‘The car?’ He gave her a gently quizzical look that made Esme aware she was rambling slightly, ‘It broke down.’
‘Where exactly?’
A reasonable question but Esme’s mind drew a blank. ‘Somewhere on the road back from Dunswich.’
She half expected a derisory remark about these vague directions. She’d forgotten that Jack Doyle could be kind. Had been today, despite her hostility.
‘I’m sure we’ll find it,’ he reassured. ‘I’ll get someone out to fix it.’
She gave him a sheepish look, before admitting, it didn’t actually break down. It kind of...well, ran out of petrol.’
‘Oh, right.’ An involuntary smile, quickly suppressed.
But she’d already seen it. ‘Laugh if you want.’
He shook his head, ‘It could happen to anyone.’
Esme bet it had never happened to him.
‘Anyway, it makes things simpler,’ he consoled her. ‘If you give me the key, I’ll send a couple of the workmen to fetch it home.’
Esme didn’t argue. One problem down, more than enough left to go.
‘I won’t be long,’ he promised as she dropped the key in his hand. ‘Chances are Harry’s joined forces with Eliot in the grounds somewhere.’
He departed before Esme could think to thank him. She was grateful. She just found it difficult to express.
In fact, she was beginning to find it all too difficult. The school situation. Her work. Finances. Moving home. Harry... Especially Harry.
Where had she gone wrong? A contented baby had turned into a delightful toddler and from there a young boy, easy to manage because he was eminently reasonable. But, overnight it seemed, things had changed.
Harry was threatening to turn into a rebel before her eyes and she felt powerless to stop it. Worse, she had to face the fact that it was probably her fault.
She had made of him this gentle, well-spoken boy, then sent him out into a tougher world. She didn’t really care that his schoolfriends called her a posh tart—well, of course, it hurt a little—but she cared that he was forced to be ashamed.
And Charles? She’d dated Charles without any reference to Harry and somehow—most likely because of a conversation overheard and misunderstood—her son had come to believe that she was about to foist an unwelcome stepfather onto him.
Then there was the matter of his real father, barely mentioned by her and assumed to be largely unimportant to him. How could he long for what he’d never had?
Only he did. It wasn’t a made-up brother he’d threatened the other child with, but a father. It wasn’t Jack Doyle’s money or computers or big house he admired, but the man himself, as a father figure. The irony of it might have made her laugh if she hadn’t felt so much like crying.
And that was exactly what Jack found her doing when he returned. He stood in the doorway, fighting an urge to take her into his arms and offer comfort he doubted would be welcome.
She hadn’t let him close since that night at the cottage and then, if Jack was honest, it had been solely for sex. He’d enjoyed it. Of course he had. But it had left a bitter aftertaste, knowing he’d been used. So why did he keep wanting to help her at all? Lord knew, but he did.
Eventually conscious of his silent presence, Esme groped futilely into her bag for a handkerchief before smearing away tears with the back of her hand.
‘Esme?’ A gentle enquiry.
‘I’m all right.’ She was furious with herself for showing such weakness. ‘Did you find Harry?’
‘Yes, he’s with Eliot, and already shamedfaced at his outburst,’ Jack relayed. ‘Sam’s taking them for a burger meal, to give you and Harry some time out. I hope that’s OK.’
She nodded rather than speak.
Jack came to sit beside her, ignoring the way her body tensed.
‘What’s wrong, Esme? It’s not just the school thing, is it?’
She shook her head. She could hardly tell him of the guilt eating away at her. So she told him something else. The work thing. Countless hours wasted. Her frustration and helplessness. The fact she hadn’t seen it coming.
‘The bastard!’ was Jack’s assessment of Edward Claremont when she’d finished her story.
The force of it made tears well in Esme’s eyes once more. ‘I’m such a mess.’
Jack heard the very real despair in her voice and finally let himself put his arms about her. She resisted for a brief moment before turning her face into his chest and beginning to sob hard.
It was as if a dam had burst. So many tears. He held her and soothed her till they ran dry and she lay quiescent in his arms. He stroked her hair, not trying to touch her in any other way. She was the little girl again, the Esme he’d looked out for all those years ago.
And he was the boy, the Jack Esme had always counted on to make things better for her.
Only it was illusion. Too much had happened for them ever to go back to that time. Life had happened and they had lost their innocence.
Esme felt the heart beneath her fingers begin to beat as erratically as hers and sensed the change. She had to break free, not just of strong male arms, but the longing they created. Had to, even if part of her wished to stay and be loved.
She raised her head and found herself staring into those compelling grey eyes.
‘You’re not a mess.’ A gentle hand curled strands of blond hair behind her ear. ‘You’re beautiful. Little Esme, all grown up. I can’t believe I missed it.’
His voice was a caress, like the fingers now brushing against her cheek. Sweet words, but Esme couldn’t bear to listen. He wouldn’t be nice to her if he knew the truth.
She shut her eyes against the intensity of his gaze and he cupped her face in his hands. She held her breath, waiting. He put his hps to her temple, a kiss so light she barely felt it.
Then, unable to help himself, Jack inched his mouth towards hers. ‘If you don’t want this, stop me now.’
Esme heard and understood and shook her head. He might have read it as resistance but for the lips that blindly sought his, and the arms that slid round his neck, and the soft womanly body straining to his.
A kiss, no further, Esme promised herself even as he pulled her back with him on the couch and she groaned aloud at the thrust of his tongue in her mouth. No further, just his hands roaming, searching for skin, pushing upwards inside her blouse. Pulling aside underwear to cup her breasts, fingers rubbing, teasing until she was moaning for him. No further than his body on hers, so plainly aroused, making her long for him to be inside her, loving her hard.
And how it scared her! Wanting him so much. Wanting only him. All her life, only him.
Scared her so much she tore her mouth from his, and, gasping for breath and sanity, started pushing at his shoulders, panicking in case he didn’t stop.
No need. The instant Jack realised that the hands which had been caressing him were now rejecting he broke off and let her withdraw to the other end of the sofa, where she desperately rearranged her clothes.
Jack swore softly and, leaning back, ran frustrated hands through his hair.
Esme didn’t dare look in his direction. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I shouldn’t have let you—’
‘No, I should be the one apologising,’ he cut across her. ‘You’re feeling low and I took advantage... All I can say is I didn’t plan it. It just happened.’
‘I know.’ It kept happening to her, too.
‘I guess I need to get out more,’ he added drily.
Esme recognised it as a joke, intended to lighten the atmosphere, but it didn’t make her feel better. If anything, worse. So that was what she was—a fill-in until he met someone else.
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Visions of Arabella rose before her.
‘I have to go,’ she announced abruptly. ‘Would you send Harry back home?’
‘Sure,’ he agreed easily.
‘Thanks.’ Embarrassment made her polite even as she stood and h
eaded for the door.
She was rushing down the stairs before he could respond.
He followed more slowly, reaching the gallery just as she climbed down the second flight of stairs to the hall.
He leaned over the banister and called after her. ‘Esme?’
She could have ignored it but felt she owed him. For Harry. And her crying jag. Not to mention what she’d just done to him.
‘Yes?’ She paused and looked upwards.
He surprised her with a smile, ‘I meant it, by the way.’
‘Meant what?’ she echoed.
‘You are beautiful,’ he said simply, as if it were fact, not opinion.
And what could you say back to something like that? Absolutely nothing came to mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
You are beautiful, Esme mouthed in her bathroom mirror, then made a face.
Yeah, a veritable Miss World. Well, after she’d received the crown, cried buckets, had her mascara run and slept in her clothes.
Of course he was just trying to make her feel better.
That was Jack all over. It was coming back to her now, the two sides to him.
She remembered a time when she’d dared to boss him about and he’d called her a stuck-up brat and she’d hated him for days; then he’d come upon her in the woods, distraught because she was about to be sent away to school, and he’d taken her home to the cottage, where his mother had fed her cake and sympathy. She’d been eight to his fourteen.
He must think things hadn’t changed much. Poor, pathetic Esme still cried like a baby, still couldn’t cope. Well, she’d show him.
How? Go on. How?
What could she ever do that would impress Jack?
She found no answer and, pulling a last face in her dressing-table mirror, she went to wash before Harry’s return.
Her car was brought first by one of the labourers and she thanked him warmly. Without her car, she’d be marooned.
Harry arrived later in the evening, brought by Jack. They actually knocked, and when she opened the door Harry stood looking down at his feet. Then Jack touched his shoulder, and he launched into a prepared speech.
‘I’m really sorry, Mum,’ he mumbled, still not making eye contact. ‘I shouldn’t have said all those things. I’ll go to school tomorrow. And I won’t make a fuss if you want to move... And you can marry Mr Fox, if that’s what makes you happy,’ he finished in a rush.
‘I... Right.’ Esme hadn’t a clue how to respond to all this.
But she wasn’t required to, as Harry added, ‘Is it all right if I go to bed now?’
A first—Harry asking to go to bed. She wondered what Jack had done to produce such apparent contrition.
‘Yes, certainly.’ She echoed his solemnity.
But when he made to pass her, bottom lip trembling, she caught his arm and drew him to her.
She hugged him hard and kissed the top of his blond hair. She felt him sag against her with relief and murmured, ‘Love you.’
‘You, too.’ Harry returned the compliment and the hug but, conscious of watching eyes, she didn’t prolong the moment.
Harry directed a, ‘Thanks,’ at Jack and smiles were exchanged before he finally loped off.
Esme suspected conspiracy. ‘Yes, thanks for bringing him back—and the apology-coaching, of course.’
‘I gave him a few pointers, that’s all.’
‘I believe you.’
‘You should,’ Jack insisted. ‘That certainly wasn’t any script I’d write him...especially the last item.’
About her and marriage with Charles? She didn’t deign to comment.
He squinted at her, assessing her silence, before prompting, ‘So, should I expect to hear the banns read this Sunday?’
She pursed her lips. ‘Why don’t you just ask me straight?’
‘OK, then.’ He dropped any pretence of humour. ‘Are you going to marry this Charles character?’
Esme was tempted to keep him guessing, but what would be the point? The idea of her being in a relationship with someone else hadn’t stopped him so far.
‘No, I’m not,’ she admitted briefly.
His reply was an equally short, ‘Good.’
She didn’t need his approval. ‘Not that it has anything to do with you.’
‘Hasn’t it?’ His eyes caught and held hers, demanding they be honest with each other.
Esme stared right back at him, thinking she could win this game of truth or dare. But the longer she looked, the more it hurt, and she finally tore her eyes away.
Honest with him? She couldn’t even bear to be honest with herself.
Jack realised he’d lost her and switched tactics. ‘Because I can’t have you swanning off and getting married, once you agree to work on the house.’
‘What?’
‘Your other commission has evaporated. That was why you couldn’t take on Highfield, wasn’t it?’
No, that had been the excuse. Did he seriously trust her to do up Highfield?
She felt it only fair to say, ‘I’ve never done anything on that scale.’
‘Then the experience will move you up a league,’ he reasoned. ‘That is how you designers build a reputation, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes,’ she agreed, ‘but you may not like what I do.’
‘That’s true of any designer I use,’ he pointed out. ‘But if you don’t think you’re up to it—’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Esme had some confidence in her ability. ‘None of my clients have ever complained.’
‘Right, then. Top priority is the reception rooms,’ he relayed, as if they’d reached agreement. ‘Come up tomorrow and we’ll discuss ideas and your fee.’
Esme didn’t see how she could afford to turn him down but she still hesitated. ‘Look, if you’re giving me this work out of charity—’
‘Charity?’ he gave a dismissive laugh, ‘I built a multimillion-dollar business from scratch. Do you think I did that by being a philanthropist?’
Put that way, then, no, and she knew from personal experience he could be ruthless. That was what worried her.
‘It’s strictly business,’ he added.
‘You mean that?’ She was no longer referring to just the work.
He understood. ‘What do you want? A “keep my hands to myself” clause in the contract?’
Esme gave him a baleful look. It was obviously a joke to him. So was she, she suspected. At best, occasional recreation.
‘OK,’ he ran on, ‘how about we say—I won’t try to seduce you if you don’t try to seduce me?’
‘Very funny.’ Esme didn’t remember her ever starting anything.
‘Sorry.’ Talk about insincere apologies, ‘I just don’t see what’s so terrible about us being attracted to each other.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ Esme scowled in reply.
‘Me, Jack Doyle?’ he enquired. ‘Or me, male of the species?’
‘Both.’ Ridiculous. Why was she even having this conversation? ‘I’ll work for you but that’s all.’
‘Fair enough,’ he conceded with a shrug. ‘Maybe the rest is too much hassle.’
Great. She’d gone from desirable to a hassle within a couple of sentences. Which told her everything.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he added. ‘Afternoon is best for me.’
This stated, he strolled back down her garden path, saluting her a final wave.
Impossible man.
Impossible to work for, too, she imagined, but what choices did she have? She needed the money.
Unless she swallowed her pride in another direction. A temporary loan—that was all it would be.
She tried her mother’s number and wasn’t surprised to get her answer-machine. Most evenings her mother was out, wining and dining, or socialising at charity events.
Esme hoped her mother knew the old adage ‘Charity begins at home,’ as she left a message to call her as soon as possible.
No surprise that
she didn’t that night, and the next morning Esme had to brave school with a reluctant Harry in tow. She went at school start time, and as they walked through the playground someone called, ‘You’re dead, Hamilton!’
Esme spun round, hoping to spot the culprit, and saw several possible suspects, huddled in a group.
‘Mum.’ Harry pulled at her arm to move her on.
They were shown into the head’s office and Mrs Leadbetter appeared almost immediately. At first, she was polite and conciliatory, but the meeting went downhill fast.
Basically Esme wanted to know what the school intended to do to protect her son from bullies, and listened in disbelief as Mrs Leadbetter talked round the houses before claiming that there was no real bullying at her school.
After that impasse, Esme moved the subject on to Harry’s schoolwork. As diplomatically as she could Esme suggested that Harry needed to be stretched, while Mrs Leadbetter cited Harry’s lacklustre performance as proof that he was no brighter than average. Again Esme couldn’t believe what she was hearing, and asked if the average ten-year-old could do long multiplication in their head. Mrs Leadbetter looked sceptical before pointing out that wasn’t part of the curriculum and that they couldn’t cater for each individual child’s supposed talents. This wasn’t some private school with classes of fifteen children and pushy middle-class parents.
Esme lost it then, and, burning her boats with some well-chosen words, sailed out of the school, only pausing long enough to collect Harry from his chair outside.
Once back at the cottage, Harry went upstairs to change out of the uniform they both now loathed, and Esme had calmed down only marginally when her mother returned her call, declaring delightedly that Arabella was home from the States.
It seemed they were having a ball, shopping, lunching and doing mother and daughter things while Arabella reestablished herself on the social scene.
Esme listened with mounting irritation. Her life was virtually falling apart and all her mother could talk about was dresses, the latest restaurant and so-and-so’s party.
‘Mother,’ she finally cut into the monologue, ‘can you loan me some money?’
The Mother And The Millionaire Page 14