crying out loud, he had almost suggested to her that she travel with him to Paris. His guess was that it wasn’t just pride standing in her way of going, but also financial difficulties. In the end he had ended the conversation, been glad when she’d made her own way to bed, because he hadn’t been able to handle how good it was to talk to someone else, to actually connect with them.
And, despite himself, he was deeply attracted to her.
All of which was dangerous.
He threw his head back and stared up into the endless depths of the blue sky.
Hadn’t he already proved he wasn’t capable of having effective relationships? He had a string of exes who had been beautiful but superficial. A sister who wouldn’t talk to him. And a nephew or niece he would never get to know.
The baby would be born in the next month. He should be there. Supporting Orla. At least she was willing to accept his financial support. If she had refused to do so then he really would have been out of his mind, worrying about how she was going to cope.
His call to Hong Kong earlier had gone well. If he kept up the pressure for the remainder of the day, with the rest of his acquisition teams, then the deal would go through later tonight. It would be strange for it all to be over. For months he had worked day and night to see it happen.
A strange emptiness sat in his chest. What would he do once the project was over?
The slow tendrils of an idea had formed in his mind but he kept pushing them away. But as he walked through the ruins of the abbey the idea came back, stronger and more insistent this time.
He should help Aideen. It was what any good neighbour would do. It was what his father would have done.
But would he be crazy to do it? Last night he had lowered his guard around her. He couldn’t allow that again. If he was to help then it would have to be done on a strictly business basis. He could help her re-establish her business, mentor her if required. He knew what it was like to throw your heart and soul into a business. And he knew only too well the pain of failure.
He would help her. And it would all be professional and uncomplicated.
* * *
The memory of a deep voice snaked through Aideen’s brain. She gave a small sigh, smiled to herself, and stretched out on the bed.
But then her eyes popped open and she looked around, disorientated. Small shafts of daylight sneaked under drawn curtains.
Slowly she remembered where she was. And what she had to face today.
Dreaming about Patrick Fitzsimon was the last thing she should be doing.
The cottage. Deadlines.
For a few seconds she pulled the duvet up over her head. Maybe she could just stay here in this warm and dark cocoon for a few days.
With a groan she pushed back the cover. Time to rise and shine. And face what the day had to bring.
Anyway, it couldn’t be any worse than being forced out of the business she’d once created. She had survived the past year, so she would survive this.
She pulled the curtains apart and winced as daylight flooded the room.
The view out of her window was breathtaking. Below her, formal box gardens led down to a gigantic fountain that sprayed a sprout of water so vigorously upwards it was as though it was trying to defy gravity. Rose gardens lay beyond the fountain, and then a long rolling meadow, rich in rain-drenched emerald green grass, ran all the way down to the faraway sea.
Though the sun was still low in the sky the light was dazzling, thanks to a startlingly clear blue sky.
Had last night’s storm been in her imagination? How could such furious weather be followed by such a beautiful day?
She could almost convince herself maybe her cottage hadn’t flooded. That the weather was a good omen. But she had seen the ferocity of the sea. There was no way her cottage had got away with avoiding that angry swell.
When she had come to view the property she had fallen in love with the old cottage and its outbuildings, arranged around a courtyard garden. Fuchsia had dangled from the hedgerows and fading old roses had tumbled from its walls. It had seemed the perfect solution then.
But now her income was sparser and more sporadic than she had projected, and sometimes she wondered whether she could make this work. That was one of the worst consequences of losing her business: the vulnerability and constant questioning of whether she was doing the right thing, making the right decisions.
But a burning passion for her work along with a heavy dose of pride got her through most days. She would sacrifice everything to make this business a success.
Her heart was a different matter, though. It felt bruised. To think that once upon a time she had thought her ex had loved her...
Pressing the edges of her palms against her eyes, she drew in a deep breath.
A quick shower, an even quicker coffee, and she would head home to start sorting out whatever was waiting for her.
She mightn’t even see Patrick. Which would be a good thing, right?
Heading to the bathroom, she sighed. Just who was she trying to kid?
The truth was giddiness was fizzing through her veins at the prospect of seeing his tall, muscular body, the darkness of his hair, and his lightly tanned skin which emphasised the celestial blue of his eyes.
Showered and dressed, she was about to open the bedroom door when she spotted a note pushed under it. Picking it up, she read the brief words.
Aideen,
I will drive you back to your cottage. Help yourself to breakfast in the kitchen. I will meet you in the main entrance hall at nine.
Patrick
It was a generous offer, but she needed to face the cottage on her own. It was her responsibility. She had taken up enough of his time as it was.
And then she studied the note again as an uncomfortable truth dawned on her. Was he offering to take her as a way of ensuring that she left? Humiliation burnt on her cheeks.
She checked the time on her phone. It was not yet eight o’clock. She would get changed and then go reassure him that she was leaving and was perfectly capable of making her own way home.
Thirty minutes later she had searched for him throughout the house but there was no sign of him. Her search in this exquisite house, as she’d gasped at the beauty of the baroque ballroom, with its frescoed ceiling, mirrored walls, and golden chandeliers, had brought home how different their lives were.
She was writing a note for him in the kitchen when the cloakroom door swung open.
Over off-white jodhpurs and black riding boots he was wearing a loose pale green shirt, the top three buttons open to reveal a masculine smattering of dark hair. His skin glistened with a sheen of perspiration.
He came to a stop when he spotted her at the table.
‘Good
