went slowly along the drive and over the speed ramps, parked the car, and then they waited. Children were pouring out of the school, running and pushing and laughing, heading in their droves for the bus pull-in, others going down the drive to their parents, and then the crowd cleared like mist and she saw them.
A slender girl in a wheelchair, her hair hanging long and blonde around her shoulders, her trousers dangling on skinny legs, she looked tired and defeated.
Behind her was a boy the spitting image of Xavier, with a big smile and untidy hair. His shirt was un-tucked on one side, his tie was hanging askew, his face was grubby, but he looked bright and cheerful and disgustingly healthy in contrast to his frail older sister.
He was pushing the wheelchair towards them, and Xavier went over to them and hugged him, bending to kiss his daughter’s cheek. She didn’t respond, just sat there expressionless, and Fran felt the flicker of doubt return in force.
Give her time, she thought, but the girl was looking straight through her as she stood there beside the car, waiting.
‘Children, this is Miss Williams,’ he said. ‘She’s going to stay with us for a while and help me look after you.’
‘Can you cook?’ Nick asked her directly, and she laughed.
‘Most things. It depends what you want.’
‘Pizza—and Chrissie likes spag. bol.’
Fran nodded thoughtfully, transferring her gaze to the unresponsive girl. ‘I think I can manage that.’
Chrissie looked away dismissively, and Fran thought that even without words she managed to communicate her feelings—and just now, her feelings were less than friendly.
‘She’s vegetarian, though,’ Nick was adding. ‘So no meat, worse luck. She doesn’t do meat.’
‘I’m sure Miss Williams knows what a vegetarian is, Nick,’ Xavier put in drily, and opened the side door of the car. ‘Fran, this board slides out of the floor like this, and locks, and then you can push the chair up and it clips into place.’
He pulled and clicked and then wheeled Chrissie effortlessly into the car, then with a clunk her chair was secure and he was sliding the board home and closing the door.
Fran decided to practise with the empty wheelchair before she had to do it for real. She didn’t want to mess up and dump Chrissie on the drive, and she was sure Xavier would be less than thrilled, too, not to mention Chrissie herself!
Nick was piling all their bags into the back and climbing into the seat behind Xavier, chattering nineteen to the dozen about what he’d done and the goal he’d scored in football and that he needed new football boots and could he go on the field trip in February to France, and Harry had been kicked in the chin and had to go to hospital after football because his jaw might be broken.
Finally he ground to a halt, and Xavier shot Fran a wry glance. Still not put off? it seemed to say, but in truth she thought Nick was delightful, just a normal, healthy boy bursting with energy.
Chrissie, on the other hand, was almost unnerving with her silent watchfulness, and Fran wondered how on earth she would communicate with her. The hand-held computer would surely have its limitations, but she’d just watch Xavier and see how he did it, and then talk to him later after the children were in bed.
She’d already established to herself that Chrissie could convey her feelings. It was her needs that were more of an issue here, and of more concern to Fran. She didn’t need to be liked. She did, however, need to be able to do her job, and she was on a week’s trial. The last thing she wanted was to screw up yet another job.
Xavier couldn’t believe his luck. He’d actually found someone—and not just anyone, but a highly skilled professional who by a freak of fate needed a live-in post, just when he was getting desperate.
He wouldn’t trust Chrissie to an amateur—he couldn’t. There was too much at stake, and a nurse of Fran’s experience would be alert to any slight change in her. Not that it was likely, after all this time, but he still wasn’t sure he really believed there was nothing wrong, and all the time he felt as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But Fran—Fran was a gift from the gods, and he hardly dared believe it. He’d phoned her old boss at the London hospital and had received such a glowing reference that he daren’t tell her about it because she’d be so embarrassed. It seemed a tragic shame that her career in trauma had been cut short, but he wasn’t complaining, not if it meant she was free to work for him.
He went into his study, the dogs in tow, and dropped into the chair behind his desk, swinging his feet up onto the worn and battered top and resting his head against the high leather back of the chair with a sigh.
He had some phone calls to make and one or two bits of paperwork to deal with, but he just wanted to grab a few precious, quiet minutes to himself. The children were tucked up in bed, the television was finally silenced and Fran was unpacking her possessions in her flat.
He closed his eyes and pictured her, those beautiful blue-grey eyes that said so much, bare lips the colour of a faded rose, full and soft and ripe. There was something incredibly English about her looks, the pale alabaster of her skin, the warm glow in her cheeks, the fine cheekbones. Her hair had been up, the dark, gleaming tresses scraped back into a loose knot and secured at her nape with a clip.
It made his fingers itch. He’d wanted to remove the clip, to free her hair and watch it fall in a curtain around her shoulders, to thread his fingers through it and touch the softness.
He’d wanted all sorts of things, like the feel of her body against him, the taste of her mouth on his tongue, the slide of her skin against his own, but he would never know these things.
She was an employee, a member of his team at work, a pivotal part of his home life, please, God, and he needed her in that capacity far more than he needed the mere gratification of his sexual desires. He’d managed without since Sara had died, and he could manage for as long as it took to sort Chrissie out.
Maybe then he’d allow himself the luxury of an affair—if he could find anyone stupid enough to take him on.
With a short sigh he swung his feet to the ground and went out to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge. It was nothing special, just a supermarket cheapie that he’d picked up the other day, but it was cool and refreshing and it might blur the edges a bit, if he was lucky.
Not a chance. Fran came down the back stairs and through the door, her hair down around her shoulders, wearing jeans and a simple sweater that hugged her waist and showed off the soft, ample fullness of her breasts, and desire slammed through him like an express train.
Dear God. He was going to have to live with this woman, work with her, share almost every detail of his life with her.
Mere sexual gratification? Mere? He set his glass down with exaggerated care and forced himself to meet her eyes. ‘Wine?’
‘Oh, lovely, thanks. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the children, particularly Chrissie, and I wouldn’t mind a lesson in pulling out that ramp thing and clipping in the wheelchair, if you can be bothered.’
‘Sure,’ he said, glad to have something positive to focus on apart from the gentle swell of her breasts and the way her hair fell in those
