by Maggie Cox
‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic.’
‘I’m not.’ Wearily sinking down into a nearby armchair, Evan leaned back against the flattened cushions and stared blankly at the hand that he’d rested against his thigh. It was shaking. Ever so slightly, but shaking just the same. He hadn’t told Beth that he’d had the shakes for several months now. They had started even before he’d been struck down with flu. A common symptom of severe stress, his doctor had explained. Flexing his fingers, Evan tried to convince himself he wasn’t concerned. The doctor had advised rest and that was what he was doing. No lifting weights, no strenuous exercise and definitely no jogging. Swimming and walking were, however, recommended. Thank God for that or else he’d go completely crazy.
‘Evan?’ Shrill with worry, Beth’s voice jerked him back to the present.
‘It’s OK. I’m still here.’
‘You don’t sound very happy, that’s all.’
‘Don’t read too much into it. Nobody’s loved me yet for my great sense of humour.’
‘I feel like I ought to come down for a visit, make sure you’re looking after yourself. Maybe I could stay for a couple of days without the kids? I could ask Paul’s mum to have them.’
Evan sat up straight. ‘No offence, Beth, but I really don’t want any visitors—nor do I need looking after. All I need is some time to get my head together. I’ll maybe ring you in a few days and let you know how I’m doing, OK?’ It was an effort to keep the strain out of his voice but he hoped he managed it. The last thing he needed right now was for his baby sister to descend on him and take it upon herself to look after him. Besides, he wasn’t feeling up to conversation with anyone. Not yet. His last attempt with Rowan Hawkins next door had failed miserably and he was in no hurry to repeat the experience any time soon.
‘Well, if you’re sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine, Beth. Really.’
‘Well, you know where I am if you need me. By the way, I hope you’ve told them at work that you’re not to be disturbed?’
Evan recalled his last conversation with Mike, his second in command. ‘Don’t hesitate to call me if you’re unsure about something or if anything important comes up.’ Mike had given him a cursory nod in reply, which told Evan that the man was ever so slightly offended that Evan clearly didn’t trust him enough to take charge. Which wasn’t true at all. It was just that Evan couldn’t help but feel redundant when he wasn’t allowed to be in control. If his three-week battle with flu hadn’t left him with chronic fatigue and muscle ache, he’d probably be back at work now—even against doctor’s orders.
‘Mike won’t call me unless he really has to.’ He pushed to his feet, impatient to bring the call to an end.
‘I suppose I’ll just have to trust that you won’t do anything foolish, then, like working out or undertaking a twenty-mile hike or something stupid like that.’
‘No chance.’ The thought that he couldn’t physically do either of those things right now was like a spear through his heart. It emasculated him somehow…made him feel less like a man, when previously he’d been so awesomely fit. Suddenly shivering with the cold, Evan was anxious for Beth to be gone so he could dress.
‘See you, then.’
‘Bye, sis. Give the boys a hug for me.’
Rowan knew it was a stupid thing to do but, knowing she was driving into town for groceries and hardware supplies, she couldn’t help but believe it was rude not to ask her neighbour if he needed anything. She hadn’t seen him around for a few days, but his car—a brand-spanking-new Land Rover—was still parked outside. In her hands she carried a peace offering: a plastic container filled with newly baked fruit scones. Well, she reasoned, she couldn’t eat them all herself, could she? And everyone knew that scones didn’t freeze well.
Lifting the heavy brass knocker, Rowan rapped smartly on his door before she lost her nerve, all the while her heartbeat thudding like the knell of doom inside her chest. Hearing footsteps approach, she steeled herself as Evan opened the door. There was a startled shift in his unsettling green eyes as he silently regarded her and Rowan stood mesmerised, unable to think of even one thing to say. Dressed in faded blue jeans with a rip in one knee and a black T-shirt, Evan Cameron’s hard, fit body elevated the ordinary, everyday clothing to something else entirely…something almost illicit, leaning heavily towards the dangerously sexual. For long, worrying seconds Rowan was completely transfixed by the sight of those bulging, taut biceps, with their straining sinews that his scant clothing drew immediate attention to. Something in the pit of her stomach sizzled like coals on a barbecue and sucked all the moisture from her mouth.
‘I—I thought you might like some of these.’ She pressed the plastic container into his hands, then quickly retreated. ‘Scones. I just made them.’
Evan silently contemplated the box he’d unwittingly accepted, then raised his gaze to pin Rowan to the spot. Her cheeks were arrestingly rosy and her pretty brown eyes shy and uncertain. For the life of him Evan didn’t have a clue why she would want to present him with the results of her baking—not after their last encounter.
‘Thanks.’
Was that all he was going to say? Rowan knew a moment of sheer blind panic. What on earth had possessed her to approach the man again? It should have been obvious to a blind woman that he clearly didn’t want anything to do with her.
‘You’re welcome.’ Her slim shoulders shrugged beneath her green waxed jacket. ‘I’m going into town to do some shopping. I wondered if you needed anything?’
‘I only repaired your gate, Ms Hawkins—not rescued you from drowning.’
She felt heat rush to her cheeks in a hot flood. He was smiling, damn him! Looking at her like the epitome of the Big Bad Wolf, with his slightly dishevelled black hair and even blacker brows. No man had ever gazed upon her in such a…licentious manner before. What on earth was she supposed to do now?
‘I’m quite aware of that. I know you’re not interested in being “neighbourly,” as you put it, but I hadn’t seen you around for a couple of days and thought you might be unwell or something. In which case you might—you might need me to…’ Her words dwindled to silence as Evan continued to study her as if she was suddenly the most interesting woman on the planet. Helplessly, her gaze gravitated back to his biceps. Oh, why couldn’t the man take pity and go and put on a sweater?
‘There’s nothing I need right now.’ His voice was almost akin to a honeyed growl and Rowan nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to engineer some distance between them. ‘But thanks for thinking of me…and for these.’ He held up the box and gave it a little shake.
‘Anyway.’ Hitching the strap of her black leather bag more securely onto her shoulder, Rowan pushed back a mutinous strand of hair that had flicked across her face. ‘I’d better go. Lots to do.’
‘Don’t let me keep you,’ Evan said behind her as she scurried back down the path. Was it her fevered imagination or had he laced the innocent-sounding comment with a taunt?
Inside, Evan leant back against the door and prised the lid off the plastic box. The mouthwatering aroma of still-warm baking drifted tantalisingly beneath his nose.
‘Hmm.’ Smiling to himself, he closed the lid. ‘You do know how to tempt a man, pretty little Rowan. I wonder what other delights you’re capable of surprising a man with…apart from your cooking, that is?’
Alarmed to find himself pleasantly aroused, Evan strode irritably into the kitchen, promising himself that from now on he’d give the arresting little widow zero encouragement when it came to getting over-friendly. He didn’t want anyone invading his self-imposed isolation, and right now he had no use for a woman who was nursing a hurt he couldn’t begin to imagine how to alleviate. But as he flipped open the plastic container and helped himself to a warm, melting scone, Evan’s fertile imagination made a liar of that last statement. Unbidden, the thought of Rowan warming his bed and helping to tangle his sheets with that
sweet, curvy body of hers stole into his mind like forbidden fruit…all the more exciting because under the circumstances the very idea was totally outrageous.
CHAPTER THREE
HER shopping done, Rowan didn’t rush to get back home. Instead she found a welcoming little bistro tucked away in a cobblestoned side-street and treated herself to fresh salmon cakes with a lemon butter sauce and a glass of wine. Satisfied after her meal, she paid her bill and stepped out into the surprisingly mild spring evening. By the time she got into her car and drove out of the town, back onto the country roads, she was feeling pleasantly tired and looking forward to a peaceful evening curled up on the couch with her soft cashmere throw and a book. In the boot of her car were her grocery shopping and two big carrier-bags full of handy items for sprucing up the cottage. The next day she planned to get cracking on her home improvements, telling herself she’d start by removing all the pine shelves in the living-room and giving them a cheerful coat of paint.
When she pulled up in front of the cottage, it was all she could do to unlock the boot and unload her shopping, she was so tired. But as she busied herself standing the bags side by side on the road, the sound of footsteps approaching made her spin round in alarm. Attired in dark jeans and a black polo-necked sweater, Evan Cameron drew up beside Rowan and blew into his hands. The ensuing steam from his breath curled up into the night. The scent of the sea was all around him and he had clearly been walking on the beach. Beads of perspiration stood out on his lightly grooved brow but his imperious green gaze was decidedly cool when Rowan automatically smiled her surprise.
‘Oh. It’s you. It’s a lovely evening for a walk, isn’t it?’
His gaze flicked over her figure in her waxed jacket and long black skirt and boots. Her soft brown hair was loose, blowing around her face in the breeze, her cheeks pink like two rosy apples. There was something wholesome about her that pricked at Evan’s conscience, something that made his frustration with himself and the current limitations of his body hard to bear. He’d undertaken a simple half-hour walk to the beach and back and his heart was racing as if he’d run a marathon. His irritation tightened like a noose around his neck as he studied Rowan.
‘What are you trying to do, Ms Hawkins? Change my mind about you? I told you I wasn’t interested in being neighbourly yet you seem to persist in the idea that you can somehow win me over. First it’s with your baking—and next?’ His insolent stare left Rowan in no doubt as to his meaning. Her body went hot and cold all at once. If she could have disappeared inside her coat right then and hidden, she would have.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Cameron. Do you think I’m so desperate I would do anything to cultivate a friendship with you? I may be a widow but I’d rather spend fifty years locked up in a windowless cell than spend any more time than I could help in your hateful company!’
He laughed, and the cold, harsh sound splintered through the air like ice cracking on a frozen lake. Rowan winced.
‘Good.’ Evan nodded his dark head as if he had her measure. ‘It’s good to know you’re not as meek as you appear. Believe me, Rowan, you really would be better off being locked up in a windowless cell than spending time in my company. If you don’t believe me, try having a conversation about it with my ex-wife. She’ll put you right.’
Stunned by his bitter response, Rowan felt her own reply stall in her throat. Her smile long gone, her liquid brown eyes were round with hurt as they regarded him.
‘I’m sorry if you feel I’ve been a nuisance. Please be assured I won’t be bothering you again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get my shopping inside.’
She heard him curse beneath his breath, but she couldn’t tell if it was directed at her or at himself. Either way, he didn’t hang around for her to find out. When Rowan straightened from lifting her bags, he was already opening the gate to his own cottage and sprinting up the path. Seconds later the sound of his door slamming echoed through the night like a retort from a rifle.
Rowan couldn’t get to sleep. Shaky and angry since Evan’s verbal attack on her attempt at friendliness earlier, she now lay awake with the lamp turned on, her book opened unread by her side and her eyes gritty with fatigue because sleep eluded her. What was it about her that the man disliked so much? He’d mentioned an ex-wife. Was it Rowan’s misfortune to remind him of her in some way? Had their parting been so acrimonious that he still harboured a grudge against the woman?
Her thoughts ran on and on, finding no resolution from her endless speculation about the cold, autocratic man who lived next door—how could it, when her day had been completely spoiled by her confrontation with him? Drawing her knees up to her chest, she folded her arms around them with a sigh. If only Greg were here. He’d know just what to say to comfort her. He’d probably pull her head down onto his chest, stroke her hair and tell her she shouldn’t waste another moment’s anxiety on Evan Cameron because clearly the man was an ignorant peasant and it was his loss if he didn’t want to be neighbourly. He’d follow up this statement with some witty observation about the man’s character that would make Rowan laugh. Oh, how she missed Greg’s laughter. He’d always had a natural ability to see the brighter side of life even when things appeared dire. She had envied him that. She had always been the serious one, the one urging caution, when Greg merely threw caution to the wind and laughed in its face. He should be here with her now, talking over the improvements they were going to make on the house together. Instead…instead…
Rowan pushed off the bed and swept her hand through her hair, wishing she could sweep away the dark thoughts racing through her mind as easily. Pacing up and down across the thick patterned carpet that she would replace just as soon as she could afford to, she swallowed down the painful ache in her throat and refused to let the tears that were threatening come. OK, so she was a widow—she wasn’t the first woman in the world who had suffered the loss of a husband and, dear God, she wouldn’t be the last. If all those other women could survive the hurt and desolation, then so could Rowan. She’d come this far without falling to pieces, hadn’t she? And what exactly had Evan Cameron meant when he’d said it was good she wasn’t as meek as she appeared? The mere thought of the man made her feel about as meek as a rampaging rhinoceros! She had a good mind to knock on his door right now and verbally rip his arrogant head off—then he might really discover what ‘night-time torment’ meant!
But, of course, she would do no such thing. He’d probably coolly brush her off with that disdainful look that came so naturally, or, worse, phone the police and tell them he had a mad woman living next door and could they please come and lock her up in a cell for the night so he could get some sleep? Frustration and anger eating her up, Rowan grabbed her robe and headed straight for the kitchen. Switching on the lights, then opening the fridge, she carefully extracted the fruit pie she’d made earlier when she’d baked her batch of scones. Carrying it to the small pine table set in an alcove, she cut herself a generous wedge and bit into it with tears streaming hotly from her eyes and sliding helplessly into her mouth.
Staring at the two small but stinging cuts he’d inadvertently made at the edge of his jaw with his razor, Evan winced as he pressed his fingers to them to momentarily staunch the thick ooze of blood. He hadn’t had the shakes this morning, thank God, but his concentration was shot to hell anyway. He’d been evil to the pretty little widow next door and he wasn’t proud of the fact. If Beth had borne witness to his boorishness she would probably have been ashamed to call herself his sister. Damn it, he was ashamed of his outlandish behaviour himself! Venting his spleen on Rowan just because he wasn’t the man he’d used to be was unforgivable. Her hurt brown eyes had stared back at him as if he were a careless motorist who’d just run over her puppy.
Meeting his sombre reflection in the bathroom mirror, Evan let loose a ripe curse. With the cuts on his jaw oozing blood and his black brows drawn together giving him a decidedly forbidding expression, all he needed was a black
eye-patch and some dark stubble round his chin and he’d resemble Blackbeard the Pirate. If he were in Rowan’s shoes, he’d give himself a very wide berth indeed.
But just the same, he wasn’t going to apologise. Hadn’t Evan already told her in more ways than one that he wasn’t going to encourage her acquaintance? Was the woman a glutton for punishment, giving him those shy, girlish smiles of hers that would likely melt a heart of stone? Except his heart, of course. As he moved back into his bedroom to raid his wardrobe for clothes, he mused that it wasn’t his fault she was a widow and she was lonely. Any other man would probably want to take advantage of such a situation, but Evan knew better than to buy a whole load of trouble he could very well live without. It had taken two gruelling, hardworking years to get Rebecca out of his system and he was in no hurry to get involved with another woman—no matter how attractive or appealing.
Yanking on his jeans, then pulling another black sweater down over his head, Evan made his way out to the kitchen in search of some breakfast. For some inexplicable reason he was extraordinarily hungry this morning, and that surprised him. His previously healthy appetite had dwindled to a quarter of what he normally ate since he’d had that damned flu. Opening the fridge, he withdrew a box of eggs, a packet of bacon and a punnet of tomatoes that he’d bought the previous weekend but which were still within their sell-by date. Then, rifling through overhead cupboards, he retrieved a family-sized frying-pan and set it with down with satisfaction on the cooker.
The smell of paint had given Rowan a headache. To counteract the effect, she’d carried the three pine shelves outside and propped them up against the faded wrought-iron bench that sat in the front garden. With her hair in a loose topknot, and suitably attired in old blue corduroys and a chunky-knit sweater of Greg’s that she couldn’t bring herself to give away, Rowan momentarily savoured the fresh country breeze that rustled by before carefully applying another coat of bright lilac paint to one of the shelves. Accidentally her gaze fell on Evan’s smart blue Land Rover, parked outside the pretty whitewashed cottage where he lived, and she quickly withdrew it back to her painting before he spied her looking. Unless he’d walked down to the beach or the village he must still be in the house, she surmised. In which case, the lower the profile she kept—the better. The last thing in the world she needed right now was a repeat performance of last night’s horrible confrontation.