about what to wear.’
Georgia dropped her folio in the corner of the hall, kicked off her shoes and headed for the stairs. ‘Where’s Lucy?’
‘In the sitting room, asleep. She was tired but she refused to go to bed till she’d seen you in your party dress.’
‘Oh, damn,’ she said very, very softly, and went upstairs, defeated. Absolutely the last thing she needed was this charity auction, but she’d volunteered her services, and she had to go to be auctioned.
Although why they couldn’t just auction her in her absence she couldn’t imagine. It was her services they were selling, not her body! Still, they wanted her to go along, so she would go.
She ran the bath, threw in a handful of rejuvenating bath salts, contemplated chucking in the rest of the bag and thought better of it. Since she’d remembered to fill up the water softener, she had enough trouble washing the soap off, without adding to the problem!
Jenny passed a glass of wine through the bathroom door, and she sank into the hot bubbly water, took a gulp of the wine and rested her head against the end. Bliss. If only she could stay there all night…!
Well, he was wrong about the house, anyway. He’d expected a chaotic, colourful little cottage, or a farmhouse down a quiet track. Instead, it was a modest, modern detached house set quietly in Church Lane, and the only thing about it that fitted with his image of her was the garden. It was gorgeous, a riot of unruly colour and texture, a real English cottage garden. That, definitely, was her.
He parked the car, walked up the path to the front door and rang the bell.
‘I’ll get it,’ a voice yelled over thundering footsteps, and the door was yanked open by a young lad of about eight or nine. He had brown hair, mischievous green eyes and the same mouth as his mother. ‘Yes?’ he said abruptly.
‘Um—is your mother in?’ Matt felt suddenly foolish. Not knowing her name made him feel awkward, a bit of a charlatan. He held the phone out. ‘We got our phones muddled in the train—I arranged to come and swap them.’
‘Oh. She’s in the bath. You’d better come in. I’ll tell her.’
And abandoning the door, he left Matt on the step and ran upstairs. Matt followed as far as the hall, then waited. A small girl appeared, her head topped with a brighter version of her mother’s curls, and eyed him curiously, her head tipped on one side as she dangled round the door frame, swinging backwards and forwards like a human gate.
‘Hello. I’m Matthew,’ he told her. ‘I’m here to see your mother.’
She took her thumb out of her mouth and smiled gappily. ‘I’m Luthy,’ she lisped. ‘Mummy’th going out—she’th going to wear a party dreth. I’m thtaying up to thee it.’
Matt worked his way through the lisp to decipher the underlying words, and wondered if he would be able to delay long enough to see Mummy in her party dress, too.
The boy thundered downstairs and skidded to a halt. ‘Mum says come and sit down, she’ll be out in a minute.’
‘Well,’ Matt said, ‘perhaps your father—’
‘He’s dead,’ they chorused, apparently unmoved.
‘Ah.’ Matt trailed obediently after them into a scene of utter chaos. The cushions had been taken off the furniture and stacked like a house of cards, to make a sort of den behind the big settee. The chairs had been shoved every which way, and the curtains had been dragged out from the windows to drape over the top, so that they hung at a crazy angle.
‘Oops,’ said the boy, and grabbing cushions, he began piling them haphazardly onto the furniture. Matt helped, discreetly turning cushions round so the zips were at the back and they went into the right place.
It reminded him of his childhood. How many times had he done that? And how many times had he been skinned for it? He hid a smile and straightened the curtains, just as the woman appeared in the doorway, her hair twisted up in a towel, her feet bare, an ancient towelling robe hastily dragged on and belted with symbolic firmness.
She looked impossibly young to be the mother of these two little scamps—young and vulnerable and freshly scrubbed. His heart beat a slow, steady rhythm, strong and powerful. Lord, she was lovely.
‘Hi again,’ she said.
‘Hi.’ His voice sounded rough and scratchy. He tried again. ‘Sorry to come at a bad time—’
‘That’s all right. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be going out.’
‘Somewhere nice?’ he asked, although it was none of his business, but she wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
‘Not really. It’s a charity auction for the hospice.’
Guilt prickled at him. He’d been invited and had turned it down because he hadn’t expected to be back early enough. Perhaps he ought to go anyway—and he could see her, of course. Not that that had anything to do with why he wanted to go, of course!
‘I expect you’ll enjoy it,’ he said encouragingly, but her nose screwed up again doubtfully.
‘Shouldn’t think so, it’s duty. I’m selling my services.’
His mind boggled. He just hoped to hell what he was thinking didn’t show in his eyes, because it was likely to get him arrested.
‘What do you do?’ he asked, just as the house phone rang.
‘Oh—excuse me,’ she said, and whirling on her heels, she went into the kitchen and shut the door.
‘Mummy duth gardenth,’ Lucy told him.
Which explained the riot of colour outside the front door. How useful, he thought, and his mind ran on. A gardener, selling her services at a charity auction—so if he could somehow wangle a ticket at this late stage, he could buy her services in the garden—and several hours of her time. Fascinating.
And she was a widow—not married, and apparently no man around the place playing the part to get annoyed at his interest.
‘So—is Mummy going on her own?’ he asked, pumping the children ruthlessly with only the merest prickle of conscience.
‘No. Peter’th taking her.’
And who the hell was Peter? ‘Peter?’ he said guilelessly. Oh, wicked, wicked man to take advantage of their innocence!
‘Peter’s a friend,’ the boy told him flatly, right on cue.
‘Joe doethn’t like him,’ Lucy put in for good measure. Was Joe another ‘friend’?
‘So what if I don’t? He talks to us like we’re idiots,’ the boy said defensively. So the Joe she’d been talking to on the phone was her son. Good. One less to worry about—and he didn’t like the boyfriend. Even better. An ally.
Then the kitchen door opened abruptly and the woman came back in, the soggy towel in her hand, damp strands of untamed hair clinging to her face and trailing down her shoulders. ‘Peter can’t make
