to overlook the unrelenting chill in those fascinating green eyes of his. What was his story, she wondered. What had put the strain around that austere mouth? The tiny grooves in that otherwise smooth, almost olive skin of his? And why would a man like him want to bury himself in the depths of the countryside like some kind of hermit?
‘Think about something else, why don’t you?’ Incensed with herself for spending too much time dwelling on the man, Rowan pounded the innocent dough with more force than was strictly necessary. But there was great satisfaction in having an unexpected outlet for the rage that had been boiling inside her since Evan Cameron’s offensive remarks that morning. If the man were hanging off the edge of a cliff she wouldn’t raise one finger to help him. No. She’d just smile sweetly and wave goodbye. As far as Rowan was concerned, he could plummet into oblivion and good riddance!
Half an hour later, a steak and kidney pie simmering in the oven and the washing-up done and put away, Rowan returned to her living-room to sort through some old photographs. She’d been putting off the task since she moved into the cottage a month ago, but now there was no reason—except maybe fear—for her not doing it. She’d already decided there were too many pictures for her to keep, and anyway, why did she want reminders of what Greg had looked like? His beloved features were imprinted on her heart for always. Looking at photographs of happier times would only bring her pain, and it wasn’t as if she had children to keep them for. A pulse throbbed in her temple at the thought.
Settling the two old-fashioned biscuit tins side by side on the dark wood table, Rowan carefully prised off the lid of one of them, then, taking a deep, shuddering breath to steel herself, picked up a handful of photographs and studied them. Now, there was a man who had known how to smile. First picture she’d handled and there was Greg, grinning cheerfully into her camera, for once happy to be in front of the lens instead of behind it. It had been taken on a stolen day out at the seaside, and the pair of them had behaved like a couple of carefree children. Eating huge ice creams as they strolled along the promenade, having fun at the small fairground, then eating fish and chips for their tea as they sat on the sand and watched the tide come in, they’d honestly believed they had a wonderful future in prospect.
Her throat tightening with a now familiar ache, Rowan stroked the glossy picture, her heart swelling with love and pride at the man she had loved and lost. Greg had had a nice face. Not handsome or good-looking, but a good face that people had been instantly drawn to. His sunny, benevolent nature hadn’t disappointed either. At his funeral there had been friends and colleagues in plenty along with family to mourn his untimely passing.
Rowan’s mind drifted along on a sea of remembrance. She could hardly believe that almost seven months had gone by since the accident. After spending the first three months after Greg’s death in a kind of numbed existence, where she’d got up, washed, dressed, ate breakfast and gone to work, it had slowly dawned on her that she should sell the house in Battersea. Instead, she would take up residence in their ‘nest egg’—the dream cottage that they had bought in wild and beautiful Pembrokeshire. All of a sudden she had known a desperate desire to escape the noisy, gridlocked city and take refuge in some peace and quiet.
Now that she was here, she couldn’t help wondering if she had bitten off more than she could chew. So much needed to be done, and Rowan was a city girl who had lived in London all her life. Working as a production assistant for a busy, up-and-coming television company, she hadn’t had time to develop an interest in ‘do it yourself’ and neither, bless him, had Greg. He had either been away for long periods on assignments all over the world or at the studio doing important research for his next job. Sighing as she glanced around at the dilapidated shelves that needed painting and repositioning, the wooden floor that needed sanding down and varnishing before she could adorn it with the beautiful rugs Greg had brought back from his travels, Rowan knew she would seriously have to get down to learning how to do some of these jobs herself. If she was going to take a whole year out of work as she’d planned, then she couldn’t afford to pay workmen to do all the jobs that needed doing round the house to make it habitable.
Already she felt that she’d failed in some way because Evan Cameron had had to come to her rescue and fix her damn creaky gate. Well, she’d show him! That was the last time he was going to treat her like some dull-witted, pathetic female who didn’t have a clue how to do anything more complicated than paint her toenails! Suddenly realising that sorting through her photographs wasn’t the task that most needed doing after all, Rowan dropped the pictures back into their tin and jammed the lid down hard. As the delicious aroma of cooking meat pie started to pervade the house, she jumped up and disappeared into her bedroom to rummage through her bookshelves for the two second-hand books she had purchased a week ago on home decorating and ‘Do It Yourself for the Enthusiastic Beginner’.
His black hair sleek from his shower and a striped bath towel secured around his toned-hard middle, Evan took his time crossing the room to get to the ringing telephone. Only two people—as far as he was aware—knew his whereabouts. Right now, the mood he was in, he didn’t relish speaking to either of them.
‘Yes?’ He deliberately didn’t announce his name or number, and he most definitely didn’t put out a vibe that came anywhere close to friendly.
‘Evan, is that you?’ rejoined a familiar female voice.
‘Beth,’ he sighed, and wondered how soon he could bring the call to an end without being rude. Five years younger than her big brother, his sister still acted like a mother hen around him. ‘How are the kids?’
‘Luke and Alex are fine. It’s not them I’m concerned about, as well you know.’
‘And from that do I deduce that I’m the focus of all your loving concern?’
‘It’s not a joke, Evan. A couple of months ago you nearly died of the flu! It’s only natural that I want to keep in touch to make sure everything’s all right. Are you eating OK? I know you’re big on all that nutritional stuff for fitness, but are you getting enough fresh fruit and veg? You know there’s that handy little greengrocers in the village, don’t you? Their stuff is pretty good, and they even stock things like nuts and seeds.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic.’
‘I’m not.’ Wearily sinking down into a nearby armchair, Evan leaned back against the flattened cushions and stared blankly at the hand that he’d rested against his thigh. It was shaking. Ever so slightly, but shaking just the same. He hadn’t told Beth that he’d had the shakes for several months now. They had started even before he’d been struck down with flu. A common symptom of severe stress, his doctor had explained. Flexing his fingers, Evan tried to convince himself he wasn’t concerned. The doctor had advised rest and that was what he was doing. No lifting weights, no strenuous exercise and definitely no jogging. Swimming and walking were, however, recommended. Thank God for that or else he’d go completely crazy.
‘Evan?’ Shrill with worry, Beth’s voice jerked him back to the present.
‘It’s OK. I’m still here.’
‘You don’t sound very happy, that’s all.’
‘Don’t read too much into it. Nobody’s loved me yet for my great sense of humour.’
‘I feel like I ought to come down for a visit, make sure you’re looking after yourself. Maybe I could stay for a couple of days without the kids? I could ask Paul’s mum to have them.’
Evan sat up straight. ‘No offence, Beth, but I really don’t want any visitors—nor do I need looking after. All I need is some time to get my head together. I’ll maybe ring
