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
