His Little Girl

‘Not unless you want to,’ she said crossly. Well, why wouldn’t she be cross? With her hand held captive in his, she found it oddly difficult to breathe, and it wasn’t just the thought of him swimming naked beneath the huge moon that every once in a while lit up the stormy landscape beyond the living room window. She was cross because, despite the fact that he had broken in, was plainly a bad lot, there was something undeniably appealing about him, especially when he lifted the corner of his mouth in that odd little smile. He was doing it now. ‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.

‘You are. I could read your thoughts then, as clearly as if they were in foot-high letters across your forehead.’

‘I very much doubt it.’

‘Humour me.’ He tapped her forehead with the tip of his finger. ‘You were thinking about how much you would enjoy giving me a helping hand into that cold water.’

‘Not at all!’ Then she gave an awkward little shrug. ‘Well, maybe,’ she conceded, preferring that he should think that rather than guess what was really going on in her mind. He had discarded his jacket after he had seen Sophie safely in bed, and as she quickly lowered her gaze, just in case her eyes were betraying more than they should, she was confronted with the decidedly grubby Aran sweater he was wearing. It was hand-knitted, and she found herself wondering what woman had given so much of her time, taken so much trouble to keep John Gannon warm. Sophie’s mother?

‘I’ll find you something to wear, and then you can decide whether you prefer a hot shower or a cold dip,’ she said, irritated with herself for even wondering about it. ‘The choice is entirely yours.’ And she pulled her hand free so easily that for a moment she thought she must have imagined the tightness of his grip.

Idiot! she thought as she headed for the stairs. He wasn’t holding your hand like some love-sick boy. To all intents and purposes you’re his prisoner, Dora Kavanagh. And don’t you forget it.

As Gannon had immediately realised, the cottage had been extended into part of an old barn, and the master suite was in the new part of the house, with its own bathroom and a dressing room for Poppy. Dora led the way through, pushing open the door to reveal a large bedroom furnished in warm antique pine to keep the cottagey atmosphere. The plush carpet was a soft, misty green and matching velvet curtains were looped back at the windows.

‘Wait!’ He stopped her as she was about to switch on the light. ‘Draw the curtains first.’

She shrugged, did as he ordered without a word, then crossed to Richard’s wardrobe. An internal light came on, and she flicked quickly through the shelves before pulling out a sweatshirt and a pair of jogging pants.

She turned to Gannon. ‘Will these do?’ she asked, holding them out to him.

‘Admirably.’ He was leaning casually against the architrave, watching her from the doorway. There was something about the way he was looking at her that sent warning shivers up her spine, and it occurred to her that encouraging him to follow her into the bedroom had not been entirely sensible. Except, of course, it would have made no difference. If he’d wanted to come in, he would have. But he stayed where he was.

‘You’ve got plenty of space now,’ he said.

There was nothing about his remark that should have concerned her. Yet it did. She threw a nervous glance around the room, wondering if he’d spotted something that had given away her masquerade. A wedding photograph of Poppy and Richard, perhaps. Anything. But there was nothing that she could see.

‘I’m glad you approve.’ She crossed to him, pushed the clothes into his hands and snapped off the light. She hadn’t considered what he might do if he discovered she had been lying to him. It was probably better for her peace of mind to leave it that way. ‘The bathroom’s this way,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you could use a shower.’ She felt her voice shake. Well, she was supping with the devil; she had a right to be nervous.

‘I’m sure I could. But you’ll understand if I insist you stay and keep me company.’

‘What!’

Gannon discovered that making Dora blush gave him a heady sense of power that he knew was utterly beneath contempt. But she looked so lovely, so delightfully vulnerable...’ You’d like me to say that again?’ he enquired.

‘No!’ Then, her cheeks even pinker, ‘You can’t mean it.’

‘I’m afraid I can, and I do.’ His regret might have been genuine. Somehow Dora doubted it. ‘I really can’t take the risk that you’ll take the opportunity to bolt for it. If the police lock me up, who will look after Sophie?’

‘Why would they lock you up?’

‘I broke in here; isn’t that enough?’

‘Not if I don’t press charges.’

‘Ah, there’s the rub. If.’ She didn’t bother to protest that she wouldn’t. Why would he believe her? ‘You don’t have to share the shower with me, Dora. I simply want you to stay near enough to chat. So I know you’re there. That’s all.’

‘All?’ She almost exploded with rage. How dared he? For heaven’s sake, she might have really been Richard’s wife... ‘Aren’t you concerned about Richard’s reaction to such a plan?’ she said, suddenly latching onto the thought, certain that it would make him think twice.