it. Morgan Wright was one of those men who made it impossible to imagine him as a child. The flagrant masculinity was so raw, so tough and virile she couldn’t envisage him as a vulnerable little boy. She shivered although she wasn’t cold.
‘Sorry, this is undoing all the good work the hot bath’s done. You get dressed and I’ll see you downstairs. The sitting room is to your right once you’re in the hall, incidentally. ’ He had turned as he spoke, and, having reached the bedroom door, shut it quietly behind him.
Willow stared after him for a few moments before she pulled herself together. She found the hairdryer Kitty had spoken of and dried her hair so it fell in a sleek curtain framing her face. She was lucky with her hair. Thick and silky, it was no trouble as long as she had a good cut.
Grimacing, she dressed in her grubby jeans and jumper, although thanks to Kitty’s ministrations they were more presentable than when she’d arrived. Fishing out the odd bits of make-up she always kept in her handbag for an emergency, she applied eyeshadow and mascara before finishing with lip gloss. The result wasn’t spectacular but better, and better was good considering this man always seemed to see her when she looked as if she’d been pulled through a hedge backwards.
She stopped titivating and stared into the green eyes in the mirror. He must think she was some kind of nutcase and she hadn’t done much to convince him otherwise. Perhaps she was a nutcase, at that. At uni she’d always been one of the more restrained ones, looking on with a mixture of embarrassment and envy when some of her more wild friends had gone skinny-dipping on a day out by the river or related their antics at the latest wild party they’d attended. But now they were all lawyers or doctors or ‘something’ in the fashion industry, and a few had successful marriages to boot. Whereas she…
This train of thought was too depressing to follow, besides which it was two minutes to eight. Taking a deep breath, Willow smoothed her jeans over her hips, trying to ignore the sooty smell, and smiled at the face in the mirror. ‘You’re going to be fine. He’s a man, just a man, and this is one night out of the rest of your life. It isn’t a big deal so don’t make it one.’
And talking to yourself was the first sign of madness.
CHAPTER FOUR
MORGAN WRIGHT wasn’t a man given to second-guessing himself. In fact he’d built his small empire by going for the jugular and to hell with it if he’d got it wrong—which, it must be said, he rarely did. He was at the top of his game professionally and comfortingly satisfied with life in general. So why, he asked himself as he sat absently ruffling the fur on Bella’s head, the rest of the dogs piled round his feet, was he regretting inviting Willow to stay the night? It didn’t make sense.
A muscle knotted in his cheek and he swallowed the last of the Negroni he’d made for himself after coming downstairs. The bittersweet cocktail was one of his favourites and he usually took his time and enjoyed it in a leisurely way, but tonight the mix of Campari, sweet vermouth and gin barely registered on his taste buds. He was all at odds with himself and he didn’t like it.
He set the squat, straight-sided glass he always used for his pre-dinner cocktails on the small table beside him, frowning. He would have bet his bottom dollar she was no older than twenty, but if she was to be believed you could add practically another decade to that. And he didn’t doubt her. What woman would add years to her age, after all? No, she was nearly twenty-nine.
He raked back a quiff of hair that persisted in falling over his forehead, and the restrained irritation in the action brought Bella’s eyes to his face as she whined softly.
‘It’s all right, girl.’ He patted the noble head reassuringly even as a separate part of his mind asked the question, but was it? He didn’t like the way his new neighbour made him feel, that was it in a nutshell. He was way past the sweaty palms and uncontrollable urges stage, damn it. That had died a death after Stephanie and since then he’d made sure his head was in full control of his heart and the rest of him. He had a couple of friends who’d let their hearts rule their heads and both of them were paying for it in hefty alimony payments and only seeing their kids every other weekend—if they were lucky. Women were another species, that was the truth of it. Love, if it even existed, was too fragile a thing to trust in, too weighted with possible pitfalls. Like another wealthier, more successful patsy coming along.
Knowing his thinking was flawed, he rose abruptly from his seat and walked across the room to stand looking out over his grounds. OK, there were men and women who loved each other for a lifetime—maybe. But how many of these ‘perfect’ relationships were for real? How many merely papered over the cracks for reasons of their own? Thousands, millions.
‘Ten minutes to dinner.’
Kitty interrupted his thoughts and as he swung round and nodded it was as though the small, plump woman standing in the doorway was a challenge to his thoughts. He couldn’t doubt the strength and authenticity of what Jim and Kitty had, but they were the exception that proved the rule. There were hundreds of millions of men and women in the world; you had more chances of winning the lottery than finding what the women’s magazines called a soulmate.
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