‘That’s a good name too. Would you like a dog of your own?’
The boy studied him gravely. ‘Yes, I would … But Mummy thinks a dog would be too much trouble to take care of—and we’ve had enough trouble already.’
Jarrett absorbed this very interesting snippet of information, ruffled the boy’s unruly dark hair, then rose to his full height again. ‘Never mind … perhaps in time she might have a change of heart?’
‘No, she won’t.’ Charlie kicked a nearby pebble with the scuffed toe of his trainer, but not before giving Jarrett a look that said he wished she could be persuaded differently. ‘Have you come to see her?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I have. Is she inside?’
‘She’s painting.’
Did Sophia Markham’s creative talent extend beyond photography to painting?
Jarrett was still considering the idea as he strode up to the front door. The faded sandstone of the house reflected the more muted, mellow tones of a bygone age. The whole building was in dire need of some serious maintenance and redecoration, but no one could deny it had tremendous potential and charm. If he owned the place he would know exactly which restoration company to hire to help return it to its former glory.
Biting back his disappointment that he would now never have the chance, he made robust use of the heavy brass door-knocker and waited for Sophia to appear. He couldn’t deny he was a little apprehensive about seeing the emerald-eyed beauty again. Both times that he’d tried to engage her in conversation she’d been decidedly aloof. He’d already received a warning that all she wanted to do was to be left in peace. And, despite his sister Beth and her friends still speculating on the whereabouts of a man in her life, Jarrett was becoming more and more convinced that, aside from her son, the mysterious Sophia was unattached.
‘For goodness’ sake, sweetheart, the back door is open. You don’t need to—’ Sophia bit off the comment that was clearly meant for Charlie and stared up in open-mouthed surprise at Jarrett. ‘You!’ She shook her head as if to clear it, and her already loosened ponytail drifted free from its band, so that long silken strands of the glossiest chestnut-brown fell down over her shoulders. A faded pink T-shirt spattered with blue and white paint highlighted the small pert breasts underneath it, and a pair of slim-fitting denims with a large ragged hole in one knee clung to long, slender legs.
Jarrett raised an eyebrow. If she’d appeared in a couture dress from one of the top fashion houses in Paris he couldn’t imagine her looking sexier than she did right then. Facing the pair of annoyed and sparkling green eyes that glared back at him, he couldn’t deny the powerful surge of sexual heat that tumbled forcefully through him.
‘How did you find out where I live?’
‘The house has been empty for quite a while. Didn’t you think that people would notice when it became occupied again?’
With what looked like a weary effort, she dragged her fingers through her loosened chestnut hair and shrugged. ‘I get the feeling that people round here notice a little bit too much.’
‘Anyway … my apologies for interrupting what looks like a very industrious Sunday afternoon for you. Your son said you were painting? Does that mean you’re a painter as well as a photographer?’
‘I’m painting my sitting room … not a canvas.’
‘Okay.’ He held up his hands, grinning at his mistake. ‘At any rate, I dropped by because I have an invitation to give to you—from my sister, Beth.’ He produced what was, in his opinion, a ridiculously scented and girly-pink envelope from the inside pocket of his three-quarter-length black leather jacket.
‘Have I met your sister?’
Amusement forced one corner of Jarrett’s mouth up into his cheek. ‘Not yet … but, trust me, she’s determined to meet you, Ms Markham—or is it Mrs?’
Her expression became even more vexed. She snatched the envelope from him. ‘It’s Ms. I used to be married, but I’m not any more.’
‘So you’re divorced?’
He saw her swallow hard. ‘No. I’m a widow.’
The news sobered Jarrett’s mood. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m not. And before you make some specious judgement about that, the topic isn’t up for discussion.’
‘Fair enough … that’s your prerogative.’
The fire in her eyes suddenly died. Gripping the pink envelope he’d handed her as if she’d prefer to rip it to shreds rather than open it, she laid the flat of her free hand against the doorframe, as if needing support. It was as though every ounce of her vitality and strength had leaked away, leaving her visibly weak and shaken.
To be that angry … that aloof … must take a hell of a lot of energy, Jarrett mused. What had the woman been through to make her so furious and defensive? Her remark about not being sorry that she was a widow suggested that her relationship with her husband had not been the stuff of fairytales.
For whatever pain she’d endured in the past, a genuine feeling of compassion arose inside him. ‘Ms Markham … Sophia … are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
With a look of steely resolve she straightened, but he could hardly miss the tears that glistened in her eyes, and the sight made him feel as if he’d just been punched in the gut. He never had been able to bear seeing a woman cry …
‘How did you know my name was Sophia?’ she challenged.
Before Jarrett had the chance to answer, she folded her arms and wryly moved her head from side to side.
‘I expect it filtered down to you from the headquarters of the local gossip collective. Am I right?’
‘I can’t deny it.’
‘Do people have such dull and boring lives that they have to pry into the business of a total stranger?’ she demanded irritably.
‘They most likely do. Why do you think they’re so addicted to the soaps on TV? The invented drama of a stranger’s life is probably far preferable to the reality of their own.’
‘I won’t have a TV in the house. I’d rather read a book.’
‘What about Charlie?’ Jarrett ventured, glancing over at the small boy who was once again careening round the giant hollyhocks, mimicking the ‘rat-a-tat’ sound of machine gun fire.
Sophia winced. ‘My son doesn’t need to be glued to a television or computer screen to enjoy himself. Besides, a lot of the programmes shown nowadays are so negative and manipulative that he’s hardly missing out on anything helpful or essential.’
‘So … what kind of books do you like to read?’
‘If you’re hoping that I’ll invite you in to have a cup of tea and discuss my reading habits, then I’m sorry, Mr Gaskill, but I’m going
