  She lay for him as he moved his head downwards, lips to the base of her throat, the hollows of her shoulder, the rise of her breasts, inexorably downwards until finally they opened on the hard nipple thrust eagerly into his mouth.

  She needed this. Needed it like food or water. Wanted it more.

  Greedy as he. One breast, then the other. Aching for it. Tongue, gently nuzzling, now teeth, teasing and biting, draw­ing whimpers from her breathless throat.

  A question asked. Head shaken. No, no protection.

  Never mind. This time for her. Lie back, darling.

  Not really understanding. Mouth back on a nipple. Hand on her belly. Sliding over the curve. Seeking, pushing. Suddenly inside her thighs. Making her flinch. Soothing.

  Stroking. Parting those other lips. Long fingers, in and out, strong and rhythmic, until she was panting hard.

  Stopping then. Breast abandoned. His head moving down­wards. Her hips gently raised. A mouth placed where his fingers had been, a tongue lapping, serving her so unfamil­iarly she cried out. Then shuddering, coming, in a gush of warm, wet pleasure.

  Left drained and satisfied but shaking as he wrapped her back in the soft folds of the robe. Unable to look at him. Shamed by her very surrender.

  ‘OK?’ A curiously tender kiss was placed on her temple.

  She nodded but kept her eyes tight shut in case he saw too much. No man had ever brought her to fulfilment that way. It was almost as if she’d lost her innocence again.

  ‘Next time—’ he pushed a strand of hair from her face ‘—I’ll come prepared.’

  Finally she opened her eyes.

  He gazed at her possessively, not hiding what was in his thoughts.

  She half wished he would do it now. Take her and be done with it. She knew she owed him.

  She could have left it, picked a better time, but Esme felt compelled to be honest. She sat up, clutching her robe to her, as she finally responded, ‘I’m sorry but there won’t be a next time.’

  ‘What?’ Clearly stunned, he sat up, too, and caught her arm, forcing her round. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I don’t want you coming round again.’ She couldn’t stand it—a relationship dominated by sex from which he could walk away whenever he pleased.

  ‘But—’ his eyes raked her face and saw she was serious ‘—what was all that about?’

  She read it as a kind of accusation, perhaps one she de­served. She’d let him make love to her without giving much in return and now here she was, finishing it.

  ‘You want to do it properly.’ She spoke her earlier thoughts aloud, ‘I won’t stop you, but that’s it.’

  She couldn’t have him coming and going as he pleased. She knew she wouldn’t cope with it.

  ‘You won’t stop me?’ he echoed her choice of words, ‘Is that intended as a turn-on or a turn-off?’

  ‘I...no...I—I just m-meant...’ She stammered at the sud­den fury in his face.

  ‘Forget it!’ He pushed her away from him. ‘I know what you meant. A favour for a favour. Well, no, thanks.’

  He was on his feet, shoving his unbuttoned shirt into his trousers and grabbing for his jacket before she had the chance to say anything in reply.

  She had what she wanted. He was heading for the door. So why did she follow?

  She caught him up in the hall and grabbed at his sleeve before he could leave. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ he growled back. ‘Well, why don’t you come and explain it to me some time? Maybe when you’re feeling a little frustrated and in need of some male company. Who knows? If I’m desperate enough, I may just oblige.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that!’ Esme protested, between tears and temper.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ His eyes blazed with contempt.

  He had never looked at Esme like that before. It tore holes in her heart even as she threw back, ‘You were the one who came to me.’

  ‘More fool me, then,’ he growled and, roughly setting her aside, dragged open the door.

  He left it wide as he strode off into the darkness.

  Esme slammed it shut, a final gesture of defiance, before she collapsed into a crying, pathetic heap.

  What had she done?

  CHAPTER SIX

  What had she done?

  She woke the next day asking herself the same question, and unfortunately remembered the answer all too well as she drif
ted through to the living room. The fire was dead, just ash in the grate—much as she felt inside. Passion burned out, leaving only waste behind.

  Or more accurately shame. That she could be so weak. How could she ever face Jack Doyle again?

  She seriously contemplated running: abandoning her be­longings and just driving away.

  To where? That was the problem. Her mother’s. God, no. But who else would take her in?

  She thought of Charles, and rejected him in almost the same instant, just as the telephone rang.

  She stared at it hard for a moment, as if she could guess the identity of the ringer, then told herself to stop being silly. Whoever it was, it wouldn’t be Jack Doyle. He had made it quite clear that she’d have to come running to him.

  She picked it up and murmured a tentative, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Esme?’ a male voice enquired.

  ‘Yes. Hi, Charles,’ she said with some relief.

  ‘I know you’re busy at the moment—’ he repeated the last excuse she’d used on him ‘—but I wondered if you were free tonight. We could go out for a meal.’

  Esme heard the diffident note in his voice. She had to do something. It wasn’t fair to keep him dangling.

  ‘Why don’t you come here, Charles? I’ll make us some­thing.’ She felt a let-down might be easier over dinner at home.

  ‘I...well...’ Charles was clearly surprised. ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘No trouble,’ Esme assured him but she was already re­gretting the impulse. Had that been a note of hope in Charles’s voice? ‘Say, eight o’clock. Phone me from the car and I’ll come down and open the gates. They’re on a remote-control system now.’

  ‘Ah, the new broom,’ Charles joked. ‘So, what’s he like?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ lied Esme. ‘Listen, I’m going to have to go. I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘All right,’ he signed off. ‘Looking forward to it.’

  Esme replaced the receiver and pulled a face. There was no mistaking the warmth in Charles’s goodbye. He had no idea why she’d asked him here.

  Not that she had to worry about his behaviour. She would let him down gently and he would accept it. No caveman tactics from him. He really was the perfect gentleman.

  So why couldn’t she want him?

  Esme suspected the answer lay in some defect in her own nature. Still, she was fighting it, and at least she was now mature enough not to go dressing up her feelings.

  She blushed for her sixteen-year-old self. How guileless that girl had been. Adoring Jack Doyle as if he were God’s gift.

  True, he had been good-looking. Still was, an insidious voice chimed in. And, yes, he had been kind, noticing her artistic talents and insisting she was smart despite her erratic spelling and even greater difficulties with maths.

  But then, hadn’t her father paid him to tutor her during several school holidays? Hadn’t praising her been just part of the deal?

  Well, she was older and wiser now and she didn’t remem­ber him saying anything particularly kind last night. Maybe about Harry, but that had been more in the nature of an isn’t he a great kid despite being brought up by a single mother type remark.

  And hadn’t she lived down to his expectations? She cringed when she thought of it. More than ten years passed and she was still letting him mess her about. At least there would be no long-term consequences this time.

  Which led her on to thinking of Harry and how she was going to tackle the subject of e-mailing virtual strangers. He’d been trying to help and she didn’t want to make a huge issue of it, but he had to realise: they were moving from the cot­tage, regardless.

  She’d prepared a speech for when she picked him up later from his friend Adam’s house, but he was so buoyant she was reluctant to destroy his good mood. It seemed Adam’s dad had taken them out to something called Laser Quest which was terribly cool. Esme listened patiently to a blow-by-blow account, before offering to take him back there some time.

  Harry pulled a slight face, ‘It’s kind of boys’ stuff, Mum.’

  He didn’t mean to be hurtful, and normally Esme would have laughed off such a sexist comment, but today it made her feel inadequate. Try as she might, she was never going to make up for one lack in Harry’s life—a father.

  Which brought her back to Jack. Not that she was about to go in for any true confessions. OK, so Harry had liked Jack enough to e-mail him a begging letter, and Jack had responded in a friendly manner. But that was a far cry from Jack welcoming a son he’d never asked for and Harry de­served better than a reluctant father.

  ‘Um...what did you do last night, Mum?’ Harry went on to ask.

  For a moment Esme thought he was making up for his dismissive remark and answered vaguely, ‘Oh, you know. A bit of work. Watched some TV.’

  ‘Oh.’ Harry sounded disappointed.

  She added, ‘Tonight, though, Charles is coming round. I’m cooking him a meal.’

  ‘Right.’ Harry was clearly underwhelmed, ‘I don’t have to be there, do I?’

  ‘No.’ Esme was relieved he’d counted himself out, but still added, ‘I thought you liked Charles.’

  ‘He’s OK,’ Harry agreed flatly, ‘but he does ask stupid questions.’

  ‘Like what?’ Esme hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Like, “How are you doing at school?” And, “Do you play rugby?’’ And even, “What do you want for Christmas?’“ Harry relayed, ‘when it’s only Easter.’

  Esme might have laughed in sympathy if she hadn’t felt guilty about her own treatment of Charles. ‘He’s just trying to make conversation.’

  ‘Boring,’ Harry dismissed, to Esme’s further annoyance.

  ‘Maybe he should e-mail you instead,’ she threw back. ‘You seem to prefer that. Quite a little chatterbox on the computer, I’ve heard.’

  It sounded like what it was, an accusation. She wished it unsaid almost instantly. So much for her resolution to tackle the matter calmly.

  She half hoped that Harry wouldn’t pick up on the impli­cation but she’d forgotten how quick he was.

  A brief silence followed before he said, ‘Jack came to see you.’

  Esme considered feigning ignorance. Now hardly felt the right time to talk about this. But it was an opening.

  ‘If you mean Mr Doyle,’ she confirmed, ‘Then, yes, he came last night.’

  Harry sneaked a glance at her face, noted the tightness around her mouth. ‘You’re mad, aren’t you?’

  Completely crazy, yes, when she considered her encounter with Jack, but that wasn’t what Harry meant.

  ‘No, not really,’ she replied heavily, then went on to con­tradict it by saying, ‘Ignoring the fact that we agreed you would never use your computer to communicate with total strangers—’

  ‘He isn’t!’

  ‘Don’t interrupt,’ she rebuked. ‘He is virtually.’

  ‘But he used to live in our cottage,’ Harry reasoned. ‘You knew him when you were little.’

  ‘That is not the point I’m making.’ Esme grew more ex­asperated. ‘If I’d wanted you to go begging I’d have sent you in person, shoeless and cap in hand. But I don’t, so I’d ap­preciate it if you didn’t talk to him again.’

  A longer silence followed. It was Esme’s turn to glance in Harry’s direction. She thought she’d really upset him with her snappy tone. But, no, she knew that expression: stubborn resistance.

  ‘On the computer,’ he asked, ‘or at all?’

  When had he become so pedantic? Or was she only just noticing the trait? She knew its origin, having had a recent update of the adult version.

  The words ‘at all’ were on her lips but she didn’t say them. She couldn’t. The day would come when talking to his fa­ther—so far a nebulous character—might be of primary im­portance to him. Would he remember then how she had for­bidden it? Would he even forgive her for keeping the truth from him?

  She sloughed away from the subject now. �
�It hardly mat­ters. We’ll be moving on soon,’ she said with quiet authority.

  She tensed for further argument. None came.

  Instead Harry muttered, ‘He said,’ and this time the dis­appointed anger wasn’t directed at her.

  She had a choice: the truth or the easy way out? She picked the latter, and, in the silence that developed, tried to justify it. What did it matter if Harry thought the man had let him down? She was the one who had to live with him, the one who had to bring him up. Jack Doyle should have never made promises he couldn’t keep.

  ‘Here.’ She tried to hand Harry the remote control as they approached the gates.

  It was still a novelty, pressing the button to make the gates open. Or it had been.

  He refused with a brusque, ‘No, thanks.’

  She kept any irritation to herself and operated the remote. It took several clicks before anything happened and she scowled at the little gadget.

  When they finally reached the cottage and went inside Harry would have immediately disappeared upstairs if she hadn’t stopped him.

  ‘Look, Harry—’ she silently cursed her excess of con­science ‘—you should know. It has nothing to do with Jack Doyle. He’d let us stay if we wanted to.’

  ‘But,’ Harry struggled to work out what was going on, ‘if that’s the case, why...?’

  ‘I realise it’s hard for you to understand,’ she sighed in reply, ‘but I feel it’s time for both of us to move on. It’s not good for either of us, on our own here, just you and me, so isol—’

  ‘I want to go to my room,’ he interrupted, for once sound­ing younger than his years.

  Esme was a little shocked at his rudeness, but she saw behind it to how upset he was. She put out a hand, meaning to give him a cuddle, but he brushed her off, making for the stairs to take them two at a time.

  She could have followed but what to say? She had changed her mind? She hadn’t. It would all work out for the best? A platitude. She believed it, though.

  She let well alone until later that afternoon, when she brought him up tea of sandwiches, milk and apple.

  He was on his computer. No surprise there. Was this enough to eat? Yes, thank you. Did he want to talk? If she wanted to. How did he feel? Fine.