that Tom had proposed to her. She hadn’t even made her own mind up whether or not she intended to accept him.
She liked him; she admired his drive and what he had achieved, even if sometimes his aggression and occasional lack of sensitivity made her wince. What she had no doubts about at all was the fact that he loved her.
Did she love him?
She stared at the skyline. Three months ago, while Charlie was away on a school trip—finding time to be alone together with a sharp-eyed thirteen-year-old about was, she had discovered, virtually impossible—she and Tom had made love.
For her it had been the first time since James. Perhaps it was because she was older, wiser, less inclined to see things through rose-coloured glasses that the experience had somehow not really lived up to her expectations.
Tom had been considerate and caring enough. He had taken time and care, and he was certainly far from inexperienced. She had not expected, as she had with James, that there would be immediate fireworks, but she had certainly expected to feel rather more than she had—a lot more, given her knowledge of how easily James had aroused her.
Neither of them had said anything about it, of course, but she had sensed that Tom was disappointed, and if she was honest with herself it was almost a relief that Charlie’s antipathy towards him and constant presence meant that they had not had any opportunity to repeat the exercise.
But then, as she had remarked quite recently to Heather, there were far more important things in a relationship than sex—or at least there were in the kind of relationship she wanted—and Tom, fortunately, had not pushed her.
Perhaps things would get better with practice and custom. But then when did they get the opportunity? Win was well past the age when she welcomed the idea of making love impetuously in a car on the way home from a date.
She winced a little, suddenly remembering doing exactly that with James. They had been out to dinner, and on the way back she had touched his thigh, tensing as his muscles clenched, staring at him wide-eyed, her heart pounding when he abruptly stopped the car and turned towards her.
Perhaps she was just past the age of being capable of that kind of sexual intensity, she reflected as she restarted her car. And if she did agree to marry Tom, would that have the effect of driving Charlie closer to his father? If only Tom could learn to be a little less hard on Charlie, a little more understanding, and if only Charlie wouldn’t always be so belligerent, and if only he would not constantly bring James’s name into the conversation whenever Tom was there.
She winced as she remembered Tom’s angry comment that he was thankful James was living in Australia. ‘If he’s as wonderful as Charlie seems to think, I’m surprised you’re still not married to him,’ he had told her sourly.
‘He is Charlie’s father,’ Win had felt obliged to point out in defence of her son.
And when she had tried to suggest to Charlie that it might not be a good idea to mention James quite so often when Tom was there, Charlie had demanded, ‘Why shouldn’t I? He is my dad.’
The problem was that Charlie was starting to grow up and that he seemed to be getting as over-protective of her as her brothers had once been.
Well, she had learned her lesson, and no matter how much she loved her son he must accept that she had a right to her own private life and to her own friends, even if he himself could not always like them. That was a lesson he must learn for his own sake, and for the sake of the woman who would eventually share his life, as well as for hers.
However, it was one thing to get him to accept her right to have Tom as a friend. To get him to accept him as her husband and his own stepfather was quite a different matter.
As she drove through the town, she heard the church clock striking, and grimaced. She hadn’t realised how late it was. Charlie had been spending the afternoon with a friend. They had been planning to watch a football match on television together. The friend’s father was apparently bringing them home.
When she had queried this, he had been quite cross with her, reminding her of how old he now was.
The cottage James had bought when they were first married was still her home. Together with half a dozen others, it looked out on to open fields at the back and had a good-sized garden. Last year she and Charlie had painted the outside, a task neither of them had really enjoyed but which Win had felt had done them both good.
Tom had been horrified. He would have got one of his own handymen to do that for her, he had told her, but she had shaken her head. One thing she had learned was how important it was to her to be independent—a change from the days when she had helplessly leaned on others and docilely allowed them to make her decisions for her.
There was a car parked outside the cottage, an expensive Daimler saloon with new numberplates. Guiltily she parked behind it.
Charlie had his own key for the cottage. Obviously his friend’s father had brought him home and Charlie must have invited him inside. She would have to apologise for being late. She only hoped the father would not judge her as a bad mother for allowing her son to return to an empty house.
It had been difficult for her to assuage the guilt she had felt at first, going to work, but Heather had chided her for it.
‘Charlie can always come to us for a couple of hours if necessary,’ she had told her. ‘You know that. You need this job, Win—not just for the money. You need it for yourself. You’ve devoted yourself exclusively to Charlie when he’s needed you most. Just remember, another handful of years and he’ll be gone.’
Even though she had acknowledged the truth of Heather’s comments and even though she felt that both Charlie and herself had benefited from the independence her job gave them both, Win still had these sharp attacks of guilt.
She could hear the television as she walked into the hall. The sitting-room door was open, and through it she could hear Charlie yelling excitedly.
‘That’s it! Did you see it, Dad? Did you see the way he kicked that goal?
Dad!
Win froze, her nerve-endings screaming a rejection of all that that one simple word conveyed.
‘He certainly has some real power there.’
She hadn’t heard him speak in over ten years, but she would have recognised his voice in a hundred…in a thousand. Deep, reflective, the words measured and firm, no trace of any Australian accent, the same voice which had once slurred like honey with desire when he had told her how much he wanted her, how much he loved her. The same voice which had been raw with need when he’d leaned over her in the dark, entering her body.
The same voice which had been hard and cold when he’d condemned her for conceiving their child.
Forcing down the feeling of icy shock threatening her, Win took a deep breath and then, straightening her shoulders, she pushed open the sitting-room door and walked in.
CHAPTER THREE
WIN had learned her lessons and knew now how vitally important it was to seize control and hold on to it.
Without looking at Charlie, she demanded icily, ‘What are you doing here, James?’
Out
